Chapter Twelve.
The Greatest Comfort.
“This is a dull room!” exclaimed Philippa.
She had just finished unpacking the basket of good things she had brought for Becky, and still knelt beside it, with various parcels spread out round her on the floor. Miss Mervyn had left her at the Tuvvys’ cottage for a quarter of an hour, while she went to do some shopping in the town, and would call for her again in the pony-carriage, so that the two children were alone. They had been very silent hitherto, Philippa occupied with her unpacking, and Becky gazing at her meanwhile with shy admiration. It was like looking at a pretty picture, she thought—only better, because it was real; and her dark eyes examined her visitor’s face and dress narrowly, while the kitten, alarmed at the entrance of a stranger, peeped out from the safe shelter of her arms. Neither she nor her mistress was accustomed to see such fine drooping feathers as those in Philippa’s hat, nor such a soft white dress with lace frills. They seemed to make everything round them look dingier and more shabby. Philippa herself however, was much too busy to notice anything but the contents of her basket for some time. She continued to pull out package after package, naming each as she laid it on the floor, “Arrowroot, eggs, sponge-cakes,” in a business-like manner, until she reached the last. Then tossing back her long hair, she sat back on her heels, gave a searching look round the room, and without a moment’s hesitation exclaimed: “This is a dull room!”
Becky did not answer. Now that Philippa was there, it did look darker and more dismal than usual somehow, and the ceiling blacker with smoke.
“Do you lie here alone all day?” asked Philippa. “Don’t you hate it?”
“’Tain’t so bad as it used to be,” said Becky.
“I couldn’t bear it,” remarked Philippa, after gazing at Becky for a minute with her mouth wide open.
“Folks has got to bear things,” said Becky.
“I don’t bear things,” returned Philippa quickly; “I cry, and then mother or some one gets me what I want.”
“If I was to cry ever so, mother wouldn’t hear me,” said Becky, “because she’s out charing all day. Anyhow, she couldn’t make my back well. Dr Price says as how nought but patience will do that, an’ plenty to eat.”
“Well, you’ll have some nourishing things now, won’t you?” said Philippa, with a glance at the parcels, “and I hope they’ll make you well. And when you’ve eaten them all, I’m going to bring you some more.”
“Thank you kindly, miss,” said Becky, but she did not look so very pleased as Philippa had hoped, and she began to think she was not perhaps a grateful little girl. What should she say next, she wondered, and just then her eye fell on the kitten, which had jumped down to examine the parcels, and was patting them softly.
“Oh, you’ve got a cat!” she exclaimed. “Not a very pretty one, is it?”
An affectionate light came into Becky’s eyes as she looked at her kitten.
“I call it pretty,” she said; “but then I’m ever so fond of it, and it’s fond of me too.”
“I’ve got a cat at home,” said Philippa, “a pretty white one called Blanche, but I don’t think she’s fond of me, though I give her all sorts of things. How did you make yours fond of you?”
“I don’t know,” said Becky. “I don’t give her much, so ’tain’t that. Sometimes she don’t get much to eat for ever so long. I expect, though, she knows what a lot I think of her, and that’s where it is!”
Philippa looked thoughtfully from the kitten to its mistress.
“I don’t believe,” she said, “that if I were to be ever so fond of Blanche, she would care much for me. Everybody’s cats seem nicer than mine.”
“I can’t think how I ever got on without this one,” said Becky. “She’s a loving little thing, and that funny in her ways! Often and often she’ll make me laugh with her tricks, even when my back’s bad. She’s a real comfort, like Dan said she would be—the greatest comfort I’ve got.”
The greatest comfort! The words made Philippa think of Maisie and her grey kitten’s loss.
“Where did you get it?” she asked quickly. “Who gave it to you?”
“Dan found her stray in the streets,” said Becky. “A boy was going to behave cruel to her, and Dan fought him, and brought her home to me.”
Philippa sprang to her feet.
“Then I do believe,” she exclaimed, “that it’s Maisie’s grey kitten!”
