Penelope and the Others Part 14

"My _dear_ Pennie," said her mother significantly as she noticed this.

"Yes, I know, mother," said Pennie immediately doubling down the offending finger, "I can't get it off. I've tried everything. You see I've been writing up the magazine, and there's such a lot of it, because the others always forget."

"Then I think I should do without their contributions," said Mrs Hawthorne.

"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Pennie reproachfully, "there'd be hardly anything in it. It's a very good one this month," she added, turning to Miss Unity. "David's sent quite a long thing on 'The Habits of the Pig,' and Ambrose has written an 'Ode to Spring.'"

"Then why," inquired Miss Unity, "have you so much writing to do?"

"Well, you see I'm the editor," explained Pennie, "and all the things have to be copied into the magazine in printing hand by the first of the month. So when the others forget, I do it all."

"How fast Pennie grows!" began Miss Unity hurriedly as the door closed behind her G.o.d-daughter. "You don't think so much writing makes her stoop too much?"

"Oh, no!" replied Mrs Hawthorne lightly; "it's a great amus.e.m.e.nt to her, and she gets plenty of exercise."

"Because," continued Miss Unity, speaking so fast that she was almost unintelligible, "if you thought so--I thought--that is, Mrs Merridew thought--you might like her to join a dancing-cla.s.s at the deanery."

She paused, frightened at her own boldness. She had meant to approach the subject in the most delicate and gradual manner, and now she had rushed into the very thick of it at once.

Mrs Hawthorne looked puzzled; she frowned a little.

"I do not understand," she said, "what Mrs Merridew can have to do with Pennie's writing too much."

"Oh nothing, nothing in the world!" hastily replied Miss Unity; "of course not. I have always said it's for you to judge--but I said I would ask you to let the children join. Mr Deville's going to teach them. The Merridews are nice girls, don't you think?" she added wistfully, for she saw no answering approval on Mrs Hawthorne's face.

"I knew I should offend Mary," she said to herself.

Even when the arrangement with all its advantages was fully explained, Mrs Hawthorne did not seem at all eager about it. She had once thought, she said, of sending the children to Miss Cannon's cla.s.s, but the distance was the difficulty, and that would remain in this case.

Then Miss Unity made her last effort.

"As to that," she said breathlessly, "I thought of asking you to allow me to give Pennie some lessons, and I should be pleased for her to sleep at my house after the cla.s.s every week, if you had no objection."

But Mrs Hawthorne still hesitated. It was most kind of Miss Unity, but she feared it would trouble her to have Pennie so often; yet she did not like to refuse such a very kind offer, and no doubt the lessons would be good for the child. Finally, after a great many pros and cons, it was settled that the vicar's opinion should be asked, and then Miss Unity knew that Mary had decided the matter in her own mind. Her offer was to be accepted. So she had done her best for her G.o.d-daughter, and if it were not successful her conscience would at least be at rest.

Perhaps no one realised what an effort it had been to her, and what real self-sacrifice such an offer involved. She was fond of Pennie, but to have the regularity of her household disturbed by the presence of a child every week--the bustle of arrival and departure, the risk of broken china, the possible upsetting of Betty's temper; all this was torture to look forward to, and when she went to bed she felt that she was paying dearly for a quiet conscience.

But if it was a trial to Miss Unity it was none the less so to Pennie, who looked upon herself as a sort of victim chosen out of the family to be sacrificed. She was to go alone to the deanery without Nancy, and learn to dance with the Merridews, who were almost strangers to her. It was a most dreadful idea. Quite enough to spoil Nearminster, or the most pleasant place on earth. However, mother said so, and it must be done; but from the moment she heard of it Pennie did not cease to groan and lament.

"I don't even know their names," she began one night, after she and Nancy were tucked up side by side in bed.

"Why, you know there's one called Ethel," replied Nancy, "because whenever Mrs Merridew comes here she asks how old you are, and says, 'Just the age of my Ethel!'"

"I don't think I like the look of any of them much," continued Pennie mournfully, "and--oh, Nancy, I do hope I sha'n't see the dean!"

"Why?" asked Nancy. "I don't mind him a bit."

