Meanwhile Pennie's plan did not make much progress. The china-house on
the school-room mantel-piece stood ready for contributions, with the
slit in its roof and the label on its front door; it looked very well
outside, but she feared that it was poorly furnished within, though she
dropped all her own money into it with great regularity. This fear
became certainty soon, for Dickie came to her one day with a penny
clasped in her fat hand, and said:
"Dickie will put it into the house."
Pennie hesitated, for she knew it was the price of real hard work.
"Does Dickie really want to give it?" she asked.
Dickie nodded, gazing up at the money-box with large solemn eyes.
"You're sure you wouldn't rather buy hard-bake?" persisted Pennie.
Dickie was quite sure. Her mind was bent on dropping the penny into the
slit. When, however, the china-house was lifted down, and she saw her
money disappear through the roof for ever, she burst into sobs and
tears, and refused comfort till the box was opened and the money
returned. In this way Pennie became aware of the very low state of the
funds; there was indeed hardly anything beside her own contributions,
and at this rate Miss Unity would never get her new mandarin. So far
her plan had failed.
"If only I could earn some money!" she said to Nancy.
"P'r'aps father will want some sermons copied when he comes back,"
suggested Nancy, "or mother may want some dusters hemmed."
"I should love to do the sermons," said Pennie; "but, oh," with a face
of disgust, "how I do hate needlework!"
"Well," said Nancy composedly, "if people want to be paid they've got to
work, whether they like it or not."
"But there's nice work and nasty work," said Pennie; "now, to write
books--that must be splendid!"
"I should hate it," said Nancy. "I'd much rather dig potatoes, or make
chairs and tables."
"Girls can't do that sort of work," remarked Ambrose, who was sitting in
the window-seat with a book. "Girls can't do many things. They're not
brave enough, or strong enough, or clever enough. Boys and men earn
money, not girls."
Nancy never wasted words on Ambrose when he talked in this way. She at
once looked round for the nearest thing to throw at him. Quite aware of
her intention, he quickly added holding up one arm to shield himself:
"Boys can do everything better than girls."
The school-room ruler whizzed through the air, and, without touching
Ambrose, crashed through the window behind him.
"Girls can't even throw straight!" he exclaimed exultingly, jumping down
from the window-seat.
With a very sober face Nancy advanced to examine the mischief. The
ruler had broken one pane of glass, and cracked two others right across.
"There, you see!" said Ambrose tauntingly, "you've done it again.
You're always smashing things."
It was quite true. Nancy had a most unfortunate faculty for breaking
glass, china, and any other fragile thing she came near. She looked
sadly at the window.
"It'll be at least two weeks' pocket-money, Nancy," said Pennie, drawing
near.
"I don't so much mind about that," said poor Nancy dejectedly; "but I do
so hate telling mother I've broken something else. I did mean not to
break anything while she was away this time."
"Mother's never really angry when we tell her," said Pennie, trying to
give comfort.
"I wish someone else had broken something, or done something wrong,"
continued Nancy. "It's so horrid to be the only one."
Ambrose became suddenly grave. What was a broken window compared with
his and David's disobedience in the matter of Rumborough Common? Each
day the possession of that little crock with its gold pieces weighed
upon his mind more heavily. They had not even dared to place it openly
in the museum, but after hiding it for a while in the tool-house, had
agreed to bury it in the garden as the only secure place. It might just
as well, therefore, have remained in the Roman Camp; and with all his
heart Ambrose wished it could be transported there again, for he had not
known one happy minute since its discovery. It haunted him in lesson
and play-hours, and visited him in feverish dreams at night; but, most
of all, it spoilt his enjoyment of the garden. He got into a way of
hovering round the spot where it was buried, and keeping a watchful eye
on all Andrew's movements, for he felt that he might some day be seized
by a whim to dig just there, and bring the dreadful thing to light. The
only person he could talk to on the subject was David, but there was
little comfort in that, for the conversation was sure to end in a
quarrel. David had been excited and pleased at first; but now that the
treasure was buried away, quite out of his sight, his interest in it
became fainter and fainter.
"I don't see any good at all in it," he said; "the museum's just as
empty as it was before. I think we'd better break it all up into tiny
bits and throw it away."
"But the coins--" said Ambrose.
"Well, then," was David's next suggestion, "we'd better tell."
"If ever you dare to be so mean as that, I'll never speak to you or play
with you again," returned Ambrose. "So there!"
David looked very sulky.
"I hate having it in my garden," he said. "I'm always wanting to plant
things just where it is."
