One day not very long after this Patty came into the nursery breathless
and agitated.
‘Lord save us! Miss Carrie, what do you think? Master Phil hath near
killed himself! I’m but just in from a message, and who should I meet
but Mr. Peter, running like mad, and with never a hat to his head!
’Taint often as Mr. Peter passeth by me in the street, but he waved and
passed on without one word, and up to the door of Dr. James and kicks
till the door do near split across. When he’d given his message he found
time to return to where I was a-standin’—for in troth I had such a
terror at the sight of Mr. Peter flyin’ down the street that I stood as
if I had the palsy, and must so stand there till he returned. “Well, Mr.
Peter,” I said, “you seem pressed for time this day.” “Miss Patty,”
saith he (and believe me he could scarce get out the words for
agitation),—“_Miss Patty, my young master’s near burned to death_.”’
Patty was breathless with agitation herself at this point, and to
recover her breath and relieve her surcharged feelings she seized a
brush and began to arrange Carrie’s locks with more energy than
gentleness. Carrie, deeply stirred by this tale, listened in great
anxiety for further details. Patty then proceeded—
‘Being dinner-time, all the house was still, and Master Phil slips from
the nursery and into the master’s own room he do go, and commences
playing with the log fire. He hath a great fancy for pilin’ on the logs,
same as he seeth Mr. Peter a-doing, and he’d lifted one too heavy an’
overbalanced hisself into the fire. He’d on a silk suit with ruffles,
and it fired direct, and the whole body of him was blazing in a moment.
The master’s gentleman, as was in the dressing-room a-putting away of
the master’s clothes, he came running in and pulled Master Phil out from
the heart o’ the fire! They’d a business tearing off his clothes! and
now there he do lie in the master’s own bed a-screamin’ in agony.’
Carrie was deeply impressed; it was not her nature to weep easily over
anything, but she approached the nursery fire and stood gazing at the
cruel element that had worked such sad havoc on her poor little
playmate.
Patty, with hysteric exclamations, pulled her back and declared she
would never have an easy moment again—never. But a few moments later
she found it necessary to flounce off to the kitchen, to repeat her tale
there with many sappy additions.
Carrie, thus deserted, quietly drew her little chair close to the fire,
and looked at the flames with a very serious face. She even extended one
of her fat little fingers towards the bars experimentally, withdrawing
it, however, with less caution, and a moment later she said ‘Poor Phil!’
with heart-felt compassion.
Patty ran in then, and shook her roughly. ‘What did I say, Miss
Carrie?—never beyond the rug, and there you do sit close in to the very
blaze! How, Miss Carrie, mind you obey me better, and partickerly in
this, never to say one word of Master Phil to the master or the
mistress. And if so be you do, well, of this I’m sure as I stand in my
shoes: you’ll never play again with Master Phil so long as you live.’
Carrie did not in the least understand the reason of all this mystery
about Phil; but she reiterated once more her promise of secrecy.
That night as she curtseyed to her parents at bedtime, she said
suddenly—
‘Doth burning hurt, dada?’
Sebastian laughed. ‘Are you going to the stake, Carrie?’ he said.
‘No, not _me_,’ said Carrie, with some congratulation in her tones.
One day, some three weeks after this, Patty said mysteriously to Carrie
that they were going out that afternoon to pay a visit. ‘We are to see
Master Phil,’ she said, when they were in the street; and Carrie jumped
for joy.
‘O Patty, I am so glad! Is he better? Where are we to see him?’ she
cried.
‘In his bed, miss, but mind if ever you do say a word——’
Carrie was quite impatient.
‘You are most strange about Phil, Patty,’ she said; ‘I am sure he is
nicer far to speak about than any one else I know.’
‘Oh, well, Miss Carrie, we’ll be going home then; we’ll say no more
about the visit,’ said Patty, making a feint of turning back.
‘No, no, ’tis all right, I shall say nothing,’ said Carrie. On the steps
of the great house, which Carrie knew quite well now, she saw the
familiar figure of Mr. Peter, evidently waiting for them.
‘I’ll trouble you to enter by the back way,’ he said, as he greeted
them, and with that he conducted his visitors to the kitchen regions.
Everything here was bustle and hurry, for up-stairs dinner was being
served. They met a French cook in a white paper cap dashing out of the
kitchen with a saucepan in his hand, and ran against another
man-servant, as tall as Mr. Peter, who carried a silver dish. Then,
leaving these regions, they began to climb long, long stairs, and came
out at last on to a polished oak corridor hung with pictures.
‘Lor’, Mr. Peter, this be terrible fine!’ said Patty, quite overawed.
Mr. Peter sniffed, and affected great unconsciousness.
‘Walk quiet, if you please,’ he said, ‘and on the carpet, missie; these
floors do mark very easy with boot-marks.’
He opened a door very cautiously, and looked into a large fire-lit room.
It was very still.
‘’Ere’s a visitor for you, Master Phil,’ said Mr. Peter, stepping on
tiptoe towards a huge canopied bed which occupied the side of the room
and faced the fire. With a sign to Carrie to follow him, Mr. Peter drew
back one of the satin curtains, and then, followed by Patty, tiptoed
away again into the adjoining room. Carrie crept up to the side of the
bed and peered into its tent-like depths. There lay Phil, propped up
with pillows, white and thin, his shining restless eyes moving
ceaselessly round him.
‘Well,’ said Carrie, after the unemotional manner of children.
‘Hullo!’ said Phil. He started up in bed, and then fell back against the
pillows with a cry.
Carrie was tremendously impressed by all she saw around her:—the size
and grandeur of the room, the satin hangings of the bed, embroidered all
over with crests and coats of arms, the silk coverlet under which Phil
reposed, the solemn quiet of the room, and the weird whiteness of her
little companion’s face.
