GLENGARRY CAPS.
Penelope drank her vinegar three times a day. She applied herself to this
supposed remedy with a perseverance and good faith worthy of a better
cause. This state of things continued until on a certain night she was
seized with acute pain, and awoke shrieking out the startling words,
"Vinegar! vinegar!" Nurse, who was not in the plot, thought the child was
raving. She scolded Penelope more than pitied her, administered a strong
dose, and, in short, treated her as rather a naughty invalid.
"It's green apples that has done it," said nurse, shaking her head
solemnly, and looking as if she thought Penelope ought certainly to
return to her nursery thraldom.
"I mustn't take so much vinegar," thought the little girl; "but I do hope
that being so ill, and taking the horrid medicine, and being scolded by
the nurse will have made me a bit pale."
She doubtless hoped also that her illness would be reported to Miss
Tredgold, who would send for her in double-quick time; but as Miss
Tredgold was not told, and no one took any notice of Pen's fit of
indigestion, she was forced to try other means to accomplish her darling
desire--for go to the seaside she was determined she would. Of late she
had been reading all the books she could find relating to the sea. She
devoted herself to the subject of shells and seaweeds, and always talked
with admiration of those naughty children who got into mischief on the
sands.
"Lots of them get drownded," she was heard to say to Adelaide. "It is
quite, quite common to be washed up a drownded person by the big waves."
Adelaide did not believe it, but Penelope stuck to her own opinion, and
whenever she found one of her sisters alone and ready to listen to her,
her one invariable remark was:
"Tell me about the sea."
Once it darted into her erratic little head that she would run away, walk
miles and miles, sleep close to the hedges at night, receive drinks of
milk from good-natured cottagers, and finally appear a dusty,
travel-stained, very sick little girl at Aunt Sophia's lodgings at
Easterhaze. But the difficulties in the way of such an undertaking were
beyond even Pen's heroic spirit. Notwithstanding her vinegar and her
suffering, she was still rosy--indeed, her cheeks seemed to get plumper
and rounder than ever. She hated to think of the vinegar she had taken in
vain; she hated to remember Betty and the tidy and pin-cushion she had
given her.
Meanwhile the days passed quickly and the invitation she pined for did
not come. What was to be done? Suddenly it occurred to her that, if she
could only become possessed of certain facts which she now suspected, she
might be able to fulfil her own darling desire. For Pen knew more than
the other girls supposed. She was very angry with Pauline for not
confiding in her on Pauline's birthday, and at night she had managed to
keep awake, and had risen softly from her cot and stood in her white
night-dress by the window; and from there she had seen three little
figures creeping side by side across the lawn--three well-known little
figures. She had very nearly shouted after them; she had very nearly
pursued them. But all she really did was to creep back into bed and say
to herself in a tone of satisfaction:
"Now I knows. Now I will get lots of pennies out of Paulie."
She dropped into the sleep of a happy child almost as she muttered the
last words, but in the morning she had not forgotten what she had seen.
On a certain day shortly after Penelope had recovered from her very
severe fit of indigestion, she was playing on the lawn, making herself,
as was her wont, very troublesome, when Briar, looking up from her new
story-book, said in a discontented voice:
"I do wish you would go away, Penelope. You worry me awfully."
Penelope, instead of going away, went and stood in front of her sister.
"Does I?" she said. "Then I am glad."
"You really are a horrid child, Pen. Patty and Adelaide, can you
understand why Pen is such a disagreeable child?"
"She is quite the most extraordinary child I ever heard of in the whole
course of my life," said Adelaide. "The other night, when she woke up
with a pain in her little tum-tum, she shouted, 'Vinegar! vinegar!' She
must really have been going off her poor little head."
"No, I wasn't," said Penelope, who turned scarlet and then white. "It was
vinegar--real vinegar. It was to pale me."
"Oh, don't talk to her!" said Patty. "She is too silly for anything. Go
away, baby, and play with sister Marjorie, and don't talk any more
rubbish."
"You call me baby?" said Penelope, coming close to the last speaker, and
standing with her arms akimbo. "You call me baby? Then I will ask you a
question. Who were the people that walked across the lawn on the night of
Paulie's birthday? Who was the three peoples who walked holding each
other's hands?--little peoples with short skirts--little peoples about
the size of you, maybe; and about the size of Briar, maybe; and about the
size of Paulie, maybe. Who was they? You answer me that. They wasn't
ghostses, was they?"
Briar turned pale; Patty glanced at her. Adelaide, who had watchful blue
eyes, turned and looked from one sister to the other.
"You are talking rubbish," said Briar. "Go and play."
"Who was they?" repeated Pen.
"I don't know."
"Am I baby or big wise girl?"
"Oh, you are an infant Solomon! I don't know who the people were."
"Don't you?"
Penelope looked at Briar with a sigh of disappointment. Then she
whispered to herself:
"It's 'cos of Adelaide. Course they don't want to say anything when
Addy's there."
She strolled away.
"What was the child talking about?" asked Adelaide.
"I'm sure I don't know," replied Briar. "She's the rummiest little thing
that ever walked. But there's no good in taking any notice of what she
says."
