The Bride of the Tomb and Queenie's Part 69

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 s.h.i.+ver 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 a.s.sure 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 a.s.sertion to scorn.

"Come, move on," she said roughly, at the same time seizing the girl by the shoulder and pus.h.i.+ng 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 cas.e.m.e.nt, From garret to bas.e.m.e.nt, She stood with amazement Houseless by night."

CHAPTER XXI.

It is some time since we have seen Mrs. Lyle and her elder daughter.

We must seek them now in one of "the stately homes of England."

They are the guests of Lady Valentine at her elegant residence in the most fas.h.i.+onable quarter of London.

Nearly four years have elapsed since we first met the Lyles and heard the spirited discussion over little Queenie's first ball and Sydney's old green silk dress.

Sydney and Georgina would not need to scrimp little Queenie's share of finery to bedeck themselves now were she living.

Georgina's husband is wealthy and indulgent, and "Uncle Robert," the beneficent friend of their earlier days, has charged himself with Sydney's support ever since her father died until recently, when she has married a wealthy man.

Mrs. Lyle lives with Georgina, and still enjoys the whirl of fas.h.i.+onable life as much as ever--indeed more than ever, for now there is no vexing question relative to the girls' finery disturbing her placid mind.

It is a chilly morning in mid-winter, and the three ladies are sitting in a pleasant morning-room, Georgina, grown plump and indolent, idly reclining in an easy-chair, with her dimpled white hands lazily folded over her silken lap, Mrs. Lyle perusing a morning paper, and Sydney gazing restlessly out of the window--watching, perhaps, for her husband--the honeymoon is not a month old yet, and she is naturally impatient at his absence.

Into this quiet scene enters Lord Valentine and tosses some cards into his wife's lap.

"Tickets for La Reine Blanche to-night," he says.

All three ladies utter a cry of delight.

"At last," exclaims Mrs. Lyle, in a spasm of antic.i.p.ation.

"Yes, at last," laughs my Lord Valentine. "The great American actress will play at the theater to-night, and we shall have a chance to see if she is really as great an _artiste_ as Madame Rumor reports."

"Here is a paragraph regarding her now," says Mrs. Lyle, and taking up the paper, she reads aloud:

"The beautiful and gifted young American actress, Madame Reine De Lisle, will make her _debut_ before a London audience to-night in the great emotional play of 'Romeo and Juliet.' The fame of this wonderful _artiste_ has preceded her to England, and all lovers of the drama are on the _qui vive_ for the first appearance of La Reine Blanche, as her admirers call her."

"La Reine Blanche," said Lord Valentine's little sister, looking up from her volume of history as she sat in a corner by the fire. "La Reine Blanche--that means 'the white queen.' They used to call Mary Queen of Scots La Reine Blanche, because she was so fair and lovely, and because she wore a white dress when she was in mourning. I have just been reading about her in my history. I wonder if this great actress is beautiful also?"

"She is said to be the most beautiful blonde in the world, Alice," said Lord Valentine, smiling down at the little school-girl.

A slight cloud has shadowed the brightness of Lady Valentine's face while little Lady Alice is speaking. She leans toward her mother, and says in a slightly lowered voice, but one which is distinctly audible to Sydney:

"Alice's French recalls my own, mamma. Have you ever thought what the name of this great tragedy _queen_, if rendered into English, would be?"