"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 god-daughter, Penelope Hawthorne?"
Miss Unity's conscience pricked 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 godmother, 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, assented earnestly, and
added that she believed Miss Cannon had a class 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 class 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 class. 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
god-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-class, 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
god-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.
"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 god-daughter. "You don't think so much writing makes her
stoop too much?"
"Oh, no!" replied Mrs Hawthorne lightly; "it's a great amusement 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-class 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 class, 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 class 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 god-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 class 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 Dickie; 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 Dickie, 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 godmother.--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. Dickie
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.
"I wonder if the Merridews are nice?" remarked Ambrose; "fancy five
girls!"
"Only four are going to learn," said Pennie; "Miss Unity told me their
names. There's Joyce, and Ethel, and Katharine, and Sabine."
"What rum names!" said Ambrose; "all except Katharine; almost as queer
as Ethelwyn."
"They're not a bit like Ethelwyn to look at, though," said Pennie;
"they're very neat and quiet, and I think not pretty."
"I suppose Ethelwyn was pretty, but she wasn't nice," said Ambrose
thoughtfully; "and what a sneak she was about the mandarin!"
Pennie sighed; Ethelwyn and the mandarin were both painful subjects to
her, and she felt just now as though the world were full of trials.
There was this dreadful dancing-class looming in the distance--something
awful and unknown, to which she was daily getting nearer and nearer.
Ambrose understood much better than Nancy what she felt about it, and
was a much more sympathetic listener, for he knew very well what it was
to be afraid, and to dread what was strange and new. Nancy was quite
sure that she should hate to learn dancing; but as to being afraid of
the dean or any other dignitary, or minding the presence of any number
of Merridews, that was impossible to imagine. So as the days went on
Pennie confided her troubles chiefly to Ambrose; but she was soon seized
with another anxiety in which he could be of no help.
"Those shoes are awfully shabby, mother," she said one morning; "don't
you think I might have new ones?"
Mrs Hawthorne examined the shoes which Pennie had brought to her.
"Are those your best?" she asked, "it seems quite a short time since you
and Nancy had new ones."
"Nancy's are quite nice still," said Pennie sorrowfully; "but just look
how brown these toes are, and how they bulge out at the side."
"They were just the same as Nancy's when they were bought," said Mrs
Hawthorne; "but if you will stand on one side of your foot, Pennie, of
course you wear them out more quickly."
"I never mean to," said poor Pennie, gazing mournfully at the shabby
shoe, "but it seems natural somehow."
"Well, you must try harder to remember in future," said her mother. "I
should like to give you new shoes very much, but you know I have often
told you I can't spend much on your clothes, and I'm afraid we must make
the old ones do a little longer."
So this was another drop of bitterness added to Pennie's little cup of
troubles. It was not only that the shoes were shabby, but they fastened
with a button and a strap. She felt quite sure that the Merridews and
all the other children at the class would wear shoes with sandals, and
this was a most tormenting thought. She saw a vision of rows of
elegantly shod feet, and one shabby misshapen pair amongst them.
"I think I want new shoes quite as much as Kettles does," she said one
day to Nancy.
"You might have mine if you like," said Nancy, who was always ready to
lend or give her things, "but I suppose they'd be too small."
"I can just squeeze into them," said Pennie, "and while I stand-still I
can bear it--but I couldn't walk without screaming."
The dreaded day came, as all days must whether we want them or not, and
Pennie found herself walking across the Close to the deanery with Betty,
who carried a little parcel with the old shoes and a pair of black
mittens in it. The grey Cathedral looked gravely down upon them as they
passed, and Pennie looked up to where her own special monster perched
grinning on his water-spout. The children had each chosen one of these
grotesque figures to be their very own, and had given them names; Pennie
called hers the Griffin. He had wings and claws, a long neck, and a
half-human face, and seemed to be just poised for flight--as though at
any moment he might spring away from his resting-place, and alight on
the smooth green turf just outside the dean's door. Pennie often
wondered what Dr Merridew would say if he found him there, but just now
she had no room for such fancies; she only felt sure of the Griffin's
sympathy, and said to herself as she nodded to him:
"When I see you again I shall be glad, because it will be over, and I
shall be going home to tea." Another moment and they had arrived at the
deanery.
"Miss Unity wishes to know, please, what time Miss Hawthorne is to be
fetched," asked Betty.
It seemed odd to Pennie that she could not run across the Close to Miss
Unity's house alone, but this by no means suited her godmother's ideas
of propriety.
Having taken off her hat, changed her shoes, and put on the black
mittens, Pennie was conducted to the dining-room, which was already
prepared for the dancing-class, with the large table pushed into the
window and the chairs placed solemnly round close to the wall. Some
girls, who were chatting and laughing near the fire, all stopped short
as she entered, and for one awful moment stared at the new-comer in
silence.
Pennie felt that no one knew who she was; she stood pulling nervously at
her mittens, a forlorn little being in a strange land. At last one of
the girls came forward and shook hands with her.
"Won't you sit down?" she said; and Pennie having edged herself on to
one of the high leather-covered chairs against the wall, she left her
and returned to the group by the fire.
Pennie examined them.
