brown old face looking a shade paler than usual. Anne set chairs for
the visitors next to her, and drew closely up herself on the other side
of them, prepared to join in the conversation as much as allowed by her
mother, who was a great talker, and always took the lead. The two old
lilac sun-bonnets nodded one on each side of the children, as old Sally
began plaintively:
"Yes, I've lost my appetite. I don't seem as if I could fancy nothing
just lately. I'm tired of the food--it's taters, taters, taters, till
I'm fair sick on 'em. Seems as if I could have a bit of summat green,
it'd go down better. There was a gal brought me a mite of turnip tops
t'other day. 'Twarn't on'y a morsel, so as I could hardly find it in
the pot when it was biled, but it give a relish, like."
"Aunt Katharine's sent you a pudding," shouted Maisie, taking it out of
the basket.
"And sech a cough as _I've_ had," put in Anne, seizing the opportunity
to speak, while her mother warmed the end of her trumpet at the fire; "I
expect it's a sharp touch of influenzy."
"I seem to get weaker every day," resumed old Sally, presenting her
trumpet for Maisie's use. "I crawled down to the gate, and couldn't
hardly get back this morning."
"Why don't you have the doctor?" asked Maisie.
Sally shook her head.
"I've never taken no doctor's stuff in all my days," she said. "Anne
there, she's had a deal, poor child; but 'twouldn't do _me_ no good."
Dennis was beginning to make impatient signs, and Maisie knew he would
not stay much longer, so in spite of Anne, who was preparing to speak,
she shouted hastily down the trumpet, "Has your daughter Eliza found the
kitten?"
It was answered as she expected, by solemn shakes of the head, both from
Sally and Anne, in the midst of which the children took their leave.
"Please the Lord to send the rain and make the greens grow," were old
Sally's last words. But there did not seem much chance of rain yet, for
the sun was still shining splendidly, and as the children entered the
shadowy barn, Tuvvy's dark figure was lighted up by a ray which came
straight through the little window. Maisie seated herself modestly in
the background on a chopping-block, while Dennis asked his questions,
for she was rather in awe of Tuvvy, though she liked the barn very much,
and found plenty to interest her. High up among the rough rafters over
her head there were so many cobwebs hanging about, that it puzzled her
to think where all the spiders were who had spun them. There were no
spiders now, but there were masses of cobwebs in every nook and corner,
some of them waving in the dimness like flimsy grey veils, others spread
about in such strange shapes that they almost seemed alive. No doubt
bats lived up there, Maisie thought, and she even fancied she could see
them clinging to the wall, dusky and shadowy as the cobwebs themselves.
She turned her eyes with a little shudder, for she did not like bats, to
the floor of the barn, and this was much more cheerful to look at, for
it was covered with pretty light yellow shavings all in curls and
twists. More continually floated down to join them from Tuvvy's bench,
where he was planing a piece of wood for Dennis; they were exactly like
the flaxen hair of Maisie's favourite doll. Her serious gaze wandered
on to the end of the barn, which was almost filled up by a great machine
something like a gigantic grasshopper. It looked terribly strong with
its iron limbs, although it was at rest, and she felt half afraid of it,
though she had often seen it before. What was it, and why was it there?
She could easily have put this question to Tuvvy, but Maisie seldom
asked questions. She had a habit of turning things over in her own
little mind, and wrapping fancies round them, until she had quite a
collection of strange objects in her small world. She would have missed
these very much, if they had been exposed to daylight and turned into
facts, and in this she was quite different from Dennis; he always wanted
to know the reason why, and to have the meaning of things made quite
clear to him.
She was not left long, however, to wonder about the big machine, for
Tuvvy, giving a sudden wag of his head towards it, said: "The elevator's
my next job, soon as hay harvest's over. Wants a lick o' paint."
"How jolly!" exclaimed Dennis, turning towards it with admiration and
envy. "I say, won't it just take a lot of paint! What a jolly job!"
"I wish you had it then, master," said Tuvvy grimly. "'Tain't the sort
as pleases _me_. It don't give you no credit when it's done, and the
paint splashes you awful. It's what I call a reg'lar comical sort of a
job."
"I should _like_ it," said Dennis with deep conviction, still staring at
the elevator. "What colour shall you paint it?"
"Gaffer said 'twas to be a sort of a yaller," said Tuvvy; "but it don't
make much odds. There, master," he continued, as he finished his
planing, "that's what you want, and I'll stop to-morrow as I pass, and
give a look at the perches."
