Black, White and Gray Part 22

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 pa.s.sed many an hour together in this position, but to-day the kitten noticed something strange, for presently one s.h.i.+ning 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 ap.r.o.ns, 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 ap.r.o.ns, 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 gra.s.s. 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."