On the whole Penelope Carter was a fairly good child. She had been very
cross when disturbed by Nesta; but when she returned to the lawn her
good humour immediately came back. She looked almost pretty, for there
was much more character in her face than her sisters'. She ran about
now, charming many people by her bright presence, and more than one
visitor remarked that Penelope would be the best-looking of the Carters,
and certainly had more character in her face than her sisters.
The gay party came to an end, and with it, some of Penelope's good
spirits. When she had taken the sovereign from her father's purse, she
had certainly not had the slightest idea of concealing the fact from
him. A sovereign, as she knew, meant but little in that establishment.
He would thank her for not allowing that wicked Nesta to disgrace him in
public. He would pat her on the cheek and say: "Well done, little
woman; I am glad you were good enough to confess!" and there would be an
end of the matter.
This was Penelope's thought in cold blood; but when she reflected more
over the matter, it seemed to her that the thing was not so easy as it
had appeared when in the heat of the conflict with Nesta she had
purloined the money. Mr Carter was very fond of his children; he was a
very good-hearted, upright sort of man, ambitious, but without a scrap
of taste; thoroughly upright and honest in all his dealings; he did not
owe a penny in the world. He had made his money by honest toil, and he
was proud of it. To rise in the opinion of the world seemed to him a
very laudable thing to do. He hoped to establish his children well in
the world. He hoped that his daughters would marry gentlemen, and his
sons ladies. He hoped to die in a better position than that in which he
was born. For this reason he encouraged the Aldworths, and rather
snubbed the Griffiths; and for the same reason he was anxious to become
acquainted with the St Justs, not in a business capacity, but as a
friend. He had none of the finer perceptions of character. It never
occurred to him that it might be painful to Sir Edward to visit his old
home under such changed conditions. On the contrary, he thought how
agreeable it would be to show the ex-owner how much better the place
looked since Clay had suggested the cutting down of those magnificent
trees, and the opening up of that glade. What a beautiful tennis lawn
that was, where the ancient garden used to stand. It never occurred to
him for a single moment that the bric-a-brac, the beautiful furniture,
the old pictures, the old oak which had belonged to the St Justs, was
not more than replaced by the modern splendours of modern and depraved
taste. These things he knew nothing about. He was exceedingly anxious
to know the St Justs and their set, and would have given a good deal
more than the sovereign which poor Penelope had taken to attain that
object.
Nevertheless, Penelope felt that the whole thing had an ugly appearance
on the present occasion. The sovereign, however, must be put back in
the purse, or the truth confessed before Saturday morning, that was
evident. This was Wednesday. There was all Thursday and Friday. There
would be a little packing to do--not that Penelope would trouble herself
about that--but there would be a little commotion in getting the family
off to the sea. Her father was not going with them, at least not for
the first few days, but he would follow.
That evening Penelope determined to make a confidante of her sister,
Clara.
Clara was in a specially good humour. She had had, as she expressed it,
a stunning day, one long series of triumphs, as she said now to her
sisters, Mabel and Annie, as they clustered round her.
"Oh, and there's little Pen," she cried. "Come along, Penelope. You
looked quite nice to-day. You'll take the shine out of us all when you
are grown up. One or two people asked me who you were. Your hair is so
pretty, and you will be taller than the rest of us."
"I don't care," said Penelope.
Clara pinched her cheek.
"You don't care? But you will care fast enough when you are older, and
when you have several Berties walking with you, and other fellows
anxious to get introductions to you. You wait and see."
Penelope looked what she felt, cross and discontented.
"What is it, Puss? What are you frowning about?"
"I'm only thinking. I want to have a talk with you all by myself."
"Oh, indeed, and so we're not to be with you?" said Mabel in some
surprise.
"No, I want old Clay. Can't I go somewhere with you all by yourself,
Clara?"
Now this sort of homage was sweet to Clara. She kissed the child, and
said affectionately:
"Well, I'm a bit tired; what with running about all over the place and
entertaining folks, I don't seem to have a leg to stand on; but I
suppose we can just cross the lawn and get into the summerhouse and have
a chat. Come along, Pen."
Penelope fastened herself on to her elder sister's arm and they went
across to the summerhouse in question.
"Now, then," said Clara, somewhat severely, "they tell me that I spoil
you."
"Oh, but you don't, Clay, you are ever so nice to me."
"Well, I don't mean to spoil you. Of course, these are holiday times;
but when lessons begin again I am going to be ever so strict. It has
just occurred to me that I might get an introduction for you through
Miss Angela St Just to that charming school at Frankfort."
"What charming school at Frankfort?" asked Penelope. "Frankfort--
where's that?"
"Oh, you dreadful child! Don't you know?"
"I hate geography. I don't want to learn. I don't want to be a good,
model, knowledgeable girl. And I hate Miss Just. I do; so there!"
"Well, Penelope, you are a good deal too young to choose for yourself,
and if father can get an introduction to Mrs Silchester, I am sure he
will avail himself of it. The school is most select; only the very
nicest of girls go there."
