LOCKED IN
ONE afternoon, a week or so after Melina's visit to Gladstone Street,
on returning from school at half-past four o'clock the little girl was
met at the front door of the cottage by her grandmother and pulled
roughly into the kitchen.
"Oh, Gran, don't!" she cried imploringly; "you're hurting me!" Then, as
Mrs. Berryman's grasp of her shoulder did not relax, she gave herself
a sudden twist and freed herself. "What have I done to make you angry
again?" she demanded.
"You've been telling tales to that woman next door," Mrs. Berryman
said wrathfully,—"telling tales of me—your grandmother! You wicked,
ungrateful girl! Mrs. Jones had the impertinence to stop me in the
street just now and take me to task for boxing your ears last night
when you smashed that teacup; you must have complained to her or she
wouldn't have known!"
"I did tell her about it," Melina admitted; "I was in the
yard—crying—and she spoke to me over the wall. I didn't mean to break
the teacup, it slipped from my fingers when I was wiping it; and you
hit me so hard that my head's been aching ever since. You had no right
to do it—no, you hadn't! It was shameful of you!" She spoke defiantly,
but took care to keep out of her grandmother's reach.
"I've the right to do as I please where you're concerned," Mrs.
Berryman declared, "and so I let Mrs. Jones know!"
"I hope you weren't rude to her," Melina said, her voice betraying
anxiety; "she's been very kind to me lately, and she was kind to you
when you were ill. Don't you remember what a nice custard she made you,
and—"
"We've no need of her kindness," Mrs. Berryman broke in; "and look
here, my girl, if I ever find out that you've been telling tales to her
again, I'll—I'll beat you as long as I've strength to hold a stick!"
The old woman looked as though she was quite capable of putting her
threat into action, and Melina, cowed and trembling, slipped out of
the kitchen and ran upstairs to her own room, her heart beating with
mingled indignation and fear; for she saw that her grandmother had been
drinking and was, in consequence, in a quarrelsome mood. A short while
later she heard the front door open and shut, and guessed that Mrs.
Berryman had gone out—most probably to get more drink.
The little girl now went downstairs, and ascertained, as she had
expected, that she was locked into the cottage. She did not mind that,
but what she did mind was the fact that she could not find anything to
eat. Tears of self-pity filled her eyes, for she was hungry.
"It's too bad of Gran to go off like this," she muttered; "I suppose
she means to keep me without tea for punishment for telling Mrs. Jones
how hard she hit me last night. I wonder what Mrs. Jones said to her—I
should have liked to have heard."
She went upstairs to her room again, and, taking her mother's Bible
from the drawer in which she kept it, sat down on the bed, opening the
book at random. The first words she read were these: "Beloved, let us
love one another; for love is of God; and everyone that loveth is born
of God and knoweth God. He that loveth not, knoweth not God; for God is
love."
Melina read no further, but closed the book and sat thinking. "I
suppose real Christians always love one another," she reflected, "and
are kind to everybody. There's the little gentleman—he's a Christian,
I know; and Mrs. Jones—I think she's one; and Agnes Brown and her
mother—ah, yes, they're Christians too! I've wondered why they're
all so kind to me; of course it's because they take Jesus for their
example. Miss Seymour told us last Sunday we all ought to do that,
but I can't—not altogether! I can't forgive people who're rude to me,
though I can hold my tongue and not answer back; and—I can't forgive
Gran—she's a cruel old woman to serve me like this! Very likely she
won't be back till quite late, and she won't care whether I'm hungry or
not."
Her lips quivered, and a few miserable tears rolled down her cheeks;
but a minute later she started to her feet and ran to the window, for
someone had flung a handful of gravel against the glass. Looking out
she saw William Jones in the yard of the adjoining cottage; he was
gazing up at her with a broad smile on his face, so, flinging up the
window, she addressed him in anything but a friendly tone.
"William Jones, was it you who did that?" she demanded, and, without
giving him time to reply, went on: "If you'd broken the glass there'd
have been a dreadful row with Gran—she'd have made you pay for it; but
there, I dare say you'd have gone away and said it wasn't you—"
"Oh, come now," the boy broke in, growing very red and looking
indignant, "it's too bad of you to make out I'd behave like that! What
you must think of me! I don't tell lies, Melina Berryman. If I'd broken
your window I should have owned up, but the handful of gravel I threw
couldn't have hurt."
"Why did you do it?" Melina asked.
"Because I wanted to speak to you. I guessed you might be up there,
and I knew your grandmother was out, for I met her not ten minutes ago
walking towards the town. I say, are you locked in?"
"Yes," the little girl assented, "and I don't suppose Gran'll be back
for ages. The worst of it is she hasn't left me anything to eat."
"What! Oh, now that's too bad! Shameful, I call it! Do you mean to say
there's no food in the house?"
"Oh yes! But I can't get at it—even the bread loaf's locked away."
William Jones' face expressed the sympathy he felt; seeing which Melina
forgot how often he had teased her in the past, and allowed her heart
to soften towards him.
"Never mind," she said, trying to speak cheerfully, though she did mind
very much; "tell me what you want to speak to me about."
"Oh, I was only going to ask you if you like oranges," he replied; "do
you?" Then, as she nodded, he continued: "They 're very nice and sweet
now, and I bought a couple of beauties on my way home from school; one
I've eaten, the other I've kept for you. Stand back!"
