Chapter Eleven.
Philippa makes a Discovery.
When Philippa, looking back from her seat in the carriage by Mrs Trevor’s side, could no longer see Dennis and Maisie making signs of farewell, she leaned back with a pout of discontent. Her visit to Fieldside was over, and she had been so happy, that it seemed flat and dull 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 at all the familiar places they passed. At the post-office, where her cousins had taken her to fetch the afternoon letters and buy bull’s-eyes; at the cottage, where the old woman lived who had the immense yellow cat; at the blacksmith’s, who was shoeing Dr Price’s grey horse; and at the school-house, where the chubby-faced boys and girls were just pouring out into the road.
Farther on, she could see in the distance the gables and outbuildings of the Manor Farm, and the deep thatched roof of old Sally’s cottage, from which a thin thread of smoke was rising. She was sorry to leave all these friendly things, and there seemed nothing to look forward to at Haughton Park, except perhaps the white kitten. She began to wonder how it was, and whether it had missed her, and remembering Maisie’s advice, she determined that she would try to improve its behaviour, and make it into a really good cat. Her first question, therefore, when she arrived was, “Where’s Blanche?” and she looked impatiently at her mother for the answer, for Mrs Trevor hesitated.
“The kitten, my darling?” she said rather nervously; “the kitten’s in the stable, I think. I told Thomas to take great care of it.”
Philippa, who was on her way up-stairs, turned round and faced her mother defiantly.
“Why is it in the stable?” she asked. “Who sent it there? It must come back directly.”
“My sweet Philippa,” said Mrs Trevor in a soothing voice, “do listen to me a moment; the kitten is a naughty little mischievous thing, and I cannot put up with it in the house any longer. I will just tell you why. You know my new velvet mantle which has just come down from London? The other day Briggs found the kitten lying in the very middle of it on my bed! Its paws were muddy, its hairs came off and stuck to the velvet, and I doubt if the mantle will ever be the same. Now, my darling, don’t agitate yourself. It will be quite happy in the stable, and we shall be much more comfortable without it indoors. If anything’s broken or goes wrong, I’m always told it is ‘Miss Philippa’s kitten,’ and I’m tired to death of it.”
Mrs Trevor paused and looked appealingly at her daughter, who only stamped 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 ornament to the house, and worth a great deal more than a silly white kitten.—Where are you going, my love?”—for Philippa had suddenly rushed back through the hall and out of the front door. In a short time she reappeared with the kitten hugged up to her breast, passed her mother without a word, went straight into the schoolroom and shut the door very loud. Mrs Trevor looked after her with a sigh of despair, but as usual made no further attempt to oppose her, and Philippa was left to amuse herself with her kitten as she liked.
But it was not nearly so easy, she said to herself, to find amusement at Haughton as it had been at Fieldside. There she had never known what it was to be dull and cross; here she felt both, as she looked round the empty schoolroom with the white kitten tucked under one arm. The room had a prim, precise air, with all the books and toys carefully arranged on the shelves, the musical box in its shining case on its own particular table, and nothing left lying about. Philippa pursed up her lips discontentedly. How different it was to the pleasant noise and bustle, and all the little daily excitements of Fieldside! How dull it was! How sorry she was to come back to it! She let the kitten drop listlessly, and stood regarding her playthings and treasures with gloomy dislike. Not one of them pleased her, not even her last new possession, the musical box. The kitten seemed to share her mood, for she walked restlessly 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 hardly deigned to turn her head towards it.
“How stupid you are!” exclaimed her mistress angrily, as she thought of Darkie’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 me either.”
Blanche continued to stroll uneasily round the room as though in search of something, and took no notice of the ball, even when it was rolled right 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 round close to the kitten. Formerly it had been a never-failing excitement, but now, to Philippa’s surprise and vexation, Blanche sat perfectly unmoved before it, and did not lift a paw. Perhaps during her short visit to the stable she had become acquainted with real mice, for after giving one slight sniff at the imitation one, she rose and walked away with a high and scornful step.
“Well, I’m sure!” exclaimed Philippa. She stood gazing at the kitten as though she could hardly believe what she had seen, then turned and flung herself moodily into the window-seat. Everything at Haughton, even the kitten, was tiresome, and disagreeable, and dreadfully dull.
“You’re not a bit of comfort,” she said to Blanche, who was now mewing at the door to be let out, “and if they send you to the stable again, I shan’t fetch you back. I believe you’re just fit for a low, mean stable-cat. So there!”
