"how do you like my physic? Is it good?"
"It's beautiful, sir," answered Becky, "and it's done me a deal of good;
but might I give this bit to the kitten? She didn't have much dinner
more than me to-day."
"To be sure," said the doctor, and he watched with serious interest
while Becky prepared a little meal for her pet, and put the plate on the
floor. "So _you've_ got a cat, have you," he continued, bending down to
examine the grey kitten. "Little Miss Chester offered me a cat the
other day."
"That's Master Dennis Chester's sister, ain't it?" asked Becky with
sudden interest. "Do you know him too?"
The doctor nodded. "I see them about often," he said. "Nice little
girl, and nice little boy."
Becky gave a solemn shake of the head.
"He's more than nice," she said; "he's just splendid. Do you know what
he did for father?"
Mr Price did not know; and Becky, strengthened and refreshed by her
dinner, sat up eagerly on her sofa and told him the whole story, to
which he listened very gravely.
"Well, that's a very good job," he said, as she ended. "We must hope Mr
Tuvvy will be able to keep straight. But there's lots of public-houses
in Upwell, you know, as well as the Cross Keys at Fieldside, to tempt a
man."
"They don't matter near so much," said Becky. "Father don't as a rule
want to go out again after he's once home. Not unless," she added, with
a little sigh, "it's washing day."
Dr Price gave a slow smile, took out his watch, and jumped to his feet
with a suddenness that made Becky start.
"I ought to be seven miles off by this," he said, striding to the door.
"Good-bye, Becky."
He seemed to Becky to make one spring from the door to his horse's back,
and to gallop furiously up the street the next minute. There were one
or two sharp, shrill shrieks from Snip and Snap as they tore after him,
and then all was silent.
Dr Price's visits often ended in this abrupt way, but Becky wished he
could have stayed a little longer this afternoon, for she was just going
to ask him to take a message for her to Master Dennis, and say how very
grateful she and Dan felt. However, as that could not be, she comforted
herself by making up her mind to ask him next time he came, and settled
cosily down to wait for Dan's arrival, when she could tell him all that
had passed.
CHAPTER NINE.
PHILIPPA'S VISIT.
"There is no doubt," said Mrs Trevor, "that the air of Fieldside suits
dear Philippa; it seems to sooth her nerves."
"I think it does," answered Miss Mervyn.
"And there is no doubt," continued Mrs Trevor, "that the child needs
change. She is unusually uncertain in her temper, and Dr Smith advised
the sea-side at once. But it would be much easier to send her to my
sister's."
"And she would have her cousins to play with," suggested Miss Mervyn.
"I do so wish Katharine had not such odd notions," continued Mrs Trevor
discontentedly; "it quite makes me hesitate to let Philippa go there
much. Those children are allowed to mix with all sorts of people."
"They are nice little children," Miss Mervyn ventured to say.
"Nice enough at _present_," said Mrs Trevor, "but who knows how they
will grow up? If I were their father--However, you think it would be a
good plan to ask my sister to have Philippa for a few days?"
"I certainly do," said Miss Mervyn, with earnest conviction.
Every one at Haughton Park thought so too, for Philippa had been so
troublesome lately, that she had made the whole household uncomfortable
as well as herself. "The dear child must be ill," Mrs Trevor said, and
sent for Dr Smith.
"The old story, my dear madam," he said; "sensitive nerves. I should
advise sending your daughter to the sea-side with some young companions.
It is important that the system should be braced, and the mind gently
amused."
On consideration, Mrs Trevor did not see how she could manage to supply
Philippa with sea-air as well as young companions, but it occurred to
her that the air of Fieldside might do as well, and to this Miss Mervyn
had heartily agreed. So a letter was at once written to Miss Chester,
and the subject gently broken to Philippa, who, greatly to every one's
surprise and relief, made no difficulty whatever.
"I shall take the kitten with me," she said, rather defiantly, and
nothing would have pleased Mrs Trevor better, for Philippa's kitten had
become a plague and a worry to every one from morning till night. There
were endless complaints about it. It was a thief, it had a bad temper,
it scratched the satin chairs in the drawing-room, it climbed up the
curtains, it was always in the way. It had broken a whole trayful of
wine-glasses. Scarcely a day passed without some fresh piece of
mischief. Perhaps the poor kitten could hardly be blamed for all this,
for it would have been difficult for a wiser thing than a kitten to
understand how to behave under such circumstances. Philippa would pet
and spoil it one day, and scold it the next, so that it never quite knew
when it was doing right or wrong. There was no doubt, however, that
since its arrival there was less peace and quietness than ever at
Haughton Park.
