CHAPTER ELEVEN.
PHILIPPA MAKES A DISCOVERY.
When Philippa, looking back from her seat in the carriage by MrsTrevor's side, could no longer see Dennis and Maisie making signs offarewell, she leaned back with a pout of discontent. Her visit toFieldside was over, and she had been so happy, that it seemed flat anddull to be going home with only Miss Mervyn to see when she got there.As they drove quickly through the village, she looked quite longingly atall the familiar places they passed. At the post-office, where hercousins had taken her to fetch the afternoon letters and buybull's-eyes; at the cottage, where the old woman lived who had theimmense yellow cat; at the blacksmith's, who was shoeing Dr Price's greyhorse; and at the school-house, where the chubby-faced boys and girlswere just pouring out into the road.
Farther on, she could see in the distance the gables and outbuildings ofthe Manor Farm, and the deep thatched roof of old Sally's cottage, fromwhich a thin thread of smoke was rising. She was sorry to leave allthese friendly things, and there seemed nothing to look forward to atHaughton Park, except perhaps the white kitten. She began to wonder howit was, and whether it had missed her, and remembering Maisie's advice,she determined that she would try to improve its behaviour, and make itinto a really good cat. Her first question, therefore, when she arrivedwas, "Where's Blanche?" and she looked impatiently at her mother for theanswer, for Mrs Trevor hesitated.
"The kitten, my darling?" she said rather nervously; "the kitten's inthe stable, I think. I told Thomas to take great care of it."
Philippa, who was on her way up-stairs, turned round and faced hermother defiantly.
"Why is it in the stable?" she asked. "Who sent it there? It must comeback directly."
"My sweet Philippa," said Mrs Trevor in a soothing voice, "do listen tome a moment; the kitten is a naughty little mischievous thing, and Icannot put up with it in the house any longer. I will just tell youwhy. You know my new velvet mantle which has just come down fromLondon? The other day Briggs found the kitten lying in the very middleof it on my bed! Its paws were muddy, its hairs came off and stuck tothe velvet, and I doubt if the mantle will ever be the same. Now, mydarling, _don't_ agitate yourself. It will be quite happy in thestable, and we shall be much more comfortable without it indoors. Ifanything's broken or goes wrong, I'm always told it is `Miss Philippa'skitten,' and I'm tired to death of it."
Mrs Trevor paused and looked appealingly at her daughter, who onlystamped her foot angrily in reply.
"I'll give you what you like for a pet instead of it. Love-birds, now,or a cockatoo? A cockatoo is no trouble at all, and quite an ornamentto the house, and worth a great deal more than a silly white kitten.--Where are you going, my love?"--for Philippa had suddenly rushed backthrough the hall and out of the front door. In a short time shereappeared with the kitten hugged up to her breast, passed her motherwithout a word, went straight into the schoolroom and shut the door veryloud. Mrs Trevor looked after her with a sigh of despair, but as usualmade no further attempt to oppose her, and Philippa was left to amuseherself with her kitten as she liked.
But it was not nearly so easy, she said to herself, to find amusement atHaughton as it had been at Fieldside. There she had never known what itwas to be dull and cross; here she felt both, as she looked round theempty schoolroom with the white kitten tucked under one arm. The roomhad a prim, precise air, with all the books and toys carefully arrangedon the shelves, the musical box in its shining case on its ownparticular table, and nothing left lying about. Philippa pursed up herlips discontentedly. How different it was to the pleasant noise andbustle, and all the little daily excitements of Fieldside! How dull itwas! How sorry she was to come back to it! She let the kitten droplistlessly, and stood regarding her playthings and treasures with gloomydislike. Not one of them pleased her, not even her last new possession,the musical box. The kitten seemed to share her mood, for she walkedrestlessly about the room, sniffed in a disdainful way at the furniture,and gave a tiny peevish mew.
"Here, Blanche, come and play," cried Philippa.
She threw an india-rubber ball across the floor, but the kitten hardlydeigned to turn her head towards it.
"How stupid you are!" exclaimed her mistress angrily, as she thought ofDarkie's frolics and gambols. "You have heaps of things to play with,and yet you won't play, and I don't believe you're a bit glad to see meeither."
Blanche continued to stroll uneasily round the room as though in searchof something, and took no notice of the ball, even when it was rolledright under her nose.
"Well, I suppose what you want is your clockwork mouse," said Philippa,"and that's your very best toy. But I shan't let you have it long,because I'm not going to spoil you ever any more."
