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.