By and bye, when Cathy had left her, Queenie lay down, and drew the warm, sleeping child to her arms. The moon had come out from behind the clouds now; the stream of pale, silvery light flooded the room; a perfect halo shone round Emmie's fair hair. Queenie shivered, and gave a faint sob as she saw it.
"She is paler and thinner," she said to herself. "Cathy noticed it, and so did Caleb. They are killing her by inches, and yet they will not see; they are straining her mind and body, and neither will bear it. Oh, mamma, mamma, she would be better off with you; but I cannot spare her, I cannot spare Emmie!"
"Are you awake, Queenie? Oh, I have had such a beautiful dream. I was in a strange place, and mamma came to me, looking so kind, just like her old self, only grander; I think she had a crown on her head; and she took me in her arms and kissed me, just as she used to do, and told me to be good and patient, and to do as you told me, and that she loved us both."
Sleep on, little comforter, in the arms that hold you so lovingly. The strain is lessened, the weary oppression gone. The child's dream, so lovingly told, has brought healing to the weary sister. The unseen guardian watched over them both, the message of love had come to her too, and in this fond belief Queenie fell asleep.
"Why what a pettish, petty thing I grow,A mere, mere woman, a mere flaccid nerve,A kerchief left all night in the rain,Turned soft so—over-tasked and over-strainedAnd over-lived in this close London life!And yet I should be stronger."—Aurora Leigh.
One wet evening, towards the end of November, Caleb Runciman stood at the window of his little parlor, straining his eyes wistfully into the darkness.
"A wild night," he muttered to himself more than once; "it is raining whole buckets-full, and blowing hard. She will never venture out with the child, and so careful as she is too, bless her dear little motherly heart. I may as well tell Molly to make the tea. Dear, dear, how contrary-wise things will happen sometimes," with which oracular remark the old man rubbed his hands ruefully together, and turned to the fire.
It was a wild night certainly. A cold, gusty rain swept the streets of Carlisle; the flickering lamplight shone on glittering pools and dripping water-spouts; the few pedestrians hurried past Caleb's window, casting furtive glances at the warm, inviting gleam from within.
Caleb's fire blazed cheerily; a faggot spluttered and hissed half up the little chimney; the blue china pixies on the old-fashioned tiles fairly danced in the light, as did the Dresden shepherdesses, and the two simpering figures in umbrella courtship on the high wooden mantel-piece.
These tiles were Emmie's delight. She would sit on the stool at Caleb's feet for hours, following the innocent, baby-faced pixy through a hundred fanciful adventures. The little gentleman in the pink china waistcoat and the lady in the blue scarf were veritable works of art to her. The plaster group of the Holy Family, slightly defaced by smoke and time, excited in her the same profound reverence that a Titian or a Raphael excites in an older mind. She never could be made to understand that the black-framed battle of Trafalgar, painted in flaming reds and yellows, was not a master-piece; there was nothing incongruous to her in the spectacle of Nelson's dying agonies portrayed amid the stage effects of a third rate pantomime; to her the ludicrous was merged in the sublime. It is not in early youth that the one trends so often on the other.
The candlesticks on the little round table were still unlighted, but there was plenty of light to show signs of unwonted preparations. Caleb had robbed the plot of ground he called his garden ruthlessly before he filled the large, wide-mouthed jug with violet and white china asters. The display of preserves in all colors too, not to mention an astounding plum-cake with frosted edges, showed some unusual festivity.
Caleb's round rosy face elongated considerably as he sat in his wooden rocking-chair, warming his hands over the blaze.
"Dear, dear, she'll cry her eyes out, poor lamb, and no wonder; and such a beautiful cake too as Molly has made," he continued, disconsolately. "I wonder if the old cat would open the parcel if I sent it wrapt up in brown paper, with Caleb Runciman's kind regards to Miss Emmie. I'll lay a wager the poor little angel would never eat a crumb of it. Hark! surely that was not a knock; I dare say it is only the paper-boy."
Caleb's cogitations soon came to an abrupt end. There was an exclamation of surprised dismay in Molly's loud, cheerful voice, then quick footsteps, and the entrance of two dripping figures.
"My dear Miss Queenie and the precious lamb, who ever would have thought it!" cried Caleb, in a voice quite trembling with joy, but shaking his head all the time. "It will be the death of both of you. Molly! Where is that woman? Molly, it will be the death of these dear creatures if you don't make tea quick, and get off their wet things. Miss Queenie, I am surprised at you. Dear, dear, such a night. I must say I am surprised," continued Caleb, trying to speak severely, but with his blue eyes twinkling with animation.
"Emmie fretted so that I was obliged to bring her," returned Queenie, apologetically. "It was wrong, I know; I have been blaming myself all the way; but what could I do?"
"Now, Caleb, don't be cross, and on my birthday too," interrupted Emmie, throwing her arms round the old man's neck. "I thought of your disappointment, and the cake, and the dear old parlor, and I could not help crying; and then Queenie put on her determined face, and said I should go if she carried me. Cathy was so angry with us both, and no wonder."
"No, indeed; I must say I was extremely surprised," reiterated Caleb, who never liked to lose a leading idea, and was fond of repeating his own words. "Mark my words, Miss Queenie, it will be the death of Emmie."
"Nonsense, Caleb," interrupted the child; "I won't have you scold Queenie; she carried me nearly all the way, she did indeed; she said I was quite light. And she is so tired, and she made me wear her cloak, because it was long, and would cover me, and I am so warm and dry; but I know her poor feet are wet, because her boots are so thin and old, terribly old."
"Oh, hush, Em; how can you?" returned her sister, blushing hotly; "you will make Caleb so unhappy."
"You both of you go near to break my heart," replied the old man huskily, as he knelt down, and took the old shabby boot in his hand. "Miss Queenie, dear, this is not right; you will lay yourself up, and then what will Emmie do? Where is the money I gave you last time you were here, when I begged and prayed you to get a new pair?"
"She bought ever so many things for me," broke in Emmie again. "No, I won't hush, Queenie," as her sister vainly strove to silence her. "I said I would tell Caleb, and I will. I have warm flannels, and gloves, and mittens, and Queenie has nothing; and she is so cold that she never gets warm all day; and Cathy says it is a shame."
"Oh, Miss Queenie, Miss Queenie," was all Caleb's answer, as the old fingers fumbled and bungled over their work. Perhaps it was an unusually large pinch of snuff that dimmed his eyes for a moment, and that obliged him to have recourse to the red spotted silk handkerchief.
Queenie was used to be waited upon by her kind old friend. She allowed her cold feet to be encased in a pair of list slippers that Molly had made for Caleb. A pleasant feeling of warmth and comfort began to steal over her, a luxurious sense of being cared for. Emmie had already installed herself at the tea-tray, and was holding the tea-pot carefully with both hands; her work was cut out for her for the evening. She had to make tea for Caleb and Queenie, and then fill Caleb's pipe, and sit at his knee and chatter to him of all they had been doing; then she had to visit Molly in her nice clean kitchen, and play with Sukey and her kittens. How she longed for a kitten in the old garret in Granite Lodge, only Queenie shook her head at the bare idea.
