CHAPTER V.

A GOLDEN HARVEST.

"Yes; keep me calm, though loud and rude The sounds my ears that greet; Calm in the closet's solitude, Calm in the bustling street; Calm in the hour of buoyant health, Calm in my hour of pain; Calm in my poverty or wealth, Calm in my loss or gain."--_Bonar._

It had been arranged that Queenie should return to Carlisle for a day or two before entering on her new duties, leaving Emmie behind her at Church-Stile House. She must bid good-bye to her old friend, Caleb Runciman, and redeem her promise of seeing Mr. Calcott again. A brisk correspondence had been kept up between her and Caleb. The old man had expressed himself well satisfied with her plans, though many and sore were his regrets at losing her and his little favorite. "I told Mr. Calcott your intention, as you wished me, my dear," wrote Caleb, in his cramped neat hand. "He received the news in silence, but after a while he muttered, 'Well, well, it will do for a time; but it seems strange. Frank Marriott's daughter a village school-mistress!' and then he asked, querulously, if the girl were coming back? I think he misses you, my dear, though not more than I do; and what we shall do without you and the precious lamb is more than Molly and I can tell; but she has got your old room ready, and has baked a first-rate cake; and there's a warm welcome waiting for you, Miss Queenie, my dear; so no more at present, from your attached friend, Caleb Runciman."

The day after their return from Karlsmere, as they were sitting at breakfast, Garth looked up rather suddenly from the paper he was reading. "Miss Marriott, I am afraid you have lost a friend," he said, rather abruptly. "Andrew Calcott of Carlisle is dead!"

"Uncle Andrew! Oh, poor Uncle Andrew!" exclaimed Emmie, mournfully; but Queenie only started and turned pale.

"By some mistake the announcement has been postponed; he died three days ago. Ah, there is the postman coming up the walk. I should not be surprised if you have another letter from your old friend, Mr. Runciman."

Garth was right; but Queenie rose from the table and carried off the letter to read in the privacy of her own room. Cathy found her quietly crying over it when she went up some time afterwards.

"I did not think I should have minded it so much," she said, drying her eyes as Cathy entered; "but it seems so dreadful, his dying alone in the night, with no one near him. Perhaps Caleb was right, and he may have passed away in his sleep."

"Is that all they know about it?"

"Yes; they just went up in the morning, and found him lying there quite cold, with a smile on his face. He never would let any one stay in his room; that was one of his peculiarities. Caleb knew this would happen one night, but he seems dreadfully down about it. I am to go over next Thursday, you know, and he says this need not make any difference."

"You will be sorry that you have not seen him again."

"Yes; it is that that troubles me. I cannot bear to think that I have been enjoying myself all this time, and that he has been missing me. I remember now, that he seemed to think that it was good-bye."

Queenie's bright spirits were quenched for the remainder of the day. Her tender heart was grieved by the thought of the lonely death-bed. Garth found her looking still pale and depressed when he came back from the works. To distract her thoughts he took her and Cathy for a long country walk, from which they did not return until late in the evening. He had never been more gentle to her, Queenie remembered afterwards. He and Cathy had restrained their high spirits, and had only talked to her of what roused and interested her--of the school, the cottage, and plans for her new life. Walking back in the moonlight, their conversation flowed in graver channels. He and Cathy talked of their mother; and Queenie for the first time had a clue to the passionate devotion with which Garth regarded her memory.

She bade good-bye to her friends rather sadly when the day arrived for her to go back to Carlisle. She was only to be absent three days, and yet the separation caused her an effort. Why had the place grown so suddenly dear to her that it cost her a pang only to turn her back upon it?

Garth and Cathy accompanied her to the station.

"I do not know what I shall do without you, Queen," exclaimed her friend, disconsolately.

"We shall all miss you, Miss Marriott," echoed Garth, brightly. "Take care of yourself, and come back to us as soon as you can." And the pleasant words lingered long in her memory.

But, in spite of herself, her journey was a dull one. Mr. Calcott's sudden death still oppressed her. The day was sultry and sunless; heavy thunder-clouds brooded on the edge of the horizon; the air was surcharged with electricity; a storm seemed impending. It broke upon her long before she arrived at her destination. Queenie sat quietly in her place and watched the fierce play of the elements, half fascinated and half bewildered; a vague excitement seemed roused in her, a strange disturbance and sense of change oppressed her.

