Penelope and the Others Part 13

"We'd much rather not, thank you," said Ambrose with a slight shudder, and in another second he and David had unlatched the door, scudded down the garden like two frightened rabbits, and joined their father.

At the Vicarage, all this while, their return had been eagerly looked for by Pennie and Nancy. They had heard the whole adventure of Rumborough Common and the crock of gold with much interest, and although the boys had been wrong to disobey orders, and were now in disgrace, it was impossible not to regard them with sympathy. They had been through so much that was unusual and daring that they were in some sort heroes of romance, and now this was increased by their having penetrated into that abode of mystery, Miss Barnicroft's cottage.

It was somewhat consoling to the boys, after their real alarm and discomfort, to be received in this way at home, and questioned with so much eagerness as to their experiences. Ambrose, indeed, warming to the subject, was inclined to give a very highly-coloured description of what had pa.s.sed, and would soon have filled Miss Barnicroft's dwelling with wonderful objects, if he had not been kept in check by David, who always saw things exactly as they were, and had a very good memory.

"When we went in," began Ambrose, "some immense dogs got up and barked furiously."

"Weren't you frightened?" asked Pennie.

"I wasn't," replied David, "because there were only two--quite small ones, not bigger than Snuff, and they only growled."

"Miss Barnicroft had got her head all bound up in linen," pursued Ambrose, "like the picture of Lazarus in the big Bible."

"It was a pocket-handkerchief," said David. "I saw the mark in one corner."

"What was in the room?" asked Nancy.

"Nothing," said David, "except Miss Barnicroft, and two boxes and a table, and the dogs."

"Oh, _David_!" broke in Ambrose in a tone of remonstrance; "there was a great cauldron smoking over the fire, a regular witch's cauldron!"

"I don't know what a cauldron is," said David; "but there was a black kettle, if you mean that."

"And only think, Pennie," continued Ambrose; "she offered us something, she called _ambrosia_. I daresay it was made of toadstools and poisonous herbs picked at night."

"She said it was honey and goat's milk," finished David; "but we didn't taste it."

As long as there remained anything to tell about Miss Barnicroft, Ambrose was quite excited and cheerful; but soon after the adventure had been fully described, he became very quiet, and presently gave a heavy sigh; on being asked by Pennie what was the matter, he confided to her that he never could be happy again, because father had said he was not fit to be trusted.

"It doesn't matter so much about David," he added mournfully; "but you see I'm so much older. Do you think there's anything I could do?

anything very dangerous and difficult?"

"Like Casabianca," said Pennie, thinking of a poem she was fond of reciting:

"The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled."

"Oh, don't go on," cried Nancy, "about that stupid boy. He couldn't have supposed his father wanted him to stop there and be all burnt up.

I'm sure he wasn't fit to be trusted."

"We're not to have any pocket-money for a month," continued Ambrose, taking no notice of Nancy; "but I don't mind that a bit. It's the other I mind."

Pennie was sorry for her brother; but this last remark turned her thoughts another way. No pocket-money! She glanced ruefully at her china-house. Fate was certainly against Miss Unity's mandarin. Nancy saw the glance and smiled triumphantly.

"There, you see!" she exclaimed. "There's n.o.body left to give anything to it, so you'd much better give it up, and begin to collect for Kettles."

In season and out of season she never ceased to impress this on Pennie, and although they did not see Kettles again after meeting her at the College, she soon became quite a familiar acquaintance. The little girls carried on a sort of running chronicle, in which Kettles was the chief character, and was made to do and say various surprising things.

Those were mostly suggested by Pennie, for Nancy, though equally interested, would much have preferred a glimpse of the real Kettles herself. She never could secure this, though, whenever she drove into Nearminster, she hung over the waggonette to peer into Anchor and Hope Alley with such earnestness that she nearly toppled over. Once she was somewhat repaid by seeing a ragged man in a long coat and battered hat turn into the alley.

"Pennie," she said, directly she got back, "I do believe I've seen Kettles' father."

All these talks and fancies made Pennie feel weaker and weaker in holding to her own plan.

She was tired of standing quite alone, and though her pride was still a little hurt at her failure, she could not help seeing how much more interesting it was to have Nancy's sympathy and help.

So, one day, she took her money out of the china-house, rubbed the label off the door, and restored the box to David. Nancy knew, when she saw that, that Pennie's support in the matter of shoes and stockings for Kettles was secure.

CHAPTER SIX.

"DANCING."

The even course of Miss Unity's life in her dark old house at Nearminster had been somewhat ruffled lately. A troublesome question, which she could neither dismiss nor answer, presented itself so continually before her that her peace of mind was quite destroyed. It was always there. It sat with her at her wool-work, so that she used the wrong shades of green; it made her absent while she dusted the china, so that she nearly dropped her most valuable pieces; and more than once it got mixed up with her marketing, and made her buy what she did not want, to Betty's great surprise.

Every morning when she woke it was ready for her, and this was the form of it:

"Am I doing my duty to my G.o.d-daughter, Penelope Hawthorne?"

Miss Unity's conscience p.r.i.c.ked her. There were, in truth, several things she considered important which she did not approve of in Pennie; and yet, being a timid lady as well as a conscientious one, she had always shrunk from interference.