"He never makes jokes at you," said Pennie, "so of course you don't mind him; but whenever I meet him with father I know just what he'll say.

'This is Miss Penelope, isn't it? and where's Ulysses?' and then he laughs. I can't laugh, because I don't know what he means, and I do feel so silly. Suppose he comes and says it before all the others!"

"I don't see that it matters if he does," replied Nancy. "You needn't take any notice. It's the dean who's silly, not you."

"It's all very well for you," said Pennie with an impatient kick at the bed-clothes; "you're not going. Oh! how I wish you were! It wouldn't be half so bad."

"I should hate it," said Nancy decidedly; "but," she added, with an attempt at comfort, "there'll be some things you like after all.

There'll be the Cathedral and the College, and old Nurse, and oh!

Pennie, have you thought what a chance it'll be to hear more about Kettles?"

But Pennie was too cast-down to take a cheerful view of anything.

"I don't suppose I shall hear anything about her," she said. "How should I?"

"Perhaps you'll see her at the College again," said Nancy, "or perhaps Miss Unity will know about her, or perhaps the dean goes to see her father and mother."

"That I'm sure he doesn't," said Pennie with conviction. "Why, I don't suppose he even knows where Anchoranopally is."

"Father goes to see all the people in Easney," said Nancy, "so why shouldn't Dr Merridew go to see Kettles?"

"I don't know why he shouldn't," said Pennie, "but I'm quite sure he doesn't. At any rate I'm not going to ask him anything. I hope I sha'n't see him at all. Oh, why should people learn dancing? What good can it be?"

Nancy's muttered reply showed that she was very nearly asleep, so for that night there was no further conversation about Pennie's dancing, but it was by no means altogether given up. On the contrary it was a very favourite topic with all the children, for it seemed to have added to their eldest sister's dignity to be singled out as the only one to join the cla.s.s at Nearminster.

"Why isn't Nancy to go too?" asked Ambrose one afternoon as he carefully put the last touches to a picture he was drawing for d.i.c.kie; it was a fancy portrait of Pennie learning to dance, with her dress held out very wide, and an immense toe pointed in the air. The children were all in the school-room engaged in various ways, for it was a wet afternoon; even d.i.c.kie, having grown tired of the nursery, had insisted on coming down until tea-time,--and now stood on tiptoe by Ambrose, watching the progress of the picture with breathless interest.

Pennie looked up from her writing at her brother's question.

"Because Miss Unity only asked me," she answered with a sort of groan.

"Is she fondest of you?" asked David from the background. He had not spoken for a long time, for he was deeply engaged in what he called "putting his cupboard to rights."

The four oldest children each possessed a cupboard below the book-shelves, where they were supposed to keep their toys and private property. David was very particular about his cupboard, and could not bear to find any stray articles belonging to the others put away in it.

He kept it very neat, and all the curious odds and ends in it were carefully arranged, each in its proper place. Just now he had turned them all out on the floor, and was kneeling in front of them with his hands in his pockets.

"It's nothing to do with that," said Nancy in answer to his question.

"It's because she's her G.o.dmother.--Why, David," she exclaimed suddenly looking over his shoulder, "there's my emery cushion which I lost ever so long ago!"

She pointed to a small cushion in the shape of a strawberry which lay among David's treasures. He picked it up and put it into his pocket before she could get hold of it.

"It was in my cupboard," he said slowly. "It had no business there. I shall 'fisticate it."

"'Fisticate!" repeated Nancy with a laugh of contempt; "there's no such word; is there, Pennie?"

"There is," said David quite unmoved. "I had it in English history to-day. 'All his lands were 'fisticated.' I asked Miss Grey what it meant, and she said it meant 'taken away,' so I know it's right."

"You mean 'confiscate,'" put in Pennie; "but I do wish, David, you wouldn't try to use such long words when you write for the magazine.

There's a lot in the 'Habits of the Pig' I can't make out, and it's such a trouble to copy them."

"I'm not going to lose my cushion at any rate," said Nancy, springing suddenly on David, so that he rolled over on the floor. d.i.c.kie immediately cast herself on the top of them with shrieks of delight, while Pennie and Ambrose went quietly on with their occupation in the midst of the uproar as though nothing were happening.