"It's a terr'ble lonesome part from what I hear tell. Miles from the
rail, and the house don't stand as it might be in the village street,
but by itself in the fields. Mrs Roy--that's the Reverend Roy's wife--
was very straight with me about it. `If you think, Mrs Lane,' says
she, `that your daughter'll find the place too dull and far away I'd
rather you'd say so at once, and I'll look out for another girl. It's
not at all like London,' says she, `and I make no doubt Biddy will feel
strange at first.'"
Mrs Lane wielded a large Britannia metal teapot as she spoke, kept an
eye on the sympathetic neighbour sitting opposite at the tea-table, and
also contrived to cast a side glance at Biddy, who stood at the fire
making toast and listening to the conversation. She had heard her
mother say much the same thing a great many times since it had been
settled that she was to go to Wavebury and take care of Mrs Roy's baby,
and she was now quite used to hearing that it was a "lonesome" place,
though she did not know what it meant. At any rate it must be something
impossible to get at Number 6 Buzley's Court, Whitechapel, where she had
lived all the thirteen years of her life. Perhaps she might find it
pleasant to be "lonesome," she thought, and yet her mother always added
the word "terr'ble" to it, as if it were a thing generally to be
disliked.
Meanwhile the conversation went on:
"And she goes to-morrow, then?" said Mrs Jones. "Now I dessay it's a
fairish long journey by rail?"
"We've got all directions wrote out clear, by the Reverend Roy hisself,"
answered Mrs Lane proudly. "Biddy, reach me that letter out of the
chany jug on the shelf."
Receiving it, she flattened it carefully out on the table with the palm
of her hand before the admiring eyes of Mrs Jones, and, pointing to
each word, read out slowly and loudly the directions for Biddy's
journey.
"She gets out, yer see, at Canley station. That's as far as the rail
goes. There she'll be met and druv over to Wavebury--eight miles, Mrs
Roy said."
"Dear!" exclaimed Mrs Jones, as the letter was folded up again, "what a
outlandish place!"
"We've worked hard, Biddy and me," continued Mrs Lane with a glance of
pride at her daughter and a little sigh, "to get all her things nice and
ready. Two new dark laylock prints I've got her."
"With a spot?" inquired Mrs Jones full of interest.
"No, with a sprig--I always think there's an air about a laylock print
with a sprig. It looks respectable and like service. I don't hold with
them new-patterned bright cottons. Once in the wash-tub, and where are
they afterwards? Poor ragged-out things not fit to wear. I remember I
had laylock prints when I first went to service as a gal, and there's
bits of them very gowns in the patch-work quilt yonder."
"Ah!" said Mrs Jones admiringly. Then looking at Biddy's capable
little square figure she added, "You'll miss her at first a goodish bit
at home."
"If it wasn't that baby's out of hand now and runnin' about I couldn't
let her go, not if it was ever so," replied Mrs Lane emphatically.
"But I shall rub along somehow, and seven pounds a year's a
consideration. Yes, she's a handy gal, Biddy is, with children. She
had ought t'know summat about 'em, for she's helped to bring six of 'em
up. There was Stevie--a deal of trouble we had with him. Always
weakly, and cut his teeth in his legs. Never out of arms, that child
wasn't, till he was pretty nigh two year old. I never should a' reared
him if it hadn't been for Biddy. That I own."
On the subject of Stevie's sufferings Mrs Lane had always a great deal
to say, and when she paused, less from lack of matter than want of
breath, Mrs Jones took up the tale and added experiences of a like
nature. Biddy therefore heard no further reference to herself and her
prospects, and pursued her own thoughts undisturbed. And she had a
great deal to think of, for to-morrow she was going into the world! She
would say good-bye to Buzley's Court and to all the things and people in
it she had known and lived with, and turn her face to meet new things
and new people. Nothing would be familiar to her in that strange world,
not even tea-cups with blue rims like these she was washing up for the
last time. Everything new, down to the two lilac prints, made longer
than ever before, lying at the bottom of the new black box. It was
wonderful to think of, and very confusing to the mind. There would even
be a new baby to look after. But when Biddy reached this point she
smiled securely, for she had no fears about the baby, though Mrs Roy
had looked so doubtfully at her and said that she was small. Small!
