“Yes, thank you,” said Biddy, who had been taught to be always polite; “the baby doesn’t cry scarcely any.”
For all answer the woman gave a loud stupid laugh and strode away, leaving Biddy standing in the road much discomfited. She stared after her for a moment and then hurried back to Truslow Manor, and told her mistress of the meeting.
“Oh!” said Mrs Roy quickly, “that was only poor Crazy Sall. She’s half silly, and she has dreadful fits of drinking, besides. You mustn’t mind anything she said to you, and you must promise never to speak to her again, or take any notice of her at all.”
“I won’t, mum,” said Biddy; and indeed she did not feel anxious for Crazy Sall’s further acquaintance, though the failing mentioned by her mistress did not surprise or shock her, she knew too many people in the neighbourhood of Buzley’s Court who were troubled in the same way.
“And,” continued Mrs Roy, looking earnestly at Biddy, “I want you to promise me another thing, and that is, never to stop and listen to any gossip when I send you into the village.”
Biddy promised that too; but it was not quite so easy to keep this promise as the first, for she was a sociable character, and in London had become quite used to enjoying fragments of chat on door-steps and elsewhere. When, therefore, in the baker’s shop at Wavebury, which was also the post-office, she sometimes found a busy knot of talkers, it was natural to her to stand open-mouthed and drink in the conversation. Really anxious to obey her mistress, she struggled hard with this bad habit, but it was so strong within her that she was not always successful, and lately she had caught a chance word now and then which was at once dreadful and attractive—the word “ghost.” Not only several times at the post-office, where the speakers had nudged each other and become suddenly silent when she appeared, but once she was certain she had heard Mrs Shivers say it to Mrs Roy. They were talking earnestly together, and when Biddy threw open the door and bore in a trayful of clattering cups and saucers they stopped, but not before she had plainly caught that one terrible word. Her curiosity now reached an almost unbearable pitch, but it was soon to be further enlightened.
One bright morning, when she had been at Wavebury for nearly two months, she was walking up and down near the house with the baby in her arms, waiting for Mrs Roy, who had carefully warned her meanwhile not to go out of the sunshine or to stand still, and to keep within sight of the windows. Her walk, therefore, was rather a limited one; it lay backwards and forwards between the farmyard gate and the kitchen door.
On her way she passed and repassed an open cart-shed where Mr Roy, whistling cheerily, was engaged in his favourite pursuit of carpentering. He had cast aside his black coat, and for his better convenience wore a short blue-flannel boating-jacket; about his feet the yellow-white shavings curled in larger and larger heaps every minute, as he bent over his carpenter’s bench in the all-absorbing enjoyment of measuring, smoothing, and planing. The shed was also occupied by two goats and a family of cocks and hens, some turkeys were perched on the empty wagon at the farther end, and an inquisitive pig looked in now and then in a friendly manner. These all eyed their human companion thoughtfully from time to
time, but without any alarm, for they had now discovered that both he and his various edged tools were perfectly harmless.