smile, and "How's yourself, Becky?" In times not long gone by Tuvvy had
been used to enter in a very different manner, but he always came in
steadily now, and sat down hungrily to his meals, however scanty they
might be. Last of all, Dan, rosy-faced and cheerful, burst into the
room; and then supper began, with a great clatter of knives and forks.
Becky could not eat to-night, for she had far too much on her mind, but
she knew it would be quite impossible to say anything until the meal was
over. It seemed to last a long, long time, but at length Tuvvy gave his
chair a little push back from the table, took his pipe and an old
newspaper from his pocket, and settled himself to read. Mrs Tuvvy
pulled herself out of her seat with a weary sigh, and began to journey
backward and forwards with the empty dishes to the back kitchen. Now
was the time.
"Dan," said Becky, "come here; I've got summat to tell yer."
Dan left off unlacing his boots, and at once went to his sister's side,
but poor Becky's heart was so big with her sad story, that it was some
time before she could make it plain to him. When he did understand it,
he sat silent for a long while, with his lips pursed up, as though he
were whistling.
"Say summat, Dan," cried Becky, in an agony at last.
"If so be," began Dan slowly, "as how it's Miss Maisie's kitten, 'tain't
ours."
The kitten had finished its supper, and stretched itself out to sleep,
just under Becky's chin. She gazed at her brother over its back, as
though he were Fate itself, but said nothing.
"And we allers said," he went on, "as how we was very grateful to Master
Dennis alonger of what he did for father."
Becky nodded. She knew that. It had made part of her day-dreams for
months past.
"But there didn't seem any way to show it, because they're so rich and
we're poor." Becky trembled at what was coming, as Dan went on in an
even voice, very low, so as not to disturb his father. "And now we've
got a thing to give. Course if I hadn't fought for it, and you hadn't
took care on it, 'twouldn't a been alive now at all. So we'll give it
to 'em cheerful, and be glad to do it."
This was poor comfort.
"Oh, I don't want to give it up," cried Becky. "I ain't glad to let it
go. I'm that fond of it."
"Miss Maisie, she was fond of it too, wasn't she?" said Dan.
Becky nodded. "She loved it best of the three, Miss Trevor said. But
she's got another cat, and I've got ne'er a one but this."
"Maybe," said Dan doubtfully, "I could get yer another you'd like as
well in time."
Becky's only answer was to kiss the kitten fervently and shake her head.
Dan took hold of his head with both hands, and thought hard for a
minute. Then he looked up and said, "There's two things, but you
mustn't build on 'em." Becky's eyes showed a faint gleam of hope.
"First," said Dan, holding up one finger, "it may not be it. There's
more nor one grey kitten lost in Upwell. And second," holding up two,
"if it is hers, she may let you keep it. You see she had given it away
once."
How wise Dan was! Becky began to feel a little better.
"You mustn't build on 'em," said Dan, as he bent down to unlace his
boots; "and if you have to give it up, you must think how pleased
they'll be to have it, and do it cheerful."
There are few things easier than to tell others what is right to do, and
few things harder than to do right one's self in some cases. Perhaps
Dan did not understand all that the loss of the kitten would mean to
Becky, when he spoke of giving it up "cheerful." He was fond of his
sister, and sorry for her; but he had many things to enjoy in his active
hard-working life, and it was natural he should sometimes forget how
hard it must be to lie all day long in one dull room, to be often in
pain, and to have nothing but a grey kitten to cheer and comfort one.
It did not seem such a mighty matter to him to give it up, but to Becky
it would be a sacrifice of her one joy and pleasure. If it must go, it
must; but as to giving it up "cheerful," that she could never, never do.
She loved it far too well. All that evening, and before she went to
sleep at night, she could not hinder her mind from dwelling on the two
chances Dan had mentioned. Oh, if one of them should turn out to be
true! In the middle of the night, she woke with a start from a dream in
which the kitten had been taken from her. She put out her hand to feel
for it, and when her fingers touched the soft furry form curled up
outside her bed, she could not help crying half with relief and half to
think that the time might come when she should feel for it, and it would
not be there.
