CHAPTER II.

DORA.

"Woman-kind, Whom all men ought, both young and old, defend with all their might; Considering what they do deserve of every living wight." _More._

The next week or two passed pleasantly and quickly. The girls adhered rigidly to their course of self-improvement, despite the temptation afforded by summer days. During the fresh morning hours they remained closely shut up in kitchen or pantry, busied in all sorts of mysteries connected with the culinary art, appearing at the early dinner with flushed tired faces and slightly dishevelled hair. All sorts of telegraphic communications passed between them and Langley. Garth, who was not in the secret, and who was a somewhat fastidious as well as abstemious man, was a little perplexed by Susan's vagaries, as he termed them.

"What has come to the woman, Langley?" he would say. "She has always been the best bread-maker in Hepshaw, but this last batch is almost uneatable, it is so heavy and sad. Her pies last night were disgraceful, and now this joint is under-done."

"I will speak to her," Langley would answer, quietly, while the girls interchanged looks of confusion and dismay. Queenie's discomfiture and disappointment were too obvious one day to escape notice. Garth, who was really annoyed, and had been complaining in no very measured terms, caught sight of the girl's crimsoned face, and at once held his peace. But the next day he marched into the kitchen, and found Susan and her coadjutors at work.

It was really a picturesque sight. The girls had rolled up their sleeves in imitation of Susan, and the round dimpled arms were very white and pretty; the coarse bib-aprons could not disguise the slim figures. Cathy had tied a handkerchief over her dark hair; she looked like a young Zingara as she walked across the kitchen, flourishing her basting-ladle; she was stirring some savory mess in a great iron pot. "Far over hill and dale freely we roam," sang Cathy. "Queen, I am sure this will be a success, it smells so good."

"Hush! here comes your brother," ejaculated Queenie. The smooth rolling-pin slipped out of her hand; the sunshine streamed through the window on the red brick floor, and the white table heaped up with ripe fruit, with great golden plums and clusters of red cherries. One level beam had touched the girl's brown hair with gold; her coarse apron enveloped her. She looked like Cinderella before her pumpkin chariot arrived.

"So I have two new cooks, have I?" laughed Garth, as he lounged against the doorway. What a pretty picture it was--the low dark kitchen never looked so inviting before. He made Cathy bring him some cider, and then helped himself to some of Queenie's fruit. Queenie picked him out the juiciest plums with her long white fingers; they had quite a little feast together, the girls waiting on him. Before he went away Queenie had finished rolling out her dough; the tarts were all in the oven before Susan's testy hints were taken, and she had her kitchen to herself.

In the afternoons they sat over their work with Langley in some shady corner of the garden. Sometimes, but not often, Miss Faith joined them.

"Cara does not want me, and so I have come up for an hour," she would say. Her quiet eyes would brighten, and a tinge of color would come into her face, at the sight of the little party gathered on the lawn. Sometimes Garth would be there, stretched on the crisp short grass at Langley's feet, with his paper or his book beside him. He always started up, well-pleased, at the sight of his favorite.

"Miss Charity cannot always have you; other people want you too," he would say, as he brought out another low basket-work chair, and gathered her a rose or two, for Miss Faith had a passion for flowers. Garth dealt in these chivalrous little attentions; it pleased him to tender these sort of offerings to the women he delighted to honor. "You are my patron saint," he would say to her, as he laid the flowers beside her. "Faith is very necessary to us all, but you never seem to remember that," with almost an affectionate intonation in his voice.

"I am only necessary to Cara," she would answer sadly. She took Garth's little speeches, his flowers, his kind looks, as simply as they were offered. To the quiet woman of thirty-five, who had no life of her own to live, and who had laid her own shadowy hopes, her unspoken desires, on the shrine of stern duty, there was nothing suspicious or incongruous in Garth's devotion; he liked her, and she was fond of him. Any other thought would have been impossible to either of them.

Cathy once hinted at this.