Dennis would gladly have stayed much longer to go fully into the
painting of the elevator, and other like subjects; but he had been
warned not to take up much of Tuvvy's time, so he unwillingly started
home with Maisie, clutching his piece of wood under his arm. Until they
reached the village, he was so lost in thought that he did not utter a
word, but then, coming to a sudden standstill, he exclaimed: "Why
shouldn't we paint the jackdaws' house!"
Maisie was struck by the brilliancy of the idea. She stopped too, and
gazed at Dennis with admiration.
"It would be splendid," she said. "Do you think Aunt Katharine would
let me help?"
"Why, of course," said Dennis; "it's _quite_ a different thing from
using tools. _Any one_ can paint!"
"Only the splashes," said Maisie a little doubtfully. "Tuvvy said you
got splashed all over. Aunt Katharine mightn't like me to spoil my
frocks."
"As to that," said Dennis, "you could wear a big apron. Painters always
do. Hulloa! it's raining!"
So it was. The bright sunshine had vanished, and the sky was downcast
and grey. First it rained gently, then faster, then it made up its mind
in good earnest, and a regular downpour of drops pattered on the hedges,
and fell softly on the dusty roads.
"How pleased old Sally will be," said Maisie, "because of the greens!"
"P'r'aps we'd better go in somewhere," said Dennis, looking at his
sister's frock; "you're getting awfully wet, and we haven't got an
umbrella."
They were just passing Dr Price's lodgings. Snip and Snap, who stood at
the gate snuffing up the moist fresh air with their black noses, wagged
their stumpy tails in a friendly manner to the children, and growled at
Peter at the same time.
"You go in," continued Dennis, hurrying his sister up to the door, "and
I'll run home and fetch umbrellas and cloaks for you. Aunt Katharine
always says you're not to get wet."
Maisie would much rather have gone on with Dennis, and did not mind the
rain a bit; but it was quite true that Aunt Katharine did not like her
to get wet. So she yielded, and stood waiting in the little porch for
the door to be opened, while Dennis sped up the road, and was soon out
of sight.
"Come in, dearie, and welcome," said Mrs Budget, the doctor's landlady,
when Maisie had asked for shelter, "and I'll just get a clean cloth and
take off the worst of the damp."
She led the way to a very clean kitchen, talking all the while, and
flapped vigorously at Maisie's skirt with a towel.
"The doctor's just in, and I says to him, `Now I do hope, sir, you'll
get your meal in comfort to-day, for it's as tidy a little bit of
griskin as any one need wish to see, and done to a turn.' Owin' to his
profession, he don't give his vittles no chance, the doctor don't. Most
times he eats 'em standing, and then up in saddle and off again. It's a
hard life, that it is, and he don't even get his nights reg'lar. Snug
and warm in bed, and ring goes that bothering night-bell. If it was me,
I should turn a deaf ear sometimes, pertickler in the winter.--Is your
boots wet, my dear? No; then come in and see the doctor. He'll be
pleased."
Maisie would have liked to stay in the kitchen with Mrs Budget, but she
was too polite to refuse this invitation, and soon found herself at the
door of the doctor's sitting-room.
"Little Miss Chester, sir," said Mrs Budget, "come to shelter from the
rain;" and thereupon vanished to dish up the dinner.
Maisie looked curiously round the room. It was small, and smelt
strongly of tobacco smoke; chairs, mantelpiece, and floor were untidily
littered with old newspapers, books, pipes, and bills scattered about in
confusion; a pair of boxing-gloves, which looked to her like the
enormous hands of some dead giant, hung on the wall, and on each side of
them a bright silver tankard on a bracket.
The doctor himself looming unnaturally large, sat sideways at the table
on which a cloth was laid, reading a newspaper. He had his hat on,
slightly tilted over one eye, and his booted legs were stretched out
before him with an air of relief after fatigue. He jumped up when he
saw the shy little figure on the threshold, and took off his hat.
"Come in, come in, Miss Maisie," he said. "Why, this _is_ an honour.
Where's your brother?"
"Dennis ran home for umbrellas," said Maisie, placing herself with some
difficulty on the high horsehair-chair which he cleared with a sweep of
his large hand; "it's raining fast."
"Why, so it is," said her host, glancing out of the window, "and ten
minutes ago there was no sign of it. That's a good sight for the
farmers. And where have you been? Far?"
"We've been to see Tuvvy," replied Maisie gravely; "he's helping Dennis,
you know, with the jackdaws' house."
