always hid themselves, and jumped out from unexpected places. So she
now proceeded cautiously round the room, peeping into dark corners and
behind curtains, as if some dangerous animal were lurking there. There
was no place too small or too unlikely that she did not thoroughly
examine, but it was Philippa who at last caught sight of a pair of green
eyes gleaming in the darkness under the book-case.
"There it is!" she cried, and casting herself flat on the floor, she
stretched out her arm and dragged it out by one leg. But she did not
hold it long, for the white kitten, frightened, and quite unused to such
rough treatment, put out its sharp little claws to defend itself.
"Oh!" screamed Philippa at the top of her voice. She flung the kitten
from her, and stretched out her arm piteously; on it there was a long
scratch, just beginning to bleed a little.
"The nasty, spiteful thing!" exclaimed Miss Mervyn. "My darling
Philippa! what will your mother say? Come, my love, we will bathe it,
and it will soon be better, and the savage little kitten shall be sent
away."
But Philippa would not have her arm bathed, and the kitten should not be
sent away. She would show Dennis and Maisie what a bad scratch it was,
and what a cross kitten they had sent her for a present, and meantime
she would stand and sob.
"We'll ask them to take it back to Fieldside, won't we?" said Miss
Mervyn soothingly; "we shall be glad to get rid of it."
The more Miss Mervyn suggested this, the more determined Philippa was to
keep it. She even began to make excuses for it between her sobs. It
did not mean to scratch; it was a dear little kitten. She was very fond
of it. It should not be sent away. It should stay and sleep on her
bed.
At last she submitted to have her arm bathed, and discovered that it was
not such a very bad scratch after all, and soon the arrival of the
musical box gave her something else to think of. For the time the white
kitten was forgotten, and it took the opportunity of crawling behind the
curtains, where it curled itself up and went to sleep.
But though the musical box had come, the rain still continued to fall,
and as there was no possibility of going out, it was settled that
Philippa should play with her friends in the long gallery.
The long gallery was a very delightful place to amuse one's self in on a
rainy day. It was the only old part of Haughton which remained, and it
was much prettier than the new. Six tall latticed windows stood in
recesses all down one side, and facing them were dark old portraits of
straight-nosed ladies with powdered hair, and gentlemen in wigs. These
had the gallery all to themselves, for there were no furniture or
ornaments in it, except some great china vases in the window-seats. At
either end there was a high stone mantelpiece, carved all over in quaint
patterns. The ceiling was oak, and so was the floor--this last very
slippery, so that it was as good as ice to slide upon.
Dennis and Maisie were glad to hear that they were to go into the long
gallery when they arrived, and they found all Philippa's visitors
assembled there, with the musical box tinkling out its tunes in one of
the window-seats. Miss Mervyn, who felt the long gallery very cold and
draughty, was there too; she had brought in a chair from the play-room,
and sat shivering by the huge fireplace, where a fire had been lighted;
but the children, warmed with their games, looked merry and gay.
"Let's have a dance!" exclaimed Philippa, as the musical box began a
lively waltz tune; "Dennis shall be my partner."
All the little figures in their bright dresses went whirling down the
long shining floor, two and two, skirts fluttering and hair streaming
out with the rapid movement. At the end of the long gallery the musical
box was quite invisible, and its little thin voice could hardly be
heard.
"It's like a fairy tune being played up in the air," said Maisie.
The musical box finished its waltz, and almost immediately struck up a
solemn march.
"Now we're soldiers," said Dennis, "marching to the funeral of one of
our comrades killed in battle. I'm captain."
All the games suggested by the musical box were successful: even
Philippa was pleased and happy, and Miss Mervyn began to think that the
party might pass off without any quarrels or disturbance. But,
unfortunately, Philippa at last had an idea which led to the overthrow
of this pleasant state of things. This idea was that they should join
in with the musical box when it played the "Bluebells of Scotland," and
have a concert. She herself would conduct, and play the violin. One
child could sing the tune, another could whistle it, another could play
it on a comb, another was provided with a small drum. Every one thought
it a beautiful idea, and Philippa, very much excited, mounted on the
window-seat by the musical box, violin in hand, with her band disposed
round her.
But alas! Instead of the sweet sounds she hoped to hear, the most
terrible discords arose at the first tinkling notes of the musical box.
It was wonderful that such a small band could produce such a great
noise, but perhaps this was because each child wanted to be heard above
the rest. The whistling, screaming, squeaking, and banging, all in
different keys and different time, quite overpowered the gentle
plaintive notes of the violin and the correct melody of the musical box.
