CHAPTER IV.
THE SWING OF THE PENDULUM.
"A woman is more considerate in affairs of love than a man, because love is more the study and business of her life."--_Washington Irving._
It was about this time that Garth began to feel very uncomfortable. Hitherto his quiet, well-assured life, with its eight-and-twenty years of healthful work and activity, its moderate aims and small ambitions, had been singularly free from conflict. Mental disturbance, the weariness of self-argument, the harass of stormy passions, had been wholly unknown to him. In his ordered existence the pains and penalties of a lover's martyrdom had not vexed him.
He was still angry with Dora, but his discomfort did not proceed wholly from his wrath; it lay rather in a concealed fear that he was mistaken in his own feelings.
After all, was it Dora that he wanted? Was the friendship between them sufficient to warrant the assumption that they would be happy together in a life-long union? Was not her lukewarmness, her procrastination, tolerably clear signs that she was, in reality, as heart-whole as he? Would it go hardly with either of them if that dust-shaking movement of his should be carried out?
There was no engagement; the tacit understanding between them did not even amount to a promise. Dora had rejected his first attempt to place things on a more satisfactory footing; in reality he was free as air. Why was her influence so strong over him then that he feared to break the yoke of his subservience, and so stood, as it were, on the comfortless borders of uncertainty, battling between two opinions?
Dora was still away at Brussels, but Mr. Cunningham had returned. From him Garth learnt that they had found the invalid in a far more precarious state than they had at first imagined. The fever had subsided, but had been followed by a serious attack on the lungs. It was impossible for her sister to leave her; and Mr. Cunningham feared that a winter in the south of France would be imperatively needed.
Dora wrote a short letter soon after to the same effect.
The sight of the well-known characters moved Garth to a certain impatience. Why had she written to him? how did she know that his anger was not still hot against her?
"It is grievous to see dear Flo's sufferings," she wrote. "She is such a patient creature, and does all she is told; but at one time we hardly dared to hope that she would be spared to us. Poor papa was quite in despair; and as for Beatrix, she has been no use at all, she quite upset us the first evening by the way she clung to us. It is sad to see a girl of her age so entirely without control. The doctor still looks very grave over darling Flo, and I fear we shall be condemned to a winter in the south of France; in that case I shall send Beattie home to papa, for her crying and fretting only harass one. I dare say Langley will look after her a little for me.
"I little thought I was saying good-bye to you for such a long time. If you had known that, you would have been a little kinder, would you not? But I must not think of that. I am afraid I think of you all a great deal too much; the prospect of the long winter away from every one makes me dreadfully homesick. Write and tell me how dear papa looks, and how every one is, and all about yourself, and believe me always and ever your faithful friend,
"DORA."
Garth's answer was very cool and matter-of-fact. It contained a full description of Miss Palmer's wedding, with lengthy messages to Beatrix and Florence, and a few formal words of condolence over her prolonged absence. "It must be such a bore to be exiled against one's will," wrote Garth; but he did not say one word about himself.
Dora heaved a little sigh of regret as she folded up the letter. "Poor fellow! he is still very angry with me," she thought to herself.
Garth took a long, solitary walk when he had finished his epistle; it had taken him more than an hour to compose, and yet it had hardly filled one sheet of note-paper. He was heavy with discomfort, and yet a feeling of triumph was uppermost. "She will see that I am not to be played with; that I regard myself as free, and mean to keep my freedom," he said to himself, as he tramped through the country roads in the starlight.
It was the beginning of November, and there was a keen, frosty feeling in the air. The fields that bordered the road on either side looked black in the dim light; the trees looked gaunt and grotesque, stretching out their unclothed limbs in the darkness; the grey stone wails seemed dim and unsubstantial. Garth walked on with long, even strides. The cold air, the exercise, stirred his young blood, and drove away despondent fancies; in their place came pleasurable images, faint, yet full of grace, making pulsation stronger within him.
When did the thought first occur to him? When and where? or was it a thought at all, or only a feeling or sentiment? A novel sensation not to be described, and certainly not to be analyzed, had taken possession of him the very night after his interview with Dora, when, sore and angry, he had betaken himself to the cottage.
It was strange how that picture of the two sisters haunted him. Sometimes, when he woke up in the middle of the night, he recalled it vividly: the child curled up on the rocking-chair, the girl kneeling on the rug with the plate of cakes in her hand, the firelight shining on her round, dimpled arms and flushed face, and then her paleness, and the startled brightness of her eyes when she turned to him.
Had Dora ever grown pale at the sight of him? had she ever moved his better nature by such sweet, strong words as those that greeted his ear that night?
"What is it that men do not understand?" he had asked her in his simple, straight-forward way.
"The blessedness of giving," she had answered him, without guile or hesitation, "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."
Good heavens! could she--was it a bare possibility that she could be speaking of herself? and though, a moment after, he repelled this thought with a blush of shame over the vanity of such a supposition, other words conspired to haunt him.
