CHAPTER II.

"DO YOU LIKE ME AS WELL AS YOU DID THEN?"

"The true one of youth's love, proving a faithful helpmate in those years when the dream of life is over, and we live in its realities."--_Southey._

Garth pondered somewhat heavily over Queenie's words that evening. In spite of his warm human sympathies his imagination was still undeveloped. Under the margin of those brief sentences lay unexplored meanings, whole worlds of thought and fancy that he only dimly comprehended, and yet he felt himself stirred by the girl's enthusiasm.

"You have done me good," he said to her, when tea was over and Emmie had betaken herself to Patience. He had risen to take leave, but he still lingered, as though loath to break the tranquillity of the scene. "Something had worried me and put me into a bad humor with myself and all the world, but now I feel better."

"I am glad I have done you good," she returned simply.

When he had left her she knelt down by the hearth again and shielded her face from the flame. All sorts of bright, visionary pictures danced under the light of the spluttering fir-knots; thoughts almost too great and beautiful to be grasped brushed past her like wings.

Queenie was only dreaming, as girls will sometimes, only somehow her dreams were better than other women's realities. She was thinking of Garth, marvelling a little over his manner that evening. He had been kinder, gentler, and yet somehow different.

She was not quite so sure, after all, that he meant to marry Dora. She had mentioned her name once, and he had answered her in a constrained manner, and had then changed the subject. Could Miss Cunningham have given him cause for displeasure?

Queenie was not sufficiently experienced in the ways of the world to know how quickly hearts are caught at the rebound. She had no idea of the real state of the case, and that Garth's first thought in his mortification had been to seek solace in her friendship. She only knew that somehow Garth had been nicer, and she had done him good.

"What does it matter if one is disappointed here?" thought the young visionary in that first sweet gush of satisfaction, "that it is all giving and no return--at least, not the return that one wants? life will not last for ever. In that bright hereafter there will be no marrying or giving in marriage, the Bible tells us that. Nothing but love, which, after all, is another name for life. We are only hiding our treasures now, heaping them up in silence and darkness, like that poor Fraulein Heldrig. By-and-by, up there, those whom we love will call to us and stretch out their hands, and we shall come bearing our sheaves with us."

Queenie was weaving all manner of pure womanish fancies as Garth went back through the rain. The young man's pulses still throbbed with excitement. His sluggish imagination had been quickened and stirred within him; he felt with a curious, indefinable sensation that he had drifted long enough down the tide of circumstance, and that his fate approached a crisis. Would it be different to what he had planned all these years?

And that night he thought less of Dora.

How inexplicable are the ways of mankind, even the best of them. Garth, with all his uprightness and integrity, failed to see that his conduct lay open to questioning when, after this evening, he began to haunt the cottage. He was only seeking solace and forgetfulness, a healing compensation for the hurt under which he still smarted at intervals; but he had no idea that such self-indulgence might be fraught with peril to another's peace!

Queenie could not tell him if the intercourse between them were too pleasant to be perfectly harmless. The fault lay with him, not her. It was not for her to receive her benefactor coldly; and then if she could do him good.

It was true Garth seldom came alone, either Cathy or Langley or Ted were with him; but the invitations to Church-Stile House became more frequent and pressing.

"Garth likes to see you and Emmie amongst us of an evening," Cathy said to her more than once. "You know what men are, my dear; they get tired of their sisters' company, and then Dora is away. I suppose that makes him so discontented and restless. Poor Florence is worse, and there is no possibility of Dora's return at present."

"So your brother informed me," returned Queenie demurely; but not to Cathy did she dare hint that Miss Cunningham's absence was a relief. She was somewhat afraid of questioning her own feelings too closely at this time. The incubus that had weighed upon her spirits was removed, at least temporarily. Life was passing pleasantly with her just now; she had work enough to occupy her; a pretty cottage where she and Emmie lived like disguised princesses, and friends whom she loved and trusted to brighten her leisure hours.

"Shall I ever be so happy again in my life?" she said once to Cathy. "I think this summer is the sunniest I have ever known. When one is so thoroughly satisfied one dreads a change."

"I like change," returned Cathy, boldly. "I think a long lease of monotonous happiness would stupefy me. Life is not a mere table-land; there are mountains to ascend before one can see the view, broad rivers to cross, and long deserts to traverse; he is a poor traveller who fears either."

