“It is only poor, dear Phil who is looking pale,” Evelyn went on, leaning forward to kiss her sister as she spoke. They were close to their own gate by this time. “Mother, dearest,” she added, coaxingly, “I can’t tell you all she has been to me, nor how beautifully she managed everything. You—you and father aren’t angry with her? It was all out of devotion, and after all, my allowing it puts quite half the blame on to me. For that morning, when she came into the railway carriage, I was feeling so ill and weak and frightened. I was, in spite of all, so thankful to see her, that at the bottom of my heart I could not send her away. Mamma, dear, don’t be vexed with her.”
The tears were coursing each other down Philippa’s pale cheeks by this time—some were trembling too on Evelyn’s pretty eyelashes. Mrs Raynsworth was already softened. The sight of the two, the one so bright and invigorated, the other so timid and evidently apprehensive of what was in store for her, had already done its work.
“My poor, dear child,” she said, gently, as she held out her hand to her younger daughter; and Philippa felt herself forgiven. “I can only hope,” she said, “earnestly hope that no harm will ever come of it. I am quite sure I need not warn you never to do such a thing again.”
Philippa shook her head; she could not speak.
“We need never allude to it,” Mrs Raynsworth added. “Only Dorcas knows, and she will take care that no one ever hears of it. I cannot imagine,”—for after all it was impossible not to feel some curiosity as to how the extraordinary little drama had been carried out—“I cannot imagine how you managed it. But I daresay we had better try to forget about it and never mention it again. Your father—”
“Oh! there he is,” exclaimed Evelyn, “coming down the drive to meet us. And, yes, he has got Bonny with him. How sweet of him! Phil, do look at them—”
Chapter Fourteen.
Charley’s plan.
But as for “never mentioning it again?”
Before Philippa fell asleep that night, her mother was in possession of every detail of all that had happened since they parted. More, far more of course than Evelyn knew, or ever would know. The younger sister was not one to do things by halves, and when she gave her confidence it was completely given. She had confided in her mother all her life, and the longing to do so now, even at the risk of causing Mrs Raynsworth increased pain and mortification, was irresistible.
And it was far better so.