It was Saturday morning, and we three were in Mrs. Handsomebody's
parlour--Angel, and The Seraph, and I.
No sooner had the front door closed upon the tall angular figure of the
lady, bearing her market basket, than we shut our books with a snap, ran on
tiptoe to the top of the stairs, and, after a moment's breathless
listening, cast our young forms on the smooth walnut bannister, and glided
gloriously to the bottom.
Regularly on a Saturday morning she went to market, and with equal
regularity we cast off the yoke of her restraint, slid down the bannisters,
and entered the forbidden precincts of the Parlour.
On other week days the shutters of this grim apartment were kept closed,
and an inquisitive eye, applied to the keyhole, could just faintly discern
the portrait in crayon of the late Mr. Handsomebody, presiding, like some
whiskered ghost, over the revels of the stuffed birds in the glass case
below him.
But on a Saturday morning Mary Ellen swept and dusted there. The shutters
were thrown open, and the thin-legged piano and the haircloth furniture
were furbished up for the morrow. Moreover Mary Ellen liked our company.
She had a spooky feeling about the parlour. Mr. Handsomebody gave her the
creeps, she said, and once when she had turned her back she had heard one
of the stuffed birds twitter. It was a gruesome thought.
When we bounded in on her, Mary Ellen was dragging the broom feebly across
the gigantic green and red lilies of the carpet, her bare red arms moving
like listless antennae. She could, when she willed, work vigorously and
well, but no one knew when a heavy mood might seize her, and render her as
useless as was compatible with retaining her situation.
"Och, byes!" she groaned, leaning on her broom. "This Spring weather do be
makin' me as wake as a blind kitten! Sure, I feel this mornin' like as if
I'd a stone settin' on my stomach, an' me head feels as light as
thistledown. I wisht the missus'd fergit to come home an' I could take a
day off--but there's no such luck for Mary Ellen!"
She made a few more passes with her broom and then sighed.
"I think I'll soon be lavin' this place," she said.
A vision of the house without the cheering presence of Mary Ellen rose
blackly before us. We crowded round her.
"Now, see here," said Angel masterfully, putting his arms about her stout
waist. "You know perfectly well that father's coming back from South
America soon to make a home for us, and that you are to come and be our
cook, and make apple-dumplings, and have all the followers you like."
Now Angel knew whereof he spoke, for Mary Ellen's "followers" were a bone
of contention between her and her mistress.
"Aw, Master Angel," she expostulated, "What a tongue ye have in yer head to
be sure! Followers, is it? Sure, they're the bane o' me life! Now git out
av the way o' the dust, all of yez, or I'll put a tin ear on ye!" And she
began to swing her broom vigorously.
We ran to the window and looked out but no sooner had we looked out than we
whistled with astonishment at what we saw.
First you must know that on the west of Mrs. Handsomebody's house stood the
broad, ivy-clad mansion of the Bishop, grey stone, like the Cathedral; on
the east was a dingy white brick house, exactly like Mrs. Handsomebody's.
In it lived Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer Pegg and their three servants.
To us they seemed very elegant, if somewhat uninteresting people. Mrs.
Mortimer Pegg frequently had carriage callers, and not seldom sallied forth
herself in a sedate victoria from the livery stables. But beyond an
occasional flutter of excitement when their horses stopped at our very
gate, there was little in this prim couple to interest us. So neat and
precise were they as they tripped down the street together, that we called
them (out of Mrs. Handsomebody's hearing) Mr. and Mrs. "Cribbage" Pegg.
Now, on this morning in mid-spring when we looked out of the window our
eyes discovered an object of such compelling interest in the Pegg's front
garden that we rubbed them again to make sure that we were broad awake.
Striding up and down the small enclosure was a tall old man wearing a
brilliant-hued, flowered dressing-gown, that hung open at the neck,
disclosing his long brown throat and hairy chest, and flapping negligently
about his heels as he strode.
He had bushy iron-grey hair and moustache, and tufts of curly grey beard
grew around his chin and ears. His nose was large and sun-burned; and every
now and again he would stop in his caged-animal walk and sniff the air as
though he enjoyed it.