GRANITE LODGE.
"O shun, my friend, avoid that dangerous coast,
Where peace expires and fair affection's lost;
By wit, by grief, by anger urged, forbear
The speech contemptuous and the scornful air."
_Dr. John Langharne._
How Queenie became the under teacher at Miss Titheridge's must be
told here shortly.
Queenie was only seventeen when her father died, but she had already
formed her own plans of independence. The repressive atmosphere of a
companion's or governess's existence was peculiarly repugnant to her
taste. Teaching was indeed her forte. She had plenty of patience
and industry; her love of children was deep and inherent; but she
felt that she must seek another channel, where she could work off
superfluous energy and attain independence. She would be a national
school-mistress. Aided by a friend, of whom we must speak anon,
Queenie so far carried out her determination that she spent the next
two years at a training college at Durham, and had just obtained a
second class certificate when new difficulties intervened.
The old nurse with whom she had placed Emmie died; the little stock
of money which had been collected for the orphans by sympathizing
friends was diminishing daily. Where could she find a home for
Emmie? It was at this juncture that Miss Titheridge, who knew the
Marriotts of old, and who was just now in sore need of an under
governess, stepped in with a magnanimous offer. Miss Marriott should
give her services in return for Emmie's board and education.
Queenie had hours of secret fretting before she could make up her
mind to relinquish her cherished independence. Miss Titheridge was
personally odious to her. The decorous rules and monotony of the
life would oppress and weigh upon her. Still beggars must not be
choosers, as her old friend Caleb Runciman often said; and it was for
Emmie's sake. Oh, if Miss Titheridge would only be kind to Emmie,
how she would work for her, how she would show her gratitude!
Futile hope! Before many months were over, Queenie bitterly rued the
false step she had taken, and grew sullen with a sense of repressed
wrong. Little Emmie drooped and pined in the unloving and
uncongenial atmosphere. The poor little sensitive plant grew
mentally dwarfed; the young shoots ceased to expand. Queenie could
have wrung her hands with anguish when she thought of her own
weakness and impotence to avert the mischief. Emmie's bright
intelligence grew blunted; a constant system of fault-finding and
rigorous punishment cowed and stupefied the child's timid spirit;
only kindness and judicious training could avail with such a nature.
Emmie did not grow sullen, her temper was too sweet and mild to
harbor resentful feelings; but she became morbid and over sensitive.
Deprived of the recreation natural to children, her imagination
became unhealthily developed; she peopled the old garret with
fancies, and not infrequently raised a Frankenstein of her own
creation.
Queenie sometimes found her cowering in the window recess in the
twilight in a perfect stupor of terror, for which she could give no
tangible reason. It was dark, and she was afraid, and she did not
like to come down into the schoolroom, as she was in disgrace with
Fraulein, and so on. Poor pitiful fragments out of a child's life,
small every-day tyrannies, little seeds of unkindness dropped into
virgin soil, to bring forth perhaps a terrible harvest.
Queenie's passionate love could not shield the little sister; the two
could only cling to each other in mute sorrow, each trying to hide
from the other how much they suffered.
"I am only tolerably miserable," Emmie would say sometimes, in her
droll, unchildish way. "Don't cry, Queenie; you and I and dear old
Caleb will live together some day I know, when I am a woman perhaps,
and then we shall forget all our troubles," and Emmie would hide the
little blackened hand on which Fraulein's ruler had come down so
sharply that day, and say nothing of the pain, for fear Queenie
should fret. But with all her childish troubles, Emmie suffered less
than the elder sister. Queenie would lie awake with aching head and
throbbing pulses night after night, revolving schemes for delivering
them both from the house of bondage, as she phrased it.
And every night Emmie prayed her poor little prayer that she might
not hate Miss Titheridge, and that she and Queenie and Caleb might
live together in a little house all by themselves.
Emmie was never weary of describing this ideal house. It must have
four rooms and a cupboard, and a little garden in front, where they
might grow sweet peas and roses.
