CHAPTER III.

CATHY.

"She loved me for the dangers I had passed, And I loved her that she did pity them." _Shakespeare._

"Something unseen o'er all her form Did nameless grace impart; A secret charm, that won the way At once into the heart."--_Rev. John Logan._

Solitary confinement was a favorite mode of punishment at Granite Lodge; visits of condolence from sympathizing friends were sternly interdicted. Nevertheless, many small culprits had been much comforted by peppermint lozenges or acid drops, surreptitiously conveyed to them in small screws of whitey-brown paper lowered down to the window. Notes hidden in the centre of a large currant-bun had even been forwarded to the unhappy prisoner; indeed, to carry provisions to the incarcerated victim was one of the chief amusements in the school.

Poor little Emmie was not a general favorite, and no relief parties had as yet charged up the garret stairs; no odd-shaped parcels had been smuggled under black silk aprons, and passed on by sleight of hand under Miss Titheridge's very nose; nevertheless, comfort was close at hand.

As Queenie closed the door of the little parlour she could hear the voices of the girls in the lower entry. There was not a moment to be lost if she wished to elude discovery. As she sped up the broad stone staircase she could hear the harsh, rebuking tones of Miss Tozer, the English governess, with her favorite "Silence, young ladies, if you please; no infringement of the rules can be permitted."

Queenie knew well what she would see as she opened the garret door--the line of stooping shoulders against the light, the childish figure cowering down on the high, broad window-ledge; but she was hardly prepared for the words that greeted her.

"I am not a bit afraid; I have said my prayers twice over; but I sha'n't open my eyes till you speak."

"Em, darling, what do you mean?" exclaimed her sister, much startled. "Why it is only I, only Queenie."

A gasp and long-drawn sigh of relief answered her, and then a pair of cold arms were thrown delightedly round her neck, and a still colder cheek laid against her own.

"Oh, you dear old thing to come to me. However did you manage it, with the Ogre and the Griffin at home?" by which delightful sobriquets Miss Titheridge and Fraulein were often designated.

"Never mind how I managed it; I was determined to see you for a moment. I shall not be able to stop; the gong will sound for tea directly. Tell me what you meant just now."

"Oh, it was nonsense; you will be angry with me," returned Emmie, in a queer, ashamed voice, but nevertheless creeping closer to her sister.

"Am I ever angry with you, darling?"

"Never, never," vehemently; "only of course you must think it silly."

"What if I do?" with reassuring calmness.

"At twelve years old one ought to be wiser," returned poor Emmie, in a self-convicted tone. "Of course I knew there was no old man wrapped in a cloak in that corner, only it was so dark, and Jane had forgotten to bring me a candle, and the stairs would creak, and there was such a funny noise, and----"

"Oh, Em, Em!" exclaimed her sister, in such a troubled voice that the child could only hang about her fondly, and promise not to be so silly any more.

"It was so wrong and foolish of me," continued Emmie, penitently, "after all the beautiful stories you have told me about guardian angels; but I suppose I am wicked because I can't bear the dark; and when there is a great silence I always seem to hear voices like little men underground, talking and laughing in a muffled sort of way; oh, such funny little voices, only they are not quite nice."

"Now, Emmie, do you know this is quite absurd," returned her sister, suppressing I know not what pangs of pity and fond terror, and trying to speak firmly. "I wonder what mamma would say if she knew her little girl were such a coward, and thought such foolish things. I don't think we ought to be afraid in the darkness which God has made," continued Queenie, whose healthy young vitality knew none of the mysterious terrors that afflict weaker and more imaginative temperaments. "And then we are never alone, dear, never in any sense of the word. I am sure our good guardian spirit would never be allowed to leave us for a moment."

"It would be nice if one saw the angel," replied the child, doubtfully.

"Anyhow we must have faith, dear. I am afraid your head has ached terribly over those horrid lessons."

"Yes, it has been pretty bad," in a patient voice.

"And you are cold; oh, so cold, Emmie."

"I got the creeps, you know, and that always makes me cold; but I can bear that," stoically.

"The meat was burnt, and so you had hardly any dinner, and now Miss Titheridge says you must have no tea; you must be starved, absolutely starved," continued poor Queenie, rocking her in her strong young arms.

"Not quite, I only feel rather sick," returned the little prisoner, bravely.

Emmie would not have confessed for worlds the odd gnawing and emptiness that preceded her feelings of sickness. She was somewhat dainty and fastidious with regard to food, and the burnt flavor had so nauseated her that she had literally eaten nothing of the portion sent her. No wonder she had the creeps, as she phrased it in her childish way, and she was shivering with cold and superstitious terror.

"You are making me miserable," returned Queenie, in a broken voice. "I am punished as well as you, Emmie. Are you sure that you really attend in class? Fraulein declares that you never know your lessons."