Miss Mervyn at the end of the room covered her ears, and Philippa
dropped her bow, and exclaimed angrily: "Stop! it's a horrid noise."
That was easily said, but no one paid any attention to it. The band
went on screaming, banging, tootling, and whistling harder than ever.
"Stop, I say!" cried Philippa again, stamping her foot. "I'm the
conductor. I say stop!"
But it had no result. She threw down her violin, and shook the musical
box angrily, but there was no way of stopping that either: it went
steadily on, regardless that she was beside herself with rage. In
another moment she would have dashed it on the floor; but, fortunately,
just at that instant Mrs Trevor appeared at the door. The sight of her
had more effect than all Philippa's rage. The band suddenly stopped,
the din ceased, peace was restored. Miss Mervyn took her hands from her
ears, and advanced from the other end of the room. Philippa flew to her
mother, and hid her face in her gown.
"What is it, my darling?" said Mrs Trevor, looking fondly at her
daughter, and severely at Miss Mervyn. "Why have you been making this
dreadful noise?"
Philippa poured forth her complaints. She had wanted to have a
concert--a proper concert--and they had done it all wrong, and they
wouldn't stop when she told them, and--
"Poor darling," said Mrs Trevor, stroking Philippa's hair caressingly,
"she has such a sensitive ear.--It was hardly wise, I think, Miss
Mervyn," turning to that lady, "to allow such a noise. Really, when I
opened the door, it was quite like a number of cats quarrelling. Quite
enough to give Philippa one of her bad headaches for the rest of the
day."
Miss Mervyn looked as if that were likely to be her own case, but she
only murmured that she had thought Philippa was enjoying herself, and
that she had not liked to put a stop to the children's amusements. The
band meanwhile stood disconsolate. Philippa's face had its fretful
look, and everything was rather uncomfortable. Mrs Trevor glanced round
in despair, and it was at this moment that Maisie gave things a welcome
turn by stealing up to her cousin's side, and saying softly, "Where's
the white kitten?"
The kitten had been on her mind ever since she arrived: she had not seen
it, and did not even know that it had been received, for in the
excitement of her party Philippa had quite forgotten to thank her
cousins for their present.
"Ah!" said Mrs Trevor, in a tone of relief, "the kitten, to be sure.--
Take Maisie to find the kitten, my darling, and have a quiet little game
together in the schoolroom. I daresay Dennis will like to stay here,
and play with the others until tea-time."
For a wonder, Philippa was quite ready to do what was proposed, and the
two little girls went away together.
"Did you like it?" asked Maisie anxiously. "It's pretty, isn't it? And
it keeps itself very white. It's the prettiest of all the kittens--next
to ours."
"I like it very much," said Philippa graciously, "but it scratches.
Miss Mervyn says it's a savage kitten."
"They all scratch, you know," said Maisie seriously, as they entered the
schoolroom; "when they're quite little, they don't know better. You'll
have to teach it to be good."
"How?" asked Philippa, looking round the room for the kitten, which was
nowhere to be seen.
"Entirely by kindness," said Maisie, using an expression she had seen in
one of her books.
"It's hidden itself again," said Philippa discontentedly; "it's always
hiding itself."
This time the kitten had found a good hiding-place, and the little girls
searched everywhere in vain for a long while. At last Maisie thought of
lifting the silk cover on the top of Miss Mervyn's work-basket, and
there, snugly coiled in the midst of wools, knitting, and fancy work,
lay the white kitten fast asleep! This was not the worst, for it had
evidently amused itself first by a game of play. All the skeins of wool
were twisted up in a tangle, and a quantity of silk was wound tightly
round its claws.
"There!" said Philippa, "that's the third wrong thing it's done to-day!
It's torn mother's lace, and scratched my arm, and tangled up all Miss
Mervyn's wool. Now she'll want it to go away more than ever."
Maisie looked at the white kitten with dismay. It did not seem to have
made a good beginning in its new home.
"Will Miss Mervyn be _very_ angry?" she said. "Can't we try to put the
wool straight?"
"Oh, _that_ doesn't matter," said Philippa coolly; "but it _is_ a
naughty kitten, isn't it?"
Maisie lifted the kitten carefully out of its warm bed, and gently
disentangled its claws from the silk.
"Well," she said, "I don't really believe it _meant_ to be naughty.
