"I don't believe I ever was so glad of anything in all my life," said
Nancy.
She was sitting with Pennie in a favourite place of theirs, a broad
window-seat at the end of a passage which looked out on the garden. It
was a snug private sort of corner, and when they had any particular bit
of work, or any matter they wished to talk over without the boys, it was
always their habit to retire there. This morning something very special
had happened. A letter from mother to Miss Grey, inclosing one for the
children, to say that they were all coming back on Monday. To-day was
Saturday. Only one more day and two more nights before mother and
father, Dickie, baby, and nurse, would be in their right places, and the
house would feel natural again.
The boys, after hearing the news, had at once rushed upstairs to the
museum and had not been seen since, though, as Nancy said, there was
nothing more they could possibly do to it, unless they made it untidy
for the pleasure of putting it straight. For the museum was now in very
fine order, with all its shelves full, and all its specimens neatly
labelled and arranged. The doctor himself had climbed the steep
staircase to pay a visit to it, and squeezed himself with difficulty
through the low doorway. True, there was only one corner in it where he
could stand upright, because the roof sloped so much and he was so tall;
but if it had been a palace he could not have admired it more, or looked
more really pleased with everything in it.
The boys, therefore, were quite satisfied; there could not be a better
thing to celebrate the return than to open the museum. But Pennie and
Nancy were quite outside all this, and they had a strong feeling that
they too would like to do something remarkable on Monday. Only what
should it be?
"It's of no use at all to keep on saying you're glad," said Pennie. "Of
course we're glad, but what can we do to show it?"
"Couldn't we decorate the house," said Nancy, "like Christmas?"
"It would be better than nothing," said Pennie, but she evidently did
not think it much of an idea.
"What do you call those things that emperors drive under when they come
back from wars?" asked Nancy suddenly.
"Laurels," suggested Pennie doubtfully.
"No, no," said Nancy, "you know what I mean. I've heard you read about
them to Miss Grey in history."
"Canopies," said Pennie after deep thought. But that was wrong too.
Nancy bit her lips with impatience.
"It's something to do with an arch," she said, "only there's another
word before it."
"_I_ know," said Pennie, "you mean a triumphant arch."
"That's it," exclaimed Nancy with great relief. "Well, why couldn't we
make a triumphant arch over the white gate for them to drive under?"
Pennie approved of this.
"If the boys would help," she added; "you and I couldn't do it alone, we
shouldn't have time. And besides we should want their hammers and
things."
"We must ask them at once," said Nancy springing up. "They must be
tired of staring at that stupid museum."
The boys were quite ready, for there really was nothing more to do to
the museum, and they were glad of a change. The next person to be
appealed to was Andrew, but here came an unexpected difficulty. Andrew
would not allow a single twig to be cut while master was away.
"But we must have ever-greens," insisted Ambrose, "it's to make a
triumphant arch for father and mother."
But Andrew was firm. They might make as many triumphant arches as they
liked after master was at home, but he couldn't cut ever-greens without
orders.
"It wouldn't be a bit of use afterwards," said David. "People never
have triumphant arches _after_ they get back. We must have some now."
"Not from me, Master David," was Andrew's answer, and he left the
children in a downcast group and went on his way. Poor Nancy was almost
in tears. It was very hard to have her plan so suddenly destroyed, but
she knew that Andrew was not to be persuaded to change his mind.
"It's a shame!" she exclaimed with heated cheeks. "I'm sure mother and
father would like us to have them. I shall go and ask Miss Grey."
She ran off towards the house, and Pennie followed more slowly. The
boys, easily consoled by remembering that there was still the museum,
gave up the triumphant arch without any more effort, and went about
their own affairs.
Nancy soon came back.
"Well?" said Pennie inquiringly.
"Miss Grey's just as bad as Andrew," said Nancy moodily. "She says she
couldn't give us leave to have ever-greens in father's absence."
"Why, then, we must give it up," said Pennie soothingly, "and think of
something else."
"There is nothing else," said Nancy.
It made her feel cross to see Pennie take it so quietly, and, refusing
to go into the house with her, she marched off rather sulkily by
herself. First she wandered listlessly about the garden, casting looks
of disdain at Andrew, who was quite unaware of them, and then she went
down to the white gate leading into the road, and thought how beautiful
the triumphant arch would have looked.