"Isn't it the school where that horrid Marcia Aldworth was--that
detestable old-maid thing."
"She is an exceedingly nice girl."
"Clay! As though she suited you one little bit! Why, I saw her one
day, and she was as pokery as possible."
"But she is a friend of Miss St Just's."
"Oh, Clay! Clay! I will be good; I will be good, and we needn't talk
of that horrid school just now, need we, just when my long beautiful
holidays are beginning. I will be good, I will, if you will only help
me."
"Well, Puss, what can I do?"
"I did something to-day--it wasn't really wrong, but I am a bit
frightened. I must tell you."
"You are a queer little thing--what can it be?" Penelope looked full up
at her sister.
"You are as proud as Punch--you are, you old thing! And now I shall
whisper to you why you are go proud?"
"Yes, do; whisper to me."
"You have got to know that Miss St Just--that idol of yours, that angel
up in the clouds that you are always thinking is too good for this
world; you got to know her to-day at the Aldworths'."
"I did, and I find her not at all an angel up in the clouds, but a very
pretty and sweet angel with her feet on the solid earth. And she is
ever so pleased to know me; she showed it, and spoke about Court
Prospect, and I described how we had improved it, and she was so
interested. I asked her if she would come to see it, and I'm convinced
she will come, and right gladly. I'm going to tell father all about it.
Father will be pleased."
"Then, that's all right. If you tell father about that at the same time
you are telling him about me, why it will be all right."
"About you? What in the world about you?"
"Oh, I'm coming to that. You remember that time when that Nesta was
staying here?"
"That Nesta. I thought you adored her."
"I don't adore her; I dislike her very much. She is not a bit a nice
girl. She is of the Flossie Griffiths style, and you know quite well
father wouldn't like us to associate with the Griffiths."
"I should think not, indeed," said Clara.
She had visions, of herself as the special friend of Angela St Just, of
visiting Hurst Castle, of getting to know the county folks. She had
visions of Angela reposing in the spare room at Court Prospect, with its
gilt and ormolu and white paint, which used to be called the Cedar room
in the days of the St Justs. She had visions of Angela laying her head
on the richly embroidered linen, and saying to herself, "What cannot
money do to improve a place."
Among the many thoughts which flitted into her brain, she forgot Pen's
anxious, little piquant face, and just at that moment Mr Carter came
along. He paused, stared at his two daughters, and came deliberately
in.
"There, now, Pen, if you want to say anything to father, you can say it
yourself; here he is. Father, Penelope wants to speak to you about
something."
"No, I don't--I don't," said Penelope, all her courage oozing out, as
she expressed it, at her finger tips.
"Then if Penelope has nothing to say, I have," said Clara, who being
quite selfish and commonplace, forgot the wistfulness which had gathered
for a moment round her little sister's face.
Penelope stole away.
"I'll tell Clay in the morning," she said. "Father won't miss the money
before Saturday. I'll tell old Clay to-morrow."
Meanwhile Clara poured the welcome news into her father's ears that the
introduction to Miss St Just had been accomplished. He was quite
elated.
"That's capital," he said. "We must make much of that girl, the eldest
Miss Aldworth. She is worth twenty of her sisters."
"Of course she is, father; I have always said so."
"Have you now, Clay? I shouldn't have guessed it. I thought you were
entirely taken up with Miss Ethel and Miss Molly, and that little Nesta.
Nesta seems to me to be the best of the bunch--a rollicking little
thing, and full of daring. By the way, I saw her here to-day, and our
Pen with her. What did she come about?"
"Nesta here to-day? I didn't see her," said Clara.
"Well, I did. She and Pen seemed to be having a sort of quarrel. You
had best say nothing about it. Those sort of quarrels between girls
soon melt into thin air when you take no notice of them. But I tell you
what; this is good news. We'll have a big function after we have spent
our month at the seaside. I know for a fact that the St Justs are
going to be at Hurst Castle for the entire season, and when you return,
Clay, we'll just do the thing in topping style. I'll induce Sir Edward
and his daughter to come here and stay for the night I think I can
manage the old gentleman."
Here a peculiar knowing expression passed over Mr Carter's face. Clara
watched him.
"What a clever old dad it is," she said.
"You'd like it, wouldn't you, Clay?" he said, putting his hand under her
chin and turning her face round until he looked at her. "Upon my word
you have a look of your mother, child. I was very fond of her," he
continued, and then he stooped and printed an unlooked-for kiss on
Clara's young cheek.
She was unaccustomed to special attentions from her parent.
"I'd be ever so glad if they came," she said. "And I'm sure if you wish
it they will come."
"Yes, it's all right now that you've been introduced to Miss Angela.
Now, look here; couldn't we send them a present of fruit--fruit from the
garden? They'd like some fruit from their own old garden, wouldn't they
now?"
Clara saw no impropriety in that.
"Fruit and vegetables; we'd send some vegetables, too," said Mr Carter.
