CHAPTER IX.

FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM.

"She prayed me not to judge their cause from her, That wrong'd it, sought far less for truth than power In knowledge; something wild within her breast, A greater than all knowledge, beat her down." _Tennyson's 'Princess.'_

The days passed very tranquilly and pleasantly after this for the inhabitants of the cottage.

Queenie had regained her brightness in a great measure. In spite of a certain dim fear that haunted the background of her memory, her life seemed full of a strange, sweet excitement. The buoyancy of youth was strong within her; the knowledge of her secret wealth gave an intoxicating flavor to everything. As she walked to and fro to her daily work, she felt like a disguised princess, like the heroine of some fairy story she had read once, spinning in her woollen garments among the simple peasant folk. "I like being a rich woman after all," she said to herself, "it is so amusing. I feel just like Cinderella before the pumpkin coach arrives; it is a story-book sort of life I am leading. Fancy teaching in a village school when one has five thousand a-year. What shall I do with it all, I wonder; I wish I might give some to Langley and Cathy."

Queenie used to build all sorts of impossible castles in the air when she was by herself or with Emmie.

"What would you say if we were to be rich one day, very, very rich?" she would ask sometimes; but Emmie only shook her fair head.

"Rich, so that we should be obliged to leave this dear cottage! Oh no, Queen, I should not like it at all. I think it is so lovely, we two living all alone together. I never, never, never was so happy in all my life before," finishing with a prolonged hug.

"Thank God for that," murmured her sister, fervently, passing her hands gently over the child's upturned face.

The sharp outlines were filling out and rounding daily; a soft bloom tinged the thin cheeks; but there was still the same solemn, unchildlike look in the large blue eyes. Their expression used to trouble Queenie sometimes. "Would the shadow of past woe never die out of them?"

"Emmie, your eyes never smile," she said once, "and yet you say you are so happy, darling."

They were sitting alone in the porch; Cathy had just left them, Garth had fetched her away. Emmie was in her favorite position, with her head resting on her crossed arms on her sister's lap. They had sat for a long time so without speaking, only Queenie's fingers every now and then twined in the child's golden hair. "Why don't you teach your eyes to smile too?" she went on, half seriously.

Emmie wrinkled her brows thoughtfully. "I wish they would look like yours, Queen; but then I never saw any eyes like yours, even Cathy says so. When you laugh they seem full of brown sunshine, only so deep, deep down; and when a great thought comes to you, one seems to see it, somehow."

"Oh, hush, you little flatterer;" but Queenie blushed, well pleased, over the praise.

"You do not know half how beautiful I think you," continued the child, earnestly; "it makes me feel happy and good only to be near you. Do sisters always feel like that, I wonder?"

"No, darling, not always."

"It must be because we love each other so. There never was a time when your voice was not like music to me. Sometimes I love you so that I ache all over with it; that was in the dreadful old days, when I thought I must die and leave you. Oh, Queen, that would have been so very, very miserable."

"Miserable to lose you, Emmie! don't speak of it; I can't bear to think of it even now," pressing the child's slight figure closer in her arms.

"It would not be so dreadful now; I should not feel that you were quite so lonely, I mean. No, I will not talk any more about it," catching sight of Queenie's averted face; "we will never be sad, you and I, never."

"I wonder if we shall always live alone," she went on, while Queenie dried her eyes. "Perhaps one day you will marry--people do, you know. How strange that will be!"

"Should you dislike that idea very much, Emmie?"

"I--I don't know," in a reluctant tone. "It will spoil things rather; but if you like it, Queen----"

"Hush," kissing her, "I think we are talking dreadful nonsense. Don't you know that I have told you that we are leading a story-book life, Emmie; first in that dreadful old garret, and now in our pretty cottage? By-and-bye it may turn into a palace; who knows?"

"Ah, then the prince will come; he always does in fairy stories."

"No; he will ride away with the golden-haired princess; they will disappear into the forest together, and never come back. We will have Caleb and Molly to live with us instead."

"Ah, that would be nice," returned the child, clapping her hands. "Only keep it the cottage; we don't want the palace, Queen. Is the prince never to come back then?"

