Black, White and Gray Part 21

"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-gla.s.ses 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."