CHAPTER IV.

THE KING OF KARLDALE.

"I ask thee for a thoughtful love, Through constant watching wise, To meet the glad with joyful smiles, And wipe the weeping eyes; And a heart at leisure from itself, To soothe and sympathize." _L. Waring._

A few days after Miss Cunningham's visit Langley came into the room where the girls were sitting as usual, chatting merrily over their work.

"Cathy, do you think you could spare Queenie to us for a few hours?"

"That depends upon circumstances, my dear, was the cool response.

"Because Garth and I want her. I have just had a letter from Gertrude, and she and Harry wish us to go over there to-morrow; she is very unwell, I fear, and Garth thinks it would be such a good opportunity to show Queenie the beauties of Karlsmere."

"Why should we not all go? Do go and coax him, Langley."

"Indeed I cannot," replied Langley earnestly. "Gertrude is such an invalid that we cannot fatigue her with numbers. No, it is no use teasing him," as Cathy made an impetuous movement to the door; "he has quite decided that he will only take Queenie and me. I thought it was very nice of him proposing it," with a deprecating glance at her sister's disappointed face; "it will be a treat for Queenie; and you know in another week or so she will have to begin work in earnest."

"You and Garth never care for me to go over to Karldale," began Cathy a little crossly, but Langley stopped her rather hurriedly. She was a trifle moved from her ordinary composure; her face looked more worn and anxious than usual; a nervous flush glowed in her thin cheeks.

"My dear, you never will believe in Gertrude's ill-health. I am sadly troubled about her, and so is Garth."

"I have small sympathy for people who are always calling 'wolf,'" replied Cathy, taking up her work again. "I believe Gertrude's temper is most in fault."

"Then we will not argue about it," returned her sister, with a little sigh. She was very patient, but Cathy's mood evidently jarred on her. Cathy threw down her work again with such impatience that her needle broke as her sister left the room.

"Why will she give in to that woman's whims as she does! I can't understand it. Gertrude makes a perfect slave of her when she goes there, and actually Langley seems to like it. She is always going over there now; and she comes back tired out and fit for nothing."

"Do you know, I think it vexes Langley dreadfully when, you depreciate Mrs. Chester; I have noticed it more than once," observed Queenie, in her shrewd way.

"I know it does, and my wretched temper makes me do it all the more; but Langley is such a patient old dear that I hate to see her domineered over and victimized by a woman like Gertrude. When I see her with that worried look in her face I am always ten times more bitter; and then I am so fond of Harry, and Karlsmere would be so delicious this weather, and I own I was cross," continued Cathy, with the frankness that made her so lovable; "but of course you must go to please them, and Emmie and I will spend the day with Miss Cosie."

Queenie was thankful that the matter was so amicably settled; but since her friend was not to join in her pleasure she would not dwell on her own anticipations, delightful as they were; but in her heart she thought how good it was of Mr. Clayton to include her in their little trip. Since that day in the granite quarry his manner had insensibly changed to her; always kind and gentle, it was now tinged with stronger interest. A pleasant cordiality marked their intercourse; he was always thoughtful for her comfort and pleasure. Unconsciously, Queenie was beginning to depend for much of her present happiness upon this friendship with Garth Clayton. "It is almost as good as having a brother of my own," she said once to Cathy. Queenie's hard-working life, with its stern, morbid realities, had left her scant leisure for the ordinary dreams of girlhood. She had never mapped out any bright future for herself; possible lovers had not stolen across the sad margin of her thoughts. "Those things were not for her," she had said to herself. "Other women had a strong arm to lean upon, other women had fathers and brothers or husbands to work for them, and shield them in the battle of life; she had to work for herself and her helpless little sister, that was all. And so she took up her burthen bravely, neither repining that such things were, nor wasting her best energies with fruitless regrets for impossibilities. No vague sentimentalities preyed on her healthy young nature; no bitterness for her joyless youth marred her sweet serenity. Everything will be made up to us there, I am sure of it," she would say to herself, with tender, old-fashioned wisdom. "One day I shall get old, and not care so much about these things; perhaps Emmie will marry, and I shall be aunt Queenie, and take care of her and her children."

And so, with the courage of perfect innocence, and with a simplicity that was perfectly free from self-consciousness, Queenie gave herself up to the delight of this new friendship. There was no one to warn her of danger; no one to bid the brave young heart shield itself with greater reserve and prudence, to question her of the meaning of this strange happiness that seemed to flood her whole being with brightness.