Meanwhile at Fieldside the idea of Philippa's visit was received with
something like dismay. She had never stayed more than one day before,
and there was a good deal of doubt in the children's minds as to whether
she would make herself agreeable. Dennis in particular felt this
strongly.
"Will Philippa stay two days or three days, Aunt Katharine?" he asked
when he heard the news. "When Aunt Trevor says two or three days, does
she count the one she comes and the one she goes, because that only
leaves one clear day?"
"Oh, I daresay if you're happy together," answered Miss Chester, "her
mother will like her to stay longer than that."
It was breakfast time, and she was reading a pile of letters which had
just arrived, so that she did not pay much attention to the children.
Dennis turned to Maisie and said softly: "I think one clear day's quite
long enough; don't you?"
Maisie took some thoughtful spoonfuls of porridge before she answered.
"I'm not quite sure. Sometimes the longer she stays the nicer she
gets."
"But, anyhow," objected Dennis, "I don't like her while she's _getting_
nice, so I think it's best for her to go away soon."
Maisie was not quite so sure of this as her brother, though she too felt
grave doubts about Philippa's behaviour. If she were in a nice mood,
her visit might be pleasant, for there were plenty of things to show her
at Fieldside, and plenty to do, if she would only be interested in them,
and not have her "grown-up" manner.
"I wonder what she'll say to Darkie," she said, as she sat thinking of
this after breakfast.
"She'll say Blanche is much prettier," answered Dennis; "she always says
her things are nicer than ours."
"She hasn't seen him beg yet," said Maisie.
It was not long before Philippa had this opportunity, for when she was
sitting at tea with her cousins that evening, she happened to look down
at her side, and there was Darkie begging. He was the oddest little
black figure possible, bolt upright, his bushy tail spread out at the
back like a fan, and his paws neatly drooped in front.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, laughing; "how lovely! What a clever cat!"
"He always does it," said Dennis, with quiet pride. "We taught him."
"I told you he begged," added Maisie. "Why don't you teach Blanche?"
"I don't believe she could learn," said Philippa. "She's quite a
nuisance at meal times. She stands up and claws and mews until she is
fed. She doesn't give any peace."
Maisie looked shocked.
"That's not at all well-behaved," she said. "You oughtn't to let her do
that."
"I can't help it," answered Philippa. "I often box her ears, but it's
no good. She's a greedy cat, I think. Not so nice as this one, and
after all, black is a better colour than white, and Darkie has a bushy
tail."
Dennis looked triumphant, but Maisie was sorry to think that the white
kitten was not turning out well; and though she had never liked it as
much as the others, she felt it was not entirely its own fault.
Philippa evidently did not know how to manage cats. She was now on the
point of giving Darkie a large corner of buttered toast, when Dennis
interfered.
"You mustn't do that, please," he said firmly. "Darkie's _never_ fed at
meals. He has his tea afterwards in his own dish."
"Well!" said Philippa, looking very much surprised, "I _do_ call that
cruel. You don't mean to say you let him sit up like that for nothing!
Blanche wouldn't bear that. If we don't give her what she wants at
once, she cries so loud that we're obliged to."
"She's learned that of you, I suppose, hasn't she?" said Dennis.
He spoke without any intention of offending his cousin, and did not mean
to be rude; but Philippa drew herself up, and flushed a pale pink all
over her face.
"You're a rude boy," she said. Then after a pause, she gave a little
nod at him, and added, "Mother says you've just the air of a little
Hodge the ploughboy. So there!"
But this arrow did not hit the mark, though Philippa had aimed it as
straight as she could. Dennis did not mind being called a ploughboy a
bit. He had seen lots of them, and considered theirs an agreeable and
interesting occupation; so he only shrugged his shoulders, and left her
to recover her temper as she could.
It never answered to be cross at Fieldside, and Philippa had found this
out before. There was nothing gained by it. Maisie only looked
surprised and sorry, Dennis took no notice at all, and Aunt Katharine
was much too busy to spend any time in settling disputes. This being
the case, it was surprising to see how soon Philippa got over her
passionate fits, and was ready to behave as though nothing had happened.