"I wish Miss Titheridge would not insist on my learning that tiresome German," sighed Emmie. "She wants me to keep up with May Trever. May is ever so much stupider than I," continued Em, with no special regard to grammar; "but Fraulein never raps her over the knuckles with a ruler, or gives her disgrace tickets."

"Because May Trever is a canon's daughter," returned her sister, bitterly. "She is not poor, or friendless, or an orphan--three sins for which we must answer. But tell me truly, do you try your hardest to please Fraulein?"

"I do, I do indeed," protested the child, earnestly. "Sometimes I know my lesson quite perfectly, and then, when she looks at me with those hard steel eyes, and comes out with that sharp 'Now, little Meess, now,'"--with a faint, dreary attempt at mimicry,--"it all goes out of my head; and then the mark is put down, and I go on from bad to worse. I don't think I am really stupid, Queenie, but I am afraid I shall get so."

"No, you shall not; you must not," with a shower of healing kisses on the little careworn face. "Hark! there's the gong, Emmie; I must go."

"Must you?" in a dreary voice; and then followed a heavy sigh.

"Listen to me, darling. You shall not be long alone. Miss Titheridge and Fraulein are going out to spend the evening, and I shall tell Miss Tozer that I have a headache, and must retire early. It will be quite true, you know. Go to bed now, and try to forget that you are cold and hungry; and then I will come up, and we will have a long, beautiful talk about the cottage, and Caleb, and all sorts of nice things. You won't fret any more, Emmie?"

"No-o-o," hesitatingly; but two very large tears rolled down the thin cheeks when the door closed behind her comforter. "Oh dear, oh dear," sobbed the child; "I should not like her to know how cold and hungry I am. I think I could eat a great hunch of dry bread if Jane would bring it me; but she is such a cross old thing, and I know she won't. I wish I had asked Queenie to hide a piece of bread and butter for me. Cathy did one day, and spoiled her pretty new dress, because the butter would not come out. It is half-holiday, or else Cathy would have come up long ago. One time she brought me a Bath bun, and it was so good. I wonder if Queenie would think me wicked if I asked for something nice to eat in my prayers? No; I don't think it would be wicked, for I have not had my 'daily bread' yet."

Even the sour-tempered Miss Tozer relented with womanly compassion when she saw Queenie's pale face and heavy eyes. The girl could eat nothing. The hot weak tea seemed to choke her. The touch of the little cold hands and face seemed to haunt her. "Cruel, cruel," she muttered once between her teeth. Her hands clenched each other under the table-cloth.

"Emmie in disgrace again? Dear, dear, this is very sad. I hope all you young ladies will take example, and be more careful with your preparation," observed Miss Tozer, sententiously. "Miss Marriott, I should recommend a little soda and salvolatile. I always find it an excellent remedy for a sick-headache."

"I shall be glad if you can dispense with my services an hour earlier tonight," returned Queenie, hastily. "I think rest will be better even than salvolatile, thank you all the same."

"Just as you please," returned Miss Tozer, frigidly. Prescriptions were her hobby, and woe to the offender who refused the proffered remedy. But at Queenie's imploring glance she melted into something like good-nature. "Well, you had better try both. I am afraid the themes must be corrected, unless you finished them this afternoon. I have pressing letters awaiting my attention this evening."

"Very well; they shall be done," responded Queenie, wearily.

After all, it was not so much her head as her heart that ached. She went back to her old corner in the class-room, and worked away at the girls' blotted themes, while they sat round her whispering and laughing over their preparation.

It was not a cheerful scene. The two long deal tables were somewhat dimly lighted by oil-lamps, which at times burnt low and emitted unpleasing odours. A governess sat at the head of each table, busied over writing or fancy-work. An occasional "Silence, young ladies," in Miss Tozer's grating voice, alternated with Mademoiselle's chirping "Taisez vous, mes chères demoiselles," followed by momentary silence, soon broken by a titter. One of the girls, indeed, did not join in either the whispers or the titters, but worked on steadily, and to some purpose, for, to the surprise of her companions, she closed her books long before the allotted hour, and, with an explanatory mention to Miss Tozer about tidying her drawers, left the room unseen by Queenie.

She was a tall girl, with an odd, characteristic face, colorless complexion, and bright dark eyes. She wore her hair in singular fashion, parted on one side, and brushed even over her forehead in a long wave, and simply knotted behind.

Most people called Catherine Clayton plain, but to those who loved her this want of beauty was redeemed by an excessive animation, and by an expression of amiability and _bon-hommie_ that irresistibly attracted.

Her figure was erect and striking. She walked, ran, and danced equally well. Movement was a necessity to her; in some moods repose was impossible. In her gestures she had the freedom and unconscious dignity of a young Indian squaw.