It was some relief to hurl this insult, but it hurt Philippa a great deal more than the cat, and her eyes filled with tears as she turned her head and looked out into the garden. Here again the contrast to Fieldside struck her. Broad gravelled terraces, flights of stone steps, masses of brilliant flower-beds; and beyond, the wide green spaces of the park, with its groups of trees all standing in exactly the right places, well ordered, stately, correct, as though the very shrubs and plants had been trained to hold themselves with propriety.
At Fieldside you could not look for a minute out of the schoolroom window without seeing something alive. Cows strolling across the meadow; Aunt Katharine’s chickens venturing into the garden, and driven out by Peter, cackling and shrieking; companies of busy starlings working away on the lawn; it was all lively and cheerful, though Mrs Trevor always said it was “buried in the country.” Haughton Park was considered a “beautiful place,” and Philippa was used to hearing it spoken of as such, but just now she decided in her own mind that it was not to be compared to Fieldside. As she sat gloomily gazing out of the window, her eye was caught by something which she had not noticed before, and which she began to observe with some interest. It was nothing more remarkable than the figure of a boy in a ragged jacket, who knelt on the garden path below, weeding. Philippa studied him attentively.
He was small and thin, just about Dennis’s age, and he was certainly poor, for his clothes were old and shabby. Who was he? If he were a boy in the garden at Fieldside, she went on to reflect, Dennis and Maisie would know his name, and where he lived, and how many brothers and sisters he had, and what his father earned a week, and how long he had left school. Why should she not make these inquiries, and afterwards, perhaps, she could give him some new clothes, and some money to buy sweets. Then he would be grateful, as Tuvvy was to Dennis, and be willing to do all sorts of things for her. Suddenly, fired by this resolve, she jumped off the window-seat, intent on running down into the garden, when Miss Mervyn came into the room.
“Well, my dear Philippa,” she said kindly, “have you enjoyed your visit?”
“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, “you mustn’t say that, with all these things to amuse you. Have you wound up the musical box?”
“I don’t care for it,” said Philippa, with as much disdain as the kitten had shown for the clockwork mouse.
Miss Mervyn’s glance fell upon Blanche, who was washing her face delicately 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 Philippa decidedly. “She wasn’t a bit pleased, and I believe she’d rather go back to the stable.”
“Well, to be sure, it is the proper place for her, isn’t it?” agreed Miss Mervyn, with a look of relief; “and I daresay she’s really happier there.”
“But, all the same, I don’t mean to let her go,” added Philippa; “I shall keep her with me more than ever, and teach her to be very fond of me.”
“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 she ran down-stairs as fast as she could. Her mind was so set upon doing good to the poor boy in the garden, that it did not once strike her that there was some one nearer home to whom she ought to be kind. Poor Miss Mervyn! How often Philippa worried her with her whims and naughtiness, and yet how patient and good she was! But that seemed natural to Philippa. It would have been quite as strange for Miss Mervyn to be cross and selfish, as for Blanche the kitten to be meek and well-behaved.
When Philippa reached the spot where the boy knelt, hard at work, she came to a standstill, and hardly knew how to begin the conversation. It would have been easier if he had looked up, or seemed aware of her presence; but his whole attention was so fixed on getting out the weeds with 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 much taller and bigger than Philippa herself but it seemed right to her to call 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 here long.”
Philippa looked down at him, wondering what she should say next.
“Are you,” she began hesitatingly, after a moment’s pause—“are you very poor?”
The boy seemed a little puzzled. He sat back on his heels, and scraped the gravel thoughtfully from the blade of his knife.
“We ain’t near so bad off as some in Upwell,” he said at last; “but we could 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, and why is she bad?”
“She’s my sister, miss,” answered the boy, “and she’s had a fall and hurted 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, and speaking with real interest.
“The doctor says she will, if so be she keeps quiet a bit longer, and has 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 has been a bit orkerd. Father didn’t always bring home much, and I was at school. But that’ll be different now, and I expect we’ll get along fine.”
At this moment Miss Mervyn appeared from the house. She carried Philippa’s broad hat, a parasol, and a small knitted shawl, and came hastening up rather breathless.
“My dear child,” she exclaimed, “no hat, nothing to shield you from the sun, 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 she spoke. “Your tea is ready,” she continued, with a puzzled glance at the boy, who had fallen busily to work again.
Philippa made no other answer than a sharp backward drive with her elbow, which nearly hit Miss Mervyn in the face as she stooped anxiously over her. Then she continued hurriedly to the boy:
“What’s your name, and where do you live in Upwell? I mean to go and see your sister, and take her some nourishing things.”
“Thank you, miss,” murmured the boy shyly; “my name’s Dan Tuvvy, and we live at Number 10 Market Street.”
“Then,” said Philippa, “it’s your father, I suppose, that works for Mr Solace?”
