Chapter IX: Mousey Goes to School

THE house where Mrs. Downing lived was in one of the busiest thoroughfares of Haughton. It had been a good position for a doctor's house, but the late master had not lived long enough to work up a flourishing practice, having died just as people had begun to understand that he was a clever medical practitioner.

"If only I was dying free from debt," he had said to his wife a few days before his death; "but there is still a considerable amount owing to Mr. Harding."

"Do not trouble about that," she had answered soothingly. "Mr. Harding shall be paid. He will give me time. He must!"

"When he offered to lend me the money I thought I should have soon been able to pay it off," he had continued, "but, instead, I have done little more than keep up the interest. I ought never to have gone to him, but you know how sorely I was pressed."

"Yes, yes," she had replied. "You must not worry about it. I will see it is paid."

She had spoken bravely, though her heart had been torn with grief; but her one idea had been to comfort him. A few days later he had died, leaving his wife and children utterly unprovided for, and owing Mr. Harding a considerable sum of money.

Mr. Harding had thought he had made a bad debt, for although the doctor had mortgaged his household furniture to him, the old man knew that would not cover the liability; but the day after her husband's funeral Mrs. Downing had sought him, and had informed him of her intention of opening a school.

"I hope to make it pay before long, and then I will endeavour to wipe off the debt; but, meanwhile, I will keep up the interest. I make myself responsible for the debt, but you must give me time."

Mr. Harding had agreed to do so. He could not but admire Mrs. Downing for her straightforward behaviour; and when, after Mousey's arrival, he had to consider the question of the child's education, he had gone to the doctor's widow with a proposition, which was that she should admit Mousey into her school.

"Instead of paying you the usual fees," he had said, "I shall deduct the amount from your husband's debt. I consider I am making you a generous offer. Do you accept it?"

Mrs. Downing had hesitated but a moment, during which she had looked searchingly into her companion's withered face; then she had given her answer, "Yes."

So it was that on the arrival of the Monday that was to mark a new epoch in Mousey's life, after breakfast she started in company with Mr. Harding to go to school for the first time. A neat, quiet little girl she looked as she walked soberly along by the old man's side, her heart beating a trifle unevenly—for she was nervous at the thought of meeting strangers—and her eyes bright with expectancy.

They soon arrived at their destination—a tall house with a door in the centre, before which was a flight of stone steps, and windows on either side curtained with pretty, though inexpensive, muslins. Mr. Harding and Mousey mounted the steps, and in response to the former's knock, a servant opened the door, and showed them into a small sitting-room.

In a few minutes a lady entered whom Mousey knew must be Mrs. Downing, for she wore a widow's cap. She was much younger and prettier than Mousey had expected; but she had a resolute way of speaking, combined with a manner that, gentle though it was, inspired respect as well as confidence. She shook hands with Mr. Harding, and then turned her attention to Mousey.

"This is my little cousin," the old man explained, "and I'm sure I hope you'll find her a promising pupil, ma'am. I've told her she must work hard, and do her best."

"As I believe she will," Mrs. Downing replied, her fine grey eyes resting encouragingly on the child's downcast face. "Yes," she added, as Mousey looked up quickly and smiled, "I am sure she will."

"It is to be hoped so," Mr. Harding remarked dryly, "for she will have her own way to make in the world. She is an orphan. In short, she has no one to look to but me."

"And her Father in Heaven," Mrs. Downing concluded gravely.

The old man glanced at her sharply, drawing down the corners of his mouth and puckering his brow; but Mrs. Downing met his look with perfect serenity, and his eyes fell beneath the light in hers.

"Having delivered my little cousin into your hands, ma'am, I'll say good-day," he said stiffly. "Good-bye, Mousey; be a good girl."

After he had gone Mrs. Downing put a few questions to the child concerning her name, age, and former abode. Mousey was shy at first, but encouraged by the look of interest on the other's face, she told her about her old home with her mother. Mrs. Downing listened attentively, and though she made only an occasional remark, the little girl felt she was talking to one who sympathised with, and understood her.

