Part 12 (1/2)

'I meant to, but the flies are so bad I let her off--and this is what she's done!' Una looked round, expecting Puck, and saw a curly-haired girl, not much taller than herself, but older, dressed in a curious high-waisted, lavender-coloured riding-habit, with a high hunched collar and a deep cape and a belt fastened with a steel clasp. She wore a yellow velvet cap and tan gauntlets, and carried a real hunting-crop.

Her cheeks were pale except for two pretty pink patches in the middle, and she talked with little gasps at the end of her sentences, as though she had been running.

'You don't milk so badly, child,' she said, and when she smiled her teeth showed small and even and pearly.

'Can you milk?' Una asked, and then flushed, for she heard Puck's chuckle.

He stepped out of the fern and sat down, holding _Kitty Shorthorn's_ tail. 'There isn't much,' he said, 'that Miss Philadelphia doesn't know about milk--or, for that matter, b.u.t.ter and eggs. She's a great housewife.'

'Oh,' said Una. 'I'm sorry I can't shake hands. Mine are all milky; but Mrs. Vincey is going to teach me b.u.t.ter-making this summer.'

'Ah! _I_'m going to London this summer,' the girl said, 'to my aunt in Bloomsbury.' She coughed as she began to hum, '”Oh, what a town! What a wonderful metropolis!”'

'You've got a cold,' said Una.

'No. Only my stupid cough. But it's vastly better than it was last winter. It will disappear in London air. Every one says so. D'you like doctors, child?'

'I don't know any,' Una replied. 'But I'm sure I shouldn't.'

'Think yourself lucky, child. I beg your pardon,' the girl laughed, for Una frowned.

'I'm not a child, and my name's Una,' she said.

'Mine's Philadelphia. But everybody except Rene calls me Phil. I'm Squire Bucksteed's daughter--over at Marklake yonder.' She jerked her little round chin towards the south behind Dallington. 'Sure-ly you know Marklake?'

'We went a picnic to Marklake Green once,' said Una. 'It's awfully pretty. I like all those funny little roads that don't lead anywhere.'

'They lead over our land,' said Philadelphia stiffly, 'and the coach road is only four miles away. One can go anywhere from the Green. I went to the a.s.size Ball at Lewes last year.' She spun round and took a few dancing steps, but stopped with her hand to her side.

'It gives me a st.i.tch,' she explained. 'No odds. 'Twill go away in London air. That's the latest French step, child. Rene taught it me.

D'you hate the French, chi--Una?'

'Well, I hate French, of course, but I don't mind Mam'selle. She's rather decent. Is Rene your French governess?'

Philadelphia laughed till she caught her breath again.

'Oh no! Rene's a French prisoner--on parole. That means he's promised not to escape till he has been properly exchanged for an Englishman.

He's only a doctor, so I hope they won't think him worth exchanging. My Uncle captured him last year in the _Ferdinand_ privateer, off Belle Isle, and he cured my Uncle of a r-r-raging toothache. Of course, after _that_ we couldn't let him lie among the common French prisoners at Rye, and so he stays with us. He's of very old family--a Breton, which is nearly next door to being a true Briton, my father says--and he wears his hair clubbed--not powdered. _Much_ more becoming, don't you think?'

'I don't know what you're----' Una began, but Puck, the other side of the pail, winked, and she went on with her milking.

'He's going to be a great French physician when the war is over. He makes me bobbins for my lace-pillow now--he's very clever with his hands; but he'd doctor our people on the Green if they would let him.

Only our Doctor--Dr. Break--says he's an emp----or imp something--worse than impostor. But my Nurse says----'

'Nurse! You're ever so old. What have you got a nurse for?' Una finished milking, and turned round on her stool as _Kitty Shorthorn_ grazed off.

'Because I can't get rid of her. Old Cissie nursed my mother, and she says she'll nurse me till she dies. The idea! She never lets me alone.

She thinks I'm delicate. She has grown infirm in her understanding, you know. Mad--quite mad, poor Cissie!'