CHAPTER XIV.

"IT MUST BE YEA, YEA, OR NAY, NAY, WITH ME."

"Silent she had been, but she raised her face; 'And will you end,' said she, 'this half-told tale?'" _Jean Ingelow._

Garth felt a little excited as he went up to the porch-room to dress for dinner; to put on his war-paint as he told himself with a little grimace. Garth was a handsome man, and he never looked better than when he was in evening dress. Though he had less personal vanity than most men, he was in some measure conscious of his advantages, and on this occasion he was a little fastidious as to the set of his collar and the manipulation of his tie.

The porch-room had always been allotted to him on the rare occasions when he slept at the vicarage. The best bed-room was always apportioned to more formal guests, but Garth much preferred his old quarters. The little room with its pink and white draperies fragrant with lavender, and its lozenge-paned lattice swinging open on the roses and clematis, and other sweet-smelling creepers, always reminded him of Dora. There was a portrait of her in crayons hanging over the mantel-shelf, taken when she was many years younger, with golden hair floating round her like a halo, the round white arms half hidden under a fleecy scarf--a charming sketch half idealized, and yet true to the real Dora. Garth leant his arms against the high wooden mantelpiece and contemplated the drawing for some minutes.

"She is prettier than ever to-night," he soliloquized. "No one would think she was seven-and-twenty to look at her this evening. She is just the woman never to look her age; she is so thoroughly healthy in her tone of mind; she has none of the morbid fancies and over-strained nerves that make other women so haggard and worn. Look at Langley, for example, getting grey at thirty. Poor dear Langley! that was a bad business of hers and Chester's.

"And then Dora always dresses so perfectly; there is a good deal in that, I believe. Many pretty women are slovens or absolutely tasteless. I should hate that in my wife. I never saw Dora look otherwise than charming, this evening especially. She never wears things that rustle or fall stiffly, she and Miss Marriott are alike in that. By-the-bye, how that girl looked at me this afternoon as she handed me back Dora's letter. There was a sort of pained, beseeching expression in her eyes that I could not make out, and which haunts me rather. I have a notion that she is not quite so happy as she used to be, and yet it must be my fancy. Well, I won't think about that this evening, I am always questioning Miss Marriott's looks. I want to make up my mind if it would not be as well to say something to Dora; if things are to be it would be just as well to feel one's way a little. I have a notion this shilly-shallying may lead to some sort of mischief presently. I never knew quite how I stand with her and what is expected of me. If a thing is to be done one need not take all one's life doing it," finished Garth, pulling himself together with a quick movement as though he would shake the courage and determination into him.

"Men make their own fate, it is for them to choose; no one need make mistakes with their eyes open." Why did that speech of Queenie's suddenly recur to him? "If they make a poor thing of their own life it is not for them to complain." The little protest came to him almost painfully as the gong sounded, and he went down-stairs.

Dora looked up at him rather curiously from under her white eyelids as he came into the room, holding his head high and carrying himself as though he knew the world was before him. He returned Mr. Cunningham's affectionate greeting in a frank, off-hand way.

"Well, Garth, you are rather a stranger to the vicarage; but I am glad to see you here again, my dear fellow. How are the sisters? and how is that young scapegrace of a Ted?"

"All well, and I only wish you could say the same, Mr. Cunningham," began Garth heartily; but, as the Vicar sighed heavily, Dora shook her fair head at him.

"Poor dear Flo!" she said softly, as though speaking out her father's thought. "But papa must eat his dinner, and then he has some business on which to consult you, Mr. Clayton; troubles will always keep, and it is no good papa spoiling his digestion by dwelling on them, is it?" finished Dora with tranquil philosophy, and Garth took the hint.

There was no sad talk after that. The Vicar still shook his head lugubriously at intervals, but he did ample justice to the excellent repast before him, and even brought up some Hermitage with his own hands for Garth to taste.

The young man drank it with a little show of indifference, more assumed than real. It was not that the rarity and flavor of Mr. Cunningham's wine pleased him, but that the attention shown him made him a little dizzy. More than once some favorite dish for which he had expressed a predilection had been brought to him.

"I knew you would like this Mayonnaise. Mrs. Gilbert has made it exactly to your taste," Dora said to him with an engaging smile.

Garth, who was only human, and not yet thirty, felt the delicate flattery thrill through him like a personal compliment.

He was sorry when Dora left the room, and Mr. Cunningham drew his chair nearer and plunged into the business that required his assistance. With all his good nature and natural aptitude for these sort of things, he found it very difficult to lend his undivided attention. "Why did she prepare that pudding with the pine-apple sauce with her own hands, because Mrs. Gilbert would have spoiled it?" he thought, as he balanced his spoon idly on the edge of his coffee-cup, thereby imperilling Mr. Cunningham's favorite Wedgewood. She had never condescended to show him such honor before; no wonder he was dizzy, and turned rather a deaf ear on the Vicar's tedious explanations. His absent, fidgetty demeanor attracted the attention of his host after a time.

