A Pair of Clogs by Amy Walton (best summer reads TXT) 📕

and she jumped up with a start and saw a porter holding the carriage door open; the light of his lantern shone on the wet pavement, but everywhere else it was quite dark and raining fast.

"Oh, please," said Biddy, "I'm to get out; and is there anyone here from Wavebury?"

She had repeated this sentence so often to herself that it came out now without the least effort.

"All right!" said the porter good-naturedly, "you come alonger me;" and he helped Biddy out and opened her umbrella for her, and asked if she had any luggage. Then diving into the van he reappeared with the precious black box on his shoulder, and led the way along the dripping platform.

"There's a gen'leman waiting for yer," he said.

Outside the little station there was a flickering gas-lamp, and by its light Biddy saw a farmer's spring-cart standing in the road with a small rough pony harnessed to it; in it there sat a young man very much muffled up in a number of cloaks--he wore a wide-awake pulled well down over his face, and was smoking a pipe. "Can it be the Reverend Roy?" thought Biddy.

But she had not time to wonder long, for he turned quickly towards her.

"Are you the little girl for Truslow Manor?" he asked; and then continued, speaking so rapidly that there was no answer needed:

"All right--here you are--give me your hand. Rather a high step. Take care. Capital!" as Biddy struggled up with the porter's help, and arrived, umbrella and all, flat at the driver's feet in the bottom of the cart.

"Now, then," he went on, having picked her up and placed her on the narrow seat at his side, "put this on, and this, and this."

He plunged into the back of the cart and produced numerous shawls and wraps, which he threw upon the breathless Biddy, talking all the while.

"You'll find it fresh up on the downs. Where's your box? In at the back? All right! Then off we go!"

Biddy was quite confused and "put about" by this impetuous behaviour, and she had just made up her mind that this was _not_ the Reverend Roy, when her ideas were upset by the porter, who called out, "Good-night, Mr Roy!" as they drove away. Parsons in the country were, then, different from those in London, like everything else. It was surprising to find them so "short and free in their ways."

To her relief he did not speak to her again, but puffed away at his pipe in silence while they crawled slowly up a long hill leading out of the town. But this quiet pace did not last, for, the road becoming level, the pony took to a kind of amble which seemed its natural pace, and was soon urged from that into a gallop by its driver. Rattle, rattle, bump! Went the little cart over the rough road; and Biddy, feeling that she must otherwise be tossed out like a nine-pin, clung desperately to her new master's many wrappings. The Reverend Roy drove very wild, she thought, and how dark it was! She could just dimly see on either side of her, as they bounded along, wide open country stretching far away in the distance; great gently swelling downs were lying there in the mysterious darkness, and all the winds of heaven seemed to have met above them to fight together. How it blew! And yet it managed to rain too at the same time. The wind battled with Biddy's umbrella, and tugged madly at her bonnet strings, and buffeted Mr Roy's wide-awake, and screamed exultingly as it blew out his pipe!

"Fresh up here, isn't it?" he remarked as he took it out of his mouth.

Fresh! Biddy had never felt so cold in her life, and could not have thought there had been so much fresh air in the whole world put together.

On they went, swinging up and down until her brain reeled; on, on, through the rain and whistling wind, over the lonely downs, while she strained her eyes in vain for sight or sound of a living creature. If this was what they meant by a "lonesome" place it was "terr'ble" indeed.

Hours seemed to pass in this way, and then the pony slackened its pace a little. Biddy peered from under the edge of the umbrella and could now make out that they were in a sort of lane, for instead of open country there was a hedge on each side of the road. They must be near Wavebury now, she thought, though she could see no houses or lights or people; her fingers were cramped and cold, and she could not cling on much longer either to her umbrella or Mr Roy's cloak. But suddenly the pony was checked to a walk, the cart ceased to jump up and down so wildly, and she was able to relax her hold, with a deep sigh of relief.

"It's an awkward bit just here," said Mr Roy, "for they've been felling a tree, and left pieces of it lying about in the road."

In front of them was a white gate which stood open and led into what looked like a farmyard, for there were sheds and outbuildings round it and straw scattered about. Through this they drove, jolting over a good many rough obstacles and then through another gate and stopped. They had arrived at last, and this was Truslow Manor. All Biddy could see, however, was a deep stone porch, with a seat on each side of it like the entrance to a church, and then a massive oak door, with heavy hinges and a great brass knocker. There was no light anywhere; but presently, as Biddy, stiff with cold, was preparing to unwind her many wrappings, the door swung slowly back, and a little figure appeared with a lamp in its hand. By its faint glimmer she recognised her new mistress, Mrs Roy, whom she had already seen in London.

