Chapter IV: Part 4

Biddy looked out of her window with some curiosity the morning after her arrival; she wondered what she should see by daylight. Not much, but everything was in startling contrast to Buzley's Court. A field, a row of tall elms growing at the end of it, which cut off any further view; a flock of geese, a flock of turkeys, a little black donkey, a foal, and a rough pony--that was all. She afterwards discovered that there was a gate at the end of the field, and that a little sluggish river, called the Kennet, flowed along under the row of elms; a narrow footway crossed this, and led directly through the churchyard into the village, or if you liked to turn to the left, it brought you at last into the high-road at the back of Truslow Manor. In dark evenings this way into the village was not without its perils, for an unwary traveller might easily step over the edge of the path as he crossed the river and find himself in its muddy bed.

Biddy soon knew this way to church very well; and amongst the many strange customs at Wavebury, she thought it curious that there should be two services every day, though the congregation was seldom more than two or three in number.

"Whenever you like to go to church, Biddy," said her mistress, "I will always take the baby."

So Biddy went sometimes, though she never ceased to wonder why the prayers should be read when there was scarcely anyone to listen to them. Once, indeed, there were only herself and Mr Roy in the church, and as they walked home together after the service she felt obliged to apologise.

"Please, sir," she said, hurriedly drooping one knee as she walked, "I'm sorry you had to read all them long prayers jest for me."

Whereupon Mr Roy tried to make her understand why he should still have read them, whether she had been there or not. Biddy did not feel very clear about it at the end of the explanation, though she was conscious that he "talked very kind," and she fell back on the thought that after all it was the country, and quite different from London.

But this difference was "borne in upon her" most strongly of all when she went for the first time to the downs which closely surrounded Wavebury. Passing up the long straggling village with its thatched cottages, she came suddenly on them stretching away in the distance, pathless, and, as far as she could see, endless. Then she stood bewildered. Such lots of space everywhere; so much sky over her head; such a great green carpet under her feet, spread over the gentle rising and falling of the hills. All green, except for the scattered flocks of sheep, and the cairns of grey stones, and the groups of stunted thorn trees, bent and twisted and worried by the wind into a thousand odd shapes.

Looking back towards the village, where part of the land had been cultivated, she could see the oxen ploughing, their horned heads clearly outlined against the sky, and--stranger sight still--long rows of women in flapping sun-bonnets bending patiently to their labour in the fields. Beyond these, a little collection of thatched roofs, and grey church, and yellow stacks, made up the village of Wavebury; after that, downs again as far as the eye could reach.

It was, indeed, a "lonesome" place, and there was something "terr'ble" in its solitude compared to the comfortable closeness and crowding chimneys of Buzley's Court; but, fortunately for Biddy, her busy life at Truslow Manor did not leave much leisure for dwelling upon this. As time went on she and her mistress, drawn together by one common interest, became really attached to each other; the baby's crumpled red hand, which could just hold one of Biddy's fingers, kept her a willing prisoner in its feeble yet mighty grasp, and all went on well. For Mrs Roy was not disappointed in her hope of finding her little nurse a support and comfort, and valued her opinion highly with regard to the baby's ailments; true, it was sometimes rather irksome and annoying to hear so often that "our" Johnnie, or "Julia," or "Stevie" had cut their teeth and felt their legs exactly in the same way as dear little Dulcie. Mrs Roy naturally felt it impossible that there should be another baby the least like Dulcie; but she was wise enough to conceal this, and to allow Biddy's confidences about Buzley's Court and the Lane family to flow on unchecked.

So, despite the strangeness of many things in Wavebury, and their contrast to all she had been used to, Biddy was happy, and soon began to feel at home there; but she did not cease to wonder at some country customs, and amongst them the fact which specially struck her, that nearly all the women worked in the fields as well as the men. When in her errands to and from the village she passed these tramping along the roads, she stared at them with astonishment that did not lessen with time. Everything about them was so curious. Their deeply lined faces were red with wind and weather and old before their time--made harsher, too, than nature intended, because all the hair was tucked away under the cotton sun-bonnet, which were the most feminine-looking of their garments, the rest of which gave a general effect of coarse sacking ending in heavy boots.

Biddy singled out one of these women as an object of almost fearful interest, and got into a way of watching for her as she passed Truslow Manor every morning to her work. She was tall and very powerfully built, her features were coarse and swollen, and there was something repelling and yet fascinating to Biddy in her cunning, shifty glance. The way in which she strode along the road, too, swinging a rake, or hoe, or pitchfork in her hand, gave an impression of reckless strength which made the little nurse-girl shudder, and yet she felt unable to remove her gaze as long as the woman was in sight.

One day as Biddy was hastening home from an errand in the village she saw this well-known figure coming towards her with its usual rolling movement, and to her surprise it came to a stand in front of her, and, leaning on the handle of its pitchfork, surveyed her with a sort of leer. Biddy stopped too, and they looked at each for a minute in silence. Then the woman spoke:

"You be the new gal yonder?" she said with a jerk of her head.

"I'm Mrs Roy's nurse," replied Biddy, trembling a little, yet with some dignity.

The woman chuckled hoarsely.

"You don't sleep much at nights, I reckon?" she continued.

