"Yes, and that too. But these men are to be honored, because they make the best of their life. Many of them do not like it; a few rebel; others get cramped and narrowed, as you say. But to do one's work in the world, and to do it worthily,—how distasteful and full of drudgery and routine as it may be,—is to be a man in the truest sense of the word," finished Queenie, with a sudden sparkle in her brown eyes.
"Very properly put. Do you think I do not agree with you? I am only comparing my lot with others, a little to their disparagement. There is Ted, there, that brother of mine,—would you believe it, Miss Marriott!—I think you must take him in hand, and preach contentment,—he vows this place is a howling desert; no society; not a thing to do. It must be owned," continued Garth, candidly, "that for a fellow without resources Hepshaw may be a trifle dull, especially in the winter."
"Do you never find it so, Mr. Clayton?" asked Queenie, with a little natural surprise. It still seemed strange to her that this man, so young and distinguished-looking, should own himself contented with a position where he had few equals and no superiors.
"Dull! do you mean to compare me to Ted, who is lazy, and has no resources?" returned the young man, slightly discomfited. "What is there that my life lacks? I have a good home, sisters, a plague of a brother. It is my own fault, I suppose, if I have no closer ties," continued Garth, with a little laugh, and coloring slightly; "but there is plenty of time for that. I have more work than I know how to do; and then there is cricket and foot-ball; and lectures and the chess-club for winter's evening. I sometimes wish my days were double their length. That does not look like dulness," finished Garth, in a chafed tone, as though something in her words had offended him.
Queenie held her ground a little obstinately; she was on the brink of a discovery. What was the one jarring element in this honest sweet nature? Was it pride? or—
"You may have all this, and yet you may miss a great deal of what your despised city men call life," she went on, with an old-fashioned sagacity that surprised the young man, who was simple enough in his way. "You miss contact with other minds. Here you can have no opportunity of gleaning new ideas. There must be a certain amount of stagnation here. Cathy knows what I mean; she and I have often talked of it." She finished with slight abruptness, somewhat provoked by the incredulous smile that rose to his lips.
"Stagnation here!" How Queenie wished he would not repeat her words. "You are hard on us and Hepshaw. Of course we are simple country folk; we do not aspire to be anything else; but a peaceful and independent existence does not necessarily mean stagnation."
"Mr. Clayton, why will you persist in misunderstanding me?" returned Queenie, in a vexed voice. They were standing at the extreme edge of a jutting piece of rock; the others had turned back, and were watching some machinery at work; below them lay the wide moor. Some peewits were flitting hither and thither; a bank of white clouds sailed slowly away westward. "I am not hard on Hepshaw; I feel already that I love it dearly. I only thought that you, being a man, must sometimes long for a little more society."
"Because I am like Ted, and have no resources, I suppose?" but this time there was a mollified gleam in his eyes. "I think I am one of the quiet sort; a few friends content me. Mr. Logan is a host in himself, with sufficient information to stock half-a-dozen ordinary men, not to mention Captain Fawcett, who has travelled and seen the world; and then we have Harry Chester at Karldale, and Mr. Ray, the Vicar of Karlsmere, and the Sowerbys of Blandale Grange,—very sensible good people,—and the Cunninghams, Dora and her father at Crossgill Vicarage. My sisters must take you over there, Miss Marriott. One can have friends enough for the asking," continued Garth, loftily. "I always disliked crowds of acquaintances; I am not like Ted."
Queenie gave him an understanding glance, but her closed lips offered no response. The shrewd little observer of human nature was saying to herself, "I have found you out, Mr. Clayton; you are good, but you are not perfect. Cathy is right. It is better, so you think, to be the leading man in Hepshaw, and king in Warstdale, than to be simply Mr. Clayton in London or Carlisle; to lord it over inferior minds than to mix with superior intelligences;" and, as she recognized this trait, something like a pang of disappointment crossed her mind.