"Oh, Richard," said a plaintive voice, "how glad I am you're back! Is the girl there?"

"Here we are," answered Mr Roy cheerfully, as he helped Biddy to climb out of the cart.

"It's an awful night. How's the baby?"

"I don't think she's _worse_, but the spots are still there, and Mr Smith hasn't been. Come in, Biddy."

Following her mistress Biddy found herself in a narrow stone passage, and caught through an open door to the left a glimpse of a panelled room lighted up by a great glowing wood fire. It looked splendidly comfortable after the cold dreariness outside. Mrs Roy opened another door at the end of the passage.

"Mrs Shivers," she said to some invisible person within, "here's Biddy Lane. Please, give her some tea, and let her get warm, and then send her to me in the drawing-room."

The door closed on Biddy, and Mrs Roy returned to the panelled room, where her husband, having emerged from his wet wrappings, was spreading his hands over the blaze and shivering.

"Well, Richard," she said earnestly, "what do you think of her?" "Of whom?" asked Richard.

"Why, of the girl."

"Well, I think, judging by myself, she must be cold and hungry."

"She's _very_ small," continued Mrs Roy, sitting down in a low chair and glancing thoughtfully at the cradle which stood near it--"smaller than I thought."

"Who? The baby?"

"No. Of course, I mean the girl. I wish you wouldn't joke, Richard, when you know how anxious I am."

"I didn't mean to, really," said Mr Roy penitently, as his wife looked up at him with distressed blue eyes. "Only, as you always call the baby `She,' how was I to know? As to being _small_, you know--well, the last girl was _big_ enough, I'm sure."

"And stupid enough," added Mrs Roy sadly. "I couldn't have kept her, even if she hadn't insisted on going away."

"I suppose you've cautioned Mrs Shivers not to gossip to this girl?" said Mr Roy in lowered tones.

"Oh, yes, indeed," answered his wife, casting a nervous glance round the room. "She won't hear anything about _that_. And I do hope, if she's handy with the baby, that she'll stay. It _would_ be such a comfort. Only I wish she wasn't so small."

At this moment the door opened, and, after some hoarsely encouraging whispers from Mrs Shivers, who remained unseen, the small form of Biddy herself appeared. She had put on a white apron and a large cap; there was a great deal of cap and apron and very little of Biddy, and being nervous, she stood with her arms hanging forward in rather a helpless way which did not impress Mrs Roy favourably. Fortunately for Biddy, however, the baby, wakened just then by the noise of the door, began to cry, and its mother stooped over the cradle and lifted the child in her arms. Biddy's shyness vanished. The cry of a baby was to her as the sound of trumpets is to a war-horse. She advanced eagerly and stood close to her mistress.

"The baby's not at all well to-night," said Mrs Roy appealingly. "She's covered with tiny red spots, and _so_ feverish. I'm expecting the doctor every minute." Biddy came still nearer, and examined the small face attentively.

"Lor'! Mum," she exclaimed triumphantly, "you've no call to mind about that. That's only thrush, that is. Three of ourn had it, and did beautiful. She's bound to be a bit fretful, but she won't come to no harm, so long as you keep her warm."

The confidence with which Biddy spoke, and the manner in which she shortly afterwards took the baby in her arms, and soothed it to sleep with a proper rocking movement of one foot, comforted Mrs Roy immensely. And when the doctor came he confirmed Biddy's opinion. It _was_ thrush. After that Mrs Roy went to bed happier in her mind than she had been for weeks. Though small, her new nurse-maid would evidently prove a support and a treasure; the only thing to be questioned now was--would she stay?


STORY TWO, CHAPTER 2.

TRUSLOW MANOR.

Truslow Manor, where the curate and his wife lived, and Biddy had come to take care of the baby, had belonged in days gone by to the ancient family of Truslow.

There were no Truslows in Wavebury now, but traces of them were still left there, for in the church there was not only an antiquely carved pew called the "Truslow Pew," but also a tablet in the chancel bearing the date 1593, which set forth the virtues of a certain John Truslow in the following terms:--

"The body of John Truslow here doth rest, Who, dying, did his soule to Heaven bequest. The race he lived here on earth was threescore years and seven, Deceased in Aprill, '93, and then was prest to Heaven. His faith in Christ most steadfastly was set, In 'sured Hope to satisfy His debt. A lively Theme to take example by, Condemning Deth in Hope a Saint to dye."

Notwithstanding this the people of Wavebury did not hold the memory of the Truslows in much veneration;