CHAPTER X.

"HAVE YOU NOTHING TO SAY TO ME?"

"Yet a princely man!-- If hard to me, heroic for himself!" _Mrs. Browning's 'Aurora Leigh.'_

When Queenie saw Garth coming towards her she shrank back for a moment in natural trepidation and some little dismay, the meeting was so utterly unexpected; but her self-possession soon returned. "It is better to get it over," she said to herself, "and to know the worst at once."

They shook hands without looking at each other, and then Garth turned back and walked by her side in silence. Neither knew exactly how to begin the conversation.

Garth was the more nervous of the two; he had passed a sleepless night, and his condition of mind was truly wretched. The bitter impulse that had led him to unburthen his mind to his sister had by this time passed away, but his resolve was still unaltered. As he lay awake in his restlessness he argued the whole matter with himself; pride, and a certain stubbornness of will, may have had a voice in his decision, but the more he thought about it the less he felt that he could take advantage of the girl's evident affection and secure her wealth for himself.

"How can I do this mean thing?" he repeated again and again to himself. "Even if Langley be right, and she has grown to care for me, it may be only temporary, and she has seen no one else. Ought we not to urge her rather to leave Hepshaw and take her proper position in the world! It may be a dangerous test perhaps, as Langley says, and it may end in my losing her altogether, for how can I give her her freedom and expect her to be faithful? but at least my conscience will be clear." And then he swore to himself that, as far as he was concerned, he would not coerce her movements. If she went his judgment would applaud her resolution; if she stayed his trouble would be a hard thing to bear, for he must then wrap himself up in reserve and coldness, and this would be difficult to him. "She cannot really misunderstand me, the thing is too evident," he said, striving to comfort himself. And indeed he was not without some interior consolation; his very self-sacrifice and unselfishness, constrained and unnecessary as they might appear to others, gave him a certain feeling of strength and security. His conscience was clear, his independence assured and well-defined, while somewhere, deep down in some hidden recess, lay a secret hope of Queenie's steadfastness and fealty. Langley's words still rang sweetly in his ears: "She will stand the test, severe as it is, but she will suffer terribly." Ah! well, would he not suffer too?

But this meeting was painful to him. What was he to say to her? and how was he to bring himself to speak of what was in his mind without betraying his hidden trouble, and perhaps hurting her feelings?

"Were you going to see Langley?" he asked, just when the silence was becoming embarrassing.

"Yes; is she at home?" returned Queenie venturing to raise her eyes, and then becoming conscious all at once of Garth's paleness, and evident constraint of manner.

"She was sitting at her needlework when I left her just now, and was lamenting that Cathy was not there to help her. I think we miss Cathy more and more every day."

"I know I do," sighed Queenie, and there came over her a sudden yearning to unbosom herself to this faithful friend. Langley was good to her, but she was not Cathy.

Garth echoed the sigh, but scarcely for the same reason. Cathy's warm-hearted sympathy would not have helped him.

"I have just left Miss Cosie. Mr. Clayton, have you nothing to say to me, nothing special, I mean?" Queenie was growing desperate, while Garth was secretly marvelling at her boldness. His paleness and changed looks filled her with dismay. "I think you must have something to say to me," with a little sharpness in her voice.

That roused him in a moment.

"Yes; of course we have a great deal to say to you, Miss Marriott. I told Langley last night that she ought to write to you. I need hardly tell you, I suppose, that you have our warmest congratulations on your good fortune?"

"I don't think I care much about congratulations."

"Nevertheless, you must put up with them," with a faint smile. "You must pay the penalty of being a rich woman."

"Were you very much surprised?" looking him full in the face; but he did not return her glance.

"I am afraid I must own to a very fair amount of astonishment; such a romantic story has never before been told in Hepshaw. It savours a little of Hans Andersen."

"Ah, I know you think me silly, and all that," she replied, in a voice that was at the same time proud and pained. "I shall never be able to make any of you understand why I did it. I begin to see a grave ending to my little joke; and yet it made me so happy."

"I almost wish you had told us from the beginning."

"That would have spoiled everything. You and Mr. Logan would have made me resign my school at once, and my pleasant summer holiday would have been at an end. Perhaps it was cowardly; but I could not bear being rich."

"That sounds strange."

"Ah, but it is true," she returned earnestly. "Such a little would have contented me; five hundred a-year would have made me a happy woman; I told Mr. Logan so. We would have taken a cottage, Emmie and I, larger and prettier than the one we are in, and we should have been as happy as the day is long; but now, what am I to do with it all?" putting out her hands with a sudden gesture of repugnance and helplessness.

