Black, White and Gray: A Story of Three Homes

by George Manville Fenn

  CHAPTER FIVE.

  THE ROUND ROBIN.

  And now that the white kitten was settled in its new home, the time wascome for the departure of the grey one, and the day fixed when it shouldbe taken to old Sally's cottage. Maisie felt the parting a good deal,for it seemed to her that it was a very small weak thing to be sent outinto the world to earn its living. It would have a very different lifeto Darkie and Blanche. They could dwell at ease, and need never catchmice except for their own pleasure; but the grey kitten had really hardwork before it, and most likely would never be petted again after itleft Fieldside. Maisie wondered whether the old cat, Madam, to whom shecarefully explained everything, was at all worried and anxious about herchildren; but if so, she hid her feelings very well. Certainly shelooked about a little after the white kitten had gone, and mewed once ortwice in an inquiring sort of way, but she did not refuse comfort. Onthe contrary, when Maisie offered her some fish to distract her mindfrom her loss, she gobbled it up rather greedily, and even Darkie couldnot push his round head far into the dish.

  "I expect," said Maisie, "if Madam could choose, she'd much rather sendDarkie away and keep the grey one; Darkie bothers her so."

  It was just after lesson time, and the children were making preparationsto start with the kitten for old Sally's cottage. Dennis was tying downthe lid of a small hamper, and Maisie stood near, peeping through thecrevices to see whether the kitten was comfortable.

  "There," said Dennis, as he tied the last knot; "I'm glad it's we thathave got to choose, and not Madam, I wouldn't keep this mean-lookingkitten for anything. Now Darkie will be a splendid cat."

  "Let me carry it," said Maisie eagerly, and hugging the little basketwith both arms, she followed Dennis rather sorrowfully out of the doorwhich the kitten was not to enter again.

  "I _do_ hope," she said on the way, "that they'll be kind to it."

  "Oh, of course they will," said Dennis; "don't you remember old Sallysaid Eliza was quite silly over animals. That meant kind--extra kind."

  Old Sally and her daughter Anne were busy when the children arrived, forthey had a job of work given to them by Mrs Solace, who wanted some oldcushions re-stuffed. On opening these, they had found that feathersinstead of down had been used, and they both had a great deal to say onthe subject. It was, however, almost impossible to talk withoutcoughing and choking, for their cottage was quite full of fluff andfeathers floating about in the air. The children stood in the doorway,and explained their errand as well as they could.

  "They've brought the kitten, mother," screamed Anne.

  Old Sally had just re-filled a cushion, and was holding it before her atarm's-length.

  "Is it fat enough?" she screamed back at her daughter.

  "It isn't fat at all," said Maisie, who with Dennis was untying thehamper; "it's a thin little kitten, but it's very good."

  "Dear Miss Maisie," said Anne, with a chuckling laugh, "it's the cushionmother means, not the cat."

  What with old Sally's deafness, and the increasing thickness of the air,in which the two old figures were dimly seen as through a woolly veil,conversation was really impossible. There were many questions Maisiewould have liked to ask about the kitten's future comfort, but she sawthat they would be useless; so she contented herself with quietly sayinggood-bye to her favourite, and dropping a few secret tears over it.Dennis, however, had made up his mind to know one thing, and he advanceda little way into the cottage, and shouted: "Is Tuvvy at work to-day?"

  Anne was seen indistinctly to nod in answer to this. "He's got thesack, though," she said. "He won't be there not after next week."

  The blow had fallen! Both the children left the cottage in low spirits,and for some time walked along in silence; Maisie grieving for thekitten, and Dennis with his mind full of Tuvvy's disgrace. He had sohoped Mr Solace would not send him away. And now the worst had come,and soon there would be no Tuvvy in the barn.

  They had reached the middle of the rick-yard, and Maisie was casting herusual anxious glances round for the turkey-cock, when Dennis came to asudden stop, and exclaimed:

  "I know what I'll do!"

  "What?" said Maisie, looking at him inquiringly. She wished he wouldnot stand still just there, but he spoke in such a determined mannerthat she knew it must be something important; so she stood still too,and waited for him to speak.

  "I shall go and ask Mr Solace to let Tuvvy stop," he said.

  Maisie's look changed to one of admiration, and almost of awe. "Shallyou, really?" she said softly. "Do you think he will?"

  "I don't know," replied Dennis, beginning to walk on very quickly, "butI shall try to make him."

  "But," said Maisie, after a minute's thought, "wouldn't it be best toask Tuvvy first to leave off having bouts?"

  Although she was a girl, and younger than himself, Dennis was quiteready to acknowledge that Maisie had very sensible ideas sometimes. Henow stopped again, and stared at her. It would certainly be better toget Tuvvy's promise first, but he felt he must carry out the interviewalone.