Now all this sad trouble might have been spared, if Philippa had been a
little more thoughtful. She was not an unkind little girl, but she was
so entirely unused to considering other people's feelings, that it did
not occur to her to imagine the effect of her words on Becky, or to say,
"Of course Maisie will let you keep the kitten." That would have
altered everything; but as it was, she was so full of her own cleverness
at the discovery, that she talked of nothing else all the way to
Fieldside, and seemed for the moment to have forgotten Becky and all she
had meant to do for her.
It was a long way to drive round by Fieldside, and Miss Mervyn was not
very willing to go, for it was getting late. "You must promise me, my
dear Philippa," she said, "not to stay more than a few minutes if I
allow you to go in, and I will wait for you in the pony-carriage."
Philippa promised readily, and arrived at the house, lost no time in
making her way to the field, where she was told she should find Dennis
and Maisie. At first she could see nothing of them; but presently, up
in the corner where the cowhouse, haystack, and poultry-yard stood, she
made out two busy figures in white aprons, deeply engaged with
paint-brushes and pots of scarlet paint.
"Whatever are they doing?" she said to herself.
They were painting the jackdaws' house, and were that moment as
perfectly happy as two children could be. Aunt Katharine had given full
permission, two immense white aprons, and a liberal supply of paint,
which last they were using freely, not only on the jackdaws' house, but
on their own persons. Maisie in particular, who _would_ take too much
on her brush at a time, had splashed and sprinkled herself all over,
even to the tip of her small round nose; so that she looked like a funny
little clown squatting on the grass. Even the dog Peter, hunting rats
under the haystack near, his agitated hind-legs only just visible, bore
a scarlet patch of paint on one toe.
"Well!" exclaimed Philippa, when she had got close to them without being
seen, "you are making a mess!"
"Why, it's Philippa!" exclaimed Maisie, throwing down her brush, and
scrambling up from the ground; "but we mustn't go near you," she added,
stopping short, "or you'll get all over paint."
"Isn't it jolly?" said Dennis. "Come round here and look at the bit I'm
doing."
"No, thank you," said Philippa primly; "I haven't come to stay. Miss
Mervyn's waiting in the pony-carriage. I've only come to say," with a
pause, "that I've found your grey kitten."
"So have we," said Dennis coolly; "at least we think we know where it
is."
Philippa's face fell. "Where?" she asked.
"We don't _really_ know," said Maisie hastily, "only Dr Price saw a grey
kitten at Tuvvy's house in Upwell, and Aunt Katharine says I may go
to-morrow and see if it's ours."
"And I don't believe you'll know whether it is or not," said Dennis.
Philippa turned away sulkily. She was thoroughly disappointed to have
her news received in this way.
"Oh well, then," she said, "you don't want to hear what I know about it,
and I am sorry I came round all this way to tell you. Good-bye."
"Oh, stop! stop!" cried Maisie. "Wait for me. I want to hear very
much; I'll go with you to the gate. Do stop a minute."
She struggled frantically as she spoke with the string of her apron,
which was tied securely round her neck, and her voice was so pleading,
that Philippa was softened. She was still cross with Dennis, who
painted away, and did not care a bit; but it was difficult to be angry
with Maisie, and when the apron was at last torn off, the two little
girls ran across the field together towards the house.
Philippa's story turned out to be so very satisfactory and interesting.
It seemed to clear away all doubt as to the whereabouts of the grey
kitten. Maisie's eager questions and exclamations of pleasure were more
than enough to satisfy her and make her feel quite good-tempered again.
"Did it seem happy?" inquired Maisie, as they drew near the gate. "Do
you think it's got a good home?"
"Becky said," replied Philippa, "that it did not get much to eat
sometimes, and it's a very ugly little house they live in; but she's
very fond of it, and it's fond of her too."
"Then I expect it's all right," said Maisie; "it was always a dear
little contented thing."
"She said it was her greatest comfort," added Philippa. "Wasn't it odd
she should say that? It made me think of you and wonder if it was
yours, and so I came straight off to tell you after I heard it was a
stray kitten."
"Won't you come with me to-morrow?" asked Maisie. "You see you know
Becky now, and I've never seen her."
Philippa quite approved of this. She would ask Miss Mervyn to bring her
half-way to meet Maisie, and they would make the visit together.
"And I daresay Dennis will come too, if he's done painting," said
Maisie.
"That doesn't matter at all," said Philippa, as she drove away with Miss
Mervyn.
