THE NEIGHBOURS.
"WELL, Sue, you've made things look uncommon comfortable, and that I
must say!" Dunn observed cheerfully, after supper. "You and Nannie must
have worked uncommon hard too."
"There's one comfort in working hard for you: that you don't pass it
all over as if it was nothing," said Susan.
"Nice sort of chap I should be, if I did! Why, it's as clean!—And the
dishes as shiny!—It's almost like the old home kitchen, Sue!" Richard
Dunn could not resist one sigh. "And I'm sure you've made the parlour
look beautiful. Curtains up, and all!"
"Only there's no garden, father," Susie said plaintively.
"No more there is, Susie. But I'll make some good big window-boxes, as
soon as ever I can get time, and we'll fill them quite full. And a lot
of plants can stand inside the window of the parlour too."
"Mayn't we have some mignonette?" asked Susie.
"To be sure we will. You and Nannie shall have a box of it, all to
yourselves, up at your bedroom window. Won't that be nice? Why,
Nannie,—haven't you done enough yet to-day?" As she came in, with her
neat little brown hat on.
"Dick and I are just going round into the next street, father, for some
stout thread. It'll be wanted in the morning, and I don't want to have
to go out then."
"Got lots more to do indoors, eh? But you mustn't toil too hard, my
girl."
Nancy smiled and said, "There's no fear, father."
She did not seem overdone by the day's work, standing there in her
print dress, with a pretty colour on her cheeks.
"I'm much more afraid for mother. She always will do so much."
"Well, you're a good girl, Nannie,—always trying to save her trouble."
"I should just hope so," Nancy answered. "I don't see much goodness in
that."
Richard Dunn took her hand, and pulled her down for a hearty kiss. He
was a very affectionate father, and he never seemed ashamed to show his
affection.
"I'm sure of one thing," he said, "and that is, that God's blessing is
on such a daughter as Nannie!"
Nancy's bright eyes grew moist with feeling. "It's nice to hear you say
so, father," she whispered; and then she stood up. "Come, Dick, I don't
want to be out late," she said.
Dick was eight years old—a rosy merry boy. He ran off beside his
sister, chattering.
"I've had a warning about Nannie to-day," said Susan. Dunn pricked up
his ears. "Mrs. Mason came to see us,—walked straight in through our
open door, without a 'with your leave,' or 'by your leave.' I didn't
quite like it, but I do believe she meant kindly. She lives over the
way, and she seems a nice sort of body, only such a talker. And she
begged me not to let Nancy work in a factory. She did really!"
Susan flushed up at the recollection. Dunn burst out laughing.
"Our Nancy work in a factory! That's a good 'un! Not if I can help it,
Sue!"
"She did really!" repeated Susan.
Dunn seemed to enjoy the idea as a capital joke. He laughed heartily.
"Our Nannie! I should think so! Not but what they may be good girls
enough,—factory girls, I mean! But our Nannie! As if we'd ever let her!"
"Well, I'm glad you can think it funny, Richard, for I declare I
couldn't at first. But of course Mrs. Mason meant it kindly. And oh,
the things she told me! There's mothers here, with little ones, away
all day at the factories, and not a soul at home to see after the poor
mites. Even when the men get good wages, the wives will often go out
to work, just because they don't like the dulness of home. Dulness,
indeed! I wonder what women were made for!
"And there's young girls too, our Nancy's age, getting their ten or
twelve shillings a week, and setting up independent for themselves, and
won't hear a word from anybody, Mrs. Mason says. Not but what there's
good girls among them, as you say, good honest steady girls, I don't
doubt, who make a fight against what's wrong. But there's too many
of the other sort among them as well,—some who won't live with their
parents at all, but go off and board with strangers. Think of that.
Our Nannie's age,—and girls younger than her too, —and the fathers and
mothers without a scrap of control over them! Why, if I had a child
like that, it would break my heart."
"Bad! Very bad!" Dunn said musingly. "It's just what was written long
ago in the Bible,—'disobedient to parents,' you know, that's to be
on the earth in the last days. Seems to me there's a vast deal of
'disobedience to parents' in our days."
"And a lot of blame lies with the parents themselves," said Susan. "If
fathers and mothers are both away from their children all day long, it
passes me how the children are to be trained. Just toss 'em out into
the world, and let 'em sink or swim. That's all the training many of
them have at all, poor little things!"