"I am keeping you too long with all these bothering details, you want to be in the next room," he said, with a meaning smile, over which the young man blushed hotly.

"Not until you have finished with me. Is there anything more that I can do in your absence?" he stammered, feeling a little foolish and crest-fallen.

"No, no; Beale can do the rest. Get along with you, and tell Dora to let me know when tea is ready," and the Vicar flung his cambric handkerchief over his white head and composed himself for a nap.

Garth had not quite got rid of his flush when he opened the drawing-room door. Mr. Cunningham's smile had rather daunted him, but Dora gave him a bright little glance as he entered.

"How long you and papa have been over your stupid business! I am so tired of being alone," she said, welcoming the truant with a fascinating attempt at a pout.

The shaded lamps had been lighted in the Vicarage drawing-room; there was a burnished gleam of silver and china on the little square tea-table. A wood fire had been kindled on the hearth, but the windows and the glass door of the conservatory were open. Dora sat in her low carved chair with her lap full of silks and crewels.

"I wanted to get away. I think your father saw that at last, for he set me free. I am afraid he thought me very inattentive," replied Garth, taking up his favorite position against the mantel-piece.

He was still a little flushed, more from that smile than the Hermitage, and his eyes had a quick excited gleam in them. Dora understood it all perfectly, but she was quite mistress of the situation. Woman-like, she felt a little triumph in the exercise of her power.

"If I were to yield another hair's-breadth there is no telling what the foolish fellow would do," she thought, not without a quickening of the pulse under those intent looks. The danger had a subtle sweetness even for her, though she was too self-controlled to be swayed by it.

"Do sit down; you are so tall that it quite makes me ache to look up at you," she said, with that pretty attempt at a pout; "and then I want to speak to you seriously."

Garth might be pardoned if he took that petulant command as an invitation to draw his chair rather closely. But though Dora saw her mistake she went on calmly, quite ignoring the near neighborhood of the infatuated young man.

"When one sees a thing clearly it is always best to speak of it," began Dora, busily sorting her crewels, and making believe not to notice that Garth had his elbow on the back of her chair. "Langley is too lenient, and then Miss Cosie is not one for lecturing; but still some one ought to speak."

"On what subject?" demanded Garth absently. He was wondering how he ought to begin.

"Why, on the subject of Miss Marriott's dress, of course," returned Dora briskly and with emphasis. "If no one will speak, neither Langley nor Miss Cosie, and then Cathy is such a child, it seems to me as though I ought not to keep silence."

"Miss Marriott's dress!" interrupted Garth in an astonished voice. "Why, Dora, what can you be meaning? The subject has nothing to do with us--with you and me--at all."

"Every subject has to do with me that touches on questions of right and wrong," she returned with dignity. "I consider Miss Marriott's general style of dress and appearance is perfectly unsuitable to a village school-mistress, and sets the worst possible example to the grown-up girls in Hepshaw."

"This is perfectly incomprehensible," he replied, secretly exasperated by the turn the conversation was taking, and rather resenting this undeserved attack on his _protégée_. "Langley and I are always praising Miss Marriott's quiet, unobtrusive style."

"One knows what to expect of a gentleman when there is a pretty face in question," retorted Dora, with a touch of scorn in her voice. "Not that I call Miss Marriott pretty. She has such singular eyes, and then I never admire a brown skin. But I must own I thought better things of Langley."

"I am completely at sea," returned Garth, lifting his eyebrows in comical perplexity.

That little speech of Dora's about Miss Marriott's eyes and brown skin amused him. Could she be jealous of the young stranger he had taken under his brotherly protection? Garth's elbow rested still more comfortably on the back of her chair as this little bit of self-flattery intruded itself.

"I always see Miss Marriott in a plain black stuff gown, with just a bit of white lace or frilling round her throat. I don't see how any one could dress more plainly."

"That shows how much you men notice things," returned Dora still more scornfully, and somewhat irate at his incredulity. Garth was never very easy to convince, "Black stuff! a fine cashmere, that cost four shillings a yard if it cost a penny, and looking as if it were made by the most finished dress-maker in Carlisle, and a Leghorn hat trimmed with an ostrich feather."

Garth looked a little sheepish at this. The feather had certainly non-plussed him. It was quite true that during the last few Sundays Miss Marriott had appeared in church in a shady hat with a long drooping feather that had suited her remarkably well.

"I cannot deny the feather," he rejoined, with a rueful smile at his defeat.

The admission mollified Dora.

"And then her boots and gloves--best Paris kid, and boots that look certainly as though they were from a French maker. Ah, you cannot deceive me! Do you think such a fine lady is likely to benefit the village girls? Why, if Miss Stapleton were to mount a feather like that papa and I would be down upon her at once."

