The Old Pincushion; or, Aunt Clotilda's Guests

  CHAPTER II.

  PHILIPPA'S IDEA.

  Decorative K]

  athleen was met at the schoolroom door by a little, pale-faced,fair-haired girl, who was just coming out.

  'Oh, Kathie!' she said anxiously, 'do be quick if you're not ready fordinner. The bell's just going to ring. Have you washed your hands? No?Then let's go at once.'

  'Why, are you not ready, either?' said Kathie. 'There's no excuse foryou, Philippa; you've not been called downstairs to see your brother.'

  'I am ready,' said Philippa. 'I've been ready ever so long. But when youdidn't come at once after Miss Fraser went for you, I was so frightenedthat I asked if I might go to fetch a handkerchief, and I thought I'drun along the passage to see if you were coming, and to hurry you.'

  'You're a good little soul,' said Kathleen condescendingly, 'but youreally needn't bother about me. I've had scoldings enough by this timenot to mind, I should rather think.'

  Philippa looked up at her doubtfully. Kathie's hard, careless way ofspeaking distressed her vaguely, much as it did Neville, though shescarcely understood it. She was new to school life, and she had had thehappiness till a few months ago of never being separated from hermother. So, though she was three years younger than Kathleen, there weresome things she knew more of.

  'I don't think you should speak that way,' she said. 'It can't be a goodthing not to mind. I do think they scold us too much. _Mamma_ neverscolded at all, though of course she was sometimes vexed with me, onlythere was always sense in it. But I think there's _generally_ some sensein Miss Eccles' scolding. I try to find it out, only it's rather hard,'and her soft eyes filled with tears.

  'Come now, Philippa,' said Kathleen, 'don't begin to cry. You'd be everso much nicer if you wouldn't. There, now; I'm all ready,' and she flungthe towel, with which she had been wiping her hands, on to the rail asshe spoke. 'Let's race back; see if you can run as fast as I withoutmaking any noise. Don't I do it splendidly? There now; the bell hasn'tsounded. Won't Miss Fraser be disappointed not to have to scold?'

  And it was true that a rather sour look overspread the under-teacher'sface as the two children demurely entered the room.

  'Did your brother bring you any letters, Kathie?' whispered Philippa, asthey filed downstairs to dinner with the seven or eight girls who madeup Miss Eccles' school. 'I do so want to know.'

  'Yes; I have lots to tell you,' said Kathie, 'and no good news either.If I were _you_, Philippa, I should be crying my eyes out by this time.'

  Philippa covered her ears with her hands.

  'Oh! don't tell me, then, please don't,' she said. 'If it's anythingsad about your mamma, or anything like that, I shall begin crying: Iknow I shall, whether you do or not, and then they'll all see. Don'ttell me till after dinner, Kathie.'

  'I've no intention of doing so,' said Kathleen, smiling ratherimportantly. 'I'll tell you in the garden this afternoon.'

  Her smile somewhat reassured the tender-hearted little friend; stillmore so the fact that Kathleen's appetite was in no way affected by thenews, whatever it was, that she had just heard. There was a gooseberrypudding for dinner that day, and Philippa marvelled to herself when shesaw Kathie's plate sent up for a second allowance.

  'I can't finish my first helping even,' she whispered, disconsolately.'I can't help wondering if your mamma's ill, and it makes me think of_my_ mamma. Oh, Kathie!' she went on, 'do just tell me it isn't thatyour mamma's ill, is it? Do tell me, or I'll never be able to finish mypudding, and they will so scold me!'

  'You goose!' whispered Kathie. 'No; of course it isn't that my mamma'sill, or your mamma's ill, or anybody's mamma's ill.'

  'Miss Powys and Miss Harley _whispering_! I am surprised at you,' saidMiss Eccles' voice from behind the now diminished gooseberry pudding atthe other end of the table.

  'There, now,' muttered Kathie; and Philippa, feeling that her friend'sreproaches as well as her teacher's disapproval would be more than shecould bear, subsided, and set to work to clear her plate in earnest.

