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

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