"Yes, thank you," said Biddy, who had been taught to be always polite; "the baby doesn't cry scarcely any."

For all answer the woman gave a loud stupid laugh and strode away, leaving Biddy standing in the road much discomfited. She stared after her for a moment and then hurried back to Truslow Manor, and told her mistress of the meeting.

"Oh!" said Mrs Roy quickly, "that was only poor Crazy Sall. She's half silly, and she has dreadful fits of drinking, besides. You mustn't mind anything she said to you, and you must promise never to speak to her again, or take any notice of her at all."

"I won't, mum," said Biddy; and indeed she did not feel anxious for Crazy Sall's further acquaintance, though the failing mentioned by her mistress did not surprise or shock her, she knew too many people in the neighbourhood of Buzley's Court who were troubled in the same way.

"And," continued Mrs Roy, looking earnestly at Biddy, "I want you to promise me another thing, and that is, _never_ to stop and listen to any gossip when I send you into the village."

Biddy promised that too; but it was not quite so easy to keep this promise as the first, for she was a sociable character, and in London had become quite used to enjoying fragments of chat on door-steps and elsewhere. When, therefore, in the baker's shop at Wavebury, which was also the post-office, she sometimes found a busy knot of talkers, it was natural to her to stand open-mouthed and drink in the conversation. Really anxious to obey her mistress, she struggled hard with this bad habit, but it was so strong within her that she was not always successful, and lately she had caught a chance word now and then which was at once dreadful and attractive--the word "ghost." Not only several times at the post-office, where the speakers had nudged each other and become suddenly silent when she appeared, but once she was certain she had heard Mrs Shivers say it to Mrs Roy. They were talking earnestly together, and when Biddy threw open the door and bore in a trayful of clattering cups and saucers they stopped, but not before she had plainly caught that one terrible word. Her curiosity now reached an almost unbearable pitch, but it was soon to be further enlightened.

One bright morning, when she had been at Wavebury for nearly two months, she was walking up and down near the house with the baby in her arms, waiting for Mrs Roy, who had carefully warned her meanwhile not to go out of the sunshine or to stand still, and to keep within sight of the windows. Her walk, therefore, was rather a limited one; it lay backwards and forwards between the farmyard gate and the kitchen door.

On her way she passed and repassed an open cart-shed where Mr Roy, whistling cheerily, was engaged in his favourite pursuit of carpentering. He had cast aside his black coat, and for his better convenience wore a short blue-flannel boating-jacket; about his feet the yellow-white shavings curled in larger and larger heaps every minute, as he bent over his carpenter's bench in the all-absorbing enjoyment of measuring, smoothing, and planing. The shed was also occupied by two goats and a family of cocks and hens, some turkeys were perched on the empty wagon at the farther end, and an inquisitive pig looked in now and then in a friendly manner. These all eyed their human companion thoughtfully from time to time, but without any alarm, for they had now discovered that both he and his various edged tools were perfectly harmless.

Up and down went Biddy in the sunshine, keeping up a low murmur of conversation with the baby, casting a glance at her busy master, and catching a scrap now and then of a gossip going on at the kitchen door between Mrs Shivers and Mr Peter Sweet, landlord of the village inn.

She did not take much heed of this until suddenly this sentence, uttered in the loud tones of Mr Sweet, sounded clearly in her ear: "And so the Truslow ghost's been, seen again!" Biddy started; she could not help quickening her steps, so that she soon got back again to the kitchen door, where Mr Sweet's broad back was turned towards her. She could not see Mrs Shivers, but she knew it was her voice that said:

"Jest as the clock strikes ten--crosses the Kennet at the end of the field."

Biddy felt rooted to the spot. She must hear more about it, and she glanced round to see if Mr Roy noticed where she was standing. No. His earnest face and pursed-up mouth looked more engrossed than ever. Neither of the speakers could see her, for between her and them there was a small piece of thick yew hedge. So, secure in her wrong-doing, Biddy lent an attentive ear and forgot her duty, the baby, and everything else. She could hear every word.

"It's my belief," said Mrs Shivers, "and it's what I've always held to, that it's one of them old Truslows, as was a wicked lot, come out of his grave to see the place where he committed a crime. It's likely he murdered some one in this very house, and that makes him oneasy. Some gambling quarrel, I make no doubt it was, for they say you may see a party of men playing cards in the drawing-room here any night after twelve. It's only naturable to think it."

"Well," said Mr Peter Sweet reflectively, "I don't say as you mayn't be right, for it do seem to come straight out of the churchyard as it were. But what bothers me is, why it should go on all-fours. I don't suppose them old Truslows were in the 'abit of doing that in their lifetime. And then there's summat white on its head that flaps like a couple o' large ears. What would that be?"

"That's hid from us," answered Mrs Shivers solemnly, "by the merciful workings of Providence."

"It's never seen after it crosses the Kennet?" resumed Mr Sweet.

"No one ever _stops_ to see it," replied Mrs Shivers; "everyone's too scared. Why," (in a lowered voice), "the last gal as was here she _met_ it as she was going with a message to the rectory. She jest turned and rushed back to the house, and come into the kitchen in vi'lent 'isterricks."

"Very natural," said Mr Sweet approvingly. "Now, what does the curate think on it?"

