After breakfast Helen said, “Tea in the garden is indefinitely postponed, and it’s too wet for lessons.”
That was one of her charming ideas—that wet days should not be made worse by lessons.
“What shall we do?” she said; “shall we talk about the island? Shall I make another map of it? And put in all the gardens and fountains and swings?”
The island was a favourite play. Somewhere in the warm seas where palm trees are, and rainbow-coloured sands, the island was said to be—their own island, beautified by their fancy with everything they liked and wanted, and Philip was never tired of talking about it. There were times when he almost believed that the island was real. He was king of the island and Helen was queen, and no one else was to be allowed on it. Only these two.
But this morning even the thought of the island failed to charm. Philip straggled away to the window and looked out dismally at the soaked lawn and the dripping laburnum trees, and the row of raindrops hanging fat and full on the iron gate.
“What is it, Pippin?” Helen asked. “Don’t tell me you’re going to have horrid measles, or red-hot scarlet fever, or noisy whooping-cough.”
She came across and laid her hand on his forehead.
“Why, you’re quite hot, boy of my heart. Tell sister, what is it?”
“You tell me,” said Philip slowly.
“Tell you what, Pip?”
“You think you ought to bear it alone, like in books, and be noble and all that. But you must tell me; you promised you’d never have any secrets from me, Helen, you know you did.”
Helen put her arm round him and said nothing. And from her silence Pip drew the most desperate and harrowing conclusions. The silence lasted. The rain gurgled in the water-pipe and dripped on the ivy. The canary in the green cage that hung in the window put its head on one side and tweaked a seed husk out into Philip’s face, then twittered defiantly. But his sister said nothing.
“Don’t,” said Philip suddenly, “don’t break it to me; tell me straight out.”
“Tell you what?” she said again.
“What is it?” he said. “I know how these unforetold misfortunes happen. Someone always comes—and then it’s broken to the family.”
“What is?” she asked.
“The misfortune,” said Philip breathlessly. “Oh, Helen, I’m not a baby. Do tell me! Have we lost our money in a burst bank? Or is the landlord going to put bailiffs into our furniture? Or are we going to be falsely accused about forgery, or being burglars?”
All the books Philip had ever read worked together in his mind to produce these melancholy suggestions. Helen laughed, and instantly felt a stiffening withdrawal of her brother from her arm.
“No, no, my Pippin, dear,” she made haste to say. “Nothing horrid like that has happened.”
“Then what is it?” he asked, with a growing impatience that felt like a wolf gnawing inside him.
“I didn’t want to tell you all in a hurry like this,” she said anxiously; “but don’t you worry, my boy of boys. It’s something that makes me very happy. I hope it will you, too.”
He swung round in the circling of her arm and looked at her with sudden ecstasy.
“Oh, Helen, dear—I know! Someone has left you a hundred thousand pounds a year—someone you once opened a railway-carriage door for—and now I can have a pony of my very own to ride. Can’t I?”
“Yes,” said Helen slowly, “you can have a pony; but nobody’s left me anything. Look here, my Pippin,” she added, very quickly, “don’t ask any more questions. I’ll tell you. When I was quite little like you I had a dear friend I used to play with all day long, and when we grew up we were friends still. He lived quite near us. And then he married someone else. And then the someone died. And now he wants me to marry him. And he’s got lots of horses and a beautiful house and park,” she added.
“And where shall I be?” he asked.
“With me, of course, wherever I am.”
“It won’t be just us two any more, though,” said Philip, “and you said it should be, forever and ever.”
“But I didn’t know then, Pip, dear. He’s been wanting me so long—”
“Don’t I want you?” said Pip to himself.
“And he’s got a little girl that you’ll like so to play with,” she went on. “Her name’s Lucy, and she’s just a year younger than you. And you’ll be the greatest friends with her. And you’ll both have ponies to ride, and—”
“I hate her,” cried Philip, very loud, “and I hate him, and I hate their beastly ponies. And I hate you!” And with these dreadful words he flung off her arm and rushed out of the room, banging the door after him—on purpose.
Well, she found him in the boot-cupboard, among the gaiters and goloshes and cricket-stumps and old rackets, and they kissed and cried and hugged each other, and he said he was sorry he had been naughty. But in his heart that was the only thing he was sorry for. He was sorry that he had made Helen unhappy. He still hated “that man,” and most of all he hated Lucy.
He had to be polite to that man. His sister was very fond of that man, and this made Philip hate him still more, while at the same time it made him careful not to show how he hated him. Also it made him feel that hating that man was not quite fair to his sister, whom he loved. But there were no feelings of that kind to come in the way of the detestation he felt for Lucy. Helen had told him that Lucy had fair hair and wore it in two plaits; and he pictured her to himself as
