The Old Pincushion; or, Aunt Clotilda's Guests

  CHAPTER VIII.

  NEWS FROM PHILIPPA.

  Decorative T]

  he next two or three days passed most pleasantly. The weather, as if tomake up for its bad behaviour on the day of their journey, wasparticularly fine, and the children were out from morning till night.Old Martha thought privately to herself that it was a good thing theneighbours were so kind, for they were even 'better than their word,' insending all sorts of good things to Ty-gwyn for the Captain's children,as Neville and Kathleen's appetites, thanks to the change of air and thesea breezes, were really rather alarming. And Miss Clotilda was soperfectly happy to see them both so bright and well, that she tried tobanish all painful thoughts as much as she could.

  Still they were _there_; and when the poor lady was alone in her room atnight, it was often more than she could do to restrain her tears. Forthe happier the children were, the more she learned to love them, themore bitterly, as was natural, did she feel the disappointment of notbeing able to hope to see much more of them. But she said little ornothing of her feelings, and the children--Kathie especially--littlesuspected their depth. Kathie was living entirely in the present; shebut rarely gave a thought to the ideas Philippa had suggested. AndNeville, though less carelessly light-hearted and forgetful, was slowerboth of thought and speech. He could see nothing to be done, and forsome time he rather shrank from coming upon the subject with his aunt.

  It came to be spoken of at last, however, and this was how it happened.

  One morning, about the fourth or fifth of their visit, old John Parry,with a great air of importance, as if he were doing her a specialservice, handed to Kathleen a rather fat letter, addressed to herself.

  'You see, miss, to be sure I never make no mistakes,' he said.

  For he was quite aware that Miss Clotilda still in her heart, somehow orother, associated him with the mysterious loss of Neville's letter, andhe wished to keep up his dignity in the eyes of the stranger young lady.

  'Oh yes, thank you,' said Kathie, not quite knowing what else to say.For in London one's personal acquaintance with the postman--orpost_men_, rather--is necessarily of the slightest.

  'What a comical old fellow he is!' she said to herself, as she ran off.'I daresay he did lose the letter, after all. How amused Phil would beat the people here, and the funny way they talk! Dear old Phil! I wonderwhat she has got to say, and what she has written such a long letterabout?' For the moment she got it in her hand she recognised littlePhilippa's careful, childish handwriting on the envelope.

  'Aren't you coming out, Kathie?' Neville called out from some mysteriousdepths, where he was absorbed in arranging his fishing-tackle.

  'Not yet. I've got a long letter from Philippa. You'll find me in thelibrary if you look in in a few minutes.'

  And in a comfortable corner of the deep window seat Kathie establishedherself to enjoy Philippa's budget. It was in the library that MissClotilda and the children spent most of their time. The drawing-room wasa more formal and less cosy room, and the library gave old Martha lessto do in the way of dusting and daily putting to rights. It was a dearold room, filled with books from floor to ceiling, many of themdoubtless of little value, others probably of great worth in aconnoisseur's eyes--had connoisseurs ever come to Ty-gwyn--for all wereold, very old.

  'How Philippa would like this room!' thought Kathie to herself. 'Phil islike Neville; she's far more sentimental and poetical, and all that sortof thing, than I am. I do hope she's enjoying her holidays.'

  She opened the envelope as she spoke. Out tumbled another letter,closed, addressed, and stamped, but which had evidently never beenthrough the post. It was Neville's letter to Miss Clotilda!

  'Oh!' Kathie ejaculated.

  Then she turned to Philippa's own letter. It was dated, 'Cheltenham,'and she began, child fashion, by telling that she had got there safe,and she hoped Kathleen and her brother had got to Ty-gwyn safe, and thatthey were both quite well. Then she went on with rather doleful news.Her poor grandmother was ill; she had been taken ill the very nightPhilippa came, and though she was a little better the doctor said shewould not be well for a long time, and she was to go away somewhere forchange of air. Philippa was not allowed to see her, and her uncle didnot know what to do, but he had told Philippa he was afraid she wouldhave to go back to school, and stay there for the rest of the holidays.

  'Uncle is kind, but he doesn't know how awful it will be,'

  wrote the poor little girl;

  'and I don't like to tell him, because he is so troubled about grandmamma. It is most because you won't be there, dear Kathie. That Wednesday was as long as a week, when you had gone. I am afraid I am to go in three or four days. Uncle will take me. Do write quick to poor little Phil, _and don't' forget your promise_.'

  Then came a postscript, Philippa having evidently been too absorbed byher own woes to think of anything else while she was writing the letter.