Disputes became so frequent between the boys that at length, by a silent
agreement, they avoided the subject altogether, and by degrees the crock
ceased to be so constantly in Ambrose's thoughts. But even when he had
managed to forget it entirely for a little while, something always
happened to bring it back to his memory, and this was the case after
Nancy had made her confession of the broken window.
"My dear Nancy," said Mrs Hawthorne when she was told of it, "you knew
it was wrong to throw things at your brother, didn't you?"
"Why, yes, mother," said Nancy; "but I didn't think of it till after the
window was broken."
"But it would have been just as wrong if the ruler had not hit anyone or
broken anything. The wrong thing was the feeling which made you throw
it."
"I shouldn't have minded so much, though," said Nancy, "if it hadn't hit
anything."
"I suppose not; and the next time you were vexed you would have been
still readier to throw something. Each wrong thing makes it easier to
do the next, and sometimes people go on until it comes to be more
natural to do wrong than right. But when they find that the wrong-doing
gets them into trouble, and gives them pain, they remember to stop in
time when they are most tempted. So it is not altogether a pity that
the window is broken."
"There are two panes," said Nancy, "it'll take three weeks'
pocket-money. You couldn't ask Mr Putney to put in very cheap glass,
could you, mother?"
Ambrose had listened attentively to all this, though he was apparently
deeply engaged in scooping out a boat with his penknife. It brought all
his old trouble about the crock back again with redoubled force. He
envied Nancy. Her fault was confessed and paid for. What was the loss
of three weeks' money compared with the possession of unlawfully got and
hidden treasure? And yet he felt it impossible to tell his mother that
he had not only disobeyed her, but persuaded David to do so also. No.
The crock must take its chance of discovery. Perhaps in a little while
he should be able to forget its existence altogether and be quite happy
again.
But it was not easy, and, as if on purpose to prevent it, Pennie's
stories had just now taken the direction of dire and dreadful subjects.
They varied a good deal at different times, and depended on the sort of
books she could get to read. After a visit to Nearminster, where Miss
Unity's library consisted of rows and rows of solemn old brown volumes,
Pennie's stories were chiefly religious and biographical, taken, with
additional touches of her own, from the lives of bygone worthies. When
she was at home, where she had read all the books in the school-room
over and over again, she had to fall back on her own invention; and then
the stories were full of fairies, goblins, dwarfs, and such like
fancies. But lately, peering over the shelves in her father's study,
where she was never allowed to touch a book without asking, she had
discovered a thick old volume called _Hone's Miscellany_. To her great
joy she was allowed to look at it, "although," her father added, "I
don't think even you, Pennie, will find much that is interesting in it."
Pennie had soon dived into the inmost recesses of the _Miscellany_,
where she found much that was interesting and much that she did not
understand. There were all sorts of queer things in it. Anecdotes of
celebrated misers, maxims and proverbs, legends and pieces of poetry,
receipts for making pickles and jams, all mixed up together, so that you
could never tell what you might find on the next page. She thought it a
most wonderful and attractive book, and picked out a store of facts and
fancies on which to build future stories.
Unfortunately for Ambrose, those which most attracted her were of a dark
and grim character. One poem, called "_The Dream of Eugene Aram_," So
thrilled and excited her that she learned it at once by heart and
repeated it to her brothers and sisters. It would have had a great
effect upon Ambrose at any time, but just now he saw a dreadful fitness
in it to his own secret. Pennie added a moral when she had finished,
which really seemed pointed directly at him.
"We learn by this," she said, "that it is of no use to hide anything,
because it is always found out; and that if we do wrong we are sure to
be punished."
Pennie was fond of morals, and they were always listened to with
respect, except when they came into Dickie's stories, who could not bear
them, and always knew when they were coming. At the least hint of their
approach, however artfully contrived, she would abruptly leave her seat
and run away, saying, "No more, no more." Ambrose, however, was deeply
impressed both by the poem and the moral, and felt quite as guilty as
Eugene Aram.
True, it was only a crock he had buried, and as far as he knew he had
not robbed anyone of the gold, except the ancient Romans, who were all
dead long ago. But he began to be troubled with doubts as to whether
the coins were really so old. David had said they looked bright and
new; perhaps they belonged to someone alive now, who had buried them in
Rumborough Camp for safety. If this were so, he and David were robbers!
There was no other name for them.
This was such a new and terrible idea that he felt unable to keep it
entirely to himself. He must have someone's opinion on the matter; and
after some thought he resolved to try if Pennie could be of any service.
