Chapter Three.
Old Sally’s Eliza.
The time soon came when Madam was allowed to bring her kittens into the play-room, where they lived in a basket near the French window, through which she could go in and out at her pleasure.
Dennis and Maisie were now able to make their close acquaintance, and to observe that they were not at all alike either in appearance or character. The black one continued to be the finest of the three. There could be no question that his coat was sleeker, his tail more bushy, his whole shape more substantial, and even at this early age he showed signs of a bold and daring disposition.
When his mother had disposed herself for a comfortable nap, with her eyes shut and her paws tucked in, he would suddenly dart from some ambush, his eyes gleaming with mischief and leap upon her back. Soundly cuffed for this, he would meekly retreat until Madam had dropped off again, when he would come dancing up sideways, on the tips of his toes, with his back hunched, and every hair bristling, and tweak her by the tail. After these pranks had been repeated many times, the old cat would rise and wrestle with him, rolling over and over on the ground, kicking and biting, until he was subdued for a little while. But he was never good for long, and gave her more trouble than the other two put together.
The white kitten was of a very different nature. It was decidedly prim in its ways, and very particular about its appearance, so that it learned sooner than the others to wash its face, and attend to its toilet. While the black kitten struggled violently when he was washed, and had to be held firmly down all the while, the white one seemed to enjoy licking its fur with its own rough little tongue, and to be quite vexed if it found a dirty spot on its coat. “It’s a good thing it’s so particular,” said Maisie, “because it would look so very bad if it wasn’t quite clean.” It had rather a meaningless face, a long thin nose, and mincing, dainty ways of walking and taking its food. Secretly, Maisie thought it rather like Philippa, for its temper was somewhat peevish, and it often mewed in a dissatisfied manner for nothing at all; but she kept this fancy to herself, for she knew that Dennis would only call her silly if she mentioned it.
As for the grey kitten, it was the smallest and weakest of the three, the most easily imposed upon, and the most amiable. When the saucer of milk was put down, the others would thrust their heads greedily into it, and push the grey kitten aside, so that it could scarcely get any. Maisie was obliged to keep a close watch at such times, to see that it had its share, and to correct the conduct of the other two. It was the same thing in their gambols with their mother, or with a cork at the end of a string. The grey kitten seemed to be considered as a mere sport and joke for the other two, who tossed and tumbled it about as if it were nothing: even Madam did not take its part, and often boxed its ears for nothing but awkwardness.
All this, however, did not sour its temper in the least, and after the worst slight or roughest usage it was quite ready to purr and be pleased. Maisie thought this very nice of it, and she was sure it was anxious to do well, if it only knew how. It would allow her, with very few struggles, to dress it in a doll’s nightgown and cap, and put it to sleep in a cradle; which neither of the others would submit to for a moment. By degrees she became very fond of it, and the more she took its part and defended it from ill-treatment, the more her affection increased. It was therefore distressing to remember, as the days went on, that though the white kitten had a home to look forward to, there was yet no such prospect for the grey one.
“It’s getting dreadfully near the time,” she said one morning to Dennis, who was trying to teach the black kitten to jump through his hands; “only ten days more, and we haven’t got a good home for the grey kitten yet.”
“It’s such a common, mean thing,” said Dennis, casting a scornful glance at it. “No one could want to have it.”
“It’s very affectionate, though,” said Maisie, “and it purrs more than any of them. I believe it might grow pretty when it’s older.”
“Not it,” said Dennis. “Why, there are lots of cats like it in the village now. Just long, lean, striped things. I don’t believe you’d know it apart from them when it’s grown up.—Oh, look, Maisie, look! He jumped, he really did.”
Maisie looked, but the black kitten turned sulky, and refused to do anything but back away from Dennis’s hands with its ears flattened.
“It’s quite in a temper,” she said. “Now the grey kitten always tries to do what you tell it.”
“Only it’s so stupid that it never knows what you want it to do,” said Dennis, as he gave up his efforts and let the kitten scamper back to its mother.
“Well, at any rate,” said Maisie, returning to her subject, “we’ve got to find it a home, and we haven’t asked every one yet. Who is there left? Let me see. There’s the vicarage, and Dr Price, and, oh Dennis, perhaps old Sally would like it!”