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 to persuade 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, now seemed suddenly startled out of his shyness. He raised a face so glowing 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, and mother too,” he added, as an after-thought. “We’d do anything for Master 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 a minute. How fond every one is of Dennis! she thought.
“I’ll tell him what you say when I see him again,” she said; “and you must remember to tell your sister that I’m coming to see her, and bring her some nourishing things.”
“Thank you, miss,” said Dan, dropping into his old shy manner again, as he touched his cap and bent over his weeding. He did not seem overcome with pleasure at the idea of Philippa’s visit, and she felt a little disappointed, but she had been interested in his talk; and as she went back to the house with Miss Mervyn, her mind was so full of it, that she felt obliged to tell her all about Tuvvy and Dennis, and her own plans for Becky’s benefit. Miss Mervyn listened attentively, and though she was not equal to Maisie and Dennis as a companion, Philippa was surprised to find how well she entered into the matter, and what good suggestions she could make. During tea-time, which passed much more pleasantly than usual, she found a great many questions to ask.
“Why do you suppose Dan looked so very pleased when I talked about Dennis?” 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 not only 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 rich gifts. Your cousin Dennis liked Tuvvy, and took a great deal of trouble for 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 Becky yet, you know, because I’ve never seen her.”
“Meanwhile, then,” said Miss Mervyn, “you can try to be grateful to all the 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 be so glad to make her happy, that you will not stop to think whether she is grateful or not.”
“What should you think,” pursued Philippa, “are the most nourishing things of all?”
Miss Mervyn bent her mind anxiously on the subject, and finally decided in favour of milk, eggs, and beef-tea.
“But,” objected Philippa, “they’re all nasty, except eggs. Can’t she have something nice? Jelly and tarts, and roast chickens?”
“Suppose,” said Miss Mervyn, “we write out a list of things, and then you 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 in writing down desirable delicacies, that she would hardly consent to be dressed 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 at once burst into the story, jumbling up Becky, Dennis, Dan, and Tuvvy the wheelwright in such a manner that her mother gazed at her distractedly. Philippa was too excited to make things very clear, but at last Mrs Trevor gathered that for some reason or other she wished to go and see the sister of the boy who worked in the garden.
“And I want to take her these,” added Philippa, thrusting a long scrawled 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 go into a dirty cottage and see sick people, you know. You might catch all sorts of complaints.”
And to this, in spite of Philippa’s angry arguments, Mrs Trevor remained firm. It did not matter, she said, what Dennis and Maisie were allowed to do at Fieldside, or how many poor people they went to see there. She did not choose Philippa to have anything to do with sick people in Upwell, 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 list crumpled up in her hand, cast herself upon Miss Mervyn’s neck, and told her 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 asked presently.
“Because,” said Philippa with difficulty, “she says I should catch complaints. Dennis and Maisie don’t catch complaints.”
“Would you like me to go and hear what Mrs Trevor says?” suggested Miss Mervyn kindly. “Perhaps I could explain things to her better; but you must promise to be good and patient if your mother does not alter her mind.”
“I promise, I promise,” said Philippa eagerly. “And if you will persuade her, I will never, never be naughty again, and I will love you always.”
Miss Mervyn shook her head rather sadly. “Don’t promise too much,” she said, as she left the room.
She had a difficult task before her, but she was so sincerely anxious to help Philippa, that she was at last able to put the matter before Mrs Trevor in a way which overcame her objections.
To begin with, it was a really good thing for Philippa to take an interest in something outside herself. Already, since she had this plan in her mind, she was more cheerful and contented. Then the little girl she wished to see was not ill of any complaint which Philippa could possibly catch, but had only strained her back. Then it would be quite possible to ascertain whether the Tuvvys were decent people, and their cottage fit for Philippa to enter. Miss Mervyn herself would go first and observe everything carefully. And finally, the child had so set her heart on making this visit, that it would be unwise to oppose it unless absolutely necessary. At length, therefore, she returned to the schoolroom, where she found Philippa curled up disconsolately in the depths of an armchair.
“Well,” she exclaimed, springing up, “may I go?” Then as she saw Miss Mervyn smile, she flung her arms suddenly round her neck. “You’re tremendously kind,” she said; “and now you’ll see how good I’ll be always, and always, and always.”
Miss Mervyn smiled still more. “That’s a very long time, my dear Philippa,” she said; “but at any rate you know now what it is to feel grateful, don’t you? But you haven’t thanked your mother yet. Run down-stairs and tell her how pleased you are.”
Philippa’s first impulse was, as usual, to refuse to do what she was told, but this evening she felt quite a new wish to please Miss Mervyn, and obeyed silently.