  'I found this letter in your old serge frock pocket--the one that was too shabby to take with you. I meant to send it to you before, but I wasn't sure how to write the address; you wrote it on such a scrap of paper. I will keep this till to-night, and ask uncle to help me. I hope it won't matter, for as you are there your aunt won't need letters from you. I was feeling in your pocket for my new bit of india-rubber that I lent you, but it wasn't there.'

  Kathie sat quite still for a minute or two after reading all this. Thenshe took up Neville's letter and looked at it vaguely.

  'Yes,' she said to herself, 'I must have slipped it into my pocket,meaning to have it posted with my own note to Neville. How careless ofme! and to think how I went on about aunty not meeting us at thestation.'

  It was a good lesson for Kathie. The softening process had begun, andshe was already ashamed to remember the way in which she had spoken ofMiss Clotilda. And she was not a little mortified at now finding thatshe, and she alone, had been to blame. But Kathleen was courageous andhonest. After a moment or two's hesitation, she got up and marched off,letters in hand, to the dining-room, where she knew she should find heraunt at that time of day.

  'LOOK, IT'S NEVER BEEN POSTED AT ALL!']

  'Aunty,' she said, and Miss Clotilda looked up from the fine old damasktablecloth she was carefully darning--she prided herself on her darning,and though the table-linen, as well as everything else, was Mr.Wynne-Carr's now, she would not on that account relax in hercarefulness--'Aunty, I've got something to tell you. It wasn't old JohnParry's fault about that letter, nor anybody's but mine. Look,' and sheheld it up, 'it's never been posted at all;' and she went on to explainto Miss Clotilda how it had been found. 'I am so sorry,' she said at theend.

  Just then Neville came in. 'I have been looking everywhere for you,Kathie,' he said; and then the story had to be told to him again.

  'I am sorry,' Kathie repeated, 'and ashamed,' she added, in a lowervoice, and Neville saw that the tears were quivering on her eyelids. Heunderstood.

  'Poor dear child,' said Miss Clotilda, 'you shouldn't take it to heartso. It'll be a little lesson to you to be more careful about suchthings; will it not, dear?'

  'Yes, indeed,' said Kathleen. She could not tell her kind aunt why shefelt it so much--it would have been wrong to pain her by repeating thenaughty, foolish things she had said of her--and this in itself made theimpression still deeper.

  'And the little girl--your friend who has written to you--is she not thesame one you were speaking of the other day?' asked Miss Clotilda, tochange the subject.

  'Yes, aunty; and oh, I am so sorry for her! May I tell you what shesays?' And Kathie read aloud Philippa's letter.

  'Poor little girl!' said Miss Clotilda. 'What does she mean by askingyou at the end not to forget your promise?'

  'Oh,' said Kathleen, 'she's a little silly about that. She--I told herabout the will, aunty--you don't mind? I didn't tell any one else'--

  'It matters very little,' said Miss Clotilda. 'There is no secret aboutit. E
verybody here knows the whole story. But what was your promise?'

  'Phil had an idea that nobody had looked enough--for the will, or forthe letter telling where it was to be found,' said Kathleen. 'She saidshe was sure _she_ would think of new places to look in if she werehere, and she made me promise to try. But--I am sure you have lookedeverywhere, aunty--it would seem impertinent of Neville and me to tryto look.'

  'Not that, my dear,' said Miss Clotilda, 'but really and truly there isnowhere else to look. Do you know we have taken down and shaken everybook in the library? A man, accustomed to such things, came on purpose.I have thought about the letter of directions too, but it is much lesslikely to be found than the will itself. It would be so small. If Mrs.Wynne had not given me the envelope containing the blank paper, so veryshortly before her death, I should have begun to think that she hadchanged her mind and made no will at all. And yet--it was so unlike her.No, I feel sure the blank paper was put in by mistake.'

  Miss Clotilda had left off her darning in the interest of theconversation. For a minute or two no one spoke. Then with a littleeffort Miss Clotilda seemed to recall her thoughts to the present.

  'She must be a very nice child--that little Philippa,' she said, 'andvery unselfish. It is not many children who would be able to think ofanything but their own affairs in her place just now. I do feel for her,poor dear, having to go back to school, and all her companions away.'

  She hesitated, as if on the point of saying more, but no words came.Then she took up her darning again.

  'I wish'--Kathie began, and then she too stopped short. Neville glancedat her.

  'I believe I know what you wish,' he said. 'And,' he went on boldly, 'Ibelieve aunty is thinking of the very same thing.'

  Again the poor tablecloth came off badly. Miss Clotilda let it fall, andin her turn she looked at both the children.

  'I daresay you do know what was in my mind, Neville,' she said. 'Itwould be almost unnatural not to think of it.'