Dennis shrugged his shoulders, but he was quite ready to agree that old Sally should be asked, because he was always glad of any excuse to go near the Manor Farm, which he thought the nicest place in the village or out of it. It was not only pretty and interesting in itself with its substantial grey stone outbuildings, and pigeonry and rick-yard, but Mr and Mrs Andrew Solace lived there, and they were, the children thought, such very agreeable people. There had always been a Solace at the Manor Farm within the memory of old Sally, who was very old indeed, but they felt sure none of them could have been so pleasant as the present one. “Young Master Andrew,” old Sally called him, though he was a stout, middle-aged man with grizzled hair; but she gave him this name because she had worked for his father and grandfather, and could “mind” him when he was a little boy of Dennis’s age. For the same reason, she never could bring herself to think him equal to the management of such a very large farm, “’undreds of acres,” as she said. It was a great undertaking for “young Master Andrew,” and though every one round knew that there were few better farmers, old Sally always shook her head over it.
Manor Farm was in every respect just the opposite of the “Green Farm,” where the Broadbents lived. There was nothing smart or trim or new about it, and the house and farm-buildings were comfortably mixed up together, so that the farmer seemed to live in the midst of his barns and beasts. It was a very old house, with a square flagged hall and a broad oak staircase. There were beams showing across the low ceilings, and wide window-seats, which were always full of all sorts of things flung there “to be handy.” Some of the rooms were panelled, and all the furniture in them was old-fashioned and dark with age. Dogs and cats walked in and out at their pleasure, and though Mrs Solace sometimes chased them all out for a few minutes, they soon returned again through windows and doors, and made themselves quite at home. Mrs Solace was too busy to trouble herself much about them, and also too good-natured, so that the animals knew they could do pretty well as they liked.
It was this complete freedom that made the Manor Farm so delightful to Dennis and Maisie, who ran in and out very much as the cats and dogs did, and always found something to interest and amuse them. If Mrs Solace were too much occupied in dairy, laundry, or store-room to give them her attention, they had only to go into the farm-yard to be surrounded by friends and acquaintances. Some of these, it is true, disappeared from time to time, but you had hardly missed them before there was something new to take their place. The great brown cart-horses, at any rate, were always to be found after their work, and always ready to bow their huge heads and take apples or sugar gently with their soft lips. And in summer it was pleasant to be there just at milking time, and watch the cows saunter slowly home across the fields, to stand in a long patient row in the shed, to be milked.
Indeed it would be hard to say what time was not pleasant at the farm, for in such a large family of creatures there was always something happening of the very deepest interest to the children. In the spring they were quite as anxious and eager about successful broods of early ducklings, or the rearing of the turkeys as Mrs Solace was herself, and she was secure of their heartfelt sympathy when the fox made away with her poultry.
For unlike Mrs Broadbent, Mrs Solace not only knew all about such matters, but liked nothing so well as to talk of them.
“When I’m a man,” Dennis would say, “I mean to be a farmer.”
“So do I,” Maisie would answer.
“You couldn’t be,” Dennis would argue. “How could you go rook-shooting? You know you scream when a gun goes off; and besides, you’re afraid of the turkey-cock.”
“Well, then,” Maisie would conclude, deeply conscious that both these facts were true, “I’ll be a farmer’s wife, and rear turkeys; that’s quite as hard as shooting rooks, and much usefuller.”
“That it is, dearie,” Mrs Solace would agree, with her comfortable laugh. “Puley pingling things they are, and want as much care as children.”
But apart from the animals, there was to Dennis one corner at the Manor Farm which had special attractions, and that was where the wheelwright worked. It was a long narrow barn fitted up as a carpenter’s shop, with a bench and a lathe and all manner of tools: full of shavings and sawdust, planks of wood and half-finished farm implements. Here the wheelwright stood and worked all day. He made and mended carts, wheelbarrows, ladders, hay-rakes, and all sorts of things used in the farm, and had always as much as he could do. Dennis liked nothing better than a little quiet time with Tuvvy, as he was called, and though he did not talk much, he eyed all his movements with such earnest attention that it may be supposed he learned something of carpentering.
Tuvvy’s movements were nimble and neat, for he was a clever workman, and knew what he was about: now and then he would cast a swift glance round at Dennis out of his bright black eyes, but he never paused in his work to talk, and there was seldom any sound in the barn but that of the saw and hammer, or the whirring of the lathe. His skin was so very dark, and his hair so black and long, that people called him a gypsy, and Dennis knew that he was a little wild sometimes, because old Sally shook her head when she mentioned him.
That meant that Tuvvy was not always quite sober, which was a great pity, because he was so clever, that he could earn a great deal if he kept steady. In the barn, however, he was as steady and hard-working as a man could be, and what his conduct was out of it, did not at all affect Dennis’s attachment and admiration. Maisie always knew, if she missed her brother during one of their visits to the farm, that she should find him in the barn staring at Tuvvy at his work; and he had done this so much, that he began to feel as though he had helped to make Mr Solace’s carts and barrows.