  "Well," he said slowly, "if I do, where will you wait? I couldn't do itwith you listening. Will you go back to old Sally's?"

  But that, Maisie, remembering the fluff, quite refused to do. She wouldgo and see Mrs Solace, she said, and this being settled, she wenttowards the house, and Dennis turned to the barn where Tuvvy worked.

  As he entered, and saw the familiar thin figure bending over thecarpenter's bench, he felt excited and nervous. How should he begin?As a rule, he did not talk much during these visits, and that made itmore difficult now. He took his usual seat on a chopping-block near,and Tuvvy, after giving him one rapid sidelong glance, continued hiswork without speaking. He was making a ladder, and just now wasarranging a heap of smoothly-turned rungs in neat rows. Dennis thoughthe had a rather shamefaced air, like the dog Peter when he knew he haddone wrong. It was of no use to wait for him to make a remark, so hesaid carelessly:

  "Is that going to be a long ladder?"

  "Pretty tol'rable, master," answered Tuvvy, his long lean fingers movingnimbly amongst the pieces of wood.

  "Shall you finish it in a week?" was Dennis's next question.

  Tuvvy's dark eyes flashed round at him for a second, but he onlyanswered, "Pretty nigh."

  Dennis was silent for a little while. Then he gathered his courage fora great effort, for he felt that it was of no use to beat about the bushany longer.

  "Mr Tuvvy," he said, "I'm so sorry you're going away."

  "Thank ye, master," said Tuvvy; "so be I."

  "Why do you?" asked Dennis.

  "'Cause the gaffer sacked me," answered Tuvvy.

  "But," said Dennis, his courage rising, now that he had got into thethick of it, "he wouldn't want you to go if he could help it. You're aclever workman, aren't you?"

  "Folks say so," answered Tuvvy modestly.

  "Well," said Dennis, "I mean to ask him to let you stop. Only you mustpromise me first not to have any more bouts."

  Tuvvy was so taken by surprise, that he stopped working and turned hiswhole face round upon Dennis, who sat, an upright little figure, on thechopping-block, with a flushed and eager face.

  "Thank ye kindly, master," he said, after a moment's survey; "you meanwell, but 'tain't no use."

  "Why not?" asked Dennis, in a resolute voice.

  "I couldn't keep that there promise," said Tuvvy, "not if I was to makeit. There's times when I can't get past the Cross Keys; I'm drawed intoit."

  "Why do you pass it, then?" asked Dennis.

  "I don't pass it, master, worse luck. I go in."

  "But I mean," said Dennis, getting still redder in the face with theeffort to explain himself, "why do you go by the Cross Keys at all?"

  "Well, I have to," said Tuvvy, "twice in the day. Once of a morning andonce of a evening. I live at Upwell, you see, master."

  Dennis had never known or cared where Tuvvy lived, and indeed it hardlyseemed natural to think of him in any other p
lace than at work in thebarn. It was odd to think he had a home in Upwell.

  "Then," he said thoughtfully, "you have to walk more than two miles eachway."

  "All that," said Tuvvy--"more like three."

  He bent over his work, and Dennis sat silent and rather despondent, withhis eyes fixed on the ground. There was so little chance for Tuvvy, ifhe really could not pass the Cross Keys without being "drawed in."There seemed nothing more to say. Presently, however, Tuvvy himselfcontinued the conversation.

  "Night's the worst," he said, "and winter worse nor any. It's mortalcold working here all day, and a man's spirit's pretty nigh freezed outof him by the time work's done. And then there's the tramp home, andlong before I get to the village, I see the light behind the red blindat the Cross Keys. It streams out into the road, and it says: `Tuvvy,'it says, `it's warm in here, and you're cold. There's light in here,and a bit of talk, and a newspaper; and outside it's all dark andlonesome, and a good long stretch to Upwell. Come in, and have a dropto cheer you up. You don't need to stop more'n five minutes.' Andthen--"

  Tuvvy stopped, raised his black eyebrows, and shook his head.

  "Well?" said Dennis.

  "Well, master," repeated Tuvvy, "then I go in."

  "And do you come out in five minutes?" asked Dennis.

  Tuvvy shook his head again: "It's the red blind as draws me in," hesaid, "and once I'm in, I stay there."

  "Mr Tuvvy," said Dennis, after a pause, with renewed hope in his voice,"I've thought of something. Why don't you go home across the fields?You wouldn't have to pass the Cross Keys then, you see, and wouldn't seethe red blind, and it couldn't draw you in."

  "There ain't no way out into the road," objected Tuvvy.

  "There _is_," said Dennis; "I've often been. You'd have to cross overpart of one of Aunt Katharine's fields, and then there's a stile intothe Upwell road. It's as straight as anything."

