When Mrs. Lovel spoke to Phil with such passion and bitterness, and
when, abruptly leaving the tower bedroom and slamming the door violently
after her, the little boy found himself alone, he was conscious of a
curious half-stunned feeling. His mother had said that she scarcely
loved him. All his small life he had done everything for his mother; he
had subdued himself for her sake; he had crushed down his love and his
hope and his longing just to help her. What did he care for wealth, or
for a grand place, or for anything in all the wide world, in comparison
with the sweetness of Rupert's smile, in comparison with the old happy
days in Belmont and of the old life, when he might be a boy with aches
and pains if he liked, when he need not pretend to be possessed of the
robust health which he never felt, when he need carry no wearisome
secrets about with him? His mother had said, "I scarcely love you,
Phil," and she had gone away angry; she had gone away with defiance in
her look and manner, and yet with despair in her heart. Phil had guessed
that she was despairing, for he knew her well, and this knowledge soon
made his brief anger take the form of pity.
"Poor mother! poor darling mother!" he murmured. "I did not know she
would mind my taking out the old Belmont tankard. I am awfully sorry. I
suppose it was quite careless of me. I did not know that mother cared
for the tankard; but I suppose Gabrielle must have given it to her, and
I suppose she must love Gabrielle a little. That is nice of her; that is
very nice. I wish I could get the tankard back for her. I wonder where I
did leave it. I do wish very much that I could find it again."
Phil now turned and walked to the window and looked out. It was a
delicious spring day, and the soft air fanned his cheeks and brought
some faint color to them.
"I know what I'll do," he said to himself. "I'll go once again into the
forest--I'm not likely to get lost a second time--and I'll look for the
tankard. Of course I may find it, and then mother will be happy again.
Oh, dear, to think Rupert is in England! How happy his letter would have
made me but for mother, and--hullo! is that you, Kitty?"
"Yes; come down," called out Kitty from the lawn in front of the house.
"I've been watching you with Aunt Griselda's spy-glasses for the last
couple of minutes, and you do look solemn."
"I'm coming," Phil called back.
He thrust his beloved letter into one of his pockets, and a moment later
joined his two cousins on the lawn.
"You have been a time," said Kitty, "and we have got some wonderful and
quite exciting news to tell you--haven't we, Rachel?"
"You find it exciting, Kitty," said Rachel in an almost nonchalant
voice, "but I dare say Phil will agree with me that it's almost a bore."
"What is it?" said Phil.
"Oh, only this--the Marmadukes are coming to-morrow to stay for ten
days."
"The Marmadukes! Who are they?" asked Phil.
"Oh, some children from London. They are our relations--at least, so Aunt
Griselda says; and she thinks it will be nice for us to know them.
Anyhow, they're coming--two boys and two girls, and a father and a
mother, and a lady's-maid, and a pug dog, and a parrot. Aunt Grizel is
so angry about the pug and the parrot; she wanted to write and tell them
all that they couldn't come, and then Aunt Katharine cried and there was
a fuss. It seems they're more Aunt Katharine's friends than Aunt
Grizel's. Anyhow, they're coming, and the pug and the parrot are to stay
in Newbolt's room all the time; so don't you ask to see them, Phil, or
you'll get into hot water. The best of it is that while they're here we
are all to have holidays, and we can go a great deal into the forest and
have picnics if the weather keeps fine. And in the evening Aunt Grizel
says she will have the armory lighted, and we children may play there
and have charades and tableaux and anything we fancy. Oh, I call it
great, splendid fun!" said Kitty, ending with a caper.
Rachel's very dark eyes had brightened when Kitty spoke about the
tableaux and the charades.
"It all depends on what kind of children the Marmadukes are," she said;
and then she took Phil's hand and walked across the lawn with him.
She had a fellow-feeling for Phil just at present, for he and she shared
a secret; and she noticed as he stood by Kitty's side that his laugh was
a little forced and that there were very dark lines under his eyes.
"You're tired--aren't you, Phil?" she said.
"I?" asked the little boy, looking up with almost alarm in his face.
"Oh, please don't say that, Rachel."
"Why shouldn't I say it? Any one to look at you could see you are tired,
and I'm sure I don't wonder, after being so ill last night. Go in and
lie down if you like, Phil, and I'll pretend to Aunt Grizel that you are
half a mile away in the forest climbing trees and doing all kinds of
impossible things."
"I do want to go into the forest," said Phil, "but I won't go to-day,
Rachel. You were very kind to me last night. I love you for being so
kind."
"Oh, it wasn't exactly kindness," said Rachel. "I came to you because I
was curious, you know."
"Yes; but you were kind, all the same. Do you think, Rachel, we shall
often go into the forest and go a long, long way when the Marmadukes are
here?"
"Yes, I suppose so. It depends upon the weather, of course, and what
kind of children they are. They may be such puny little Londoners that
they may not be able to walk a dozen steps. Why do you want to know,
Phil? You look quite excited."
"We have a secret between us--haven't we, Rachel?"
It was Rachel's turn now to color and look eager.
"Yes," she said; "oh, yes."
"Some day," whispered Phil--"some day, when the Marmadukes are here, we
might go near the lady's house--might we not?"
Rachel caught the boy's arm with a strong convulsive grasp.
"If we might!" she said. "If we only dared! And you and I, Phil, might
steal away from the others, and go close to the lady's house, and watch
until she came out. And we might see her--oh! we might see her, even if
we did not dare to speak."
"I want to go," said Phil--"I want to go to that house again, although it
is not because I want to see the lady. It is a secret; all my life is
made up of secrets. But I will go if--if I have a chance. And if you see
me stealing away by myself you will help me--won't you, Rachel?"
"Trust me," said Rachel, with enthusiasm. "Oh, what a dear boy you are,
Phil! I can scarcely believe when I talk to you that you are only eight
years old; you seem more like my own age. To be only eight is very
young, you know."
"I have had a grave sort of life," said Phil, with a hastily suppressed
sigh, "and I suppose having a great many secrets to keep does make a boy
seem old."