"Garth cares for Miss Faith more than for any other woman; he always has," she said once to Queenie. "I used to wonder, long ago, whether anything else would ever come of it. Men do care for women who are older than themselves sometimes, and though she was never pretty she has such a dear face; but I see now that such a thought would never occur to either of them."

"Of course not," interrupted her friend, indignantly. "Miss Faith is very nice, but she is old for her age. You see, youth has been crushed out of her. She would make a nice Sister of Charity; the dress would just suit her. I like her pale creamy complexion; but she is far, far too old for your brother," finished Queenie, to whom the idea was somehow repugnant. Miss Faith, with her soft plaintive voice and little close bonnet, beside the strong vigorous man, still in the glory of his youth! Queenie's ideas were very vague on the subject, but she thought the woman that Garth Clayton honored with his preference ought to be very nice indeed.

"Are you nearly through D'Aubigné's 'Reformation,' Miss Faith?" Cathy would ask her, a little wickedly, on these occasions. Miss Faith would answer her quite seriously; she did not perfectly comprehend a joke. Poor woman, the little pleasantries of life, the fun and drollery of young wits, were almost unknown to her.

"We are still in the third volume," she would sigh; "it is hard reading for summer days, but it suits Cara. Hope quite enjoys it too, but it is a treat to sit out here and listen to the birds, and do nothing but work and talk. I think I almost dislike books, though I should not like Cara to hear me; but then I never was clever."

"I think you would like the interesting sort," returned Langley simply. "Do you remember how much you cared for the volume of Jean Ingelow's poems that I lent you? you told me you cried over the 'Song of Seven.'"

"Oh yes, I love poetry," brightening visibly; "but I could not make Cara interested in it in the least; she calls it moonshine and milk and water."

"That comes of having a strong-minded woman for a sister," interrupted Cathy, who never liked to be long silent.

"My dear, Cara is very strong-minded; she is always talking about my having no mental backbone. She says if we do not exercise our mind, drill it thoroughly, and put it through a course of mental calisthenics, that we shall never keep it in a healthy condition. She thinks it a waste of time to read novels, unless they are Sir Walter Scott's or Miss Austin's. I know it is very bad taste, but I never could admire Miss Austin."

"But you enjoyed 'Dombey and Son,'" interposed Garth, who abhorred strong-minded women, and could not tolerate Miss Charity; hearing her opinions quoted even upset his equanimity. "Never mind what Cara likes; we are each bound to have our own individual taste. If Langley likes pickles better than strawberry jam she has no right to prevent Cathy from feasting on the latter dainty. I hate rules and regulations for grown-up people; it is just as though we want to bring back the swaddling clothes of infancy."

"I am afraid I am not fond of rules, and I do like poetry and novels," returned Miss Faith timidly. Here amongst these young people she felt a different creature; their ideas were as fresh and sweet to her as Garth's roses that she had fastened in her belt. "I must go now; but you have done me so much good, you always do," she said presently as she rose. Garth pleaded hard that she would stay, but she only shook her head at him wistfully.

"No, don't tempt me; Cara would be disappointed when she woke up from her afternoon nap if she found I had not returned; it is not nice to disappoint people, and then her pain might come on again."

"At least you might promise to drive over with us to Crossgill to-morrow; we are going to introduce Miss Marriott to the Cunninghams. Langley cannot go, and there will be a spare place in the waggonette." But Miss Faith would not promise. Two afternoons of pleasure would be unheard-of dissipation; she would never hear the last of it; and what would Cara do without her reading?

"As though we cared about that," muttered Garth, _sotto voce_; and then, as he returned from unlatching the little side gate, he paused a moment by Queenie. "There goes one of life's unsolved enigmas--a good woman thrown away on a selfish one. I know you agree with me, Miss Marriott; I can read it in your face."

