The woman whom Queenie had addressed, and who had the appearance of
being the housekeeper, stood still and looked at the young girl a moment
without replying.
"Is Captain Ernscliffe at home?" repeated Queenie, in a tone of wistful
eagerness.
"What do you want of Captain Ernscliffe?" asked the woman, rudely, as
she stared suspiciously into the troubled, white face of the beautiful
questioner.
Queenie drew her slight figure haughtily erect.
"My business is with Captain Ernscliffe," she said, in a cool, firm tone
that rebuked the woman's impertinent curiosity. "Can I see him?"
"Oh, yes, certainly," said the housekeeper, with a palpable sneer. She
was offended because Queenie had failed to gratify her curiosity.
"Show me in at once, then," said Queenie, making a motion to step across
the threshold.
But the woman held the door in her hand and placed herself in front of
it.
"You'll have to travel many a mile from this to see him," she said,
maliciously.
"What do you mean?" exclaimed Queenie, turning pale. "Is he not at home?
I will wait here until he comes then."
"You'll wait many a month then," was the grim reply of the offended
woman.
"I do not understand you," Queenie answered, passing her small hand
across her brow with a dim presentiment of coming evil. "Will you please
tell me where I can find Captain Ernscliffe?"
"You'll find him across the Atlantic Ocean, somewhere in Europe, ma'am!"
She fired the words off like a final shot and looked at Queenie,
prepared to enjoy her chagrin and amazement, but she was almost
frightened by the expression of terrible despair that came over the
beautiful, young face.
"In Europe," she said in a voice so low and heart-broken the woman could
scarcely hear it. "Are you _quite_ sure?"
"Quite sure, ma'am. He went away to travel a week after his wife's
death, and may not return for years."
She made a motion to shut the door, intimating that the conference was
ended, but Queenie leaned up against it so that she was compelled to
desist.
"Can you give me his address that I may write to him?" she said.
"Well, I never!" ejaculated the housekeeper, staring at her in
amazement.
Queenie only repeated her words more plainly.
"I know no more of his whereabouts than the dead!" was the answer. "He
expected to be traveling all the time."
A smothered moan of pain came from the white lips of the listener.
"Have you done with me?" asked the woman, impatiently.
Queenie looked out into the street. It was almost dark, and a sleety
mist was beginning to fall. The lamp-lighters were going their rounds
lighting up the gas-lamps at the corners of the streets, and belated
pedestrians were hurrying homeward.
With a shiver she turned back to the portly, comfortable figure of the
woman rustling on the door-sill in her black silk dress, quite
unconscious that she was holding the door against her mistress, and the
mistress of that elegant brown stone mansion on whose threshold she
stood.
"You are Captain Ernscliffe's housekeeper?" said Queenie.
"Yes, and I am left in charge of the house during his absence," answered
the woman, bridling with a sense of her importance.
"I am a friend of Captain Ernscliffe," said Queenie, timidly. "Will you
let me stay here to-night? I am homeless and penniless!"
The housekeeper favored her with a stare of scornful incredulity.
"Captain Ernscliffe's friends are all rich people," she said, with a
toss of the head. "He don't have any acquaintance with _tramps_!"
"I assure you that I am not a tramp," answered the young girl, quickly.
"I have been very unfortunate in arriving in this city and finding my
friends all dead or away. If your master were here he would certainly
give me shelter this wintery night."
"It's more than I'll do, then," said the housekeeper sharply; "come,
young woman, don't tell no more lies! Captain Ernscliffe don't know you,
but I _do_! You're a burglar's accomplice, and you want to get into the
house that you may open it to your friends in the night and rob the
house."
"Indeed you are mistaken," said Queenie earnestly. "Oh! _do_ let me
stay! If you don't I shall perish of cold in the streets to-night and my
death will be on your hands. You may lock me into a room if you are
afraid of me--only give me shelter."
It had been on her mind to declare herself the wife of Captain
Ernscliffe, and force the woman to admit her into the house that was
virtually her own. But a moment's reflection showed the utter futility
of such a course. No one except those who loved her would give credence
to such a wild, improbable tale; no one would believe that the grave had
given back its dead unless she could offer more substantial proof than
she had at command. This woman before her would have laughed such an
assertion to scorn.
"Come, move on," she said roughly, at the same time seizing the girl by
the shoulder and pushing her from her position against the door. "I
can't shelter the likes of you, and I won't stand here in the cold
wasting breath on you a minute longer."
Queenie turned as the woman pushed her toward the steps and looked her
in the eyes.
"You may be sorry for this some day," she said.
"Ha, ha," laughed the heartless housekeeper, "sorry indeed! Sorry that I
didn't take a tramp into the house to rob my master."
"Will you let me stay?" said Queenie, once more looking over her
shoulder as she was wearily descending the marble steps.
If the woman's heart had not been made of stone it must have melted at
the anguish in that sweet, white face, but she only reiterated her
refusal more angrily.
"I am friendless and penniless," pleaded Queenie, still hoping to melt
that icy heart. "Think what may happen to me in the streets at night!"
"Go! go!" exclaimed the hard-hearted creature, fiercely.
"I will go," said Queenie, drawing her cloak about her, and preparing to
breast the wintery storm. "I will go, but remember, madam, that you may
one day repent this! It is quite, quite possible that I may one day turn
you from these doors as you have turned me to-night."
For all answer the woman slammed the door in her face, and fiercely
locked it.
Queenie was left alone standing on the wet pavement in the wintery
night, locked out of her husband's house like a thief, a waif and a
stray by night, while over her loomed the great brown-stone palace that
a few months ago had been splendidly refitted and furnished in velvets,
tapestries, gildings and bronzes, for her pleasure. It was hers--her
husband's--therefore her own. Yet she turned away from its inhospitable
doors, homeless, friendless, penniless--worse than all, _hopeless_!
"Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood with amazement
Houseless by night."