CHAPTER XIII.

"WHY DOES HE NOT COME AND SEE US?"

"'It is not hard to die,' She said, with that fair smile, 'for God's sweet will Makes bitter things most sweet. In my bright youth He calls me to His side. It is not hard To go to Him.'"--'_Ezekiel and other Poems._'

Friends came around Queenie in her trouble. In her letter to Cathy she compared herself, somewhat quaintly, to Job when all his acquaintance comforted him. For after the first few hours of stupefied misery that followed her conversation with Dr. Stewart and Dora, her natural courage had returned; the pain was crushed resolutely into the background. Her every thought must be for Emmie; her one care to retrieve the effects of her unintentional neglect.

The cottage all at once became the centre of interest to all the good Hepshaw folks.

Captain Fawcett could scarcely bear the child out of his sight, and his wife's sorrow at the impending parting was a grievous thing to see; while Miss Cosie trotted in and out perpetually, on all manner of self-invented errands.

And Langley came, saying little, but expressing a whole world of silent tenderness in her face and manner; and Faith Stewart, with her quiet, helpful ways, bringing an atmosphere of rest and peace to poor harassed Queenie.

One day Mr. Chester came, but his visit was a sadly trying one. He wrung Queenie's hand for some moments without speaking, and for a long time he could not bring himself to mention the subject of her departure.

"You were so good to me when my darling died. I wish I could do something to help you," he said huskily; "but then my poor Gertie is dying, and I cannot leave her for more than an hour or two," and the sympathy of this open-hearted man almost broke Queenie down.

One afternoon she went to say good-bye to Miss Charity. Miss Charity looked up at her with her bright sharp eyes very keenly.

"Ah, well, being a rich woman doesn't seem to suit you," she said, not unkindly. "You are not half as blithe and bonny-looking as when you first came to Hepshaw."

"I am so anxious about Emmie," replied Queenie, hastily, for any comment on her changed looks made her uncomfortable. "You see, Emmie is all I have, Miss Charity."

"Ah, well, the widow's mite was worth all the rich men's offerings," returned the invalid with a sigh. "Never hold what you have got with both hands, because then it is harder to let go. I thought I should have died of sheer grief when my back got bad, and poor George had to give me up; but I thought better of it, and here I am, and here I shall be, till my lessons are all done, and I am perfect through patience," finished Miss Charity, with a tear twinkling on her eyelashes.

But the one friend for whose coming she looked daily, for whose voice and presence and sympathy she craved with a longing that surprised herself, never crossed the threshold of the cottage.

For some reason only known to himself Garth Clayton held himself aloof.

It was not until after morning service on Sunday that Queenie found herself face to face with him in the plane-tree walk. He was with Ted and Langley, but after a moment's hesitation he left them and came up to her.

"You are leaving us, I hear," he said, rather abruptly, and Queenie could see he was exceedingly nervous, "and I am much grieved at the cause; but I have great faith in sea air. I hope--at least I trust--that Emmie may benefit by it."

"Dr. Stewart says it is the only thing for her. Have you seen him? Has he given you his opinion about her?" fixing her dark eyes rather searchingly on his face. Dr. Stewart's ambiguity was causing her some uneasiness. "I wish that he--that some one--would speak plainly to me, and tell me what he really thinks about Emmie."

"Well, you see, doctors are rather difficult people to deal with," returned Garth evasively, but his tone was very gentle. "You must not lose heart about it, you know, children are often very ill. This cold wind is making you shiver, I must not keep you now; I will come over to the cottage to bid you and Emmie 'good-bye,'" and then he smiled at her and went back to his sister.

Queenie had arranged to go over to Carlisle the next day to pay a parting visit to Caleb and Molly. All her affairs were now arranged; Mr. Logan had found a temporary mistress in a young widow, a _protégée_ of Faith Stewart's, who was lodging in Hepshaw with her little girl, and was in search of some employment. And Emmie, who had taken a fancy to Mrs. Henfrey's little girl, proposed that they should live in the cottage, "at least take care of it until we come back," to which Queenie, desirous of gratifying the child's most trifling whim, willingly acceded. A bitter disappointment awaited Queenie on her return from Carlisle.

"Oh, dear, you will be so sorry!" Emmie exclaimed, running to her as she entered the parlor, feeling weary and dispirited. "Langley and Mr. Garth have been here, and he has left you a message, because he is going away and will not see you again; and he did seem so sorry about it."

"Going away!" repeated Queenie in a low voice, and then she sat down. She felt all at once so strangely tired.

"Yes; I heard him tell Langley that he must take the seven o'clock train, so he has gone long ago now. Some uncle of theirs is ill, I think they said he lived at Perth; but anyhow he sent for Mr. Garth in a great hurry."

