Chapter Six.
“Fuzzy.”
Yakeman at the smithy looked very pleased to see his visitors, especially as their father was with the children.
“The puppies are getting on finely,” he said. “Two of them are going to their new masters to-morrow. But I’ve held on to the one as Miss Mary fancied, thinking you’d be looking in some day soon.”
“We’ve wanted to come ever so often,” said Leigh.
“We was waiting for papa,” added Mary. “And we didn’t come round this way ’cos it made us want the dear little dog so much.”
Yakeman listened gravely.
“I thought I hadn’t seen you passing the last few days,” he said. “But I wouldn’t have let the dog go, not without sending up to ask you.”
“Oh, we knowed you’d keep him,” said Mary, and then Yakeman led the way round to the side of the house again, where the four puppies were rolling and tumbling about in perfect content, their mother watching their gambols with great pride.
Suddenly a new thought struck Mary.
“Won’t her be very unhappy when them all goes away?” she asked Yakeman anxiously. “And won’t them cry for their mamma?”
The smith smiled.
“They’re getting old enough to do without her now,” he said. “But she’ll miss them, no doubt, will poor old Beauty,” and he patted the retriever’s head as he spoke. “It’s the way of the world, bain’t it, sir?” turning to the children’s father. “Dogs and humans. The young ones leave the old ones cheery enough. It’s the old ones as it’s hard on!”
Mary did not quite understand what he meant, but something made her catch hold of her father’s hand.
“You won’t never let me go away, will you, papa?” she whispered. “Not never, will you?”
“Not unless you want to go, certainly,” said her father, smiling down at her. “But now show me which is the puppy you’d like to have.”
Mary looked rather puzzled, and so, though they would not have owned it, were the boys.
“I think,” began Leigh, not at all sure of what he was going to say, but just then, luckily, Yakeman came to their help by picking up one of the puppies.
“This here is Miss Mary’s one. We’ve called it hers—the missis and I, ever since the last time you was here.”
He gave a little laugh, though he did not say what he was laughing at. To tell the truth, Mrs Yakeman and he had called the puppy “Miss Mary!”
Mary rubbed her nose, as she had done before, on the puppy’s soft curly head.
“It are so sweet,” she said. “We’re going to call him ‘Fuzzy.’ But, oh papa!” and her voice began to tremble. “Oh Leigh and Artie, I don’t think we should have him if it would make his poor mother unhappy to be leaved all alone.”
“It won’t be so bad as that, Miss Mary,” said the smith, who, though he was such a big man, had a very tender heart, and could not bear to see the little girl’s face clouded. “We’re going to keep Number 4 for ourselves, and after a day or two Beauty will be quite content with him. You can look in and see for yourselves when you’re passing.”
“Of course,” said Leigh, in his wise tone. “It’ll be all right, Mary. And we can bring Fuzzy to see his mother sometimes, to pay her a visit, you know.”
Mary’s face cleared. Yakeman and Leigh must know best, and papa would not let them have the dog if it was unkind. It was not what she’d like—to live in a house across the fields from mamma, only to pay her a morning call now and then. But still, dogs were different, she supposed.
All this time papa had been looking at Fuzzy, as I think we may now begin to call him.
“He’s a nice puppy,” he said, “a very nice little fellow. Of course, he’ll want to be properly taken care of, and careful training. But I can trust Mellor—you know Mellor, of course, the coachman?” he went on to the smith. “He’s not bad with dogs.”
“No, sir, I should say he’s very good with ’em,” Yakeman replied. “Feedin’s a deal to do with it—there’s a many young dogs spoilt with over feedin’.”
“I’ll see to that,” said Mr Bertram. “Now, children, we must be moving on, I think.”
But the three stood there looking rather strange.
“I thought—” began Leigh.
“Won’t we—” began Artie.
“Oh, papa,” began Mary.
“What in the world is the matter?” said their father in surprise. “Aren’t you pleased about the puppy? I’ll send Mellor to fetch him to-morrow.”
“It’s just that,” said Leigh.
“Yes,” said Artie.
“We thought he’d be ours, our very own,” said Mary, at last explaining what they were in trouble about. For though the three had said nothing to each other, each knew that the others were thinking and feeling the same.
“We meant to fetch him ourselves,” said Leigh again.
“We was going to give him his breakfast and dinner and tea in the nursery,” chimed in Artie.
“I was p’annin’,” added Mary, “that he’d sleep in our beds in turns. I didn’t tell Leigh and Artie. I were going to ’apprise them. But I meaned to let it be in turns.”
Papa began to laugh. So did Yakeman. They could not help it.
“Sleep in your cots,” said papa. “There wouldn’t be much left of the cots or you by the morning.”
“He wouldn’t eat us,” said Leigh, looking rather startled.
“Not exactly,” said his father. “But if he took to rolling on the top of you and making hay of the bedclothes—just look at him now tumbling about in the straw with his brothers—you would not be likely to have a very good night.”
“And if he had three meals a day in the nursery, there’d not be much left of he in a week or less,” said Yakeman.
The children looked very surprised.
“We always have breakfast and dinner and tea,” said Artie, “and little dogs is hungry too.”
“Ah! yes,” said the smith; “but they couldn’t do with as much as that. And it’d never do neither for the puppy to eat all as you eats, Master Artie. Puppies isn’t little young gentlemen and ladies, and every creature has its own ways. He’ll be all right in the stable, never you fear, and Mr Mellor’ll see as he has all he should.”
