but the young lady is right welcome here—but ‘tis a dirty walk for her.”
“Never mind that,” said Ethel, a little shyly, “I came—where are your grandchildren?”
“Oh, somewhere out among the blocks. They gets out with the other children; I can’t be always after them.”
“I wanted to know if these would fit them,” said Ethel, beginning to undo her basket.
“Well, ‘pon my word! If ever I see! Here!” stepping out to the door, “Polly—Jenny! come in, I say, this moment! Come in, ye bad girls, or I’ll give you the stick; I’ll break every bone of you, that I will!” all which threats were bawled out in such a good-natured, triumphant voice, and with such a delighted air, that Richard and Ethel could not help laughing.
After a few moments, Polly and Jenny made their appearance, extremely rough and ragged, but compelled by their grandmother to duck down, by way of courtesies, and, with finger in mouth, they stood, too shy to show their delight, as the garments were unfolded; Granny talking so fast that Ethel would never have brought in the stipulation, that the frocks should be worn to school and church, if Richard, in his mild, but steady way, had not brought the old woman to listen to it. She was full of asseverations that they should go; she took them to church sometimes herself, when it was fine weather and they had clothes, and they could say their catechiz as well as anybody already; yes, they should come, that they should, and next Sunday. Ethel promised to be there to introduce them to the chief lady, the president of the Committee, Mrs. Ledwich, and, with a profusion of thanks, they took leave.
They found John Taylor, just come out of the hospital, looking weak and ill, as he smoked his pipe over the fire, his wife bustling about at a great rate, and one of the infants crying. It seemed to be a great relief that they were not come to complain of Lucy, and there were many looks of surprise on hearing what their business really was. Mrs. Taylor thanked them, and appeared not to know whether she was glad or sorry; and her husband, pipe in hand, gazed at the young gentleman as if he did not comprehend the species, since he could not be old enough to be a clergyman.
Richard hoped they would find sponsors by that time; and there Mrs. Taylor gave little hope; it was a bad lot—there was no one she liked to ask to stand, she said, in a dismal voice; but there her husband put in, “I’ll find some one if that’s all; my missus always thinks nobody can’t do nothing.”
“To be sure,” said the lamentable Mrs. Taylor, “all the elder ones was took to church, and I’m loath the little ones shouldn’t; but you see, sir, we are poor people, and it’s a long way, and they was set down in the gentleman’s register book.”
“But you know that is not the same, Mrs. Taylor. Surely Lucy could have told you that, when she went to school.”
“No, sir, ‘tis not the same—I knows that; but this is a bad place to live in—”
“Always the old song, missus!” exclaimed her husband. “Thank you kindly, sir—you have been a good friend to us, and so was Dr. May, when I was up to the hospital, through the thick of his own troubles. I believe you are in the right of it, sir, and thank you. The children shall be ready, and little Jack too, and I’ll find gossips, and let ‘em christened on Sunday.”
“I believe you will be glad of it,” said Richard; and he went on to speak of the elder children coming to school on Sunday, thus causing another whining from the wife about distance and bad weather, and no one else going that way. He said the little Halls were coming, but Mrs. Taylor begun saying she disliked their company for the children—granny let them get about so much, and they said bad words. The father again interfered. Perhaps Mr. Wilmot, who acted as chaplain at the hospital, had been talking to him, for he declared at once that they should come; and Richard suggested that he might see them home when he came from church; then, turning to the boy and girl, told them they would meet their sister Lucy, and asked them if they would not like that.
On the whole, the beginning was not inauspicious, though there might be a doubt whether old Mrs. Hall would keep all her promises. Ethel was so much diverted and pleased as to be convinced she would; Richard was a little doubtful as to her power over the wild girls. There could not be any doubt that John Taylor was in earnest, and had been worked upon just at the right moment; but there was danger that the impression would not last. “And his wife is such a horrible whining dawdle!” said Ethel—“there will be no good to be done if it depends on her.”
Richard made no answer, and Ethel presently felt remorseful for her harsh speech about a poor ignorant woman, overwhelmed with poverty, children, and weak health.
“I have been thinking a great deal about what you said last time we took this walk,” said Richard, after a considerable interval.
“Oh, have you!” cried Ethel eagerly; and the black peaty pond she was looking at seemed to sparkle with sunlight.
“Do you really mean it?” said Richard deliberately.
“Yes, to be sure;” she said, with some indignation.
“Because I think I see a way to make a beginning, but you must make up your mind to a great deal of trouble, and dirty walks, and you must really learn not to draggle your frock.”
“Well, well; but tell me.”
“This is what I was thinking. I don’t think I can go back to Oxford after Christmas. It is not fit to leave you while papa is so disabled.”
“Oh no, he could not get on at all. I heard him tell Mr. Wilmot the other day that you were his right hand.”
Ethel was glad she had repeated this, for there was a deepening colour and smiling glow of pleasure on her brother’s face, such as she had seldom seen on his delicate, but somewhat impassive features.
“He is very kind!” he said warmly. “No, I am sure I cannot be spared till he is better able to use his arm, and I don’t see any chance of that just yet. Then if I stay at home, Friday is always at my own disposal, while papa is at the hospital meeting.”
“Yes, yes, and we could go to Cocksmoor, and set up a school. How delightful!”
“I don’t think you would find it quite so delightful as you fancy,” said Richard; “the children will be very wild and ignorant, and you don’t like that at the National School.”
“Oh, but they are in such need, besides there will be no Mrs. Ledwich over me. It is just right—I shan’t mind anything. You are a capital Ritchie, for having thought of it!”
“I don’t think—if I am ever to be what I wish, that is, if I can get through at Oxford—I don’t think it can be wrong to begin this, if Mr. Ramsden does not object.”
“Oh, Mr. Ramsden never objects to anything.”
“And if Mr. Wilmot will come and set us off. You know we cannot begin without that, or without my father’s fully liking it.”
“Oh! there can be no doubt of that!”
“This one thing, Ethel, I must stipulate. Don’t you go and tell it all out at once to him. I cannot have him worried about our concerns.”
“But how—no one can question that this is right. I am sure he won’t object.”
“Stop, Ethel, don’t you see, it can’t be done for nothing? If we undertake it, we must go on with it, and when I am away it will fall on you and Flora. Well, then, it ought to be considered whether
