CHAPTER VIII.

MILLIE'S REAL FAIRY.

IT was not until the middle of October that Phil was considered sufficiently well to leave the hospital. In consequence of Miss Crawford's kindness, without which the plan would have been impracticable, it was arranged he should go straight to—Where do you think? Why, to dear old Chormouth.

Knowing the benefit that Phil would probably derive from sea air, and being well aware that it was the place above all others that he would prefer to visit, Miss Crawford had asked Richard Hunt to allow his nephew and niece to spend a month in their native village; and that there might be no hesitation because of the expense that such an arrangement would necessitate, she had expressed her willingness to pay more than half the expenses if Mr. Hunt would advance the remainder.

To Millie's openly expressed joy, he gladly consented.

Phil did not say much, perhaps he could not, but Miss Crawford understood the look of radiant delight with which he heard the good news, and was satisfied that he was happy.

The eventful day of the journey at length arrived. Phil was conveyed as comfortably as possible in an invalid's carriage to the station, and travelled on his couch in state with Millie and his uncle in close attendance.

"You wait upon me as if I were a prince," he said gratefully.

His uncle said nothing, but he smiled and looked pleased. He had been an altered man since the night of the fire. With good resolutions to lead a different life, there had sprung up within him a great regret for his past conduct. He felt deeply too for Phil, and blamed himself as being the cause of the accident that had deprived the boy of the use of his limbs.

Miss Crawford had never yet breathed a word of what Phil had confessed to her, and she made the boy promise that for the present it should remain a secret between themselves. She acted from wise motives. She hoped Richard Hunt would so learn to pity his nephew, that the pity would grow into love, too deep and sincere to be affected by the knowledge that Phil's own cruel and revengeful deed had occasioned the fire and all the trouble which ensued.

But the boy winced under the unaccustomed kindness of his uncle, and longed to make a clear breast of it then and there.

Phil was glad to arrive at his journey's end. It had tired him far more than he would have believed possible; every limb was aching, and he was so faint and weary when the train drew up at Chormouth Station that Millie was quite frightened. They went straight to the rooms that Miss Crawford had secured for them in Mrs. Blake's pretty cottage on the cliffs, where, as soon as he had seen them comfortably established, and Phil reviving, their uncle left them, to return to his work in London.

The sea air did wonders for Phil. He soon began to sit up a few hours every day, and great was Millie's joy when he was lifted into a bath-chair and she had the happiness of wheeling him along the path at the top of the cliffs. Poor boy! He was so light and thin now that she could do it without the least fatigue. Then Millie would stop while Phil gazed with delight over the vast restless ocean, and watched the big white clouds sailing overhead. The neighbours, seeing them there, would come up for a chat, or to beg their acceptance of a particularly fine fish for their dinner. Phil would hold quite a levée round his chair, and there was sure to be quite a contention as to which of his old friends should have the pleasure of drawing him back to Mrs. Blake's cottage.

Happy days they were! A month flew by all too rapidly, and Millie began sorrowfully to think of their return to London. It was not for herself that she grieved. She dreaded the effect of the close air of the big city on Phil's weak body. The brother and sister had changed places indeed, for now she was by far the stronger of the two. But Millie's dreary anticipations were never realised, and events occurred that never in her wildest dreams had even entered her head.

One cold afternoon—it was too cold and unpleasant a day for Phil to leave the house—Millie sat by the window, and gazed thoughtfully out upon the grey, stormy sea. It was rarely now that she had the opportunity of indulging in quiet thought; but just at present she had nothing in particular to do, and Phil was sleeping soundly. He had been in great pain during the preceding night, and had slept but little. Glad, therefore, that he was getting the rest which he so much needed, his sister took care not to disturb him.

Millie had long wished to visit her mother's grave, and this afternoon, as old and fond recollections crowded to her memory, the wish grew deeper, and she felt that she must go. The churchyard was some distance from the village; it was too long a journey for Phil to make over rough roads, and she had never liked to leave him while she went alone. But now that he was sleeping so quietly, she thought surely she might take the opportunity to gratify her desire. After a little hesitation, Millie decided that she would go; so having begged Mrs. Blake to keep a watchful eye upon Phil, she started off.

Quickly she passed up the straggling street, and by her own old home, at sight of which the tears rushed to her eyes, and the yearning at her heart grew painful in its intensity. By the village school she went; she was glad that the children were not yet dismissed from lessons, and that consequently the road was quiet, instead of noisy with the merry crowd that would gather there a little later on.