Queenie gave him a bright, understanding smile. She had just finished a most artistic-looking patch in an old frock of Emmie's, and held it up in critical approval. "When people are so good they can hardly fail to be happy," she said with slightly qualified assent. Somehow she did not pity Miss Faith quite so much this afternoon; it was a little contrary of her perhaps, but then, had she not gone away with Garth's roses in her belt? and had he not called her his patron saint, and hinted that she was necessary to him, to them all? Queenie felt that even Miss Faith's life was not quite devoid of all sweetness when such speeches as these were made to her. Garth had not sufficient vanity to guess at these thoughts, but he seemed quite disposed to linger by Queenie's side and argue out the matter. He had been quite absorbed by Miss Faith's conversation while she remained; and now it would be refreshing to turn to Queenie. It did not occur to him to pick roses for her, but he stood beside her, and watched her deft fingers move swiftly over her work, with a lazy sort of pleasure.

"No one could doubt her goodness," he went on, taking up the thread of his argument; "the question is, is she quite right to give up her own will so entirely to her sister? One may be good and self-sacrificing, and yet preserve one's individuality."

"I think she is not quite sufficiently strong-minded."

"Don't; if you knew how I hate that word! it is Miss Charity's war-cry. Women do not need to be strong-minded, they ought to be pliant, yielding, ready to take impressions; a woman with an inflexible will is a man in disguise. If Miss Charity had married--poor thing, she might have done so once, and have rued taking the step to her dying day--she would have ruled her husband with a rod of iron, much as she rules Miss Faith."

"I suppose she is fond of her," doubtfully.

"Oh yes; tyranny does not exclude affection, at least among women," was the grim answer. "Miss Charity is only forming her sister's education, moulding her taste, in fact; she little knows how all the maxims slide off her like the rain off a duck's back. Away from her sister she is a different creature--dares to hold her own opinions, and to own to her own modest tastes. I call Miss Faith, exquisitely feminine; don't you think that is the word for her, Miss Marriott?"

"Yes," replied Queenie hesitating. It was very pleasant to have Garth there beside her, talking on any subject; but she almost wished that he would praise Miss Faith a little less. How did she know, Cathy might be wrong after all; Miss Faith was only seven years his senior, and there were so few people in Hepshaw. Queenie was still too young to know how silent a man generally is on the merits of a woman he actually loves.

"I mean her to go over to Crossgill with us to-morrow," he said presently, returning to the charge. "If I have to beard the lion in his den, and Miss Charity on her couch, I intend to have my way. I know what I will do, Langley shall go over there after tea, she has great influence with the dominant cardinal virtue. Willing or unwilling, Miss Faith goes with us to-morrow." And Garth, as usual, had his way.

It would be hard to tell whether Queenie or Miss Faith enjoyed the drive and the lovely scenery most. Cathy was on the box beside her brother, and had the reins more than once in her hands, and only Emmie remained with them.

Miss Faith was a quiet companion, and at first Queenie missed her friend's lively tongue; but by-and-bye they fell into a pleasant channel of talk, which proved so interesting that they were both surprised when Garth told them that they were within sight of Crossgill, and that in another five minutes they would be at the Vicarage.

They were descending a steep winding road as he spoke, and in another moment they entered the village. Queenie always spoke of it afterwards as one of the prettiest villages she had ever seen. A little stream flowed down the middle of the road, the cottages looked picturesque and in good condition; a fine old church seemed to tower in symbolic majesty over the whole place. Emmie and she uttered a simultaneous cry of admiration when they first caught sight of Crossgill Vicarage. It was the ideal Vicarage; the neatly-kept gravelled paths, the exquisitely trimmed lawn, the flower-beds masses of variegated colors, the rare shrubs and plants, all spoke of the owner's cultivated taste; the house itself, with its quaint casements and low bay-windows, was almost embosomed in creepers and climbing roses; the porch was full of flowers. As the door opened they found themselves in a little square hall, wainscoted in oak, with an oak staircase and low gallery running across it.

An old servant with a wrinkled face, evidently about eighty years old, welcomed Cathy and Garth with beaming smiles. Garth shook hands with her.

"Well, Nurse, I have brought visitors to see your young lady. Oh, there is Miss Dora," as a slight girlish figure crossed the gallery, and came rapidly down the broad low staircase towards them.

