CHAPTER VII.

LOCKED IN.

"The path my father's foot Had trod me out (which suddenly broke off And passed) alone I carried on, and set My child-heart 'gainst the thorny underwood To 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.