"Of course no one does," answered Adelaide. "But I do wonder if ghosts
ever walk across the lawn. Do you believe in ghosts, Briar?"
"Certainly not," said Briar. "No girl in her senses does."
"I don't know at all as to that," replied Adelaide. "There was a girl
that came to stay with Nancy King last year; her name was Freda Noell.
She believed in ghosts. She said she had once been in a haunted house.
What is it, Briar? Why do you shrug your shoulders?"
"I don't know," said Briar. "I don't want to talk about ghosts. I don't
believe in them."
She got up and crossed the lawn. The next moment Pen had tucked her hand
inside her arm.
"You needn't keep it from me," she said in a whisper. "It was you and
Patty and Paulie. I knew who you were, 'cos the moon shone on Patty's
Glengarry cap. You needn't deny it."
"I do deny it. I didn't go," said Briar.
She felt her heart smite her as she told this lie. She walked quickly.
"Do leave me," she said. "You are a little girl that doesn't at all know
her own place."
"But I do know it," said Penelope. "My place is at the seaside. I want to
go there. I'm 'termined to go there. If I don't go one way I'll go
another. Why should Paulie, what is the naughtiest of girls, have all the
fun? I don't mind Renny being there so much. And why should I, what is
the very best of girls, be kept stuck here with only nursey and you
childrens to bother me? I am going. I'm 'termined."
She marched away. Patty came up.
"Patty," said Briar, "I've done it."
"What?" asked Patty.
"I've told a lie about it. I said we weren't on the lawn at all. I told
her she was talking nonsense."
"Couldn't you have got out of it by any other way?" asked Patty. "It
doesn't seem right to tell lies."
"I could with any one but Pen; but Pen can see through a brick wall. I
had to tell it, and very plump, too, where Pen was in the question."
"Well, it makes me feel horrid," said Patty. "I am sorry we went. I think
we did awfully wrong."
"We did it for Paulie. We'd do more than that for her," replied Briar.
"I suppose so. I certainly love Paulie very much," answered Patty.
"And, Patty," continued Briar, "having told such a great black lie to
help her, we must go through with it. Pen means mischief. She's the sort
of child who would do anything to gain anything. She wants to go to the
seaside, and she wouldn't mind whom she got into trouble if it suited her
own ends. We must remember she means mischief, and if she talks again
about three figures on the lawn, you and I have got to stick to it that
we didn't go. Do you understand?"
"I do, and I consider it awful," said Patty.
She did not add any more, but went slowly into the house. Presently,
feeling much depressed, she sought nurse's society. Nurse was turning
some of the girls' skirts. She was a good needlewoman, and had clung to
the house of Dale through many adverse circumstances. She was enjoying
herself at present, and used often to say that it resembled the time of
the fat kine in Egypt.
"Ah, Miss Patty!" she cried. "It's glad I am to see you, darling."
"Can I do anything for you, nursey?" asked Patty.
"Of course you can, dear. You can help me to unpick this frock. I am
cutting it down to fit Miss Pen. It will make a very neat frock for her,
and it seems unfair that dear Miss Tredgold should be at more expense
than is necessary."
"Why," asked Patty, with a surprised look, "doesn't father pay for the
things?"
"Mr. Dale!" cried nurse in a tone of wrath, "I'd like to see him. It's
not that he wouldn't, and for all I can tell he may have the money; but,
bless you, darling! he'd forget it. He'd forget that there was such a
thing as dress wanted in all the world; and servants and food, and the
different things that all well-managed houses must have, couldn't lie on
his memory while you were counting twenty. Do you suppose if that dear,
blessed lady didn't put her hand into her pocket in the way she does that
you'd be having the right good time you are now having, and the nice
clothes, and the good education, and the pretty ponies coming next week?
And Miss Pauline, just because she's a bit pale, taken to the seaside?
Not a bit of it, my dear Miss Patty. It's thankful you ought to be to the
Providence that put it into your aunt's head to act as she has done. Ah!
if my dear mistress was living she would bless her dear sister."
"Did you know mother before she was married?" asked Patty, taking up a
skirt and the pair of sharp scissors which nurse provided her with, and
sitting down happily to her task.
"Didn't I live with her when she was Miss Tredgold?" asked nurse. "And
didn't I over and over again help Miss Sophia out of scrapes? Oh, she was
a wild young lady!"
"You don't mean to tell me that Aunt Sophy ever did anything wrong?"
"Nothing mean or shameful; but for temper and for spirit and for dash and
for go there wasn't her like. Not a horse in the land was wild enough to
please her. She'd ride bareback on any creature you gave her to mount,
and never come to grief, neither. She broke horses that trainers couldn't
touch. She had a way with her that they couldn't resist. Just a pat of
her hand on their necks and they'd be quiet and shiver all over as though
they were too delighted for anything. Oh, she did follow the hounds! My
word! and she was admired, too. She was a young lady in a thousand. And
as for wanting to have her own way, she was for all the world like our
Miss Pauline. It strikes me those two have very much in common, and that
is why Miss Tredgold has taken such a fancy to your sister."
"Do you think she has?" asked Patty.