"Oh, he jest laughs," said Mrs Shivers rather contemptuously. "You know his way. But Mrs Roy, I can see she's timid about it, though she won't hear it talked on. She's afraid this new gal will get frightened away like the other."

At this moment, when Biddy's ears were strained to the utmost, and her eyes had grown large and round with horror, her mistress's voice calling her from the other side of the house roused her with a guilty shock. She recovered herself as well as she could and went hurriedly away, but the knowledge which she took with her destroyed her peace of mind for many a day. Things hitherto familiar and friendly now became full of terror, and the comfort of her life was gone. Even her own shadow, cast by the flickering fire and dancing in grotesque shape on the ceiling, made her shudder; and when at night she peered timidly out of her lattice, and saw the row of elms standing dark against the sky at the end of the field, she shook with fear. Turning hastily from this to the shelter of the bed-clothes she would find no refuge, but a place full of restless fancies; for now, instead of dropping at once into a dreamless slumber, she remained broad awake and seemed to hear fragments of the ghost story over and over again. The "old Truslow," the flapping ears, the terrible adventure of the last nurse-girl chased each other through her poor little worried mind and would not be forgotten. Crazy Sall's words came back to her, and she heard her repeat mockingly: "You don't sleep much at nights, I reckon?"

Biddy became very miserable, for even sunshine and the baby in her arms were powerless to drive away those dark fancies entirely, though they then became easier to bear. It was not only the consciousness of knowing about the ghost, but to know it _alone_ and not to talk of it to anyone! That was doubly dreadful. Sometimes she thought she must tell her mistress or Mrs Shivers, but then she remembered she would also have to confess her disobedience. She could not do that, for Mrs Roy would never trust her again, and perhaps send her away. What would mother say then? A good place and seven pounds a year lost! It was impossible to risk it.

So she kept silence, but it was a heavy burden to bear, and under its weight she became downcast and gloomy, a different Biddy from the briskly alert one of two months ago. The baby was the first to notice this. She missed her nurse's cheerful voice, and looking up in her face found there a settled sadness instead of the usual ready smile. This she resented in her own fashion, and cried dismally, wrinkling up her tiny features in disgust, and when this had happened once or twice Mrs Roy's attention was also drawn to the change.

"Are you quite well and happy, Biddy?" she asked. "You don't look so bright as you used to."

Biddy twisted up the corners of her apron and hung her head on one side, but made no answer.

"_Are_ you quite happy, Biddy?" persisted her mistress.

Biddy would have given worlds to say, "I'm terr'ble afraid of the ghost," but her tongue refused to utter the words, and after waiting a moment Mrs Roy turned away. But that night she said to her husband in mournful emphatic tones:

"Richard, I _hope_ it's only my nervousness, but I _do_ believe that somehow or other Biddy has heard something about _that_."

No one was quite happy and comfortable at Truslow Manor just now, for latterly the baby had been ailing; she had evidently caught a chill and was feverish and fretful. "How could Dulcie have taken cold?" Mrs Roy wondered many times in the day, while the conscience-stricken Biddy stood speechless, and thought of that conversation at the kitchen door. Mr Roy was made uneasy too by his wife's anxiety, and also felt deeply incapable of making any suggestion about the origin or treatment of Dulcie's illness; everything seemed a little ruffled and disturbed in its usual even flow.

"You know I have to take the service over at Cherril to-night," said Mr Roy to his wife one morning. "They've asked me to dine there afterwards. You won't mind my leaving you? I shall get back by ten."

"Oh, no!" replied Mrs Roy readily, though in truth she was not fond of spending the evening at Truslow Manor alone. "I shall have Biddy down to sit with me; and I do think baby seems better to-day. It's a long walk for you, though, Richard, and there's no moon."

"Oh, I'll take a lantern!" said the curate, and accordingly he started off that afternoon on his six-miles walk thus provided.

Biddy and her mistress spent the evening together, talking softly over their needlework, so as not to disturb Dulcie's sleep in the cradle near. The glowing fire, the cheerful room, and Mrs Roy's kind chat were almost sufficient to drive away Biddy's usual terrors; at any rate she forgot them for a time, and was peacefully happy. But this did not last long. Suddenly the baby's breathing became hoarse and difficult, and Mrs Roy, kneeling at the side of the cradle, looked up in alarm at her nurse.

"Oh, Biddy," she cried, "what is the matter with her? See how she struggles for breath!"

"Lift her up, mum," suggested Biddy, "perhaps she'll be more easy-like."

But Dulcie was not easy-like. On the contrary, her tiny face grew almost purple, she gasped, clenched her fists, and seemed on the point of choking.

"Biddy," said Mrs Roy calmly, but with despair written on every feature, "I believe it's croup!"

Biddy stood speechless. Here was a case outside her experience; she could offer no suggestion--not one of the Lane babies had ever had croup.

"Get hot water," said Mrs Roy, "and then run as fast as you can for the doctor. Take a lantern. Run, Biddy, run--" for the girl stood motionless--"every minute is of consequence."

But Biddy did not stir; she only gave one miserable despairing glance at the clock. Three minutes to ten! _It_ would be crossing the Kennet just as she got there.

"Biddy, Biddy," cried her mistress, "why don't you go?"

