CHAPTER I.

THE NEW TENANTS.

My name is Addie Dixon. I have one brother and two sisters. I am going to tell you of something that happened more than five years ago, when Percy was thirteen, I was eleven, Milly was nine, and Maud was only four.

Father is a doctor, and we live in a pretty town, called Neesby. Ours is a funny old-fashioned house, with windows opening outwards. The front of the house is covered with ivy and roses, and the back with Virginia creeper, in the summer, and nothing at all in the winter. We have two servants: Masters, who drives father's "kerridge," as he calls it; and Martha. A girl comes in to help, mornings. Martha says she only helps backwards, and makes more work than she does; but then Martha does not always mean what she says.

We have, or rather had, the dearest little dog you ever saw. He is browny, blacky-grey, with a white spot on his tail, and one on one ear. Father said he was very ugly, but we thought him splendid. We found him one day when we were out for a walk with mother; we brought him home with us. He was a tiny thing then, very thin, and could hardly walk; but we nursed him, and gave him bread and milk and scraps of meat, and he soon grew fat.

Father said at first he wouldn't let us keep him, but mother said, "He can stay in the stable; and he would do nicely for a playmate for the children." When mother really wants to do anything, or have anything, father generally lets her, as he is so fond of her; so he let us keep Tuts (that is his name), and he slept in the stable, and followed us everywhere.

Nearly half a mile from our home is a large house called Neesby Court. It stands in a beautiful park, with large iron gates at the entrance, and a wide carriage drive winding in and out between tall trees, right up to the door.

The Court, and nearly all the lower part of the town, belonged for hundreds of years (so Martha says) to the Neesby family. They were very rich at one time, but the old squire, Sir John, was a very bad man, Martha says; he used to spend his money in gambling and horse-racing and many other wicked ways; and to pay his debts, he had to sell all his houses and lands, one by one, until only the old Court was left.

Poor Lady Neesby died of a broken heart, and then the Court was shut up, the great gates locked, and the whole place deserted. Master Guy, the only son, was sent to a boarding-school; Sir John went away for many years. People had begun to think he was never coming back, when one day the sudden news came that he was ill, and was travelling slowly towards his old home to spend his last days. It was a cold, wet, stormy day in March when he arrived; the day after he came he sent for father, as he felt much worse, and a fortnight later he died.

When the funeral was over, Sir Guy and the lawyers went over poor Sir John's papers and bills, and found there was so much money owing, that if Sir Guy paid it all, he would be a very poor man. However, he gave up all he had, and went away to London, where he began to work for his living as a hard-working secretary to a Member of Parliament. A large board was placed at the entrance gates showing that the Court was to be let; but no one seemed to care to live there, until a gentleman called Grey took it for three years, but died before he had been there one.

After that, nobody would rent it, though several gentlemen came to look at it. Of course most of this happened before I was born; but Martha told me heaps of stories about the Neesbys of olden times, when gentlemen wore long curls, and ladies rode in chairs, carried by their servants. Many wet afternoons we have spent, sitting in a row round her, listening, open-eyed and open-mouthed, to the wonderful tales she knew, most of which she had heard from her mother, who had been Sir Guy's nurse, when he was a baby.

Now to begin the proper story.

It was a lovely afternoon in the early part of May--Friday, I remember--we were all sitting at tea. Milly was fond of gardening, and had a little plot at the back of the house, where she had some radishes growing. We had some that afternoon for tea, for the first time that year. Percy said they were tough, but that must have been only to tease, for he ate enough of them.

Percy went to the Neesby Grammar School, and it was his habit to tell us any news he picked up during the day, when he came home. We had got about half-way through tea when he burst out, with his mouth full of cake, "I say! Neesby Court is let, and"--

"You should not speak with your mouth full, my son," said mother; so we had to wait patiently until the cake had "walked down the long, red lane," as Maud says. He began again, more quietly--

"The Court is let to a lady with one little girl." We all began to talk at once, and ask questions. "Have you seen either of them? what is the lady like? how is the little girl dressed? how old is she?" and so on.