  "Happen Miss Chester mightn't like to see me tramping over her field,"said Tuvvy.

  "She won't mind a bit. Besides, I'll ask her to let you. So that's allright," said Dennis jumping up, "and I shall go and speak to Mr Solaceat once."

  He was nearly out of the barn when Tuvvy's voice checked him.

  "Hold hard, master," it said; "I ain't given that there promise you wastalking on."

  "But you will," said Dennis, coming close up to the carpenter's bench,and looking earnestly up into Tuvvy's dark face; "of course you will--won't you?"

  Tuvvy made no answer for a moment. He seemed puzzled to account for allthis interest on Dennis's part, but at length he held out a hand almostblack from hard work, and said:

  "Well master, here's my hand on it. I'll do my best."

  Dennis put his own into it seriously.

  "That's a bargain, Mr Tuvvy," he said. "People always shake hands onbargains. And now it will be all right."

  Tuvvy raised his eyebrows doubtfully.

  "Whether it is or whether 'tain't," he said, "you meant it kind, and Itake it kind, master."

  Dennis himself had no doubts at all as he ran across the rick-yard tothe farmhouse. Mr Solace was so good-natured, he was always ready to dowhat he was asked, and Dennis knew quite well that he and Maisie werefavourites. He felt still more anxious now that Tuvvy should not besent away, for since this talk with him, he seemed to have taken hisaffairs under his protection. Tuvvy seemed to belong to him, and todepend on him for help and advice, and Dennis was determined to do hisvery best for him. So it was with a feeling of great importance that heentered the housekeeper's room, where he was told that he should findMrs Solace and his sister. They were both there, and both very busy,for Mrs Solace was making meat-pies, and Maisie, covered from head tofoot with a big white apron, was learning how to roll out paste.

  "Did you want to see Andrew _particularly_, my dear?" asked Mrs Solace."Fact is, he's in the office, over his accounts, and don't want to bedisturbed. If it's a message from Miss Chester, you could leave it withme, couldn't you? and I'll be sure he has it."

  "It isn't a message from Aunt Katharine," said Dennis. "It's somethingI _must_ say myself; something very important, indeed. Maisie knows itis," he added, as Mrs Solace still hesitated.

  She looked at the children with some perplexity in her good-humouredface. She did not want to disturb Andrew just now, whose temper wasseldom ruffled except when he was at his accounts. On the other hand,Dennis and Maisie were both fixing such imploring eyes upon her that shecould not bear to say "No."

  "Well, then," she said, "you must just go and knock at the door and askif you may go in. But _don't_ ye stay long, my dear, else Andrew'll bevexed, and it's I who'll bear the blame."

  The office, where Mr Solace had retired to struggle with his accounts,was not a very business-like apartment. It was a small room with a dooropening into the stable-yard, full of a great variety of articles, suchas boots, whips, guns, walking-sticks, and pipes. In the window therewas a big writing-table, covered with account-books and papers, and itwas here that the farm men came to be paid on Saturday night. From hisseat Mr Solace could see all that went on in the stable-yard, and couldshout out orders to the men as they passed across it without leaving hischair. That was in summer, but now the window was shut and the room wasquite full of the fumes of Mr Solace's pipe, from which he was puffingangry clouds of tobacco, as he frowned over a great leather-bound bookin front of him.

  He was a man of about fifty, with iron-grey hair and very blue eyeswhich looked keenly out under bushy brows. They were kindly eyes, butthey were eyes which could fix themselves commandingly on man or beast,and seemed used to having their commands obeyed. They were set in aface so bronzed and reddened by an outdoor life, that this colour wasall the more striking, except to old Sally, who spoke lightly of themcompared to others she "minded" in the family. "They weren't nothing atall to what old Mr Solace's was," she said. "They _were_ blue, if youlike."

  Biting the top of his quill pen, and stamping his foot, when the figureswere too much for his patience, the farmer had just travelled nearly upa long column, when a loud knock was heard at his door.

  At first he only grunted impatiently, for he knew that if he let go hiscalculation for an instant, he was a lost man, and would have to add itall up again. But almost immediately the knock was loudly repeated.

  "Come in," he shouted, flinging down his pen and turning angrily towardsthe door. His gaze was directed to the height of a full-grown person,and he lowered it hastily to the level of Dennis's small round head, andsaid in a softer tone: "Oh, it's you, is it, my boy."

  Dennis marched straight in at once, and stood at the farmer's elbow. Hewas not a bit afraid of Mr Solace, and had prepared just what he meantto say, so he began without a pause.

  "I've come to ask you a favour, please."

  "And I wish you'd come at any other time," said Mr Solacegood-naturedly; "but as you're here, out with it."

