though she could hardly believe what she had seen, then turned and flung
herself moodily into the window-seat. Everything at Haughton, even the
kitten, was tiresome, and disagreeable, and dreadfully dull.
"You're not a bit of comfort," she said to Blanche, who was now mewing
at the door to be let out, "and if they send you to the stable again, I
shan't fetch you back. I believe you're just fit for a low, mean
stable-cat. So there!"
It was some relief to hurl this insult, but it hurt Philippa a great
deal more than the cat, and her eyes filled with tears as she turned her
head and looked out into the garden. Here again the contrast to
Fieldside struck her. Broad gravelled terraces, flights of stone steps,
masses of brilliant flower-beds; and beyond, the wide green spaces of
the park, with its groups of trees all standing in exactly the right
places, well ordered, stately, correct, as though the very shrubs and
plants had been trained to hold themselves with propriety.
At Fieldside you could not look for a minute out of the schoolroom
window without seeing something alive. Cows strolling across the
meadow; Aunt Katharine's chickens venturing into the garden, and driven
out by Peter, cackling and shrieking; companies of busy starlings
working away on the lawn; it was all lively and cheerful, though Mrs
Trevor always said it was "buried in the country." Haughton Park was
considered a "beautiful place," and Philippa was used to hearing it
spoken of as such, but just now she decided in her own mind that it was
not to be compared to Fieldside. As she sat gloomily gazing out of the
window, her eye was caught by something which she had not noticed
before, and which she began to observe with some interest. It was
nothing more remarkable than the figure of a boy in a ragged jacket, who
knelt on the garden path below, weeding. Philippa studied him
attentively.
He was small and thin, just about Dennis's age, and he was certainly
poor, for his clothes were old and shabby. Who was he? If he were a
boy in the garden at Fieldside, she went on to reflect, Dennis and
Maisie would know his name, and where he lived, and how many brothers
and sisters he had, and what his father earned a week, and how long he
had left school. Why should she not make these inquiries, and
afterwards, perhaps, she could give him some new clothes, and some money
to buy sweets. Then he would be grateful, as Tuvvy was to Dennis, and
be willing to do all sorts of things for her. Suddenly, fired by this
resolve, she jumped off the window-seat, intent on running down into the
garden, when Miss Mervyn came into the room.
"Well, my dear Philippa," she said kindly, "have you enjoyed your
visit?"
"Very much," answered Philippa ungraciously. "I hate coming home.
There's nothing to do."
"Oh, come," said Miss Mervyn, with an air of forced cheerfulness, "you
mustn't say that, with all these things to amuse you. Have you wound up
the musical box?"
"I don't care for it," said Philippa, with as much disdain as the kitten
had shown for the clockwork mouse.
Miss Mervyn's glance fell upon Blanche, who was washing her face
delicately with the tip of one paw.
"How pleased the kitten must have been to see you again!" she remarked.
"You're just as wrong as you can be about that," said Philippa
decidedly. "She wasn't a bit pleased, and I believe she'd rather go
back to the stable."
"Well, to be sure, it _is_ the proper place for her, isn't it?" agreed
Miss Mervyn, with a look of relief; "and I daresay she's really happier
there."
"But, all the same, I don't mean to let her go," added Philippa; "I
shall keep her with me more than ever, and teach her to be very fond of
me."
"Where are you going, my dear? it is just tea-time," asked Miss Mervyn,
as Philippa left the room hurriedly after this remark.
"Into the garden," Philippa called back. "You needn't come," and she
ran down-stairs as fast as she could. Her mind was so set upon doing
good to the poor boy in the garden, that it did not once strike her that
there was some one nearer home to whom she ought to be kind. Poor Miss
Mervyn! How often Philippa worried her with her whims and naughtiness,
and yet how patient and good she was! But that seemed natural to
Philippa. It would have been quite as strange for Miss Mervyn to be
cross and selfish, as for Blanche the kitten to be meek and
well-behaved.
When Philippa reached the spot where the boy knelt, hard at work, she
came to a standstill, and hardly knew how to begin the conversation. It
would have been easier if he had looked up, or seemed aware of her
presence; but his whole attention was so fixed on getting out the weeds
with his knife, that he evidently had not heard her approach.
"Good afternoon, little boy," she began condescendingly at last.
