Girls of the Forest Part 37

Everybody loved her; and your poor mother was that took up with her that when my master proposed that they should marry, it was a good while before she'd consent--and all because she didn't want to part with Miss Sophy. She said that if Miss Sophy would consent to live with them she'd marry Mr. Dale at once, for she was very much attached to him. But Miss Sophy put down her foot. 'Live with a married couple!' she cried. 'Why, I'd rather die.' Well, my dear, there were words and tears and groans; but at last Miss Sophy took the bit between her teeth, and went off to an old relative, a certain Miss Barberry, in Scotland, and arranged to live with her and look after her. And your mother married; and when Miss Barberry died she left Miss Sophy every penny she possessed, and Miss Sophy is very rich now; and well she deserves it. Dear, dear! I seem to see Miss Sophia over again in our Miss Pauline. She was very comical, and so high-spirited and wild, although she'd never do an underhand thing."

"Never?" asked Patty, with a sigh.

"Of course not. What do you take her for? n.o.ble ladies what is ladies don't do mean sort of things."

Patty sighed again.

"What are you sighing for, Miss Patty? I hate to hear young ladies giving way to their feelings in that sort of fashion."

"I was only thinking that you compared Aunt Sophy to Pauline."

"And why shouldn't I? Is it you who want to belittle your sister? Miss Pauline is as high-spirited as ever young lady was, but neither would she do a mean or underhand thing."

Patty suppressed her next sigh. For a long time she did not speak.

"Nurse," she said when she next broke silence, "did you in the whole course of your life ever tell a lie?"

"My word!" cried nurse--"Miss Marjorie, you'll p.r.i.c.k your little fingers if you hold the needle like that. This way, lovey. Did I ever tell a lie, Miss Patty? Goodness gracious me! Well, to be sure, perhaps I told a bit of a tarradiddle when I was a small child; but an out-and-out lie--never, thank the Almighty!"

"But what is the difference between a lie and a tarradiddle?"

"Oh, Miss Patty, there's a deal of difference. A tarradiddle is what you say when you are, so to speak, took by surprise. It isn't a lie out and out; it's the truth concealed, I call it. Sometimes it is a mere exaggeration. You say a person is very, very cross when maybe that person is hardly cross at all. I can't quite explain, miss; I suppose there's scarcely any one who hasn't been guilty of a tarradiddle; but a lie--a thought-out lie--never."

"Is a lie so very awful?" asked Patty.

"Awful!" repeated nurse.

She rose solemnly from her seat, went up to Patty, and put her hand under her chin.

"Don't you ever catch me a-seeing you a-doing of it," she said. "I wouldn't own one of you Dales if you told falsehoods. A black lie the Bible speaks of as a thing that ain't lightly forgiven. But, of course, you have never told a lie. Oh, my dear, sweet young lady, you quite frightened me! To think that one of my children could be guilty of a sin like that!"

Patty made no answer.

"I am tired of work," she said; "I am going out."

She flung down the skirt that she was helping to unpick and let the scissors fall to the ground.

"You might put your work tidily away, Miss Patty. You aren't half as useful and helpful as you ought to be."

Patty laid the skirt on a chair and slipped away. Nurse continued her occupation.

"I wonder what the child meant," she thought. "She looked queer when she spoke. But there! with all their faults--and goodness knows they've plenty--they're straight, every one of them. A crooked-minded Dale or a crooked-minded Tredgold would be a person unheard of. Oh, yes, they're straight enough, that's a blessing."

Meanwhile Patty sought her sister.

"It's worse than I thought," she remarked. "It's not even a tarradiddle."

"What do you mean?" asked Briar.

"The lie you told--the lie I am to help you to hide. It's black as ink, and G.o.d is very angry with little girls who tell lies. He scarcely can forgive lies. I was talking to nurse, and she explained."

"You don't mean to say that you told her about Pauline?"

"No," answered Patty in a voice of scorn. "I am not quite as bad as that.

But she was speaking about Aunt Sophy and how wild she used to be, and she compared her to Paulie, and said that Aunt Sophy never did anything mean or underhand, and that Paulie never did either. I felt as if I could jump, for we know, Briar, what Paulie has done."

"Yes, we know," answered Briar. "And you and I have done very wrong, too.

But there is no help for it now, Patty. We can't go back."

"It certainly does seem awful to think of growing up wicked," said Patty.

"I don't like it."

"Don't let's talk about it," said Briar. "We'll have to suffer some time, but perhaps not yet. Do you know that the apples are getting ripe, and John wants us to help him to pick them? Oh! and the mulberry-tree, too, is a ma.s.s of fruit. What do you say to climbing the apple-trees and shaking down the apples?"