What a picturesque little figure it was. Picturesque--that was just the word for her. No one in their senses could have called Dora Cunningham pretty, but taken altogether she was simply charming.

She was dressed so quaintly too; the shady coarse straw hat, with the wreath of wild convolvoli, just suited the pale _piquante_ face; and over her dark blue cambric she wore a long narrow holland apron, laced across the bodice in old-century fashion, and bordered with antique silken flowers. A kitten's soft head and innocent blue eyes peeped out of one of the pockets. "You have come at last," she said with just a slight accent of reproach, and a little satirical elevation of the eyebrows. "I have been looking for you for weeks past. Where is Langley? and why has not Ted been to see me lately?"

"I have brought Miss Faith and our guest, Miss Marriott, instead," returned Garth. "This is her little sister Emmie. Are you going to give us some tea, Miss Dora? Where is your father? Shall I go and look for him while you show these ladies your pretty drawing-room and conservatory?"

"Nurse, will you send papa to us, please. No, Mr. Clayton, I am not going to let you escape like that; you owe me some apology first for your long absence. What have you been doing? What have you all been doing? Come in here; I mean to catechise you."

Miss Cunningham spoke in a brisk, pleasant voice, though it had a sharp, decided note or two in it. She marshalled her guests with perfect ease and self-possession into the long bay-windowed drawing-room. A white-haired, aristocratic-looking man in an old gardening coat came out of the conservatory with a watering-pot in his hand.

"Papa, you must come and talk to Miss Marriott and Miss Palmer, please. Let me take that watering-pot away, it is trickling all over the carpet, and your coat is covered with lime. Do you like a low chair, Miss Marriott? If you sit there you can see the flowers in the conservatory, and just a pretty peep of the garden. I hope you will talk to papa, he is so fond of talking to strangers. Miss Palmer, you know papa, of course?"

"Miss Faith and I are old friends, my dear," interposed Mr. Cunningham.

"Yes, I know; it is Miss Marriott who is the only stranger," returned Dora calmly, untying her hat. She had white dimpled hands, rather like a baby's. "Now, Mr. Clayton, please tell me what you have been doing with yourself all this time?"

Mr. Cunningham proved himself a most genial host. He took Miss Faith and Queenie into the conservatory, and gathered some of his choicest flowers for them. A little summer shower had just commenced; the light patter of drops on the glass roof blended unceasingly with the voices. Dora's canaries were singing loudly; a small blue-black Skye terrier scampered over the wet lawn. Miss Faith seemed rapt in quiet happiness; Queenie was just a trifle absent and distracted.

Through the conservatory door she could catch sight of a pretty group. Dora sat in her little low chair, and Cathy had ensconced herself on the rug at her feet. Garth stood with his broad shoulders propped against the wooden mantel-piece, looking at them both. His face wore an amused expression; evidently he was well entertained.

"Do you think her pretty?" whispered Emmie, coming round to her sister's side. "She is like a picture, somehow; but I like your face best, Queenie, there is more in it." Queenie could not understand why the child's remark jarred on her. She colored hastily and turned away.

But she told herself afterwards that Emmie was right on one point. Dora Cunningham was certainly not pretty: her teeth were a little too prominent, her nose was somewhat blunt and unformed, and her eyes were blue and still, and had no special depth in them. Her fair hair was her chief beauty; it was very abundant, and she wore it gracefully, just simply turned off from her face and knotted carelessly behind.

At this early stage of their acquaintance Queenie hardly knew whether she was attracted or repulsed by the young mistress of Crossgill Vicarage. Her perfect self-possession, her absence of all consciousness, her cool, business-like comments on things in general, her faith in her own management and powers of observation, astonished Queenie not a little.

From the first she had taken possession of Garth, quite frankly and openly.

"I always leave the ladies to papa," she said to Queenie, as she led the way by-and-bye into the hall, where tea had been prepared for them. "Papa is such a lady's man. I always get on best with gentlemen, at least if they are like Mr. Clayton. Girls are all very well in their way, but men are so much more amusing. I dare say you think the same?"