The next morning Maisie at Fieldside and Becky at Upwell woke up
thinking of the same thing--the grey kitten--but with very different
feelings. Maisie was delighted at the idea of meeting it again, and
Becky was full of sorrow to think that she might have to say good-bye to
it for ever. After her parents and Dan had all started out to their
work, and left her alone with the kitten as usual, she thought it all
seriously over, and made one firm resolve--she would not cry. If to
give it up cheerful was impossible, she would at least prevent her grief
from being seen. It might be hard, but it must be done, because, as Dan
had said, Dennis and Maisie had been so good to them. "I'll shut my
teeth tight," determined Becky, "and they shan't ever know I want to
cry. Then, after they're gone, I can cry as much as I like."
With a sigh she proceeded to get the kitten ready for the visit, by
brushing its coat carefully and smoothing it down with a duster. It had
not very thick fur, but it was glossy and well-kept, and it was so used
to kind treatment that it bore itself with confidence, like a cat with a
good home. If there were nothing striking or handsome in its
appearance, there was at least nothing slinking or miserable about it,
and to Becky, who looked at it with the eyes of affection, it had every
attraction a cat could possess.
"And now you're as ready as you can be," she said wistfully; "a collar
or a bit o' ribbon would finish yer off, but I ain't got ne'er a one.
Miss Maisie she'll have lots o' ribbons, and nicer things a deal for you
to eat than I can give you, but she can't love you better. Maybe you'd
be happier, but oh Kitty, Kitty, I hope you ain't her cat. I want to
keep you, I _do_."
There was a knock at the door. "Come in," said Becky in a trembling
voice, and both she and the kitten turned their eyes towards it in a
frightened manner as it opened.
Philippa appeared first, stepping daintily forward with a swing of her
elegant skirts, and for a moment Becky thought she was alone. But no,
there was another little girl behind her, with rosy cheeks and very
bright brown eyes. She came in shyly, and yet she looked very eager,
and her gaze was fastened immediately on the kitten in Becky's arms.
"It's Miss Maisie," thought Becky, her grasp unconsciously tightening on
its back.
"This," said Philippa, waving her hand grandly, "is my cousin, Miss
Maisie Chester, and--" turning to Maisie--"this is Becky, and that's the
kitten."
"How do you do?" said Maisie holding out her hand; "I hope you're
better."
It was such a very kind little round face that approached that Becky
could not feel afraid. She put out her hand and whispered, "Yes, thank
you."
"Philippa says," continued Maisie, still with her eyes fixed on the
kitten, "that you've found a stray kitten. And we lost a kitten--a grey
one--in Upwell, and Aunt Katharine said I might come and see if this is
it."
Face to face with the kitten at last, Maisie began to lose confidence in
her memory. After all, it was a long time since she had seen it, and
there were a great many grey cats in the world, and Dennis had always
declared that it would be impossible to know it again. Her serious gaze
rested on the kitten, Becky's on her face, and Philippa waited
impatiently in the background for the decision.
"Well," she said at last; "is it it, or isn't it?"
"The thing is," began Maisie, "has it one white paw?"
Alas for Becky! She knew it had, only too well. Lifting it a little
away from her, there was the fatal white paw plainly visible to Maisie's
searching glance.
"And then," she continued, having observed this with a grave nod, "has
it very nice little coaxing affectionate ways?"
Becky nodded with a full heart. She could not trust herself to speak.
"Does it purr much?" pursued Maisie. "_More_ than other cats?"
Again Becky nodded. She had clenched her teeth long ago, but she began
to be afraid that nothing would prevent her crying.
"May I have it in my arms?" asked Maisie.
She took it gently on to her knee, but the kitten had quite forgotten
its babyhood, and thinking her an utter stranger, soon wriggled back to
its mistress.
"It doesn't remember me," said Maisie rather sadly, "and yet I nursed it
so very often."
"It _is_ yours, then?" said Philippa.
"Yes," said Maisie. "I really and truly do believe it is, and I'm very
glad."
She glanced at Becky as she spoke, and to her surprise saw that her eyes
were full of tears.
"What's the matter?" she asked; "does your back hurt you?"
Becky shook her head. "'Tain't that," she managed to whisper. "I meant
not to cry, but I don't seem able to keep it back."
She stopped and struggled with her tears, tore away the kitten, which
clung to her with its little claws, and almost threw it into Maisie's
lap.