The boy raised a hot face, and touched his ragged cap. He was much
taller and bigger than Philippa herself but it seemed right to her to
call him "little boy."
"Who are you?" was her first question. "I've never seen you before."
"I'm the new gardener's boy, miss," he answered; "I ain't been here
long."
Philippa looked down at him, wondering what she should say next.
"Are you," she began hesitatingly, after a moment's pause--"are you very
poor?"
The boy seemed a little puzzled. He sat back on his heels, and scraped
the gravel thoughtfully from the blade of his knife.
"We ain't near so bad off as some in Upwell," he said at last; "but we
could do with a little more sometimes, now that Becky's so bad."
"Oh, you live at Upwell, do you?" said Philippa; "and who is Becky, and
why is she bad?"
"She's my sister, miss," answered the boy, "and she's had a fall and
hurted her back. She can't run about, and hasn't not for ever so long.
It's very hard on Becky. She was always one to like running about."
"Won't she ever get well?" asked Philippa, drawing a little nearer, and
speaking with real interest.
"The doctor says she will, if so be she keeps quiet a bit longer, and
has lots of nourishing things," replied the boy.
"Why doesn't she have them, then?" asked Philippa.
The boy cast down his eyes. "Well, you see, miss, up to now things has
been a bit orkerd. Father didn't always bring home much, and I was at
school. But that'll be different now, and I expect we'll get along
fine."
At this moment Miss Mervyn appeared from the house. She carried
Philippa's broad hat, a parasol, and a small knitted shawl, and came
hastening up rather breathless.
"My dear child," she exclaimed, "no hat, nothing to shield you from the
sun, and nothing over your shoulders! You will most certainly be ill!"
She put the hat on Philippa's head, and the shawl round her neck, as she
spoke. "Your tea is ready," she continued, with a puzzled glance at the
boy, who had fallen busily to work again.
Philippa made no other answer than a sharp backward drive with her
elbow, which nearly hit Miss Mervyn in the face as she stooped anxiously
over her. Then she continued hurriedly to the boy:
"What's your name, and where do you live in Upwell? I mean to go and
see your sister, and take her some nourishing things."
"Thank you, miss," murmured the boy shyly; "my name's Dan Tuvvy, and we
live at Number 10 Market Street."
"Then," said Philippa, "it's your father, I suppose, that works for Mr
Solace?"
Dan nodded.
"And it was my cousin Dennis," continued Philippa, with a superior air,
"who was so very good to him, you know, and took so much trouble to
persuade Mr Solace not to turn him away. You ought to be very grateful,
you know, to my cousin Dennis."
Dan, who had not once looked up since Miss Mervyn's appearance, now
seemed suddenly startled out of his shyness. He raised a face so
glowing with pleasure and affection at the mention of Dennis's name,
that he was almost like another boy.
"Well, we are, miss," he said earnestly, "just about--Becky, and me, and
mother too," he added, as an after-thought. "We'd do anything for
Master Dennis. And I'm pleased to hear, miss, as how you're his cousin,
because p'r'aps you'll tell him so."
His dark eyes brightened as he spoke, and his cheeks flushed. Philippa,
surprised at the sudden change, stood looking at him silently for a
minute. How fond every one is of Dennis! she thought.
"I'll tell him what you say when I see him again," she said; "and you
must remember to tell your sister that I'm coming to see her, and bring
her some nourishing things."
"Thank you, miss," said Dan, dropping into his old shy manner again, as
he touched his cap and bent over his weeding. He did not seem overcome
with pleasure at the idea of Philippa's visit, and she felt a little
disappointed, but she had been interested in his talk; and as she went
back to the house with Miss Mervyn, her mind was so full of it, that she
felt obliged to tell her all about Tuvvy and Dennis, and her own plans
for Becky's benefit. Miss Mervyn listened attentively, and though she
was not equal to Maisie and Dennis as a companion, Philippa was
surprised to find how well she entered into the matter, and what good
suggestions she could make. During tea-time, which passed much more
pleasantly than usual, she found a great many questions to ask.
"Why do you suppose Dan looked so very pleased when I talked about
Dennis?" she inquired.
"I suppose because he is a grateful little boy," answered Miss Mervyn.
"Do people aways look like that when they are grateful?" said Philippa.
"Will his sister look like that when I take her the nourishing things?"