She wound up the little mouse, and let it run nimbly round and roundclose to the kitten. Formerly it had been a never-failing excitement,but now, to Philippa's surprise and vexation, Blanche sat perfectlyunmoved before it, and did not lift a paw. Perhaps during her shortvisit to the stable she had become acquainted with real mice, for aftergiving one slight sniff at the imitation one, she rose and walked awaywith a high and scornful step.
"Well, I'm sure!" exclaimed Philippa. She stood gazing at the kitten asthough she could hardly believe what she had seen, then turned and flungherself moodily into the window-seat. Everything at Haughton, even thekitten, was tiresome, and disagreeable, and dreadfully dull.
"You're not a bit of comfort," she said to Blanche, who was now mewingat the door to be let out, "and if they send you to the stable again, Ishan't fetch you back. I believe you're just fit for a low, meanstable-cat. So there!"
It was some relief to hurl this insult, but it hurt Philippa a greatdeal more than the cat, and her eyes filled with tears as she turned herhead and looked out into the garden. Here again the contrast toFieldside struck her. Broad gravelled terraces, flights of stone steps,masses of brilliant flower-beds; and beyond, the wide green spaces ofthe park, with its groups of trees all standing in exactly the rightplaces, well ordered, stately, correct, as though the very shrubs andplants had been trained to hold themselves with propriety.
At Fieldside you could not look for a minute out of the schoolroomwindow without seeing something alive. Cows strolling across themeadow; Aunt Katharine's chickens venturing into the garden, and drivenout by Peter, cackling and shrieking; companies of busy starlingsworking away on the lawn; it was all lively and cheerful, though MrsTrevor always said it was "buried in the country." Haughton Park wasconsidered a "beautiful place," and Philippa was used to hearing itspoken of as such, but just now she decided in her own mind that it wasnot to be compared to Fieldside. As she sat gloomily gazing out of thewindow, her eye was caught by something which she had not noticedbefore, and which she began to observe with some interest. It wasnothing more remarkable than the figure of a boy in a ragged jacket, whoknelt on the garden path below, weeding. Philippa studied himattentively.
He was small and thin, just about Dennis's age, and he was certainlypoor, for his clothes were old and shabby. Who was he? If he were aboy in the garden at Fieldside, she went on to reflect, Dennis andMaisie would know his name, and where he lived, and how many brothersand sisters he had, and what his father earned a week, and how long hehad left school. Why should she not make these inquiries, andafterwards, perhaps, she could give him some new clothes, and some moneyto buy sweets. Then he would be grateful, as Tuvvy was to Dennis, andbe willing to do all sorts of things for her. Suddenly, fired by thisresolve, she jumped off the window-seat, intent on running down into thegarden, when Miss Mervyn came into the room.
"Well, my dear Philippa," she said kindly, "have you enjoyed yourvisit?"
"Very much," answered Philippa ungraciously. "I hate coming home.There's nothing to do."
"Oh, come," said Miss Mervyn, with an air of forced cheerfulness, "youmustn't say that, with all these things to amuse you. Have you wound upthe musical box?"
"I don't care for it," said Philippa, w
ith as much disdain as the kittenhad shown for the clockwork mouse.
Miss Mervyn's glance fell upon Blanche, who was washing her facedelicately with the tip of one paw.
"How pleased the kitten must have been to see you again!" she remarked.
"You're just as wrong as you can be about that," said Philippadecidedly. "She wasn't a bit pleased, and I believe she'd rather goback to the stable."
"Well, to be sure, it _is_ the proper place for her, isn't it?" agreedMiss Mervyn, with a look of relief; "and I daresay she's really happierthere."
"But, all the same, I don't mean to let her go," added Philippa; "Ishall keep her with me more than ever, and teach her to be very fond ofme."
"Where are you going, my dear? it is just tea-time," asked Miss Mervyn,as Philippa left the room hurriedly after this remark.
"Into the garden," Philippa called back. "You needn't come," and sheran down-stairs as fast as she could. Her mind was so set upon doinggood to the poor boy in the garden, that it did not once strike her thatthere was some one nearer home to whom she ought to be kind. Poor MissMervyn! How often Philippa worried her with her whims and naughtiness,and yet how patient and good she was! But that seemed natural toPhilippa. It would have been quite as strange for Miss Mervyn to becross and selfish, as for Blanche the kitten to be meek andwell-behaved.
When Philippa reached the spot where the boy knelt, hard at work, shecame to a standstill, and hardly knew how to begin the conversation. Itwould have been easier if he had looked up, or seemed aware of herpresence; but his whole attention was so fixed on getting out the weedswith his knife, that he evidently had not heard her approach.