"And what was his message, Emmie?" putting up her hand to her head, as though conscious of some numb pain.

"Well, he told me to say how sorry he was to miss you and not to say good-bye, and that you were not to lose heart about things; and oh--yes, he told me that twice over, that he hoped if you were in any trouble or perplexity that you would write to him or Langley, for they would do anything to help you. And he kissed me half-a-dozen times I am sure!" with a triumphant air; "and then Langley said they must go, and he got up very slowly and went away."

"Oh, it is too hard! it is more than I can bear!" broke from Queenie's pale lips when she was alone with her thoughts that night. "To leave for months, for ever, perhaps, and never to wish him good-bye, not even a word or look to treasure up in my memory." And for a long time she wept bitterly.

But by-and-bye she became more reasonable. "It is wrong of me, I ought not to wish to see him if he belongs to Dora. Perhaps it is better so, after all." But, nevertheless, the bitterness of that disappointment abided with her for many a long day.

When Langley wrote to her brother she spoke very briefly of the leave-taking. "Ted and I saw them off, and Mr. Logan was with us. Emmie clung to us and cried a good deal, but Miss Marriott was very quiet, and scarcely spoke. She begged me to thank you for your message, and regretted that she had not seen you, that was all."

Garth sighed over this brief message, but he understood Queenie's reticence perfectly. "So they are gone, and the happy Brierwood Cottage days are over," he said to himself, as he sat in the dim, sick room, revolving many things in his mind.

Queenie had a dreary journey. Emmie was so exhausted with excitement and emotion that she slept the greater part of the way, and left her sister in perfect freedom to indulge in all manner of sad thoughts.

Queenie never recalled that day without a shudder. A sadness, indescribable but profound, weighed down her spirits--a feeling of intolerable desolation and loneliness as hour after hour passed on, and the distance lengthened between her and the friends whom she had grown to love.

"Who knows if it may not be good-bye for ever to that dear place?" she thought, "for if he marries Dora I will never willingly see his face again."

She was thankful when Emmie at last woke up, to find herself at their journey's end. Emmie, whose imagination had been vividly aroused by the idea of the magnificence that awaited them, was rather disappointed by the quiet, old-fashioned hotel to which Dr. Stewart had recommended them. It was just the reverse of grand, she thought, but the sight of the bright, cheerful-looking room into which the weary travellers were ushered speedily reconciled her, and she was soon comfortably ensconced on the great couch, contentedly watching Queenie as she cut up her chicken.

"Now, Emmie, you must eat that and then go to bed," said her sister decisively, as she carried the tempting tray to the sofa, and Emmie was far too weary and docile to resist.

They were to spend two days in London, but the first few hours hung rather heavily on Queenie's hands. Emmie was fit for nothing but sleep, and could not rouse herself to take interest in anything, and Queenie did not care to leave her or to encounter the crowded streets alone. She spent the greater part of the day sitting idly at the window with her hands on her lap, watching the passers-by with vague, unseeing eyes, and living over every episode of their Hepshaw life.

The next day was better, for Cathy came to them, and the sight of her bright face roused Queenie from her despondency.

"What do you mean by misbehaving like this, Emmie," she said, as she knelt down by the sofa, and took the child in her arms. "Here you are getting ill again and making every one unhappy."

"I couldn't help it, Cathy," returned the child earnestly. "Oh, how good it is to see your dear face again, and how nice you look in that black stuff gown; and do you always wear a funny little close bonnet like that?"

"This is nurse Catherine's costume," replied Cathy, laughing and blushing and looking very handsome. "What do you think Mr. Logan would say to it? and oh, my dear Madam Dignity, how worn and pale you are!"

"It is nothing, I am quite well. Tell me about yourself," returned Queenie, looking fondly at her old chum. "Do you still like your work? does it agree with you?"

"My work is making a woman of me. Did you ever see me look better, Queen?" And indeed Queenie was driven to confess that she had never seen Cathy look more restful and satisfied.

They had a long, quiet-toned conversation while Emmie dozed in the afternoon. Cathy did not talk much about Emmie. "She was delicate and needed the greatest care," that was all she would allow, but she was voluble on the subject of the loan, and almost overwhelmed her friend with her delighted gratitude.

"He will get on now, dear old fellow, and it is all owing to you," exclaimed the affectionate girl, and somehow Queenie's sore heart felt a little lighter. But on her own affairs Cathy was still very reticent. "I don't know what I am going to do, I have not made up my mind. I shall stay on here and work for a time, I suppose," and then, her color deepened, and she broke off rather suddenly.

