NEWS FROM PHILIPPA.
[Illustration: Decorative T]
he next two or three days passed most pleasantly. The weather, as if to
make up for its bad behaviour on the day of their journey, was
particularly fine, and the children were out from morning till night.
Old Martha thought privately to herself that it was a good thing the
neighbours were so kind, for they were even 'better than their word,' in
sending all sorts of good things to Ty-gwyn for the Captain's children,
as Neville and Kathleen's appetites, thanks to the change of air and the
sea breezes, were really rather alarming. And Miss Clotilda was so
perfectly happy to see them both so bright and well, that she tried to
banish all painful thoughts as much as she could.
Still they were _there_; and when the poor lady was alone in her room at
night, it was often more than she could do to restrain her tears. For
the happier the children were, the more she learned to love them, the
more bitterly, as was natural, did she feel the disappointment of not
being able to hope to see much more of them. But she said little or
nothing of her feelings, and the children--Kathie especially--little
suspected their depth. Kathie was living entirely in the present; she
but rarely gave a thought to the ideas Philippa had suggested. And
Neville, though less carelessly light-hearted and forgetful, was slower
both of thought and speech. He could see nothing to be done, and for
some time he rather shrank from coming upon the subject with his aunt.
It came to be spoken of at last, however, and this was how it happened.
One morning, about the fourth or fifth of their visit, old John Parry,
with a great air of importance, as if he were doing her a special
service, handed to Kathleen a rather fat letter, addressed to herself.
'You see, miss, to be sure I never make no mistakes,' he said.
For he was quite aware that Miss Clotilda still in her heart, somehow or
other, associated him with the mysterious loss of Neville's letter, and
he wished to keep up his dignity in the eyes of the stranger young lady.
'Oh yes, thank you,' said Kathie, not quite knowing what else to say.
For in London one's personal acquaintance with the postman--or
post_men_, rather--is necessarily of the slightest.
'What a comical old fellow he is!' she said to herself, as she ran off.
'I daresay he did lose the letter, after all. How amused Phil would be
at the people here, and the funny way they talk! Dear old Phil! I wonder
what she has got to say, and what she has written such a long letter
about?' For the moment she got it in her hand she recognised little
Philippa's careful, childish handwriting on the envelope.
'Aren't you coming out, Kathie?' Neville called out from some mysterious
depths, where he was absorbed in arranging his fishing-tackle.
'Not yet. I've got a long letter from Philippa. You'll find me in the
library if you look in in a few minutes.'
[Illustration]
And in a comfortable corner of the deep window seat Kathie established
herself to enjoy Philippa's budget. It was in the library that Miss
Clotilda and the children spent most of their time. The drawing-room was
a more formal and less cosy room, and the library gave old Martha less
to do in the way of dusting and daily putting to rights. It was a dear
old room, filled with books from floor to ceiling, many of them
doubtless of little value, others probably of great worth in a
connoisseur's eyes--had connoisseurs ever come to Ty-gwyn--for all were
old, very old.
'How Philippa would like this room!' thought Kathie to herself. 'Phil is
like Neville; she's far more sentimental and poetical, and all that sort
of thing, than I am. I do hope she's enjoying her holidays.'
She opened the envelope as she spoke. Out tumbled another letter,
closed, addressed, and stamped, but which had evidently never been
through the post. It was Neville's letter to Miss Clotilda!
'Oh!' Kathie ejaculated.
Then she turned to Philippa's own letter. It was dated, 'Cheltenham,'
and she began, child fashion, by telling that she had got there safe,
and she hoped Kathleen and her brother had got to Ty-gwyn safe, and that
they were both quite well. Then she went on with rather doleful news.
Her poor grandmother was ill; she had been taken ill the very night
Philippa came, and though she was a little better the doctor said she
would not be well for a long time, and she was to go away somewhere for
change of air. Philippa was not allowed to see her, and her uncle did
not know what to do, but he had told Philippa he was afraid she would
have to go back to school, and stay there for the rest of the holidays.
'Uncle is kind, but he doesn't know how awful it will be,'
wrote the poor little girl;
'and I don't like to tell him, because he is so troubled about
grandmamma. It is most because you won't be there, dear Kathie.
That Wednesday was as long as a week, when you had gone. I am
afraid I am to go in three or four days. Uncle will take me. Do
write quick to poor little Phil, _and don't' forget your
promise_.'
Then came a postscript, Philippa having evidently been too absorbed by
her own woes to think of anything else while she was writing the letter.