Kittens always like to play, and then, you see, it always slept in a
basket, so perhaps it thought this was its own. You must give it a ball
or a cork, and then it won't want to play with the wrong things."
Philippa generally looked down upon Maisie and thought her babyish, but
she had such motherly ways with the kitten, and gave advice with so much
gravity, that she now listened with respect to what she said.
"Now you take it and nurse it a little," she continued, putting the
kitten, still half asleep, into Philippa's arms, "and I'll try to get
the wool straight. What shall you call it? We call ours `Darkie,'
because he's all black, you see. Dennis wanted to call him `Nigger,'
but I didn't like that, and Aunt Katharine says Darkie means just the
same."
Philippa thought of a good many names, but was not satisfied with any of
them, and still less with those suggested by Maisie.
"_I_ know," she exclaimed at last; "I've got a beautiful name that just
suits it. I shall call it `Blanche.' That's French for white, you
know," she added for Maisie's instruction. Maisie did not know, for she
had not begun to learn French, but she quite agreed that Blanche was a
lovely name, and seemed made for the white kitten.
After much patient effort she succeeded in untwisting Miss Mervyn's wool
from most of the knots and tangles, and putting the contents of the
basket into something like order.
"There!" she said; "that's as straight as I can make it."
"I don't see why you took so much trouble over it," said Philippa; "it
wasn't your fault--it was the kitten's."
"Well, the kitten couldn't put it straight," replied Maisie. "It wasn't
half so mischievous as Darkie at home, but I expect it feels strange
here just at first. When it gets to know you, it won't be so naughty."
She looked a little anxiously at the kitten, who was purring contentedly
in Philippa's arms.
"I hope," she added, "it will be a nice, well-behaved cat when it grows
up."
"It _ought_ to be the nicest of the three," said Philippa; "that's very
certain."
"Why?" asked Maisie.
"Well, you see," said Philippa, with her chin in the air, "it will have
such advantages here. It will sleep on my bed, and have cream for its
tea, and it will always wear a lovely ribbon on its neck, or perhaps a
collar with a bell. And it will have nothing to do but play, and never
be with common, low people."
Maisie looked thoughtful.
"The grey kitten's very nice and affectionate," she said, "though it
isn't pretty. It won't have advantages though, because it's got to go
and do hard work."
"What hard work?" asked Philippa.
"It's going to catch mice for old Sally's Eliza," replied Maisie, "so of
course it can't sleep in any one's bed--it will have to be up all night.
And I don't suppose it will have meals exactly except what it picks up.
And I'm _sure_ it won't wear a collar and a bell, because that would
frighten the mice away."
"Blanche will be better off than that," said Philippa; "she'll be a
lady."
"We shall be able to see, shan't we," said Maisie, "what sort of cats
they are when they grow up. And then we can settle which is the best--
Darkie, or Blanche, or the grey one."
"What do you mean by the best?" said Philippa. "Do you mean the
prettiest?"
"Oh dear, no," said Maisie. She pondered the question for some minutes,
and then added seriously: "I mean the one that's the greatest comfort to
the person it belongs to."
CHAPTER FIVE.
THE ROUND ROBIN.
And now that the white kitten was settled in its new home, the time was
come for the departure of the grey one, and the day fixed when it should
be taken to old Sally's cottage. Maisie felt the parting a good deal,
for it seemed to her that it was a very small weak thing to be sent out
into the world to earn its living. It would have a very different life
to Darkie and Blanche. They could dwell at ease, and need never catch
mice except for their own pleasure; but the grey kitten had really hard
work before it, and most likely would never be petted again after it
left Fieldside. Maisie wondered whether the old cat, Madam, to whom she
carefully explained everything, was at all worried and anxious about her
children; but if so, she hid her feelings very well. Certainly she
looked about a little after the white kitten had gone, and mewed once or
twice in an inquiring sort of way, but she did not refuse comfort. On
the contrary, when Maisie offered her some fish to distract her mind
from her loss, she gobbled it up rather greedily, and even Darkie could
not push his round head far into the dish.
"I expect," said Maisie, "if Madam could choose, she'd much rather send
Darkie away and keep the grey one; Darkie bothers her so."
It was just after lesson time, and the children were making preparations
to start with the kitten for old Sally's cottage. Dennis was tying down
the lid of a small hamper, and Maisie stood near, peeping through the
crevices to see whether the kitten was comfortable.
"There," said Dennis, as he tied the last knot; "I'm glad it's we that
have got to choose, and not Madam, I wouldn't keep this mean-looking
kitten for anything. Now Darkie will be a splendid cat."
