A Pair of Clogs - Amy Walton (fiction book recommendations TXT) 📗

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,