"Ah, to be sure," said Dr Price readily, though this was the first time
he had heard of such a thing. "Tuvvy's a clever fellow, isn't he? And
so he's going to stay on at the farm, after all?"
"Dennis did that, you know," said Maisie, forgetting her shyness a
little. "Dennis made a Round Robin, and all the men put their names,
and so Mr Solace let Tuvvy stop."
The doctor nodded, with a little smile. He seemed to know all about it,
and this did not surprise Maisie, who thought it quite natural that such
a great event should be widely spread.
"And since then," she went on, encouraged the attentive expression on
her listener's face, "he's been as steady as steady! He doesn't have to
pass the Cross Keys now, you know, because he goes home over our field,
and he thinks it's partly that. It was the red blind drew him in, you
see, and then he couldn't come out again."
Dr Price nodded again, and his smile widened in spite of evident efforts
to conceal it, as Maisie turned her serious gaze full upon him.
"Just so," he said.
At that very minute it struck Maisie that she had made a dreadful
mistake. She ought not to have mentioned red blinds to Dr Price.
Dennis had told her he was sometimes "like Tuvvy." She hung her head,
and her round cheeks flushed scarlet.
"I heard all about it the other day, Miss Maisie," said the doctor in a
very kind voice, "and who do you think told me? Tuvvy's little girl.
She's got a brother about the age of yours, and they both think a lot of
what you did for their father."
Maisie began to forget her confusion in the interest of Tuvvy's little
girl. She stole a glance at the doctor, who did not look a bit vexed at
her unlucky speech, but went on as good-naturedly as ever.
"She's a nice little maid, and it's hard lines for her just now. She
has to lie quite still all day because she's hurt her back. But she's
very good and patient."
"Can't you make her well?" asked Maisie, remembering the firm faith of
the village people in Dr Price.
"Oh, I hope so," he replied cheerfully. "But it takes time, and it's
dull and lonely for her, you see, while her people are out at work all
day."
"Is she _all_ alone?" asked Maisie. "Hasn't she got _any one_ to be
with her?"
"Well, she's got a kitten," answered Dr Price, "and that seems a comfort
to her, but that's about all. By the way, Miss Maisie," he added, "how
are all your cats? What became of the kitten you offered me some time
back?"
"Oh," said Maisie sorrowfully, "didn't you hear about it? We gave it to
old Sally's Eliza at Upwell, and it ran out through the front shop and
got lost in the streets. Aunt Katharine doesn't think we shall hear of
it again now. It _was_ such a dear little kitten; not pretty like
Darkie, but very good and sweet, and purred more than any of them."
"That _was_ a bad job," said the doctor sympathetically.
"Is Tuvvy's little girl's kitten a pretty one?" asked Maisie.
"Well, as to that," he replied slowly, "it looked to me about like other
cats, but then I didn't notice it much, you see, because I'm not so fond
of 'em as you are. If it had been a dog now, I could have told you all
its points at once. The little girl--Becky her name is--was very fond
of it, that's quite certain."
Deeply interested, Maisie secretly wondered what the "points" of a dog
were, and concluded that they must mean its paws and the tip of its
tail. After a minute's silence she put another question, rather
sternly.
"What colour was it? You _must_ have seen that."
Dr Price looked quite cast down by this severe examination.
"I'm afraid I didn't," he said humbly; "you see they always look alike
to me."
"There's _quite_ as much difference in them as there is in dogs," said
Maisie in an instructive voice; "Madam's three last kittens were not a
bit alike. One was black--we kept that; one was quite white--we gave
that to Philippa; and one was stripey grey, and that was the one that
went to Upwell and got lost."
"It would be odd, wouldn't it?" suggested the doctor, "if it was the one
I saw at Tuvvy's."
Maisie sat very upright, with a sparkle of excitement in her eyes.
"Could it be?" she exclaimed. "How did the little girl get it?"
Dr Price shook his head with a guilty air. "Didn't ask," he said.
His conduct with regard to the kitten had been thoroughly
unsatisfactory, but he looked so sorry, that Maisie could not be hard
upon him.
"Never mind," she said graciously; "I daresay, if you don't like cats--
It had one white paw," she added quickly, with renewed hope, "but I
daresay you didn't even notice that."
Dr Price was so anxious to please, that it is possible he might have
gone the length of remembering the one white paw, but he was saved from
this rashness by the entrance of Mrs Budget, bearing a covered dish from
which came a very savoury smell.
"There's Miss Pringle stepping down with cloak and umbrella for Miss
Chester," she said, "so I thought I'd just bring the dinner straight in.
