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NEESBY COURT;
OR,
OUR PRETTY COUSIN.
BY
ETHEL S. CANN.
LONDON:
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY,
56 PATERNOSTER ROW; AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
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CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. THE NEW TENANTS
II. "TRIS" COMES TO SEE US
III. MORE VISITORS
IV. THE BOY WHO WAS NEVER FRIGHTENED
V. THE BIRTHDAY PARTY
VI. A WONDERFUL STORY
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NEESBY COURT;
or,
OUR PRETTY COUSIN.
CHAPTER I.
THE NEW TENANTS.
My name is Addie Dixon. I have one brother and two sisters. I am
going to tell you of something that happened more than five years
ago, when Percy was thirteen, I was eleven, Milly was nine, and Maud
was only four.
Father is a doctor, and we live in a pretty town, called Neesby.
Ours is a funny old-fashioned house, with windows opening outwards.
The front of the house is covered with ivy and roses, and the back
with Virginia creeper, in the summer, and nothing at all in the
winter. We have two servants: Masters, who drives father's
"kerridge," as he calls it; and Martha. A girl comes in to help,
mornings. Martha says she only helps backwards, and makes more work
than she does; but then Martha does not always mean what she says.
We have, or rather had, the dearest little dog you ever saw. He is
browny, blacky-grey, with a white spot on his tail, and one on one
ear. Father said he was very ugly, but we thought him splendid. We
found him one day when we were out for a walk with mother; we brought
him home with us. He was a tiny thing then, very thin, and could
hardly walk; but we nursed him, and gave him bread and milk and
scraps of meat, and he soon grew fat.
Father said at first he wouldn't let us keep him, but mother said,
"He can stay in the stable; and he would do nicely for a playmate for
the children." When mother really wants to do anything, or have
anything, father generally lets her, as he is so fond of her; so he
let us keep Tuts (that is his name), and he slept in the stable, and
followed us everywhere.
Nearly half a mile from our home is a large house called Neesby
Court. It stands in a beautiful park, with large iron gates at the
entrance, and a wide carriage drive winding in and out between tall
trees, right up to the door.
The Court, and nearly all the lower part of the town, belonged for
hundreds of years (so Martha says) to the Neesby family. They were
very rich at one time, but the old squire, Sir John, was a very bad
man, Martha says; he used to spend his money in gambling and
horse-racing and many other wicked ways; and to pay his debts, he had
to sell all his houses and lands, one by one, until only the old
Court was left.
Poor Lady Neesby died of a broken heart, and then the Court was shut
up, the great gates locked, and the whole place deserted. Master
Guy, the only son, was sent to a boarding-school; Sir John went away
for many years. People had begun to think he was never coming back,
when one day the sudden news came that he was ill, and was travelling
slowly towards his old home to spend his last days. It was a cold,
wet, stormy day in March when he arrived; the day after he came he
sent for father, as he felt much worse, and a fortnight later he died.
When the funeral was over, Sir Guy and the lawyers went over poor Sir
John's papers and bills, and found there was so much money owing,
that if Sir Guy paid it all, he would be a very poor man. However,
he gave up all he had, and went away to London, where he began to
work for his living as a hard-working secretary to a Member of
Parliament. A large board was placed at the entrance gates showing
that the Court was to be let; but no one seemed to care to live
there, until a gentleman called Grey took it for three years, but
died before he had been there one.
After that, nobody would rent it, though several gentlemen came to
look at it. Of course most of this happened before I was born; but
Martha told me heaps of stories about the Neesbys of olden times,
when gentlemen wore long curls, and ladies rode in chairs, carried by
their servants. Many wet afternoons we have spent, sitting in a row
round her, listening, open-eyed and open-mouthed, to the wonderful
tales she knew, most of which she had heard from her mother, who had
been Sir Guy's nurse, when he was a baby.
Now to begin the proper story.
It was a lovely afternoon in the early part of May--Friday, I
remember--we were all sitting at tea. Milly was fond of gardening,
and had a little plot at the back of the house, where she had some
radishes growing. We had some that afternoon for tea, for the first
time that year. Percy said they were tough, but that must have been
only to tease, for he ate enough of them.