"I am just the same, and yet I feel different," she said to herself; "I suppose this storm excites me. I wonder if he meant it when he said he would miss me, or if it was only his way; he must always say something pleasant. I wonder if he would be very sorry if I were never to come back. Would it make any difference to him, really? They are all going to the Abbey this evening; how I wish I could be with them; but this is unkind to my poor Caleb. I am ashamed to think how selfish I am getting. I will try not to think of Hepshaw or Church-Stile House until Monday;" but, in spite of her good resolutions, her thoughts had travelled there again before another half-hour had elapsed.

The storm had ceased, but the rain was still pouring steadily down as Queenie plodded through the streets of Carlisle. She had to pass Granite Lodge on her way to Caleb's; but the sight of the grim portico made her shiver and avert her eyes. She gave quite a sigh of relief when she found herself in the dark entry of Caleb's house, with Molly's bright face smiling at her.

"Ay, the master's in there. Master, master, here's our young lady come an hour before her time," vociferated the good woman, dropping curtseys profusely in her excitement.

"Why, Molly, my dear creature, you need, not to be so ceremonious," exclaimed Queenie, pressing the hard hand between both her own; "it is only Miss Queenie; surely you have not forgotten me in this little time."

"No; but I must not forget my manners to my betters," returned Molly, coloring and dropping another hurried curtsey. "But go in there, my dear young lady. I think he is a bit dazed with his sleep, or something, or he would have come out to meet you."

Caleb rose from his chair rather feebly as she entered; his blue eyes had certainly a dazed look in them.

"Miss Queenie, my dear," he said, rather tremulously, "I am not so young as I was, and things sadly upset me. Molly is a good creature, but her intelligence is limited. I have wanted you badly the last few days, you and the precious lamb."

"Dear Caleb, if I had known that I would certainly have brought Emmie."

"No, no need; it is only an old man's whim; she is better off where she is. I have been trying to write to you the last day or two, Miss Queenie, my dear; but I got so flurried and made such poor beginnings that I was obliged to give it up, not being so young as I was, my dear, and soon upset by what's over and gone."

"I am afraid it has been a sad shock to you," observed Queenie, gravely. Caleb's wrinkled hand was quite cold and shaking, and Queenie rubbed it in a soft, caressing way as she spoke.

"You might have knocked me over with a feather," returned Caleb, reverting to his favorite expression. "It was not so much the shock of his death, though I have worked for him, boy and man, just fifty-five years last Michaelmas, nor the manner of it, for he slept away as peaceful as an infant; it is what came after, the mysterious dealings of Providence; but I must have my pipe, saving your presence, Miss Queenie dear. And you must have something to eat and drink to keep up your strength; and then you and me will have a deal of comfortable talk together, when we are both more composed;" and Queenie, seeing how agitated the old man really was, yielded with her usual sweet unselfishness, and went up to the little room, with the big brown bed, where she and Emmie had slept, with the window overlooking the stone-mason's yard, with the great slabs and blocks of stone.

The rain was dripping on the sheds and the white, unfinished monuments. Queenie stood for a long time listening to the soft patter on the leaves, until she found she was in the Warstdale granite-quarry, sitting amongst the grey stones, with Garth stretched on his plaid beside her, and roused herself with difficulty.

She went down after that, and poured out tea for herself from the little black teapot, and did justice to Molly's cake; and looked at the grate, wreathed with sprays of silvery honesty, and wondered if the rain had cleared up at Hepshaw, and whether they would go after all to the abbey; and then scolded herself for being so stupid and abstracted.

Caleb was rather quiet also, and sat regarding her solemnly through his puffs of smoke; now and then he seemed about to speak, but checked himself. He cleared his throat rather nervously when Queenie had ended her little repast and took a seat beside him.

"Now, dear old friend, I am refreshed, and we can have our talk," she said cheerfully. "Fill your pipe again; you never talk so well without it, you know. I want to tell you about Emmie, and the cottage, and the school, and the dear people at Church-Stile House; if I do not begin now I shall never get through it all in three days."