To-night Molly was ironing her master's shirts, and Emmie's visit was paid earlier than usual, that she might help her by washing up the tea-things, a piece of play-work that was charming to the little girl.
As soon as she had left them, Caleb put down his pipe, and drew his chair closer to Queenie, and laid his wrinkled hand on hers.
"Well, my dear, well! and how has the world been treating you lately?" for the quiet, thoughtful face he had been watching all the evening seemed to him to have grown sadder since he last saw it.
"You must not ask me, my dear old friend," returned the girl, sorrowfully; "I have been losing heart lately."
"Nay, nay, that's bad hearing."
"One must speak the truth. I have lost not only heart, but courage. If it were not for Emmie I could battle on; I am strong and tough enough for anything, but she makes me weak."
"Nay, surely."
"Do not misunderstand me,"—as the kind old hand stroked hers gently,—"I could not bear you to do that. I am weak, I do not complain, I am young and healthy, and a little hardness will not hurt me; but it is for Emmie I fear. Caleb," in an almost inaudible voice, "what they make me suffer through her!"
"I know it, I know it," rubbing up his grey hair restlessly.
"She is getting thinner every day, and losing appetite, and there is a nervous look in her eyes that I do not like. Miss Titheridge will not see it; I think sometimes she dislikes Emmie; she and Fraulein are harder on her than ever."
"There now, there now, poor lambs, poor orphaned lambs," broke in the compassionate Caleb.
"They are driving me to the verge of distraction, and they know it," continued Queenie, in the same strange, suppressed voice; "things cannot go on like this much longer. Caleb, I shall frighten you, but I have made up my mind to do something desperate, and to do it at once: I mean to go to Mr. Calcott."
Caleb's hands dropped on his knees, and his eyes grew round and fixed. "Miss Queenie!" he gasped at length.
"I shall go to him," repeated the young girl quietly, "and tell him about Emmie."
"But—but he will never see you, my dear young lady; you must be mad or dreaming. See Mr. Calcott! it is a preposterous idea—preposterous—pre—."
"Hush! when have you ever known me fail in anything I have undertaken? It is a waste of words to try and dissuade me. All last night I lay thinking it out, till my brain reeled. I may do no good; heaven knows what manner of man I have to deal with, but all the same I will speak to him, face to face, and tell him what is in my heart."
"Heaven preserve the young creature, for she is certainly daft!" groaned Caleb; and here he positively wrung his hands. "The lamb in the lion's den, that is what it will be. Miss Queenie, dear," he said, coaxingly, "I am thirty or forty years older than you; be guided by an old friend, and put this thought out of your head."
Queenie shook her head.
"It will do no good to Emmie, and only anger him against you both. He is an old man now, and ailing; and some say he suffers a good deal at times, and then he gets almost beside himself. You do not know to what you expose yourself."
"Besides," finding the girl still remained silent, "you may even turn him more against you. Sometimes I have seen him start and bite his lip when the school has passed our office window; he never fails to recognise it, and he seems disturbed and put out for minutes afterward. You see his sin lies heavy on him—the sin of those wicked words, Miss Queenie."
"Yes, yes, I know," she interrupted hastily, "and most likely he repents. Caleb, it is useless; nothing you can say will shake my resolution. Things have come to this pass, that I would rather beg my bread than be indebted any longer to Miss Titheridge. If we stay there Emmie will die, and then what good will my life be to me."
The old man shook his head reproachfully. "Miss Queenie, you know what you have refused?"
"Yes," she returned, looking at him with a smile that made her face absolutely beautiful, "yes, dear old friend; but it was right. You were too old to work for us, too old to be burthened with two such helpless creatures; and then how were we to know whether Mr. Calcott's anger might not have been turned on you. Were we to bring trouble on our only friend?"
"I said," continued Caleb in a broken voice, "that as long as I had a crust of bread and a cup of water, and a roof, however humble, I would share them with you and Emmie."
"And my answer," continued the girl softly, as she lifted the wrinkled hand to her lips, "my answer was that Emmie and I loved you too well to bring sorrow and ruin on you. Caleb, Emmie is dearer to me than anything in the world; but I would rather lose her than do such a thing."
"Ah, you were always so proud and self-willed," ejaculated Caleb, sorrowfully.
"Then I am proud of my pride; I rejoice in a self-will that prevents me from harming so deeply one whom I love. You have given us more than crusts, you have shared with us a nobler shelter than your roof, for you have warmed us through and through with a kindness that has known no stint or limit; and Emmie and I will bless you for it all our lives."
"Don't, don't, Miss Queenie; I cannot bear you to say such things."
"But I will say them, I must say them, when you call me proud and self-willed; I must defend myself, and get the last word; I am only a woman, you know."
"God bless such women, I say."
"You have the spirit of a little child, Caleb; so doubtless you will be heard. Blessings are long in coming to us I think, and I am growing hard and discontented in consequence; but you and Cathy have often saved me from hopeless infidelity."
"Good heavens! what do you mean?"
"Yes, from infidelity—that utter and hopeless disbelief in one's fellow-creatures. When I find myself growing cynical, I just say, 'There are Caleb and Cathy, the world cannot be wholly bad with two such good creatures in it,' and that thought rests me."
"Aye, aye, it is too old a head on young shoulders; people don't often think and say such things. You are rarely clever for your age, Miss Queenie."
"One can think without being clever," returned the girl, with a slight smile. "Cathy and I have strange talks sometimes; we often bewilder and lose ourselves. I have no one as Cathy has to set me right. It must be very nice to have a brother."
"Aye, I had a brother once," returned Caleb, dreamily; "he was deformed, poor fellow, a hunch-back; but every one liked Joe. I was only a little chap when he died, but I have never forgotten him yet; some of his sharp sayings come into my mind when I sit here smoking my pipe."
"A strong, wise, elder brother,—some one to trust,—and who would care for me," continued Queenie, reflectively. "I think Cathy must be a happy girl. Hark! that is nine striking; I must go and find Emmie."
"I have ironed lots of handkerchiefs, all the beautiful blue and white spotted ones," cried Emmie, rushing in, red and glowing, "and Molly has been telling me such lovely stories. I think Molly quite the handsomest woman I have ever seen after Queenie, she is so nice and rosy."
"Come, Em, come," replied the elder sister, quietly; "it is raining so fast, dear, and the wind will blow you away unless you keep close to me. Bid Caleb good-night, and let us go."
"How dark and wet it is," cried poor Emmie, as the door of her child's paradise closed behind her, and the grey frowning portico of Granite Lodge loomed on her distant vision. "Oh, Queenie, why must we not go and live with Caleb, and leave this horrid, hateful prison of ours?"
"Hush, pet; shall I tell you a story? but perhaps you cannot hear my voice in the wind. What! tired, darling, already? Suppose I carry you again just for fun! It is dark, and no one will see us."
"Yes, just for fun," returned the child wearily; "if you are not tired, Queenie. Mind you put me down when you are tired."
"Of course; you are so dreadfully heavy;" but the little joke died away into something like a sob as she lifted the thin, weak figure in her strong young arms, and struggled bravely through the storm.
"So speaking, with less anger in my voiceThan sorrow, I rose quickly to depart."—Curwen Leigh.