It was so now, for though she was rather sulky with Dennis all the
evening, she got up in quite a good temper the next morning, and did not
seem to remember that he had been rude. The three children started off
for a walk together soon after breakfast, for Aunt Katharine wanted a
message taken to the Manor Farm. On the way, Dennis and Maisie had much
to tell about Mr and Mrs Solace, their house, and all their animals; and
Philippa listened with interest, though she thought it all rather "odd."
This word was indeed constantly on her lips, for her cousins seemed to
live in such a very different way from anything she was used to at home.
When they passed through the village, nodding and smiling to nearly
every one they met, and making little friendly remarks to the people at
their cottage doors, she could not help thinking of her stiff walk in
the park with Miss Mervyn, which always lasted a certain time if it was
fine, and from which she often came back feeling very cross. If the
walk at Fieldside were "odd," it was certainly amusing, and she began to
wish there were a village at Haughton.
Presently the village ended, and now there was a long narrow lane to go
through before the Manor Farm was reached.
"What a nice stick you've got," said Philippa to Dennis.
"It _is_ a jolly stick, isn't it?" he said, holding it out for her to
see more closely.
It had all manner of quaint knots on the stem, and the large knob at the
top was carved into a very excellent likeness of the little rough dog
Peter. Philippa looked at it with admiration.
"I should like one like that," she said. "Where could I buy one?"
"You couldn't buy one at all," said Dennis proudly; "it was made for me.
Tuvvy made it."
"Who's Tuvvy?" inquired Philippa.
"A friend of mine," said Dennis; "he's Mr Solace's wheelwright."
"Oh yes, I remember," said Philippa; "Maisie told me about him. What
odd friends you have!"
She looked curiously at Dennis as he marched along flourishing his
stick. It must be rather nice, she began to think, to do things for
people, and for them to be so grateful, and carve sticks on purpose for
you.
Still, it was "odd," and there was a good deal in it that she did not
understand.
Arrived at the farm, however, her thoughts were soon distracted; first
by the appearance of the turkey-cock, and the agreeable discovery that
she was not afraid of him.
"What a baby you are, Maisie!" she exclaimed.
"She isn't always," said Dennis; "there are lots of things worse than
the turkey-cock that she doesn't mind a bit. Things _you'd_ be afraid
of, perhaps.--There is Mrs Solace at the door."
Mrs Solace beamed at the children in her usual kindly way; and, as was
her custom, would not think of their leaving the house without eating
something after their walk. At home Philippa would have despised bread
and honey and new milk, but here somehow it tasted very good, and she
was too hungry to stop to call it odd.
"The little lady wants some of your roses, Miss Maisie," said Mrs
Solace, looking at the children as they sat side by side; "she's as
white as a sloe-blossom."
"My complexion's naturally delicate, thank you," said Philippa, rather
offended; "I never get sunburnt like Maisie."
"Oh, well, maybe you've outgrown your strength a bit, my dear," said the
farmer's wife, smiling comfortably.--"And now, Master Dennis, I mustn't
forget that Andrew's got a couple of young jackdaws for you: would you
like to take them back now, or let 'em bide here a little?"
There was some consultation between Dennis and his sister, before it was
finally settled that the jackdaws should not be taken then and there to
Fieldside, but should first have a home prepared for them.
"And I know just where to build it," he said, as the three children
started on their return after saying good-bye to Mrs Solace. "Just in
that corner, you know, between the fowl-house and the cow-shed."
"Do you know how to build it?" asked Philippa.
"Well, perhaps not just quite exactly," said Dennis with candour; "but
Tuvvy will tell me and help with the difficult parts. He passes through
our field every night, you know."
"And shall you work at it just like a carpenter?" asked Philippa with
surprise.
"As like as I can," said Dennis modestly; "you see, I do know a little
carpentering because I've watched Tuvvy so much."
"You're a _very_ odd boy," said Philippa. Every day that she passed at
Fieldside she became more and more certain that her cousins did strange
things, and liked strange things; but, at the same time, there was
something pleasant about the life they led, and she did not feel cross
nearly as often as she did at home. She even began to share their
interest in the affairs of the village.
"I wish there were people at Haughton I could go and see like this," she
said one day.
"But there isn't any village at Haughton," said Dennis. "There's only
the Upwell Road outside the gates."