"I should hate to be rich; should not you, Queenie?" she would say
sometimes. "Caleb would not be able to smoke his long pipes then."
Caleb Runciman was the only friend they knew outside the gates of
Granite Lodge, for Queenie had long ago broken with the old
acquaintances whom she had known when her father was alive. Some had
been offended at her independence and unwillingness to take their
advice, others had merely cooled, a few had forgotten the orphans.
Queenie was too proud to remind them of her existence; but she and
Emmie clung to their old friend Caleb Runciman. He was the old
confidential clerk of their uncle, Andrew Calcott, who was still the
principal solicitor in Carlisle.
Andrew Calcott had never forgiven his sister her marriage with Frank
Marriott. She had chosen between them, he said, and must abide by
her decision. The hard, jealous nature had received a secret blow
from which it never recovered. In a moment of bitter passion he had
uttered a terrible oath, which only poor Emily Calcott and Caleb
Runciman heard, that neither she nor any child of hers should ever
have a penny of his money.
"It is your money, Andrew, not mine," Emily had answered very sadly
and meekly, for after her unfortunate marriage much of her old spirit
had died out; "but you should not be so hard on me, my dear," and as
she spoke Andrew Calcott's cheek had turned very pale.
"Depend upon it, my dear young lady, he repented of his speech the
moment it had passed his lips," Caleb had said more than once to
Queenie as he narrated this circumstance, which he was fond of doing
with a great deal of dramatic energy. "Aye, that was a terrible oath
be took, and enough to blacken any man's soul; no wonder he grows
harder every year; and his temper is enough to try a saint, let alone
a poor sinner like me, till we daren't answer him for fear of flying
in a passion."
Mr. Calcott lived in a large handsome house in Botchergate. Queenie
and Emmie had often met him when they walked out in double file to
take the air, as Miss Titheridge termed the daily exercise, and Emmie
had always shrunk nearer to her sister at the sight of the tall,
austere-looking man, who sometimes eyed them so sternly.
Mr. Calcott knew the little girl in the shabby garment, who always
walked last in the procession, holding so tightly to her companion's
hand, was his dead sister's only child; he knew as well that the
older girl was Frank Marriott's daughter, but he never acknowledged
the relationship save by a deeper frown.
Poor old Caleb Runciman could only befriend them in secret. On their
rare holidays the sisters would slip through the streets in the
twilight, and steal into the small, two-storied house, with its dark
entry and small wainscoted parlour looking out on the winding street.
How they loved that parlour, Emmie especially, with its slippery
horsehair sofa and wooden rocking-chair. The very blue china tiles
that lined the fireplace, and the red and drab tablecloth on the
little round table, were objects of beauty in her opinion. Caleb,
with his watery blue eyes, and cheeks like withered apples, and
stubbly grey hair, was the handsomest man she had ever seen. She
liked his brown, snuffy waistcoat and silver chain; his satin stock
with its coral pin was simply gorgeous. Had not dear mamma when a
little girl sat on his knee, and hugged him as Emmie did, when he
slipped the new shilling into her hand on Christmas Eve? To pour tea
out of the little black teapot and partake of hot buttered cakes that
his old servant Molly had made was Emmie's greatest treat; her thin
cheeks would grow quite pink with excitement, her large blue eyes,
generally so dim, would widen and brighten.
"She looks almost pretty then, Cathy," Queenie would say triumphantly
to her friend; "if only Miss Titheridge had not cut off her curls."
Cathy used to listen to this sisterly praise in silence. In her eyes
Emmie was certainly a very plain child. She had an old,
sickly-looking face, which the closely-cropped light hair did not set
off to advantage; besides which, she was angular and ungainly, and
her frocks were always too short for her.