Queenie Marriott was right in asserting that she never failed to undertake anything to which she had really made up her mind. Strong impulses were rare with her; but now and then they gained the mastery, and over-bore all dread of opposing obstacles. At such times the forces of her mind lay dormant; argument could not shake; persuasion, even conviction, availed nothing. In such moods Queenie was inexorable, and triumphed in the exercise of her self-will.
"I have nothing to lose in this matter, and all to gain," she had said to Cathy. On the afternoon of the next half-holiday she had arrayed herself, with the stoicism of a young Spartan, and, with the help of feminine art and cunning arrangement, had even given a certain style to her shabby garments.
"No one could take you for anything but a lady," Cathy said, as she watched her, half curiously and half enviously; "when people look at you they will not notice what you wear I mean. I wish I knew where you learnt deportment, my dear Madam Dignity. There," as Queenie buttoned her old gloves with a resolute air, "I cannot even lend you my pretty new ones, they would be ever so much too large."
"Never mind," returned Queenie with a smile; "my plumes are homely, certainly, but they are not borrowed. Take care of Emmie for me, and wish me good luck, for I am continually leading the forlorn hope."
Queenie had preserved a gallant demeanor in Granite Lodge, but she slackened her footsteps and drew her breath a little unevenly when she came in sight of Mr. Calcott's house, a large grey stone building with dark outside shutters, and a high portico over the gate resembling the entrance to a tomb. Queenie thought of the thin austere-looking man who eyed their ranks so gloomily with a sudden failure of courage and an ominous beating in the regions of the heart; but the bell was already ringing in strange hollow fashion, and the next moment she was confronted by a grey-haired butler.
"Does Mr. Calcott live here? could I see him for a moment on business?" It must be averred that Queenie's voice was somewhat faint at this juncture; the sombre hall, the morose face of the man, a little daunted her.
"People on business always call at the office down the town. Mr. Calcott is not very well, but Mr. Smiler or Mr. Runciman could see you," returned the man civilly enough, but with an evident desire to close the door in her appealing face.
"It is not exactly business, but my errand is very pressing. If he is not very ill I must see him," pleaded Queenie with a desperation evoked by emergency.
"My master does not see visitors when he is suffering from gout," persisted the man, with a pointed stress on the word visitors. "I will take your card if you like, but I fear it will be little use."
"I have no card," faltered Queenie; "I do not want to send my name, though he knows it well. Please tell him a young lady wishes to speak to him on a matter of great importance; tell him how grateful I shall be if he will grant me a five minutes' interview."
The man hesitated; but Queenie's face and voice evidently pre-possessed him in her favour; for after another glance he closed the door and ushered her into a small waiting-room leading out of the hall, with a cold, fireless grate, and a horse-hair sofa and chairs placed stiffly against the wall. There was a picture of Strafford led out to execution over the mantel-piece, which somehow attracted Queenie oddly. "Even the anticipation must be worse than the reality," she thought; "one is a coward before-hand. Never mind if I can only find words to tell him the truth when the time comes. I am not the first who has to suffer for trying to do the right thing."
Queenie was cheering herself up in sturdy fashion, but she turned a little pale, nevertheless, when the servant re-entered and bade her follow him. "The execution will soon be over," she said to herself, as she rose; "only in my case perhaps the pain will not cease."
They had passed through the large square hall, dimly lighted from above, and had turned down a side-passage shut in with red baize doors; through one of these was an inner one, which the servant threw open, and Queenie found herself in a small room, furnished as a library, with a bright fire burning in a steel grate, and a cushioned chair beside it with a foot-rest, wherein sat a tall, thin old man, whom she at once recognized as Mr. Calcott. There was an instant's silence as she bowed and threw back her veil, during which he eyed her morosely, and pointed to his foot swathed in bandages.
"I cannot rise, you see," he said, in a harsh voice that somewhat grated on her ear, "neither can I keep a lady standing; please to be seated, while you tell me to what I am indebted for the pleasure of this interview; my servant says you declined to give him your name."
"I had reasons for doing so. I feared you might not see me," returned Queenie, summoning all her resolution now the opportunity was gained. The hard mouth, the narrow, receding forehead, and the cold, gray eyes of the man before her stifled every dawning hope. Would those eyes soften? could those lines ever relax? He was an old man, older than she had thought, and there were traces of acute physical suffering in his face, but the hard tension of the muscles were terrible.
"Would you have seen me," she continued, steadily, "if I had said my name was Marriott?"
"So you are Frank Marriott's daughter," without the faintest token of surprise. "I must own I suspected as much from Gurnel's description; but I am slightly at a loss to discover what business Frank Marriott's daughter can possibly have with me."
"I have come on no business of my own," returned the girl, proudly. "I ask nothing from the world but the price of my own earnings. I would sooner starve"—with a sudden flush of irrepressible emotion—"than ask a favor from a stranger, even though he were the brother of my own dear stepmother. It is for Emmie's sake I have come to you, Mr. Calcott; Emmie, your own niece, your own flesh and blood, your sister's child."
"I have always expected this," muttered Mr. Calcott, as he refreshed himself with a pinch of highly-scented snuff; but a closer observer of human nature than Queenie would have detected a slight trembling in the white wrinkled hand.
"When my dear stepmother, your sister, died," continued Queenie, speaking more calmly now, "she called me to her bed-side, and prayed me, for love of her, to watch over Emmie. I have kept my promise, and have done so; but I am only young, not much more than twenty, and I have no one to help me, no one but Mr. Runciman, who is so good to us, to give me advice and counsel; and now I feel that I cannot do my duty to Emmie."
"Your conduct has been estimable, no doubt; but you must permit me to observe, my dear young lady, that I have not invited this confidence; on the contrary, it is distasteful to me. But doubtless you are only acting on Mr. Runciman's advice?"
"No, indeed," interposed the girl eagerly; "he tried to dissuade me from coming to you; he seemed frightened when I proposed it; it is my own thought; I am acting on my own responsibility. I said to myself, 'If he only knows what Emmie suffers, how often she is cold and hungry, and sad, he will do something to make her poor life happier.'"
"My good young woman, no melodrama, if you please. I have all my life confined myself strictly to facts. Miss Titheridge's establishment for young ladies is the most respectable in Carlisle. I have heard much from my clients in her praise; no one has ever before informed me that her pupils are cold or half-starved—facts, if you please, facts."
"I am speaking sober truth," returned Queenie, coloring. "I am one of Miss Titheridge's governesses, and, as far as I can tell, her pupils have no cause for complaint; it is only Emmie."
Mr. Calcott shook his head incredulously, and took another pinch of snuff, this time somewhat irritably.
"I work for my own and Emmie's board," she went on, "and we pay a few pounds besides—all that we can spare. I do not complain for myself that the accommodation is bad and the food insufficient, though it is so for a growing child; but the food is such that Emmie cannot eat it, and often and often I have seen her cry from sheer cold and misery."
"Tut, some children will be fretful—aye, and dainty too."
"Emmie is bred up in too hard a school for daintiness; she is wasting and pining for want of proper nourishment and care and kindness. They are killing her by inches," continued Queenie, losing self-restraint and clasping her hands together. "When she cannot learn they shut her up in a desolate garret at the top of the house, where she gets frightened and has gloomy fancies; they will not listen to me when I tell them she is weak and ill. She is getting so thin that I can carry her, and yet they will not see it."