"Good afternoon, little boy," she began condescendingly at last.
The boy raised a hot face, and touched his ragged cap. He was muchtaller and bigger than Philippa herself but it seemed right to her tocall him "little boy."
"Who are you?" was her first question. "I've never seen you before."
"I'm the new gardener's boy, miss," he answered; "I ain't been herelong."
Philippa looked down at him, wondering what she should say next.
"Are you," she began hesitatingly, after a moment's pause--"are you verypoor?"
The boy seemed a little puzzled. He sat back on his heels, and scrapedthe gravel thoughtfully from the blade of his knife.
"We ain't near so bad off as some in Upwell," he said at last; "but wecould do with a little more sometimes, now that Becky's so bad."
"Oh, you live at Upwell, do you?" said Philippa; "and who is Becky, andwhy is she bad?"
"She's my sister, miss," answered the boy, "and she's had a fall andhurted her back. She can't run about, and hasn't not for ever so long.It's very hard on Becky. She was always one to like running about."
"Won't she ever get well?" asked Philippa, drawing a little nearer, andspeaking with real interest.
"The doctor says she will, if so be she keeps quiet a bit longer, andhas lots of nourishing things," replied the boy.
"Why doesn't she have them, then?" asked Philippa.
The boy cast down his eyes. "Well, you see, miss, up to now things hasbeen a bit orkerd. Father didn't always bring home much, and I was atschool. But that'll be different now, and I expect we'll get alongfine."
At this moment Miss Mervyn appeared from the house. She carriedPhilippa's broad hat, a parasol, and a small knitted shawl, and camehastening up rather breathless.
"My dear child," she exclaimed, "no hat, nothing to shield you from thesun, and nothing over your shoulders! You will most certainly be ill!"She put the hat on Philippa's head, and the shawl round her neck, as shespoke. "Your tea is ready," she continued, with a puzzled glance at theboy, who had fallen busily to work again.
Philippa made no other answer than a sharp backward drive with herelbow, which nearly hit Miss Mervyn in the face as she stooped anxiouslyover her. Then she continued hurriedly to the boy:
"What's your name, and where do you live in Upwell? I mean to go andsee your sister, and take her some nourishing things."
"Thank you, miss," murmured the boy shyly; "my name's Dan Tuvvy, and welive at Number 10 Market Street."
"Then," said Philippa, "it's your father, I suppose, that works for MrSolace?"
Dan nodded.
"And it was my cousin Dennis," continued Philippa, with a superior air,"who was so very good to him, you know, and took so much trouble topersuade Mr Solace not to turn him away. You ought to be very grateful,you know, to my cousin Dennis."
Dan, who had not once looked up since Miss Mervyn's appearance, nowseemed suddenly startled out of his shyness. He raised a face soglowing with pleasure and affection at the mention of Dennis's name,that he was almost like another boy.
"Well, we are, miss," he said earnestly, "just about--Becky, and me, andmother too," he added, as an after-thought. "We'd do anything forMaster Dennis. And I'm pleased to hear, miss, as how you're his cousin,because p'r'aps you'll tell him so."
His dark eyes brightened as he spoke, and his cheeks flushed. Philippa,surprised at the sudden change, stood looking at him silently for aminute. How fond every one is of Dennis! she thought.
"I'll tell him what you say when I see him again," she said; "and youmust remember to tell your sister that I'm coming to see her, and bringher some nourishing things."
"Thank you, miss," said Dan, dropping into his old shy manner again, ashe touched his cap and bent over his weeding. He did not seem overcomewith pleasure at the idea of Philippa's visit, and she felt a littledisappointed, but she had been interested in his talk; and as she wentback to the house with Miss Mervyn, her mind was so full of it, that shefelt obliged to tell her all about Tuvvy and Dennis, and her own plansfor Becky's benefit. Miss Mervyn listened attentively, and though shewas not equal to Maisie and Dennis as a companion, Philippa wassurprised to find how well she entered into the matter, and what goodsuggestions she could make. During tea-time, which passed much morepleasantly than usual, she found a great many questions to ask.
"Why do you suppose Dan looked so very pleased when I talked aboutDennis?" she inquired.
"I suppose because he is a grateful little boy," answered Miss Mervyn.
"Do people aways look like that when they are grateful?" said Philippa."Will his sister look like that when I take her the nourishing things?"
"Perhaps she will," said Miss Mervyn; "but, my dear Philippa, it is notonly giving people things that makes them grateful."
"What does, then?" asked Philippa, with a stare of surprise.