"If I say, `Suppose So-and-so did so-and-so,'" he said to himself, "she
won't know it really happened, and I shall hear what she thinks. I'll
do it to-morrow on the way to Cheddington Fair."
For the time for Cheddington Fair had come round again, and as it was
the only entertainment of any kind that happened near Easney, it was
looked forward to for weeks beforehand, and remembered for weeks
afterwards. It was indeed an occasion of importance to all the
country-side, and was considered the best fair held for many miles
round. The first day was given up to the buying and selling of cattle,
and after that came two days of what was called the "pleasure fair,"
when all the booths and shows were open, and many wonderful sights were
to be seen.
There was a wild-beast show of unusual size, a splendid circus, numbers
of conjurers, places where you might fire off a rifle for a penny,
merry-go-rounds where you might choose the colour of your horse, Aunt
Sallys where you could win a cocoa-nut if you were skilful--no end to
the attractions, no limit to the brilliancy and bustle of the scene.
The gingerbread to be bought at Cheddington Fair had a peculiar
excellence of its own, whether in the form of gilded kings and queens,
brandy-snap, or cakes; everything else tasted tame and flat after it, as
indeed did most of the events of daily life for some days following
these exciting events.
The children were glad when it was settled this year that they were to
go on the first day of the pleasure fair, for they had an uneasy fear
that if they waited till the second all the best things would be bought
from the stalls and booths. They set out therefore in very good
spirits, under the care of Nurse, and Jane the nursery-maid, to walk
from Easney to Cheddington, which was about a mile.
Pennie did not join in the chatter and laughter at first: she walked
along with unusual soberness, for though she liked going to the fair
quite as much as the others, she had just now something to think about
which made her grave. The children, she reflected, would certainly
spend every penny of their money to-day, besides that which mother had
given them for the wild-beast show. There would be nothing at all for
the mandarin. Should she make up her mind to save all hers, and buy
nothing at all for herself? As she gradually resolved upon this, she
began to feel that it would certainly be a very unselfish thing to do,
and she held her head a little higher, and listened with superiority to
her brothers and sisters as they chattered on about their money.
"I haven't got much," said Nancy, "hardly anything really, because I've
got to pay for that horrid window."
"I expect David's got most," said Ambrose, "he's as rich as a Jew."
"Jews aren't always rich," remarked David slowly. "Look at Mr Levi,
who stands in the door of the rag-and-bone shop at Nearminster."
Pennie could not help striking in at this point. "He doesn't look
rich," she said, "but I dare say he's got hoards buried in his garden."
"He hasn't got a garden," objected Nancy.
"Well, then, in his chimney, or perhaps sewn up in his mattress," she
answered.
"If that's all he does with it he might just as well be poor," said
David.
"But he isn't a poor man for all that," said Nancy, "if he's got a
mattress full of gold."
Ambrose became silent as the dispute about the poverty or wealth of Mr
Levi proceeded, and presently, edging close up to Pennie, who was a
little behind the others, he said wistfully:
"I say, Pennie, I want to ask you something."
"Well," said his sister rather unwillingly. "Suppose--you found
something," began Ambrose with an effort.
"What sort of thing?"
"Oh, something valuable," said Ambrose, thinking of the glittering gold
coins.
"What then?" asked Pennie, looking at him with a little more interest.
"What would you do with it?" continued Ambrose earnestly.
"Do with it!" repeated his sister. "Why, I should give it back to the
person who lost it, of course."
"But suppose you couldn't find out who it belonged to, or suppose the
people were dead."
Pennie was tired of supposing.
"Oh! I should ask mother what to do," she said, dismissing the
question. "I can hear the band," she suddenly added.
Ambrose gave a little sigh, as all the children quickened their
footsteps at this welcome sound.
There was no advice to be got from Pennie. He must shake off the
thought of his tiresome secret and enjoy himself as much as he could
to-day. Afterwards there would be time to trouble about it. And now
they were getting quite near to the tents and flags and gaily-painted
caravans and confused noises of men and beasts. Nurse seized Dickie's
unwilling hand as they reached the turnstile which admitted them into
the field.
"Keep close together, my dears," she said anxiously. "You stay along
with me, Miss Pennie, and Miss Nancy and Jane, you come after me with
the other two."
She looked distractedly at the little faces smiling with delight and
eager to plunge into the pleasures of the fair. Since Dickie had once
run away quite alone to go to the circus she had always been more
nervous about the children.
"Jane," she said sharply to the small nursery-maid, "what are you gaping
at? Keep your wits about you, do."