"Humph! all this is very pleasant. Young lady, you are determined to have your say, and I have let you say it; now you must listen to me. You are trying to plead the cause of Emily Calcott, my niece, to interest me in her favor. What if I tell you," continued Mr. Calcott, raising his voice a little till it sounded harder and more metallic—"what if I tell you that I have no niece?"
"It would not be the truth, Mr. Calcott."
"What if I tell you that I have renounced the relationship," reiterated the old man, frowning at the interruption; "what if I once had a sister Emily, but that from the time of her marriage she became nothing to me! She left me," he went on, lashing himself into white passion by the remembrance of his wrongs, "when she knew I was a lonely, suffering man,—suffering mentally, suffering physically,—aye, when she knew too that she was the only thing spared to me out of the wreck of my life, that I cared for nothing in the world but her."
"Could you not forgive her for loving my father?" interposed Queenie softly.
"Pshaw! she had no love for him. She was fooled by a soft tongue and handsome face; she was to choose between us,—the invalid sorely-tried brother, who had cared for her all her life, and Frank Marriott,—and she chose him."
"She did, and became our dearest blessing."
"Aye, he valued his blessing," with a sneer; "he did not drag her down, and wear out her youth for her, eh? What does it matter what he did? From that day she was no sister of mine; I did not welcome her when she came to me, or feel grieved when she left."
"Alas! we knew that too well when she came back to us looking so sad and weary."
"She told Frank Marriott that I repulsed and treated her cruelly, eh?"
"No, she never told him that; she bore her troubles silently, and brooded over them; but," in a low voice, "it helped to kill her."
The veins on Mr. Calcott's forehead swelled visibly, and his eyes became bloodshot.
"What, girl! you come into my house uninvited and accuse me of being my sister's murderer! Do you know I can have you up for libel and falsehood?"
"I never told a falsehood in my life," returned Queenie simply; and somehow the young quiet voice seemed to soothe the old man's fury. "Poor mamma was unhappy, and grew weaker and weaker; and so when the fever came she had no strength to throw it off. The doctors never expected her to die, but I did always. Once in the middle of the night I heard her say, 'I ought never to have left Andrew—poor Andrew;' but I did not understand it then."
"Aye, she repented! I knew she would. Listen to me, girl, and then you will know you have come to me on a fruitless errand. Time after time she used to come crying to me, and asking me to lend her husband money. I loathed the fellow, and she knew it; and one day, when she had angered me terribly, I took a dreadful oath, that neither Frank Marriott or any child of hers should ever have a penny of my money—and Caleb heard me."
"I knew all this, Mr. Calcott."
"You knew this, and yet you came to me. Do you expect me to perjure myself for the sake of my precious niece?"
"I think such perjury would bring a blessing on your head."
"You think so, eh?" regarding her with astonishment and perplexity. Strange to say, her independent answers and fearless bearing did not displease him; on the contrary, they seemed to allay his wrath. The white eyebrows twitched involuntarily as he watched her from under them. In spite of himself and his anger, he felt an inexplicable yearning towards this girl, who sat there in her shabby clothes and looked at him with such clear, honest eyes. Somehow the young presence seemed to lighten the desolate room, so long untrodden by any woman's foot. "If she were any one but Frank Marriott's daughter—" but here the softer mood evaporated. "Tut! what should you know of such things? There, you have said your lesson, and said it well. Go home, girl; go home."
"Shall I go back to your niece, sir, and say to her that one of her own flesh and blood has deserted her?"
"I have no niece, I tell you; I will not have a hated relationship forced upon me."
"Your name is Andrew Calcott, and therefore you are Emmie's uncle. Take care, for heaven's sake; you cannot get rid of your responsibility in this way. If Emmie dies her death will lie at your door."
"I am sorry to ask a lady to withdraw, but I will hear no more."
"One moment, and I will take your hint," returned Queenie, rising and turning very pale. "You are merciless, Mr. Calcott, but you shall not find me troublesome after this, though we were perishing of hunger, though Emmie were dying in my arms. I will not crave your bounty. You have received me coldly," she continued with emotion, "you have given me hard, sneering words, but I do not resent them; you are refusing to help me in my bitter strait; you are leaving me young and single-handed to fight in this cruel, cruel world; you have disowned your own niece, and are sending me back to her almost broken-hearted, but I will not reproach you; nay, if it would not make you angry, I could almost say, I am sorry for you."
"Sorry for me! Is the girl mad?" but again the white eyebrows twitched uneasily.
"I am sorry for you," repeated Queenie, in her clear young voice, "because you are old and lonely; because you have only hard, miserable thoughts to keep you company; because when you are ill no one will comfort you, when you die no one will shed tears over your grave. It must be so dreadful," continued the girl, "not to want love, to be able to do without it. Don't be angry, Mr. Calcott, I am sorry for you; I am indeed."
Not only the eyelids, but the rigid lines of the mouth twitched convulsively, but his only answer was to point to the door; but, as though irresistibly and painfully attracted by this spectacle of loveless old age, Queenie still lingered.
"Emmie never forgets you, sir. She does not love you; how can she? but she still says the prayer mamma taught her—'God bless poor Uncle Andrew.' Now I have seen you I shall ask her never to forget it."
"Leave me," was all his answer; and this time Queenie obeyed him. Had she remained she would have been frightened by the change that came over him. The veins of the forehead were swollen and purple now, the twitching of the mouth increased, a strange numbness seemed creeping over him. That night Mr. Calcott was alarmingly ill.
"The path my father's footHad trod me out (which suddenly broke offAnd passed) alone I carried on, and setMy child-heart 'gainst the thorny underwoodTo reach the grassy shelter of the trees.Ah, babe i' the wood, without a brother babe!My own self pity, like the red-breast bird,Flies back to cover all that past with leaves."Aurora Leigh.
As the door of the inhospitable mansion closed behind Queenie she was conscious of a strange feeling of revulsion and weakness, a blank, hopeless depression of mind and body. At the first touch of the keen wintry air she shivered and staggered slightly.
"All this has been too much for me; I wonder if I am ill," she said to herself in a vague, wondering way; and then she remembered that she had eaten nothing since the early morning. Suspense and anxiety had deprived her of appetite, and she had sent away her dinner untasted. "Whatever happens I must keep strong, for Emmie's sake," she thought, and she went into a baker's shop and bought two buns; but as she broke one she remembered that Emmie's sickly appetite had turned that day from the untempting viands placed before her.
"Emmy will eat these, she is so fond of buns," she thought, and she asked for a glass of water, which the woman gave civilly enough, telling her that she looked faint, and ought to rest for a little while; but Queenie thanked her and shook her head.
For a little while she walked on aimlessly; she felt stunned and broken, and felt that she dared not face Emmie until she had recovered herself. She was too weak to walk far, but where could she go? she could not face Caleb's eager questioning, she thought, and yet his house was her only haven. Service at the cathedral had long been over, the minor canon and some of the choir boys had brushed past her in the High-street, laughing and talking merrily; if she could only go and sit there for a little, until she felt stronger. Then she remembered, in a dazed sort of way, that she had heard that the workmen were doing some repairs in the nave, and were working late; it might be worth her while to find out if they had left one of the doors open. She felt a momentary sensation of pleasure at discovering this was the case. One or two of the men were still there, and the organist was practising some Christmas anthems. Queenie crept into one of the canon's carved stalls and listened. A light gleamed from the organ, but the altar and choir were in deep shadow. The men were laughing over their work; a beautiful tenor voice broke out with Gounod's 'Bethlehem,' the organ pealed and reverberated through the dim aisles.