"Children, children, do be quiet," said mother gently, "and Percy will tell you all he knows."

"I don't know anything at all about them," said he, "except that they've come by this afternoon's train from London; and that a good spring clean has been going on up at the Court for a week past. It is let furnished, I hear."

"I did not know anything of it," remarked father.

"I saw that the notice-board was gone when I passed on Monday, but I thought that it had perhaps been blown down," said mother.

All that evening we were in a state of wondering curiosity. Who and what these new arrivals were; their name; where they had come from; how long they were likely to stay. In guessing answers to these and other questions of the same kind, we spent the time until Martha came calling, "Children, children, 'tis time for you to come in to bed," and we left the garden and went in to say good-night to father and mother, who were sitting together in the parlour, laughing over something father was reading aloud.

On Saturdays we had holiday all day. On other days Miss Cole used to come up from Neesby to give us lessons, from ten to half-past twelve in the mornings, and from two to three in the afternoons. Then we had to practise, and learn our lessons for the next day, and then we played together or went for walks, or sometimes, for a great treat, for a drive with father. Maud only came into the schoolroom in the mornings, and would just learn her letters and how to count. Maud was much younger than Milly, as a little brother who came in between died when he was six months old. We often go to see his grave.

The morning after we knew the Court was let, Milly and I and Tuts went, as usual, into the town, with little slips of paper for the different shopkeepers, telling them what things to send up. At the grocer's we always used to buy a pennyworth of hard biscuits for Tuts. He knew when Saturday came, and when we got to the shop would prick up his ears, and wait so patiently until he heard the paper-bag begin to rustle; then he would run over to the tin, and begin sniffing round it, and the grocer would give him half a biscuit to keep him quiet.

Mrs. Brown, the butcher's wife, who used to sit in a kind of glass-case, with a hole on one side through which she passed out the money and bills, would call out when she saw us, "Aw! there's the little Miss Dixons. How's your Ma, my dears, and your dear Pa?" We used to feel rather disgusted; we don't like anyone to call father and mother "Pa" and "Ma;" it sounds so silly to us.

Although we stayed in the town a good deal longer than usual that morning, we neither saw nor heard of anybody or anything from Neesby Court. When we got home, just about dinner-time, father had not returned from his rounds; but we did not wait for him, as sometimes he would be quite an hour late, and we were always hungry when meal-times came. Mother said she would take us for a lovely, long walk by and by, if we were good and did not run about in the garden too much. We were delighted to hear that, as we dearly liked going for walks with mother.

We had finished dinner, and Martha was clearing the table when father came in. He looked rather queer, I thought, as though he had what Martha calls "the blue grumps." He came into the dining-room and looked round. "Where's mother, children? Oh, there you are, love! Whew!" throwing himself into a chair, "it _is_ hot to-day, very." Mother bent over him quite anxiously, with a glass of iced water in her hand. "What is the matter, dear? you are looking quite pale. Don't you feel well?"

"Oh, I'm feeling quite well, thanks. It's too hot for comfort. Children, run out a bit; don't go in the sun. I want to talk to mother. Percy, put on your hat and run down to Dr. Lang's with this paper." Dr. Lang was another doctor, living in Neesby; he and father were great friends.

We stayed in the garden, playing with Tuts, for such a long time, thinking that mother would surely soon call us to get ready for our walk. Getting tired of sitting under the trees, we walked round to the side of the house, just in time to see Tom, father's errand-boy, coming out of the surgery with two bottles of medicine in his hand.

"Father has finished his talk with mother, then," said Milly joyfully; "let's go and see if we can find her." She wasn't to be found; we looked in the dining-room, parlour, and drawing-room. We asked Martha, who was in the scullery, "up to her ears in work," as she said, if she knew where mother was. "I fancy she's gone up in her bedroom to lie down. Don't you go disturbing of her, now. She looked very whitish and queer-like when I took in your father's tart; and he said he didn't want none, and he han't eat much else either. Now, run along like dears, and not bide here hinderin' me."