"You forget Emmie and I are already footsore with our rough pilgrimage," rejoined Queenie, with her bright quaintness. "We have been through the Slough of Despond and the Valley of Humiliation."

"And the other valley that was worse," put in Emmie, who was listening to them; "but you only stood at the entrance, Queen; it was I who had to fight with all the hobgoblins."

"Hush, my sweet. Yes, I know," hastily kissing her, for Queenie could never bear to be reminded even by a word of Emmie's past danger. "Well, we are in our land of Beulah now, the land flowing with milk and honey."

"It strikes me that you are very thankful for small mercies," observed Cathy, gruffly, who could never feel quite reconciled to her friend's humble employment, and who was ready to quarrel with Dora for her patronage and condescension.

"Supposing we were one day to spread golden wings and fly away," rejoined Queenie, gaily. "Supposing some one were to leave us a fortune, and Emmie and I suddenly became grand people, would you like me better then, Cathy?"

"No; I should dislike to see you so spoiled," she returned, frowning at the idea. "I believe Garth and I have a monomania on that subject, we hate rich people so. I would not have you and Emmie a bit different; but, Queen," changing her manner and speaking rather nervously, "I can't help thinking that you are a little extravagant; Langley said so the other day."

"Extravagant!" repeated Queenie, opening her eyes wide.

"Yes; I think Garth put it into her head, for Langley never notices those sort of things. He found out that you had hired that piano from Carlisle, and then you are always ordering pretty things for Emmie. Garth has such a horror of debt, and, as he said, two hundred a-year will not buy everything; and you have not got nearly that, have you, Queen?"

"I must be more careful," returned Queenie, evading the question. "I am very much obliged to your brother for the hint; but there will be no fear of my getting into debt, you may assure him of that. I have had a terror of that from a child, ever since I saw the misery it involved."

"I am thankful to hear you say so," returned her friend, much relieved.

She had been a little bewildered by Queenie's purchases. The _ménage_ of the cottage had been perfectly simple, and, with the exception of that Gainsborough hat, Queenie had kept her own and Emmie's dress strictly within bounds. But the fifty-pound note had burned a hole in her pocket, and she had begged Caleb to forward some amusing books and games for the child's entertainment; and the expensive selection made had caused dismay to her friends at Church-Stile House when Emmie displayed her treasures.

Queenie laughed at her friend's lecture, but it caused her a little anxiety. What would they think of her playful deception? would they consider themselves at all aggrieved at it? Garth too, with his horror of heiresses and his exaggerated notions of independence! She felt a little sinking of heart at the thought.

The autumn had set in cold and rainy, ceaseless down-pours still flooded the country; the field path to the Vicarage was impassable, and the lane almost a grey mire. Garth and Ted plodded past the cottage daily in their leathern gaiters, and Dr. Stewart shook his head ruefully when he encountered Queenie in his rounds.

"Why don't you give your scholars a holiday, such constant wettings are good for no one?" he asked; but Queenie only laughed, and drew her old grey waterproof closer round her. After Cathy's sermon she dared not invest in a new one. She looked so bright and good-humored, there was such a fresh radiance about her, that Dr. Stewart failed to notice the shabbiness of the garment. He only carried away with him an impression of youthful brightness that lingered long with him.

"And Miss Faith used to look like that," he thought a little bitterly, as he rode homeward in the darkness.

Dr. Stewart had by no means ceased his visits to the Evergreens. He still dropped in at odd times, and kept up a running fire of argument with Miss Charity, and still maintained a rigid surveillance of the books that lay on the table beside her. There was not much conversation between him and the younger sister; a hand shake and a brief word was often all that passed between them. His praises of Jean, and the merits and demerits of her housekeeping, were all retailed into Miss Hope's sympathizing ear; while to the somewhat grim Miss Prudence belonged the privilege of pouring out his tea and providing the crisp griddle cakes that his soul loved. Faith felt herself somewhat out in the cold; she was younger and more attractive, but she had not Charity's wit and cleverness; in spite of all those long hours of reading, she was often at a loss to comprehend the subject which they were discussing. She sat by a little silent and heavy-hearted over her work; it was not for her to speak if he had ceased caring to listen.

Faith was growing paler and more worn every day; the renewal of her intercourse with Dr. Stewart had brought disappointment as well as pleasure with it. True, he had brightened her life in many ways, and his brief visit was the chief event of the day, but it often left behind it a strange restlessness and sadness. In a vague sort of way she began to understand that she had not fulfilled the promise of her younger days; that he was disappointed in his ideal. The old Faith had been a brighter and more hopeful one; and at this thought the sweet face grew more troubled and downcast.