Presently she climbed on to the top of the gate, and sat there feeling
very cross with all the world--with Andrew, with Miss Grey, with the
boys, and even with Pennie because she was not cross too. Engaged in
these moody thoughts, she at length saw a large figure coming slowly
down the road towards her. It wore black baggy clothes and a wideawake
hat, and it often stopped and made lines in the dusty road with the
stout stick it carried. By all this Nancy knew that it was Dr Budge,
and as she sat there with her chin resting on her hand she wondered how
often he would stop before he reached her, to make pictures in the dust.
She thought she would count. And she began to say one, two, three,
aloud, so that she might remember. The doctor got nearer and nearer,
quite unconscious of the little figure on the vicarage gate.
"Five," said Nancy's clear little voice, breaking in on his reflections
as he came to a stand-still near her.
She was so used to be unnoticed by him that she was surprised to see him
look quickly at her, as though he knew who she was. Not being at all
shy she at once gave him a cheerful little nod.
"Five what?" asked the doctor.
"I was counting how many times you stopped before you came to the gate,"
said Nancy.
Dr Budge laughed. "Well, you're not very busy then, I suppose?" he
said, "or is this the way you generally spend your mornings?"
"I'm not at all busy," said Nancy in an injured tone as she remembered
her disappointment, "but I should like to be. I wanted to be very busy
indeed, but I can't, because of that tiresome Andrew."
The doctor stood facing the gate, his stout stick in his hand, and his
eyes fixed on her quite as if he knew who she was.
"He doesn't look as if he thought I was David to-day," said Nancy to
herself; and encouraged by the doctor's attention she went on
confidentially.
"You see, father and mother and the little ones are coming back on
Monday, and the boys are going to open the museum, but Pennie and I
haven't anything to do with that, and we wanted to make a triumphant
arch and decorate the house, and Andrew won't let us have any
ever-greens."
"A triumphant arch, eh!" said the doctor, and Nancy wondered why he
smiled as he said it, as though it were something odd; "but wouldn't it
be difficult for you to make that?"
"The boys would help us," said Nancy; "but it's no use thinking of it,
because we can't have any ever-greens."
"It's a splendid idea," said the doctor thoughtfully. "Whose was it?"
"Mine," said Nancy proudly. She began to like Dr Budge very much.
"Why shouldn't you go up into the woods," said he after a moment.
"There's plenty of ivy and holly there, and you might get as much as you
liked."
"We mus'n't go there alone," said Nancy sadly, "and Miss Grey couldn't
walk so far, and if she could it's too late now, for it would take us
all the afternoon to get there and back, and to-morrow's Sunday."
"But you could get up early, I suppose, on Monday morning and put up the
triumphant arch," persisted the doctor.
Nancy looked quickly at him with a gleam of hope in her eyes.
"If," she began, "someone could go with us--" She stopped, but the rest
of the sentence was written on her face, and Dr Budge understood as
well as though she had spoken it.
He nodded gravely.
"If Miss Grey gives leave," he said, "you can meet me at two o'clock at
the corner of the road. And, of course, the boys are to come too."
"And Pennie," added Nancy. In her excitement she stood up on the bar of
the gate as though she meant to fling herself upon the doctor's neck,
but checking this impulse she climbed down and held out her hand to him.
"Thank you tremendously," she said very earnestly. "Miss Grey will be
sure to let us go with you."
In this way the doctor proved himself a friend in need for the second
time, and now Nancy and Pennie were loud in his praise as well as the
boys. He knew so much about everything, as well as about Latin and
Greek and museums. Where to find the best sort of ivy, how much would
be wanted for the arch, and finally, how to get the bundle of
ever-greens down the hill. He even produced out of one baggy pocket a
ball of stout twine, and showed the children how to bind it all together
and pull it along after them. He was the most delightful person to go
out with. Miss Grey sometimes said "Not so much noise Nancy," or,
"Remember you are a young lady;" but on this occasion Nancy made as much
noise as she liked, scrambled about among the bushes, tore her frock,
and enjoyed herself to the full.