"Ay, ay; but there is something we must talk about before that; the cottage and the school were all very well once, but now things are different. As I said before, I am not so young as I was, Miss Queenie, dear; and you will not flurry me and make me nervous if I tell you a few of my thoughts?"

"Now, Caleb, you are not going to speak against my little scheme," cried the girl reproachfully. "It is all settled; nothing in the world could shake my purpose. I would rather be the school-mistress at Hepshaw, and earn my daily bread, than be the richest lady in Carlisle."

The old man adjusted his pipe with trembling fingers.

"Do you hear me, Caleb?"

"I hear you, Miss Queenie, my dear."

"Do you believe what I say? When I lie down at night I am so happy that I cannot sleep; I can hardly say my prayers sometimes, I want to sing them instead. Think of Emmie and I having our wish, and living in our own cottage! Will you come and see us there, dear, you and Molly?"

"No, Miss Queenie; I hope not. Listen to me, my dearie. There, my pipe is out, but never mind; somehow I can't smoke it to-night. Supposing you were rich, very rich, Miss Queenie, how about the cottage then?"

"Suppose that you were talking nonsense," she returned, laughing. "Do you know, I have learnt to make bread, and to cook, and to mend, and to iron, and to do all sorts of useful things. I mean my cottage to be the cleanest and the prettiest in Hepshaw. There is quite a large garden, only it was grown over with rank grass; but Captain Fawcett and Mr. Clayton have had it dug up. We mean to plant beans and peas, and all kinds of vegetables; but I shall have roses and mignonette under the windows."

"My dear, you must listen to me; never mind about the cottage just now. What did I say to you, dearie, about the mysterious dealings of Providence? Things happen sometimes that we never expected. What were you saying, my dearie, about being the richest woman in Carlisle?"

The old man's manner was so singular that the girl gazed at him in astonishment.

"Supposing something strange had happened, Miss Queenie," he continued nervously, "and you were to wake up one morning--this morning, say--and find yourself a rich lady, what should you say to that, my dearie?"

"I--I should be sorry, I think. Oh, Caleb! what do you mean?" she implored, roused at last by his agitation.

"No, no; don't say that, Miss Queenie, dear; it is tempting the good Providence that has turned his hard heart, and made him restore to you and that precious lamb fourfold of what was due to you. 'I was sick and ye visited me.' There it is, my dearie; and the blessing has come back to you again when you least expected it."

"Caleb, I cannot bear this," exclaimed the girl, turning suddenly very pale. "Do you see how you are trying me? Is there something I ought to know, and that you are trying to prepare me to hear, something about Mr. Calcott and Emmie?"

"Nay, nay; not about Emmie."

"About myself, then?"

"Ay," patting her hand tremulously, "about yourself, Miss Queenie, dear. You have woke up this morning a rich woman. Mr. Calcott has left you all his money."

"Oh, Caleb! no,"--Queenie's voice rose almost to a cry--"not to me, surely, surely! You must mean Emmie! Emmie is his niece, not I; I am nothing to him."

"Ah! but you ministered to him like a daughter; you were not turned from him by his hard words."

"But I was cruel, and left him alone in his sufferings; I never came back even to wish him good-bye. I have been thinking of myself, not him, all this time. Caleb, I can never take his money, it belongs to Emmie; I can never defraud Emmie," and Queenie leaned her head on her old friend's shoulder and burst into a perfect passion of tears.

Caleb stroked her hair gently. "Hush, my pretty; there is something like five thousand a year, all in safe investments. But the lawyer will be round here presently, and tell you all about that. He has left me an annuity of three hundred a-year in return for fifty-five years of faithful services. Think of that, Miss Queenie! You might have knocked me down with a feather when I heard that."

"Yes; but Emmie," she sobbed. "I cannot defraud Emmie."

"Bless you, Miss Queenie, dear, you are not defrauding the poor innocent. If the money had not come to you it would have gone to some hospital. Have you forgotten his vow, that his sister and her child should never inherit a farthing of his money? No doubt he repents these rash words of his, and he means you to take care of Emmie, and give her the benefit of his wealth."

"Are you sure, quite sure, that he meant that?"

"Positive and certain, my pretty."