"What's to do with you, Faith? you always seem in a maze about something when Dr. Stewart is here," Miss Charity would say sharply, when their visitor had taken himself off with a curt nod that included the whole sisterhood. It was Miss Prudence who generally let him out now; Faith did not offer to stir from her corner. How did she know whether he wanted her.

"It seems so strange that a woman of your age should find so little to say," continued Miss Charity, with a displeased jerk of her thin ringlets.

"He only talks to you, Cara; you neither of you seem to want me," returned poor Faith, with the least possible trace of bitterness in her tone.

She did not often retaliate, for hers was a quiet, peace-loving nature, but to-day she felt chafed even to soreness.

Never had her sister's yoke oppressed her so bitterly; never had those readings in that close hot room seemed so tedious. The novels had been replaced by biographies, all of Dr. Stewart's choice; but the pure English and the nobility of the lives delineated were lost upon Faith, chafing under a secret sense of injury, and longing to be alone with her burthen. How hard is enforced companionship, even to the most patient of us. Faith looked out wearily at the driving rain that kept her a prisoner, and deprived her of the one thing she most prized--a solitary walk.

But at night she had it out with her thoughts. She would lie awake for hours, covered round by the sacred darkness, thinking out the problem of her life.

Why had Dr. Stewart crossed her path again? to what intent and purpose? She had become resigned to her life in a weary sort of way, and that one bright summer had only lingered in her memory like a dream of good to be prized. True, it was her most precious possession, the one thing that redeemed her life from blankness; but still time had in a great measure healed the wound of her disappointment.

But now they had met again as friends, who had once been something closer to each other. True, there had been no spoken understanding between them; but there had been looks that had been as plain as words, half sentences that conveyed whole meanings, glances of mutual trust and sympathy. Was all this to go for nothing? was he to be free, to put away the past, and forget and come again, while she alone had been faithful?

Dr. Stewart took no apparent notice of her changed looks; he came and went in his blunt way, and left her alone in her quiet corner. Sometimes his evenings were spent at Church-Stile House or the Vicarage; now and then they heard of him at the cottage, making one of a merry party, and welcomed warmly everywhere.

The day after Faith had uttered her little protest to her sister the weather showed signs of breaking. The rain had abated towards afternoon, but the low grey skies and wet roads were very uninviting. Faith looked out at the prospect a little disconsolately, it seemed to her an emblem of her own life, and then she turned to her sister.

"The rain has stopped, I think I shall go out now, Cara; it will do my head good."

"I thought Dr. Stewart was coming this afternoon," returned Miss Charity, clicking her knitting-needles busily as she spoke; "he promised to bring us more new books. You heard him say so yourself, Faith."

"Yes, I know; but he will not miss me; he has got you to talk to him, Cara, and I feel I must have a walk. I am sure he will understand," she returned deprecatingly.

"Well, if you like to be so ungracious it is not my business to interfere," retorted Miss Charity in a displeased tone. "If you are only going to sit in the corner and not open your lips when he comes in, you may just as well be out. But he won't have a high opinion of your politeness."

"I cannot help that," returned Faith, wearily.

Another afternoon of needle-work and her sister's sharp speeches was not to be borne. She began to feel a dread of these visits, they made her so uncomfortable.

"Well, put on your waterproof, if you must go," snapped Miss Charity, aggravated at Faith's unwonted resolution. "The rain will only keep off for an hour, and you will get nicely soaked." And Faith meekly acquiesced.

The waterproof was not a becoming garment, it was almost as shabby as Queenie's; the shapeless folds quite disguised her neat figure. She had on her old brown hat too, that suited her less well than her little Quaker bonnets; but Faith knew she would have one of Charity's sharp lectures on extravagance if she got her nice bonnet ribbons soiled, for, with their modest expenditure, even bonnet ribbons had to be considered.

It was a severe shock to her womanly vanity when, a little way down the road, she met Dr. Stewart. The grey waterproof might be considered fit raiment for such an uncertain afternoon, but the old brown hat! Faith smarted with mortified vanity down to her finger-ends.

He was on foot, as it happened, and he turned back and walked with her a little way, but he scanned the cloak and the hat rather quizzically as he did so.