Jane, who had never been inside a fair before, was gazing open-mouthed
at an enormous portrait of the "Living Skeleton." She turned to Nurse
with a face from which all expression had gone but one of intense
surprise.
"You're not a bit of use," said Nurse. "See here, Master David, I can
depend on _you_. Keep with Master Ambrose and Jane as close to me as
you can. And if you lose sight of me in the crowd be at the gate by
four o'clock and wait there for the carriage."
David nodded, and Nurse, with one more severe look at Jane, plunged into
the crowd with Dickie toddling beside her.
How gay, how enchanting it all was! Boom, boom went the drums. "Walk
in, ladies and gentlemen. Here you will see the performing seal, the
Circassian beauty, the Chinese giant, and the smallest dwarf in the
world." Next to those attractions came the circus, outside of which, on
a raised platform, stood harlequin, clown, and columbine, all in a row,
and in full dress.
"Here we are again," cried the clown. "How are you to-morrow?"
How kind and inviting all the showmen were! Bang! Bang! "Two shots
with a rifle for a penny. Who'll win a cocoa-nut?" "This way for
Signor Antonio, the famous lion-tamer!" And so on, till the brain
reeled, and choice amongst all these excitements became almost
impossible.
Mother had given money for one entertainment, and the children had
agreed beforehand that the wild-beast show would be far the best to see,
but now that they were in the midst of the fair they began to waver. It
was painful to think that whichever entertainment they fixed on the
others might be better. On one point Nurse was firm. Wherever they
went they must all go together, and at last, after a harassing
consultation and some difference of opinion, it was decided that on the
whole the menagerie would be best.
"Though I did want," said David, rather regretfully, as they entered,
"to see that performing pig who knows his letters and dances a
hornpipe."
The wild-beast show over, there remained a great deal to be seen
outside; and now in the bustle and struggle of the narrow ways the party
became separated, the three little girls remaining with Nurse and the
boys with Jane.
"And I hope to goodness," said Nurse anxiously, "that Jane won't lose
her head. Master David's there--that's one comfort. No, Miss Dickie,
you don't let go of my hand for one minute, so it's no good pulling at
me."
Up till now Pennie had had no difficulty in keeping her money in her
pocket, for she had seen nothing she specially wanted to buy. Nancy had
spent hers before she had been five minutes in the fair, had won a
cocoa-nut, and was now hugging it triumphantly under her arm. No doubt
Ambrose and David would also part with theirs before long.
"There's a funny stall," said Nancy suddenly, "nothing but rubbishing
old books."
"Let's go and look at it," said Pennie.
They were very shabby old books indeed. Some of them with cracked
bindings and the letters on the backs rubbed off; others with no binding
at all, in soiled paper covers. There were piles and piles of them, not
neatly arranged, but tossed about anyhow, and behind the stall stood an
old man with a withered face and a pointed chin--a sort of wizard old
man, Pennie thought. Nancy seemed struck with his appearance too.
"He's just like pantaloon, isn't he?" she said in a loud whisper as they
stopped in front of the stall.
The old man peered sharply at the two little girls over the open book he
held in his hand.
"What do you want, Missie?" he asked in a cracked voice.
"We don't want anything, thank you," said Pennie politely. "What a lot
of old books you have!"
"Ah! they're too old for such as you," said the old man, glancing at the
watchful form of Nurse in the background; "but I've got a pretty one
somewheres that'd just suit you."
"Come along, do, Miss Pennie," said Nurse entreatingly, "there's nothing
like old books for fevers."
But the old man had dived beneath his stall, and now produced a book on
which Pennie's eyes were immediately fastened with the deepest interest.
"There!" he said, laying it before her, "there's the book to suit you,
my little lady." It was a square book in a gaily-coloured parchment
cover, somewhat faded, but still showing attractive devices of shields,
swords, and dragons. On it was emblazoned in old English letters the
title, "_Siegfried the Dragon Slayer_."
Pennie gazed at it in silent rapture.
"Full of 'lustrations," continued the old man slowly turning the leaves,
and leaving it open to display a picture.
Pennie and Nancy both bent over it. It was a wonderful picture. There
was a man with wings on his shoulders flying high up above a great city,
and shooting arrows from a bow at the crowd of people beneath. How did
he get wings? Who was he?
Pennie cast her eyes hurriedly on the next page to find out, but before
she could master one sentence the old man turned over the leaf; "That's
the book for you, Missie," he repeated, "you're a scholard, I can see
that."