The children went to bed happy in the thought that in spite of Andrew
there was a big bundle of ever-greens in the barn, and that nothing
would be wanting to the triumphant arch on Monday.
Very early in the morning it was all ready, and they stood round the
white gate looking up at it with some pride, but also a little doubt.
"Doesn't it look rather wobbly?" said Nancy. "I thought pea-sticks
wouldn't be strong enough, but Andrew wouldn't let us have anything
else."
The ever-greens had been tied on with such a generous hand that their
weight seemed a little too much for the triumphant arch, so that it
trembled gently in the wind.
"Suppose," said Ambrose, "that it should fall just as father and mother
drive through. And I don't believe," he added, "that Andrew, on the
box, with his tall hat on, will be able to drive through without
touching the top."
This seemed so likely, and was such an awful thought, that the children
were silent for a moment. If Andrew's tall hat did knock against the
arch it would certainly fall, and perhaps hurt the whole party.
"We must tell him to be sure to bend his head," said Pennie at last, "or
it would be still better if he would take off his hat, but I'm afraid he
wouldn't do that."
"Well, anyhow," said Nancy, "we can't alter it now, because we've got
all the house to do. We must just leave it to chance."
Nancy was fond of leaving things to chance, and though this was a more
serious matter than usual, the children at last agreed that there was
nothing else to be done. The rest of the morning was spent in putting
ivy and holly wherever it could be put, especially on the staircase
leading up to the museum. David with his hammer nailed up wreaths and
sprays as fast as Pennie and Nancy could make them, till the bare white
walls were almost covered and had a very fine effect.
Ambrose meanwhile had shut himself into the school-room to carry out
what he hoped would be the best idea of all. He wanted to draw the two
first letters of his mother's name, MH, on cardboard, which were to be
cut out, covered with ivy leaves, and put over the entrance to the
museum. He could not, however, get it to look quite right, and was so
long about it that the decorations upstairs were nearly finished.
"How are you getting on?" said Nancy, rushing in. You've been long
enough to draw all the alphabet. "Well," she continued, looking over
her brother's shoulder, "the H isn't so bad, but I shouldn't know what
the other's meant for. It looks like a sort of curly insect."
"They're old English letters," said Ambrose proudly.
"Then you'd better have drawn new English ones," said Nancy, "no one
will know what they mean."
"Mother will know," said Ambrose, "she's not a silly little girl like
you."
"I hope she will," replied Nancy, "for it's just dinner-time, and you
can't do any more. I'll help you to stick on the ivy leaves."
Nancy was always good-natured, although she said such tiresome things.
The letters were not quite so plain to read as Ambrose had hoped, when
they were put up over the museum door, but still they had an ornamental
look, and gave a finishing touch to the decorations.
Nothing remained after dinner was over but to wait until four o'clock,
by which time the carriage might be expected to arrive from Nearminster
station. Long before that the children were ready in their places,
standing two on each side of the "triumphant" arch, which nodded proudly
over the white gate.
"They've lost the train, I expect," said Ambrose, "and Andrew's waiting
for the next."
"I sha'n't give them up yet," said Nancy, "because the church clock
hasn't struck four."
"There it is!" exclaimed Ambrose as the first strokes of the hour
sounded deeply from the tower near.
"Now they may be here any minute," said David solemnly, "now, don't let
us forget about Andrew's hat."
But it was yet another quarter of an hour before Ruby's white nose was
seen coming steadily down the road. As it got nearer the excitement at
the gate grew so high that it did not seem likely anyone would think
about Andrew's hat, or of anything beside shouts of welcome, and
exclamations.
"There's Dickie on the box; she's holding the whip. Mother's got baby
on her knee. They've seen us. They've seen the arch, hurrah!"
Now they were quite near, and now it suddenly appeared that one person's
feelings about passing through the "triumphant" arch had not been
considered. This was Ruby. In all his long life he had gone many and
many a time through the white gate, but never had he seen it adorned by
bunches of green bushy things which shook in the wind. He did not mind
the jumping shouting little figures on each side of it in the least, but
the "triumphant" arch was an insult to a horse who had lived many years
at the vicarage, and knew every stick and stone near it. He planted his
fore feet firmly on the ground, put his head down, and refused to stir.