"Well, I think kindness and love make people more grateful than richgifts. Your cousin Dennis liked Tuvvy, and took a great deal of troublefor him. That was better than giving him a great deal of money."
Philippa thought this over a little.
"But," she said at length, "I can't possibly like Dan's sister Beckyyet, you know, because I've never seen her."
"Meanwhile, then," said Miss Mervyn, "you can try to be grateful to allthe people you have seen and love, and who do so much for you every day.Perhaps if you see Becky, you will like her too, and then you will beso glad to make her happy, that you will not stop to think whether sheis grateful or not."
"What should you think," pursued Philippa, "are the most nourishingthings of all?"
Miss Mervyn bent her mind anxiously on the subject, and finally decidedin favour of milk, eggs, and beef-tea.
"But," objected Philippa, "they're all nasty, except eggs. Can't shehave something nice? Jelly and tarts, and roast chickens?"
"Suppose," said Miss Mervyn, "we write out a list of things, and thenyou can show it to your mother this evening, and hear what she thinks."
That seemed a good plan to Philippa, and she was soon so absorbed inwriting down desirable delicacies, that she would hardly consent to bedressed when the hour came for her to go to Mrs Trevor. Ready at last,she flew down-stairs in high spirits with the list in her hand, and atonce burst into the story, jumbling up Becky, Dennis, Dan, and Tuvvy thewhe
elwright in such a manner that her mother gazed at her distractedly.Philippa was too excited to make things very clear, but at last MrsTrevor gathered that for some reason or other she wished to go and seethe sister of the boy who worked in the garden.
"And I want to take her these," added Philippa, thrusting a longscrawled list before her mother's eyes.
Mrs Trevor raised her eye-glasses and looked at it in despair.
"Why, my darling?" she inquired feebly.
"She's ill," answered Philippa. "May Mrs Bunce pack them in a basket?"
"Certainly, you may send them to the little girl if you wish, my dear,and it's very sweet of you to think of it. But I couldn't let you gointo a dirty cottage and see sick people, you know. You might catch allsorts of complaints."
And to this, in spite of Philippa's angry arguments, Mrs Trevor remainedfirm. It did not matter, she said, what Dennis and Maisie were allowedto do at Fieldside, or how many poor people they went to see there. Shedid not choose Philippa to have anything to do with sick people inUpwell, and she could not listen to any more on the subject.
Philippa flew out of the room with her eyes full of tears, and her listcrumpled up in her hand, cast herself upon Miss Mervyn's neck, and toldher all this as well as she could for her sobs.
Miss Mervyn listened with sympathy.
"Did your mother say why she did not wish you to go?" she askedpresently.
"Because," said Philippa with difficulty, "she says I should catchcomplaints. Dennis and Maisie don't catch complaints."
"Would you like me to go and hear what Mrs Trevor says?" suggested MissMervyn kindly. "Perhaps I could explain things to her better; but youmust promise to be good and patient if your mother does not alter hermind."
"I promise, I promise," said Philippa eagerly. "And if you willpersuade her, I will never, never be naughty again, and I will love youalways."
Miss Mervyn shook her head rather sadly. "Don't promise too much," shesaid, as she left the room.
She had a difficult task before her, but she was so sincerely anxious tohelp Philippa, that she was at last able to put the matter before MrsTrevor in a way which overcame her objections.
To begin with, it was a really good thing for Philippa to take aninterest in something outside herself. Already, since she had this planin her mind, she was more cheerful and contented. Then the little girlshe wished to see was not ill of any complaint which Philippa couldpossibly catch, but had only strained her back. Then it would be quitepossible to ascertain whether the Tuvvys were decent people, and theircottage fit for Philippa to enter. Miss Mervyn herself would go firstand observe everything carefully. And finally, the child had so set herheart on making this visit, that it would be unwise to oppose it unlessabsolutely necessary. At length, therefore, she returned to theschoolroom, where she found Philippa curled up disconsolately in thedepths of an armchair.
"Well," she exclaimed, springing up, "may I go?" Then as she saw MissMervyn smile, she flung her arms suddenly round her neck. "You'retremendously kind," she said; "and now you'll see how good I'll bealways, and always, and always."
Miss Mervyn smiled still more. "That's a very long time, my dearPhilippa," she said; "but at any rate you know now what it is to feelgrateful, don't you? But you haven't thanked your mother yet. Rundown-stairs and tell her how pleased you are."
Philippa's first impulse was, as usual, to refuse to do what she wastold, but this evening she felt quite a new wish to please Miss Mervyn,and obeyed silently.