Christmastime, "peace and good will on earth the angels' song," sounding through all time. Alas! what peace in the sore, rancorous heart of the old man she had just left! Ought she not to feel pity for one whom the good angel of mercy had forsaken?
"The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel." Where had she heard those words? In church of course. Was Mr. Calcott wicked, or was he simply a soured, vindictive man, who considered himself ill-used by the world?
Her step-mother had loved him and had left him, and then had yearned after him with a bitterness of yearning that had shortened her life. Why had she accused herself, on her death-bed, of selfishness in leaving him? She had hinted indeed more than once of some great trouble that had warped his nature in early manhood; and yet what brother had a right to demand the sacrifice of a sister's whole life? Her step-mother had no morbid views of duty, but she had chidden herself for so leaving him.
There must be some mystery of which even Caleb was ignorant. Caleb and his fellow-clerks spoke shudderingly of the fits of ungovernable rage to which Mr. Calcott was subject at times; and Queenie knew that for many years he had led the life of a recluse. People spoke of him as an eccentric person, a misanthrope, in fact; but he was not generally disliked, though his clerks and servants feared him. He gave largely in charities, and was always first in the subscription list in the town, and spoke much at vestries. The firm of Calcott and Calcott had always been respected in Carlisle, but of late he had withdrawn almost wholly from public life, and people said his health was failing. Queenie pondered over this problem till her head ached, and the organ changed melody and broke out into a sweet minor key; then a magnificent solemn prelude, sounding the keynote of every possible pain, an infinite march of woe tracing the footsteps of a Divine majestic life, and wrapping wonderful meanings and solemn hints in every chord—and Queenie knew she was listening to Handel's unrivalled overture to the 'Messiah.'
The sadder music pleased her better and made the tears flow, a luxury not often indulged by the overtasked governess. After all, would she change places with the miserable man she had left? Her trials were great no doubt, but she had youth and health and energy, and Emmie and Cathy loved her. By-and-by, when this dreadful winter was over and spring came, they would go down to Cathy's home, and Emmie would be a happy child for some weeks at least; they must live in hopes of that. After all there must be a meaning in the pain they had to bear; and then Queenie thought of a strange picture she had seen as a child, painted by a poor crazy artist living in their neighbourhood, at least her father had said he was crazy, though she and her step-mother had thought otherwise. It was called "The March of Suffering," and it was explained to Queenie that it was an allegorical picture of life. Her father had pished and pooh-poohed it as a dismal caricature, but her step-mother had shed tears over it, she remembered; one of the figures had attracted them both—a young girl with a sweet, resolute face, carrying a spiked cross in her bleeding hand, an old man before her had fallen down, and lay with his grey hair grovelling in the dust, and, still holding the torturing cross firmly with one hand, she had stooped to raise him.
The face and figure lingered in Queenie's childish memory, and recurred to her mind as the solemn notes of the 'Messiah' reverberated through the cathedral. "My cross has spikes too," she thought; and then the workmen went out noisily shouldering their tools, and the young man with the tenor voice came clanking through the choir, and stared at poor pale Queenie as though she were a ghost, and the organ died away with a long plaintive wail.
Queenie followed them reluctantly; the buns were still in her pocket, but she had forgotten her faintness. As she stepped out into the dark narrow close she could see the windows of the Dean's house brightly illuminated, a few stars shone in the December sky. a cutting wind lurked round every corner, a faint vaporous moon shone over the cathedral.
It was too cold to linger; even the dark, cheerless school-room, with its cindery fire and insufficient light, would be better than the streets of Carlisle on such a night. Emmie would be wondering, too, what had become of her, and be picturing her all this time seated in Caleb's easy parlor: at this thought she drew her thin cloak closer round her and hurried on.
When she reached Granite Lodge she rang for some time without gaining admittance; this surprised her.
"It is very cold standing out here so long, Mary," she said quietly, as the girl opened the door at last, and looked at her with a scared face.
"I am so glad you have come, Miss," she returned; "Miss Clayton is in such a way, and all the young ladies. Fraulein has been going on awful, and mistress and Miss Tozer are out."
"Emmie!" was Queenie's only thought as she hurried on to the school-room, but a flying footstep on the stairs arrested her, and Cathy rushed down to her looking pale and terrified.
"Oh, Queenie, where have you been? I expected you home hours ago; Fraulein has been going on in the most scandalous way, and Miss Titheridge is out, and I am so frightened about Emmie."
"Where is she? what do you mean?" asked poor Queenie, her knees suddenly knocking together with weakness, and her lips becoming dry all at once.
"Emmie had not been doing anything, only she was stupid and could not learn her lessons, you know her way, and Fraulein got into an awful rage, worse than I have ever seen her, and boxed Emmie's ears, so that the poor child was quite giddy; and when I spoke up and called her a cruel thing she sent Emmie up to her room, and locked her in, and put the key in her pocket; and though I have been going on at her like mad she will not give it up."
"Locked her up in the dark!" almost screamed Queenie. Her own voice sounded quite awful to her; she was half way up the stairs by this time, with Cathy panting behind her.
"What could we do, Queenie? don't look like that. I have been sitting on the floor outside the door for hours, till I was almost starved with cold, talking to her."
"She talked then!" pausing a moment on the garret stairs.
"Well, she cried a good deal, and I talked, but she has not answered lately," stammered Cathy; "perhaps she is asleep, she complained of feeling giddy and confused;" but Cathy, whose eyes were red with crying, did not add how passionately the child had beaten against the door and implored to be let out. "She was so afraid of the darkness, and she wanted to hold some one's hand." Neither did she add that just before Queenie's ring she had been frightened by a stifled groan, and then a sound as though something heavy had fallen; but her hesitation and evident terror were enough for Queenie, and in another moment she was kneeling outside the door.
"Emmie dear! Emmie, my darling! it is I—Queenie; there is nothing to fear—nothing; speak to me just one word, darling, to say you are not so very frightened, and then I will go down and get the key from Fraulein. Emmie, Emmie! do you hear?" shaking the door; but there was no answer.
"Stay there, Cathy," whispered Queenie in a hoarse voice; "I am going to Fraulein." Her face was white with apprehension, but the look in her eyes scared Cathy.
The girls were huddled together and whispering in knots of twos and threes as she entered the school-room. There was evidently a mutiny, for Fraulein, with heated face and harsh voice, was vainly calling to order. A murmur of "shame! we will tell Miss Titheridge," came to Queenie's ears, but she heeded nothing as she walked up to the table with out-stretched hand.
"Give me that key, Fraulein!"
The woman looked at her with an expression at once stolid and immovable; the heavy Teutonic face was unusually lowering. Queenie had more than once suspected that Fraulein was addicted to a somewhat free use of stimulant; now as she looked at the inflamed, stupid face she was sure of it.