  Dennis's favours were usually connected with jackdaws, or rabbits, orpuppies, and no doubt this would be something of the same kind.

  "It's a bigger one than ever I've asked before," continued Dennis, "andI want it more than anything I've wanted before."

  "Fire away!" said the farmer; "only make haste about it, because I'mbusy."

  "I want you," said Dennis, speaking slowly and solemnly, as he drew upcloser, "to let Tuvvy stop."

  The farmer's face changed. He gave a long low whistle.

  "Did he send you to ask me that?" he said.

  "No indeed," replied Dennis indignantly; "I thought of it my very ownself. He's promised not to have any more bouts, if you'll keep him on."

  Mr Solace got up and stood with his elbow on the mantelpiece, lookingdown at Dennis.

  "Well, my boy," he said, "that's a thing I must say `No' to. I'm forcedto, by Tuvvy himself. I don't want to send him away. I shan't getanother such a clever chap in his place."

  "Then why do you?" asked Dennis.

  "Because I can't put up with him any longer;
I've been too soft-heartedalready. I've winked at his goings-on again and again, and I've let himoff times out of number. But now my mind's made up."

  "But he's _promised_," urged Dennis, "and he's going to walk home thefield-way, so as not to pass the Cross Keys. He says it's the red blindthat draws him in."

  "H'm," said the farmer, with a short laugh. "He don't want much_drawing_, I fancy. And as for his promises--I've had enough of Tuvvy'spromises."

  Dennis looked crestfallen. He had not expected this.

  "Won't you try him just this _once_ more?" he pleaded.

  "Now, look here, Master Dennis," said the farmer; "you know most of mymen. They don't call me a hard master, do they?"

  "No," replied Dennis; "they say the gaffer's very kind."

  "Well, but there's another thing I've got to think of besides kindness,and that's justice. It isn't fair, you see, to the other men to letTuvvy off. Why, if I did, I shouldn't have a steady workman about theplace soon, and serve me right. They'd say: `There's that chap Tuvvycan do as he likes, and drink and leave his master in the lurch, and yethe's no worse off. Why shouldn't we do the same? What's the good ofbeing sober and steady, and sticking to our work, if we don't getanything by it?'"

  "But I'm sure," said Dennis eagerly, "they'd all like Tuvvy to stop."

  "That's the worst of it," said Mr Solace, with an annoyed jerk of hishead. "I should like him to stop too. He's such a clever rascal withhis head as well as his hands. A hint does for him, where another manwants telling all the ins and outs of a thing, and doesn't get it rightin the end. Tuvvy's got a head on his shoulders, and turns out his workjust as it ought to be. It's a pleasure to see it. But then, perhapsjust at a busy time when we're wanting some job he's at, he'll break outand have a regular fit of drinking for the best part of a week, andleave us all in the lurch. It's no use. I can't and won't put up withit, and I oughtn't to."

  The farmer spoke as though arguing with his own weakness rather thanwith Dennis, who now ventured to ask: "If all the others wanted him tostay, would you let him?"

  "I'll have nothing to do with asking them," said the farmer, spreadingout his hands. "I'll have nothing more to do with Tuvvy at all. I'vegiven him up. Now you run away, my boy, and let me get to my business."

  Dennis stood for a minute, half uncertain whether he should put somemore questions; but Mr Solace sat down to his desk, and grasped his penwith such determination, that he did not dare to make another attempt,and unwillingly left the office.

  He did not, however, entirely give up hope. Dennis was a stubbornlittle boy, and when he had fixed his mind upon a thing, he did not soonleave off trying to get it. Could Aunt Katharine help him, he wondered,as he and Maisie ran home together. At any rate he would tell her allabout it, and ask for her advice. But when she had heard the story,Aunt Katharine did not seem to have much advice to give.

  "I don't think you must worry Mr Solace any more, Dennis," she said."He knows best how to manage his own affairs and his own men. A littleboy like you can't understand such things. If the wheelwright behavesbadly, of course he must lose his place."

  "But," persisted Dennis, "Mr Solace really does want to keep him, Iknow, only he says it isn't fair to the other men."

  "Well, you'd better get them to sign a Round Robin, then," said MissChester, laughing; "_I_ can't interfere."

  She was hurrying away, as though there were no more to be said on thesubject, but Dennis followed her.

  "Oh Aunt Katharine," he said earnestly, taking hold of her dress, "_do_wait a minute, and tell me what you mean by a Round Robin."

  Aunt Katharine was always willing to make things clear to the childrenif she could, and she now sat down patiently to explain to Dennis what aRound Robin was. When he quite understood, he ran quickly in search ofMaisie that he might describe it to her before he forgot a word, and gether to help him in preparing one.