"Of course not; would you have him leave his fair one with the golden locks? Fie, Emmie; what a perfidious prince! They will go riding on and on for ever in the enchanted forest, while you and I are walking hand in hand down the long white road that people call life."

"What a funny idea! I like the wood best, Queenie."

"Ah, so do most people," she returned, rising with a sigh; "but perhaps we do not know what is best for us. Don't you recollect the story we once read of the child who wanted the star, and missed all the flowers that grew under its feet, and so pined away, and died of unfulfilled longing? You and I will be wiser than that, little one; we will leave the star to move in its own particular orbit, and gather all the sweet homely flowers that grow in our way;" and Queenie heaved another little sigh, for she was moralizing to herself as well as to Emmie.

It was not often that the sisters were alone. Cathy spent all her leisure hours at the cottage, and even Langley would often bring her work and sit with them in the porch of an evening. Garth too was a frequent visitor; he would come down the lane of an evening, and lean against the little gate for half an hour at a time. Sometimes he would come in and help the sisters with their gardening, and bring them little gifts of fruit and flowers.

When Langley or Cathy were there he would join the little group in the porch, and linger beside them for hours, but never when they were alone. Often Ted would saunter in and trail his lazy length in one of the basket-work chairs. On these occasions Queenie would whisper to her little sister, and by-and-bye there would be a dainty repast set out for them of milk and fruit and cakes. How pretty and home-like their little parlor looked then, with its soft shaded lamp and bowl of roses! Sometimes the moonlight would stream in at the uncurtained window; one or two large grey moths would wheel round their heads. Garth would go and smoke his cigar on the broad gravel walk outside, while the girls talked softly within! Sometimes Mr. Logan would walk across and assist at these simple festivities, or Miss Cosie trip down the road with a grey shawl pinned over her curls; for the cottage was decidedly popular.

"Cathy, what makes you so quiet with Mr. Logan now?" Queenie asked her one afternoon when they were sitting together.

Emmie was spending the evening with the Fawcetts. Captain Fawcett had called for her, and the two had gone off as usual hand in hand, the Captain glancing over his stiff stock at his little companion.

Mr. Logan had looked in on them on his way to the school, and had brought them a message from Miss Cosie.

"Charlotte wants you both to come over to tea with her; she has a present of fine fruit from the Abbey farm, and she wants our friends to enjoy it with her. Miss Faith is coming, and so is Langley, and Garth has promised to look in by-and-bye."

Queenie assented cheerfully; she had a warm liking for Mr. Logan, and a great affection for Miss Cosie, and nothing pleased her better than an evening spent in their company. It struck her that Cathy acquiesced rather unwillingly in the arrangement; she made one or two excuses rather ungraciously, but Mr. Logan would take no denial.

"Never mind all that; Charlotte and I will quite expect you, Miss Catherine," was his tranquil answer.

Cathy flushed in a displeased manner, but she offered no more objections. A cloud settled on her brow now as Queenie spoke.

"You and he used to be such friends," she continued. "Don't you remember our talks in the garret? You used to call him your Mentor, and write such long letters to him sometimes; a word from him always seemed to influence you, and now it seems to me as though you tried to avoid him."

Cathy bit her lip and remained silent.

"Dear Cathy, it is so strange, so unlike you to quarrel with your best friend. The more I see Mr. Logan, the more I honor and revere him, Such intellect, and yet the simplicity and guilelessness of a child. I believe he lives only to do good; he reminds one of those olden saints of whom one reads."

Cathy's dark eyes flashed, and then grew humid with repressed feeling.

"Ah, that is just it; one cannot breathe in such a rarefied atmosphere."

"Do you mean that you find his goodness so oppressive? I am not like you then; a really good man rests me somehow. I feel in looking at one as if I were in the presence of God's highest work, as though even He could do nothing better--the best and finished work before the seventh day's rest, when 'God saw that it was good.' Think of that, Cathy. I suppose," continued Queenie, reverently, "He saw the one Divine likeness stamped on the face of humanity, the one Man shining through the ages of men. Oh, there is nothing grander in all creation than a really good man."