Other coins besides the bright shilling found their way into the
sisters' slender purses; a shy, hesitating hand would push the
shining gold piece into Queenie's palm. "It is for Emmie. Bless
you, my dear, that poor lamb is deprived of thousands, absolutely
thousands. There, take it; I have plenty, and to spare; it will get
her some toy or other." And Queenie, swallowing down the odd lump in
her throat, would thank the old man, and go home rejoicing, thinking
of the new hat or the warm winter stockings it would buy for Emmie.
Granite Lodge was a large grey house of imposing aspect, but hardly
giving one the idea of a cheerful residence, the blank, desolate look
being strongly suggestive of a jail or a work-house. One of the
girls, the wag of the school, had once chalked up over the door those
famous words of Dante, "All ye who enter here leave hope behind," a
jest dearly rued by the whole school, and expiated by many a bitter
task, the innocent suffering with the guilty. Heavy iron gates
clanged to and fro with metallic sound, infusing vague sentiments of
alarm in the breasts of timid pupils. The windows were high and
narrow; everywhere there were grey neutral tints; the young footsteps
echoed drearily on the stone hall and staircase.
It was the weekly half-holiday; the large classrooms were empty and
deserted, save for one occupant. Miss Titheridge's young ladies,
escorted by the English and French governesses, had gone down the
town to transact all sorts of mysterious business, chiefly in the
confectionery and perfumery line. Two or three of them, and these
comprised the aristocracy of the school, were paying visits in the
close. The chancellor's daughters, who gave themselves airs, and
were consequently much petted by Miss Titheridge, had gone down to
the cathedral, and were afterwards to drink tea at the Dean's, in
company with a niece of one of the minor canons, thereby inspiring
the remaining three and twenty young ladies with secret envy.
Miss Titheridge sat in her snug little parlour with the German
governess, who was just then the reigning favorite; Miss Titheridge,
like most autocrats, having always a favorite on hand, who were
always arbitrarily deposed at the first symptom of independence.
The bright little French governess, Mademoiselle La Roche, had long
ago fallen into disgrace, and the heavy-featured, stolid Fraulein
Heimer had taken her place.
It was a damp, chilly day in October; a clinging mist pervaded the
whole place; the leaves lay in rotting heaps on the garden paths; the
black boughs of the almost leafless trees seemed to shiver and creak
in their bareness.
Inside the prospect was scarcely more cheering. A small cindery fire
burned drearily in the large class-room, scarcely driving out the
damp, which seemed to settle everywhere, on the dim window-panes, on
the globes and bust of Pallas, making Queenie shiver as she bent over
the piles of slates and exercises at one corner of the long table.
Across the hall she could hear now and then the pleasant spluttering
of logs and clink of tea-spoons; a faint perfume, redolent of tea and
toast, was wafted across from the little room where Miss Titheridge
and the German governess were sitting cosily in the twilight, with
their feet on the fender, and a plate of buttered muffins between
them. An hour hence a tempting repast of weak tea and thick bread
and butter would be dispensed to Miss Titheridge's young ladies, to
be enjoyed as only hungry school-girls can enjoy. But Miss
Titheridge was never present on these occasions; her nerves required
a certain amount of quiet, and meditation towards the close of the
day was necessary to all thoughtful minds. It was a little odd that
Miss Titheridge's meditations were always accompanied by a mysterious
sound closely resembling somnolence.
As the dusk crept on, Queenie shivered and sighed uneasily over her
task; some harassing thought evidently impeded progress. By and by
she pushed the books impatiently from her, and began pacing the room
with quick, restless steps, now and then pausing to rest her hot
forehead against the window-pane.
"Twice this week," she muttered at last, half aloud. "I must speak,
whatever happens; and yet if I should do harm? I wish Cathy were
here; but no, we trouble her enough; I must act on my own
responsibility; I can do anything but stand by and see it. If I were
only sure of keeping my temper!"
Uttering these slightly incoherent sentences, the young governess
moved slowly to the door, remaining there irresolutely a moment; and
then, with a sudden determination, walked quickly across the passage,
and knocked at the opposite door.