"Perhaps she will," said Miss Mervyn; "but, my dear Philippa, it is not
only giving people things that makes them grateful."
"What does, then?" asked Philippa, with a stare of surprise.
"Well, I think kindness and love make people more grateful than rich
gifts. Your cousin Dennis liked Tuvvy, and took a great deal of trouble
for him. That was better than giving him a great deal of money."
Philippa thought this over a little.
"But," she said at length, "I can't possibly like Dan's sister Becky
yet, you know, because I've never seen her."
"Meanwhile, then," said Miss Mervyn, "you can try to be grateful to all
the people you have seen and love, and who do so much for you every day.
Perhaps if you see Becky, you will like her too, and then you will be
so glad to make her happy, that you will not stop to think whether she
is grateful or not."
"What should you think," pursued Philippa, "are the most nourishing
things of all?"
Miss Mervyn bent her mind anxiously on the subject, and finally decided
in favour of milk, eggs, and beef-tea.
"But," objected Philippa, "they're all nasty, except eggs. Can't she
have something nice? Jelly and tarts, and roast chickens?"
"Suppose," said Miss Mervyn, "we write out a list of things, and then
you can show it to your mother this evening, and hear what she thinks."
That seemed a good plan to Philippa, and she was soon so absorbed in
writing down desirable delicacies, that she would hardly consent to be
dressed when the hour came for her to go to Mrs Trevor. Ready at last,
she flew down-stairs in high spirits with the list in her hand, and at
once burst into the story, jumbling up Becky, Dennis, Dan, and Tuvvy the
wheelwright in such a manner that her mother gazed at her distractedly.
Philippa was too excited to make things very clear, but at last Mrs
Trevor gathered that for some reason or other she wished to go and see
the sister of the boy who worked in the garden.
"And I want to take her these," added Philippa, thrusting a long
scrawled list before her mother's eyes.
Mrs Trevor raised her eye-glasses and looked at it in despair.
"Why, my darling?" she inquired feebly.
"She's ill," answered Philippa. "May Mrs Bunce pack them in a basket?"
"Certainly, you may send them to the little girl if you wish, my dear,
and it's very sweet of you to think of it. But I couldn't let you go
into a dirty cottage and see sick people, you know. You might catch all
sorts of complaints."
And to this, in spite of Philippa's angry arguments, Mrs Trevor remained
firm. It did not matter, she said, what Dennis and Maisie were allowed
to do at Fieldside, or how many poor people they went to see there. She
did not choose Philippa to have anything to do with sick people in
Upwell, and she could not listen to any more on the subject.
Philippa flew out of the room with her eyes full of tears, and her list
crumpled up in her hand, cast herself upon Miss Mervyn's neck, and told
her all this as well as she could for her sobs.
Miss Mervyn listened with sympathy.
"Did your mother say why she did not wish you to go?" she asked
presently.
"Because," said Philippa with difficulty, "she says I should catch
complaints. Dennis and Maisie don't catch complaints."
"Would you like me to go and hear what Mrs Trevor says?" suggested Miss
Mervyn kindly. "Perhaps I could explain things to her better; but you
must promise to be good and patient if your mother does not alter her
mind."
"I promise, I promise," said Philippa eagerly. "And if you will
persuade her, I will never, never be naughty again, and I will love you
always."
Miss Mervyn shook her head rather sadly. "Don't promise too much," she
said, as she left the room.
She had a difficult task before her, but she was so sincerely anxious to
help Philippa, that she was at last able to put the matter before Mrs
Trevor in a way which overcame her objections.
To begin with, it was a really good thing for Philippa to take an
interest in something outside herself. Already, since she had this plan
in her mind, she was more cheerful and contented. Then the little girl
she wished to see was not ill of any complaint which Philippa could
possibly catch, but had only strained her back. Then it would be quite
possible to ascertain whether the Tuvvys were decent people, and their
cottage fit for Philippa to enter. Miss Mervyn herself would go first
and observe everything carefully. And finally, the child had so set her
heart on making this visit, that it would be unwise to oppose it unless
absolutely necessary. At length, therefore, she returned to the
schoolroom, where she found Philippa curled up disconsolately in the
depths of an armchair.