"You're welcome to it," she sobbed out, "and you'll treat it kind."
At this rough usage the kitten gave a tiny mew of complaint, and Maisie
herself was quite as much disturbed. She looked round at Philippa for
help, stroked the kitten nervously, and stammered: "But it isn't mine
any longer--I gave it away; didn't you know?"
"I told her all about it," said Philippa. "I told her it was given to
the tinsmith's wife."
"And, of course, you said we shouldn't take it away?" said Maisie.
"Well, no," said Philippa, looking a little ashamed, as she remembered
her hasty departure; "I didn't tell her that. I thought she would know
it."
Maisie put the kitten gently back into Becky's arms.
"Don't be unhappy," she said. "Of course I'd much rather it stayed with
you than with old Sally's Eliza; and I am sure she won't mind, because,
you see, she hardly knew it before it ran away. And we couldn't have it
at Fieldside, because we mustn't keep more than two cats, and we've got
Madam and Darkie. And I don't want it either, because now I know it's
happy and comfortable, I don't mind any longer."
Becky found it almost as hard not to cry now as it had been before, the
relief was so great; but she managed to whisper some earnest thanks, as
she clasped her pet closely to her.
"I hope it will always be a comfort to you," said Maisie, as the
children said good-bye. "I always said it would grow up a nice little
comforting cat, though it was never so pretty as the others. And now,"
she remarked to Philippa as they drove home, "the kittens are settled.
They've each got a good home, and we know which has grown up the
greatest comfort."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
STRAWBERRIES AND CREAM.
Summer, which had seemed very long in coming to Dennis and Maisie, had
at last made up its mind, and was really here, bringing all its best
pleasures and most beautiful things to look at and enjoy. It was really
hot weather, so that it was possible almost to live out of doors, and to
have tea in the garden as a matter of course. Hot enough always to wear
cotton frocks and holland suits, and sun-bonnets and broad straw hats,
to do very few lessons, and to be out quite late in the evening. The
roses were in bloom, the fields smelt sweet with new-mown hay, the
strawberries were ripe: it was glorious June weather.
But at Upwell, though it was quite as hot, it was not by any means so
beautiful. There the narrow dusty streets were stifling; the sun's
fierce rays beat down on the houses all day, and when night came, it
brought no coolness or relief, and there seemed no air to breathe. It
was not so bad for the people who could get away from the town when
their work was done, into the fields and lanes for a while; but there
were some who were old or sick and could not move, and amongst these was
poor Becky. She got thinner and whiter and weaker as the hot days
followed each other, and though she was very patient, and always ready
to say, "Better, thank you," with a smile, when her visitors asked how
she was, she did not really feel better at all.
But though this was the case, she was not unhappy, and the days were
seldom long and weary as they used to be, for she now had three friends
who paid her constant visits--Philippa, Maisie, and Dennis. To expect
their coming, to think of all they had said, and how they had looked,
were such new pleasures that Becky was now more than contented with her
lot. Some day she was going to get well, and run about again, and
perhaps dance to the organ in the street; meanwhile she had her kitten,
and she had her friends; it was all much better than it used to be.
Amongst the three, she perhaps looked forward the least to seeing
Philippa, who never came without an offering of some kind--a
picture-book, or something nice to eat. Philippa tried hard to please,
but there was always a little condescension in her manner, from which
her cousins were quite free.
Maisie and Dennis seldom brought any present but a bunch of flowers, or
a few strawberries, yet they seemed to leave behind them many other
pleasant things to think of, which lasted until they came again. So
Becky, in spite of aches and pains, thought herself very lucky just now,
and would indeed have been surprised to know that there were still
luckier days waiting for her not very far off.
For, meeting Dr Price in Upwell one day, Aunt Katharine stopped to speak
to him, and asked what he thought of Becky, and whether she would soon
get stronger. Dr Price shook his head.
"I can't do much more for her," he said, "all the while she has to stop
in that stuffy room and get no fresh air. She ought to be out all day
this weather. A month in the country would give her a chance."
A month in the country! Aunt Katharine drove home full of thought, and
instead of stopping at Fieldside, went straight on to the Manor Farm.