"Every one is so good to me, and I am so happy," she said almost daily. When alone her thoughts were a perpetual thanksgiving. An insensible change had passed over her thoughts with respect to Garth, she was less critical; the defects and flaws of character she had at first noticed in him became less apparent; his slight arbitrariness, his condescension, his masterful assumption of power, even his lack of deep intellect were all unnoticed. If he spoke, Queenie was as ready to obey his behests as ever Langley or Cathy were. If his want of ambition, his perfect content with himself and his surroundings, sometimes surprised her, she began to credit him with greatness of mind; or if she were too shrewd for that, to own to herself that even his very faults were more lovable than other people's virtues.

"He is a sort of Bayard; he is as courteous to me as though I were the greatest lady in the laud, instead of a village school-mistress," said the girl once with tears in her eyes, "And see how good he is to those old ladies at The Sycamores: he let Miss Hope talk to him for a whole hour about her Temperance Society, though I could see he was dreadfully bored by her. He never hurts people's feelings by letting them see that they trouble him."

"My dear, Garth is perfection, and I am glad you have found it out," was Cathy's reply.

Queenie found vent for her feelings in a grateful little speech when she next saw Garth. He came in at the drawing-room door, throwing his head back in his usual fashion, and shook himself like a rough terrier.

"What a dirty fellow I look, to be sure; the roads have quite powdered me. I hope we shall have rain before to-morrow."

"Oh, Mr. Clayton, I have been wanting to thank you ever since I heard it. It will be so delightful--to-morrow I mean."

"That remains to be proved; we shall enjoy it all the more for having you with us," was the pleasant answer. "I have been waiting for an opportunity to drive you over to Karlsmere ever since you came. The lake is charming, and you will get quantities of parsley fern for your cottage garden. By-the-bye, I have been in there this morning, and the workmen are getting on famously; all the holes are stopped, and there's another coat of paint on. I hardly knew the place. We shall be losing you in another fortnight, I am afraid;" for Queenie had obstinately refused to burthen her friends with their presence a day longer than was necessary.

She tried to look pleased at this announcement; but a pang crossed her in spite of herself at the thought of leaving Church-Stile House. The cottage seemed dull by comparison. True, she should often see them, and Cathy would be in and out perpetually; but she would no longer be his guest, sharing in the pleasant every-day life of the family, making one in their plans, a party to their little jokes and pleasantries. "It is time for me to go, I am getting spoiled amongst you all. I feel I have been idle long enough," she said to her friend afterwards; but somehow she sighed as she said it.

The day at Karlsmere proved as delightful in reality as it was in anticipation. Garth was in one of his boyish, frolicsome moods. He and Queenie hunted for ferns, and gathered wild flowers, while Langley walked thoughtfully beside the margin of the beautiful lake. It was a golden day in Queenie's memory. How often she recalled that walk afterwards. The blue shimmering lake, so still and silent in the sunlight; the winding roads; the steep woody height on the farther bank; the pretty vicarage with its trim garden and the tiny church, reminding her of a small ill-furnished room. The tall athletic figure in the grey suit, vaulting lightly over the crisp bracken high above them; the handful of wild flowers tossed laughingly at her feet; Langley standing on a smooth white boulder, looking with grave unsmiling eyes at the baby waves lapping to her feet. How well she recalled it all.

"There's Harry coming to meet us," shouted Garth; but Langley did not hear him. She stood in that strange, self-absorbed attitude, motionless and oblivious, till Nan ran up to her and pulled her dress; and then the color rushed over her pale face with surprise, and she stooped and pressed the child closely to her.

"Little Nan, my dear little Nan," she whispered.

"I am father's Nan," lisped the child. "I am nobody's Nan but father's. Father's up there," pointing with her fore-finger to the rocks above them. "He and Jeb are both there. I carried Jeb, but he was heavy, and my arms did ache."

"Yes, you are father's Nan," repeated Langley dreamily; "father's little comforter;" and as she kissed the little face a sudden mist rose before her eyes.

"Why are your eyes wet when you kiss me?" questioned Nan curiously, "and why do you always kiss me so close, so close? Mammie never does; but only father, only father and you."

"Hush, Nan; I love you. Do you hear me, Nan? I love you dearly, dearly." Langley spoke in a strange, stifled voice, but the child only gazed at her in surprise.

"You need not cry about it. You know father loves me too, but he never cries over me. Mammie does; but then she pushes me away."

"Ah, poor mother is ill, you know."

Nan reflected a moment gravely. "Yes; her head did ache. She said 'Go away, Nan, you tire me; go to father and Jeb;' and I did go. Mammie does not love Nan much."

"Oh, hush, my darling, hush! poor mother!"

"She did often say 'Go away, Nan; Nan is naughty.' But Nan is good, always good; father says so."

"What are you talking to Langley about, you little chatter-box? Here is Jeb whining his heart out for you," called out Mr. Chester from the bank above them. "Stay where you are, pet, and father will come and carry you."

