Chapter VI

A New Friend

Philip’s grandfather never regained his strength after the attack of fever, and he grew gradually more and more feeble until at last he was not able to leave his bed; and one morning when Mag went softly into his room to see if the old man needed her, she found that he had passed quietly away during the night.

It was a deep grief to his daughter, but she had scarcely time to mourn for her father, when Philip was stricken down with the same fever, and for many days he hovered between life and death. The fever fed remorselessly on his plump body, which had scarcely lost the rounded curves of babyhood, and Mag felt something tighten round her heart as she looked at the wasted face upon the pillow.

The doctor, busy as he was, came every day, for he knew something of Mag’s sad history, and had a warm place in his heart for her and her little boy; and when the fever broke at last, and he could say, “The worst is over now, and the little lad will pull through after all, please God,” his eyes were moist with pleasure and relief, and as he gathered up the reins to hurry on to his next case, he muttered:

“I wish the Rev. Henry Seldon and his wife could see that fine child and his mother; I believe they would have a mild surprise.”

Philip came out from his sick-room a pale and languid image of his former self; he had grown considerably taller, as often happens in such cases, and his face had gained a certain delicate refinement of expression which caused even the rough miners to turn and look after him admiringly, as in the early spring days he began to walk about a little with Dash in the warm sunshine.

The good doctor had peremptorily forbidden that he should return to work in the mines, and this was a great disappointment to Philip, who was anxious to help his mother with his earnings. Nevertheless he could not deny that it was extremely pleasant to wander about the country with Dash, in the sweet spring weather, spending long, blissful days in the woods and fields, sometimes returning home only just in time to have the fire kindled and the kettle boiling against Mag’s return from her work in the mines.

One beautiful day in May, when Mag was not to be expected home until later than usual, Philip and Dash started off, as they often did, for a long, happy day in the country. Philip had their dinner in a small basket which was slung over his shoulder, while in one pocket he was careful to put one of his beloved books, and in the other a flute which had been given him by his kind friend the overseer, and upon which he had taught himself to play very sweetly.

It was the boy’s greatest delight to find a secluded spot somewhere in the woods, where he could practise on his flute without fear of interruption; and after a rather longer search than usual, Dash and he found such a nook on this particular morning. In the course of their tramp they had come quite unexpectedly upon a small but beautiful lake, and Philip gave a little cry of delight as he pushed aside the bushes and discovered the sheet of water sparkling and dimpling in the sunlight. Dash expressed his pleasure by diving into the water for a swim, and Philip amused himself for some time by throwing sticks into the lake for the dog to bring ashore in his mouth. After a while, however, they both became conscious of being pleasantly tired and hungry, and then Philip opened the basket which Mag had packed so carefully in the morning, and dined royally on its contents, with refreshing draughts of clear, cool water from the lake. After sharing the meal Dash curled himself up on the grass for a comfortable nap, while Philip took out his flute, and, stretched on his back on a soft bed of moss under the pleasant shade of a great tree, he began to play.

At first the music was very soft and sweet, with here and there a detached note of silvery clearness; it seemed as if the lovely, wordless improvisation told in music of the mimic life of fairyland. Shrill sweet cries of tiny sprites summoning each other to dance within the circle of a fairy ring appeared to be answered by an airy, invisible crowd, and one could easily imagine he heard the sound of tripping feet and rippling laughter. Presently the gossamer host, it might be fancied, fluttered about and danced with a kind of soft gayety, like the whirling of dry leaves on the mossy ground when light breezes stir them. All this, and the sound of flying feet, gently clapping hands, and the light swish of elfin robes were expressed, perhaps unconsciously to himself, in the varying strains that breathed from Philip’s flute.

Then the boy paused for a moment to take breath, and in an instant the fairy crew vanished as suddenly as they had come, and there was no sound but the murmur of the wind among the trees and the soft lapping of water. Then Philip put his flute again to his lips, and now--hark! A bird, high up in the branches over his head, called sweetly to its mate; at first very softly and as though sleepily, and then, as the clear notes of the flute cut more sharply into the still afternoon air, his glad torrent of sound filled the green forest with joyous melody. If any others than Dash (who was fast asleep) had been there to listen, they would doubtless have looked curiously among the branches overhead, expecting every moment to see the flashing of a feathered breast or wing. Once again Philip paused to unpurse his lips, and this time a slight sound of rippling water behind him caused him to turn his head; and great was his surprise to see a small, gayly painted boat drawn up close to the bank on which he lay, and it was the sound of oars, dipped gently now and then into the water to keep the boat from drifting away, which had attracted the boy’s attention. Dash awoke almost at the same moment, with a sleepy bark of inquiry, and Philip sprang at once to his feet, flushed and embarrassed.