Poor Biddy! She looked at Dulcie struggling for breath in her mother's arms, and fighting the air with her helpless little hands. It was pitiful, but she could not move; she only gazed horror-stricken, and as if turned into stone.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs Roy in tones of anguish, "why doesn't Richard come home? What _shall_ I do?"

Biddy's heart was touched; she clasped her hands and exclaimed, almost unconsciously:

"Oh, mum, it's the ghost! I'm dreadful feared of meeting it!"

The secret was out now, but Mrs Roy scarcely noticed it at all. If the room had been thronged with ghosts she would not have minded them just then--her whole heart was full of Dulcie.

"Send Mrs Shivers then," she said, "and bring the hot water at once."

Recovering the use of her limbs Biddy quickly had a hot bath ready; but, alas! She came back from the kitchen with the news that Mr and Mrs Shivers were both out, and had taken the lantern.

"Then, Biddy," said her mistress looking up as she knelt by the bath, where the baby was now breathing more quietly, "there is only you. I can't leave her, and if this attack comes on again I don't know what to do. Most likely you'll meet Mr Roy long before you get to the village. Send him on if you do, and come back yourself. Only go, for my sake!"

Her beseeching eyes were full of eloquence, but still Biddy hesitated.

"Nothing can hurt you," continued Mrs Roy in a pleading voice; "and I shall bless you all my life long. Oh, Biddy, you wouldn't let Dulcie die!"

To go and meet the ghost, or to let Dulcie die--they were equally dreadful to Biddy. As she thought of the first, icy-cold water seemed to be trickling slowly down her back; and as she thought of the second, a great aching ball came into her throat and her eyes filled with tears.

"I'll go, mum," she gasped out. "Don't you lose heart."

Mrs Roy gave a trembling sigh of relief as Biddy's sturdy form moved towards the door.

"Put on my thick grey shawl hanging in the passage," she said; "and oh, Biddy, make him understand that he must come as quickly as ever he can."

Biddy threw the heavy shawl over her head and shoulders, and stepped out through the dark porch into the darker field. Mrs Roy had said there was no moon that night, but there was--a small pale one, just enough to make everything look dimly awful. The wind was high, rattling the bare branches of the trees, and chasing the clouds hurriedly along; it blew coldly in Biddy's face as she left the warm shelter of the house. She could see the track across the field and the white gate at the end of it, and the row of dark elms tossing their arms wildly. Towards these she set her face, and, bending down her head, ran steadily on. "Go back, go back!" the wind seemed to shout as it pressed against her with its strong outspread hands; "Go on, Biddy, for my sake!" whispered Mrs Roy's pleading voice behind her. And these two sounds were so distinct that in the middle of the field she stopped uncertainly. But the little voice from Truslow Manor and the thought of Dulcie's danger were stronger than the wind, and drove her on again till she stood with trembling knees close to the river, her hand touching the latch of the gate. What, oh! What was that, looming towards her, shapeless and awful, across the bridge! A cow, perhaps?--it was too low; a dog?--it was too large. On it came, slowly, nearer and nearer, and Biddy could see that where its head should have been there was something that napped about loosely; the rest of it was a formless, moving piece of darkness. Biddy could not stir--she clung in an agony to the gate-post and stared without making a sound. To run away would be impossible, even if her limbs had not been useless from terror: it would be far worse to feel this creature at her back than to face it. So she stood for a minute, which seemed a lifetime, and then, recovering her voice, uttered a shrill, despairing scream. At the sound the thing stopped, reared itself, as it were, on its hind-legs, and swayed about uncertainly in front of her. Still clinging to the gate, Biddy thought of her mother and began to say her evening prayers; her knees were giving way, and she felt she must soon sink upon the ground.

Then--oh, blessed moment!--there suddenly sounded out of the darkness, at the back of the awful figure, a cheerful human voice and a firm human footstep. Mr Roy's lantern flashed in the surrounding gloom.

"What's the matter? Who's this?" he said in comfortable human accents, and held the light full in the ghost's face. What did Biddy see? Not the spectral features of any strange old Truslow, but the earthly and familiar ones of--poor Crazy Sall!

Dulcie did not die. When, a little later, the curate came hastening back with the doctor, she was quite well and sleeping calmly in her cradle. It had not been croup, the doctor said, and Mrs Roy had alarmed herself without cause. Nevertheless Biddy had earned her mistress's undying gratitude by her conduct that evening, and she was quite as much praised and thanked as if she really had saved the baby's life.

"For it _was so_ brave of her, you know, Richard, because she could not tell then that it was only poor Crazy Sall."

Only poor Crazy Sall, returning half-tipsy from the public-house!

Cunning enough to know that in this condition she could not safely trust her unsteady, reeling steps over the narrow bridge, it had occurred to her on one occasion to crawl on her hands and knees. This once done, it was often repeated, and, as surely as the night was dark and she had freely indulged at the village inn, the Truslow ghost might be seen crossing the Kennet at ten o'clock. Each fresh beholder adding some gruesome detail to the dimly-seen form in its flapping sun-bonnet, the ghost bit by bit took shape, and at last was fully created. Who can tell how many years longer it might have lived but for Biddy's scream and her master's flashing lantern?