"Those that have sympathy here must have sympathy there," she had gravely assured him, and her earnestness had moved him to excitement. What if this sympathy were between them two; between him, Garth Clayton, and the young creature that he had befriended?
"Dolt, fool, idiot! that's what I've been for my pains," growled Garth between his teeth, as he struck at a young sapling with his stick; "as though one could map and trace out one's feeling and one's life in that way. What is Dora to me after all compared to this girl, this stranger, whom I did not know six months ago; and yet, like a blockhead, I must try to bind myself to her, and call her my Fate." And then he softened and grew pitiful. "Poor Dora! poor dear Dora!" he said, with a kindly memory of his old playmate, and all his anger died out of him.
After all, there was a very true friendship between them none the less that he did not deceive himself, and called it by its right name.
Garth meant to go home straight that night, like the good young man he was; but, somehow, before he was aware he had unlatched the little gate. Perhaps it was the sound of Langley's voice in the porch that determined him. Of course it was the duty of an affectionate brother to escort her home.
But Langley had only left her own warm fireside to visit an ailing child in the village, and was carrying the report to the young school-mistress.
She still wore her Sister-of-mercy's grey cloak, as Cathy called it, which Queenie was half-coaxingly, half-playfully trying to unfasten. She started at Langley's surprised exclamation, and again that paleness was perceptible.
As for Garth, he flushed a little over the girl's evident surprise.
"I heard your voice, Langley, and so I followed you in," he said gravely, looking at her and not at Queenie. All at once he seemed embarrassed and ill-at-ease, his usual assurance had left him.
"Now you have come you must both stay," replied Queenie brightly; she had recovered from her momentary agitation. "Langley has brought me a very sad account of poor little Bessie. I must go down there the first thing in the morning."
"Where is Emmie?" asked Garth, looking longingly at the empty rocking-chair, but not daring to take possession.
Langley's cloak still hung round her in straight long folds, she stood quietly warming herself by the fire, looking down on the flame with a thoughtful, intent face.
"Emmie is tired and has gone to bed. Do you know," looking up at Garth rather sorrowfully, "that I am afraid that she is not as strong as she ought to be. I have been telling Langley so. I often find her lying on the rug in the twilight, and yet she will have it she is only tired."
"She is growing so fast; children are often languid at that age: you must not be over-anxious," he returned kindly.
"How can I help it? she is all I have," replied the girl, turning from him to hide the tears in her eyes.
The kindness of his tone had brought them there. Garth looked after her wistfully, but he said no more.
"Come, Garth, it is late, and we must not stay," exclaimed Langley, rousing herself. She put her hand on his arm and drew him gently on without seeming to notice his reluctance.
Queenie stood in the porch and watched them till they were out of sight.
"How kind he is to-night--kinder than usual," she thought, as she fastened up the door and went in.
The brother and sister were somewhat silent as they walked up the lane; Langley was taking counsel with herself. When Garth entered his study she followed him, somewhat to his surprise.
"Are you very busy to-night?" she said, pausing by the table, on which lay several letters, Dora's amongst them.
"Not too busy to talk to you, if that is what you mean," returned Garth pleasantly.
If the truth must be known he would rather have had his study to himself to-night, but selfishness was not one of Garth's faults; perhaps Langley needed his advice, so he stirred up the fire, drew the easy-chair towards it, and then relieved his sister of her heavy cloak.
"We have none of us heard from Brussels but you," she observed absently, as she perused the envelope before her. "Garth, I hope you will not be vexed with me, but I think, as things are between you and Dora, that you ought not to go so much to the cottage."
Garth nearly dropped the poker. "Et tu, Brute!" he groaned. "Is that what you have to say to me to-night, Langley?" he asked in a constrained voice, and Langley knew the matter of her speech displeased him.
"You must not be hurt with me, my dear, if I say what I think," she returned, following him to the rug. "You are such a good, kind creature, that it would never occur to you that your kindness could hurt any one; but Miss Marriott's position amongst us is somewhat peculiar."
"I thought she was Cathy's friend," he responded, a little crossly.
"Yes; and mine too, and yours, if you care to call her so. You are only a young man, Garth, though you are so steady and reliable, and she is young and very attractive, and temptation comes when we least expect it; and a friendship is not always a safe and a wise thing; and--and I have long wanted to speak about this, my dear," went on Langley in a motherly tone. True, Garth was only two years younger, but was she not older by years of suffering? could any sister love him better than she?
"There are some things that need not be discussed between us," he returned with a little dignity. "I am quite aware of Miss Marriott's position."
"Yes; but a sister is such a safe confidante," she responded softly, not repelled by his loftiness. "You and I have always been such friends, Garth, and I cannot bear you to be so close. I know you would not do anything that is wrong; but, as things are between you and Dora, I cannot but think these constant visits to the cottage are a mistake. If you knew how long I have wanted to say this to you, ever since--" But here Langley hesitated; she dared not hint that her uneasiness was chiefly caused by Queenie herself.