  'You mean,' said Kathie, half timidly, 'if we could ask poor Phil tocome here--if _you_ could, I should say, aunty.'

  'Yes,' said Miss Clotilda, 'that was what I was thinking. I do feel sofor the poor dear child. I know so well, so sadly well, what it is to bealone in that way. My mother, you know, dears, your grandmother, diedwhen I was thirteen, and till her death I had never been separated fromher. And then I was sent to school altogether, holidays and all, forthree years, for your grandfather went abroad. I did not even see mylittle brother--dear little David--for all that time, for one of ouraunts who had children of her own took care of him. It did not so muchmatter to him, for he was only a year old when our mother died, and sohe was only four when we were together again. And it seems to him--I dolike to feel that--that I was always with him. But for me those threeyears were--really--dreadful. Even now I can scarcely bear to think ofthem;' and Miss Clotilda gave a little shiver.

  'Philippa cried awfully when she first came,' said Kathleen. 'She reallydid nothing but cry.

  'And you were good to her--I am sure you were, as she is so fond ofyou,' said her aunt.

  Kathie blushed a little.

  'Her mother asked me to be kind to her,' she said, 'and I tried to bebecause I promised. But I didn't care much for her at first, aunty. Ididn't understand her caring so dreadfully, and you mustn't think mehorrid, for I do understand better now--it bothered me. But she got sofond of me--she fancied I was so much kinder than I really was,that--that I got very fond of her. And I think I've learnt some thingsfrom her--the same sort of things you make me feel, aunty.'

  This was a wonderfully 'sentimental' speech to come from thoughtlessKathie. But both her hearers 'understood.'

  'She must be a dear little girl,' said Miss Clotilda again. 'I shouldlove to have her here, if--'

  'I know, aunty,' Neville interrupted. 'It is the expense. I know it isalready a great deal for you to have _us_.'

  'No, dear,' said Miss Clotilda, 'it really is not so. People--my oldneighbours and friends--are so kind. They are always sending presentsjust now. And one other little girl could not make much difference. Itis more a sort of shrinking that I have from explaining things tostrangers--a sort of false shame, perhaps. It _should_ all have been sodifferent.'

  'Dear aunty,' said both the children, 'we wouldn't like you to do it ifyou feel that way.'

  But Miss Clotilda was evidently not satisfied.

  'She is a simple-minded child, is she not?' she asked in a little. 'Notthe kind of child to be discontented with plain ways--our having onlyone servant, and so on, you know?'

  '_Of course_ not,' said Kathleen. 'She would think it all lovely. And,aunty,' she went on, 'it _is_ lovely. You don't know how it all looks tous after school. Everything is so cold and stiff, and--and--not prettythere. And the things to eat here are so delicious; aren't they,Neville? The fruit and the milk and the bread and butter. Oh, aunty!'

  'What, my dear?'

  '_Don't_ you think you could? What room would Phil have?'

  'I was thinking of the one next yours. It is small, but we could make itlook nice. There is no dearth of anything in the way of linen and suchthings in the house. Mrs. Wynne had such beautiful napery--that is theold word for it, you know--and she took such a pride in it. I must showyou the linen-room some day, Kathie. I have taken great pleasure inkeeping it in perfect order for your mother.'

  Again the sad feeling of disappointment.

  'Kathie,' said, Neville, a minute or two later when their aunt had leftthe room, 'I want you to come out with me. You're not going to write toPhilippa to-day, are you?

  'No,' said Kathleen, 'not to-day. But I should like to send the letterto-morrow, for fear of her leaving her grandmother's. I will write toher this afternoon or this evening. I've lots to tell her--all about thejourney, and the funny old farmer, and the carrier's cart.'

  'Yes,' said Neville. 'If she comes here, Kathie, we'll manage betterthan that. I wonder if aunty would let us go to Hafod to meet her. Anyway, I might go. Perhaps you'd rather stay to welcome her here--to putflowers in her room, and that sort of thing. Girls do so like all that.'

  'So do boys too--at least, some boys. You _always_ bring me a nosegay onmy birthday. I am sure you like flowers as much as any girl could,' saidKathie.

  'I didn't mean flowers only. I meant--oh, fussing,' said Nevillevaguely.

  But Kathleen was too much taken up by the idea of Philippa's coming tobe in a touchy humour.

  'Do you really think, Neville,' she said,--'do you really and trulythink aunty is going to ask her?'

  'I don't know. I'm sure she'd like to--if she can. She's so awfully goodand kind.'

  'Yes,' Kathleen heartily agreed. 'I never even thought before thatanybody _could_ be so kind.'