But later on, as the three sat cosily round the fire and talked of their old feasts in the garret, and Emmie clapped her hands and laughed feebly over many a droll reminiscence, Queenie noticed that now and then the keen grey eyes were full of tears, and that she would look at her and the child rather strangely.

"Good-bye, God bless you both; and keep up a good heart, Queen," was all she said when she left them that night. But when she re-entered the hospital an hour later more than one patient noticed nurse Catherine's eyes were red, as though she had been weeping.

It was somewhat late the following afternoon when they drove into St. Leonards and took possession of their new abode. Emmie uttered an exclamation of delight as she looked round the large luxurious room prepared for their reception. A bright fire burnt cheerily, a trim maid-servant was spreading a snowy cloth over the little round table; the great crimson couch was drawn invitingly near the hearth, outside the pier light twinkled, and a windy flicker flared from the esplanade, while the deep wash and surge of the monotonous waves broke softly on her ears.

"Oh, Queenie, how homelike and delicious it looks! and oh, what beautiful flowers!"

"Mrs. Bennet must have sent these," returned Queenie gratefully, as she carried the delicate spring bouquet of violets and snowdrops to Emmie. "I am so glad you are pleased with our new home, darling. Look, there is the bay-window you wanted, and behind those folding doors is our bed-room. Mrs. Bennet thought it would be quiet and snug, and there would be no tiresome stairs for you to climb."

"I am sure Mrs. Bennet must be very nice," was Emmie's answer, and then, as she seemed exhausted and disposed to close her eyes, Queenie prudently left her to repose.

Emmie's favorable opinion of their new acquaintance was soon verified, for the Bennets called the next day, and quite won the sisters' hearts by their geniality and unobtrusive kindness. Dr. Bennet was a little bluff and hasty in manner at first, but as this wore off he and Emmie became excellent friends. His wife was a quiet, motherly-looking woman, and Emmie took a fancy to her on the spot.

"Isn't she just like dear Miss Cosie, Queen, with those grey curls and that comfortable soft voice; if she would only say 'There, there, poor dear,' as Miss Cosie always does," finished the child with a quaint smile.

It was a strange new life that began for Queenie. The links that united her to the old had been suddenly snapped asunder, and she had drifted away into a quiet changeless existence, which seemed almost as unreal as a dream.

It was as though she had no separate individuality or life of her own; her only existence was Emmie, her one thought from morning to night how to gratify the child's capricious whims.

When Emmie opened her eyes on waking she always saw her sister by her bedside; she would stoop over and touch her lips with the fresh, dewy flowers she had in her hand--violets or primroses, or, later on, lilies of the valley and fragrant tea-roses. Emmie loved the roses best.

"I have been out for my morning walk, and look what I have brought you!" Queenie would say. It was always so, always the same surprise, the same sweet morning greeting, the same loving smile; and so it was through the day.

Strangers began to comment on the tall, graceful girl who drove out her little sister day after day in the pony-carriage, or, as Emmie's strength failed, walked by the side of the Bath chair, where the little frail figure seemed to be lost and hidden. How Emmie loved to watch the ships and the little brown fishing-smacks! The shifting groups on the esplanade pleased and amused her; the music on the pier charmed her. As the daylight faded away, and the waves grew solemn and grey in the twilight, she would lie on her couch contentedly for hours, while Queenie read or sung to her and told her the simple tales of her own production.

"I never dared to think; I just prayed, and so my little stock of daily strength was recruited, like the widow's cruse," Queenie said very simply long afterwards to one who questioned her of that sad summer. "Life just then meant Emmie to me, and nothing else."

It was true; she never dared to think. Week by week and month by month the brave-hearted girl crushed down the dull aching pain of weary suspense and doubt; month by month she bore the loneliness of that sad watching, with the end plainly before her, and yet no complaint of her bitter load of trouble harassed the kind hearts of the friends she had left.

Very brief and touching were her few letters to Langley; but they told little save the record of their daily life--"Emmie was no better, or a little weaker," and that was all.

One day, about two months after they had been settled at St. Leonards, a letter came from Garth. The sight of the handwriting made Queenie tremble with sudden emotion; but her face soon paled and saddened as she read it.

It was brief, but kind, and had evidently been written with great care. It spoke of the death of their uncle, who was almost a stranger to his nephews and nieces, but who had taken a fancy to Garth in his last illness and had left him his little all.

"It is not a great fortune," wrote Garth, "it is something less than two or three thousand pounds; but it has quite replaced my unfortunate Bank loss. We are all more thankful than we can say. It makes me especially happy, because I can now repay you the loan you have so generously advanced to me without any further delay. As I am anxious to settle this matter at once, I shall be glad if you will let me know into whose hands I am to pay the money." And then followed a few kind enquiries after her and Emmie.