'I found this letter in your old serge frock pocket--the one that
was too shabby to take with you. I meant to send it to you before,
but I wasn't sure how to write the address; you wrote it on such a
scrap of paper. I will keep this till to-night, and ask uncle to
help me. I hope it won't matter, for as you are there your aunt
won't need letters from you. I was feeling in your pocket for my
new bit of india-rubber that I lent you, but it wasn't there.'
Kathie sat quite still for a minute or two after reading all this. Then
she took up Neville's letter and looked at it vaguely.
'Yes,' she said to herself, 'I must have slipped it into my pocket,
meaning to have it posted with my own note to Neville. How careless of
me! and to think how I went on about aunty not meeting us at the
station.'
It was a good lesson for Kathie. The softening process had begun, and
she was already ashamed to remember the way in which she had spoken of
Miss Clotilda. And she was not a little mortified at now finding that
she, and she alone, had been to blame. But Kathleen was courageous and
honest. After a moment or two's hesitation, she got up and marched off,
letters in hand, to the dining-room, where she knew she should find her
aunt at that time of day.
[Illustration: 'LOOK, IT'S NEVER BEEN POSTED AT ALL!']
'Aunty,' she said, and Miss Clotilda looked up from the fine old damask
tablecloth she was carefully darning--she prided herself on her darning,
and though the table-linen, as well as everything else, was Mr.
Wynne-Carr's now, she would not on that account relax in her
carefulness--'Aunty, I've got something to tell you. It wasn't old John
Parry's fault about that letter, nor anybody's but mine. Look,' and she
held it up, 'it's never been posted at all;' and she went on to explain
to Miss Clotilda how it had been found. 'I am so sorry,' she said at the
end.
Just then Neville came in. 'I have been looking everywhere for you,
Kathie,' he said; and then the story had to be told to him again.
'I am sorry,' Kathie repeated, 'and ashamed,' she added, in a lower
voice, and Neville saw that the tears were quivering on her eyelids. He
understood.
'Poor dear child,' said Miss Clotilda, 'you shouldn't take it to heart
so. It'll be a little lesson to you to be more careful about such
things; will it not, dear?'
'Yes, indeed,' said Kathleen. She could not tell her kind aunt why she
felt it so much--it would have been wrong to pain her by repeating the
naughty, foolish things she had said of her--and this in itself made the
impression still deeper.
'And the little girl--your friend who has written to you--is she not the
same one you were speaking of the other day?' asked Miss Clotilda, to
change the subject.
'Yes, aunty; and oh, I am so sorry for her! May I tell you what she
says?' And Kathie read aloud Philippa's letter.
'Poor little girl!' said Miss Clotilda. 'What does she mean by asking
you at the end not to forget your promise?'
'Oh,' said Kathleen, 'she's a little silly about that. She--I told her
about the will, aunty--you don't mind? I didn't tell any one else'--
'It matters very little,' said Miss Clotilda. 'There is no secret about
it. Everybody here knows the whole story. But what was your promise?'
'Phil had an idea that nobody had looked enough--for the will, or for
the letter telling where it was to be found,' said Kathleen. 'She said
she was sure _she_ would think of new places to look in if she were
here, and she made me promise to try. But--I am sure you have looked
everywhere, aunty--it would seem impertinent of Neville and me to try
to look.'
'Not that, my dear,' said Miss Clotilda, 'but really and truly there is
nowhere else to look. Do you know we have taken down and shaken every
book in the library? A man, accustomed to such things, came on purpose.
I have thought about the letter of directions too, but it is much less
likely to be found than the will itself. It would be so small. If Mrs.
Wynne had not given me the envelope containing the blank paper, so very
shortly before her death, I should have begun to think that she had
changed her mind and made no will at all. And yet--it was so unlike her.
No, I feel sure the blank paper was put in by mistake.'
Miss Clotilda had left off her darning in the interest of the
conversation. For a minute or two no one spoke. Then with a little
effort Miss Clotilda seemed to recall her thoughts to the present.
'She must be a very nice child--that little Philippa,' she said, 'and
very unselfish. It is not many children who would be able to think of
anything but their own affairs in her place just now. I do feel for her,
poor dear, having to go back to school, and all her companions away.'
She hesitated, as if on the point of saying more, but no words came.
Then she took up her darning again.
'I wish'--Kathie began, and then she too stopped short. Neville glanced
at her.
'I believe I know what you wish,' he said. 'And,' he went on boldly, 'I
believe aunty is thinking of the very same thing.'
Again the poor tablecloth came off badly. Miss Clotilda let it fall, and
in her turn she looked at both the children.