Then climbing the long, steep hill, she arrived at the churchyard where her mother lay. She found the grave readily enough, though no stone marked the spot with the name of her who rested beneath it. No, there was no need for that. Millie singled it out in a moment, and with a return of the old loneliness and grief with which she had at first mourned her loss, she moaned:

"My mother! O! My mother!"

So she cried out her sorrow there, till she felt relieved and comforted. Then she knelt down in the quiet "God's acre" and prayed earnestly for herself; and for those she loved. Rising from her knees she plucked a few pieces of grass for Phil, and, pressing her lips to the cold earth, took a mute farewell of her mother's grave. Then observing for the first time how quickly the shades of night were falling, she hastily began her homeward journey.

As she approached the churchyard gate, a man entered it from the high road, and came towards her. Millie stood aside on the narrow path to allow him to pass. On perceiving her, however, the man stopped, and said:

"Can you tell me, my child, where to find Mrs. Guntry's grave?"

"Mrs. Guntry's?" repeated Millie, thinking that she must have misunderstood him.

"Yes, she was a friend of mine. I'm a stranger in these parts now," said the man, "and shall soon be off again, but I'd like to see her grave before I leave the village."

The voice was strangely familiar to Millie. Where had she heard it before? She raised her eyes and gazed anxiously into his face. Why, surely it was none other than—

For a moment a feeling of terror seized her. It was so dark that she could not see clearly; the wind moaned among the branches of the leafless trees, and a superstitious awe seemed to freeze her senses. Then the old faith that her father was living, nay, did live, rushed to her heart with overwhelming force.

"Why," she said, with a little cry of joy, "'tis father himself. Father, dear father, don't you know me?"

"It can't be our little Millie. 'Tis, though, sure enough. Millie, my own precious child, I was told—"

You can imagine the rest for yourselves.

* * * * *

"Phil," said Millie, trying to tone down the happy ring in her voice, but which, nevertheless, would make itself heard, "I am afraid you have been dull all by yourself. Don't you want your tea badly? Why didn't you begin?"

"I waited for you. Why, how pretty you look to-night, Millie! The candle shines upon your face, and your cheeks have such a pretty pink colour in them, while as for your eyes, they sparkle like jewels. When I get better, I'll try my hand at painting your portrait."

"So you shall, dear. Phil, I have such good news for you."

"Have you? Is Miss Crawford coming down?"

"No, better news than that."

"I can't think of anything that would be better. It would be uncommonly jolly to hear we hadn't to go back to London, but might just live here always. But that can't be, so it's no good guessing."

"I think it might be managed, dear, after all."

"Have you had a fortune left you, or when you were out, did you meet a fairy who made you a present of the wonderful wishing cap?"

"Yes, that's it, Phil. I met a fairy, a real fairy. My darling, do you remember—" Millie changed her voice and spoke seriously and solemnly—"do you remember how I have always said, as mother did, that father would come back to us again some day?"

Phil breathed hard; his face flushed, then became as pale as death.

"I have seen somebody this afternoon," Millie continued, "who told me that I was right after all. Father is alive. We shall see him soon. Only think of that, my darling."

But Phil made no answer; he had fainted, and Millie's cry for help brought her father and Mrs. Blake to his bedside.

As soon as there were signs of returning consciousness, Millie whispered her father to leave the room till she had more fully prepared her brother to meet him. Then, when Phil had quite recovered, she made him drink his tea and eat a piece of toast before she would allow him to say a word.

Millie was vexed with herself beyond measure. She accused herself of having been too hasty, and not sufficiently careful in breaking the news to him; but had she been twenty times more gentle, Phil's nerves were so weakened by suffering, that the least shock would have unnerved and prostrated him.

He knew all at last, and there was indeed a joyful meeting between father and son. How they feasted their eyes on each other, and how Philip Guntry's heart sank as he noted the bright hectic flush upon the boy's cheek, the wasted body, and the thin trembling hands!

"O father, it's so nice to have you," Phil said when, the first raptures over, he began quietly to realise his happiness. "You won't go to sea again, but you'll stay with us, and nurse me, won't you? Though," he added in an undertone so that Millie might not catch the words, "I don't think I shall be here so very long to want you."