"Meess shall not dictate to me, I am mistress of this school-room to-night; the leetle Meess was naughty, unbearable; she must be punished."
"Give me that key at once, or I will break open the door; give me that key, or you will rue it all your life," continued Queenie, sternly. The woman quailed for a moment under that bright indignant glance, and then she looked up with an expression of triumphant cunning.
"Do not fatigue yourself, Meess, the key is safe in my pocket; there it will remain until my dear friend, Meess Titheridge, returns; ach nein Meess shall not have it."
For a single instant Queenie measured the strong, powerful frame of the woman before her, then she turned from her without a word. "Clarice Williams, Agatha Sinclair, stand by me and be witnesses that I am forced by sheer necessity to do this thing;" and with that she quitted the room.
Many of the girls would have followed, but Fraulein ordered them to their seats so savagely that they dared not rebel. As she went up the stairs the door-bell again sounded. Cathy rose with a look of relief on seeing her friend. "Have you got the key, Queenie?"
"No," returned Queenie, doggedly. "Stand back, Cathy; I am going to break open the door."
Either the young muscles were braced with new strength, or else the fastening of the door was crazy with age, but as Queenie threw herself against it with all her force the wood-work round the lock splintered, and in another moment the door yielded.
"Now, Cathy, the light! Ah, merciful heavens! the savages!" as she threw herself down on the floor beside the white, senseless figure of the child and gathered it into her arms.
"She is not dead—she has only fainted, Queenie! Oh, Queenie, don't look like that!" cried poor Cathy, sobbing as though her heart would break over the pitiful spectacle. The elder sister's face was as white as the child's, her eyes were burning and dilated.
"If she is dead, Fraulein is her murderer. Out of the way, Cathy. They have gone too far; they shall hear me now; don't stop me—nothing on earth shall stop me from speaking!"
"Queenie, Queenie, come back; are you mad?" but Cathy might as well have spoken to the wind; she could do nothing but follow, protesting at every step. As they crossed the hall they could hear Miss Titheridge's voice raised somewhat sharply in the school-room; she had returned, then. Queenie made no comment; she simply walked in and laid her unconscious burthen at the governess's feet.
"Miss Marriott, good heavens! what does this mean?" and Miss Titheridge recoiled in absolute dismay.
"It means that Emmie is dead, and that Fraulein is her murderer!" returned Queenie in an awful voice. The poor thing really believed it for a moment.
"No, no," sobbed Cathy, sitting down on the floor and drawing the heavy head on to her lap; "she is not dead, she is living, breathing; some of you help me to revive her; it is cold and fright and hunger that has made her faint. Oh, Miss Titheridge, don't mind poor Queenie, she is almost beside herself."
"If she is not dead she is dying," persisted the girl in a hoarse voice. "No, don't touch her; don't dare to touch her!" as Miss Titheridge, with a sudden feeling of remorse, bent over the unconscious child and lifted the little cold hand. "It is in your house this deed is done; ask Fraulein, who has shut her up in the dark for hours, pinching with cold and hunger, and in spite of all her cries to be released; ask Cathy; ask Clarice; ask any of them."
"Fraulein, is this true?" and Miss Titheridge looked absolutely shocked. She had treated the poor orphan with hardness and severity, but she was not a bad woman. A sudden revulsion of feeling came over her as she looked at the prostrate figure in Cathy's lap; "Fraulein, is it true that you could have acted so barbarously?"
"It is true; and it is not the first time," returned Queenie. "If she dies, Miss Titheridge, her death will lie at your door as well as Fraulein's; if she die, look to yourselves, for I will have justice, if there is justice in England. All Carlisle shall know how you have treated the child committed to your care. As to that woman," pointing with her finger to Fraulein, who now looked on in stupid terror at this scene, "she will live to rue this day if Emmie dies."
"Hush, hush, my dear Miss Marriott; be calm and reasonable, I entreat you." Miss Titheridge had turned very pale, she was quite cowed by the girl's fierce despair. There was a wild, strange light in Queenie's eyes as she faced them, as she hurled words of righteous wrath at the shrinking women. "My dear Miss Marriott, I am more grieved than I can say. I will do what you like. Send for a doctor; do what you please; only be calm."
"Calm!" repeated Queenie, in a voice of such utter heartbreak that tears positively came to Miss Titheridge's hard eyes.
"Yes; send for a doctor; do something all of you," implored Cathy; but as one or two of the girls stepped up timidly with proffers of assistance Queenie waved them fiercely away.
"No; you none of you loved her; you shall not touch her. Give her to me. Come with me, Cathy;" and as Cathy obeyed her wondering, Queenie led the way to Cathy's room, and laid her on Cathy's bed.
"Shut them all out; I will have no one but you," she had said to her friend. When the doctor arrived he found the two girls trying vainly to restore animation to the child.
He shook his head very gravely when Cathy told him all, for Queenie never spoke again during that dreadful night. "This is a sad case," he said at last, after a careful examination. "When she wakes up I fear she will not know you; brain fever is the least we can expect from such a shock. Acute terror on an exhausted system often leads to very sad results, especially with nervous children." But though he spoke in a low tone, Queenie heard him.
"Cometh sunshine after rain;After mourning joy again;After heavy, bitter griefDawneth surely sweet relief!And my soul, who from her heightSunk to realms of woe and night,Wingeth now to heaven her flight."Lyra Germanica.
Emmie did not die, neither were her physician's worst fears verified; but for many a long week the frail existence hovered between life and death.
When the lethargy had passed a long season of delirium intervened, and every symptom of severe brain fever manifested itself. For weeks the little sufferer failed to recognize the loving faces that bent over her. Caleb Runciman spent most of his leisure hours beside the bedside, holding the hand of his little favorite, and gazing sorrowfully at the thin flushed face tossing so restlessly on the pillow.
Sometimes Molly, with her pleasant features and brisk homely ways, would come and watch through the long night, that Queenie might enjoy a few hours' repose. Caleb and his faithful Molly were the only visitors to the sick room. Miss Titheridge had pleaded once, almost with tears, to be allowed to take some part in the nursing, but Queenie had sternly refused. "Emmie shall see no one but those who love her," was the invariable reply.
Granite Lodge was deserted now; Cathy and the other girls had long ago gone home for the Christmas holidays. Cathy clung to her friends, crying bitterly, when the moment arrived for saying good-bye; but Queenie only looked at her with great weary eyes.
"I shall go home and tell Garth and Langley everything. They will be sure to ask you to come to us, after my London visit in May, to stay with us for a long, long time."
"If Emmie be ever strong enough," began Queenie; but somehow she could not finish her sentence. She suffered all Cathy's caresses passively, and then went back to her old place and laid her head on Emmie's pillow.
It seemed as though nothing could rouse her from the strange apathy that had crept over her after that terrible night. She heard almost without emotion that Fraulein had been dismissed; only, as the luggage was brought downstairs, and she heard Miss Titheridge's voice speaking in a subdued key in the corridor outside, she quietly left her place and opened the door.