"Let me carry it," said Maisie eagerly, and hugging the little basket
with both arms, she followed Dennis rather sorrowfully out of the door
which the kitten was not to enter again.
"I _do_ hope," she said on the way, "that they'll be kind to it."
"Oh, of course they will," said Dennis; "don't you remember old Sally
said Eliza was quite silly over animals. That meant kind--extra kind."
Old Sally and her daughter Anne were busy when the children arrived, for
they had a job of work given to them by Mrs Solace, who wanted some old
cushions re-stuffed. On opening these, they had found that feathers
instead of down had been used, and they both had a great deal to say on
the subject. It was, however, almost impossible to talk without
coughing and choking, for their cottage was quite full of fluff and
feathers floating about in the air. The children stood in the doorway,
and explained their errand as well as they could.
"They've brought the kitten, mother," screamed Anne.
Old Sally had just re-filled a cushion, and was holding it before her at
arm's-length.
"Is it fat enough?" she screamed back at her daughter.
"It isn't fat at all," said Maisie, who with Dennis was untying the
hamper; "it's a thin little kitten, but it's very good."
"Dear Miss Maisie," said Anne, with a chuckling laugh, "it's the cushion
mother means, not the cat."
What with old Sally's deafness, and the increasing thickness of the air,
in which the two old figures were dimly seen as through a woolly veil,
conversation was really impossible. There were many questions Maisie
would have liked to ask about the kitten's future comfort, but she saw
that they would be useless; so she contented herself with quietly saying
good-bye to her favourite, and dropping a few secret tears over it.
Dennis, however, had made up his mind to know one thing, and he advanced
a little way into the cottage, and shouted: "Is Tuvvy at work to-day?"
Anne was seen indistinctly to nod in answer to this. "He's got the
sack, though," she said. "He won't be there not after next week."
The blow had fallen! Both the children left the cottage in low spirits,
and for some time walked along in silence; Maisie grieving for the
kitten, and Dennis with his mind full of Tuvvy's disgrace. He had so
hoped Mr Solace would not send him away. And now the worst had come,
and soon there would be no Tuvvy in the barn.
They had reached the middle of the rick-yard, and Maisie was casting her
usual anxious glances round for the turkey-cock, when Dennis came to a
sudden stop, and exclaimed:
"I know what I'll do!"
"What?" said Maisie, looking at him inquiringly. She wished he would
not stand still just there, but he spoke in such a determined manner
that she knew it must be something important; so she stood still too,
and waited for him to speak.
"I shall go and ask Mr Solace to let Tuvvy stop," he said.
Maisie's look changed to one of admiration, and almost of awe. "Shall
you, really?" she said softly. "Do you think he will?"
"I don't know," replied Dennis, beginning to walk on very quickly, "but
I shall try to make him."
"But," said Maisie, after a minute's thought, "wouldn't it be best to
ask Tuvvy first to leave off having bouts?"
Although she was a girl, and younger than himself, Dennis was quite
ready to acknowledge that Maisie had very sensible ideas sometimes. He
now stopped again, and stared at her. It would certainly be better to
get Tuvvy's promise first, but he felt he must carry out the interview
alone.
"Well," he said slowly, "if I do, where will you wait? I couldn't do it
with you listening. Will you go back to old Sally's?"
But that, Maisie, remembering the fluff, quite refused to do. She would
go and see Mrs Solace, she said, and this being settled, she went
towards the house, and Dennis turned to the barn where Tuvvy worked.
As he entered, and saw the familiar thin figure bending over the
carpenter's bench, he felt excited and nervous. How should he begin?
As a rule, he did not talk much during these visits, and that made it
more difficult now. He took his usual seat on a chopping-block near,
and Tuvvy, after giving him one rapid sidelong glance, continued his
work without speaking. He was making a ladder, and just now was
arranging a heap of smoothly-turned rungs in neat rows. Dennis thought
he had a rather shamefaced air, like the dog Peter when he knew he had
done wrong. It was of no use to wait for him to make a remark, so he
said carelessly:
"Is that going to be a long ladder?"
"Pretty tol'rable, master," answered Tuvvy, his long lean fingers moving
nimbly amongst the pieces of wood.
"Shall you finish it in a week?" was Dennis's next question.
Tuvvy's dark eyes flashed round at him for a second, but he only
answered, "Pretty nigh."
