Chapter X
Aunt Delia’s Secret
ONE year made a great change in Philip. He worked at his lessons with gentle Miss Acton with such ambitious ardor that the old rector and Aunt Delia feared for his health; but they need not have been anxious, for wholesome food, regular habits, and, above all, a life upon earth instead of down under-ground was building up the boy’s health, and bringing a sparkle to his eyes and color to his pale cheeks that sometimes reminded them of his father long ago, in his happy boyhood. The first Philip had been a merry, frolicsome boy, whose pranks were the torment and delight of the household; but the little son who had never known him was so quiet that had it not been for his music his presence would hardly have been felt in the house. His quiet was not quite to be called sadness, for he was not unhappy; but the forced repression of his early life and the shock of his mother’s dreadful death had left an ineffaceable impression upon his character. Perhaps in time he might have outgrown this tinge of melancholy if he had been thrown into the society of other boys, but the entirely tranquil and eventless life he lived at the rectory with the old couple and his governess only served to confirm it.
They were all such quiet people that they never thought of its being strange or unnatural that a child should take his pleasure in the pursuits that pleased them, and not in the boisterous plays that boys delight in. He never seemed morbid, but was constantly occupied with his books or music, and always contented. His utter unselfishness and sweet gentleness endeared him to every one, and there was not a servant on the place who did not adore him. Old Peter would have laid down his life for the boy whose father he had loved so fondly; and long talks the pair often had of the days when the old man was chief counsellor in the “muddles,” as he called them, that the boys’ high spirits used to lead them into. “The boys” being Philip’s father and uncle, the subject was of such inexhaustible interest that whenever the lad was missing Miss Acton always came to Peter’s realm, the butler’s room, to find him.
“But, deary me!” the old man used to say to himself sometimes, with a troubled expression, when Philip had been with him; “where-a-way is the life of him? Them ones had life in ’em that ’ud make ’em pull the thatch off a cottage if the notion took ’em. They wouldn’t ’ave stopped for man nor mortal, them lads wouldn’t, but this little lad’s so still in his ways that I’m thinking he’s gotten some hurt to his insides that no one’s knowing. It’s no so strange if the blow that killed the mother did somewhat ill to the bairn, so I’m fearin’ this world won’t keep him in it for long.”
But in spite of Peter’s gloomy forebodings Philip grew strong and well, and kept on the very even tenor of his way till the summer came around again and the inmates of the rectory were expecting the return of Dr. Norton and his family.
The rector always grew young again when a visit from his nephew was impending, and Aunt Delia, who had ever looked forward with delight to the pleasure of having her children with her, now had a double happiness in the anticipation of their pleasure and surprise in finding her darling Philip so improved in health, and every other way, as he seemed to her loving eyes. The joyful expectations of the old couple were therefore unmixed with any discomfort; but Philip and Miss Acton were by no means rapturous in regard to the coming visitors. The latter, through her distressing timidity, shrank from strangers at all times, and the former, for reasons which he could hardly have explained, dreaded seeing his cousins again.
They arrived late one evening, and in the unusual chatter and confusion of tongues that prevailed till his bedtime came, Philip had hardly time to remember his misgivings, and even Miss Acton found the ordeal not half so dreadful as she had feared, every one was so good-natured and genial. Marion had not come with them, having been allowed to accept an invitation to spend the summer in the Highlands with a cousin of her mother’s. Philip’s admiration and dread of his cousin were so mingled that he was not quite certain whether her absence was a relief or a disappointment, but meeting his cousin Lillie was an unmixed delight. Evidently she had looked forward with pleasure to seeing him again, for after her fond greetings to her aunt and uncle she immediately asked for him, and he was not allowed to remain in the background. Aunt Grace, too, embraced him, and Dr. Norton, with loving affection, took him to his arms, with a tenderness in the tone with which he said, “My dear boy,” that made Philip feel as if he would like to stay by his side forever.
Rose was cordial too, although it is quite probable that had Marion been present and chosen to exhibit a distant and haughty manner to her cousin, Rose, who was her echo, would have been chilling and disdainful too.