Fraulein Heimer was at the head of the staircase in her travelling dress; she seemed petrified at the sight of Queenie. The girl walked up to her and laid her hand on her wrist. "Come here, Fraulein, I want you a moment," she said quietly; and, strange to say, the woman obeyed her without a word, and followed her to the threshold of the sick-room; but Queenie would not suffer her to enter. "You can see your work from here," she continued, in a suppressed voice. "Ah! she is smiling at you; she does not know you tried to be her murderer."
"You are cruel; you will have your revenge, or you would not have brought me here, Meess." The woman's coarse, brutal nature was absolutely cowed by the spectacle of suffering innocence.
The child lay upon her pillow smiling icily, and waving her emaciated arms to and fro upon the coverlid; the fair hair was closely shaven, the eyes dilated and brilliant.
"I have always longed for a cowslip ball; ask that lady to make me one, mamma; and strings and strings of daisy chains."
"Why did you bring me here, Meess? I will not stay, I will not look! Ach das arme Engelein; ach guädidge Himmel." The woman was trembling and all but hysterical. Queenie's detaining hand dropped from her wrist; her revenge was satisfied.
"I wish you to know how we suffered. Sometime, if Emmie gets well, I shall try to bring myself to forgive you; but not till then. There go, she is calling to me; she always calls me mamma."
It would not be too much to say that that sick room became Queenie's world; she knew literally nothing of what passed outside it. Cathy wrote long letters to her, but she seldom answered them. One day she enclosed a note from Langley.
"My dear Miss Marriott," it began, "Cathy's glowing description of her friend makes us long to know you; and my brother and I trust, that you and your dear little sister will be able to pay us a visit in the early summer. We know all your troubles, and wish that it were in our power to lighten them—" but here a restless movement from Emmie disturbed her, and she laid the letter aside.
Emmie's wanderings were rarely painful to the listener. A merciful oblivion had stamped out the memory of that terrible night; generally her talk was of the country. She imagined herself wandering in beautiful places with her mother and Queenie; gathering flowers, or else picking up shells and sea-weed on the shore. Now and then there would be a troubled break—the waves were threatening to engulph her—or a serpent, or strange-headed beast lurked among the flowers; at such times she would grow restless, and it required all Queenie's efforts to tranquillize her, while the constant cry of "Mamma, mamma," was pitiful to hear from the lips of the motherless child.
"Mamma is here," Queenie would answer with loving falsehood, laying the burning face on her breast; and something of the intense mother-love, seemed really to pass into the girl's heart.
She was growing haggard and hollow-eyed under the strain of the long nursing. The doctor shook his head and remonstrated in vain, and Caleb's entreaties were equally unavailing. "You will be ill, Miss Queenie; every one says so. You are up every night unless Molly is here, and barely snatch an hour's sleep in the twenty-four; you are over-taxing your strength, and a breakdown will be the consequence."
"I shall not break down as long as Emmie wants me," returned the girl bravely, but her lip trembled as though with weakness; she was becoming conscious that all this was becoming a terrible effort, that her strength would not hold out for ever. A sudden noise jarred upon her now; and once or twice, when her kind old friend was speaking to her, she had great trouble to refrain from bursting into tears.
Sometimes of an evening, when Caleb was there, she would wrap herself in a shawl, and walk up and down the stone hall and corridors to allay her restlessness; sometimes the door would open, and a red gleam shine out from Miss Titheridge's snug parlor, where she sat in cosy fireside circle with her friends. She looked up oddly and half-scared as Queenie's white face glimmered out of the darkness, but she never invited her to enter; the girl had repulsed her too surely for that.
The upstair corridor had a window at each end. Queenie was never weary of pacing this. Sometimes the moonlight flooded it, and she trod in a perfect pathway of light; once or twice she stood looking out on the snowy house-tops, shining under the eerie light of stars.
It seemed months since she had sat in the curious carved stall in the cathedral, since she had heard the Christmas anthems and Gounod's 'Bethlehem'; months since she had stood beside the old man's chair, pleading for his own flesh and blood.
Caleb had spoken to her once or twice of Mr. Calcott's strange and alarming seizure. He had kept his room ever since, and was considered in a somewhat critical state, he believed. Queenie heard him vaguely; but no suspicion as to the cause of his illness entered her mind.
The only thing that really roused her was when Emmie first feebly called her by her name. It was the night before the girls came back to school. Caleb had not yet paid his evening visit, and the sisters were alone.
"Is that you, Queenie?" Emmie had said. "I thought it was mamma," and Queenie had fallen on her knees, and murmured her thanksgiving with floods of grateful tears.
"I know Caleb too," she had said later on, when the old man came to her bedside; and something of the old quaint smile flitted over her face at the sight of her favorite. "Have I been ill, Caleb? Queenie has been crying dreadfully, and yet she says she is very happy."
"Yes, my precious lamb, you have been ill; and Miss Queenie there has almost knocked herself up with nursing you; but now you are going to get well and strong," laying down the little skeleton hand that could not raise itself. "Hush, my pretty; hush, Miss Emmie, my dear," as a large tear stole down the thin face; "you must not fret now you are getting better."
"I am so sorry for my Queen, my poor tired Queen," sobbed the child; but she was soon hushed and comforted by assurances that Queenie was only a little tired and would soon get rested.
Emmie slept for hours after this; and before many days were over a faint but steady progress was perceptible. Cathy indeed was shocked at her appearance, and wondered if anything so thin and unsubstantial could really be Emmie. Emmie smiled at her, but was too weak to speak more than a word or two.
One day, when she was well enough to be raised into a sitting posture and propped up with pillows, Caleb entered with a mysterious-looking basket, from whence proceeded a faint scratching sound; and this being opened, a small long-haired kitten, with a tiny perky face and bushy tail, crept mewing into Emmie's arms.
The child's delight and astonishment at the sight of the long-coveted treasure were almost overpowering, and she hugged the creature to her without speaking.
"Is it mine? is it really mine? will they let me keep it?" she gasped at length.
"It is my belief that they would let you keep a whole menagerie, if Miss Queenie there chose to say she wished it," returned Caleb with a sly glance at her; "some folks are properly frightened."
"Yes; Miss Titheridge will let you keep it," replied her sister quietly; "you need not be afraid; she is very kind now, Emmie."
"Oh yes, I know; when you are down at your lessons she often comes and sits with me; she brought me that funny little man full of sweetmeats yesterday. I went to give some of them to Cathy."
Queenie knew of these surreptitious visits, but she took no notice; it needed time to erase the memory of those years of neglect and cruelty. Emmie's sweet nature knew no resentment; but with Queenie it was different.
She saw that Miss Titheridge was afraid of her. "She has reason," thought Queenie; "she has injured me deeply. If the time ever comes to get rid of us both, she will do so gladly; but I do not mean to give her the chance; I am determined to find work elsewhere."
As soon as Emmie could safely be left for an hour or two Queenie resumed her work in the school-room unasked; now and then she stole upstairs for a peep at the invalid. She sometimes found Emmie asleep with the kitten in her arms, or surrounded by the pictures and flowers which the girls lavished on her. She would look up, and say cheerily as Queenie entered, "I am not a bit dull; Cathy and Clarice have been up, and just now Miss Titheridge brought me some jelly, and kittie and I have had such games," and then Queenie would go down again with a lightened heart to her uncongenial task.
