Trials and Pleasures
Before Philip had fully recovered his health and strength, his uncle’s
family had left the rectory and returned to their city home. The house
was quiet enough then, and Aunt Delia feared that the boy would pine
for his young cousins; but it hardly seemed as if he missed them.
Although as long as they had stayed they had been objects of intense
interest and admiration to him, it was almost a relief to have them go.
The secret of this was the consciousness of his own ignorance which had
been forced upon Philip by his cousin Marion’s silly desire to exhibit
her own superior wisdom and accomplishments. The foolish girl had
shown in so many ways her contempt for her cousin’s lack of education
that the boy was quite unhappy in her presence, and the sight of a book
caused him the most painful embarrassment. Aunt Delia, too kind herself
to think her niece capable of wounding her cousin’s feelings, was but
dimly conscious of the poor boy’s trouble of mind; indeed, she had been
so anxious that Philip’s health should be firmly established that she
had purposely delayed making any suggestions as to his settling down
to study, and the rector had quite agreed to the wisdom of this delay.
It was not until after the Nortons had gone that the dear old lady
discovered the trouble which was preying on the mind of the sensitive
child, whom she already loved as though he had been her own son.
Stepping into his room, one day, with a handsome volume of illustrated
natural history, the dear old lady put it in his hands with the
announcement that it was full of nice pictures.
He took it with a grateful smile, but tears which he could not control
rushed to his eyes.
“What is it, dearie, what is it?” exclaimed kind Aunt Delia in
amazement, taking him in her arms as if he had been a baby. “Is my boy
fretting for his cousins? Poor fellow, it is lonely for you here with
only the old folks.”
“No, no, no,” denied Philip emphatically, “I want no one but you. I
never was used to young folks anyway.”
“Poor boy!” said Aunt Delia, kissing his pale, sad little face. “But
you love your little cousins?”
“Oh, yes,” was the reply in a half whisper, as if it was almost
irreverent to confess to such a feeling toward creatures so superior.
“Well, a year seems long to look forward to, but it soon passes by; and
before we know it next summer will come, and then we shall have the
girls again.”
Philip did not look as if the prospect gave him joy, and his aunt saw
with puzzled surprise that it was so. She would like to have asked him
why, but there was an odd, unchildlike reserve about him which she felt
a delicacy in attempting to penetrate. To relieve what seemed like
embarrassment upon his part, she dropped the subject and again turned
to the book, which had not yet been opened.
“See,” she said, “here are lions and tigers, and all sorts of things
that boys love to look at.” To her surprise, Philip pushed the book
away and suddenly threw his arms around his aunt’s neck and buried his
face on her shoulder.
“Oh, Aunt Delia!” he whispered; “I am so ashamed--a great boy like me,
and not able to read.”
And then Aunt Delia saw it all in a flash--the boy’s shy reserve
with his cousins, his embarrassment which at times had puzzled and
distressed her.
“My dear boy!” she cried; “and it has troubled you so much that you are
a year or two behind the other children! My poor foolish Philip!”
“It has made me wish many a time that I had never been born, or that my
mother had taken me with her when she died,” murmured Philip, his hand
still on his aunt’s shoulder.
“But, my dear, it is so easily remedied, this terrible ignorance which
has made you so unhappy. Your uncle and I have only been waiting until
you should be quite well and strong. But we will not wait another day.
You shall have a governess as soon as we can find one who will be
willing to undertake the education of such a silly, stupid boy,” and
she pinched his flushed cheek with playful affection.
But Philip was not entirely reassured.
“A governess!” he said doubtfully. “Oh, but that will be another person
to find out how ignorant I am!”
“But how else in the world will you ever learn?” asked Aunt Delia,
smiling; “and besides I thought you wanted to study music, and the
governess can give you lessons on the piano as well, you know.”
The expression of doubt on Philip’s face cleared instantly and he
smiled radiantly. “Oh, Aunt Delia,” he cried, “it seems almost too good
to be true! Do you suppose I shall ever be able to play like--like
Marion?” And Aunt Delia smiled, but wisely said nothing. Only that same
evening she nodded sagely when her husband remarked: “My dear, that
boy has certainly a most remarkable talent for music.”
And so, indeed, he had, as well as what might be called an
extraordinary musical memory. He remembered every tune he had heard his
cousin play, and there was not one, even among the most difficult, that
he did not pick out upon the old piano. Hesitatingly at first, with his
head bent in the bird-like way that Lillie had noticed, his fingers
would wander over the keys, touching the notes of the remembered air,
then striking them with more assurance, and finally weaving around the
familiar tune strangely sweet strains and chords. Listening to him
sometimes, in the long twilight, Aunt Delia would find herself wiping
the dimness from her glasses, and wondering at the strange power his
untaught playing had to move her as no other music ever did.