"Now, I will show you the schoolroom, and introduce you to your school-fellows, and to my sister, Miss Longley, who assists me in the teaching," Mrs. Downing said at length, and taking Mousey by the hand she led her out of the room in the direction of a baize-covered door which the child had noticed on entering the house.

"Muvver! Muv-ver!"

Mousey started at the sound of the lisping voice, and turning quickly, saw two little dots of about three years old at the top of the stairs peeping through the banisters.

"Go back to the nursery directly," Mrs. Downing told them; "I will come to you when school hours are over."

The curly heads disappeared obediently, and there was a sound of retreating footsteps.

"Those are my children," Mrs. Downing explained, with a smile lighting up her grave face. "They are twins—almost babies still."

She pushed open the baize-covered door, and led Mousey into a large room, in which about a dozen girls were chatting and laughing. A sudden hush fell upon the little assembly as Mrs. Downing introduced the new pupil. One of the girls volunteered to show her where to hang her hat and jacket in a small adjoining room; and after that Mrs. Downing's sister entered the schoolroom, and Mousey was given into her charge. Miss Longley was very much like Mrs. Downing, but fairer and smaller. She told the little girl where to sit, and the bell ringing at that moment for the commencement of the morning's duties, the other girls hastened to take their places, and the work of the day began.

It was rather a trying experience for Mousey when Miss Longley questioned her as to her knowledge of different subjects, and she was obliged to confess that she knew but little of geography and English history, and that grammar was a mystery to her.

"Never mind," Miss Longley said kindly, "you read and write very well, and spell fairly correctly—a good groundwork to build upon."

Mousey gave a sigh of relief; but she was not sorry when twelve o'clock came, and work was over for the morning. Outside the house, much to her astonishment, she found John Monday waiting for her. She was anything but pleased, for she saw a couple of her school-fellows looking at him, and evidently laughing at his shabby, ungainly appearance. As usual, he was dressed in a slovenly manner, and wore his cap stuck on the back of his head in what he doubtless considered a jaunty fashion, with a clump of red hair showing above his forehead.

"Mr. Harding sent me because he thought you might not know the way home," he informed her. "Well, how did you get on?"

"Pretty well," she answered evasively. "It was all strange, of course."

"How do you like the other girls? Are they stuck-up?"

"I have only spoken to a few of them, so I can't tell yet. You need not have come to fetch me, John. I remember the way quite well."

Perhaps Mousey's tone sounded somewhat ungracious, for her companion glanced at her curiously, and seemed puzzled.

"Mr. Harding made me come," he said in an aggrieved tone. "I should have considered you were old enough to look after yourself."

"So I am," she replied promptly; then she thought how ungrateful he must think her, and added, "But it was very kind of you to come."

"Oh, as to that, I'd as soon be here as in the shop. I say, when do you want your Bible again?"

"Not until you've quite finished with it."

"Then I can keep it a little longer?"

"Yes, if you like."

"I haven't much time for reading during the day," he proceeded; "Mr. Harding's always at me about one thing or another, and I don't care to read the Bible in the parlour of an evening."

"Why not?"

The lad hesitated and looked embarrassed, flushing to the roots of his hair.

"I am ashamed," he acknowledged. "I am afraid Mr. Harding will laugh at me."

"Oh, John! As though he would! I never heard of anyone being ashamed to read the Bible before. How strange!"

"You don't know Mr. Harding. If he saw me reading the Bible, he'd think me a hypocrite. I'm not that."

"Of course you're not!" she agreed, although she had a very hazy idea what a hypocrite was, but knew it was a term of reproach.

They had now reached home, so there was no further opportunity for conversation. John Monday did not come to meet Mousey in the afternoon, as she had satisfied Mr. Harding that she now knew the way. When the little girl was learning her lessons that evening she looked up from her books and saw the boy poring over one of his favourite stories, which Maria declared did him a great deal of harm, and marvelled that he should be ashamed to read the Bible in his master's presence when he made no attempt to hide the papers which, by all accounts, contained no good but much that was evil.