Chapter III: The Arrival at Haughton

ONE rainy spring afternoon found Mousey seated opposite to her Cousin Robert in a third-class railway compartment on her way to Haughton, which was the name of the town where Mr. Harding lived. Only ten minutes before she had bidden a tearful farewell to Aunt Eliza, who had come to the station to see the last of her, and to wish her God-speed. Now, the little girl sat staring blankly at the newspaper which Mr. Harding held open in front of his face, feeling thankful that he was paying no attention to her, so that he did not see the tears she was struggling to suppress.

Mousey held a bunch of spring flowers—Uncle Dick's farewell offering— which scented the carriage with the perfumes of narcissi and hyacinths; and in her pocket was a packet of sweets, which her cousins had given her with strict injunctions to eat them all herself.

Presently Mr. Harding peeped at his companion over the top of his newspaper. Mousey was conscious that his sharp eyes glanced at her keenly for a moment before they disappeared behind the newspaper again.

"Humph! All alone in the world!" she heard him mutter to himself.

After a while Mousey dried her eyes, and sniffed at her nosegay with an air of appreciation; then she drew the sweets from her pocket, and put one into her mouth: it tasted very good, and she wondered if Mr. Harding would like one also. She hardly cared to disturb him, for he appeared so interested in his newspaper, but it scarcely seemed good manners not to offer him a share of her cousins' present; so she touched him lightly on the knee, whereupon he put down the newspaper, and looked at her inquiringly.

"Will you have a sweet, Cousin Robert?" she asked timidly, shy blushes rising to her face.

"No, thank you," he answered; "I don't care for sweets."

"These are very nice. Do have one!"

He shook his head, a smile softening the hard lines of his withered countenance and twinkling in his eyes.

"Eat them yourself," he said; "it's many a long year since I had an appetite for sweetmeats. Did your uncle grow those flowers?"

"Yes," she replied. "Wasn't it good of him to cut them for me? Are we far from Haughton, Cousin Robert?"

"No; we shall soon be there. My place is only about five minutes' walk from the station. You have never been to Haughton?"

"No, never."

"It lies in a valley, and the river runs right through the town; in fact, some of the houses are built over the river—mine, for instance. Sometimes, when the tide is high, and there is a quantity of land water, you can hear the water rushing beneath the houses. The fresh water rushes down from the hills and meets the incoming tide, and that causes part of the town to be flooded at certain seasons."

Mousey did not quite comprehend this explanation; and the thought of living in a house built over a river was rather horrifying to her. She looked, as she felt, considerably alarmed. Mr. Harding noted the fact, and hastened to reassure her.

"The floods seldom do much damage," he said. "There's nothing to fear, for my house, though one of the oldest in the town, is one of the strongest. Are you timid, child?"

"I don't know. Yes, I'm afraid I am, but I try not to be. Of course, I know God will take care of me."

A curious expression flickered across the old man's face. He drew down the corners of his mouth, puckered up his forehead, and regarded Mousey gravely.

"How do you know that?" he asked. "How do you know that God will take care of you—eh?"

"Why, because He has said so, Cousin Robert! Don't you remember He said, 'Fear thou not, for I am with thee'?"

"I suppose that's in the Bible," he remarked, after a moment's reflection. "Your mother was religious, and I conclude she has brought you up the same. I've nothing to say against that, so long as you're happy and cheerful; but I can't stand folks who pull long faces, and set up for being better than their neighbours. I'm as honest as I can afford to be!" and he threw back his head and laughed, as though he had said something witty. Mousey looked at him seriously; she thought his face was particularly unattractive at that moment.

A few minutes later the train began to slacken speed, and the journey was soon at an end. Mr. Harding lifted Mousey and her nosegay out of the carriage on to the platform of Haughton Station. He told her to stay where she was until he had seen to her luggage, and went off to claim her modest box. He quickly returned, and taking her by the hand led her out of the station.

"I've told the town porter to bring round your luggage," he informed her; "the man will do it for fourpence. Sixpence is his usual charge, but I bargained with him to knock off twopence as the journey is a short one. 'A penny saved is a penny got,' remember that!"

"Yes, Cousin Robert," she answered meekly.

"Economy is the order of the day in my house," he proceeded. "I've saved money by economy and thrift —doing without things that other people consider necessaries; and so I've got on. Ah, here we are!"

Mousey glanced around her hurriedly. They had turned into a side street, narrow, and not very clean, and had drawn up before a shop window, behind which a few watches and articles of jewellery were exposed to view. Where was the beautiful shop with the sparkling gems and valuable ornaments which Mousey had expected? It had existed but in her own imagination; the reality was before her eyes.

Mr. Harding opened the door, dragging Mousey in behind him, the doorway being too narrow to admit of two people entering side by side.

The little girl now found herself in a small, dingy shop. Behind the counter stood a big boy, apparently about sixteen years of age, who stared at her with a pair of round, green eyes which seemed utterly expressionless.

Mr. Harding spoke to him curtly, bidding him hold himself in readiness to carry Mousey's box upstairs on its arrival, and placed four coppers on the counter, the fee for the town porter.

"He'll want sixpence, sir," remarked the lad.

"I've arranged to pay him fourpence," Mr. Harding explained, "and he'll be amply paid for his labour. Anyone in particular called during my absence, Monday?"

"No, sir," was the response; "only a few brooches left for new pins, and a couple of watches to be cleaned."

"Very well. This is my cousin, who is to make her home here. Mousey, this is my assistant, John Monday."

Mousey held out her hand shyly. John Monday glanced at her doubtfully for a moment, then shook hands vigorously, and hoped she was well.

She thought he was quite the ugliest boy she had ever seen; and indeed he was very plain, being tall and lanky, with irregular features. His wide, straight mouth seemed almost to reach from ear to ear; his eyebrows and eyelashes were red; and his head was covered with a crop of thick, matted, red hair. He was clad in a threadbare suit of clothes which he had evidently outgrown, for his bony wrists were bare, and his trousers were inches above his shabby boots.

Mr. Harding next led Mousey into a little parlour at the back of the shop, from which it was separated by a glass door. A lace curtain hung in front of the door, but one could easily see through it what was going on in the shop. It was the dullest room Mousey had ever been in, the outlook from the window being a yard, across which a clothes-line laden with linen was suspended between two poles.

The child's heart beat almost painfully as she looked around the cheerless apartment, noting the shabby Brussels carpet, the common wooden chairs ranged stiffly against the walls, and the crumpled cloth covering the table, on which were spread the tea-things, a loaf of bread, a pat of butter, and a jar of jam.

A middle-aged woman now entered the room, whom Mr. Harding introduced as Maria. Mousey knew she must be the servant, although she wore no cap. She was a small, spare woman with pinched features and a colourless complexion. She greeted Mousey kindly, and after the town porter had arrived, and John Monday had carried the little girl's box upstairs, she asked her if she would not like to remove her outdoor garments.

Mousey assented, and still grasping her bunch of flowers followed Maria upstairs to the little chamber which had been prepared for her reception. When she was alone she burst into a flood of tears telling herself that she never could be happy in such a miserable place, and if Aunt Eliza and Uncle Dick had known what Cousin Robert's house was like, they certainly would not have wished her to live in so dreary a home.