'I daresay you do know what was in my mind, Neville,' she said. 'It
would be almost unnatural not to think of it.'
'You mean,' said Kathie, half timidly, 'if we could ask poor Phil to
come here--if _you_ could, I should say, aunty.'
'Yes,' said Miss Clotilda, 'that was what I was thinking. I do feel so
for the poor dear child. I know so well, so sadly well, what it is to be
alone in that way. My mother, you know, dears, your grandmother, died
when I was thirteen, and till her death I had never been separated from
her. And then I was sent to school altogether, holidays and all, for
three years, for your grandfather went abroad. I did not even see my
little brother--dear little David--for all that time, for one of our
aunts who had children of her own took care of him. It did not so much
matter to him, for he was only a year old when our mother died, and so
he was only four when we were together again. And it seems to him--I do
like to feel that--that I was always with him. But for me those three
years were--really--dreadful. Even now I can scarcely bear to think of
them;' and Miss Clotilda gave a little shiver.
'Philippa cried awfully when she first came,' said Kathleen. 'She really
did nothing but cry.
'And you were good to her--I am sure you were, as she is so fond of
you,' said her aunt.
Kathie blushed a little.
'Her mother asked me to be kind to her,' she said, 'and I tried to be
because I promised. But I didn't care much for her at first, aunty. I
didn't understand her caring so dreadfully, and you mustn't think me
horrid, for I do understand better now--it bothered me. But she got so
fond of me--she fancied I was so much kinder than I really was,
that--that I got very fond of her. And I think I've learnt some things
from her--the same sort of things you make me feel, aunty.'
This was a wonderfully 'sentimental' speech to come from thoughtless
Kathie. But both her hearers 'understood.'
'She must be a dear little girl,' said Miss Clotilda again. 'I should
love to have her here, if--'
'I know, aunty,' Neville interrupted. 'It is the expense. I know it is
already a great deal for you to have _us_.'
'No, dear,' said Miss Clotilda, 'it really is not so. People--my old
neighbours and friends--are so kind. They are always sending presents
just now. And one other little girl could not make much difference. It
is more a sort of shrinking that I have from explaining things to
strangers--a sort of false shame, perhaps. It _should_ all have been so
different.'
'Dear aunty,' said both the children, 'we wouldn't like you to do it if
you feel that way.'
But Miss Clotilda was evidently not satisfied.
'She is a simple-minded child, is she not?' she asked in a little. 'Not
the kind of child to be discontented with plain ways--our having only
one servant, and so on, you know?'
'_Of course_ not,' said Kathleen. 'She would think it all lovely. And,
aunty,' she went on, 'it _is_ lovely. You don't know how it all looks to
us after school. Everything is so cold and stiff, and--and--not pretty
there. And the things to eat here are so delicious; aren't they,
Neville? The fruit and the milk and the bread and butter. Oh, aunty!'
'What, my dear?'
'_Don't_ you think you could? What room would Phil have?'
'I was thinking of the one next yours. It is small, but we could make it
look nice. There is no dearth of anything in the way of linen and such
things in the house. Mrs. Wynne had such beautiful napery--that is the
old word for it, you know--and she took such a pride in it. I must show
you the linen-room some day, Kathie. I have taken great pleasure in
keeping it in perfect order for your mother.'
Again the sad feeling of disappointment.
'Kathie,' said, Neville, a minute or two later when their aunt had left
the room, 'I want you to come out with me. You're not going to write to
Philippa to-day, are you?
'No,' said Kathleen, 'not to-day. But I should like to send the letter
to-morrow, for fear of her leaving her grandmother's. I will write to
her this afternoon or this evening. I've lots to tell her--all about the
journey, and the funny old farmer, and the carrier's cart.'
'Yes,' said Neville. 'If she comes here, Kathie, we'll manage better
than that. I wonder if aunty would let us go to Hafod to meet her. Any
way, I might go. Perhaps you'd rather stay to welcome her here--to put
flowers in her room, and that sort of thing. Girls do so like all that.'
'So do boys too--at least, some boys. You _always_ bring me a nosegay on
my birthday. I am sure you like flowers as much as any girl could,' said
Kathie.
'I didn't mean flowers only. I meant--oh, fussing,' said Neville
vaguely.
But Kathleen was too much taken up by the idea of Philippa's coming to
be in a touchy humour.
'Do you really think, Neville,' she said,--'do you really and truly
think aunty is going to ask her?'
'I don't know. I'm sure she'd like to--if she can. She's so awfully good
and kind.'
'Yes,' Kathleen heartily agreed. 'I never even thought before that
anybody _could_ be so kind.'