"Do I think it?" cried nurse. "For goodness' sake, Miss Patty, don't cut
the material. Do look where you are putting the scissors. Do I think it,
miss? I know it. Miss Marjorie, sweet pet, you shall thread these
daisies. You shall make a pretty chain of them to put around your neck.
There's my little precious."
Fat, lovely, little Marjorie shrieked with delight when nurse put a
coarse needle, to which was attached an equally coarse piece of cotton,
and a basket of daisies before her. Marjorie tried to thread daisies, and
uttered little cries of happiness, while Patty and nurse talked together.
"Miss Tredgold was a wonderful young lady, so handsome and high-spirited.
But if she didn't always obey, she never did anything mean or underhand.
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? Noble 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 prick 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 God 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 mass 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 thorny 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 lass! 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.
"I wor 'termined--'termined to come," she repeated several times. At last
her sobs ceased altogether, and she cuddled up against Nancy and went to
sleep in her arms.
Nancy lifted her up and put her on the horse-hair sofa; she laid a rug
over her, and then stooped and kissed her. Afterwards she went out and
joined her father.
"Whatever brought little miss here?" asked the farmer.
"That's more than I can tell you, father."
"And why don't the others come sometimes?" snapped Farmer King. "They
none of 'em come, not even that pretty girl we made so much fuss over,
giving her a gold locket and chain. Now, I'd like to find out, Nancy, my
girl, if she has ever shown that locket and chain to her haristocratic
aunt. Do you suppose the haristocratic lady has set eyes on it?"
Nancy laughed.
"I guess not," she said. "Paulie's a bit of a coward. She wants to know
us and yet she don't. She wants to know us behind the aunt's back."
"Left hand, not right hand," said the farmer. "I don't like that sort."
"At any rate she can't come to us at present, father, for Miss Tredgold
has taken her to the seaside."
"That's it, is it?" said the farmer, his face clearing. "Then I suppose
little miss has come with a message. What did missie say about your
friend, Nancy?"
"Nothing. She's asleep at present. I mean to let her have her sleep out,
then give her some dinner, and drive her home in the dogcart."
"Do as you like, Nance; only for mercy's sake don't make a fool of
yourself over that family, for it strikes me forcibly they're becoming
too grand for us."
Nancy said nothing further. She returned to the house and sat down in the
room where Penelope slept. Her work-basket was open. She was making a
pretty new necktie for herself. Nancy was a very clever workwoman, and
the necktie grew under her nimble fingers. Presently she dived into the
bottom of the basket and took out a gold thimble with a sapphire top and
turquoises round the rim. She slipped it on to the tip of her slender
first finger.
"I must send it back again," she said to herself. "I'd have done it
before, but Pauline is away."
Just then she was attracted by a sound on the sofa. She turned. Pen's big
black eyes were wide open; she was bending forward and gazing at the
thimble.
"So you got it after all!" she said.
"Oh, child, how you startled me! What do you mean?"
"Why, that's Aunty Sophy's thimble. I was to get a penny if I found it."
Nancy was silent.
"How did it get into your work-basket?" asked Pen.
"I borrowed it from Paulie, and I'd have given it to her long ere this,
but I heard she was away."
"Give it to me," cried Penelope. Her voice quite shook in her eagerness.
"Give it to me at once, and I will take it back to her."
"I wish you would, Pen, I am sure; but you must be very careful not to
lose it, for it is a real beauty. See, I will put it into this little
box, and cover the box up."
Penelope pressed close to Nancy. Nancy placed the thimble in the midst of
some pink cotton-wool and looked at it affectionately; then she tied up
the little box, put brown paper round it, tied string round that again,
and then she held it out to Pen.
"You are quite positive you won't lose it?" she said.
"Positive. I has a big pocket, and no hole in it. See for yourself,
there's no hole. Turn it out, will you?"
Penelope's pocket proved to be quite safe, and Nancy, with a qualm at her
heart which she could not account for, allowed the little girl to put the
thimble therein.
"Well, that is settled," she cried. "And now I want to know what you came
for. You are going to have dinner with father and me after a bit."
"No, I'm not," answered Pen. "I'm going home at once."
"But why did you come? Did Pauline send me a message?"
"No, she wouldn't."
"Why not? I've done a great deal for her."
"She's ongrateful," said Pen. "She didn't send no message. I 'spect
she'll have forgot you when she comes back."
Nancy's face flamed.
"I can make it a little too hot for her if she does."
"What's making a thing too hot?" asked Penelope.
"Oh, making it so that you squirm and tingle and your heart goes
pit-a-pat," replied Nancy. "There! I'm not going to talk any more. If you
won't tell me why you came, I suppose you will come into the other room
and have some dinner?"
"I won't. I'm going home. As Paulie didn't send you a message, are you
going to make it hot for her?"
"That I am. Somebody will come here--somebody I know--to see somebody she
knows; and there will be a begging and imploring, and somebody she knows
will do nothing for somebody I know. Now, can you take that in?"
"You are very funny," answered Penelope, "but I think I can. I'm glad,
and I'm not glad, that I comed. I won't stay to dinner; I'm going
straight away home this blessed minute."