"There are lots of poor people in Upwell, though," said Philippa.
"That's quite different," said Dennis; "Upwell's a town. I don't
suppose Aunt Katharine would let Maisie and me go about alone there as
we do here."
For the rest of Philippa's visit she and Maisie were left a good deal to
each other's society, for Dennis was now entirely occupied with the
building of the jackdaws' house under Tuvvy's advice and direction. One
afternoon the two little girls were sitting together in the play-room,
threading beads on horsehair to make a collar for Darkie.
"What made Dennis want to help Tuvvy?" asked Philippa suddenly. "Was it
after he had carved that stick for him?"
"Why, no; of course not," said Maisie. "Tuvvy did that because he was
so much obliged to Dennis."
"Well, then," repeated Philippa, "why _did_ Dennis take all that trouble
for him?"
"He liked him," said Maisie; "and when you like people, you want to
please them, I suppose."
"I don't think I do," said Philippa slowly; "I want them to please me."
"But that isn't fair," said Maisie. "You ought to please them if they
please you; even Darkie knows that. Aunt Katharine says," she added,
"that you ought to try to help people and be kind to them, whether
they're kind to you or not."
Philippa shrugged her shoulders and seemed to have had enough of that
subject, but although she was silent she thought it over in her mind.
Maisie, meanwhile, was occupied with a very usual matter--the grey
kitten's fate. She was never tired of wondering where it was, who had
found it, or whether it was alive at all, and as she had no news of it,
the subject was likely to last a long time.
"We shall never be able to see now which of the three is the greatest
comfort," she said aloud, "because I don't suppose we shall ever see the
grey kitten again."
"Darkie's the best," said Philippa; "he's so clever, and so handsome
too."
"Don't you like Blanche?" asked Maisie, dropping her work and looking
earnestly at her cousin.
"Sometimes," said Philippa airily, "but she isn't a comfort. Miss
Mervyn says she's a plague, and mother would send her away directly if
she wasn't mine. If she was as nice and well-behaved as Darkie, we
should all love her."
"But," said Maisie, "Darkie is naughty by nature. He really is. We've
had a great deal of trouble to make him obedient and good. He was a
much worse little kitten than Blanche ever was."
"Well," said Philippa, "I'm quite sure no one could have had more
advantages than Blanche. She's had everything she wants, and been
allowed to do just as she likes."
"Then," said Maisie solemnly, "I expect you've spoilt her, and that's
why she's so troublesome and naughty."
"Perhaps I have and perhaps I haven't," said Philippa recklessly; "I'm
tired of threading beads. Let's go out and see how Dennis is getting
on."
On the whole, in spite of some sulky moods and one or two fits of
temper, Philippa's visit passed off extremely well, and Maisie was quite
sorry when the time came to say good-bye. She and Dennis watched the
carriage drive away, and waved their hands to her as long as it was in
sight.
"She's been quite nice nearly all the while," said Maisie; "I wish she
had stopped longer."
She spoke sincerely, for just now Dennis was so absorbed in his
jackdaws' house that she felt she should miss Philippa and be rather
dull.
"Can't I help you?" she asked, as she followed him to the corner where
the jackdaws' house was being put up. It was not much to look at yet,
but there were some upright posts, and a roll of wire netting, and some
thin lathes of wood and a good deal of sawdust about, so that it had a
business air.
"Well, you see," said Dennis, "girls always hurt their fingers with
tools, but perhaps you shall try to-morrow. It's too late now. Doesn't
it seem a waste, when you're doing something you like, to go to bed and
sleep all night?"
"But if you didn't," said Maisie, "you couldn't go on with it, because
it's all dark."
"I don't know that," said Dennis; "Tuvvy says it's light all night part
of the summer.--There's the tea-bell; we must go in."
"I shouldn't like to be out in the night," said Maisie, with a little
shiver, as the children ran towards the house, "when everything's in
bed, and it's all so quiet and still."
"Everything isn't in bed," said Dennis. "There's owls, and glow-worms,
and bats, and--"
"But they're none of them very _nice_ things to be with," said Maisie
hesitatingly; "and then there are bad people out at night, who get into
houses and steal things, as they did at Upwell, don't you remember?"
"Oh, you mean thieves," said Dennis; "but as far as they go, it's better
to be out of doors than in the house. The policemen are out all night
as well as the thieves, so it wouldn't matter a bit."