It's done to a turn, and smells like a nosegay," she added, lifting the
cover with a triumphant flourish.
Pringle was Aunt Katharine's maid. It was most tiresome of her to come
just now, for Maisie felt she might really be on the track of the lost
kitten at last. She knew, however, that she must not stay any longer,
and keep the doctor from the enjoyment of his dinner, so with a little
sigh she slid off her chair, and held out her band to say good-bye.
"And if I were you, Miss Maisie," were the doctor's parting words, as he
followed her out to the door, and folded the big cloak carefully round
her, "I should just go over to Upwell, and have a look at that kitten
one day. You'd leave it with Becky, wouldn't you, if it does turn out
to be yours?"
Maisie's eyes were bright, and her cheeks flushed with excitement.
"Of course we should," she said; "that is, if old Sally's Eliza doesn't
mind, and it's a really good home."
The doctor lingered so long in the porch looking after his little guest
as she hurried up the wet road by Pringle's side, that Mrs Budget
replaced the cover with a hasty crash.
"There's no credit in cooking for him, none at all," she muttered.
As for Maisie, she would have liked wings to fly back to Fieldside with
this wonderful news, but she had to restrain her impatience and keep
pace with Pringle, who held the umbrella and took mincing steps through
the mud.
The way seemed endless, and when she did arrive, it was disappointing to
find that Aunt Katharine would not be home till late in the evening.
There was therefore only Dennis to whom she could pour out the story of
Tuvvy's little daughter, and her hopes and fears about the grey kitten.
He was interested and impressed at first, but very soon ready to dismiss
the subject and return to the one which really filled his mind--the
painting of the jackdaws' house.
"Only fancy," said Maisie, breaking out again for the twentieth time, as
the children sat at dinner, "if it should be our dear little grey kitten
who we thought was dead. Wouldn't it be lovely?"
"Yes," said Dennis absently. Then, after a moment's pause: "What colour
had we better paint it?"
"Paint it!" repeated Maisie vaguely; but meeting a look of scorn from
Dennis, she hastily added: "Oh, you mean the jackdaws' house; but you
_are_ pleased about the kitten, aren't you?"
"Of course I am," answered Dennis rather impatiently, "but that's only a
chance, you see. If it is the kitten, it is; and if it isn't, it isn't.
But the jackdaws' house is a real thing, and we _must_ settle about the
colour. How do you think," he went on seriously, "it would do to have
it the same colour that Tuvvy's going to do the elevator? He might let
us have some of his paint, you see."
"I shouldn't like it at all," said Maisie promptly; "he said it was to
be a sort of a yaller, and I thought it sounded very ugly."
"Well, then," said Dennis, "you say a colour."
Maisie thought it over, her eyes fixed on the meadows and the
fast-falling rain outside.
"I should paint it green," she said suddenly.
"Why?" asked Dennis.
"Because it's a pretty colour," she replied, "and the jackdaws would
like it. It's like the leaves and grass, and they might think they were
in a tree."
Dennis received the idea with a short laugh of contempt.
"Jackdaws are not such ninnies as that," he said. "They're sharp birds;
they're not likely to mistake a cage for a tree. If we don't have it
yellow, let's have it bright red, like Mr Solace's new wagon."
Maisie had known from the first that her opinion was merely asked as a
matter of form, Dennis would have the colour he wished and no other; so
she made no further objection, and it was settled, subject to Aunt
Katharine's approval, that the jackdaws' house should be painted the
brightest red possible to get. This done, Maisie retired into a corner
of the play-room with Madam, and related to her attentive ear the
discovery of that morning.--She was a better listener than Dennis, for
at any rate she was not eager to talk on other matters, but Maisie
longed to tell some one who really cared as much as she did herself.
Aunt Katharine would be home soon, which was a comfort, and perhaps
Philippa too would like to know. She had never seen the grey kitten,
but she had heard about it so very often. Maisie made up her mind to
write to her. She would have been surprised if she had known that
Philippa also had made a discovery, and bad news to tell her of Madam's
lost child. To hear what this discovery was, we must go back to the day
when Philippa went home after her visit to Fieldside.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
PHILIPPA MAKES A DISCOVERY.
When Philippa, looking back from her seat in the carriage by Mrs
Trevor's side, could no longer see Dennis and Maisie making signs of
farewell, she leaned back with a pout of discontent. Her visit to
Fieldside was over, and she had been so happy, that it seemed flat and
dull to be going home with only Miss Mervyn to see when she got there.