"Don't, Queenie; I am not in a mood for your great thoughts to-night; you must come down and meet me on my own level. You don't know how inconceivably little and mean and insignificant he makes me feel. I begin," enunciating her words with an effort, "to feel afraid of myself and him."

"Afraid of Mr. Logan! what nonsense, Catherina _mia_. Why a child, the very poorest and most miserable child, would slip its little hand in his fearlessly, and be soothed and comforted by the mere contact."

"A child, ah, yes; but I am a woman," returned Cathy, almost inaudibly.

"You are a girl, and so am I, which means we are faulty, imperfect creatures, full of fads and fancies, and brimful of mischief I dare say. Do you think a man like Mr. Logan, who knows human nature, expects us to be perfection?"

"No; but he expects us to grow up to him, and live and breathe in his atmosphere. But I can't, Queenie; I have tried, I have tried so hard to be good, but it stifles me; I feel just as I do when I am teaching the children in one of those close cottages, as though I must rush out and get some air, or I shall be suffocated."

"Why do you undervalue yourself so?" returned her friend, looking at her affectionately. "You have got into the habit; it is such a pity, and it spoils you so. I think you good, and you are good." But Cathy only pushed the dark locks back from her face, and looked disconsolate.

"What constitutes goodness, I wonder?" continued Queenie, reflectively. "We are simple every-day folk; we cannot all be saints. In every age there will be giants in the land. You and I, dear old Cath, must be content with being 'the little ones.'

"Ah, you are nearer his standard than I," in a low, bitter voice.

"It must be a painfully low one then. For shame, when you know all my faults as well as you know your own. I for one will always believe in you. You have such a great heart, Cathy; you would lay down your life for those you love."

"You are right there."

"Is unselfishness so common a virtue in this world that one can afford to despise it? How often have I admired your thorough honesty, your hatred of anything crooked and mean. There is nothing little about you, that is why I care for you so much."

"All pagan virtues," with a faint smile.

"Cathy, your self-depreciation is incorrigible."

"I tell you what I mean to do," rousing herself, but speaking in the same suppressed voice. "I want to go away from here; this little corner of the world stifles me. I get so tired of it all, the trying to be good and keep down my restlessness, I mean. I have so few home duties; Langley and Garth do not really want me. I should not be much missed."

"You would leave me and Emmie!" incredulously.

"Poor old Madam Dignity. It does seem hard, I know. Never mind, I should come back to you all the better and the happier for having worked off my superfluous steam. One must have a safety-valve somewhere."

"But, Cathy, you are surely not serious. I cannot see any reason for this absurd restlessness; you must throw it off, fight against it, as other women do."

"My dear oracle, there are women and women. I really believe there is a little of the savage about me; I do so object to be tamed down, and made submissive to mere conventionality. Perhaps my great grandmother was a Pawnee or a Zingaree; I must ask Garth. I don't feel completely Saxon or Celtic."

"How can you talk so wildly?"

"Grandmamma Wolf, what great eyes you have got. Don't eat me up in your fiery indignation. Seriously, Queen, don't you think it would be good for me to go away for a time?"

"Are you so anxious to leave us all?" regretfully, but moved by a certain passionate pain in the girl's face.

"I think I am. Yes, though I shall half break my heart over it. I think I am. You see, I am not like other girls. I cannot lead a quiet, humdrum life that means nothing and leads to nowhere--that is just it. I want to see the world, to rub up against other folk, and study their characters and idiosyncrasies; to have a life of my own to live, not tagged on to other people."

"But women cannot choose their own life. It always seems to me that their fate is decided for them," interrupted Queenie, in a puzzled tone.

"Not for my sort of women. Thank Heaven I am still myself enough to decide my own fate. No, I am not crazy, Queen," as her friend looked at her with a sorely perplexed countenance; "my plan is a very reasonable and sensible one. I have an idea that my vocation is nursing; not stupid sort of illnesses, but downright hard hospital nursing--broken limbs, and accidents, and horrible fever cases; real horrors, not imaginary, mind. Nervous or hypochondriacal patients, no, thank you; Catherine Clayton will have nothing to say to them."