"Those marrowfat peas are just in their prime. We might send them a
couple of pecks, and--and some peaches; they are just getting perfectly
ripe now in the hothouses--peaches, nectarines, apricots, peas, and a
few melons wouldn't be unacceptable, would they? What do you say, eh?"
"Just as you like, Dad, of course."
Clara went off to the house to inform her sisters of what was happening.
Penelope had gone to bed.
"Why, where is Pen?" she said.
"I don't know; she seems to be sulky, and she said she had a headache.
She'll sleep it off; don't bother about her," said Annie, with a yawn.
The elder sister sat down and divulged to the younger ones what was
about to happen.
"We've got," she said, "rather to drop the Aldworths--they're all very
well in their way, but with the exception of Marcia, father doesn't want
us to see too much of them."
"I'm heartily glad," said Mabel; "I'm about sick of them."
"I call it beastly meant--" said Jim, raising his face from where he was
apparently buried in the pages of a magazine.
"Hullo!" cried Clara. "You there? What are you listening to us for?"
"Well, I don't care--I call it beastly mean to drop people when you have
once taken them up so strongly, more particularly when you have achieved
your object."
"And pray what's that?"
"You know quite well you have been angling to get an introduction to
Miss Angela St Just. Well, I happen to know that you've got it, and
now you want to drop the girls."
"Not Marcia," said Clay; "we are quite willing to be friends with her.
She must come and stay with us--it is her turn. It will be delightful
to have her here with Angela St Just."
"I call it beastly free of you to call her by her Christian name."
"Jim, I wish you'd mind your manners. I'm sure I'm not half so rude in
my speech as you are, and of course I wouldn't call her that to her
face."
"I should hope not indeed," said Jim. "I don't understand girls, and
that's the truth."
He marched away. The night was a dark one, but warm. He went down
through the shrubbery; he passed a little arbour where Clara and
Penelope had had their interrupted conference a little earlier in the
evening. He thought he heard some one sobbing. The sound smote on his
ear.
"Hullo," he said, "who's there?"
The sobs ceased; there was dead silence. He went in, struck a match,
and saw Penelope crouched in a corner.
"Why you poor little wretch," he said, "what in the world is wrong with
you? Why are you out here by yourself, and crying as though your heart
would break? Why, a poacher might come across you, and then what a
fright you'd get!"
"A poacher? You don't really think so, Jim?"
"Of course I don't; but you are as cold as charity. Here, snuggle up to
me. What's the matter, old girl?"
"Oh, Jim, I stole a sovereign from father to-day; I took it out of his
purse in his bedroom when all the visitors were here. I opened the
drawer and took a sovereign out of the purse and slipped it into my
pocket. At the time I thought I'd tell him, but now I haven't the
courage. I thought perhaps Clay would tell him, but I couldn't get it
out--Oh, I'm a very miserable girl. I don't know what to do--"
"But tell me," said Jim, "what in the world did you want with a
sovereign? To think that my sister should steal just like the
commonest, lowest-minded, most unprincipled girl."
"Oh, don't rub it in so hard, Jim. Don't, don't," said Penelope.
"Well, tell me all about it."
She did tell him.
"It was Nesta--we had a bet--it was about Clay and that horrid St Just
girl. We made a bet that if Clay got an introduction through Marcia
Aldworth that Nesta should have a sovereign; but if it was the other
way, I was to have the sovereign. I didn't think about it, for I knew
she could never pay it if she lost, but somehow or other it all came
about as she wished, and she came tearing over with that horrid friend
of hers, Flossie Griffiths, and dashed into the middle of our party.
She would speak to me, and she took me away and demanded the money. I
did what I could to put her off; but she said she'd go straight to
father and tell him before every one that I had made a bet and broken
it. So I was desperate; I took the only money I could find. Oh, what
am I to do; what am I to do? Do you think father will be frightfully
angry?"
"I expect he won't much like it."
"Oh, Jim, what am I to do?"
"I'll see about it," said Jim. "Now, look here, Pen, I'm not going to
let you off altogether; it would not be right; but you are a good, brave
child to have told me, and I am glad to know: You might have done worse,
and you might have done better. I didn't know that a sister of mine
could be bullied by that sort of girl. I should like to give that Nesta
a piece of my mind. I vow I should."
"But what will father say on Saturday?"
"You'll have to own up. I could give you the sovereign, of course, and
you could put it back into his purse, but that wouldn't teach you a
lesson. We fellows at school--we boys, wouldn't do a thing of that
sort, and it wouldn't be straight for me to shield you, and let you put
the money back without telling him anything about it. But I'll help you
to tell father. Now, you can go straight off to bed. I'll help you,
old girl, when you are telling him. Good-night, good-night."
"You are a brick! You are a dear," said Pen. She crushed her face
against his cheek; he felt her tears and rubbed them away shamefacedly
afterwards.
For some time he sat on in the little summerhouse in which Angela St
Just had sat when a child, and which had not yet been destroyed for a
more elegant and modern edifice. When he went back to the house it was
to ponder over many things. Jim was the most thoughtful of the family;
he had grit in him, which was more than any of the other Carters, their
father excepted, possessed.