  The friendship between these two was rather an odd one. It had beenbrought on in the first place by a sort of half-contemptuous,half-pitying curiosity, with which Kathleen had seen Philippa's agony ofdistress on having to part with her mother. And poor Mrs. Harley, in herbewilderment, had credited Kathie with more feeling and sympathy thanthe girl was really conscious of.

  'You will be good to her--you look as if you were sorry for her,' shesaid, struck by the interest in Kathleen's pretty bright eyes. '_You_know what it is to be separated from your mother.'

  'I--I haven't seen mamma for a long time,' Kathie replied, too honest to'sham,' and yet feeling rather ashamed of herself. 'There are severalgirls here whose mothers are in India. But I will be good to Philippa.We'll all be sorry for her. I suppose it's worse when one's as big asshe is. I was very little.'

  And Mrs. Harley thanked her, and Philippa clung to her, and having giventhe promise, Kathleen kept it, even though it was sometimes a littletiresome to have to forsake the society of the merry, hearty, oldergirls, in order to devote herself to the poor little home-sick child.But during the last few months things had changed. Two or three of theolder girls had left, and Kathleen did not care much for those thatremained. And by degrees Philippa had grown to some extent reconciled toher new life, and had transferred to Kathleen some considerable share ofthe devotion with which her loving little heart was running over. AndPhilippa, young as she was, was a friend worth having; in after-yearsKathleen came to see how much she owed to the child's unconsciousinfluence.

  The hour in the garden after dinner, and before lessons began again, wasthe hour of all the twenty-four during which Miss Eccles' pupils werethe most at liberty. Before Philippa came it had usually been spent byKathleen in playing; she was so tall and nimble that she was in greatrequest among the older girls for lawn-tennis, or any other games, andit had been one of her small acts of self-denial--acts showing that, forall her heedless talking and surface indifference, her heart was in theright place--to give up joining in these for the sake of talking orlistening to the disconsolate little stranger. But now that Philippa hadlearnt to understand things better, she would not allow Kathleen to makesuch sacrifices. Though not strong enough herself for much activeexercise, she loved to watch her friend's successes, and her pale facewould glow with excitement when Kathie specially distinguished herself.But to-day was to be an exception.

  'You're going to play lawn-tennis, aren't you, Kathie?' said Philippa.'I don't want to play anything; and Miss Fraser doesn't mind, when it'sso hot that I won't catch cold. I'll sit near and watch you.'

  'LET'S SIT QUIETLY IN THE OLD ARBOUR.']

  'No, you just won't,' said Kathie. 'I'm not going to play. I know youare dying to hear what Neville came about, and I want to tell it tosomebody, and you're the only person I can tell it to. So let's sitquietly in the old arbour--nobody will want us, and I'll tell youeverything. You'll be sorry enough for me, Philippa, when you hear thefirst bit of it, even though it isn't nearly the worst. Just fancy'--bythis time the two children were settled in the summer-house--'papa andmamma are not coming home this year, after all.'

  Philippa's blue eyes opened very widely, and a look of consternationspread over her face.

  'Your papa and mamma aren't coming home?' she repeated, as if she couldnot take in the sense of the words. 'Oh, Kathie!' and the corners of hermouth went down, and her eyelids began to quiver in a suspicious way.

  'Now, Phil, no crying,' said Kathleen, sharply. 'If I don't cry formyself, I don't see that you need to do it for me.'

  'I'm so--so dreadfully sorry for you,' said Philippa apologetically.

  'Thank you. I knew you'd be. But though their not coming's a dreadfuldisappointment, there's worse than that. It isn't only that it's putoff, Philippa: it's given up altogether. I don't hardly think they'll_ever_ come home now. I believe they'll stay out there always, till I'mgrown up, and then when I'm seventeen or so, I'll be sent out tothem--to a father and mother I shan't know a bit.
Isn't it _horrid_,Philippa?'

  'But why is it? What's made them change so?' asked the little girl.

  'I'll tell you. Only you must listen a great deal. It's really ratherhard to understand: just like a story in a book, Phil, about wills, andheirs, and lawyers, and all that.'

  And in her own fashion, as intelligibly as she could, Kathleen proceededto narrate the contents of her father's letter to Neville, and allNeville's comments thereupon, to her most interested and attentivelistener.