The whole village felt the discovery to be mortifying; and after everyone had said that he, for one, had never given credit to the ghost, the subject was discreetly dropped. There was silence even at the inn, where for years it had been a fruitful source of much conversation and many solemn opinions.

Mr Sweet did indeed refer to it once, for meeting Mrs Shivers he ventured to say derisively: "You and yer old Truslows, indeed!" But she was immediately ready with such a pointed and personal reply about "a couple of long ears" that he retreated hastily and felt himself to be worsted.

So the Truslow ghost vanished from Wavebury, and very soon from most people's memories also, but Biddy had not forgotten it when she was quite an old woman.

STORY THREE, CHAPTER 1.

AFTER ALL!--ALBERT STREET.

"The wealth of a man is the number of things which he loves and
blesses, which he is loved and blessed by."--_Carlyle_.

Albert Street is in a respectable neighbourhood on the outskirts of London--not quite in London, and certainly not in the country, though only a little while ago there were fields and lanes where rows of houses now stand. There are, indeed, bits of hedgerow still left where the hawthorn tries to blossom in the spring, and dingy patches and corners of field where flowers used to grow; but these have nearly all disappeared, and instead of them heaps of rubbish, old kettles, empty sardine-boxes, and broken crockery are scattered about. Only the dandelions are lowly enough to live contentedly amongst such vulgar surroundings, and still show their beaming yellow faces wherever they have a chance. It was difficult in Albert Street to feel that spring and summer meant anything else than heat and dust and discomfort. It was more bearable in the winter, Iris Graham thought; but when the warm bright weather came it was strange to remember that somewhere it was pleasant and beautiful--that there were flowers blooming, and birds singing from morning till night, and broad green fields and deep woods full of cool shadows. Iris dreamt of it all at night sometimes, and when she waked there was the cry of the milkman instead of the birds' songs, and the cup of withered dandelions she had picked yesterday instead of banks of primroses and meadows full of cowslips. But in the daytime she did not dream, for she had no time; every bit of it was quite filled up with what she had to do--her lessons, her clothes to mend, her two little sisters to take out or amuse indoors, endless matters to attend to for the two boys who were at a day-school and came home in the evening, errands for mother, and other duties too numerous to mention. From the time she got up in the morning till she went to bed there was always something to be done, for she was the eldest, and everyone in the house seemed to expect something from her. There were five children and only one maid-servant to do all the work, so no one in Number 29 Albert Street had any idle moments on their hands. The small house was always full of noise and hurry and bustle--a baby crying or a boy rushing up and down stairs, the street-door slamming, or "Iris!" shouted in shrill impatient voices. It was hard to be for ever called upon to do something for someone else, to have no time of your very own, to be everyone's servant--to be only thirteen years old, and yet to have so very few holidays. Iris had come to feel this more and more strongly lately, to long for ease and pleasure and idleness, and to leave off serving other people. These moods increased every day. She was tired of being busy, tired of the hurry and worry of Albert Street, she was tired of doing things for others; she should like to go quite away into the country a long way off and do just as she pleased all day. And because she kept these discontented fancies quite to herself they grew very strong, and at last took hold of her mind altogether. She began to feel that there never was such a hard-worked injured person as Iris Graham, or such a dull, unamusing life as hers. Even the sound of her little sisters' voices as they said the verses they were learning about "the busy bee" provoked her beyond endurance. "I hate bees and I hate being busy!" she said to herself.

One warm morning in May she sat, with these thoughts in her mind and a basket of work by her side, in a little room at the back of the house called the "Boys' Room." Her mother was lying down upstairs with a bad nervous headache, and Iris had succeeded with great difficulty in keeping the house quiet for the last hour. The only other person in the room was her brother Max, mumbling over his lessons for the next day half aloud, and presently he threw his book across the table to her.

"Just hear me this," he said.

Iris propped the book up against her basket and went on darning.

"Go on," she said.

"Now came still evening on," began Max, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling and his fingers drumming on the table, "and twilight grey had in her sober livery all things clad--all things clad--oh, bother! What's the next?"

Iris prompted him, and he halted lamely through his task with many a sigh and groan.

"Why couldn't Milton make his things rhyme?" he said impatiently as his sister returned the book. "I never knew such rotten stuff to learn as _Paradise Lost_."

"You don't half know it," said Iris. "Oh, mustn't it have been nice to be Adam and Eve!"

"Awfully slow," answered Max, making a fancy portrait on the margin of his Milton.

"That's just what I should like," said Iris. "I'd rather things were slow. I don't want them all to come huddling together. Fancy the whole long day in a lovely, lovely, garden with no lessons to do, no clothes to mend, and all your time to yourself."

"You'd get jolly well tired of it," said Max; "anyhow, I wish old Milton hadn't written all this stuff about it."