With her warm affection and clear-sightedness she had arrived at the conviction that this constant intercourse was fraught with danger to the girl in whom they were so much interested. It was for her sake as well as Garth's that she was speaking now.
"Stop a moment, Langley," exclaimed her brother angrily. "You have twice made an observation; have I ever informed you that I was on the eve of an engagement with Dora?"
"I thought it was understood between you. I am quite sure Dora feels that she belongs to you," was the serious reply.
"Then I beg to differ from you; Miss Cunningham feels nothing of the sort," was the indignant retort. "As far as I know, and I suppose I am the best authority in the matter, things are at an end between us. It is quite true," flushing at the remembrance, "that when I last went to the Vicarage that I tried to put matters on a different footing. I had made up my mind that I owed Dora a duty, and I thought then that I wished this thing; but it appears I made a mistake. Miss Cunningham," somewhat bitterly, "had no intention of meeting my views."
"Garth, surely you are mistaken!" exclaimed his sister, much startled.
"I am not mistaken, Langley," in an offended voice. "Miss Cunningham is neither ready nor willing to enter into any engagement, she made that perfectly clear to me. She puts her father and sisters first, and me last; but she will see that I am not one to be trifled with."
"Do you mean to tell me that Dora refused you?" was the incredulous question.
"Not exactly; at least she would not let it come to that point between us, but she made her meaning tolerably clear. I am to go on in this way until she pleases to consider herself unfettered; but I have waited long enough."
"Did you tell her so?"
"Yes; I said that there must be no more backwardness on her part, no pretence of insuperable obstacles where none existed; that it must be yea, yea, or nay, nay, between us; that, in point of fact, she must have me or lose me."
"Did you say all this?"
"Yes; but not in so many words."
"I think she has treated you badly, and deserved to be frightened; there are no very real obstacles, as you say. Beatrix is a dear good girl, and will soon be old enough to look after her father and the parish. I always knew Dora's chief fault was a too great love of power."
"I shall be sorry to interfere with her prerogative as mistress of Crossgill Vicarage," he returned coldly.
"Now, Garth, that is hardly fair," rejoined his sister, smiling affectionately in his face. "Dora has behaved very badly, but she has not sinned past forgiveness; she has never cared for any one but you all her life. I think that ought to soften your resentment."
"I dare say we shall always be good friends," was the indifferent reply.
"The very best of friends. Why this is sheer nonsense, Garth; Dora would be miserable if she knew how she had hurt you. Take my advice, dear; sit down and write to her, she is lonely and unhappy, and full of anxiety about her sister. Tell her that you are serious in what you said to her; that you are not patient, and do not mean to be; that she must make up her mind to give you a decided answer, and see what she says. Do you think she would run the risk of losing you altogether?"
"It does not matter, I shall not give her the chance of refusing me again," he returned gloomily. "Thank you for your advice, Langley, but it has come too late; I have made up my mind that Dora and I will be better friends apart."
"You have made up your mind after all these years," she said slowly and regretfully. "Poor Dora! whom we all loved for your sake, and who is so good and faithful a sister and daughter, so thoroughly trustworthy and intrinsic! Oh, no, Garth, you could not be so fickle!"
"You speak as though I have been in love with her all these years," returned Garth sullenly. "You know very well, Langley, I have been perfectly heart-whole all the time. True, I always believed that we should come together, but it is not my fault if my inclinations no longer point that way."
"Ah!" Langley uttered no more than that little monosyllable, but the blood rushed to her brother's face; she knew now what he meant. "Poor Dora!" she sighed, and then she put up her face and kissed him, and said good night.
She had come to speak to him about Dora, not of the other one; that was none of her business. As far as she knew, his choice was not an unwise one; no one could know Queenie and not love her. She had grown into all their hearts strangely; but the old friend of their childhood, Dora!
She went away very sadly after that. Garth made no effort to detain her. His purposes were not yet ripe enough for confidence; he was a little shy of whispering them even to himself.
"You are not hurt with me because I ventured to say this to you?" she asked him, as she was about to move away.
"No; I think I am relieved; it is always best to undeceive people," was his sole reply, and then she left him.
Garth enjoyed his solitude uninterruptedly after that, but he was not quite at ease in his own conscience. Langley's words, few and temperate as they were, had troubled him. It seemed so strange to hear her pleading Dora's cause, the very girl whom all these years he had intended to make his wife.
Should he give her this one chance more? should he write such a letter that its very sternness should constrain her to answer him? but no, she might repent and fling herself into his arms, and now his heart had gone from her.
"It is well to be off with the old love before one is on with the new," thought Garth, somewhat ruefully, but it was very clear that it was not Dora now that he wanted. "We are better apart; she will get to see that in time herself," he said, as Langley's earnest pleading rose uncomfortably to his mind. "I don't believe she is a bit in love with me." And before he retired that night he made up his mind that things must take their chance. He would wait a little perhaps, there was no hurry. When the time for his wooing should come he would carry it in far different fashion than he had done, and the girl he should woo would not be Dora.