Percy went to the Neesby Grammar School, and it was his habit to tell
us any news he picked up during the day, when he came home. We had
got about half-way through tea when he burst out, with his mouth full
of cake, "I say! Neesby Court is let, and"--
"You should not speak with your mouth full, my son," said mother; so
we had to wait patiently until the cake had "walked down the long,
red lane," as Maud says. He began again, more quietly--
"The Court is let to a lady with one little girl." We all began to
talk at once, and ask questions. "Have you seen either of them? what
is the lady like? how is the little girl dressed? how old is she?"
and so on.
"Children, children, do be quiet," said mother gently, "and Percy
will tell you all he knows."
"I don't know anything at all about them," said he, "except that
they've come by this afternoon's train from London; and that a good
spring clean has been going on up at the Court for a week past. It
is let furnished, I hear."
"I did not know anything of it," remarked father.
"I saw that the notice-board was gone when I passed on Monday, but I
thought that it had perhaps been blown down," said mother.
All that evening we were in a state of wondering curiosity. Who and
what these new arrivals were; their name; where they had come from;
how long they were likely to stay. In guessing answers to these and
other questions of the same kind, we spent the time until Martha came
calling, "Children, children, 'tis time for you to come in to bed,"
and we left the garden and went in to say good-night to father and
mother, who were sitting together in the parlour, laughing over
something father was reading aloud.
On Saturdays we had holiday all day. On other days Miss Cole used to
come up from Neesby to give us lessons, from ten to half-past twelve
in the mornings, and from two to three in the afternoons. Then we
had to practise, and learn our lessons for the next day, and then we
played together or went for walks, or sometimes, for a great treat,
for a drive with father. Maud only came into the schoolroom in the
mornings, and would just learn her letters and how to count. Maud
was much younger than Milly, as a little brother who came in between
died when he was six months old. We often go to see his grave.
The morning after we knew the Court was let, Milly and I and Tuts
went, as usual, into the town, with little slips of paper for the
different shopkeepers, telling them what things to send up. At the
grocer's we always used to buy a pennyworth of hard biscuits for
Tuts. He knew when Saturday came, and when we got to the shop would
prick up his ears, and wait so patiently until he heard the paper-bag
begin to rustle; then he would run over to the tin, and begin
sniffing round it, and the grocer would give him half a biscuit to
keep him quiet.
Mrs. Brown, the butcher's wife, who used to sit in a kind of
glass-case, with a hole on one side through which she passed out the
money and bills, would call out when she saw us, "Aw! there's the
little Miss Dixons. How's your Ma, my dears, and your dear Pa?" We
used to feel rather disgusted; we don't like anyone to call father
and mother "Pa" and "Ma;" it sounds so silly to us.
Although we stayed in the town a good deal longer than usual that
morning, we neither saw nor heard of anybody or anything from Neesby
Court. When we got home, just about dinner-time, father had not
returned from his rounds; but we did not wait for him, as sometimes
he would be quite an hour late, and we were always hungry when
meal-times came. Mother said she would take us for a lovely, long
walk by and by, if we were good and did not run about in the garden
too much. We were delighted to hear that, as we dearly liked going
for walks with mother.
We had finished dinner, and Martha was clearing the table when father
came in. He looked rather queer, I thought, as though he had what
Martha calls "the blue grumps." He came into the dining-room and
looked round. "Where's mother, children? Oh, there you are, love!
Whew!" throwing himself into a chair, "it _is_ hot to-day, very."
Mother bent over him quite anxiously, with a glass of iced water in
her hand. "What is the matter, dear? you are looking quite pale.
Don't you feel well?"
"Oh, I'm feeling quite well, thanks. It's too hot for comfort.
Children, run out a bit; don't go in the sun. I want to talk to
mother. Percy, put on your hat and run down to Dr. Lang's with this
paper." Dr. Lang was another doctor, living in Neesby; he and father
were great friends.
We stayed in the garden, playing with Tuts, for such a long time,
thinking that mother would surely soon call us to get ready for our
walk. Getting tired of sitting under the trees, we walked round to
the side of the house, just in time to see Tom, father's errand-boy,
coming out of the surgery with two bottles of medicine in his hand.
"Father has finished his talk with mother, then," said Milly
joyfully; "let's go and see if we can find her." She wasn't to be
found; we looked in the dining-room, parlour, and drawing-room. We
asked Martha, who was in the scullery, "up to her ears in work," as
she said, if she knew where mother was. "I fancy she's gone up in
her bedroom to lie down. Don't you go disturbing of her, now. She
looked very whitish and queer-like when I took in your father's tart;
and he said he didn't want none, and he han't eat much else either.