"Come, my lad," said Andrew, "it's nowt to harm ye."
But Ruby would not be reasoned with, or coaxed, or forced with the whip.
It a little spoiled the triumph of the arrival, and Mr and Mrs
Hawthorne sat laughing in the carriage, while Andrew went through all
the forms of persuasion he knew. But at last Mrs Hawthorne had a good
thought.
"Never mind, Andrew," she said, "we will all get out here, and walk
through this beautiful arch. Then you can drive round the other way to
the stable with the luggage."
So after all it had not been made in vain, though to walk through it was
perhaps not quite so triumphant as driving would have been. It had,
however, some advantages. It was easier to tell all the news and to ask
all the questions as they walked up to the house together, than to shout
them out running by the side of the carriage.
"_I_ thought of the decorations," said Nancy as they entered the house,
"and we all helped to put them up."
"But," added David, "we shouldn't have been able to get them at all, if
Dr Budge hadn't helped us."
The decorations were very much admired, and Ambrose, who was nervously
impatient to show the museum, soon thought that more than enough
attention had been given to them. He grew quite vexed with Pennie and
Nancy as they pointed out fresh beauties.
"Let mother and father come upstairs now," he said impatiently.
And at last they were on their way.
"What can you have to show us at the very top of the house?" asked their
father as he climbed the last flight of steep stairs.
Ambrose and David had run on before, and now stood one on each side of
the entrance, their whole figures big with importance, and too excited
even to smile. Ambrose had prepared a speech, but he could not remember
it all.
"We are glad to welcome you to the new museum at Easney," he said to his
mother, "and, and--"
"And we hope," added David, "that you will declare it open, and allow it
to be called the _Mary Hawthorne Museum_."
It was a moment which had been looked forward to with eagerness and
delight during the past weeks, but when it really came it was even more
satisfactory. When Mr and Mrs Hawthorne had left home the museum was
a dusty neglected place which no one cared to enter; its very name
seemed to mean trouble and disgrace; its empty shelves were like a
painful reproach.
How different it looked now! Bright, clean, prosperous, with not a
speck of dust anywhere, and as full as it could be of really interesting
specimens. The proud little owners displayed its treasures eagerly, and
there was a great deal to be told of how Dr Budge did this, and found
that; his name came so often that Mrs Hawthorne said:
"I think it ought to be called the `Budge' Museum, for the doctor seems
to have had a great deal to do with it."
"He's had everything to do with it," said David; "but you see, we helped
him first to find his jackdaw. That's how it all began."
"Well," said Mr Hawthorne putting his hand on Ambrose's shoulder, "I
think it all began in another way. I hear that Dr Budge has had a good
and industrious pupil while I have been away, and that has made him so
willing to help you. I know now that I can trust Ambrose to do his
best, even though he cannot quite learn Latin in a month."
There was only just room in the museum for the two boys and their father
and mother, but the other children stood outside peeping in at the open
door, and adding remarks from time to time.
"You didn't present mother with the key," said Nancy, "and she hasn't
declared it open."
"Here it is!" said David hurriedly. He pulled a large rusty key out of
his pocket.
"It's the apple-closet key _really_," he said in a low tone to his
mother, "this door hasn't got one. You must just pretend to give it a
sort of twist."
The party squeezed itself into the passage again, and Mrs Hawthorne
with a flourish of the big key threw open the door and exclaimed:
"I declare this museum to be open, and that it is to be henceforth known
as the _Mary Hawthorne Museum_."
The evening that followed the opening of the museum was counted by the
children as one of the very nicest they had ever had. It was celebrated
by sitting up to supper with their father and mother, and by telling and
hearing all that had passed while they had been away.
"Nancy," said Pennie to her sister when it was all over and the two
little girls were in bed, "all our plans are finished; we've done all we
can for Kettles, and the boys have opened the museum. What shall we
think of next?"
"Well, you're not sorry they're finished, are you?" said Nancy, for
Pennie had spoken sadly; "that's what we've been trying to do all the
time."
"Of course I'm glad," said Pennie, "and yet I'm sorry too. It's like
reading a book you like very much. You want to finish it, but how sorry
you are when you come to the end."