"Go on," was the injunction, in a resigned voice, as Cathy paused to collect her breath.

"Miss Faith and I have had a long talk about it; she is not sceptical like you, she knows too well how bad this sort of restlessness is to bear; besides, she has tried it herself, and loves the work."

"Yes, I can understand such a life suiting Miss Faith; she is one of those ministering women born to smooth sick pillows. But you, Cathy," trying hard to repress a smile.

"I grant you that I might deal the aforesaid pillow an occasional thump if my patient should prove refractory; but all the same, I feel as though bandages and blisters were my vocation. I have theories about nursing that would astonish your weak mind. I believe a nurse requires as thorough an education, as careful a training, as any medical student. Miss Faith is quite of my opinion; she advises me to go to London."

"I did not know Miss Faith was your confidant," in a slightly hurt voice.

"Only in this one thing, my dear Madam Dignity," with a penitent squeeze. "She said London, and I said 'Amen.' Garth knows the house surgeon at St. George's, and the matron is a great friend of Langley's; that makes it so easy to carry out my plan."

"Cathy, I do believe that you are serious."

"I am glad you have spoken a sensible word at last."

"The work will be most revolting."

"Do you think that will daunt me? Are not women sent into the world to minister and relieve pain?"

"The labor will be excessive, and trying in the extreme," persisted Queenie. "Have you ever seen the wards of a hospital? I believe you will soon sicken and droop for your northern home."

"Pshaw! I should scorn to be such a coward; half-measures are not to my taste."

"That is all very well now; but when you are weak and unnerved by watching."

"Thank heavens I don't know what nerves are, my dear. A healthy mind and body are the first requisites for a good nurse. Just as indecision is fatal to a general's success, so would nervousness ruin the best trained nurse. Even Garth owns that as far as that goes my physique is perfect."

"Do you mean that you have already spoken to him?" in aghast voice.

"Yes; and to Langley too. They were surprised of course, and rather incredulous, but they do not thoroughly oppose my project. Langley has told Garth more than once that our quiet home life will never suit me. Langley is a wise woman, Queen."

"And you have communicated your plan to all but me," very sadly. "What has become of our old confidence, Cathy?"

"Hush! there speaks jealousy, not my Queen. If I did not tell you, it was because I would not harass you with half-digested plans. I could do nothing without Garth's and Langley's consent."

"They have given it then?"

"Not yet; but I know they will. You see, my demands were very moderate. I told Garth my views: that every woman should have a definite work or trade, and that it should, if possible, be self-supporting; that teaching was not to my taste, but that nursing was. And then I asked his permission to go up to London for a six months' trial. Could there be anything more sensible?"

"But did they not question you about your reason? No, Cathy, do not turn away from me; am I not your friend? can I not see that you are unhappy?"

"I shall not be unhappy if I can once get away from here and taste freedom; when I am no longer straitened, thralled, in bondage. No, Queenie dear, indeed I have told you all that I know about myself; there is nothing more to tell. Hush! here comes Miss Faith; not a word of this before her. I am tired of the subject; your scepticism has quite exhausted me."

"Cathy, Cathy, what an incomprehensible being you are!" sighed Queenie, as she ran off to fetch her broad-brimmed hat.

Miss Faith had come to fetch them to the Vicarage. Her quiet face brightened at the sight of the girls. An evening's pleasure, a simple tea-drinking with her friends, was an unwonted event in her colorless life.

"It was so good of Cara to spare her a whole evening, just when they were finishing the last chapter of 'Trench's Parables,' and she wanted her to begin Bossuet's life. It was very unselfish of Cara," she went on, smoothing down the soft grey merino, with its fresh lace ruffles; for Miss Faith was not without her pet vanities, and fine lace ruffles round the neck and wrists were her special weakness.

As they crossed the road Garth emerged from the lane that led to Church-Stile House. A gleam of pleasure overspread his face as he greeted them.

"Good evening, Miss Faith; what an age it is since we have seen you. How are the rest of the cardinal virtues? and what new book-torture is Miss Charity inflicting on you? By-the-bye, ladies, have you heard the wonderful intelligence? the new doctor has made his appearance."