The little girl obeyed, and the next moment an orange, flung with
unerring aim, came whizzing through the open window and rolled across
the floor. She seized it, and returned to the window with a beaming
countenance and sparkling eyes.
"Thank you," she said, with an unusually gracious smile. "I shan't mind
going without my tea now. It looks a lovely orange, and what a size it
is!"
"Well, eat it, and see if it's as good as it looks."
The boy watched her peel the orange and divide it into flakes. She ate
one flake slowly and pronounced it delicious, then the rest, and when
the last was gone, thanked him again. He had not expected her to be as
grateful as she evidently was.
"Oh, don't say any more," he said; "I'm glad I thought of keeping it
for you. I was half afraid that you wouldn't have it—"
"I was so hungry," Melina interposed, as though that fact explained
the readiness with which she had accepted his gift. "I—" She paused
abruptly, remembering the occasion on which, having made a similar
confession to him, he had said he was sorry and she had retorted that
more likely he was glad. How very rude she had been! "I can't think why
you should have bothered about me!" she cried impulsively, "I've been
horrid to you sometimes."
"And I've been horrid to you," he admitted; "it's always been on my
mind about that tuppence you had to spend—"
"Oh," she broke in, "I'll tell you now! It wasn't my tuppence—it was
the little gentleman's. He gave it to me. I—I oughtn't to have let you
believe it was mine."
He was silent for a minute. "Well, it wasn't quite straight of you," he
admitted. "Isn't the little gentleman, as you call him, a good sort?"
"Indeed he is!"
"Everyone who knows him likes him. Have you heard what he's going to do
on Good Friday evening?"
"No. What?"
"He's going to hold a kind of service in the town hall. There'll be
a magic-lantern showing Bible pictures, and there'll be hymns sung
and an address by Mr. Blackmore himself. Wouldn't you like to see the
pictures?"
"Yes; but there's no chance of that, I'm afraid. I suppose I should
have to pay—"
"Oh no! It will be a free entertainment. Why don't you go? Be in good
time and then you'll be able to get a seat well to the front—that's
what I intend to do. I advise you to do the same."
"Perhaps Gran won't let me; it'll just depend what sort of temper she's
in. Good Friday? Why, that's next week."
Melina leaned her elbows on the window-sill, and rested her chin on
her clasped hands. She was finding her conversation with William Jones
interesting, and was glad that he seemed inclined to prolong it. By
and by he told her he regretted that he used to tease her, and that he
meant to try and prevail upon the other boys in the terrace to let her
alone in future.
"Don't you interfere," she replied quickly; "I can hold my own ground."
This was spoken in her old curt manner, but her voice softened as she
proceeded: "It's very nice of you, though, to want to take my part,
but I think you'd better not. Do you know why the boys have taken to
calling me 'Saint Melina'?"
He nodded. "Yes, because you don't abuse them and show your temper to
them like you used to; they know you go to Sunday school now, and they
say you've turned pious. I shouldn't mind being called 'Saint Melina'
if I were you."
"I think you would—if you knew you were being mocked."
At that moment Mrs. Jones' voice was heard calling to her son to take
a letter to post for her, and, with a friendly nod to Melina, the boy
went to do her bidding.
Mrs. Berryman did not return for some hours later, not until past
nine o'clock. Melina was still in her own room when she heard her
grandmother come in; but the old woman called to her immediately, and
she hastened downstairs.
"Here I am, Gran," she said, as she entered the kitchen where Mrs.
Berryman had already sunk into a chair; "shall I get supper now?"
"Supper? No. I don't want any," was the response.
"But—but I do," Melina ventured to say; "you know I haven't had any
tea."
Her grandmother laughed harshly. "It will do you no harm to fast," she
said; "it will tame your spirit, Melina. Ah, ha! you won't be in such a
hurry to complain of me to Mrs. Jones again! However, you can have some
bread and cheese now if you like; I suppose I mustn't starve you."
She rose unsteadily, unlocked the corner cupboard, and cut her
granddaughter a thick slice of bread and a small bit of cheese. Melina
took this frugal supper in silence, thankful to get it, whilst Mrs.
Berryman, having resumed her chair, fell into a doze, from which she
presently awoke with a start.
"I'm tired and shall go to bed," she muttered thickly, and, rising, she
rambled out of the room. Melina heard her slowly mount the stairs and
enter her bedroom. Silence followed, which remained unbroken.
Ten minutes later, having finished her supper, the little girl went
upstairs herself; but before going to her own room she listened at her
grandmother's door. The sound of stertorous breathing fell upon her
ears, and, opening the door noiselessly, she glanced inside. A candle
was burning on a chair close to the bed, and Mrs. Berryman, fully
dressed, was lying on the bed in a heavy sleep. Melina did not disturb
her; but she tiptoed across the room and put out the candle, then beat
a hasty retreat.
"How very careless of Gran to have left her candle alight," she
thought, "and so near her bed too! I must really tell her about it in
the morning. If she doesn't mind, one of these days, when she's not
herself, she'll set the place on fire!"
But when the morning came, Mrs. Berryman was in such a bad temper that
Melina was afraid to mention the matter to her, and decided to hold her
peace.
"She'd say I had no business in her room," she reflected; "no, on
second thoughts, perhaps I'd better not speak of it. I dare say she'll
never leave her candle burning like that again."