There was a gentleman in the boat, and Philip remarked at a glance that he was very tall and distinguished-looking, in spite of the fact that he was dressed in a careless, négligé fashion, and that he was browned as though from much exposure to the air and sun. He gave one the impression, somehow, of being in not quite perfect health, in spite of his coat of tan; and his handsome mouth had a downward droop under its brown mustache which gave his face an expression of weariness. His eyes, however, were full of amusement as he looked at Philip, and he smiled reassuringly, reaching up as he sat in the boat to seize a low-growing limb by which to steady himself.

“I am afraid I have interrupted the concert,” he said pleasantly, in a deep, musical voice. “Perhaps you will think it was not quite fair to have crept up upon you unawares, but the music of your flute drew me from away across the lake, and I confess that I approached as quietly as possible, fearing that the delicious sounds might cease. You play with rare skill, my boy.”

Philip flushed with pleasure to be thus praised by the handsome stranger.

“Do ye really mean it, sir?” he asked eagerly.

“I do, indeed,” said the gentleman; “and may I ask who has been your teacher?”

Philip shook his head. “No one, sir,” he said. “I have just picked it up myself at odd moments.”

The gentleman whistled softly and looked at the boy keenly.

“A veritable infant prodigy,” he said half to himself; and then aloud, with a twinkle in his eye:

“That little dog of yours looks at me a trifle suspiciously. What can I do to establish his confidence in the honesty of my intentions? Here, jump into my boat, both of you, and we will go off for a little row; it will do us all good, perhaps.”

Dash did indeed hesitate for a moment before trusting himself in the stranger’s boat, but when Philip jumped in eagerly and whistled for him to follow, he seemed to think it must be all right and sprang in after him. The stranger pulled out into the lake with long, strong strokes, which Philip watched with a boy’s admiration for manly strength and comeliness; he was too happy to say very much, but he lost no detail of the beauty of the scene, and the oarsman watched the swift changes of the boy’s delicate, expressive face with keen intentness and real pleasure.

“Where did you get your eyes, my boy?” he asked suddenly; and Philip started and blushed.

“I--don’t know, sir,” he said shyly.

“No, of course you do not,” said the other, laughing. “I only asked for the sake of asking, and because I once saw just such a pair in the head of a dear friend, long since dead, poor fellow!”

He sighed and frowned a little, and in an instant Philip’s shyness vanished in a warm rush of sympathy.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” he said; “was it somebody ye loved very much, sir?”

The gentleman looked up quickly.

“It was, indeed, my little man.”

And then, as though to quit a painful subject, he said abruptly:

“But tell me about your music. I play a little myself sometimes, and it is just possible that I might be able to help you in some way.”

Philip clasped his hands ecstatically, and then, encouraged by his listener’s kindly interest, he chattered on quite freely, of himself, of his mother and their life together in the little cottage at the mines, of their underground work, and of his own anxiety to learn to read and to play; and then, quite suddenly, he broke off, reminded by the lengthening shadows of the trees that the afternoon had nearly worn away, that Dash and he had a long walk ahead of them, and that Mag might even then be watching anxiously for their return.

So the boat was turned about again, and when the stranger had set the boy and his dog on shore, he held out his hand with real regret.

“Good-by, my boy,” he said; “you have done more than you know this afternoon. Will you come again soon?”

“Oh, yes!” said Philip eagerly; “and I believe I shall never forget this afternoon.”

“Nor I,” said the other earnestly; “and now, let me see: this is Monday, is it not? Why cannot Dash and you come over again on Thursday for another row, and perhaps some fishing in the lake,” and as Philip would have thanked him for the invitation--

“There,” he said, “no thanks, please; but come on Thursday. And, by the way, what is your name?”

“Philip,” said the boy simply.

“A good name,” said the gentleman, “and one I like--for many reasons. And my name--is Frederick.” He laughed. “You’ll remember it, I hope? And now, good-by, Philip.”

“Good-by, Frederick,” said the boy, and as his new friend pushed off from the shore, he scampered away through the woods towards home, with Dash following closely at his heels.

“Oh, mother dear!” said Philip, as he was going to bed that night, after having talked all the evening about his adventure and his new friend, “oh, mother dear, I wish to-morrow was going to be Thursday!”

And Mag smiled indulgently at her boy’s enthusiasm; but, alas! before the Thursday came, events had occurred which were destined to change quite entirely our little Philip’s history, and which, among other things, were to prevent his keeping his appointment with his new-found friend.