  'What a shame it seems!' was Philippa's first remark. 'All to go tosomebody that doesn't need it. How unfair it is! Kathie, if he wasreally a very good, nice man, don't you think he'd give it all back toyour father?'

  'Papa wouldn't take it, not from _him_,' said Kathie indignantly,though, truth to tell, her own first idea on hearing the story had beena similar one; 'and besides--that other man's got children, and Nevillesays there's some law that you can't give away what comes to you ifyou've got children.'

  'Oh,' said Philippa, meekly. 'I didn't know.'

  'Of course not. How could you know, a little, girl like you? Why, _I_didn't till Neville told me,' said Kathie condescendingly. 'But, all thesame, that part of it doesn't matter. Papa wouldn't take anything fromanybody like that.'

  Philippa sat silent for a little while. But though silent, she wasthinking deeply. Her eyes were gazing before her, though seeing butlittle of the objects in view--the prim bit of London garden, with theevergreen shrubs bordering the gravel-walk, and the figures of the girlsdarting backwards and forwards in their light-coloured frocks, whilethey called out to each other in the excitement of the game. And thechild's lips were compressed as if she were thinking out some knottyproblem. Kathie looked at her in surprise and with growing impatience.She did not fully understand Philippa, for in reality the nine years oldmaiden was in some respects older than Kathleen herself. Herthoughtfulness and powers of reflection had been brought out by livingin close companionship with her mother, and the dearth of playfellows ofher own age had made her what servants call 'old-fashioned,' quaint, andin a sense precocious.

  'What are you going to sleep about Philippa?' said Kathleen at last,irritably. 'I thought you'd have had lots of questions to ask. It's notevery day one hears anything so queer and interesting as what I havebeen telling you.'

  Philippa slowly unfastened her eyes, so to speak, from staring atvacancy, and turned them on her friend. 'It's not that I don't care,Kathie; you might know that, I'm sure. I think it's _dreadful_! I can'tbear to think of how unhappy your papa and mamma must be, _'specially_your mamma, just when she'd been planning about coming home and havingyou with her. I daresay she made a day list--you know what I mean--andthat she'd been scratching out every day to see the long rows getshorter. I know,' she added mysteriously, 'I know mammas _do_ do thatsometimes, just as well as children.'

  'I don't think mine would be quite so silly,' said Kathleendisdainfully. 'She must be pretty well used to being at the other sideof the world from us by now. For my part, I don't think people shouldmarry if they know they're going to have to live in India--not, atleast, till doctors find out some sort of medicine that would keepchildren quite strong and well there. I do think doctors are too stupid.But still, of course,' she went on, 'I _am_ very sorry for mamma, andI'm very sorry for us all. Not quite so sorry for myself, perhaps. Idon't think I do mind so very much. I'd feel more disappointed if Icouldn't go to the Fanshaws on Wednesday, and come home in a hansom withNeville. I'm made so, I suppose.'

  And she flung herself back on her seat with a would-be 'Miller of theDee' air, which, however, was rather lost on Philippa, who just glancedat her calmly.

  'I don't believe you,' she said. 'You're not as bad as you would makeyourself out. But I do wonder you haven't thought of one thing, Kathie,you that are so quick and clever. It came into my head the moment Iheard it all.'

  'What?' said Kathleen carelessly.

  'Why, it's what I'd do in your place. I'd settle to _find the will_!'

  'To find the will!' repeated Kathie, sitting bolt upright, and staringat Philippa as if she thought the little girl was taking leave of hersenses. '_Me_ find the will! You little goose! how could I find it whenthat stupid Miss Clotilda and all the lawyers and people haven't beenable to find it? Why, even Neville never thought of such a thing.'

  'Perhaps he will, though; and if he doesn't, if I were you, I'd put itinto his head. If Miss Clotilda is really stupid'--

  'Oh! I don't know that she is--it's just my way of speaking.' Philippalooked rather disappointed. 'I don't know anything about her except thatshe's an old maid, and old maids are either crabbed or stupid; and theysay she's not crabbed,' said Kathie. 'But seriously, Phil, what do youmean? How could I find the will, or even look for it? It isn't here inLondon, and very likely it's nowhere at all. Very likely old Mrs. Wynnenever wrote it.'