"Mary ought to know best," she argued with herself in reply to the obstinate question; "she is the child's mother. I shall offend her if I say anything. But then, again, as G.o.dmother, I have some responsibility too; and if I see plainly that Penelope pokes over her books and writing too much, and is getting high-shouldered, and comes into the room awkwardly, and does not hold herself upright, I ought to speak. I owe it to the child. I ought not to consult my own comfort. How I should have to reproach myself if she were to grow up untidy, rough-haired, inky, the sort of woman who thinks of nothing but scribbling. And I see signs of it. She might even come to write books! What she wants is a refining influence--the companionship of some nice, lady-like girls, like the Merridews, instead of romping about so much with her brothers and Nancy, who is quite as bad as a boy. But how to make Mary see it!"

Miss Unity sighed heavily when she came to this point. She felt that Pennie's future was in some measure in her hands, and it was a very serious burden. One afternoon, feeling it impossible either to forget the subject or to find any answer to it, she put away her work and went to call upon the dean's wife, Mrs Merridew. If anything could change the current of her thoughts it would be a visit to the deanery, which she considered both a pleasure and a privilege. Everything there pleased her sense of fitness and decorum, from the gravity of the servants to the majestic, ponderous furniture of the rooms, and she thought all the arrangements admirable. It is true that she did not understand Dr Merridew's portly jokes, and was rather afraid of his wife, but her approval of their five daughters was unbounded. They were models of correct behaviour--her very ideal of what young people should be in every respect. If only, she secretly sighed, Mary's girls were more like them!

The Merridews, Miss Unity was accustomed to say, were quite the "nicest"

people in Nearminster, and she sincerely thought that she enjoyed their society immensely. It was, however, quite a different enjoyment to that which attended a cup of tea with old Miss Spokes, the greatest gossip in the town, and was slightly mingled with awe.

On this occasion Miss Unity was singularly favoured by fortune, although she had not gone to the deanery with any idea of finding help in her perplexity, for before she had been there five minutes the conversation took a most lucky turn. Mrs Merridew had been so much concerned lately, she said, about her dear Ethel's right shoulder. It was certainly growing out; and, indeed the four younger girls would all be much better for some dancing and drilling lessons. There was nothing she so much disliked as an awkward carriage. She was sure Miss Unity would agree with her that it was important for girls to hold themselves properly. Miss Unity, with Pennie in her mind, a.s.sented earnestly, and added that she believed Miss Cannon had a cla.s.s for dancing at her school in the town.

"Oh yes, I know!" replied Mrs Merridew; "and I hear she has a very good master, Monsieur Deville; but I don't quite fancy the children going there--all the townspeople, you know. I don't think the dean would quite like it."

"Oh no! to be sure not," murmured Miss Unity.

"No, it's not quite what one would wish," continued Mrs Merridew; "but I've been wondering if I could get up a nice little cla.s.s here!--just a dozen or so of children among my own friends, and have Monsieur Deville to teach them. You see he comes down to Miss Cannon every week, so there would be no difficulty about his coming on here."

Miss Unity could hardly believe her ears, for, of course, the next step on Mrs Merridew's part was to wonder if Mrs Hawthorne would let her children join the cla.s.s. Could anything be more fortunate, not only because of Pennie's deportment, but because it would give her a chance of improving her acquaintance with the dean's daughters. It was the very thing of all others to be wished.

Quite stirred and excited out of her usual retirement, Miss Unity offered to lay the matter before Mrs Hawthorne in the course of a few days, when she was going to stay at Easney. She felt sure, she said, that it could be arranged; and she finally took her leave, feeling that she had at last accomplished some part of her duty towards her G.o.d-daughter, and much happier in her mind. This lasted until she reached her own door-step, and then she began to shrink from what she had undertaken to do. She had the deepest distrust of her own powers of persuasion, and as she thought of it, it seemed very unlikely to her that she should succeed in placing the subject in its proper light before Mrs Hawthorne. Never in her whole life had she ventured or wished to advise other people, or to see what was best for them. It was a bold step. "I shall say the wrong thing and offend Mary, or set her against it in some way," she said to herself. "It would have been better to leave it in Mrs Merridew's hands."

She troubled herself with this during the days that remained before her visit to Easney, and grew more anxious and desponding as time went on.

If the welfare of Pennie's whole life had depended on her joining the dancing-cla.s.s, poor Miss Unity could scarcely have made it of more importance.

It was, therefore, in a very wrought-up state that she arrived at the vicarage, determined to speak to Mrs Hawthorne that very same day, for until it was over she felt she should not have a moment's comfort. She had brooded over it so constantly, and held so many imaginary conversations about it, that she had become highly nervous, and was odder in manner and more abrupt in speech than ever. As she sat at tea with Mrs Hawthorne, she answered all her inquiries about Nearminster strangely at random, for she was saying to herself over and over again, "It is my duty; I must do it."

Suddenly the door was flung wide open, and Pennie threw herself hastily into the room.

"Oh mother!" she cried, "will you lend me your india-rubber?"

Miss Unity set down her tea-cup with a nervous clatter as her G.o.d-daughter advanced to greet her. Yes, Pennie certainly poked out her chin and shrugged up one shoulder. She had none of the easy grace which adorned the Merridews. All her movements were abrupt. Worst of all, on the middle finger of the hand she held out was a large black stain of ink.