Penelope and the Others Part 20

"Pennie, my dear," she said, "here is a very kind invitation from the deanery. We are asked to go there to tea, and afterwards to see the dissolving views at the Inst.i.tute."

Pennie sat down very soberly at the table. All the pleasure to be got out of the dissolving views would be spoilt if they were to be preceded by such a trial.

"You will like that, won't you?" said Miss Unity anxiously.

"I'd much rather be going alone with you," said Pennie.

"That's very nice of you," answered Miss Unity with a gratified smile; "but I expect some of the Merridew girls are going too, and I know it is natural for you to enjoy being with your young friends."

"They're not exactly friends, you see," said Pennie thoughtfully; "although, of course, I do know them, because I see them every week at the dancing. But there's nothing we care to talk about."

"That will come in time," said Miss Unity encouragingly.

Pennie did not contradict her, but she felt sure in her own mind that it would never come, and she now looked forward to Friday with very mixed feelings. "I only hope I shall have tea in the school-room," she said to herself, "because then I sha'n't see the dean."

But things turned out unfortunately, for when Miss Unity and Pennie, in their best dresses, arrived on Friday evening at the deanery they were both shown into the drawing-room. There were a good many guests a.s.sembled, and two of the girls were there, but the first person who caught Pennie's eye was the dean himself, standing on the rug, coffee-cup in hand, smiling and talking. She shrank into the background as much as she could, and sat down by Sabine Merridew in the shelter of a curtain, hoping that no one would notice her in this retired position.

And at first this seemed likely, for everyone had a great deal to say to each other, and there was a general buzz of conversation all over the room. Pennie soon grew secure enough to listen to what the dean was saying to Miss Unity, who had taken a seat near him. He stood before her with upraised finger, while she, fearful of losing a word, neglected her tea and refused any kind of food, gazing at him with rapt attention.

This missionary address at the Inst.i.tute, he was telling her, was an idea of his own. He wanted to keep up the impression made by the bishop's sermon. "That, my dear Miss Unity," he said, "is our great difficulty--not so much to make the impression as to keep it up. To my mind, you know, that's a harder matter than just to preach one eloquent sermon and go away. The bishop's lighted the torch and we must keep it burning--keep it burning--"

"Sabine," said Mrs Merridew, raising her voice, "has Penelope any cake?"

The dean caught the name at once.

"What!" he said, looking round, "is my old friend Miss Penelope there?"

The dreaded moment had come. How Pennie wished herself anywhere else!

"And how," said the dean, gently stirring his coffee and preparing to be facetious--"how does that long job of needlework get on, Mrs Penelope?"

Did he mean Kettles' clothes? Pennie wondered. How could he know?

"I've only just begun," she answered nervously, twisting her hands together.

There was such a general sound of subdued laughter at this from the guests, who had all kept silence to listen to the dean's jokes, that Pennie saw she had said something silly, though she had no idea what it could be. All the faces were turned upon her with smiles, and the dean, quite ignorant of the misery he was causing her, drank up his coffee well pleased.

"And so," he continued, as he put down his cup, "you're going to see the dissolving views. And are you as much interested in the Karawayo missions as my young folks?"

Poor Pennie! She was a rigidly truthful child, and she knew there could be only one answer to this question. Miss Unity had told her that the Merridew girls were very much interested, whereas she knew she was not interested at all. Deeply humiliated, and flushing scarlet, she replied in a very small voice, "No."

The dean raised his eyebrows.

"Dear me, dear me!" he said, pretending to be shocked. "How's this, Miss Unity? We must teach your G.o.d-daughter better."

Pennie felt she could not bear to be held up to public notice much longer. The hot tears rose in her eyes; if the dean asked her any more questions she was afraid she should cry, and that, at her age, with everyone looking at her, would be a lasting disgrace.

At this moment sympathy came from an unexpected quarter. A hand stole into hers, and Sabine's voice whispered:

"Don't mind. I don't care for them either."