He seemed struck with that, and hesitated for a moment before he answered her; there was a certain forlornness in her words and aspect that touched him. They had reached the end of the lane; but now he made a movement as though to retrace his steps, and she turned obediently and walked on again by his side. As she did so he stole a swift glance at her. Did she look any different in his eyes now she was an heiress? His survey took in the tall, slim figure in the simple black dress. That was the hat, surely, to which Dora had objected, and yet how well it suited her. He noted all the little details--the indescribable air of finish that had always pleased his fastidiousness, the set and poise of the pretty head, the mixture of girlish frankness and modesty that gave such a charm to her manner; and then again that inward voice made itself heard. "Oh, if she were only poor, and I dared speak to her!" and the struggle within him gave a little hardness to his voice.

"I think you ought to look at it in quite another light," he began gravely. "It is a great responsibility that has come to you, a talent for which you must account. I don't think you ought to hide it under a bushel in the way you are doing."

"You mean that Mr. Logan must find another mistress? Brierwood Cottage ought to have another tenant?" she returned huskily, speaking out her greatest fear.

"I certainly do mean something of the kind; but there will be plenty of time to discuss that. You cannot decide on your future plans without a good deal of consideration. At present I have something else to say, something for which I wish I could find adequate words. I don't know," stammering and hesitating, "how I am to thank you for your goodness, your generosity--"

"Mr. Clayton," stopping him, "will you do me one favor?"

"What is that?"

"I know what you are going to say, please let it be unsaid."

"But that is impossible."

"It need not be impossible. Why should there be any talk of such things between us?"

"Because it is right that there should be such talk. Do you think that I am to say nothing at all about my gratitude?"

"Not to me," raising her eyes with a pleading look in them that he found difficult to resist. "If we talk of gratitude you know it is I that am your debtor. Have you forgotten how good you were to us when we were poor and friendless?"

"I have forgotten nothing," he returned, hastily; "but, all the same, you must let me speak. I am largely in your debt, Miss Marriott, and for what is to me a very serious sum; but I do hope that in less than two years' time I may be able to repay both interest and capital."

"As you will," she replied carelessly, but he saw that she was much hurt. What could this paltry sum matter to her? Could he not understand how great had been the privilege of helping him?

"You must try to comprehend how we business men feel about such things," he said gently to her, for there were tears in her eyes, and her face was averted from him. "It is too late now, but I wish you had given me the option of accepting or refusing the loan."

"How could I, when I knew you would have refused it from me?" walking on quickly as though afraid of her emotion.

"If I had my refusal would not have hurt you, I would have made you understand my feelings so thoroughly; but of course it is too late to talk about that now. I suppose I am very proud, but I cannot bear the thought of this debt being between us; all my life I have had such a horror of this sort of difficulty and being beholden to any one."

"How can you, how can you be so proud with me?" burst forth from her lips. "Do you mean that this--this trifling act of kindness will come between us and hinder us from being friends?"

"We must always be friends, I think," he returned, still more gently, for he saw how sorely he was hurting her. "Why should you say such things? you are vexed with me or you would not say them. I wish I could make you understand how truly grateful Langley and I am."

"Langley will not talk to me about principal and interest," she retorted with a little flash of indignation, "and--and I could not have believed that you would have done it."

"Come, come, I cannot have you vexed with me like this," he said, stopping her and taking her hand. "You know I must go directly, and I have wasted ever so much time already. Won't you promise me to think better of it, and not be hurt with me any longer?"

"I don't know," looking down, for his voice was rather too persuasive in its eloquence.

"You know very well, do you not, that I would not say or do anything to hurt you really? but my position is a difficult one. I don't think I ever before realized how difficult it was. Things seem all in a tangle somehow, and it is out of my power to right them."

"Why?" she asked timidly, and her brief indignation died away. Something in his manner reassured her; he had not really turned against her.

"That is just what I cannot tell you. My affairs have all got crooked, and there is no shaping them. I suppose time and patience are needed, but there's terribly hard work before me. I don't want to lose heart over it. I could not bear you just now to say what you did."

"About not being friends?"

"Yes; whatever happens we must be friends, dear friends, always. I think you might promise me as much as that."

"I do promise you that," she said, looking straight at him; and the expression in her eyes haunted him long afterwards, it was so frank and sorrowful.

"Then I am content," he replied, and then almost abruptly he lifted his hat and moved away. Had she understood him? Could she follow the meaning of those vague words? Had she comprehended that it was only friendship for which he asked, and with which he professed himself content? He could not make up his mind how far she had understood him.

He would have been almost aghast at his success if he could have read Queenie's thoughts as she went down the lane again, and strove with a sick heart to piece together the fragments of talk in her memory.

How gentle he had been with her, and yet his very gentleness had been inexorable. Alas! she saw but too plainly that her riches and that miserable debt were dividing them. The pride and independence of the man rose between them like a wall of rock.

"He loves me, but he never means to tell me so," she said to herself in unutterable bitterness. "He will break both our hearts first."

As she entered the drawing-room at Church-Stile House Langley put down her work with a pleasant smile and word of greeting.

"Have you come to be congratulated, my dear?" she said, taking the girl in her arms, and kissing her with more than usual affection.

Queenie suffered the caress passively, and then sat down by the fire, shivering slightly as though she were cold.

"You have given us all a great surprise."