"I should not compare Miss Marriott and Miss Stapleton," a little testily. "Miss Marriott is better born and educated. She is a country vicar's daughter. I am sure that you cannot deny that she is a perfect gentlewoman."

"I do not deny that she is a very pleasant-mannered, well-looking young woman," returned Dora, in an aggravating manner, crossing her plump hands on her lap and looking up at Garth serenely. "I take a great interest in Miss Marriott, not only for her own sake, but because she is yours and Langley's _protégée_. When one sees a thing is wrong it is a duty to speak, and I hope I shall always do my duty," finished Dora, virtuously.

Garth was silent. He was quite used to these sort of lectures from the young mistress of Crossgill Vicarage. It had long been an admitted fact between them that her mission extended to Hepshaw. The village school-mistresses had been perpetual thorns in her side; their dress and demeanor, their teaching and morals, had always been carefully investigated. The last Hepshaw mistress had been a weak, pale-eyed creature, with no will of her own, and no particular views,--a washed-out piece of humanity, as Garth termed her,--but highly esteemed and lamented by Miss Cunningham.

Garth could not forbear a smile of secret amusement at Dora's persevering efforts to draw Miss Marriott under her yoke. The contest between the two interested and provoked him. He had taken upon himself to lecture Queenie on her stiff-necked demeanor towards Miss Cunningham, and now he was ready to take up cudgels in her defence.

"I think you are a little hard upon her," he began at last slowly, and then he stopped.

Why should he concern himself with things so wholly feminine? most likely Dora was right, at least he had never found her wrong in anything yet. Perhaps that drooping hat and feather might be a snare to the female population of Hepshaw. It had startled even him as she had walked up the aisle that Sunday. Let them fight it out; he was not sitting there in that lamp-lit fragrant drawing-room to talk about Miss Marriott. He was Dora's guest, summoned there by her own will and behest. Mr. Cunningham did not often leave them alone like this, the opportunity was too precious to be wasted.

Garth moved a little restlessly as he pondered thus with his arm against Dora's chair. The shapely head was very close to him. For the first time he felt an irresistible impulse to touch the smooth coil of fair hair with his hand, it looked as fine and silky as a child's.

"Dora," he began, and then again he stopped. "Dora," and this time he came a little closer, almost leaning over her, but not touching her, "shall things be different between you and me?"

He had taken her by surprise, and for an instant she turned pale, but she recovered herself immediately.

"Mr. Clayton," she returned, carefully avoiding his eyes, and sorting her crewels industriously, "I thought I had broken you of that foolish habit of calling me Dora."

Garth drew back, stung by her tone.

"What does that mean?" he inquired hotly. "If I am not to call you Dora how are things to be put straight between us? I thought we understood each other, and that the time had come for me to speak. What does this mean?" continued the fiery young man, twisting his moustache in sudden excitement and wrath.

"Did you think to-night was a fitting opportunity," inquired Dora with mournful gentleness, "with poor darling Flo, and papa in such a state? How could you be so inconsiderate and selfish," looking at him with appealing blue eyes.

But Garth's feelings had been outraged, and no soft looks could mollify him. He was a well-meaning, plain-spoken young fellow, and he had brought himself with much searching of conscience to the brink of an honest resolution. Dora's coldness of rebuke had wounded his susceptibility and grazed his pride. No woman should trifle with his affections, so he told himself, and least of all his old friend Dora.

"I am sure you did not mean to be inconsiderate," she said, looking up at him with a beseeching glance.

"I do not know what you call want of consideration," returned Garth, with one of his rare frowns. "I should have thought if you cared for me that trouble would have drawn us closer together, that this was the time of all others to speak."

"If I cared for you!" with reproachful sweetness. "Oh, Mr. Clayton, how can you say such harsh things? and to me of all persons in the world! Is it my fault that darling Flo is ill, and that Beattie is so young and such a wretched manager that one dares not trust things to her for a long time yet? Can I help not being my own mistress like other women, and having so many responsibilities--poor papa, and the girls, and the school, and hundreds of things?" she finished with a little pathos.

But Garth was not to be so easily appeased. His strong will was roused by opposition, and Dora must learn that he was not a man to be trifled with. A moment before he had felt a longing to press his lips to that smooth, golden coil, but now all such desire had left him.

"This is all nonsense," he returned, almost harshly. "We have known each other all our lives, and this has been understood between us. There are no insuperable obstacles--none, or I would not have spoken. Beatrix is seventeen, and she must learn to manage as other girls do. If you mean to sacrifice your life for a mistaken sense of duty you have no right to spoil mine with all this waiting. I am not to call you Dora; I am not to be any more to you than I have been. What does all this folly mean," finished Garth, with angry excitement.