"I have never thought about it; I have seen so few gentlemen in my life," answered Queenie, a little confused by the question. The music and drawing-masters at Granite Lodge and Caleb Runciman were about the only specimens of manhood with whom she had been acquainted, until her arrival at Church-Stile House. She was afraid, too, that Garth had overheard Miss Cunningham's frank speech; if he had, he took no notice. He placed himself at the little oval table beside his young hostess, and looked at the plump childish hands, busy amongst the old china cups and saucers.

The old nurse stood behind her mistress's chair, and joined in the conversation. She and Garth seemed great friends.

"Well, Nurse, how are Miss Beatrix and Miss Florence?"

"Well, very well, bless their dear hearts. Miss Beatrix is taller than Miss Dora even, and is growing prettier than ever. We want them back, Mr. Clayton, sir."

"Now, Nurse, that's nonsense," interposed Dora, briskly. "Remember they are gone for their good, not ours. Beatrix must finish her education before she comes home; you know papa and I have settled that."

"I don't think the poor young ladies like foreign parts so well as home," sighed the old woman, plaintively. "Miss Flo writes beautiful letters, to be sure; but she says she is home-sick sometimes."

"Have you sisters?" enquired Queenie, with a little surprise. She thought Dora was the only inhabitant of the vicarage.

Dora nodded. "Yes; there are the girls. Nurse is talking about them now; she is always talking about them. They are at school in Brussels. They are very well, of course, for girls, only I have never forgiven them for not being boys. I have always so longed for a brother--a great big brother--to take me about when papa is lazy or tired," appealing to Garth with candid blue eyes, not unlike the kitten's.

"What a pity we can't make you a present of Ted," returned Garth coolly; but Nurse interposed again with the garrulity of age.

"Miss Dora, dear, I can't bear to hear you talk so; it doesn't seem right, does it, sir? with those sweet young ladies for sisters, adoring her and spoiling her as they do. Why one of these days, my darling, you will have a husband to take you about; that will be better than a brother, won't it, Mr. Clayton, sir?"

"I suppose I shall have a husband some day, but there is no need for you to drag him in before-hand, Nurse;" returned Dora with perfect composure, as she tied on her broad-brimmed hat again. The allusion in Garth's presence did not disturb her equanimity in the least; she took it quite as a matter of course. "It is only Nurse's nonsense," she said, turning calmly to Queenie; "if she talked so to the girls it would be different, but nothing matters to me," with a little curl of her lip and a shrug.

"I think you must miss your sisters, living here alone?" observed Queenie, by way of changing the subject.

"Oh, as to that, papa and I miss them, of course. They are well enough for girls, only they are just at the _gauche_ age, you know; when they are older I shall know better what to do with them."

"Then are you never dull?" asked Garth. "I should have thought Flo especially would have left a void in the house, she was so bright and full of fun."

"I should have called Flo noisy," exclaimed Dora quietly. "Busy people are never dull; I should have thought you would have found that out by this time."

"I know you emulate the busy bee, and improve each shining hour, Miss Dora; but still--"

"I suppose you mean to be satirical," with a little scorn. "You men think there is no work done but by yourselves."

"Oh, no; I am sure your list of duties must be very long," evidently teasing her, to her father's great delight.

"Quite long enough for a woman," she returned, pointedly. "I have my house-keeping, and my schools, and the mothers' meeting, and the penny club, and the coal and blanket fund, and the library, besides odds and ends of business, and all my visiting. Papa and I work together, and in the evening I read to him."

"Dora is my right hand," interposed Mr. Cunningham, looking at his girl fondly.

"After all men must have some one to help them," returned Dora loftily. She delivered herself of her little speech Parthian-wise, as she rose from the tea-table, turning her shoulder somewhat upon Garth as she did so.

"Are we such helpless creatures then?" he asked in a low voice, following her.

"Most of you are," she replied calmly. "Miss Marriott, the rain is over, shall we take a turn in the garden?"