The Old Pincushion: or, Aunt Clotilda's Guests

'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.

'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.'

CHAPTER IX.

THE COTTAGE NEAR THE CREEK

Kathleen was just finishing a long letter to Philippa that afternoon in the library, when Miss Clotilda came into the room with her usual quiet step. Kathleen did not hear her till her aunt laid her hand on her shoulder. The little girl started.

'Oh, aunty,' she said, 'I've been writing to poor Phil. Such a long letter!'

'And long as it is, I'm afraid you will have to make it still a little longer,' said Miss Clotilda.

Something in the tone of her voice made Kathleen look up. Miss Clotilda was smiling, and her pale cheeks were a little pinker than usual.

'Listen to me, dear,' she said. 'I have thought it over, and it seems to me really right, only right and kind, to ask that poor child to come to us here. I have written to her uncle to propose it, and I have explained things just a little, saying that I am only here for a short time more, and that things are not as they used to be, but that we shall make her most welcome. I thought it best to write to the uncle, as her grandmother is so ill. You can give me the exact address, I suppose, and the uncle's name?'

Kathie held up Philippa's letter.

'Yes, aunty,' she said. 'You see, it is written at the top. She told me to put "care of" to her uncle, because her name is not the same as his and her grandmother's. He is her mother's brother. But oh, dear aunty, I can scarcely believe you are really going to let her come! It is too delicious.'

'It does not rest only with me, however, dear, you must remember,' Miss Clotilda said. 'You must not count upon it too surely till we hear from her friends. They may not approve of it, or there may be difficulties in the way of bringing her. It is rather a long way from Cheltenham, and an expensive journey.'

'I don't think that would matter,' said Kathleen. 'I'm almost sure Phil's relations are rich, and she is an only child.'

'Well, let us hope they will let her come,' said Miss Clotilda. 'I will send my letter separately; but I wanted to ask you what you thought of telling the little girl herself about it. Do you think it best to say nothing to her till we hear from her uncle, and to leave it to him to tell her?'

Kathie considered.

'No, aunty,' she said. 'I think we needn't do that. Philippa is such a very sensible little girl, I'm sure her uncle would talk to her about it immediately. So may I write and tell her? Oh dear, how lovely!'

'Yes, certainly. You haven't very much time. The letters must go in half an hour, but as you are hoping now to see her soon, you won't need to say so very much.'

Kathie's pen flew along the paper. She could have filled pages with the anticipated delights of Philippa's visit, and it was just as well her time was limited. One argument she brought to bear with great force in favour of the visit. 'Be sure to tell your uncle,' she wrote, 'that your mamma gave you into my charge at school, and that I promised her to try to make you happy. So I am sure, if there was time to ask her, that she would like you to come.'

'I think that's very clever of me,' she said to herself, as she folded up the letter, 'and I'm sure it's quite true. But how shall I get through the next two or three days till we can hear if she is coming? I must get Neville to take me tremendously long walks.'

The next day, fortunately, was very fine.

'Aunty,' said Kathleen at breakfast, 'I do feel in such a fidget about Philippa coming that I'm afraid I shall get quite unbearable. Don't you think the best thing would be for Neville and me to go a very long walk to calm me down?'

'Do very long walks generally have that desirable effect?' asked Miss Clotilda. 'I have no objection, provided you don't lose your way.'

'Oh! we won't lose our way,' said Neville. 'I have a pocket compass. Besides, as you said yourself, aunty, it is a very easy country to find one's way in. There's always a hill one can climb, and once you see the sea, you can easily make out where you are.'

'And any of the cottagers about can direct you to Ty-gwyn,' said Miss Clotilda. 'Well, then, if you ask Martha to make you some sandwiches, and to give you some rock cakes for "pudding," you might take your dinners with you, and not come back till the afternoon. And,' she added, glancing out of the window as she spoke, 'I think you would do well to make hay while the sun shines, at present – that is to say, to go a long walk while it is fine, for I don't think this weather is going to last above a day or two.'

'Oh!' Kathie exclaimed, 'I do hope it won't rain all the time Philippa is here.'

'Kathie,' said Neville, 'you are too silly. Aunty only meant that we might have some rain. She never said it would rain for weeks.'

'That it seldom, indeed never, does here,' said Miss Clotilda. 'But, you know, in a very hilly district you must expect uncertain weather. I think there is no fear for to-day, however.'

And an hour or two later the children set off.

'Which way shall we go?' said Kathleen. 'To the sea?'

Neville looked round.

'Suppose we go over there, towards that hill,' he said. 'There's a sort of creek between two little hills there – or more perhaps as if it was cut in the middle of one – that must be very pretty. Martha told me about it. I forget the name she called it in Welsh. She said the smugglers used to run their boats in there, for there are caves they could hide things in.'

'Oh, what fun!' said Kathie. 'Do let us go! Are there no smugglers now, Neville? What a pity!' she went on, as her brother shook his head. 'It would be so romantic to find a smugglers' cave.'

'I don't think it would be romantic at all – at least, it wouldn't be at all pleasant,' said sensible Neville. 'In the days when there were smugglers, if they had found us poking about their caves they wouldn't have been very amiable to us.'

'What would they have done to us?' asked Kathleen.

'Pitched us into the sea, or – or gagged us, and tied our hands behind us, and left us among the rocks on the chance of any one finding us,' said Neville grimly.