"Say!" cried Patty. "Delicious!"

Without more words the little girls ran off to the orchard, and nurse's remarks with regard to the difference between lies and tarradiddles were forgotten for the time being.

The days went on, but Pen did not forget. There came a morning when, a letter having arrived from Aunt Sophy saying that Pauline was much better--in fact, quite herself again--and that she and both the girls would be home in about a week, the little girl was rendered desperate.

"I has no time to lose," she said to herself. "I am 'termined to go; I am going some fashion or t'other."

On this occasion she took a bolder step than she had yet attempted. She resolved to walk alone the entire distance between The Dales and The Hollies, which was about three miles. Pen was the sort of child who was never troubled by physical fear. She also knew the Forest very well. She had but to slip away; none of her sisters would miss her. Or if nurse wondered where she was, she would conclude that Pen was keeping her elder sisters company. If the girls wondered, they would think she was with nurse. Altogether the feat was easy of accomplishment, and the naughty child determined to go. She started off an hour after breakfast, opened the wicket-gate, let herself out, and began to walk quickly. These were the days of early autumn, when the Forest was looking its best; the trees were beginning to put on their regal dresses of crimson and brown and gold. Already the rich red leaves were dropping to the ground. The bracken was withering to a golden brown, and the heather was a deep purple. Everywhere, too, little bluebells sprang up, looking as if they were making fairy music. There were squirrels, too, darting from bough to bough of the beech-trees; and rabbits innumerable, with white-tipped tails, disappearing into their various holes. A walk in the Forest on this special day was the sort to fascinate some children, but Pen cared for none of these things. Her way lay straight before her; her object was never for a moment forgotten. She meant to reach the sea by some means or other.

She was a somewhat tired and hot little person when at last she appeared outside the broad gravel walk that led to The Hollies; and it so happened that when she entered this walk her courage was put to a severe test, for Lurcher, the farmer's bulldog, happened to be loose. As a rule he was kept tied up. Now, Lurcher was a very discerning person. He attacked beggars in a most ferocious manner, but as to ladies and gentlemen a fierce bout of barking was sufficient. Pen, however, looked like neither a beggar nor a lady or gentleman. Lurcher did not know what to make of Pen. Some one so small and so untidy could scarcely be a visitor. She was much too short and much too stout, and her little legs were bleeding from the th.o.r.n.y brambles that she had come through during her journey.

Accordingly Lurcher, with a low growl and a swift bound, pinned poor little Pen by the skirt of her short frock. He was sufficiently a gentleman not to hurt her, but he had not the least idea of letting her go. He pinned her even more firmly when she moved an inch away from him, and when she raised her voice he growled. He not only growled, but he shook her dress fiercely. Already she felt it snap from its waistband under Lurcher's terrible teeth. She was a very brave child, but her present predicament was almost more than she could bear. How long it lasted no one quite knew. Then there came a stride across the gravel, a shout from Farmer King, and Pen was transferred from the ground into his sheltering arms.

"You poor little thing!" he said. "You poor little bit of a la.s.s! Now, you don't tell me you are one of the Dales? You have their eyes--black as black most of them are. Are you a Dale?"

"Course I am," answered Penelope. "I'm Penelope Dale. He's a shocking bad dog. I never thought I could be frightened. I was 'termined to come, but I never thought you kept such a shocking, awful dog as that."

"I am more sorry than I can say, my little dear. I wonder now who let the brute out. He'll catch it from me, whoever he is. Here, Nancy! Hullo, Nancy! Come along here, quick!"

Nancy, looking fresh and smiling, stepped out of the open French window.

"Why," she said when she saw Pen, "wherever did you drop from?"

Pen began to cry.

"I wor 'termined to come," she said. "I wanted to see you most tur'ble bad."

"Poor little thing!" said the farmer. "She's got a bit of a fright. What do you think, Nancy? Lurcher had little miss by her skirt. He'd pinned her, so to speak, and he wouldn't let go, not if she fainted; and she was that brave, little dear, that she didn't do anything but just stood still, with her face as white as death."

"Wor I paled down?" said Pen. "Do tell me if I wor paled down a bit."

"You were as white as death, you poor little pretty," said the farmer; and then he kissed the little girl on her broad forehead, and hurried off to expostulate with regard to Lurcher.

Nancy took Pen into the house, and sat down in a cosy American rocking-chair with the little girl in her lap. She proceeded to gorge her with caramels and chocolates. Pen had never been so much fussed over before; and, truth, to tell, she had seldom enjoyed herself better.