But still the three faces did not clear. Leigh moved away as if he were going to the gate, flicking his boots with a little whip he had in his hand, to seem as if he did not care, though in reality he was very nearly crying. And Artie’s and Mary’s faces grew longer and longer.
“I don’t think I want to have him,” she said at last. “Zank you, Mr Yakeman, and zank you, papa; but him wouldn’t be nours—him’d be Mellor’s,” and then there came a little choke in Mary’s voice and a misty look in her eyes, and in a moment Artie’s pocket-handkerchief was out of his pocket and he was rubbing her cheeks with all his might.
“Don’t cry, Mary,” he said; “please, don’t cry. P’raps papa won’t—”
I am not quite sure what he was going to say. I am not sure that he knew himself. But whatever it was, he was interrupted. For before Mary’s tears had had time to begin their journey down her face, papa had picked her up in his arms and was busy comforting her. He could not bear to see her cry! Really, it was rather a wonder that she was not spoilt.
“My pet,” he said, “there is truly nothing to cry about. The puppy—what is it you call him, Fudge or Fuss—”
Mary could not help laughing a little. Fancy calling a puppy “Fudge.”
“No, papa dear; Fuzzy—that’s what we was going to call him.”
“Well, darling, Fuzzy shall be your very own. You shall go to see him in the stables whenever you like; I’ll tell Mellor. And he will go out walks with you—the puppy, I mean, not Mellor—as soon as ever he has learnt to follow.” This made Mary laugh again. The idea of Mellor going out a walk with them all, following behind like a well-behaved dog. For Mellor was not very young, and he had a broad red face and was rather fat.
Papa was pleased to hear Mary laughing, even though it was rather a shaky little laugh, and he went on to explain more.
“You see he’s not the sort of dog that you can have in the house, particularly not in the nursery,” he said. “Indeed, I hardly think that any dog except a very old and tried one is safe in a nursery, above all, where there’s such a little baby as—”
“Dolly,” said Mary quietly, to show that she had not forgotten what baby was to be called.
“Yes, as Dolly,” her father went on. “They would be two babies together, and they might hurt each other without meaning it. Dolly might pull Fuddle’s hair—”
At this all three children burst out laughing, quite a hearty laugh this time.
“Oh, papa dear,” said Mary, “what a very bad mem’ry you’ve got! It isn’t Fuddle! Can’t you say Fuzzy?”
“Fuzzy, Fuzzy, Fuzzy,” said papa, speaking like the three bears turned the wrong way. “There, now, I think I’ve got it into my stupid old head at last. Well, as I was saying, Miss Dolly might pull Master Fuzzy’s hair, without meaning to hurt him of course, and he might turn round and snap at her, not exactly meaning to hurt her either, but still—it might be rather bad, you see.” Mary’s face grew very grave.
“I never thought of that,” she said solemnly. “It would be dedful for dear little baby Dolly to be hurted, though I’m kite sure Fuzzy wouldn’t mean it.”
“But when Dolly’s a good bit bigger, and when Fuzzy is quite a trained dog, he may come into the house sometimes, mayn’t he?” said Leigh.
“At Auntie Maud’s,” said Artie, “there’s free dogs always lying in the hall. They get up and come and sniff you when you go in. When I was a little boy I was frightened of them, but they never bit me.”
“Ah! well,” said his father, “when Dolly’s a big girl and Fuzzy’s a big dog, we’ll see. Some dogs are very good indeed with little children; I hope he’ll be. I remember seeing a great Newfoundland that let his master’s children ride on his back, just as if he was a little pony. He stalked along as steadily as possible.”
“And in some countries,” said Leigh eagerly, “dogs are taught to draw little carriages, aren’t they? I’ve seen pictures of them, up where there’s such lots of snow near the top of the world. Squim—something, those people are called.”
“Esquimaux, you mean, I suppose,” said his father laughing. He had put down Mary by this time, and they were walking on slowly up the hill towards the Lavender Cottages. “Yes, and in other countries not so far off I’ve seen dogs drawing little carts as soberly as possible.”
“I would like to see that!” said Artie, his eyes sparkling.
“And so would I!” said Mary.
And Leigh, though he said nothing, took the idea into his mind more than either of the others.
By this time they were close to the top of the little hill where stood the cottages of which we have spoken so often—the Lavender Cottages as they were called; because once, a good many years ago, an old man lived there, whose lavender was famed all about that part of the country. He had a garden, almost like a little field, quite full of it. This garden belonged to one of the end cottages, and it was now a regular cottage kitchen-garden, with potatoes and cabbages and other vegetables growing in it, though in one corner there was still a nice little stock of the old lavender bushes. Here lived an old woman and her son, named Sweeting. Mrs Sweeting had once been cook at the hall when the children’s father was a little boy, and she was always pleased to have a visit from any of them.
“I hear poor old Mrs Sweeting has been ill,” said papa; “I’ll just go in for a minute or two to see her. You children can wait outside for me.”
The boys and Mary were not sorry to do so. They were always fond of coming to the Lavender Cottages, not only to see Mrs Sweeting who was very kind to them, but because they were much interested in the family of children who lived next door. There were such a lot of them! The cottage would never have held them all; but luckily, in the third cottage, at the other end again, lived the grandfather and grandmother of the large family, and some of the bigger boys had a room in their house. Still there were plenty left in the middle cottage, as you will hear.