It was wonderfully comforting. Pennie gulped down her tears and tried to smile her thanks, and just then general attention was turned another way. Some one asked Dr Merridew if he were going to the Inst.i.tute that evening.

"I'm extremely sorry to say no," he replied, his smiles disappearing, and his lips pursed seriously together. "Important matters keep me at home. But I much regret it."

All the guests much regretted it also, except Pennie, who began to feel a faint hope that she might after all enjoy herself if the dean were not going too.

The party set out a little later to walk to the Inst.i.tute, which was quite a short distance off.

"May I sit by you?" asked Pennie, edging up to her newly-found friend, Sabine.

She was a funny little girl, rather younger than Nancy, with short black curls all over her head, and small twinkling eyes. Pennie had always thought she liked her better than the others, and now she felt sure of it.

"Do you like dissolving views or magic lanterns best?" she went on.

"Magic lanterns much," said Sabine promptly. "You see dissolving views are never funny at all. They're quite serious and _teachy_."

"What are they about?" asked Pennie.

"Oh! sunsets, and palm-trees, and natives, and temples, and things like that," said Sabine. "I don't care about them at all, but Joyce likes them, so perhaps you will."

"Why do you come, if you don't like them?" asked Pennie.

"Because it's my turn and Joyce's," said Sabine. "We always go to things in twos; there are six of us, you see."

"So there are of us," said Pennie, "only Baby doesn't count because she's too young to go to things. There isn't often anything to go to in Easney, but when there is we all five go at once. d.i.c.kie wouldn't be left out for anything."

By the time the Inst.i.tute was reached they had become quite confidential, and Pennie had almost forgotten her past sufferings in the pleasure of finding a companion nearer her own age than Miss Unity. She told Sabine all about her life at home, the ages of her brothers and sisters, and their favourite games and pets.

She was indeed quite sorry when the missionary began his address, and they were obliged to be silent and listen to him, for she would have been more interested in continuing the conversation. It was, however, so pleasant to have found a friend that other things did not seem to matter so much; even when the dissolving views turned out to be dull in subject though very dazzling in colour she bore the disappointment calmly, and that evening she added in her diary, "By this we see that things never turn out as we expect them to."

Miss Unity might have said the same. It was strange to remember how she had dreaded Pennie's visits, for now it was almost equally dreadful to think of her going home. Little by little something had sprung up in Miss Unity's life which had been lying covered up and hidden from the light for years. Pennie's unconscious touch had set it free to put forth its green leaves and blossoms in the sunshine. How would it flourish without her?

CHAPTER NINE.

DR. BUDGE.

We must now leave Pennie at Nearminster for a while and return to Easney, where things had been quite put out of their usual order by the arrival of the measles. The whole house was upset and nothing either in nursery or school-room went on as usual, for everything had to give way to the invalids.

There was always someone ill. First d.i.c.kie, who took it "very hard,"

Nurse said. Then just as she was getting better the baby sickened, and before anxiety was over about her, Ambrose began to complain and shortly took to his bed. Only Nancy and David showed no signs of it, and to their great annoyance had to continue their lessons as usual, and share in none of the privileges of being ill.

They were particularly jealous of Ambrose, who seemed to have all manner of treats just now--mother reading aloud to him the sort of books he liked best, cook making jellies for him, and Nurse constantly to be met on the stairs carrying something very nice on a tray. Nancy and David not only felt themselves to be of no importance at all, but if they made the least noise in the house they were at once sharply rebuked. They began to think it was their turn to be petted and coaxed, and have everyone waiting on them; but to their own disappointment and the relief of the household their turn never came, and they remained in the most perfect health.

Perhaps Ambrose, in spite of all his privileges, did not feel himself much to be envied. It was nice, of course, to have mother reading _Ivanhoe_ aloud, and to be surrounded by attention, and for everyone to be so particularly kind, but there were other things that were not nice.

It was not nice to have such bad headaches, or to lie broad awake at night and feel so hot, and try in vain to find a cool place in bed. And it was not nice to have such funny dreams, half awake and half asleep, in which he was always fighting or struggling with something much stronger than himself.