Kathleen shuddered. They were soon at the entrance to the little creek which Martha had described, coming upon it suddenly, as a turn in the path brought them sharply down to a lower level. It was very picturesque. Against the strip of blue sky seen through the fissure or cleft which formed the creek, stood out clearly the outline of a small fishing craft, drawn up on the shingly beach; while down below, the water, darkened by the shade of the rocks on each side, gleamed black and mysterious.

'What a queer place!' said Kathleen. 'Where are the caves, Neville? I don't see any.'

'I suppose they are facing the sea. We must make our way round over the stones at the edge of the water if we want to see them. It isn't deep, though it looks so dark. You needn't be afraid,' said Neville, beginning the scramble.

But Kathleen hung back.

'Neville,' she said, 'you're quite sure there aren't any smugglers now?'

'Of course not,' said Neville, rather disdainfully. 'Kathie, you shouldn't be so boasting about never being frightened, and all that, if you are really so babyish.'

'I'm not babyish. Neville, you're very unkind. You never were so unkind in London,' said Kathie, looking ready to cry.

'I don't mean to be unkind,' said Neville, stopping short in his progress, one foot on a big stone, the other still on the grass near the edge of the water. 'But if you're the least afraid, Kathie, either of smugglers or of the scramble – it will be a scramble, I see – you'd better not come. Supposing you go up to that little cottage – there's quite a nice old woman living there – while I go on to the caves? I'll come back for you in ten minutes or so.'

'Very well,' said Kathie; 'I think I'd better, perhaps. It isn't for the smugglers, Neville. I wouldn't let you go if there was any chance of there being any. But I'm rather afraid of tumbling. Are you sure it's safe for you, Neville?'

'Oh, yes. Aunty told me I might go any day. She explained all about it to me.'

'Well, then, don't be long;' and so saying, Kathleen began making her way up the slope to the little cottage Neville had pointed out.

It was a very tiny place. There was no garden, but a little patch of grass had been roughly railed in, and on this two or three chickens were pecking about. A very old woman came to the door on seeing Kathleen approaching, with a smile on her brown, wrinkled, old face.

'Good morning, miss,' she said in very good English. 'Would you like to rest a bit?'

'Thank you,' said Kathie; 'I'd like to wait a few minutes, if you don't mind, till my brother comes to fetch me. He's gone down to see the caves.'

'To be sure,' said the old woman. 'Perhaps you'd like best to wait outside; it's pleasant in the air this morning;' and she quickly brought out a chair, and set it for Kathie against the wall of the cottage. 'And you'll be the young lady and gentleman from Ty-gwyn? Dear, dear!'

'What do you say that for?' asked Kathie, not quite sure if she was pleased or vexed at the state of the family affairs being evidently understood by this old woman.

'No offence, miss,' said the dame. 'I'm not of this country, miss, though I've lived here nigh thirty years, and I've seen a deal in my time. I was kitchen-maid when I was a girl in London town.'

'Indeed,' said Kathleen; 'that must have been a very long time ago;' which was perhaps not a very polite speech.

'And so it is – a very long time ago. A matter of fifty years, miss.'

'Indeed,' said Kathleen, opening her eyes; 'that is a very long time.'

'And yet I can remember things as happened then as if they'd been yesterday,' said the old woman. 'There was a queer thing happened in the house of my missis's father. He was a very old man, not to say quite right in his head, and when he died there was papers missing that had to do with the money some way. And would you believe, miss, where they was found? In his pillow, hid right away among the feathers! There's many folk as'll hide money and papers in a mattress, but I never heard tell before or since of hiding in a pillow; and it's been in my mind ever since Farmer Davis told me of the trouble at Ty-gwyn to ask the lady if she'd ever thought of looking in the pillows.'

'Who is Farmer Davis?' asked Kathleen, for the name seemed familiar.

'Him who lives at Dol-bach,' said the old woman. 'He travelled in the railway with you and the young gentleman. You should go to see him some day, miss. He'd be proud; and the old lady thought a deal of him and his wife.'

'Yes,' said Kathleen, 'I'd like to go to see him. He was very kind to us. There's my brother coming,' she went on, as she caught sight of Neville coming up the hill. 'Thank you very much for letting me wait here,' and she got up to go.

'And you won't forget about the pillows, miss?' said the old body.

'No, I won't,' Kathleen replied.

'She's such a funny old woman, Neville,' she said, when they met. And then she went on to repeat what the dame had told her about the pillows.

'Oh,' said Neville, 'they are all gossiping about it. It is nonsense – Mrs. Wynne wasn't out of her mind'.

'Then do you think it's no use looking anywhere?' said Kathleen.

'Certainly not in the pillows,' said Neville, laughing. 'I think we'd better have our dinner now, Kathie, don't you? Over there, just between this hill and the next, I should think there would be a nice place.'

And having found a snug corner, they established themselves comfortably.

'Were the caves nice?' asked Kathleen.

'Not very – at least, I didn't like to go very far alone. There was one that looked as if it would be very nice – a great, deep, black place, but one would need a light. I'll try to go again some day, if I can get anyone to go with me. It's not fit for girls.'

Suddenly Kathleen gave a deep sigh.

'What's the matter?' asked Neville.

'It's only what that old woman said. It's put it all into my head again,' said Kathleen. 'I should have liked to tell Phil we had searched somewhere.'

'Wait till she comes,' said Neville. 'She'll soon see for herself that there's nowhere to search. I've thought and thought about it, and I'm sure aunty has done everything anybody could.'

So no more was said about it, and they finished their dinner comfortably. Then they set off again, and climbed the hill from whence they had been told the view was so beautiful. Nor were they disappointed – the day was unusually clear, with the clearness that tells of rain at no great distance, and on all sides they could see over many miles.