"No; oh, tell us all about it!" exclaimed the three. "Who is he? What is his name? Is he young and nice-looking; or is he old, and stout, and horridly uninteresting?" this last from Cathy.

Garth looked benignantly at their agitated countenances. Their curiosity imparted a relish to the news. Here he had been in possession of the latest intelligence for at least half an hour; had met the new-comer with Mr. Logan, and had shaken hands with him; had discussed the weather and the crops, after the usual manner of Englishmen, while Hepshaw was buried in profound ignorance of the acquisition it had gained.

"So you have not heard the news?" he repeated, calmly.

"No; of course not. Do be quick, Garth. Who is he?"

"Ah, that is the question."

"Have you seen him? has any one told you about him? will he live in Dr. Morgan's old house? is he married? has he a tribe of children?"

"One question at a time, ladies. Who asked if he were married? Cathy, of course. No; I believe not; but I never asked him."

"You have seen him then. Oh, Miss Faith, does he not deserve to be shaken, to keep us in this suspense? Perhaps, after all, he is only a red-headed little apothecary."

"That I am sure he is not."

"He is nice then?" stimulated to fresh efforts by the twinkle in her brother's eye. Garth was evidently bent on enjoying himself at their expense.

"That depends on what you call nice. He seemed tolerably pleasant, talked good English without a twang, and had no disagreeable provincial accent."

"Young or old?"

"About forty, I should say; couldn't answer for a year or two."

"Over forty! Then he must be an old bachelor. How dreadfully uninteresting!"

"I will repeat that speech to Mr. Logan."

Cathy moved aside as if she had been stung.

Miss Faith hazarded the next question rather timidly: "Was he tall or short?"

"Neither the one nor the other."

Still further questioning elicited no remarkable items of information. He was not very stout, neither was he particularly thin; had a pleasant voice and manner; was somewhat sallow in complexion; and was becoming decidedly grey; did not wear spectacles, and had shrewd and rather humorous eyes.

"Where was he going to live?"

"Did not ask him; is at present putting up at the Deer-hound. Comes from Carlisle, so he says."

"From Carlisle?" in a faint voice from Miss Faith.

"Yes. His name is Stewart, Angus Stewart, or rather Dr. Stewart, as he is now. On the whole he is a gentlemanly sort of fellow, and likely to prove an acquisition to our little circle. I say, Cath, won't Mrs. Morris set her cap at him?"

"I think we had better walk on now," returned Cathy, abruptly, at the mention of the name. She had started violently, and had shot a quick, sidelong glance at Miss Faith. "Come, Miss Faith, we shall be late for tea."

"Yes; we shall be late," she returned, mechanically, putting a shaking hand on the girl's arm, as though to steady herself. There was not a tinge of color in Miss Faith's fair face; her breath came and went unevenly; she spoke in little gasps. "Are you sure that we heard right, Cathy? did your brother say his name was Stewart?"

"Yes; Angus Stewart," returned Cathy, in a brisk, off-hand voice; "he comes from Carlisle. Ah, by the-bye, I should not be surprised if he should prove an old hospital acquaintance of yours, Miss Faith. What fun that will be! After all, the world is not so large as one thinks it."

"It is very strange," rejoined Miss Faith, and her lips trembled nervously over her words. "The coincidence of the name and the place startled me a little. I knew some one of that name in Carlisle--let me see--ten years ago."

"How very odd!" returned her companion, with well-counterfeited surprise, and looking straight before her. "Only ten years ago? Ah, then it must be the same; besides, the name is so very uncommon."

"Angus? ah, that is what he used to say. He was very proud of his name. He told me once that was all of which he had to be proud. He was so poor, he meant. He was the house surgeon, and one used to see a good deal of him. He had a mother and sister, I remember, who lived in such a tiny house in the town."

"And you have never seen him since?"

"No," hesitating and faltering; "I had to give up nursing, and come back to Cara. One loses friends sometimes in that way. It was hard, of course; for I loved my work and my children; but one must do hard things sometimes in this world," finished poor Miss Faith, with unconscious philosophy.