It is an old proverb that man proposes and God disposes. Certainly when
Jim Carter went to bed that night he had not the most remote idea of not
helping his little sister through her difficulties. But a very
unexpected and strange thing happened. His father went up to him in the
early hours of the morning and told him that young as he was he was
about to send him on a very delicate mission, which no one else could
execute so skilfully.
"You know, Jim," he said, "you are older than your years, and you are to
leave school next term and enter my business. My clerk, Hanson, who
ought to have attended to this business, has absconded, taking some
money with him, and I have no one who can fill his place. I want you,
my lad, to go over to Paris for me, and to deliver this letter in person
to the firm, the address of which you will find on the back. You can
talk French nearly as well as a native; you have never been there
before, but I want you to catch the very earliest train, the one that
leaves Newcastle at half-past six in the morning. You will then be in
time to catch the mail to Paris. When you have done my commission, you
may go to one of the hotels and amuse yourself for two or three days.
You must stay there until I get my answer. I want the thing done
privately. It is a very important piece of business, and I cannot
attend to it myself, for I am so busy in Newcastle just now that I
cannot possibly be spared. But you will do it, Jim, and if you manage
it well I won't forget you, my lad. Here is forty pounds. You won't
spend anything like that in Paris, but you may as well have the money in
your pocket as not. You can go first-class, if you please; show
yourself a gentleman, and act with discretion. You won't be questioned
with regard to anything, and no one is to know where you are. Now then,
up you get, and off you go. Here is my Gladstone bag; I'll pack your
things and see you to the station."
Jim's heart had jumped into his mouth when his father began to speak,
but before it came to an end he was aflame with excitement and delight.
Here, truly, was an honour! Penelope and her small troubles were as
completely forgotten as though they had never existed. He delighted in
the sudden honour thrust upon him; he vowed that he would do it well, if
his very life were demanded of him.
His quick dressing, his hurried getting downstairs; his father helping
him and beseeching him not to make the slightest noise, made it all as
mysterious as one of Henty's adventures. The breakfast which his father
himself got for him; the quick walk to the station; the hurried
good-bye, when he found himself in a first-class carriage in the train,
and his father looking proud and confident, all dazzled his young head,
and Penelope and her stolen sovereign were as though they had never
been. But when Penelope awoke that morning, the very first person she
thought of was Jim. She and Annie shared a room together. Annie was
not particularly fond of Penelope; she was the least interesting of the
Carter girls; she was a little more commonplace and a little more
absorbed in herself than her elder sisters.
"There is one thing I'm going to ask father," said Annie, as they
dressed that morning, "that is after we return from the seaside--if I
may have a room to myself. I really can't stand the higgledy-piggledy
way you keep your things in, Pen."
"Oh, I hate being tidy!" said Pen. "I wonder where Jim is. Jim is a
brick of bricks; the dearest, darlingest, nicest fellow in the world."
"Oh, my word!" cried Annie, "why is Jim in such high favour? I never
heard you go into raptures about him before."
"I never found him out until last night," said Penelope.
"And you found him out last night? Pray, in what way," said Annie.
"Ah, that's a secret," said Pen. "I'm not going to tell you."
"If there's a thing in this wide world I'd be deaved to death about, it
would be one of your stupid secrets," said Annie. "Why, you're nothing
but a child; and as to Jim, I don't believe he has made you his
confidante."
"Yes, he has, though; yes, he has," said Penelope, and she dashed about
the room, making the most of what she thought would tease her sister.
"You, indeed!" said Annie, as she brushed out her long hair and put it
up in the most fashionable style--"you, with your Nesta and your Flossie
Griffiths."
"With my what?" said Penelope--"My Flossie?"
"Yes, with that common girl. Half of us saw you yesterday, walking with
Nesta. Really, it is too bad of her to come on our festive occasions in
such a shabby dress."
"Well, that has nothing to do with Jim. Now, I'm going down to
breakfast," said Pen.
But she felt a little nervous as she entered the breakfast room. Jim
had given her to understand that he would meet her there, and before the
rest of the party came down, he would get her to confide in their
father. But Mr Carter, more red than usual in the face, and slightly
disturbed in his mind, for he wondered if he had done right to put such
confidence in his young son, was sitting alone at the breakfast table.
He shouted to Penelope when he saw her.
"Come along, Lazybones, and pour out my coffee for me."
She obeyed; then she said, looking up and speaking, in spite of herself,
a trifle uneasily:
"Where's Jim?"
"What do you want to know about Jim?" said her father, in some
irritation. He had dreaded this inquiry, but had not thought it would
come from little Shallow-pates, as he called his youngest daughter.
However, he must account for Jim's absence in some sort of fashion.
"You won't see Jim for two or three days," he said. "Not for two or
three days," said Penelope, and her small, round childish face looked
almost haggard. "You mean that he won't be home before Saturday?"
"Bless you, no; he'll certainly be away till then. Now that's all about
it. Why, good gracious, child; I didn't know you cared so much for
him!"
She turned away to choke down the lump in her throat. The other girls
came in but they did not even trouble to inquire for their brother. Mr
Carter, however, thought it best to make his communication.
"Jim has gone to stay with one of his schoolfellows unexpectedly; a
letter came for him last night. I thought it best he should accept. It
is one of the Holroyds. Very respectable people the Holroyds are.