"Who wants me at this unseemly hour? Oh, it is you of course, Miss
Marriott," and Miss Titheridge sat bolt upright, and glared stonily
at the culprit through her spectacles.
"Ach, she is always so inconsiderate, this Meess," echoed the
sympathizing Fraulein.
Miss Titheridge was a tall, masculine-looking woman, with a spare
figure and a Roman nose. Why do strong-minded women invariably have
Roman noses?
She was not bad-looking, and was even reported to have been handsome
in her younger days, and prided herself greatly on her deportment.
She wore rich silk dresses, and her spectacles had gold rims to them,
and on state occasions she jangled an appalling array of massive gold
fetters on her lean wrists.
Miss Caroline, on the contrary, had been a soft, helpless woman, a
great sufferer, and much beloved by those who knew her. During her
lifetime she had exercised a gentle influence on the sterner sister.
It was noticed that Miss Titheridge was not so hard or severe when
Caroline pleaded mercy.
"May I ask what is your errand, Miss Marriott?" observed Miss
Titheridge, dryly, and with difficulty repressing a yawn, the long,
ivory-coloured hand moving ominously to the lips.
"It is about Emmie, Miss Titheridge," answered Queenie, hurriedly,
"She did not mean to be naughty, indeed, indeed she did not, only the
lesson was too difficult for so young a child."
"Was this the case, Fraulein?" demanded Miss Titheridge, with a
distrustful glance at the young governess.
"Ach nein; Meess has not told the truth; Meess had not given the
class. I believe the little one is dull, stupid; does not, will not,
do preparation," and the heavy Teutonic face looked obstinate and
lowering.
Queenie absolutely loathed this woman, and dreaded her as well. Was
she not the present prime minister? Miss Titheridge might have
relented; Fraulein never. In vain would poor Queenie protest, and
beg off punishment for the innocent little culprit.
"Indeed, indeed Emmie is not stupid; she was so bright, and learned
so well; every one told me so; but she is easily frightened.
Fraulein does not know how a word, a threat, scares her. The lesson
was hard, and her head ached; indeed she never meant to be
inattentive."
"Miss Marriott," returned Miss Titheridge, severely, as Fraulein
shrugged her shoulders with a movement of dissent, "do you not know
by this time how useless it is to bring these sort of complaints to
me? I never dispute Fraulein's authority in such cases. If Emmie
were naughty and inattentive, she must suffer the penalty of her
faults. I am sorry," continued Miss Titheridge, still more severely,
"that I hear Emmie is never otherwise than inattentive; she does no
credit to her teachers, or to my generosity."
The steady brown light in Queenie's eyes burned ominously; it was
evident that she controlled herself with difficulty; the small,
nervous hands worked quickly.
"We only ask for justice. Is it just," with an inflexion of passion
in her voice, "to shut up a young child in a cold, dark room, without
food for hours, because she cannot do the task set her? This is
Emmie's only fault, Miss Titheridge."
"Miss Marriott," returned Miss Titheridge, in the freezing tone she
used to refractory pupils, "you are forgetting yourself. Fraulein is
witness that you are forgetting yourself, and insulting your
benefactress. No further words, I beg of you, except in apology for
your intemperate speech. Fraulein has sent Emmie to her room, and
there she must remain. Please to return to the duties you are at
present neglecting," and Miss Titheridge closed her lips rigidly, as
though with the determination to speak no more.
For a moment Queenie hesitated; a passionate impulse came in the
young girl's heart, a longing to tell the women before her what she
thought of them, to pour out some of the scorn she felt for their
cruelty and littleness, and then, shaking off the dust from that
hated place, take her little sister by the hand and go forth into the
wide world to seek their fortunes.
Queenie's better judgment triumphed over these wild feelings; it
would only be preparing new miseries and fresh privations for Emmie
to take such a step; they must endure a little longer. She did not
dare trust herself to speak, but silently left the room.