All this made him quite ready to agree with Maisie’s suggestion, for although he was not very anxious about the grey kitten’s welfare, he thought there might be a chance of slipping round to see how Tuvvy was getting on.
“Where shall we go first?” said Maisie, as they started on their expedition, with Peter, the little rough dog, barking round them. “The vicarage comes first, and then Dr Price, and then old Sally.”
“All right,” said Dennis; “that’s the best last, and the worst first.”
The vicarage stood on a little hill close to the church, looking down on the village street.
“I don’t much think Miss Hurst will want it,” said Maisie, as they turned up the steep lane; “because, you see, she’s got such a very pet cat. Else that would be a very good home.”
“She might like it for a kitchen cat,” said Dennis, “to catch rats and mice.”
“Ye–es,” said Maisie. She did not much like the idea of the grey kitten in such a position. Still, Miss Hurst was so very kind and gentle, that it was likely even the kitchen cat would be well treated in her house.
The vicarage reached, however, and the old question put, it turned out that Maisie had been right. Miss Hurst, who was a meek-faced little lady with very smooth hair and a kind smile, was afraid she could not have two cats. It might upset Mopsy. And Mopsy was such an old friend, that it would not be fair to make him unhappy for the sake of a new one. She was afraid she must say no. So the grey kitten was again refused, and when the children set out on their farther journey, Maisie was quite in low spirits. Nobody wanted the grey kitten.
“We’ve got two chances left,” said Dennis, trying to console her. “And if I were the kitten, I’d much rather live with Dr Price than at the vicarage.”
“But you’re not a kitten—you’re a boy,” said Maisie despairingly, “and that makes a great deal of difference.”
“Dr Price is splendid, I think,” continued Dennis. “Just see how he can ride, and how he cures people, and how kind he is to them about their bills.”
“Why do you suppose Aunt Katharine has Dr Smith over from Upwell to see us when we’re ill,” asked Maisie, “when Dr Price is quite close, and so clever?”
“Well,” said Dennis gravely, “you mustn’t say anything, but I believe—that is, I’ve heard one or two of them say in the village—that he sometimes—is—like Tuvvy, you know.”
“Oh!” said Maisie, with her eyes very wide open.
“And that, you see,” went on Dennis instructively, “is very bad for a doctor, because he may mix up the wrong things together and kill people. But for all that, they say they’d rather have him, even when he’s a little ‘nervous,’ than any one else, because he’s so clever and so kind. Why, he sat up all night with Widow Hutchins’s son, who had sergestion of the lungs, and then he wouldn’t take a penny because she’s so poor.”
“What a pity he’s ever like Tuvvy,” said Maisie.
“And then, you see,” continued Dennis, who loved to repeat the gossip he picked up in the village, “he’s so dreadfully fond of horses and hunting, that whenever there’s a meet near, he can’t help going, and if he goes, he has to follow, and then he can’t leave off. So sometimes, when there is an accident, or anything, and he’s wanted here very badly, he’s quite the other side of the county!”
Maisie nodded her head gravely as she heard of those little weaknesses; and just then, reaching the foot of the hill which led down from the vicarage, they came into the village again, and there was Dr Price himself standing at his gate, facing them.
He was a broad, strongly-built man of about five-and-forty, with a clean-shaven square face, and very fair hair and eyebrows. These looked curiously light on his red-brown skin, which was of an even tint all over, as though used to encounter wind and rough weather. He was so constantly on horseback, that it seemed strange to see him standing on his own legs, and more so to see him walk, which, indeed, he did with an odd movement of the knees, as though it were some difficult exercise. He wore riding-boots and breeches, and had a short pipe in his mouth. At his heels were his two white terriers, Snip and Snap.
As Maisie’s eye fell on the dogs, she stopped short, and caught hold of Dennis by the arm.
“Oh!” she exclaimed; “I forgot.”
“Forgot what?” he answered, with a pull forward. “Don’t be stupid. Come on.”
“Why, Snip and Snap,” said Maisie eagerly, still holding back. “It wouldn’t be a good home. They’d chase it. Don’t let’s speak to Dr Price about it. It wouldn’t be any use.”
“We must speak to him now,” said Dennis, going steadily on, and dragging Maisie with him. “Perhaps he’ll know of some one, if he can’t have it himself. You ask,” he added hurriedly, as they came close to the doctor.