Catherine, or Cathy, as she was generally called by her intimate friends, had struck up a warm friendship with Queenie on the first day they met. Queenie's strange eyes drew her like magnets; their troubled pathos stimulated curiosity and invited pity. Queenie's pride and independence, her quiet reserve, only charmed the younger girl.

Cathy made swift advances, but they were only repelled by the sad-looking young governess. Cathy, nothing daunted, turned her attention to Emmie, and won her heart in a trice, and from that moment Queenie succumbed.

When Queenie loved, she loved with her whole heart; half measures were impossible; she must give entire confidence, or none at all. Her reserve, once broken through, was broken for ever. She soon made her friends acquainted with the chequered story of her past life. She told Cathy the absolute blank of the future was perfectly appalling to her.

Cathy listened and pitied, and started all sorts of vague Utopian schemes that should ameliorate the condition of her favorites.

Her own life had no bitter background. She was indeed a motherless orphan, but she was so very young when her parents died that the cloud had hardly shadowed her. She spoke of them affectionately, as of some dear unknown friends.

Queenie knew all about Cathy's home--the dull old house at Hepshaw, overlooking the churchyard and the plane-tree walk. She had even pictured to herself the granite quarries, where Garth Clayton spent long hard-working days.

Cathy was never weary of talking about Garth. She would expatiate for hours on his virtues. Was he not the stay and prop of the little household? Did not even Langley, the motherly elder sister, go to him for advice and counsel? The handsome younger brother, long, lazy Ted, was spoken about more seldom.

"Ted is just Ted," Cathy would say sometimes, in reply to Queenie's half quizzical interrogations. "A dear old fellow, of course; but he cannot hold a candle to Garth. Why Garth is a perfect king in Hepshaw. There is no one more respected. The work he does among the quarry-men perfectly astonishes our new vicar. He has classes for them, and teaches them himself, and plays cricket with them, and gets up entertainments and lectures in the school-room. Why, the men perfectly adore him."

"How I should like to live at Hepshaw!" Queenie would answer sometimes, sighing she hardly knew why.

Cathy's descriptions somehow fascinated her oddly. The little straggling market town, with its long, winding street or road; the old Deerhound Inn; the white workhouse, the church and vicarage, standing high, and overlooking the town, and set prettily among plane trees; the dark old 'Church-stile House,' with its gloomy entry, and back windows looking over the ancient monuments and tomb-stones--Queenie could see them all. She could even fancy herself walking up the steep, narrow garden of the Vicarage, between tall bushes of roses and lavender.

"The Vicarage is such an ugly, bare-looking little house; quite a shabby cottage; only Mr. Logan has made it so comfortable, and has added a room to it, such a nice room, which he has made out of the stable. I think you would like Mr. Logan, Queenie; he is quite old, nearly forty, I should think. People say he is very plain, but I think he has a nice, funny face; and he is such a character, and wears such old, patched coats, and Miss Cosie always calls him Kit, or 'Christopher, my dear.'"

"And who might Miss Cosie be?" Queenie asked, with an amused air; she dearly loved Cathy's descriptions.

"Oh, Miss Cosie was Charlotte Logan; she was his sister, and kept his house. Every one called her Miss Cosie, even the poor people; it was a name she got when a child." No, she could not describe her; she was a little woman with two big brown curls pinned to her face, and she always wore a soft grey Shetland shawl, and cooed out her words in a soft, plaintive fashion; she only wished Queenie could see her, and then Queenie sighed again.

These sort of conversations fascinated Queenie; Cathy's girlish egotism never wearied her. Garth Clayton was almost as great a hero to her as he was in his sister's eyes; she had never heard of such a man. How good he must be! She used to try to picture him to herself. "Garth is tall and good-looking; every one likes his face," was Cathy's somewhat vague description. Queenie used to long to hear more.

His handwriting was quite familiar to her; she often admired the firm, clear characters when Cathy read aloud amusing passages from his letters.

How Queenie longed for such a brother! Such a manly, protecting tenderness breathed in every line: in his injunctions to his dear little Catherine not to be homesick or neglect her studies, in his playful hints or merry descriptions of the friends and pets she had left.

"Your parrot is inconsolable, and shrieks disconsolately in our ears from morning to night, much to Langley's annoyance," he wrote once. "Ted threatens to wring its neck. I am quite sorry for the poor thing, and I believe it understands my sympathy, for it sidles up to me and looks at me with yellow, lack-lustre eyes, as much as to say, 'Where's our Cathy, old fellow?' and then clambers up my coat sleeve with beak and claw, and settles itself on my shoulder to be petted, which I suppose I do for your sake, and because poor Polly has no other friend."

"There, is not that like him?" Cathy cried, with sparkling eyes. "He is always so good to any helpless creature; he has sympathy even with my poor Polly. Mr. Logan always says unhappiness or poverty is a sure passport to Garth's heart."

"How sorry he would be for Emmie and me," thought poor Queenie, but she did not put her thoughts into words.