We went into the quiet parlour. (When I say "we," I generally mean Milly and myself, as Maud ran about anywhere.) _How_ quiet it was! How strange the house was without mother. Was she ill? What was the matter with her? Had father's "talk" caused her to look "whitish and queer-like," and go to her own room? We didn't know.

Father came in to tea; he spoke quite sharply to Maud, who was singing "Sing a Song of Sixpence" quietly to herself, telling her to be quiet. Maud was hushed in a minute; it was very seldom father spoke like that.

"Is mother ill?" I asked falteringly.

"She isn't very well, Addie. Be a good girl, and see that the little ones don't make too much noise."

The next two hours were very dull, and we were very glad, for once, when bedtime came. We went to say good-night to mother, who was lying on a couch near the window in her own room; she was looking very pale, and as though she had been crying. "Is you very bad?" asked Maud in a loud whisper. "Not very, darling. I shall be better in the morning. Don't cry, Milly. Good-night, dearies;" and she kissed us all.

Milly was a sympathetic little soul, and was sobbing by the time we got outside the door, and Maud was crying for company. I myself was just thinking I might start, when we heard father's cheery voice, asking us what we were watering the stair carpet for. He called us all babies, told us one of his nice tales, and sent us off to bed in good spirits. You see, we were so very fond of mother that we couldn't bear to think she was suffering the least pain.

The next morning mother was well enough to come down to breakfast, but said she did not feel equal to going to church. The rest of us started in good time, leaving her at home to rest and get well. The pew belonging to the Neesby family was just opposite ours; we had not been in church long when there came a little rustle in the aisle, and a lady and a little girl walked into the Court pew.

We hardly dared to lift our eyes from the patent leather toes of our best shoes: Milly's face was very red; father was looking very sternly at some badly behaving boys; Percy was trying to button one of his gloves; Maud was staring intently at the organ. The organ always was a strange thing to Maud: she couldn't understand how the music came out; she always called the pipes "sticks" until Dr. Lang one day told her they were pipes. "Where do the smoke go?" she asked then.

At last I screwed up my courage and looked across to _the_ pew, and then-- I pinched Milly so hard that her face grew three times redder, and the tears came into her eyes.

"Oh, Addie, how unkind of you," she whispered.

"Look!" I said softly; "isn't she beautiful?" Then she looked, and could hardly keep her eyes from that pew all the morning, and neither could I. The lady was more beautiful than anybody I had ever seen. Not beautiful in a sweet, lovely way, like our mother, but in a grand, proud style. She looked and moved like a queen; but I am sure I could never have put my arms round her neck or kissed her. I thought she must have forgotten the way to smile, and cry too. Her dress was plain, but beautiful, like herself.

The little girl was very pretty: she had long golden curls, reaching nearly to her waist; large grey eyes; and a lovely, rather sad, little face. She was dressed in a cream soft silk frock, and a white straw hat trimmed with ribbon, and a long white feather.

I wished Milly and I had got feathers then; but we had only ribbon, as mother did not like children to be dressed like young ladies. Our dresses were white muslin; I had always thought them very pretty, but now I did wish we had a fairy godmother to turn them into silk.

The pretty young lady looked at me once while I was staring at her; her face instantly became as red as Milly's had been before, and I don't think she looked up again during the whole service, but kept her eyes fixed on the floor.

As she passed us with her mother, on her way to the carriage which was waiting, we noticed that she had on white stockings and white kid shoes. Masters was waiting with the victoria to take father on his rounds; we had to walk home alone. Mother was in the parlour, sitting in her own particular chair, and of course we at once began to tell her all we knew of the lady with the beautiful face, and her little girl. In the middle of our excited story Percy broke in--

"Look here, you girls! just go on upstairs and take off your things. You will make mother's head ache with all your chatter;" and indeed she was looking pale again; so we went away and told our tale to Martha, who never had headaches, and who, naturally, was very interested in all we could tell her of the people who were going to live at Neesby Court.

[Illustration: Chapter I tailpiece]

[Illustration: Chapter II headpiece]