Now, run along like dears, and not bide here hinderin' me."
We went into the quiet parlour. (When I say "we," I generally mean
Milly and myself, as Maud ran about anywhere.) _How_ quiet it was!
How strange the house was without mother. Was she ill? What was the
matter with her? Had father's "talk" caused her to look "whitish and
queer-like," and go to her own room? We didn't know.
Father came in to tea; he spoke quite sharply to Maud, who was
singing "Sing a Song of Sixpence" quietly to herself, telling her to
be quiet. Maud was hushed in a minute; it was very seldom father
spoke like that.
"Is mother ill?" I asked falteringly.
"She isn't very well, Addie. Be a good girl, and see that the little
ones don't make too much noise."
The next two hours were very dull, and we were very glad, for once,
when bedtime came. We went to say good-night to mother, who was
lying on a couch near the window in her own room; she was looking
very pale, and as though she had been crying. "Is you very bad?"
asked Maud in a loud whisper. "Not very, darling. I shall be better
in the morning. Don't cry, Milly. Good-night, dearies;" and she
kissed us all.
Milly was a sympathetic little soul, and was sobbing by the time we
got outside the door, and Maud was crying for company. I myself was
just thinking I might start, when we heard father's cheery voice,
asking us what we were watering the stair carpet for. He called us
all babies, told us one of his nice tales, and sent us off to bed in
good spirits. You see, we were so very fond of mother that we
couldn't bear to think she was suffering the least pain.
The next morning mother was well enough to come down to breakfast,
but said she did not feel equal to going to church. The rest of us
started in good time, leaving her at home to rest and get well. The
pew belonging to the Neesby family was just opposite ours; we had not
been in church long when there came a little rustle in the aisle, and
a lady and a little girl walked into the Court pew.
We hardly dared to lift our eyes from the patent leather toes of our
best shoes: Milly's face was very red; father was looking very
sternly at some badly behaving boys; Percy was trying to button one
of his gloves; Maud was staring intently at the organ. The organ
always was a strange thing to Maud: she couldn't understand how the
music came out; she always called the pipes "sticks" until Dr. Lang
one day told her they were pipes. "Where do the smoke go?" she asked
then.
At last I screwed up my courage and looked across to _the_ pew, and
then-- I pinched Milly so hard that her face grew three times
redder, and the tears came into her eyes.
"Oh, Addie, how unkind of you," she whispered.
"Look!" I said softly; "isn't she beautiful?" Then she looked, and
could hardly keep her eyes from that pew all the morning, and neither
could I. The lady was more beautiful than anybody I had ever seen.
Not beautiful in a sweet, lovely way, like our mother, but in a
grand, proud style. She looked and moved like a queen; but I am sure
I could never have put my arms round her neck or kissed her. I
thought she must have forgotten the way to smile, and cry too. Her
dress was plain, but beautiful, like herself.
The little girl was very pretty: she had long golden curls, reaching
nearly to her waist; large grey eyes; and a lovely, rather sad,
little face. She was dressed in a cream soft silk frock, and a white
straw hat trimmed with ribbon, and a long white feather.
I wished Milly and I had got feathers then; but we had only ribbon,
as mother did not like children to be dressed like young ladies. Our
dresses were white muslin; I had always thought them very pretty, but
now I did wish we had a fairy godmother to turn them into silk.
The pretty young lady looked at me once while I was staring at her;
her face instantly became as red as Milly's had been before, and I
don't think she looked up again during the whole service, but kept
her eyes fixed on the floor.
As she passed us with her mother, on her way to the carriage which
was waiting, we noticed that she had on white stockings and white kid
shoes. Masters was waiting with the victoria to take father on his
rounds; we had to walk home alone. Mother was in the parlour,
sitting in her own particular chair, and of course we at once began
to tell her all we knew of the lady with the beautiful face, and her
little girl. In the middle of our excited story Percy broke in--
"Look here, you girls! just go on upstairs and take off your things.
You will make mother's head ache with all your chatter;" and indeed
she was looking pale again; so we went away and told our tale to
Martha, who never had headaches, and who, naturally, was very
interested in all we could tell her of the people who were going to
live at Neesby Court.
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