Dennis was silent for a little while. Then he gathered his courage for
a great effort, for he felt that it was of no use to beat about the bush
any longer.
"Mr Tuvvy," he said, "I'm so sorry you're going away."
"Thank ye, master," said Tuvvy; "so be I."
"Why do you?" asked Dennis.
"'Cause the gaffer sacked me," answered Tuvvy.
"But," said Dennis, his courage rising, now that he had got into the
thick of it, "he wouldn't want you to go if he could help it. You're a
clever workman, aren't you?"
"Folks say so," answered Tuvvy modestly.
"Well," said Dennis, "I mean to ask him to let you stop. Only you must
promise me first not to have any more bouts."
Tuvvy was so taken by surprise, that he stopped working and turned his
whole face round upon Dennis, who sat, an upright little figure, on the
chopping-block, with a flushed and eager face.
"Thank ye kindly, master," he said, after a moment's survey; "you mean
well, but 'tain't no use."
"Why not?" asked Dennis, in a resolute voice.
"I couldn't keep that there promise," said Tuvvy, "not if I was to make
it. There's times when I can't get past the Cross Keys; I'm drawed into
it."
"Why do you pass it, then?" asked Dennis.
"I don't pass it, master, worse luck. I go in."
"But I mean," said Dennis, getting still redder in the face with the
effort to explain himself, "why do you go by the Cross Keys at all?"
"Well, I have to," said Tuvvy, "twice in the day. Once of a morning and
once of a evening. I live at Upwell, you see, master."
Dennis had never known or cared where Tuvvy lived, and indeed it hardly
seemed natural to think of him in any other place than at work in the
barn. It was odd to think he had a home in Upwell.
"Then," he said thoughtfully, "you have to walk more than two miles each
way."
"All that," said Tuvvy--"more like three."
He bent over his work, and Dennis sat silent and rather despondent, with
his eyes fixed on the ground. There was so little chance for Tuvvy, if
he really could not pass the Cross Keys without being "drawed in."
There seemed nothing more to say. Presently, however, Tuvvy himself
continued the conversation.
"Night's the worst," he said, "and winter worse nor any. It's mortal
cold working here all day, and a man's spirit's pretty nigh freezed out
of him by the time work's done. And then there's the tramp home, and
long before I get to the village, I see the light behind the red blind
at the Cross Keys. It streams out into the road, and it says: `Tuvvy,'
it says, `it's warm in here, and you're cold. There's light in here,
and a bit of talk, and a newspaper; and outside it's all dark and
lonesome, and a good long stretch to Upwell. Come in, and have a drop
to cheer you up. You don't need to stop more'n five minutes.' And
then--"
Tuvvy stopped, raised his black eyebrows, and shook his head.
"Well?" said Dennis.
"Well, master," repeated Tuvvy, "then I go in."
"And do you come out in five minutes?" asked Dennis.
Tuvvy shook his head again: "It's the red blind as draws me in," he
said, "and once I'm in, I stay there."
"Mr Tuvvy," said Dennis, after a pause, with renewed hope in his voice,
"I've thought of something. Why don't you go home across the fields?
You wouldn't have to pass the Cross Keys then, you see, and wouldn't see
the red blind, and it couldn't draw you in."
"There ain't no way out into the road," objected Tuvvy.
"There _is_," said Dennis; "I've often been. You'd have to cross over
part of one of Aunt Katharine's fields, and then there's a stile into
the Upwell road. It's as straight as anything."
"Happen Miss Chester mightn't like to see me tramping over her field,"
said Tuvvy.
"She won't mind a bit. Besides, I'll ask her to let you. So that's all
right," said Dennis jumping up, "and I shall go and speak to Mr Solace
at once."
He was nearly out of the barn when Tuvvy's voice checked him.
"Hold hard, master," it said; "I ain't given that there promise you was
talking on."
"But you will," said Dennis, coming close up to the carpenter's bench,
and looking earnestly up into Tuvvy's dark face; "of course you will--
won't you?"
Tuvvy made no answer for a moment. He seemed puzzled to account for all
this interest on Dennis's part, but at length he held out a hand almost
black from hard work, and said:
"Well master, here's my hand on it. I'll do my best."
Dennis put his own into it seriously.
"That's a bargain, Mr Tuvvy," he said. "People always shake hands on
bargains. And now it will be all right."
Tuvvy raised his eyebrows doubtfully.
"Whether it is or whether 'tain't," he said, "you meant it kind, and I
take it kind, master."