  'Oh, Kathie!' exclaimed Philippa, 'I do think you can't have a very goodmind to fancy such things. She would have had to be a really naughty oldlady to have pretended so, and tricked everybody for nothing. Of courseshe must have written it; you told me the letter with nothing in it wasmarked "Directions where to find my will."'

  'Ye-es,' said Kathleen, 'so it was. But what then? It seems to me thefirst thing to do would be to find the paper that should have been inthat envelope.'

  'Of course,' said Philippa, her face flushing. 'I never thought of that.You see, Kathie, you are quick and clever when you really think.'

  'I never said I wasn't,' Kathleen replied composedly. 'But that's thebeginning and end of my thinking about this thing. Let's talk aboutsomething else now, Phil.'

  'No,' said the little girl decidedly. 'I don't care to talk of anythingelse. Just _think_, Kathie, how lovely it would be if you did find it,and all came right, and your papa and mamma came home to that beautifulplace in Wales; you'd invite me sometimes for the holidays, wouldn'tyou?'

  'Of course,' said Kathie heartily. 'I never thought of that. Butby-the-by, Phil, you should be glad of this going wrong if you care forme. I'd have been leaving school if it had been all right.'

  'I know, said Philippa quietly. 'I did think of that, and of course itwould break my heart for you to go. But I'd rather it didbreak--_quite_,' she went on, as if she understood thoroughly all aboutthe process, 'rather than that your poor papa and mamma shouldn't beable to come home, and you all be happy together at that lovely place.'

  'I don't know that it's lovely,' observed Kathie. 'I fancy it's just afunny old-fashioned place. But it's in the country and near the sea--Ilove the country and the sea--of course it would be awfully nice. It'svery good of you, Phil, to care about it all so much. I only wish itwould come right. If I _could_ find that paper or the will! It wouldn'tmatter which. If I were _there_, I'd hunt. I'd poke into all sorts ofcorners, that perhaps Aunt Clotilda has never thought of.'

  'Well, I think you should manage to go there,' said Philippa. 'I don'tsee why your aunt shouldn't ask you to pay her a visit while she's stillthere, now that the old lady is dead.'

  'Yes; I think she might,' Kathleen agreed. 'Any way, it would be achange from that going to Bognor for three weeks that I dislike so. I amso sick of Bognor. And you won't be there, Phil; you're going to yourgrandmother's.'

  'Yes,' said Philippa; 'I didn't much want to go while I thought you wereto be here. But if you were going away, I shouldn't mind.'

  'I'll ask Neville about it,' said Kathie. 'He has said something once ortwice about wishing I could go to Aunt Clotilda, but I always told him Ishouldn't like it, and that unless papa and mamma regularly _ordered_ meto go, I wouldn't. I do so dislike old maids.'

  'Why, who do you know that's old maids?' asked Philippa. 'Why do youdislike them?'

  'Oh! there's Miss Eccles--and, after all, I'm not sure that I do dislikeher. No, I don't think I do,' she went on, meditatively. 'But there'sMiss Fraser; there now, Philippa, we _may_ dislike her--nasty, spying,sharp, spiteful thing!'

  Philippa considered. It never occurred even to her to dispute the r
ightof all the school to dislike Miss Fraser--her mind was consideringanother aspect of the question.

  'But are you sure she is an old maid?' she said. 'She can't be more thantwenty. When do old maids begin?'

  'I don't know,' Kathie replied vaguely. 'I don't think there's anysettled age. I suppose it's just that some are always going to be oldmaids. But let's talk of something nicer, Phil. Let's plan that place inWales--Ty--Tig--I can't say the name of it in Welsh, but I know it meansthe White House. Let's plan all about it, how the rooms go, andeverything, and fancy you're coming to stay with us there. Let mesee--shall it be haunted?'

  'No, no,' cried Philippa, with a little scream, putting her hands overher ears, relapsing suddenly into the sort of plaintive childishnesswhich made her such an inconsistent little person. 'No, no, Kathie. It'svery unkind of you to frighten me. I'll _never_ come to stay with you ifyou're going to plan that it's haunted.'

  'Then it shan't be,' said Kathie reassuringly. 'Don't be silly, Phil.'