"Have I?"

"I was so startled when Garth told me last night that I could hardly take in the sense of his words. To think that it is you, and not Mr. Logan, who has been our secret benefactor!"

"Don't, Langley; I feel as though I could not talk about it."

"Will you let me talk about it instead, dear Queenie; I feel as though I can never love you enough for what you have done for us, and Cathy will feel the same; it was such true friendship. Ted was here just now singing your praises. I wish you could have heard him."

Queenie only sighed. What was all this to her if Garth and she were divided.

The heaviness of her aspect moved Langley to compassion. What could have happened to have quenched her brightness so entirely.

"Have you seen Garth?" she asked, taking up her work again, and pretending not to notice her companion; a dull red flushed the girl's face from cheek to brow at the question.

"Yes; I met him just now."

"He feels very much about all this."

"Does he?" looking at the fire.

"You must not misunderstand him if he feels the weight of his gratitude rather a heavy burthen just now, he has been sorely tried, poor fellow; and then men think so differently about these sort of things."

"There is no need for you to make excuses for him," speaking with difficulty, "he was very kind, and took great pains to show me he was grateful. Ah! if he only knew how I hate that word," with a little burst of excitement.

Langley was silent; she understood too well the nature of the wound that had been received. And then what was she to say that would in any degree comfort her?

"I have done nothing deserving of the word," went on Queenie vehemently. "I have given what literally has cost me nothing; it was such a privilege and happiness to help you all."

"Yes, dear; I quite understand."

"I could scarcely sleep for happiness, and now it all seems spoiled somehow. I have grown to loathe my riches, and yet I was disposed to love them; they hang like a millstone round my neck. I must give up my school now, and then I suppose Emmie and I must go away."

"For shame! I will not have you talk in this miserable fashion."

"Where is it rich people are expected to live? Caleb wanted me to take a great house in Carlisle, and visit the Dean, and all the great folk in the Close. Fancy Emmie and I visiting at the Deanery!" and the girl laughed half hysterically; "would any of you come over and see me then, I wonder?"

"Wait and see," returned Langley with a quiet smile. "Once friends always friends, that's the Clayton motto. Have you really made any plans about your future, Queenie?"

"No, I have made no plans," she answered drearily; "there is plenty of time for that. I don't mean to leave Hepshaw yet, unless you all drive me away. I think I will go home now, Langley; I am not quite myself, and all this talk troubles me. I think I will go back to Emmie." And then Langley again took her in her arms, and kissed her and let her go; she could find no words with which to comfort her, and indeed the girl was very sore at heart.

When she entered her own little parlor she found Emmie lying on the rug in the firelight, in a listless fashion that was habitual with her now. She crept up from the ground rather slowly when she saw her sister; but for once the child's lassitude and evident weakness escaped her notice.

"How late you are, Queen!"

"Yes, dear, very late; I have been sitting with Miss Cosie, and then with Langley."

"Did you get the stuff for little Janie? How tired you look; and how cold your hands are!" as Queenie knelt down mechanically and warmed them over the blaze. "I was just feeling very dull, and wishing that you would come in. I have such dull, stupid thoughts sometimes."

"You shall tell me about them presently," returned her sister hastily; "I want to speak to you now. Emmie, I have often told you stories, some of them very sad, and that made you cry; but I have a real story to tell you to-night."

"Oh, not a sad one, Queen."

"Why not, my sweet?"

"I could not bear it to-night," answered the child with a shiver; "I have been seeing pictures in the fire, and they are all the same thing--sad, every one of them; and when I go to sleep at night I always dream of Alice and little Nan, and think I am with them. I have woke up and cried often lately to think what you would do if it were true, and I were obliged to leave you."

"Oh, Emmie, for pity's sake, hush! I have had as much as I can bear to-day."

"And then I ask God to let me stop a little longer, because I am sure that you would be so lonely without me, unless--" and here the childish face wore a wistful expression. "I wish I were not so young, and then, perhaps, I might help you."

"My darling," not understanding her in the least, "you always help me! You are the blessing of my life, and I could not do without you at all. Hush! I will not have any more of this," as Emmie seemed inclined to interrupt her. "You must listen to my story first, it is very interesting and exciting, and is all about Uncle Andrew." And then she narrated to her breathless auditor the whole history of the will, and her whim and all its consequences. "There," she said as she finished, and speaking with an attempt at cheerfulness, "isn't that the nicest fairy story I have ever told you?"

"I don't know," returned the child doubtfully. "It is very wonderful, and I do love Uncle Andrew very dearly for leaving you all the money; but I don't like being so terribly rich, Queenie."

"No, darling; no more do I."

"It was a lovely thought of yours, lending them that money; and it was dear of you to let me have my wish, and for us two to live in this cottage. We shall never be so happy anywhere else, Queen."

"Oh, Emmie, I know that too well!" And then, to her own distress and the child's, she suddenly broke down and burst into a fit of weeping. "Never so happy again, little Emmie; never again!"