"Father's coming," echoed Nan placidly. She stood quite quiet and patiently while he talked to Langley; but when he lifted her in his arms she seemed to nestle into them with a little coo of content. Once or twice during their walk her father stooped over her and peered into the white sun-bonnet rather anxiously.

"She is not quite as strong as she was, and seems to tire sooner," he said to Langley. "Gertrude tells me I am wrong to let the child go about so much in the heat. But what am I to do? When I leave her at home she makes herself ill with fretting. Naughty Nan," in a tone of infinite tenderness.

"Nan always good," was the somewhat drowsy answer.

"God bless her, so she is, my little white angel. Look at her, Langley; this is just what she does: she always falls asleep in my arms like this. Sometimes she is so heavy that I am obliged to put her down. I wonder how I should feel if I were a poor man on the tramp, with my child in my arms, and the world before me. I wonder, too, what mammie would do without us," as Nan opened her dark eyes, roused by the suppressed vehemence of her father's voice.

"Mammy did say 'Go away, Nan; Nan makes mammy's head to ache.'"

"I am afraid mammy says that far too often," was the somewhat bitter reply. "It seems hard for a mother never to be able to bear her child's presence."

"Hush! Miss Marriott will hear you, Harry!" interposed Langley, gently. Mr. Chester looked round and shook his head.

"No; they are too far behind, and seem engrossed with each other's conversation. Look here, Langley, we are old friends, and you know all our troubles, and I tell you truly, things are getting worse every day."

Langley's pale face turned paler, but she made no answer.

"Sometimes I think if I could only see Gertrude happy and contented I should not mind what became of me; I wear out my heart to please her. I do not think she has ever heard a harsh word from me since I married her; can any husband do more?"

"No, indeed; you are good, very good, to her," was the almost inaudible reply.

"And yet it has come to this, that I have no wife and no home, for without sympathy how can one be said to possess either. If she would only greet me with a smile sometimes; if she had a kind word for me or this child; but you heard what she said just now. She is a sensitive little creature, and I fully believe her mother's indifference pains her."

"Harry, indeed, indeed, you must not be hard upon Gertrude; if you only knew how she suffers."

"Do I not know it? She will not be long with us, my poor Gertie, I am sure of that; she is wasting every day, Langley; Dr. Marshall says so. That is what makes it so bitter to think there can be no peace now. If I could only make her happy; if I could be sure that she has not repented of marrying me; but sometimes I think that if I had left her amongst her own people she would not be pining herself to death as she is now."

A look of intense pain crossed Langley's face.

"You must not think that."

"But how am I to help it, when I see her drooping and wasting before my eyes, my own wife, whom I have sworn to cherish? Sometimes I dread that she will tell me so; and then, how am I to bear it?"

"Gertrude will never tell you so;" but Mr. Chester shook his head. "She will never tell you so," repeated Langley in a steadier voice. "In spite of her unhappy nature Gertrude is a good woman. Harry, you always listen to me as if--as if I were your sister; do try and believe what I say this once."

"What am I to believe?"

"That it is not your fault. Gertrude says you are goodness itself to her and the child; sometimes she speaks of you both so tenderly. Why will you not go on bearing things as you have done, so patiently, so nobly, and trust that Providence will bring good out of all this evil?"

"Then you think that there is nothing that I can do for her. I half hoped that you would find out something that she wanted, some wish that she might express."

"Then I will let you know," replied Langley, with assumed cheerfulness. In reality her heart was as heavy as lead, the talk had oppressed her. Ever ready with her sympathy she had yet found it hard to comfort him. What comfort could there be in such a home--a hasty, ill-assorted marriage, defective sympathy, inequalities of temper, physical sufferings impatiently borne, the daily burthen of sickness without ameliorating circumstances, and all this patiently, nay, heroically endured. What was she to say but that he was blameless? Whose fault was it that all this had come upon him? that he was walking by her side, groaning aloud for once in the very heaviness of his spirit? What could her words be to him but meaningless truisms, that must fall flatly on his ear? Had she any comfort at all to offer him? was not such comfort placed beyond his reach and hers for ever?

Unconsciously she slackened her pace as such thoughts came to her, and in a few minutes the others joined them, and the conversation became general.

Queenie was delighted with the look of the Grange, as Mr. Chester's house was called. It was a rambling grey stone house, standing just at the head of the lake; a picturesque old archway embosomed with ivy admitted them into a place half garden, half orchard, with a low fence dividing it from the crofts; the large square hall was used as a summer sitting-room. From the inner room a tall dark-eyed woman advanced languidly to meet them, wrapped up, in spite of the summer day, in a costly Indian shawl.

"Well, Gertie, I have brought your friends," exclaimed her husband, cheerfully; "I met them half way down the lake. I hope you have not been expecting us before."