Abandoning the argument, he clasped his rough head with both hands and bent muttering over his task. The lines he had just repeated stayed in Iris's mind like the sound of very peaceful music, and changed the direction of her thoughts, for now they turned, as her long needle went in and out of the grey sock, to her godmother's house and garden in the country. It was called Paradise Court, and though Iris had not been there since she was eight years old, she remembered it all perfectly; a picture of it rose before her again, and in a moment she was far away from Albert Street. She saw wide stretches of green lawn, with quiet meadows beyond; snowy white blossoms in the orchard, radiant flowers in the garden, borders, a row of royal purple flags with their sword-like leaves, which had specially pleased her because their name was "Iris" as well as her own. How happy she had been for those two or three days. How the sun had shone, and the birds had sung, and what big bunches of flowers she had picked in the fields. It was paradise, indeed. And she had to live in Albert Street. With a sigh she turned her eyes from the bright picture of her fancy, and glanced round the room she sat in. It was very small, and had folding doors which could be opened into the dining-room, and it was just as shabby and untidy as Max and Clement could make it. The chief thing to be noticed about it was the number of blots and splashes of ink; they were everywhere--on the walls, on the deal table, on the mantel-piece, on the map of the world, on the dog's-eared books, and on Max's stumpy finger-ends--there was hardly an inch of space free from them. From the window you could see the narrow straight piece of walled garden, one of many such, stretching along side by side in even rows at the backs of the houses. They were all exactly alike, in shape, in size, in griminess, and in the parched and sickly look of the plants and grass. How hard Iris had tried to make that garden pretty and pleasant to look upon! With hope ever new, and always to be disappointed, she sowed seeds in it, and spent her pennies in roots for it, and raked and dug and watered it. In vain; nothing would grow but some spindly London pride and scarlet geraniums. And indeed this was not surprising, for the garden had many things against it in the shape of poor soil, scorching sun, and numerous sparrows, not to mention boys and cats. A constant warfare was going on in it, for the cats lay in wait for the sparrows, and the boys were always on the watch for the cats, with jugs of water, traps of string, and other cunning stratagems. There was not much chance for the flowers, and even the turf was worn away in mangy patches by the feet of eager and excited combatants. At the end of it, built against the wall, there was an erection of old wire and packing-cases, in which Max and Clement kept rabbits, white rats, and a squirrel. A strange mixed scent of animals and decayed cabbage-leaves was sometimes wafted into the house from this in the summer.

"Perhaps it would be better to shut the window," Mrs Graham would say to Iris. Iris thought it would be better for the boys not to keep rabbits; but to any hint of this kind her mother's answer was always the same: "They may be a little disagreeable sometimes, dear, but I couldn't deprive the poor boys of one of their few amusements."

Her words came into Iris's mind this evening as her eye rested on the unsuccessful garden, and she bent over her work again with a sigh.

Always someone else to think of, someone else to work for, never a little bit of pleasure that was quite her own. How could she be happy? And if she were not happy how could she be contented? It was hard to have nothing pretty to look at. Some people lived in the midst of pretty things; there was her godmother, for instance, who never saw anything ugly or disagreeable near her, but everything that was pleasant and beautiful. People who lived in places like Paradise Court could be patient, and kind, and gentle without any difficulty, but in Albert Street--A sharp scream from the other side of the folding doors, the sound of something thrown, and then a volley of angry sobs and cries. Iris started up and rushed into the next room; she had left her two little sisters there happily at play, but she now found a very different state of things. Dottie, a child of five, stood in the middle of the room, with clenched fists and puckered red face, screaming at the top of her voice, while Susie sat on the floor near nursing a rag doll with perfect composure and calmness.

"Naughty Dottie!" said Iris earnestly, "to make such a noise. What's the matter?"

Dottie could not speak, for she was using all her breath to scream with, but she held out an appealing dumpy arm, and pointed to the doll.

"Why, that's Dottie's doll, Susie," said Iris, turning to the other little girl; "did you take it from her?"

Susie nodded, still with an unmoved countenance, and Dottie redoubled her screams. Iris put both hands over her ears in despair.

"Dottie," she said, "if you don't try to leave off I shall put you to bed, and let Susie keep the doll."

It was not at all easy for Dottie to leave off when she was once well set going, but she checked herself a little.

"Give the doll back, Susie," said Iris.

Susie looked up to see if her sister were in earnest, and meeting a glance of great severity she rose and advanced towards Dottie sideways, with one finger in her mouth, and holding the doll by the legs, head downwards. Dottie, still sniffing and sobbing, made a convulsive snatch at it.

"Kiss each other," said Iris, for this was always a sign that the quarrel was over for the time and peace agreed on between the two little girls. They had hardly given each other the angry embrace usual at such moments when a boy's voice rang shrilly from the top of the stairs.

"Iris, Iris! Where's Iris? Oh, Iris, do just come here!"

Poor mother! Any chance of her getting some sleep must be over long ago. It was impossible to keep the children quiet.

"Clement," said Iris impatiently, as a boy in knickerbockers came tumbling down-stairs at headlong speed, "I do think you might remember that mother has a headache. Why can't you come and find me instead of shouting about like that?"

"Oh, I say," said Clement, stopping short and staring at her, "aren't you just cross this evening! What makes you in such a tremendous temper?"

Iris felt almost inclined to cry.

"What do you want me for?" she said in a resigned and injured voice.

"Why, just look here!" Clement raised one knee and displayed a wide rent in his knickerbockers, of the shape known as a "trap-door." Through this he stuck his fingers, that it might be shown to better advantage. "Caught it on a nail on the squirrel-house," he said briefly.

"Oh, dear me!" said Iris wearily; "there's an evening's work. And I've only just finished Max's socks. Pray, don't make it any larger, Clement."

