‘An’ you shan’t have no candle, neither,’ proceeded Clem, delighted with the effect she was producing. ‘Come along! I’m off to bed, an’ I’ll see you safe locked in first, so as no one can come an’ hurt you.’
‘Miss! please!—I can’t, I durstn’t!’
Jane pleaded in inarticulate anguish. But Clem had caught her by the arm, was dragging her on, on, till she was at the very door of that ghastly death-cellar. Though thirteen years old, her slight frame was as incapable of resisting Clem Peckover’s muscles as an infant’s would have been. The door was open, but at that moment Jane uttered a shriek which rang and echoed through the whole house. Startled, Clem relaxed her grasp. Jane tore herself away, fled up the kitchen stairs, fled upwards still, flung herself at the feet of someone who had come out on to the landing and held a light.
‘Oh, help me! Don’t let her! Help me!’
‘What’s up with you, Jane?’ asked Clara, for it was she who, not being yet in bed, had come forth at once on hearing the scream.
Jane could only cling to her garment, pant hysterically, repeat the same words of entreaty again and again. Another door opened, and John Hewett appeared half-dressed.
‘What’s wrong?’ he cried. ‘The ’ouse o’ fire? Who yelled out like that?’
Clem was coming up; she spoke from the landing below.
‘It’s that Jane, just because I gave her a rap as she deserved. Send her down again.’
‘Oh, no!’ cried the poor girl. ‘Miss Hewett! be a friend to me! She’s goin’ to shut me up all night with the coffin. Don’t let her, miss! I durstn’t! Oh, be a friend to me!’