Maisie’s grey kitten! Becky clutched her pet closely, and looked up with eyes full of terror. How could it be any one’s kitten but hers?
“You know,” continued Philippa, much too excited by the discovery to think of Becky’s feelings, “Maisie Chester’s my cousin, sister to Dennis who was so kind to your father.”
Becky nodded.
“Well, their cat had three kittens—a black one, a white one, and a grey one. They kept the black one, and gave the white one to me on my birthday, but the grey one got lost. It was sent to the tinsmith’s in Upwell, and it ran away, so, of course,” ended Philippa, pointing triumphantly at the small form in Becky’s arms, “that’s it. Won’t Maisie be glad! She always liked it the best, and she’s always talking about it now.”
Before Becky could say a word, and, indeed, before she had got the dreadful fact into her mind that the kitten belonged to some one else, Miss Mervyn’s entrance put a stop to any further explanation. She was anxious for Philippa to come away at once, and Philippa herself, full of her great discovery, was equally anxious to go, for she wanted to tell Dennis and Maisie the news without delay. They had tried to find the kitten for such a long while, and now she had been clever enough to do it, all by herself!
Might they drive straight to Fieldside, she asked, instead of going home; and in her eagerness, and the bustle of departure, she almost forgot to say good-bye to Becky at all. Then the big empty basket was carried out to the pony-carriage, Philippa’s slim, white figure floated after it, there was a clatter of wheels, the scramble of the pony’s feet, and Becky was alone.
Had it been a dream? Had Philippa really been there? What dreadful thing had she said? Maisie’s grey kitten! Could it, oh, could it really be true? Perhaps it was a bad dream, after all. Becky glanced down on the floor where Philippa had unpacked the basket. There, just as she had left them, were all the nice things she had brought. Eggs, cakes, jelly in a basin, neat packets of arrowroot—it was no dream. She had really been, and brought them all with her, but what were they compared to what she would take away? What were all the good things in the world, if the grey kitten were to be Becky’s friend and playfellow no longer? How could she do without her?
Poor Becky threw herself back on her couch, and covered her face with her hands in despair. The kitten seeing this, thought her mistress was going to take a nap, and at once settled herself in her usual place, with her paws planted on Becky’s chest, and her green eyes lazily blinking into her face. They had passed many an hour together in this position, but to-day the kitten noticed something strange, for presently one shining tear and then another crept slowly between her mistress’s closed fingers. This was some new game or joke, and she at once began to join in it, by patting at them softly, taking care not to put out her claws, and purring to show her satisfaction. What was her surprise when Becky suddenly caught her tightly to her breast, and bursting into heart-broken tears, exclaimed:
“Oh Kitty, Kitty, my own Kitty! Whatever shall I do?”
This was certainly most puzzling, and so unlike anything in the kitten’s experience, that she could not make out what part her mistress wished her to play. She got out of the difficulty at last by going snugly to sleep, and presently, worn out by grief and crying, Becky was quiet too, and began to take comfort in the thought that she should soon be able to tell Dan all about it. He had often helped her out of troubles before, and perhaps he would think of some way now.
She lay with her eyes fixed patiently on the door, waiting for him to appear; but she knew before that happened the door would open twice, once for Mrs Tuvvy, and once for her father, who both got home earlier. Becky had seen the same things so often from her dim corner, that she could have described them with her eyes shut, and it was all just the same this afternoon. A heavy, flat-footed step, and Mrs Tuvvy entered with a tired, ill-used look on her face, cast off her shawl, untied the strings of her bonnet, and tipped it forward on her head. Becky would hardly have known her mother without her bonnet, for she wore it indoors and out. Then, talking all the time in a high, drawling voice, she proceeded to get the evening meal ready. If it were early in the week, there would be something savoury to cook, which she had brought home with her; or, perhaps, only a small piece of cold pork for Tuvvy’s special benefit. To-night there were some slices of ham to broil, and the room was soon full of the sound and smell of her preparations.
The door opened again, and Tuvvy himself swung in, with a nod and a 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.”