"You'll mend it, won't you?" said Clement earnestly, still gazing at his knee. "You see it shows so awfully, and I shall want to put 'em on to-morrow."

"Yes," said Iris, "I suppose I must. I'm sure Mary won't have time."

"You're a brick," said Clement, and he gave her a rough kiss on the cheek and rushed off.

"How tiresome the boys are!" said Iris impatiently to herself; "how tiresome it is to be poor! How tiresome everything is!" and she sat down on the last step of the stairs and rested her head mournfully on her hand. Then her eye caught sight of a letter lying on a table in the passage. It was a fat rich-looking envelope, and it was directed in a stiff upright hand. Iris knew that writing--it was her godmother's. "How funny," she thought, "just as I was thinking of Paradise Court. I'll take it up to mother."

But there was something stranger still in store for her when Mrs Graham had read that letter. It contained an invitation for Iris to spend a whole month with Mrs Fotheringham.

"Mother!" exclaimed Iris.

It was the only word she could say for some moments. It seemed too wonderful and delightful to be true.

"Can I go?" was her next breathless speech.

"Would you like so very much to go?" asked her mother smiling.

It was an unnecessary question, for Iris's whole face was alight with joyful anticipation. Her cheeks flushed, and she shook her long hair back impatiently as though eager to take flight at once.

"It will be a nice holiday for you," continued Mrs Graham.

Suddenly it came into Iris's mind that it was mother who wanted a holiday. How tired she looked, and how often her head ached!

"Mother," she exclaimed impetuously, "I won't go! It's horrid of me to leave you with all the children. You ought to go instead."

"But you see I am not asked. I don't think that would quite do."

"Well, at any rate," said Iris, "_I'd_ better not go," and she sighed.

"That would be a pity, indeed," said her mother; "and I should be sorry to refuse your godmother's kind offer for many reasons. And though I sha'n't see all the beautiful things at Paradise Court, I shall have pleasure, too, while you are there, because I shall know you are enjoying them."

"How I wish we could all have them!" said Iris.

"And yet there's something here in Albert Street," said her mother, "which I've got, and you've got, and even Dottie and Susie have too, which is worth more, and costs more, and does more good than all those things, and which no one could buy, if he were the richest man in the world."

At another time Iris would have paid attention to what her mother said; but now, although she heard the words, her mind was too full of Paradise Court to make any attempt to think of their meaning. She could only say to herself that she was to go quite away from Albert Street for a whole month--away from the noise and worry, and needlework and ugliness, to a place where birds sang, and flowers bloomed, and one might be idle all the day long.

STORY THREE, CHAPTER 2.

PARADISE COURT.

"No price is set on the lavish summer, June may be had by the poorest
comer."--_Lowell_.

Paradise Court, where Mrs Fotheringham lived, was not very far from a small country town. Far enough, however, and sufficiently surrounded by its own garden and meadows, to prevent any vulgar sounds of toil and traffic from penetrating to it.

Mrs Fotheringham disliked the sight of poverty and dirt as much as the noise of hurry and bustle. "All she wanted," she said, "was peace and quietness," and she seldom stirred beyond the gates which opened to the high-road from her own grounds. Here, in the fine summer days, she was contented to take her exercise, to admire her flowers, to consult and scold her gardener, and to poke viciously at the weeds with her walking-stick. She was quite an old lady, a widow for many years, and lived alone, except for the society of a green parrot and a companion. The parrot might more justly have been called the "companion" than the lady who filled that post, for it was an old and valued friend, and in perfect sympathy with its mistress; the companion, on the contrary, was changed very often, and seldom stayed with her more than six months. "And yet," Mrs Fotheringham was used to observe, "there was really _so_ little she required!" There were only four indispensable things, and for the rest she was not difficult to please. On these points, however, she must be satisfied: The lady must have sound views on Church and State; she must have seen good society; she must read aloud well; and she must understand how to make chicken curry, in case the cook was changed. Strange to say, however, the ladies were constantly found wanting in one or other of these matters. There was always a wrong flavour somewhere, either in the curry, or the church opinions, or the reading aloud, and perhaps this result was partly caused by the close observation of Mrs Fotheringham and the parrot, who seemed to lie in wait for all shortcomings with cold and critical glances. The bird was accustomed often to sit on its mistress's shoulder in which position it would trifle lovingly with the border of her cap and croon softly and coaxingly into her ear. At these times there was an air of most complete and confidential understanding between the two, which did not include the outside world, and there was something weird about it which might well affect the nerves of the lady on trial.

At any rate, though few other things changed much at Paradise Court, the companions were always coming and going, and shortly before Iris's visit a new one had arrived. Her name was Miss Munnion.

Iris reached Paradise Court at five o'clock in the afternoon, after a long and dusty journey. The old sober grey house looked very peaceful and quiet, but all round trees and shrubs and flowers waved their little green hands and seemed to dance rejoicing in their new spring dresses. For it was May time, and the weather, which had hitherto been cold and wet, had suddenly changed, sunshine streamed over the country, and the air was as warm as summer. Everything smelt so sweet, and looked so luxuriant and gay, that Iris felt quite confused and giddy as she stood waiting for the door to be opened; her winter frock and jacket seemed hot and stuffy, and the scent of the great lilac bushes and syringas and hawthorns wrapped her heavily round in a sort of dream.