Philip dearly loved to have her for a listener, for he knew his playing
gave her pleasure, and his deep gratitude for her goodness to him made
him rejoice that there was even one thing he could do to gratify her.
They grew very confidential in the quiet hours they spent together, and
Aunt Delia explored her memory for half-forgotten stories of her own
youth, and once she was led on by the boy’s rapt interest in all she
said to speak of the dear little children the Lord had blessed her with
for a short time in her early married life, and then taken to Himself.
Philip wept with her when she told of her sorrow and loneliness, and
when she kissed him and called him the blessing of her old age, his
heart swelled with proud pleasure at the thought of being any comfort
to one so dear.
It had been a thoughtful suggestion of the rector’s that Philip should
learn to read under his aunt’s guidance until a suitable teacher could
be found, and from the time of Aunt Delia’s promise to teach him his
health improved with wonderful rapidity, and the perseverance with
which he devoted himself to the task of learning to read seemed to do
him no harm, although his ambition led him to spend every spare moment
over his books. He was so eager to learn that Aunt Delia went on in
spite of her previous decision to teach him only to read, and, almost
before she realized that she was doing it, found herself instructing
her enthusiastic pupil in writing and most of the studies that are
given to boys of his age.
He was so charmed with his own progress, and so radiantly happy to be
able to read nearly as well as his cousin Lillie the books that she
used to read to him, that he half forgot his dread of the impending
governess with whom he was threatened.
She came at last, but there was nothing about her to frighten the most
timid child that ever lived. She was the daughter of an old friend
of the family, who, dying in a state of almost destitution, had left
his daughters with no capital but good health and fine education for
their future support. The elder of them had written to ask Dr. Norton’s
advice about the steps to be taken to secure positions for herself and
sister; and he, after consulting with Aunt Delia, at once offered the
situation of governess to his nephew to whichever of the young ladies
should decide to accept it.
The younger sister it was who came, and so far from wearing the
expression of being a terror of evil-doers, her poor, shy, frightened
face and timid manner showed so much embarrassment and fear of
strangers that Philip felt himself quite brave by comparison, and,
instead of shrinking away from her, actually found himself making shy
little attempts to make her feel at home.
Her diffidence wore off after a few days, and then Miss Acton, the new
governess, won all hearts by her gentle, lovable ways.
Fortunately for Philip, Miss Acton had had a fine musical education,
and she took perfect delight in her scholar’s application and talent.
“He is something wonderful,” she said to Mrs. Seldon after her
first quarter’s lessons. “I can really teach him nothing except the
technicalities of piano-playing. His interpretations of certain
passages surprise me, and I believe that he will some day become a
truly great musician.”
He made great progress, too, with his lessons, spurred on by his
desire to be able to read well before the return of his young cousins.
When the sunshine out-of-doors was particularly inviting, and when
Dash was showing his sympathy with his young master’s impatience by
scratching and whining at the door, Miss Acton had only to say, “I
wonder if Marion will think you have improved in your reading, Philip,”
to make him go at his task again with redoubled energy.
Dash did not approve of Philip’s studious habits. Miss Acton had
tried excluding him from the school-room altogether, but he was so
unhappy and would whine so piteously outside the door that she was
obliged to allow him to return on a promise of good behavior. Philip,
too, had impressed upon him the necessity of preserving order in the
school-room, and he soon came to understand that when a person held
a book he did not wish to be disturbed. One morning Miss Acton was
slightly indisposed, and as there were to be no lessons that day Philip
wandered into the garden after breakfast, instead of going as usual
directly to the school-room. Dash of course followed closely at his
heels, but he seemed to think that something was wrong, and several
times he would walk slowly toward the house, looking back as much as to
say, “Why don’t you follow me? It’s school-time, you know, Philip.” But
Philip paid no attention, and at last Dash trotted into the house and
up the stairs in a business-like manner. Philip had just time to notice
his absence, and wonder at it, when he returned, carrying something in
his mouth which he brought and laid at Philip’s feet, barking joyously
as though pleased at his own cleverness. Philip stooped to pick up
the object which had been dropped, and discovered that it was his
copy-book, which Dash had fetched from his desk in the school-room.
Miss Acton was much amused when she learned of the occurrence, and
declared that hereafter Dash should be encouraged to remain during the
lessons. “I am sure,” she said, “that if he could only hold a pen he
would be able to write as well as Philip; and at any rate such a dog is
a valuable mentor for my pupil.”