She often worked late into the night, that she might devote more time to Emmie. The child flagged and grew weary towards evening, and then Queenie never left her. Long after all the inmates of Granite Lodge had fallen into a refreshing sleep the young governess would trim the shaded lamp, and pore patiently over the pile of copy-books waiting for correction. Even when her head was on the pillow she could not always rest. The future lay dark before her; she must find other work; but where? that was the question.
Emmie was gaining strength day by day; but for months, perhaps years, she would require the greatest care. The doctor's orders were stringent. She must not open a book for months; the brain would not bear the slightest pressure; she must lead a child's unthinking life—eat, drink, and play, and, above all, sleep.
Emmie took very kindly to thisrégime. She spent most of her time in sleep; during the remainder of her waking hours she would lie in languid content watching the antics of her kitten, or waiting for Queenie to come and talk to her.
Queenie made up her mind at last that she must speak to Miss Titheridge; and one evening she entered the little room where the governess sat casting up her accounts for the last month.
She looked up a little amazed at the interruption; but her manner changed when she saw Queenie, and became as usual slightly embarrassed.
"Do you want me, Miss Marriott? is there anything wrong with Emmie?"
"Nothing, thank you. I only wanted to speak to you about myself. I think it right that we should come to some sort of understanding about the future."
"About the future?"
"Yes, Miss Titheridge,"—Queenie was the more self-possessed of the two,—"it seems to me that we cannot go on like this much longer. Emmie's illness has been a great expense and trouble; and, as far as I see, she will not cease to be a trouble for a long time to come, and we have no right to burthen you."
"It is certainly very unfortunate," began the governess. "Dr. Prout is very kind about it; but still, as you say, it is a sad inconvenience; one of my best rooms too."
"As long as Emmie remains she cannot go back to her old one. Dr. Prout expressly forbids it; he says any renewal of the terror might be fatal."
"Well, we must say no more about it then," turning over her papers nervously.
"Thank you. Believe me," continued Queenie earnestly, "I do thank you for your kindness, tardy though it be to Emmie. I am only sorry that I cannot feel more grateful for it; but after what has happened there can be no question of gratitude between us."
"I am sorry you are of so unforgiving a disposition, Miss Marriott."
"I hope it is not that. I think it is that I have suffered too much to be able to forget; but what I meant to say was this: Emmie's weak health is only likely to be an inconvenience, and we have no right to burthen a stranger. I have therefore reluctantly acceded to my old friend Mr. Runciman's request, to place Emmie with him, while I look out for fresh work. He has found me hard to persuade," continued the girl, smiling faintly as Caleb's arguments recurred to her; "but circumstances have somewhat changed, and I do not fear now that this step will injure him."
"And when do you intend to leave me?" enquired Miss Titheridge in an injured voice, for Queenie was too valuable a governess to replace easily. In her heart, though, she was secretly relieved at the course things were taking; now she would not have the onus of dismissing the orphans from her roof.
"I shall be glad to remain until Easter," replied Queenie, quietly; and as Miss Titheridge only bowed her head and made no comment she withdrew.
"I have done the deed, Cathy," she said, coming into her friend's room, looking pale and exhausted; "and now it is off my mind. After Easter we shall be homeless."
"Nonsense!" interrupted Cathy, rapturously embracing her; "you will only be out of the dragon's clutches. You are coming to us for a long, long visit; and you shall not leave us until you have found another situation; and after that Emmie is going to that dear funny Mr. Runciman's."
"Only for a little while; I shall not leave her long there. You see Mr. Calcott's illness has made a difference; they say he will never be well, and so he will not find out that Caleb is going to have Emmie; besides which, Caleb has promised to take the money I gave Miss Titheridge."
"So your pride is satisfied. I am glad of that, my dear Madam Dignity. Now let us go and sit with Emmie."
"Speak gently to the aged one;Grieve not the careworn heart:The sands of life are nearly run,Let such in peace depart."Christian Lyrics.
Caleb Runciman had told Queenie that Mr. Calcott was seriously ill; but the girl had received the news with indifference, making no comments. "What was his life—his useless, loveless life—in comparison with Emmie's?" she thought with bitterness.
Presently, when her trouble had lightened a little, and Emmie was slowly advancing towards convalescence, she remembered her hardness with some compunction; and her heart grew soft and pitiful over the thought of that lonely sick-room.
"I wonder if Mr. Calcott remembers my visit?" she said once to Caleb, but Caleb only shook his head in silence. He had not as yet been admitted to his employer's presence. The illness was enveloped in mystery, and all sorts of reports were current with respect to it.
Neither of them guessed the truth, or knew the strange thoughts and memories that haunted the sick man's pillow. The past was ever before him; conscience, so long dormant, had roused at last, and had laid hold of him with fierce and angry grip; he saw himself the victim of a hypochondria so fell and senseless that it had warped and scathed his better nature.
His past life was mapped out before him: a youth of disease and suffering, soothed only by a sister's love; a querulous, discontented manhood, darkened by fits of strange melancholy; then years of loneliness and brooding.
Why had he failed with his life? Other men had suffered as well as he; other men had experienced the same passionate sorrows, had reaped disappointment where they had expected happiness, had battled with chronic disease, and yet had borne themselves bravely before the world! Why had he grown so hardened and exasperated against his kind that his very servants trembled in his presence?
What words were those that rung in his ear till the very air seemed to vibrate with them: "I am sorry for you, because you are old and lonely; because you have only miserable thoughts to keep you company; because when you are ill no one will comfort you, when you die no one will shed tears over your grave."
Curses on that girl! How dared she stand and pity him to his face! him—Andrew Calcott—whom every one feared and respected—the man so outwardly prosperous that the world never guessed at the strange fiend that gnawed at his vitals!
"It must be so dreadful not to want love, to be able to do without it;" and again, "Emmie never forgets you, sir. She does not love you; how can she? but she still says the prayer mamma taught her—'God bless poor Uncle Andrew.'" Ah! merciful heavens, would those words never leave him?
By-and-bye the torment he suffered became unbearable; whole sentences of that conversation seemed stamped and burned upon the brain. He would say them aloud sometimes, to the terror of those who watched him, and thought his mind was wandering.
"You are refusing to help me in my bitter strait; you are leaving me, young and single-handed, to fight in this cruel, cruel world; you have disowned your own niece, and are sending me back to her almost broken-hearted; but I will not reproach you;" and then she had come closer to his chair, and had stood beside him, almost touching him with her hand.
He could see her clearly; the whole scene seemed photographed in his memory. Was he dreaming, or was she there really beside his bed?
He could recall every expression of her countenance, every trick of her speech. What a young creature she had looked in her shabby dress, sitting there before him. How eloquently she had spoken, and with what self-possession and dignity. Once or twice her voice had faltered, and the tears had gathered in her large brown eyes, as she pleaded for Emmie, but she had brushed them away hastily, and had gone on speaking.
If he had ever had a daughter he would have liked her to have looked at him with those clear honest glances. The girl was absolutely without guile. Hard as he was, his heart had yearned over her, and yet he had driven her from his presence. Now and then a strange fancy, almost a longing, seized him, to hear her speak again, if it were only to tell him that she was sorry for him. He called himself a fool, and chid himself for his weakness; but, nevertheless, the longing was there and he knew it.