Dr Price took off his hat, and smiled down very kindly at Maisie, as she put her question. She spoke hesitatingly, for the sight of Snip and Snap had reminded her of their habits. On most days their swift white forms were to be seen scouring over the country in search of rabbits, or other small defenceless creatures. Dr Price on horseback, and his terriers on foot, were well known for many miles round Fieldside, and Maisie could not help thinking them most unsuitable companions for the grey kitten.
This seemed to strike the doctor himself.
“Well now, that’s very kind of you, Miss Maisie,” he said, looking thoughtfully at the bowl of his pipe; “but the fact is I’m not much of a hand at cats myself. And then—there are the dogs, you see—”
“Would they chase it?” asked Maisie, glancing at them.
“Why, they’re thoroughbred, you know,” said the doctor apologetically.
“What a pity!” said Maisie, who thought it must be some very bad quality.
“Well,” said the doctor, with a short laugh, “I like them all the better for it myself; but I’m afraid the kitten wouldn’t stand much chance, and that’s a fact.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t let it come here for anything,” said Maisie with a shiver. “Why do you keep such cruel dogs?”
“As to that, you know, Miss Maisie,” said the doctor, “it isn’t crueller to hunt a cat than a fox.”
“But that’s cruel too,” said Maisie, “very cruel indeed.”
Here Dennis felt it time to interfere.
“Don’t be stupid, Maisie,” he said; “you’re only a girl. You don’t understand. Of course, people must hunt.”
So here was another failure, for not only was Dr Price’s home out of the question, but he could not think of any one who wanted a kitten. Everybody had cats; they seemed to be all over the place. If it was a puppy now. He cast an admiring glance at Snip and Snap, who stood in sprightly attitudes, one on each side of the little rough dog Peter, their eager bodies quivering, their short tails wagging, ready for the first signs of warfare. But Peter knew better. He was old and he was wise. He did not like Snip and Snap, but he was not going to be provoked into a fight in which he was sure to be worsted. So he held himself stiffly upright, uttered a low growl of contempt, and took no further notice of them.
“And now,” said Maisie, when they had said good-bye to Dr Price, and were on their way again, with Peter trotting in front, “there’s really only one more chance left.”
There were two ways to old Sally’s cottage, and Maisie knew Dennis would be sure to choose the one which led across the rick-yard of the Manor Farm; indeed, she liked this best herself except for one reason, and that was the risk of meeting the turkey-cock. It was useless for Dennis to say, “He won’t gobble if you’re not frightened of him.” She always was frightened, and he always did gobble, and turned purple with rage, and swelled out all his feathers, and shook a loose scarlet thing which hung down from his neck. They met him to-day, marching at the head of his ladylike wives, who followed him delicately, picking their way and lifting their feet high. Their small heads and quietly elegant toilets made them look rather like Aunt Trevor, Maisie thought.
“Now, walk slowly,” said Dennis, and she did try to control her fears; but as usual, the moment the turkey-cock began to gobble, she began to run, and did not stop until she was safe on the other side of the gate. From this refuge she watched Dennis, admiring him greatly as he came slowly on, shaking his stick in the turkey-cock’s face, and was quite ready to agree with him when he called her a coward.
“Only I can’t help it,” she added.
“But you ought to,” was Dennis’s reply. “It’s silly, even for a girl, to be afraid of a turkey-cock.”
Old Sally’s thatched cottage was so near the farm-buildings that it almost looked like one of them, but a narrow lane really ran between, and it stood on its own little plot of ground. At its door there was an immense horse-chestnut, which she could “mind,” she said, helping to plant when she was a girl. She had held it straight in the hole while old Mr Solace, the grandfather of this young Master Andrew, had filled in the earth. She was most sorry to think she had done it now, for this ungrateful tree so shaded her window that it made her cottage dark, and besides this, choked up her well, by dropping its great leaves into it in the autumn.
Old Sally could “mind” so many things on account of her age, that she was a most amusing and instructive person to visit. She had worked for the Solaces as child, girl, and woman, and now she was pensioned off, and allowed to live in her cottage rent-free with her one remaining unmarried daughter, Anne, of whom she always spoke as her “good child.” Anne was over seventy years old, and weakly with bad health and rheumatism, so that there was nothing very youthful about her. Indeed, when they sat side by side, both in sunbonnets which they wore indoors and out, it was difficult to say which was the elder of the two old women.
Old Sally, in spite of a long life of hard work, was still straight and wiry, and her brown old face, wrinkled as a withered nut, was lively and shrewd. There was only one point in which Anne had the advantage, and that was in hearing, for her mother was very deaf, and obliged to use a trumpet. This she was always shy of producing, and to-day she allowed Anne to scream into her ear what the children said for some time; but at last, seeing a very earnest expression on Maisie’s face, she took the trumpet out with a bashful smile and presented the end to her.