Then nothing would do but that he must be wrapped in the warm flannel dressing-gown Miss Crawford had given, and that his father must take him in his arms and nurse him, "just as you used when I was a baby, you know," he said.

And Millie, drawing up a low stool, leant her head against her father's knee.

Sitting thus, they listened to the story of Philip Guntry's preservation in the midst of awful and many dangers.

He told them how, on one fearful night, when the winds were roaring like thunder among the sails, and the waves were dashing mountains high, the "Cynthia" struck upon a rock. There was barely time to get out the boats before the vessel sank. He and seven others were the last to leave the wreck.

During many hours of darkness they tossed about in their frail boat, at the mercy of wind and waves. When morning dawned they saw no signs of the rest of the crew, and doubted not they were the only persons saved. For days they drifted along, starvation staring them in the face, and they had begun to despair of their lives, when, to their joy, they sighted land.

It proved to be an uninhabited island, where for many months the sailors, lived as best they could. They made some kind of shelter for themselves, fed principally on the eggs of sea-fowl, and kept a constant watch for a passing vessel. A long time elapsed, however, before the welcome sail appeared in sight, and O! How anxiously and eagerly they waited to see whether the thin curl of smoke arising from their fire of dried leaves and wood would be observed, and bring friends to their assistance!

And their hope was realised, a boat being sent out from the ship to fetch the poor fellows on board. The vessel was bound for a distant colony, and as soon as it reached its destination, Philip Guntry sought for and obtained a berth in a vessel homeward bound. Owing to various delays the passage had been a tardy one, but he reached England at last, and set out at once for Chormouth. Arrived at Moultonsea, a large town about four miles from Chormouth, he had met with an old comrade, who told him the sorrowful news of his wife's death, and that his children were living with their uncle in London.

"I couldn't bear to go away till I had seen your mother's grave," Philip Guntry said in a husky voice, as he finished his story, "or I should have gone straight to London. A good thing it was I came, for here I found my little daughter; and," he added, as his encircling arm drew her closer to him, "a right welcome sight she was."

* * * * *

Miss Crawford and Richard Hunt each received a letter from Millie containing the glad news. The former rejoiced with them in their happiness as deeply as she had sympathised with them in their troubles, and their uncle begged a holiday from his employers and hastened off to Chormouth to greet his brother-in-law. He brought with him a long letter for Millie from Miss Crawford, and inside it there was a tiny note addressed to Phil, and marked "Private."

It contained only one line.

"You may tell everything now, dear Phil."

Phil was glad to have permission to speak; for the weight of the secret had been a heavy burden to bear. He longed to confess and ask forgiveness of his uncle, even as he had confessed his sill to God. That he might die with the deed still upon his conscience, had often been an appalling thought.

It was when they were all gathered around the cheerful fire on the Sunday evening of Richard Hunt's visit, and Phil was again enfolded in his father's strong arms—no other resting place was half so comfortable—that he said:

"Uncle, I have something to tell you. I fear you will hardly be able to forgive me. I wanted to tell you long ago, but Miss Crawford would not let me. I—I—O," he continued, leaning forward his poor bent body, and putting up his hands in supplication, "if I could, I would kneel at your feet and beg your forgiveness for what I did, but I can't. Uncle, it was not through any fault of yours that the house caught fire. I did it to frighten you. I set it on fire myself."

There was a dead silence. They all fancied he was rambling in his mind, and so did not know what he was saying.

Phil swallowed down the thickness in his throat, and went on:

"You were not sober that night. You said some hard words to me, but I deserved them. O yes, I know I did. I was very angry, and wanted to 'pay you out.' Don't turn away from me, uncle—" that was the boy's fancy, Richard Hunt had but put his hand to his face to brush away a tear—"I have been so sorry ever since. I deserve to be a cripple all my life. I put the shavings and the wood around the candlestick, and I hoped it would flare up and frighten you out of your sleep. I never thought—I never dreamt the house would be burnt. I went out in the streets for an hour or two, and came back just in time to—you know," and he pointed to Millie. "Uncle, can you forgive me now?"

"My poor Phil! 'Forgive you?' Will you forgive 'me?'" sobbed Richard Hunt, fairly overcome, and to Phil's amazement, he sank on his knees before him.

Phil bent down—he could just manage to do that—and kissing his uncle, said gratefully and reverently:

"You have made me so happy, dear uncle. Thank you very much. May God forgive us both!"

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