"Well," she exclaimed, springing up, "may I go?" Then as she saw Miss
Mervyn smile, she flung her arms suddenly round her neck. "You're
tremendously kind," she said; "and now you'll see how good I'll be
always, and always, and always."
Miss Mervyn smiled still more. "That's a very long time, my dear
Philippa," she said; "but at any rate you know now what it is to feel
grateful, don't you? But you haven't thanked your mother yet. Run
down-stairs and tell her how pleased you are."
Philippa's first impulse was, as usual, to refuse to do what she was
told, but this evening she felt quite a new wish to please Miss Mervyn,
and obeyed silently.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
THE GREATEST COMFORT.
"This _is_ a dull room!" exclaimed Philippa.
She had just finished unpacking the basket of good things she had
brought for Becky, and still knelt beside it, with various parcels
spread out round her on the floor. Miss Mervyn had left her at the
Tuvvys' cottage for a quarter of an hour, while she went to do some
shopping in the town, and would call for her again in the pony-carriage,
so that the two children were alone. They had been very silent
hitherto, Philippa occupied with her unpacking, and Becky gazing at her
meanwhile with shy admiration. It was like looking at a pretty picture,
she thought--only better, because it was real; and her dark eyes
examined her visitor's face and dress narrowly, while the kitten,
alarmed at the entrance of a stranger, peeped out from the safe shelter
of her arms. Neither she nor her mistress was accustomed to see such
fine drooping feathers as those in Philippa's hat, nor such a soft white
dress with lace frills. They seemed to make everything round them look
dingier and more shabby. Philippa herself however, was much too busy to
notice anything but the contents of her basket for some time. She
continued to pull out package after package, naming each as she laid it
on the floor, "Arrowroot, eggs, sponge-cakes," in a business-like
manner, until she reached the last. Then tossing back her long hair,
she sat back on her heels, gave a searching look round the room, and
without a moment's hesitation exclaimed: "This _is_ a dull room!"
Becky did not answer. Now that Philippa was there, it did look darker
and more dismal than usual somehow, and the ceiling blacker with smoke.
"Do you lie here alone all day?" asked Philippa. "Don't you hate it?"
"'Tain't so bad as it used to be," said Becky.
"_I_ couldn't bear it," remarked Philippa, after gazing at Becky for a
minute with her mouth wide open.
"Folks has _got_ to bear things," said Becky.
"_I_ don't bear things," returned Philippa quickly; "I cry, and then
mother or some one gets me what I want."
"If I was to cry ever so, mother wouldn't hear me," said Becky, "because
she's out charing all day. Anyhow, she couldn't make my back well. Dr
Price says as how nought but patience will do that, an' plenty to eat."
"Well, you'll have some nourishing things now, won't you?" said
Philippa, with a glance at the parcels, "and I hope they'll make you
well. And when you've eaten them all, I'm going to bring you some
more."
"Thank you kindly, miss," said Becky, but she did not look so very
pleased as Philippa had hoped, and she began to think she was not
perhaps a grateful little girl. What should she say next, she wondered,
and just then her eye fell on the kitten, which had jumped down to
examine the parcels, and was patting them softly.
"Oh, you've got a cat!" she exclaimed. "Not a very pretty one, is it?"
An affectionate light came into Becky's eyes as she looked at her
kitten.
"_I_ call it pretty," she said; "but then I'm ever so fond of it, and
it's fond of me too."
"I've got a cat at home," said Philippa, "a pretty white one called
Blanche, but I don't think she's fond of me, though I give her all sorts
of things. How did you make yours fond of you?"
"I don't know," said Becky. "I don't give her much, so 'tain't that.
Sometimes she don't get much to eat for ever so long. I expect, though,
she knows what a lot I think of her, and that's where it is!"
Philippa looked thoughtfully from the kitten to its mistress.
"I don't believe," she said, "that if I were to be ever so fond of
Blanche, she would care much for me. Everybody's cats seem nicer than
mine."
"I can't think how I ever got on without this one," said Becky. "She's
a loving little thing, and that funny in her ways! Often and often
she'll make me laugh with her tricks, even when my back's bad. She's a
real comfort, like Dan said she would be--the greatest comfort I've
got."
The greatest comfort! The words made Philippa think of Maisie and her
grey kitten's loss.
"Where did you get it?" she asked quickly. "Who gave it to you?"