“Do you know any one who wants a kitten?” shouted Maisie.
Old Sally laid down the trumpet and turned to Anne, who as usual sat at her elbow in her lilac sun-bonnet and coarse apron.
“Warn’t our Eliza talking of cats last time she was over?” she asked.
Anne nodded.
“Who’s Eliza?” inquired Dennis.
“Why, sure you know our Eliza, Master Dennis,” said old Sally. “Her as married the tinsmith, and went to live in Upwell town. Eliza’s my youngest darter but two. Don’t you mind her wedding?”
“Lor, mother!” said Anne, “Master Dennis and Miss Maisie warn’t living at Fieldside then. It’s a good twelve years ago.—Mother forgets things like that,” she added aside to the children, “though she’s a wonderful memory for ancient things.”
“Would it be a good home, do you think?” said Maisie to Dennis in a low tone.
“Is your daughter Eliza a kind woman?” shouted Dennis down the trumpet.
Old Sally dropped her trumpet and raised both her withered hands on high.
“Kind! Master Dennis. Eliza’s downright silly about dumb animals. She always was from a gal.”
“We don’t want her to be silly,” said Dennis, “but we do want her to be kind, because we’ve promised Aunt Katharine to find a good home.”
Both old Sally and Anne were full of assurances as to Eliza’s kindness and the comforts which would surround the grey kitten in her house. Certainly it would have to catch mice, but that, they declared, was a pleasure to a cat, and could not be called hard work. So after a little consultation it was settled that the kitten should be brought to old Sally’s, and that Eliza should take it back to Upwell the very next time she came over to see her mother. The grey kitten had a home at last. This arrangement made, Dennis got up briskly, with a business-like air.
“I’m going to see Tuvvy now,” he said. “I’ll come back for you presently, Maisie;” and he was almost out of the door before he was stopped by a call from Anne.
“You’ll not find him to-day, Master Dennis,” she said. “He’s not at work.”
“Not at work!” repeated Dennis, turning round with a downcast face. “Why isn’t he at work? Is he ill?”
Old Sally had been screwing up her lips and shaking her head solemnly ever since Tuvvy’s name had been mentioned. At Dennis’s question her face looked full of dark meaning.
“Worse nor that,” she said. “He’s had a bout. He’ll do it once too often, and get sacked. He can’t expect Master Andrew to put up with it.”
“But he couldn’t ever get such a good wheelwright as Tuvvy again, could he?” said Dennis eagerly. “Tuvvy can do so many things, and he’s so clever and quick.”
“Oh, he’s clever enough, and he’s quick enough, is Tuvvy,” agreed old Sally: “’tain’t that; but he can’t keep steady—that’s where it is. He’ll go on right enough for a bit, and then he’ll have a reg’lar break-out. It’s cruel hard on his wife and children, so it is.”
“Why does he do it?” said Dennis mournfully.
Old Sally gave a sort of low chuckle.
“Lor, Master Dennis, the men are made like that. They can’t help it.”
Dennis usually took all old Sally said for granted, considering that her knowledge of men and things must be very great, but he hesitated a little at this sweeping remark.
“They’re not all like that,” he said; “there’s Mr Hurst, and Mr Solace, and a whole lot more. Do you think Mr Solace will turn Tuvvy away this time?”
But as to this, neither old Sally nor Anne could give any idea at all. Mr Solace was a kind man for certain, but then again he was a just man too, and a man of his word. Anne had heard him say with her own ears that the next time Tuvvy broke out, he would get the sack. But there was no telling.
Dennis left the cottage with a weight on his mind which nothing could lift. One of his greatest pleasures would be gone if there were no Tuvvy in the barn for the future. A new wheelwright would most likely be a complete stranger, and not the same thing at all. Why would he be so silly as to break out? Could nothing be done to stop him?
Maisie, too, was rather sober and silent on the way back, for though a home for the grey kitten had now been found, she felt that she should miss it very much, and could not bear the idea of parting with it. It had such coaxing ways, and was so weak and helpless, that it seemed to need her more than the others, and to want her help and affection.
She went to pay a last visit to the kittens before she went to bed that night, and found them all curled up in a soft little heap in their basket. As usual, the grey kitten was lying underneath the others, who were sprawling over it, quite regardless of its comfort.
Maisie lifted it out, held it up to her face, and kissed it gently.
“Dear little kitty,” she whispered, “you’ve got a home at last. You’re to go and catch mice for old Sally’s Eliza, and I do hope you’ll be happy.”