Poor Queenie, her answer was very stiff and cold. "How pleased he is to be quit of his obligation to me. How the thought of this debt has galled and harassed him," she thought, as she slowly and laboriously penned those few words. Garth's face grew puzzled and pained as he read them. It is not always easy to read between the lines.

But as the summer wore on Queenie grew graver and sadder, for even to her loving eyes Emmie was slowly but surely fading away.

The change had come on imperceptibly: first the drives in the pony-carriage were discontinued, then the Bath-chair was found too fatiguing; by-and-bye Queenie lifted the child's light form and carried it morning after morning to the couch in the bay-window. There was no question of even walking from one room to another. At the smallest exertion there were long fainting fits that drove Queenie almost frantic with alarm.

"Oh, if only Langley or Cathy could be with me now!" was her one wish. But, alas! there was no hope of this.

She knew there was a troubled household at Church-Stile House. Langley was ill, and Cathy had been summoned home to tend her sister. The long nursing at Karldale Grange had broken down her strength, and as soon as Gertrude Chester had drawn her last breath there had been a sudden collapse that had alarmed her brother.

"She was slightly better, but in a frightfully weak state," Cathy wrote, "and likely to remain so for some time, Dr. Stewart said, and so there was nothing for it but for her to relinquish her hospital work and come home."

"Dr. Stewart calls us the model nurse and patient; and, indeed, Langley is such a patient creature that it is a pleasure to fend for her, as folk say," Cathy wrote. "Poor old Garth took her illness sadly to heart, but after Dr. Stewart's last visit he has seemed more cheerful; and so, you see, why you must do without your Church-Stile House friend, my dear Queenie, though I am longing from morning to night for a peep at you and Emmie."

Queenie kept the contents of this letter to herself; it would never do to harass the child's mind with any fresh anxiety, so she answered all her questions cheerfully, though with some necessary evasion. "Cathy had gone home, and Langley was overtired and far from strong," that was all she told her.

For Emmie's spirits were drooping with her strength. All manner of anxious thoughts seemed brooding in the childish brain.

"What ails you, darling? What are you thinking about?" Queenie would ask her, anxiously, but for many days she would not answer.

But one evening as she was lying on her couch, watching the rosy gleam on the water fade into grey silvery streaks, while the soft musical wash of the waves seemed to lull her restlessness for a little, she suddenly stretched out her thin arm and drew her sister's head down to the pillow.

"Rest there a few minutes, Queen, you are so tired, and I want to talk to you. Doesn't the moon look lovely shining through the clouds? How many evenings do you think you and I will have together?"

"Hush, Emmie; only God knows, not you nor I."

"When He says 'Come' I must go, mustn't I, Queen."

"Oh yes, my darling!"

"I am so tired that I shall not mind going. I have almost forgotten what it is to run about and play as other children do. I think it will be nice to lie down and go sliding through the clouds like that girl in the picture, and then when I wake up there will be Nan and Alice, and Uncle Andrew and mamma. Oh, how nice to see mamma again!"

"Nice to leave me, darling?" trying to restrain a sob.

"Ah, that is the only sorrowful part," returned the child, pressing Queenie's head between her weak arms. "Oh, my Queen! my Queen! whatever will you do without me?" and for a short time the sisters' clung to each other, unable to speak.

Queenie was the first to recover herself.

"Never mind, Emmie; you must not fret; God will take care of me."

"Yes, I know, but I cannot help fretting. You look so sad and altered somehow, and all the light has gone out of your dear beautiful eyes; you are so good to me, and you smile and try to be cheerful, but I know--I know all about it, Queen."

"You know what, my precious?"

"Why, I know how lonely you are, and how you miss them all. When I go away," rather timidly, "won't Mr. Garth come and take care of you?"

"Emmie, my darling, what has put such a notion into your head?"

"Isn't it true then?" half crying. "I thought you were fond of him, and liked him better than any one else. Wasn't he the prince in your stories? he was always dark-haired, and tall, and strong, and that made me think of Mr. Garth."

In the dim light a hot flush passed over Queenie's wan face; Emmie softly stroked it with her trembling fingers.

"Ah, you will not answer; but I know all about it. I am only a child, but I love Mr. Garth dearly, dearly. Why doesn't he come and see us, Queen? haven't you told him I am ill?"

"Yes; he knows it," almost inaudibly.

"Then why does he not come?" she persisted. "If I were not tired I would write to him myself; do you think I could?"

"Not just now, by-and-bye," she replied, hardly thinking of what she was saying, and trying only to quiet her; and Emmie, satisfied with this vague permission, nestled against her sister contentedly, and said no more.