"Well, you won't forget," said Maisie, quitting the subject of thieves,
which was an unpleasant one to her, "that to-morrow morning I'm to help
you with the jackdaws' house."
Dennis did not forget, and the following day Maisie was supplied with a
hammer, and began her work with great zeal, but alas! two minutes had
not passed before the heavy hammer came crashing down on her chubby
fingers instead of on the nail she was holding. It was a dreadful
moment, not only because of the pain, which was severe, but because she
felt that it stamped her inferiority as a girl for ever. She looked
piteously up at Dennis with her fingers in her mouth, and her eyes full
of tears.
"There!" he began tauntingly, but seeing Maisie's round face quiver with
pain, he stopped, threw down his tools, and knelt beside her on the
grass.
"Does it hurt much?" he said. "Come in to Aunt Katharine."
Maisie suffered him to lead her into the house without saying a word,
for she wanted all her strength to keep from sobbing. The poor fingers
were bathed and bound up, and after she had been kissed and comforted,
Aunt Katharine said that on the whole she thought Maisie had better not
use hammer and nails again. Maisie thought so too just then, but
presently, when the pain went off, she began to feel sorry that she was
not to help with the jackdaws' house any more. Certainly, as Aunt
Katharine pointed out, she could watch Dennis at his work and give
advice; but as he never by any chance took any one's advice but Tuvvy's,
that would not be very amusing.
"You can hand me the nails, you know," said Dennis, as she sat with a
sorrowful face on Aunt Katharine's knee, "and after the jackdaws are in,
you can always help to feed them." And with this she was obliged to
console herself.
CHAPTER TEN.
ONE WHITE PAW.
The jackdaws' house got on slowly, and this was not surprising, as
Dennis had a way of pulling his work to pieces and doing it all over
again. Maisie grew impatient sometimes, for at this rate she thought
the jackdaws would not be settled in their home until summer was over.
"Hadn't you better let Tuvvy finish it off?" she said one day, when
Dennis had spent a full hour in trying to fix a perch to his
satisfaction; "it wouldn't take a real carpenter more than half an
hour."
Dennis made no answer at first to this taunt. Maisie was only a girl,
who did not understand, so it did not matter what she said. Whistling
softly, he tried all manner of different positions for the perch, but
none pleased him. After all, it would certainly be necessary to have
Tuvvy's advice, but that was quite another matter to letting him do the
work.
"I shall have to go and see Tuvvy," he said, carelessly throwing down
the piece of wood he held; "perhaps Aunt Katharine will let you go too.
You could stop at old Sally's, if you didn't want to go into the barn."
As it happened, Aunt Katharine wanted to send a pudding to old Sally,
who had been ill, and she gladly gave Maisie leave to go with Dennis, so
Peter in attendance, and the pudding in a basket, the children set out
the next morning directly after their lessons.
Maisie was pleased to make this visit, and it was such a very bright
fresh June morning, that everything out of doors seemed to be as happy
as herself as she danced along, with Peter jumping and barking at her
side. The sky was as bright blue as the speedwell in the hedges; the
leaves on the trees, not old enough yet to be dark and heavy, fluttered
gaily in the wind, and made a light green shimmer everywhere. The
fields were still dressed in yellow and white, for none of the farmers
had cut their grass, and in the woods the deep purple hyacinths still
lingered, though these were nearly over. It looked a very happy,
bright, flowery world, with everything in it fresh and new, and nothing
old or sad to think about.
Maisie had not much to trouble her either that morning, but there was
one little sad thought which would come creeping out of a corner in her
mind sometimes, and that was the fate of the grey kitten. She wondered
now, as she checked her pace to a walk, and rebuked Peter for snuffing
at the pudding, whether old Sally might have heard something about it
from Eliza. There was always a faint hope of this, but it grew fainter
with each visit, and Dennis thought it quite silly to put the question
at all. Nevertheless Maisie made up her mind, with a quiet little nod
to herself, that she would not forget to ask to-day.
Sally and Anne were talking so very loud inside the cottage, that it was
a long while before the children could make themselves heard, and it was
not until Dennis had battered on the door with his stick that it was
slowly opened.
"Lawk, mother!" cried Anne, "it's the young lady and gentleman from
Fieldside.--Come in, dearies, and sit ye down."