Could Mrs Solace tell her, she asked, after describing Becky's condition
in a moving manner, of any suitable place in the village where the child
could be lodged for a while? Now, if Mrs Solace had a weakness, it was
to nurse and pet up anything ailing or delicate, and restore it to
health. She did wonders with weakly chickens, invalid cows, and other
creatures on the farm requiring care and comfort.
"Why shouldn't the child come here, Miss Chester?" she asked at once.
"Well, of course," replied Aunt Katharine, inwardly rejoiced at her
success, "if you don't mind the trouble--"
No trouble at all, Mrs Solace declared, with her large beaming smile.
There would be new milk for her, and fresh air, and the garden to sit
in, and the beasts to amuse her; and she'd be better off than anywhere
in the village. As to Andrew--certainly there had been a time when
Andrew wouldn't have wished to encourage the Tuvvys, but that was over
and done with. Tuvvy was as steady as you please now, and a valuable
workman, and they'd be pleased to do anything for his child. Before
Aunt Katharine left, the very hour and day of Becky's arrival were
fixed. She was to come back in one of Mr Solace's wagons, which had to
carry a load to Upwell station.
"She'll travel easiest so," said Mrs Solace, "because she can lie flat;
and there's a tilt to the cart, so she'll be well shaded from the sun."
In this way, a few days later, Becky performed the journey between
Upwell and Fieldside, not without a little fear and trembling at going
so far into the wide world. When the moment came, it was hard to leave
the dim room, the uneasy couch, the things she knew so well; and the
look of the bright sunshine outside dazzled her unaccustomed eyes and
made her blink. She had, however, two great comforts. Dan had begged a
day's holiday that he might see her safely to the Manor Farm, and Mrs
Solace had invited the grey kitten to come also. With these two friends
to support her, Becky felt some courage, and after all, although she did
not know Mr or Mrs Solace, there would be father at work quite near, and
visits from the children at Fieldside.
Mr Solace's big wagon seemed to fill Market Street. The four iron-grey
horses tossed all their gleaming brass medals with a jingling sound, as
they stamped impatiently at the flies and gnats.
"We'll not have a heavy load home along, anyway," said George the
carter, as he lifted Becky and her little bundle carefully on to the
mattress in the wagon, "and you'll ride like a queen."
When she was comfortably settled, with Dan by her side holding the
kitten in a hamper, the journey began. Not a hurried or discomposing
one, for the grey horses, knowing that there was plenty of time before
them, never changed their pace from a stately walk the whole way. So
the wagon rolled majestically along through the noisy streets, out into
the quiet open country, and carried Becky towards new scenes and fresh
faces. The children at Fieldside had entreated permission to go and
receive her on her arrival, but this Aunt Katharine would not allow.
"She will be tired, and perhaps rather shy at coming amongst strangers,"
she said; "the fewer people she sees at first the better. Leave her to
Mrs Solace."
So Dennis and Maisie had to content themselves with seeing the wagon
pass through the village, and knowing that Becky was in it. The next
day Tuvvy stopped on his way home to say that she was not much tired,
and doing finely, and Mrs Solace would be glad if Miss Maisie and Master
Dennis would call in to see her. It was most provoking after this, that
quite suddenly, following weeks of fine bright weather, the rain began,
and would not leave off. Day after day one steady downpour: streaming
window-panes, great puddles in the garden paths, grey sky, and wet green
leaves.
"_Isn't_ it unlucky for Becky?" said Maisie, looking out of the
play-room window at the dreary dripping scene. "She won't be able to go
out at all."
"It's unlucky for every one," answered Dennis. "Mr Solace doesn't want
rain with nearly all his hay down."
Maisie's eyes were fixed on the grass-plot beneath the window, where a
company of starlings were busily engaged digging for worms and grubs.
"It isn't unlucky for quite every one," she remarked; "the birds like
it."
"But the worms don't," added Dennis quickly.
Maisie was silent. She had a tender heart, but she disliked worms very
much, and was always filled with disgust and fear when she dug them up
in her little garden. She could not feel quite so sorry for them as she
did for other things in trouble.
"There's one good thing," resumed Dennis, after a little silence, "it
_can't_ go on raining much longer, because of Mrs Solace's strawberry
party. It's certain to clear up in time for that."
Maisie agreed. "But," she added with a sigh, "that's a whole week off,
and I do so want to see how Becky and the kitten are getting on."