"You must have dawdled on your way then," returned Mrs. Chester fretfully, "for I have been waiting for at least an hour, until I thought I should have been too nervous to receive them; but that is the way when you get with Langley, Harry, you never remember poor me."

"I am sure we walked here straight enough," replied Mr. Chester hastily; but Langley, with a sweet look, stopped him.

"We have ventured to bring our friend, Miss Marriott, Gertrude; Garth wanted to show her Karlsmere. She knows what an invalid you are, and will not make any demands on your strength. Now you must go and establish yourself comfortably on your couch, while Queenie and I get rid of some of our dust, and Harry puts dear little Nan in her crib."

"I tell Harry that he is killing that child, by dragging her about in the sun," rejoined Mrs. Chester, with a shrug of her shoulders. "He will not listen to me. One would think he had a dozen children, and could afford to lose one or two; but there, it is no use my talking to him."

"Why, Gertie, I thought you said that your head was bad, and that Nan was worrying you," observed her husband in a deprecating voice.

"Well, but she might be playing up-stairs with her Noah's Ark. Of course I am only a mother, and don't understand children; but look how flushed her face is, Langley."

"She is only rosy with sleep," interrupted Garth, stooping to kiss her. "What a pretty little face it is! She is more like you than Harry," continued the artful young diplomatist; "she has got your eyes and eyelashes, Mrs. Chester."

"Yes; she is very like you, Gertie," replied her husband eagerly. "Garth is right; I never saw it so plainly before."

"Other people have always seen it," was the somewhat pointed answer.

"Oh, Langley, I don't like her at all," exclaimed Queenie, when she found herself alone with Langley in the large pleasant room overlooking the crofts. "I always thought Cathy was prejudiced; but I think her so--so disagreeable."

"She has been waiting for us, you see, and that always makes her nervous; one must make allowance for an invalid's humor."

"Some invalids are quite pleasant," returned Queenie stoutly. "There is a fretful chord in her voice that jars somehow. She is very slim and elegant, and I suppose some people would call her handsome; but I don't like her gloomy dark eyes, and her mouth goes down at the corners. I always distrust people's tempers when I see that."

"I did not know that you were such an observer, my dear."

"I know when people's faces please me, and when I shall get to love them," was the oracular rejoinder. "I could never love Mrs. Chester, Langley, though I might get to pity her in time," and Langley attempted no further defence.

Queenie found her first impressions only deepened as the day went on. There was a carping fretfulness in Mrs. Chester's manner to her husband that must have provoked a less sweet temper, but at times he scarcely seemed to notice it. When the child was in the room she seemed to engross all his attention; when she was absent he appeared restless and ill-at-ease. "She can be pleasant to every one but to him," Queenie thought to herself. "Cathy was right when she said that she detested that woman."

But even Queenie and Cathy might have found some pity in their youthful intolerance if they had overheard the brief fragments of a conversation that passed between Mrs. Chester and Langley.

"Oh, Gertrude, I know it is hard; but if you would only try, for his and the child's sake, to control yourself a little; you do not know how unhappy you are making him."

"Does he complain of me to you?" she demanded fiercely; "that would be manly and generous on his part."

"Do you want me to leave off talking to you?" replied Langley in a tone of genuine grief. "Oh, Gertrude, Gertrude, what will you say next? Do you wish to know what he did really say? He asked me if there was nothing he could do for you. He begged me to find out if there was any wish that he could gratify; he--but I cannot repeat it. If you had only heard what he said!"

Mrs. Chester rose feverishly from her couch and caught hold of Langley's dress.

"There it is. No, don't turn from me, don't look so shocked; you know it is his very goodness that makes me worse. Why is he so good to me when I try him so? Sometimes I think that I am possessed with some sort of evil spirit; I can't help tormenting him. Oh, Langley, why did he insist on my marrying him? why did he not leave me in my old home when he knew, when I told him, that I could not ever care for him as I could for that other? when--" but Langley stopped her with a face of horror.

"Hush! don't mention his name! Harry's wife can have no remembrance of that sort. You are a good woman, Gertrude; I have always said so."

"No, no," she returned, bursting into tears; "don't judge me out of your merciful heart, Langley. I have never been a good wife to Harry, and I never shall. I try to forget, but the effort is killing me. Oh, why did he not leave me in my old home, and not have doomed us both to this misery?"

"Hush! you are not yourself to-day! I cannot hear you talk any more in this way;" and Langley rose, pale and resolute. "Put yourself and your unhappiness aside, it is too late to talk of such things now; think only of the duty you owe to Harry and your little child."

"Yes, my little child, who will so soon be without a mother," she returned, weeping passionately; but Langley only stooped over her with sad dry eyes, and, kissing her, bade God bless her, and turned away.