"That must be Ethel," she thought, "and the tallest is Joyce, and the
two with frocks alike must be Katharine and Sabine. It isn't nice of
them not to take any notice of a visitor. We shouldn't do it at home."
Presently other children arrived, and then Miss Lacy, the governess,
joined them. She went up to Pennie and asked her name.
"Why, of course," she said, "I ought to have remembered you. Ethel,
come here and talk to Penelope. You two are just the same age, I
think," she added as Ethel turned reluctantly from the group near the
fire.
Pennie was very tired of hearing that she and Ethel were just the same
age, and it did not seem to her any reason at all that they should want
to know each other. Ethel, too, looked unwilling to be forced into a
friendship, as she came listlessly forward and sat down by Pennie's
side.
"Are you fond of dancing?" she inquired in a cold voice.
"I don't know," said Pennie, "I never tried. I don't think I shall be,"
she added.
Ethel was silent, employing the interval in a searching examination of
her companion, from the tucker in her frock, to the strapped shoes on
her feet. She had a way of half-closing her eyes while she did this,
that Pennie felt to be extremely offensive. "I don't like her at all,"
she said to herself, "and if she doesn't want to talk to me, I'm sure I
don't want to talk to her."
"We've always been taught by Miss Lacy," said Ethel at last, "but of
course it's much better to have a master."
"I should like Miss Lacy best," said Pennie; and while Ethel was
receiving this answer with another long stare, Monsieur Deville was
announced.
The dancing-master was tall and slim, with a springing step and a very
graceful bow; his sleek hair was brushed across a rather bald head, and
he had a long reddish nose. He carried a small fiddle, on which he was
able to play while he was executing the most agile and difficult steps
for the benefit of his pupils. On that day, and always, it was
marvellous to Pennie to see how he could go sliding and capering about
the room, never making one false note, nor losing his balance, and
generally talking and explaining as he went. He spoke English as though
it had been his native tongue, and indeed there did not seem to be
anything French about him except his name.
The class opened with various exercises, which Pennie was able to do
pretty well by dint of paying earnest attention to the child immediately
in front of her, but soon some steps followed which she knew nothing
about. She stood in perplexity, trying to gather some idea from the
hopping springing figures around her. They had all learnt dancing
before, and found no difficulty in what looked to her a hopeless puzzle.
"Bend the knees, young ladies!" shouted Monsieur Deville above the
squeaking of his fiddle. "Slide gently. Keep the head erect. _Very_
good, Miss Smithers. The wrong foot, Miss Hawthorne. Draw in the chin;
dear, dear, that won't do at all,"--stopping suddenly.
Miss Lacy now advanced to inform Monsieur that Miss Hawthorne was quite
a beginner, at which every member of the class turned her head and
looked at Pennie. What a hateful thing a dancing lesson was!
"Ah! we shall soon improve, no doubt," said Monsieur cheerfully; "the
great thing is to practise the exercises thoroughly--to make the form
supple and elastic. Without that as a foundation we can do nothing.
With it we can do wonders. Miss Hawthorne had better try that step
alone. The rest stand-still."
Pennie would have given the world to run out of the room, but she
grasped her dress courageously, and fixing a desperate eye on Monsieur's
movements, copied them as well as she could.
"That will do for the present. All return to your seats. The Miss
Smiths will now dance `_Les Deux Armes_.'"
Two sisters, old pupils of Monsieur Deville, advanced with complacency
into the middle of the room.
"A little fancy dance composed by myself," said the dancing-master,
turning to Miss Lacy as he played a preliminary air, "supposed to
represent the quarrel and reconciliation of two friends, introducing
steps from the minuet and gavotte. It has been considered a graceful
trifle."
Pennie gazed in awe-struck wonder at the Miss Smiths as they moved with
conscious grace and certainty through the various figures of the dance,
now curtsying haughtily to each other, now with sudden abruptness
turning their backs and pirouetting down the room on the very tips of
their toes; now advancing, now retreating, now on the very point of
reconciliation, and now bounding apart as though nothing were further
from their thoughts. Finally, after the spectators for some time in
doubt as to their intentions, they came down the length of the room with
what Monsieur called a _chasse_ step, and curtsied gracefully hand in
hand.
"Well, at any rate," thought Pennie with a sigh of relief, "_I_ shall
never be able to dance well enough to do that; that's one comfort."
The class lasted two long hours and finished by a march round the room,
the tallest pupil at the head and the shortest bringing up the rear.
"Why," asked Monsieur, "do we begin with the left foot?"
And the old pupil immediately answered:
"Because it is the military rule."
This impressed Pennie a good deal; but afterwards when she found that
Monsieur never failed to ask this before the march began, the effect
wore off, and she even felt equal to answering him herself. But that
was after many lessons had passed; at present everything seemed strange
and difficult, and she was so nervous that she hardly knew her right
foot from her left.
After the marching was over it was time for Monsieur to put his fiddle
into its case, and to say with a graceful sweeping bow, "Good evening,
young ladies!" A joyful sound to Pennie. In a minute she had torn off
her mittens, changed her shoes, and was on her way back to Miss Unity's
house.
"It was much worse than I thought it would be," she said as she sat at
tea with her godmother; "but I sha'n't see any of them again for another
week, that's one good thing."