But the door opened and the dream vanished at the appearance of a stiff-looking maid-servant, who scanned the small dusty figure and the shabby box on the top of the cab with equal indifference. "Mrs Fotheringham was walking in the garden," she said. "Would Miss Graham join her there, or would she prefer to go to her room?"

In a nervous flurry of shyness Iris replied that she would go to Mrs Fotheringham in the garden, though it was far from what she really wished, and the maid immediately led the way thither. There was no Mrs Fotheringham visible for some time, but presently, turning under a low archway, they entered a small walled garden, and then Iris saw her. She was inspecting her tulips, and was followed by Miss Munnion, and at a little further distance by the gardener. Over her cap she wore a comfortable white woollen hood, and in her hand she carried a stumpy blue umbrella; every now and then she stopped, and pointed out some special favourite with this, or shook it scornfully at something inferior, and in these criticisms Miss Munnion agreed with nods and shakes of the head. A fourth member of the party was the parrot, who, in his brilliant attire of emerald green, touched with glimpses of rose colour, matched the finest tulip there. Taking his pleasure after his own manner, he waddled along the turf border, turning in his crooked toes, and screwing his head sideways at intervals to look at the sky. Sometimes he stopped to tweak some tender stalk with his hooked beak, and sometimes he took a sudden and vicious little run at a sparrow or some other bird at a distance; when it flew away he flapped his wings and gave an exulting squawk.

Mrs Fotheringham came to a stand-still as Iris advanced, planted the blue umbrella firmly on the ground, and surveyed her gravely from top to toe. The old lady, with her high-bridged nose, was certainly a little like the parrot in the face, and though her eye had not the changing brilliancy of the bird's, it was quite its equal in the unblinking fixity of its gaze.

"Well, child," she said, when Iris was close to her, "you must have your frocks lengthened. You look positively gawky. Shake hands with Miss Munnion. Ah, mind the parrot! Moore!" raising her voice to call to the gardener, "is it possible I see that odious pink and white stripe amongst the tulips again?--you know I hate it. The most mawkish, foolish thing! It offends the eye. See that it is rooted up without delay. Miss Munnion, we will now go indoors, and you'll perhaps be kind enough to show this young lady her room, and tell her when we dine and so forth. I forget your name," (turning sharply to Iris). "Something tiresome and fantastical, I know. Ah! Iris. Well, Iris, when you want to know anything, or do anything, or go anywhere, you are to ask Miss Munnion. _Never_ come to me with questions, or ask me `why.' Miss Munnion doesn't mind being asked `why.' You are here, you know, with a distinct understanding that you are not to be troublesome, and that you are to amuse yourself. As long as you do that, I daresay we shall get on very well, and I don't care how long you stay; but I'm not used to children, and, of course, if I find you in the way I shall send you home at once. I think that's all I have to say. Oh, there's one thing more. If you ever drive out with me I wish you to remember that I dislike talking in a carriage. I tell you all this because it's always better to put things on a right footing from the first."

They had reached the house by this time, and as Iris followed Miss Munnion meekly and silently upstairs she made up her mind on two points: She would _never_ drive with her godmother unless she were absolutely obliged, and she would very seldom ask Miss Munnion "why," or apply to her in any way. For she seemed a most uninteresting person; her features had a frozen, pinched-up look, and her eyes had no sort of brightness in them. It was impossible to imagine that she ever laughed; but at least, thought Iris, she might try and look cheerful. When she was left alone she looked round her room with mingled awe and satisfaction; everything was so bright and fresh and comfortable, and there were actually easy-chairs! From the window she could see far-stretching peaceful green fields, where the grass was getting tall and thick. Cowslips would grow there, without doubt. The only sounds were the twittering evening song of the birds, the cooing of the pigeons in the stable-yard, and far off a distant cry of someone calling home the cows to be milked. How Iris loved it all! How different it was to Albert Street! If you looked out of the window from the bare little room she shared with Susie and Dottie you saw nothing green at all, only a row of staring ugly yellow houses--the most pleasant noise you could hope for was the rattle of a cart or the grinding of an organ. Just at this very minute she went on to remember it was tea-time in Albert Street. Dinner for father and mother at one end of the table, and tea for the children at the other. There was the big yellow jug full of tea, ready mixed with milk and sugar, which Iris always poured out for herself and her brothers and sisters. The only difference this evening would be, that mother would pour it out instead, and cut the thick bread and butter for the hungry boys. She saw it all, and as she saw it she shook her head. "Certainly," she said to herself, "it is a bad thing to be poor."

Dinner was at six o'clock, because it did not suit Mrs Fotheringham's digestion to dine later; it was a solemn and delicately prepared little meal, served by a maid who stepped about silently, never clattering the dishes, and this absence of noise was in itself a strange thing to Iris, for she was used to associate food with much rattle of knives and forks and clash of crockery. There were many nice things to eat and pretty things to look at, but it was rather awful, too, to sit in almost perfect silence and listen to the remarks of Mrs Fotheringham and Miss Munnion. Opposite to Iris there was a long low window, through which she could see part of the lawn and a path leading to the kitchen-garden. She sat gazing vacantly out upon this, when suddenly she saw something very interesting.