"So you went out to avoid me, did you, Miss Faith," he said good-humoredly; but the sudden question grazed the truth so closely that Faith's pale cheeks flamed up in a moment.

"I have not been out for three days, and then my head has been so bad," she stammered. She was not asking for his sympathy, but she wished to defend herself from all charge of rudeness.

"Do you always suffer from these headaches?" he asked suddenly.

"No, not always; but they have been pretty bad lately," she returned indifferently. "I suppose the close room does it. Cara is so afraid of draughts, and so much reading does not suit me."

"I think the others ought to take their turn. I mean to tell Miss Charity so some day."

"Oh, no; pray do not," in much distress. "It does not really hurt me, not much; and Cara does so dislike Hope's reading, it is too loud and fast for an invalid."

"She must be taught to read slower then."

"Oh, no; you must not say anything about it," imploringly. "I have nothing else to do but to wait upon Cara, it is right for me to do it; and if it hurts me what does it matter? We cannot live for our own pleasure," continued Faith, walking fast and nervously, but he checked her.

"Slower, please; I had no idea you were such an energetic walker. I want to talk to you, not that you ever honor me with many words. I am not to be included in the list of your duties, eh?" with a sidelong glance of mingled fun and earnestness.

"I am afraid you have thought me very rude," in a subdued voice.

"No; I have only found you a little depressing. What's been the matter with you all this time, Miss Faith? I am an old friend, and you might be frank with me."

"There is nothing the matter," she returned in much confusion, thereby burthening her conscience with a whole falsehood. But how could she hint to him the reason of her weariness?

Dr. Stewart pocketed the falsehood with perceptible distrust.

"You are growing thinner and more nervous every day and there is no cause for it? Do you expect me to believe that?" with an incredulous laugh. "I mean to put a stop to these pernicious readings, so look out for yourself, Miss Faith."

"Oh, you must not; indeed you must not, Dr. Stewart," she implored, with tears in her eyes. "It is Cara's one pleasure, and I cannot have it interfered with. You have no right to interfere," she continued, turning upon him with the fierceness of the dove.

Poor Miss Faith! she was trying to work herself up into anger against her friendly tormentor, but somehow the anger failed to come.

"Have I no right? are you sure of that?" he demanded gravely. "You know better than I, Miss Faith; you must question your own heart and memory on that point."

"What do you mean?" she asked, growing suddenly pale, but walking still faster; but he put out his hand and stopped her.

"What do I mean? Have you forgotten Carlisle? It is ten years ago, and we have both grown older since then; but I fancy we have neither of us forgotten. Do you like me as well as you did then, Miss Faith? Do you think you could make up your mind to exchange the Evergreens for Juniper Lodge?"

Faith gave a startled glance into his face, but what she saw there left her in no doubt of his meaning. It was as though an electric shock had passed through her. She had been accusing him in her own mind of fickleness and forgetfulness, and all the time he had meant this!

"I thought that it was you that did not care, that had forgotten," she gasped, not answering his very plain question in her first dizziness of surprise.

"Then you thought wrong," he returned coolly. "Women are not the only faithful beings in creation, so you need not lay claim to that extra virtue. It was you who left me, remember that, Miss Faith."

"But you might have followed; you might have asked what had become of me," she faltered.

"What was the use?" was the uncompromising answer, "I had a mother and sister to maintain. A wife is too expensive a luxury for a poor man, and I was poor enough, in all conscience. Well, so it is settled, and we understand each other at last, Faith?"

"Yes, I suppose so," she returned, softly.

The wooing had been brief and matter-of-fact on Dr. Stewart's side; but apparently he was quite satisfied with the result, for he walked on in a brisk, contented sort of way.

Faith walked beside him, dizzy, and with her head throbbing with nervous pain. She had forgotten all about her old brown hat and her waterproof. The low, grey skies still foreboded rain, and the wet pools shone under her feet; but if a miracle had transformed them into rosy wine she would scarcely have been more astonished. That he should have meant this all that time!

"And I thought you had forgotten, Dr. Stewart," she said presently, in the tone of one that craved forgiveness.

"Humph! you will find Angus more to your purpose," he returned, curtly. "How about Miss Charity and the readings now, Faith," with a merry twinkle.

"Cara! oh, what shall we do with her?" she exclaimed, clasping her hands in sudden despair. "It is I who have forgotten now. My poor Cara!"

"Leave Cara to me," was Dr. Stewart's only answer, as they turned their faces homeward.