What had that to do with it? Biddy felt in herself a large capacity for
handling babies. Had she not brought Stevie through teething attended
with alarming complications? She was not likely to think much of Mrs
Roy's baby after that.
And indeed Biddy was one of those people who seem formed by nature in
body and mind on purpose to be nurses. The babies were comfortable in
her strong capable arms, and their little woes and troubles were quieted
and soothed by her patient placid temper. Then, too, she had, as her
mother had said, a great deal of experience, for though she was only
thirteen years old now, she had always, ever since she could remember
anything, had a baby on her mind. A baby had always been the chief
circumstance in her life from the time when she was too small to do
anything but keep watch by its cradle, to that when she learnt her
lessons for school with a baby in her arms. In her play-hours, when the
children of Buzley's Court gathered to enjoy themselves after their own
manner in the summer evenings, Biddy looked on from the door-step--with
the baby. By the time baby number one was beginning to stagger about,
and seize upon knives and scissors and other dangerous playthings, baby
number two--pink and incapable--was ready for Biddy's closest attention.
Life, therefore, without a baby on hand would have seemed to her
unnatural and even impossible; and the baby at Wavebury, instead of
something to be dreaded, was the only idea her mind rested on with the
confidence of long familiarity.
"For babies," she thought, "are pretty much alike. There's fat ones and
there's thin ones. The fat ones don't cry so much, and the thin ones
do, and that's about the only way they differ."
That night was a very short one to Biddy, and it seemed to her that she
was still asleep and dreaming as she and her mother hurried along the
cold grey streets in the early morning. Even when they reached the
station, much too soon for the train, she could hardly take in the sense
of all her mother was repeating to her so earnestly, though she heard
the words.
Not to lean against the door, not to lose her ticket, not to forget her
box, or the name of the station she was going to. Finally, to be a good
gal and mind her work, and remember to say her prayers, and to give Mrs
Lane's dooty to her mistress. All of which she promised, and presently
found herself seated in a third-class carriage clasping in one hand her
cotton umbrella, and in the other a small shiny black bag which Mrs
Lane called a "ridicule." Then, when she saw her mother standing alone
on the platform, she began to wake up and to feel that it was no dream
or anything like one. She was really setting forth by herself for a
"lonesome" place where there would be no mother. Mother had scolded
sometimes, and said sharp things on washing days, but she was fond of
Biddy, and proud of her too, and Biddy knew it; the tears rose to her
eyes as the train moved away, and as long as she could she waved the
"ridicule" in answer to mother's energetic farewells with her umbrella.
But soon, the train quickening its pace, the familiar figure was lost to
sight--checked shawl, best black bonnet, gingham umbrella, all vanished,
and Biddy was alone, whirling along rapidly towards strange places and
people.
Then, for one minute, she felt she must "give way," but not having been
used to such a luxury in Buzley's Court, where there was never a moment
to spare, she thought better of it, winked back the tears, and sat very
upright.
Soon there were plenty of surprising things to be seen out of the
window, and first the exceeding greenness of the landscape struck her
with astonishment, although it was November and the trees were bare.
Then, as she got further into the country, she wondered to see so few
houses. "Where does the folks bide?" she said to herself. It seemed an
empty sort of place, with nothing going on, and Mrs Roy had been quite
right when she had said, "The country's not at all like London."
Biddy's round brown eyes were still staring out of the window with a
fixed expression of surprise when the short winter day began to close
in, and a misty gloom spread over the fields and hills as they seemed to
chase each other hurriedly past. But though she still tried to look
out, and sat stiffly upright in her corner, her head nodded forward now
and then, and the whirr and rattle of the train sounded with a sort of
sing-song in her weary ears. She struggled to keep awake, but her
eyelids seemed pressed down by some determined hand, and at last she
gave it up and let them remain closed. After that she was conscious of
nothing till she heard a shout of "Canley station!" quite near her, 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?