"And you do not think I shall be wrong to accept his bounty for her sake?"

"Surely not. It would be quarrelling with the dispensations of Providence."

"I feel so oppressed," cried the girl, laying her hand on her bosom; "there is a weight here as though I were sorry and not glad. If he had given me a little I could have taken it and have been thankful, but so much crushes me somehow."

"How about the cottage now?" interposed Caleb jocosely, trying to rally her, but she stopped him with quivering lips.

"Hush! I can bear no more, not to-night. Did you say the lawyer was coming? Let me go away for a little, I feel sick and giddy, and I want to understand it all."

"Then run away, my dearie, and I will send for you when he comes; there's a bit of a letter or a paper that he wants to give you."

"She is as cold and white as a bit of marble; I wonder what's come to the pretty creature," he muttered when he was left alone. "She is not heart glad, I can see that. She has a scared look in her face, as though she has lost her foothold somehow."

Queenie had regained her calmness by the time the lawyer made his appearance. She listened to his explanations and instructions silently but with composure, only her compressed lips and closely-locked hands showed the intense strain of feeling under the quietude of her manner.

"Five thousand a-year; you are sure that is the sum mentioned," she said, when he paused once.

"Yes; house property, and investments in the funds, consols, and various securities will yield about that sum, I should think. The furniture is to be sold, but the plate and valuables are yours. There are various legacies to old servants, and a pension or two; but to-morrow we can go over particularly into details."

"And it is all for my own use and benefit?"

"Exactly so; the terms of the will are binding. There is to be no partition or deed of gift to any other person during your lifetime. There is a small sealed paper addressed to you, which Mr. Calcott gave into my hand, and which you had better read at once, it may throw some light on his conduct."

Queenie took the paper. It was written in a feeble, almost illegible, hand, and was not easy to decipher; the beginning was strangely abrupt.

"I have told you that I have no niece; I must wash my hands of the child. When a man has taken an oath upon his lips it is too late then to talk of repentance. But I can trust her to Frank Marriott's daughter. Mind, girl; I say that I can trust you, and a dead man's trust is sacred.

"My money is my own to do with it as I will. I have no relation in the world, for the child is nothing to me. Do you remember telling me that you were sorry for me, that no one would shed tears over my grave? I can recal your words now. 'It must be so dreadful not to want love, to be able to do without it.' Child, child, what possessed you to say such words to me?

"Well, you are wrong; Caleb will be sorry for me, the poor fellow has a faithful heart; and, if I mistake not, you will shed a tear or two when you hear that I have gone. Do you recollect how you reproached me the first time I saw you? 'Though you were dying of hunger,' you said, 'you would not crave my bounty.' You told me that I had given you hard, sneering words; that I was refusing to help you in your bitter strait; that I was leaving you, young and single-handed, to fight in this cruel world. Girl, those were hard words to haunt a dying man's pillow. Well, well, I am dying, and I know you have forgiven me, though I have a wish to hear you say it once; but I know you forgave me when you gave me that kiss. Ah, I have not forgotten that. I am leaving you all my money, think of that! to Frank Marriott's daughter! It has been a curse to me, mind you turn it into a blessing. Remember, I trust the child to you. Perhaps in the many mansions,--but there, Emily was a saint, and I am a poor miserable sinner. The child is like her mother, so take care of her. If Emily and I meet--but there's no knowing--I should like to tell her the child has suffered no wrong,--the many mansions--there may be room for Andrew Calcott; who knows? There, God bless you; God bless you both. I am getting drowsy and must sleep;" but here the letter broke off abruptly.

"I found him exhausted with the effect of writing," observed Mr. Duncan, turning his head away that he might not see Queenie's agitated face; "he made me seal it up in his presence, and then begged us all to leave him. In the morning the nurse found him lying as you have heard, with his face to the light; he had been dead some hours. I was quite struck with the change in him when I went up; he looked years younger. There was a smile on his face, and all the lines seemed smoothed away. He had been a great sufferer all his life, and that made him something of a misanthrope."

"Yes, yes; no one understood him, and even I was hard upon him," returned Queenie, bursting into tears again. Ah, why had she forgotten him? Did she know that the dead hand would have been stretched out to her with a blessing in it for her and the child?