It was all indelibly stamped upon her memory in a moment, a scene never
to be forgotten.
She laid her little hand on the stiff silk cover and found nothing to
say.
‘Oh, I’m glad to see you, Carrie,’ said Phil then, who was never at a
loss for words. He tossed his head restlessly about as he spoke. ‘They
do not let me play, or anything, since I have been ill.’
‘Do you hurt much?’ asked Carrie, to whom pain was an unknown mystery
and dignity.
‘Yes, my hands hurt most terribly; see, each finger is tied up by itself
in a little bag—that is why I cannot play with anything.’
‘Shall I whistle to you?’ asked Carrie, struck by a sudden inspiration.
‘A friend of my father’s has taught me to whistle, and he says I do it
to admiration.’ She jumped on to the edge of the bed, flung back her
head, and whistled off a gay little roulade.
Phil laughed delightedly. ‘O do that again; you look like the poodles I
saw in Paris. They threw back their heads and howled in a chorus,’ he
cried.
‘Well, you pretend you are the other poodle,’ said Carrie; ‘I find it
difficult whistling alone. Mr. Tillet, who teaches me, always whistles
with me.’
‘Who’s Tillet?’ asked Phil.
‘He’s a soldier—a man my father knows.’
‘A soldier! oh, I suppose he will be a general—they are all generals,’
said Phil.
‘I think he is a bugler—is that the same?—something, I suppose; they
all fight.’
‘Well, never mind; do it again, Carrie, ’tis such fun to see you.’
‘My mother does not like me to whistle,’ said Carrie, ‘but my father is
ever teaching me new tunes, and Mr. Tillet, so I have to learn, but, if
you please, I had rather look round the room, Phil; I want to look into
that long mirror.’ So Carrie slipped down off the bed and walked (by
irresistible feminine instinct drawn) towards the long French mirror,
the like of which she had never seen before, and then she played for a
few minutes with the Dresden china dishes on the dressing-table.
‘You take care with my father’s razors,’ warned Phil; ‘but they are not
there—I forgot he wasn’t sleeping here. I have this room all to myself,
and oh! it’s gloomy at night. You see that big wardrobe over
there—well, I think all manner of things come out of it through the
night. You see sometimes Peter sits with me, and sometimes nurse, but
they both often go asleep, and then——’
Moved by this recital of nightly terrors, Carrie came back to the side
of Phil’s bed and took another compassionate look at him.
‘I am so tired of lying here,’ he said crossly. ‘And you know, though my
father makes a lot of me when I am well sometimes, he never comes near
me now that I am ill—just when I would like him. My father is rather
amusing sometimes, you know.’
‘What would he amuse you with?’ asked Carrie.
‘Oh, he teaches me a number of things. He can swear beautifully. I have
learnt some of that, but when I used one of his expressions the other
day they all laughed at me; ’twas rather hard, I thought. My father
said: “Bravely tried, Phil, but you scarce apply it rightly yet,” and
they all laughed again. I shall not learn for him again in a hurry.’
Carrie was very sympathetic, and Phil continued—
‘Then I play sometimes with him—we have shilling points; ’tis good fun
that, Carrie, but my father says just now I am too cross to play with.’
‘Oh, let me play with you,’ Carrie cried, ‘I have learnt that too.’
Phil rolled over uneasily on his pillows. ‘Peter,’ he called, in a very
lordly fashion,—‘Peter, bring a pack of cards.’
Peter obeyed with some reluctance. ‘See you ain’t a-hurtin’ of your
hands, Master Phil,’ he said. ‘You let missie shuffle an’ deal, like a
good young gen’l’man.’
‘Oh, you be damned, Peter!’ said Phil hastily, and Peter disappeared
into the other room, drawing up his shoulders to his ears in a very
expressive fashion.
‘Now, you sit on the end of the bed, Carrie, and we’ll have a jolly
time,’ said Phil, his ill-temper as quickly gone as it had come.
Carrie scrambled up on to the stiff yellow satin coverlet, and dealt out
the cards across it, while Phil obligingly flattened out his poor little
burnt knees to form an even table.
They were deep in their game, when Patty came to take Carrie home.
Phil’s cheeks were pink with excitement, and he called out to Peter to
go away and let them play on. But Peter, with great unconcern, swept
together the cards that lay on the quilt and lifted Carrie to the
ground.
‘Peter, you are a beast; leave these cards, I tell you!’ cried Phil.
‘Sorry, Master Phil, ’tis too late,’ said Peter, extending his hand
towards the cards that Phil still held; ‘missie must be goin’ now.’
Carrie stood on tiptoe to wave a better adieu to her playmate, but Phil
did not notice her; he was gathering together all his sick little
strength to avenge himself on the inexorable Peter.
‘There, you devilled flunkey!’ he screamed, pitching the cards into
Peter’s face and falling back against the pillows with a sharp cry of
pain.
Peter covered the child gently with the bed-clothes, gathered up the
cards in silence, and signed to Patty and Carrie to follow him out of
the room.
‘That’s some of the master’s speech he’s pickin’ up,’ he said, with a
shake of the head; ‘he don’t swear very skilful, as you may see, Miss
Patty—no fear but he’ll get at that yet,’ he added, with a half smile,
half sigh.
Carrie, rather awed at this scene, took tight hold of Patty’s hand and
did not speak till they were well out in the street again.
‘I do not think Phil is very happy,’ she said then.
‘Not he, Miss Carrie—not for all his grand house an’ altogether, for
he’s a bad boy he is,’ responded the moral Patty.