"True enough, I'm afraid," said Dunn.
"Mrs. Mason was telling me about the Gardiners next door," resumed
Susan. "The eldest girl is in one of the factories; and her parents
daren't ever say one word of blame to her for anything, lest she should
go straight off and board with somebody else. That's a nice state of
things, isn't it? And the Handcocks on our other side,—Mrs. Handcock is
out all day long at the factory, and her husband and children may fare
as they can,—she don't care."
"I say, Sue,—seems to me Mrs. Mason is something of a gossip,"
remonstrated Dunn.
Susan blushed. "Yes; only you see we've got to find out a little about
the neighbours, Richard, or we shall get dragged in to know a lot of
people that we hadn't ought to know."
"I don't see that. Nobody can drag us into acquaintances against our
will," said Dunn. "We had best be careful, that's all, and not get
intimate with anybody in a hurry."
"What's all that noise about?" Susan exclaimed.
The noise swelled; and both Dunn and his wife left the kitchen, going
to the front door.
People had done the same in neighbouring cottages. "What can be the
matter?" one and another was asking.
Shouts and yells seemed to sweep past near at hand, and people could
be seen running fast along a cross-road at the end. None came past
"Woodbine Cottage."
"I wish Nancy and Dick were at home," Susan said uneasily; "I don't
like this."
"Which way did they go? I'd better find them," said Dunn.
Susan pointed out what she believed to be the right direction. She
could not feel sure, but Nancy had spoken of shops in the next street.
Dunn started off immediately at a brisk pace, and Susan stood in the
doorway, watching and listening anxiously. The shouts continued, but
lessened somewhat, as if from increased distance.
"Mother, do you think Nannie will be frightened?" asked Susie, holding
her mother's hand.
"I don't know, dear. I hope not. Perhaps it wasn't really near her,—but
father will see."
"Can't think whatever in the world it's all about!" a woman remarked,
lounging listlessly at the door of "Rose Cottage," to Susan's left. She
was a careworn slatternly unhappy-looking woman: and the smudged faces
and dirty frocks of the children by her side were unpleasant to see.
"Mother!" wailed one dismally, "Mother—Jacky's pinched me!"
"I didn't," screamed Jacky's shrill tones.
"He did, mother!"
"Have done with your quarrelling, will you! I declare, you're all the
plague of my life!" And two or three sounding slaps were administered
round with great impartiality, producing a burst of shrieking sobs.
"Be quiet, now,—will you! If you don't hold your tongues, I'll slap you
both again, that I will!" cried Mrs. Gardiner. "There's no peace in
life with your squabbling."
The children certainly did not hold their tongues, and Mrs. Gardiner
lugged two or three of them indoors, bestowing a shake upon each by the
way.
"Mother, was that little girl naughty?" asked Susie's wondering tones.
"The boy really did pinch her, and he made ugly faces too—I saw him."
"I'm afraid the mother didn't take much trouble to find out who was
wrong," Susan said softly, and not very wisely, perhaps. There was no
need to call the child's attention to Mrs. Gardiner's shortcomings.
Susie's small voice sounded clearly in answer, "Dick doesn't pinch me.
I'm so glad he doesn't. But he did scratch me once, mother,—don't you
know? And father made him go straight to bed, and Dick was so sorry
after. He went and got me two big bull's-eyes. And you didn't slap me,
did you? 'Cause it wasn't my fault?"
"Well done, little 'un!" laughed a hearty voice on the other side.
Susan glanced towards the big broad-shouldered working-man, seated in
the doorway of "Myrtle Cottage," smoking. She rather liked his look,
and she liked too the way in which a puny little boy had confidently
climbed upon "father's knee." That spoke well for the man. Susan was
much less attracted by the hard features and gaudy cap of the woman who
stood behind him, drawn out by the noise. But she felt very anxious,
and she could not refrain from asking, "I suppose you can't tell me
what's the matter?"
"No, missis, I can't," the man answered civilly. His name was Handcock,
as Susan guessed rightly; and he alone, of all the men within sight,
had not started off to see what was up. "Shouldn't wonder if it's a lot
of boys chasing a cat."
But the voices were those of men, not boys; and almost immediately a
cry came down the street: "Mad dog! Mad dog!"