"Dan found her stray in the streets," said Becky. "A boy was going to
behave cruel to her, and Dan fought him, and brought her home to me."
Philippa sprang to her feet.
"Then I do believe," she exclaimed, "that it's Maisie's grey kitten!"
Maisie's grey kitten! Becky clutched her pet closely, and looked up
with eyes full of terror. How could it be any one's kitten but hers?
"You know," continued Philippa, much too excited by the discovery to
think of Becky's feelings, "Maisie Chester's my cousin, sister to Dennis
who was so kind to your father."
Becky nodded.
"Well, their cat had three kittens--a black one, a white one, and a grey
one. They kept the black one, and gave the white one to me on my
birthday, but the grey one got lost. It was sent to the tinsmith's in
Upwell, and it ran away, so, of course," ended Philippa, pointing
triumphantly at the small form in Becky's arms, "that's it. Won't
Maisie be glad! She always liked it the best, and she's always talking
about it now."
Before Becky could say a word, and, indeed, before she had got the
dreadful fact into her mind that the kitten belonged to some one else,
Miss Mervyn's entrance put a stop to any further explanation. She was
anxious for Philippa to come away at once, and Philippa herself, full of
her great discovery, was equally anxious to go, for she wanted to tell
Dennis and Maisie the news without delay. They had tried to find the
kitten for such a long while, and now she had been clever enough to do
it, all by herself!
Might they drive straight to Fieldside, she asked, instead of going
home; and in her eagerness, and the bustle of departure, she almost
forgot to say good-bye to Becky at all. Then the big empty basket was
carried out to the pony-carriage, Philippa's slim, white figure floated
after it, there _was_ a clatter of wheels, the scramble of the pony's
feet, and Becky was alone.
Had it been a dream? Had Philippa really been there? What dreadful
thing had she said? Maisie's grey kitten! Could it, oh, could it
really be true? Perhaps it was a bad dream, after all. Becky glanced
down on the floor where Philippa had unpacked the basket. There, just
as she had left them, were all the nice things she had brought. Eggs,
cakes, jelly in a basin, neat packets of arrowroot--it was no dream.
She had really been, and brought them all with her, but what were they
compared to what she would take away? What were all the good things in
the world, if the grey kitten were to be Becky's friend and playfellow
no longer? How could she do without her?
Poor Becky threw herself back on her couch, and covered her face with
her hands in despair. The kitten seeing this, thought her mistress was
going to take a nap, and at once settled herself in her usual place,
with her paws planted on Becky's chest, and her green eyes lazily
blinking into her face. They had passed many an hour together in this
position, but to-day the kitten noticed something strange, for presently
one shining tear and then another crept slowly between her mistress's
closed fingers. This was some new game or joke, and she at once began
to join in it, by patting at them softly, taking care not to put out her
claws, and purring to show her satisfaction. What was her surprise when
Becky suddenly caught her tightly to her breast, and bursting into
heart-broken tears, exclaimed:
"Oh Kitty, Kitty, my own Kitty! Whatever shall I do?"
This was certainly most puzzling, and so unlike anything in the kitten's
experience, that she could not make out what part her mistress wished
her to play. She got out of the difficulty at last by going snugly to
sleep, and presently, worn out by grief and crying, Becky was quiet too,
and began to take comfort in the thought that she should soon be able to
tell Dan all about it. He had often helped her out of troubles before,
and perhaps he would think of some way now.
She lay with her eyes fixed patiently on the door, waiting for him to
appear; but she knew before that happened the door would open twice,
once for Mrs Tuvvy, and once for her father, who both got home earlier.
Becky had seen the same things so often from her dim corner, that she
could have described them with her eyes shut, and it was all just the
same this afternoon. A heavy, flat-footed step, and Mrs Tuvvy entered
with a tired, ill-used look on her face, cast off her shawl, untied the
strings of her bonnet, and tipped it forward on her head. Becky would
hardly have known her mother without her bonnet, for she wore it indoors
and out. Then, talking all the time in a high, drawling voice, she
proceeded to get the evening meal ready. If it were early in the week,
there would be something savoury to cook, which she had brought home
with her; or, perhaps, only a small piece of cold pork for Tuvvy's
special benefit. To-night there were some slices of ham to broil, and
the room was soon full of the sound and smell of her preparations.