"It means that things cannot be different just now," replied Dora, with real tremulousness in her voice, and now again there came that soft mistiness in her eyes. She was not offended at her lover's plain speaking; she liked Garth all the better for that manly outburst of independence. He was a little more difficult to manage than she had thought, but she was in no fear of ultimate results; he was straining at his curb, that was all.

"You must not be angry with me because I am disappointing you," she went on, laying her hand upon his coat-sleeve. "It is not my fault that everything depends on me, and that Beattie is so helpless. Of course if one could do as one wished--" and here there was a swift downward glance, but Garth broke in upon her impatiently.

"All this is worse than nothing," observed the exasperated young man. "It must be yea, yea, or nay, nay, with me; this going backwards and forwards and holding one's faith in a leash would never do for me. How could a man answer for himself under such circumstances? If you send me away from you you will find it very hard to recall me, Dora!" with a sudden change of voice, at once injured and affectionate, and which went far to mollify the effect of his former harshness.

"You will always know I cared, and that one could not do as one wished. If we are Christians we know that duty cannot be shirked," began Dora with beautiful solemnity, and a certain brightness of earnestness in her blue eyes; but at that moment her father entered.

"Papa," she said, as Garth rose hastily, almost shaking off her hand in his excitement, "what a long nap you have been taking! Mr. Clayton and I have been talking for ever so long, and the tea is quite cold."

"I hope not, Dorrie," observed Mr. Cunningham, seating himself comfortably in his elbow-chair and warming his white hand over the blaze.

"Ah, but it is perfectly lukewarm," returned his daughter cheerfully, as she walked to the tea-table and poured out the soothing beverage. She was quite tranquil as she sat there under the shaded lamps. The danger had been met and encountered, but she had remained mistress of the situation. It was natural for him to feel a little downcast and aggrieved over his defeat. Men were such creatures of impulse.

"He is angry with me now, but he will come round by-and-bye," thought Dora, watching him with affectionate solicitude. In her breast she was very fond and proud of him, though the young mistress of Crossgill was not ready to lay down her prerogative and rights at his behests. "I am not afraid of his taking the bit between his teeth," she said to herself, with a smile of incredulity at the bare idea. How was Garth Clayton, her old friend and playmate, to prove unfaithful to her?

As for Garth, he conducted himself as most high-spirited young men do under the circumstances. He took his cup of cold tea from her hand mutely, much as though it were a dose of poison, and stood aloof, glowering at her at intervals, and talking faster than usual to Mr. Cunningham.

He did not make much of a reply when, after prayers, Dora lighted his silver candlestick as well as her father's, and hoped he would sleep well.

"Good night, Dorrie my dear," observed her father, kissing her smooth forehead just above her eyes. "Don't forget you have a long journey before you to-morrow."

"Good night, Miss Cunningham," said Garth with pointed emphasis as he just touched her hand.

He thought the coldness of his tone would have cut her to the heart, but she merely smiled in his face.

Garth went up-stairs in a tumult of vexation and excitement. The porch-chamber, with its sweet perfume of fresh lavender, no longer charmed him. The girlish reflection of Dora with its arms full of lilies angered him. He turned his back upon it and sat down by the open window.

He was bitterly mortified and disappointed. Dora had been his fate, he told himself, and now his fate had eluded him. She had drawn him on with sweet looks and half-sentences of fondness all these years, and now she had declined to yield to his first honest efforts of persuasion. Well, he was not the man to be fooled by any girl, though she had golden hair and knew how to use her eyes. She was managing him for her own purposes, but he would prove to her that he was not to be managed. He would shake off her influence much as he had done her hand on his coat-sleeve just now; all the more that such shaking off might be difficult to him. There were other women in the world, thank heaven, beside Dora--women who would be more subservient to his masculine royalty, whose wills and lives could be moulded by his.

His heart was still whole within him, though his pride was so grievously wounded. He knew that, as he turned his back upon her picture, and sat down in his sullen resentment. There was no inward bleeding, no sickness of repressed hopes driven back upon themselves, no yearning void, only the bitterness of an angry wound, against which he called out in his young man's impatience. The golden head would not come and nestle against him when he longed for it, and now he thrust it from him.

As for Dora, she went up to her room in perfect tranquillity. "Foolish fellow, how angry he was with me," she said to herself as she brushed out the long fair hair that fell round her in a halo. Her blue eyes looked through it like Undine's. "I wonder if all lovers would be so troublesome; it wanted all one's tact to keep him within bounds. I wish Flo were not so young, and that Beattie were less helpless," she went on, with a sigh. "It will be hard work keeping him in good humor the next year or two, but it would never do to engage myself to him as things are now. I have enough on my hands without that," and with another involuntary sigh, as she thought of Garth's handsome countenance, Dora Cunningham, like a right-minded young woman, put away the subject from her mind and went to sleep.

END OF VOL. II.

BUNGAY: CLAY AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.