As they drove quickly through the village, she looked quite longingly at
all the familiar places they passed. At the post-office, where her
cousins had taken her to fetch the afternoon letters and buy
bull's-eyes; at the cottage, where the old woman lived who had the
immense yellow cat; at the blacksmith's, who was shoeing Dr Price's grey
horse; and at the school-house, where the chubby-faced boys and girls
were just pouring out into the road.
Farther on, she could see in the distance the gables and outbuildings of
the Manor Farm, and the deep thatched roof of old Sally's cottage, from
which a thin thread of smoke was rising. She was sorry to leave all
these friendly things, and there seemed nothing to look forward to at
Haughton Park, except perhaps the white kitten. She began to wonder how
it was, and whether it had missed her, and remembering Maisie's advice,
she determined that she would try to improve its behaviour, and make it
into a really good cat. Her first question, therefore, when she arrived
was, "Where's Blanche?" and she looked impatiently at her mother for the
answer, for Mrs Trevor hesitated.
"The kitten, my darling?" she said rather nervously; "the kitten's in
the stable, I think. I told Thomas to take great care of it."
Philippa, who was on her way up-stairs, turned round and faced her
mother defiantly.
"Why is it in the stable?" she asked. "Who sent it there? It must come
back directly."
"My sweet Philippa," said Mrs Trevor in a soothing voice, "do listen to
me a moment; the kitten is a naughty little mischievous thing, and I
cannot put up with it in the house any longer. I will just tell you
why. You know my new velvet mantle which has just come down from
London? The other day Briggs found the kitten lying in the very middle
of it on my bed! Its paws were muddy, its hairs came off and stuck to
the velvet, and I doubt if the mantle will ever be the same. Now, my
darling, _don't_ agitate yourself. It will be quite happy in the
stable, and we shall be much more comfortable without it indoors. If
anything's broken or goes wrong, I'm always told it is `Miss Philippa's
kitten,' and I'm tired to death of it."
Mrs Trevor paused and looked appealingly at her daughter, who only
stamped her foot angrily in reply.
"I'll give you what you like for a pet instead of it. Love-birds, now,
or a cockatoo? A cockatoo is no trouble at all, and quite an ornament
to the house, and worth a great deal more than a silly white kitten.--
Where are you going, my love?"--for Philippa had suddenly rushed back
through the hall and out of the front door. In a short time she
reappeared with the kitten hugged up to her breast, passed her mother
without a word, went straight into the schoolroom and shut the door very
loud. Mrs Trevor looked after her with a sigh of despair, but as usual
made no further attempt to oppose her, and Philippa was left to amuse
herself with her kitten as she liked.
But it was not nearly so easy, she said to herself, to find amusement at
Haughton as it had been at Fieldside. There she had never known what it
was to be dull and cross; here she felt both, as she looked round the
empty schoolroom with the white kitten tucked under one arm. The room
had a prim, precise air, with all the books and toys carefully arranged
on the shelves, the musical box in its shining case on its own
particular table, and nothing left lying about. Philippa pursed up her
lips discontentedly. How different it was to the pleasant noise and
bustle, and all the little daily excitements of Fieldside! How dull it
was! How sorry she was to come back to it! She let the kitten drop
listlessly, and stood regarding her playthings and treasures with gloomy
dislike. Not one of them pleased her, not even her last new possession,
the musical box. The kitten seemed to share her mood, for she walked
restlessly about the room, sniffed in a disdainful way at the furniture,
and gave a tiny peevish mew.
"Here, Blanche, come and play," cried Philippa.
She threw an india-rubber ball across the floor, but the kitten hardly
deigned to turn her head towards it.
"How stupid you are!" exclaimed her mistress angrily, as she thought of
Darkie's frolics and gambols. "You have heaps of things to play with,
and yet you won't play, and I don't believe you're a bit glad to see me
either."
Blanche continued to stroll uneasily round the room as though in search
of something, and took no notice of the ball, even when it was rolled
right under her nose.
"Well, I suppose what you want is your clockwork mouse," said Philippa,
"and that's your very best toy. But I shan't let you have it long,
because I'm not going to spoil you ever any more."
She wound up the little mouse, and let it run nimbly round and round
close to the kitten. Formerly it had been a never-failing excitement,
but now, to Philippa's surprise and vexation, Blanche sat perfectly
unmoved before it, and did not lift a paw. Perhaps during her short
visit to the stable she had become acquainted with real mice, for after
giving one slight sniff at the imitation one, she rose and walked away
with a high and scornful step.