Well, girls, what are you staring at?"
"I didn't know we were staring," said Clara. "I'm very glad Jim has
gone. But what a violent hurry he went off in."
"Well, that's his affair, I suppose. Boys like your brother don't want
the grass to grow under their feet. Anyhow, he's off, and he won't be
back,"--Pen raised her face--"for a week or ten days; so you'll have to
do without him at the seaside for a few days."
Pen slowly left the room.
"I don't believe he has gone to the Holroyds'," she said. She mounted
the stairs and entered her brother's bedroom. She opened the drawers
and peeped into his wardrobe.
"He has not taken his best clothes," she thought, "and if the Holroyds
are swells, he'd want them. He hasn't gone to the Holroyds! Whatever
is the matter?"
Then she sat down very moodily on a chair in the centre of the room.
"He promised he'd help me, and he hasn't. He has forgotten all about
it, and he has gone away, and it's not to the Holroyds. He won't be
back before Saturday, and whatever, whatever am I to do?"
Penelope was not left long to her own meditations. She was called
downstairs by Clara, who gave the little girl several commissions to do
for her.
"You have got to drive into Newcastle; the pony trap will be at the door
in a quarter of an hour's time. You have got to get all these things at
Johnson's, and then you are to go to Taylor's and ask them for my new
things, and be sure you see that they have selected the right shade of
blue for my ties. Then do--"
Here Clay thrust a long list of commissions into her sister's hand.
"All right," said Penelope.
"Be home as quick as ever you can; we are expecting some people here
this afternoon, the Mauleverers and the Chelmsfords. It seems to me
that we are getting to know all the county set. Go, the very last
thing, to Theodor's and get the ices and the cakes that I ordered. Now,
do look sharp, Pen. You have no time to lose."
Pen was quite agreeable. There was nothing to pay, for the Carters had
accounts at the different shops where she was going. Just for the
minute she looked wistfully into her sister's face.
"If I could but tell her," she thought. "But I don't suppose she'd
understand. Well, I suppose if Jim doesn't come back, and there's no
hope of that, and if he quite forgets to write, I'll have to confide in
Clay before Saturday, for I couldn't face father if he found out without
my telling him."
Penelope thought and thought during her drive. All of a sudden it
flashed upon her that she might write a note to Jim. She could go to
the post office--or still better she could stop at the Aldworths' on her
way back, and ask for writing materials, and send a letter to him at the
Holroyds'. The Holroyds did not live so very far away, only twenty
miles at the furthest. Jim would probably get his letter that night; he
would be certain to receive it the first thing in the morning.
Pen felt quite happy when she remembered this very easy way of reminding
Jim of his promise. She knew the Holroyds' address quite well, for Jim
had often spoken of it. There was George, and there was Tom, and they
lived at a place called The Chase. Yes, she could easily get a letter
to reach Jim at that address.
Accordingly she went through her commissions with ease and despatch, for
she had, notwithstanding her youth, a wise little head on her shoulders.
Then she desired the coachman to drive rapidly to the Aldworths' house.
Just at that moment a voice sounded on her ears, and looking round she
saw Flossie Griffiths.
"Stop! stop! Pen! Do stop!" called out Flossie. Pen did not like
being called by her Christian name by Flossie Griffiths; still less did
she wish to have anything to do with that young lady, but she did not
well know how to get rid of her. She accordingly desired the man to
draw up the little carriage at the kerbstone, whereupon Flossie said
eagerly:
"Oh, you are the very person--you are driving past the Aldworths',
aren't you?"
"Yes; have you a message for them?"
"I want to go with you. I want to see Nesta in a very great hurry. It
is most important."
"All right, if you must," said Pen not too cordially. Flossie's nature
was far too blunt to be easily repressed. She jumped into the carriage
and sat down, leaning back and feeling herself very important.
"It must be nice to be rich," she said. "I do envy folks with lots of
money. I wish my father had made his pile the same as yours has. Oh,
isn't it good to lie back against these soft cushions, instead of
tramping and tramping on the hard road? Well, I'm going to have a jolly
time at Scarborough. Are you going to the seaside, too?"
"Yes," said Pen, "we are going to Whitby."
"I'd much rather go to Scarborough; I went to Whitby once; it isn't half
as jolly."
"Well, I like Whitby," said Pen, absolutely indifferent.
"You don't know what fun I'm going to have, and there's a great secret,
too," said Flossie. "Oh, by the way, it was good of you to give Nesta
that sovereign. She was nearly mad about it. I never saw anybody in
such a fix. But when you had given it to her she got into the best of
humours. We had a right good time at the pastrycook's, I can tell you.
I never ate so many light cakes in the whole course of my life before.
And we are going to have more fun, Nesta and I. By the way, I hope
you're not jealous."
"Jealous!" said Pen. "What about?"
"Of me and Nesta."
Flossie giggled.
"No; I'm not jealous," said Pen. "I don't quite understand."
"I should think it was pretty easy to understand. Nesta and me--we've
always been the primest friends--no husband and wife could love each
other better than we do. But then you stepped in, and for a time I
thought there was going to be a rift in the lute,"--Flossie was very
fond of mixed metaphors,--"I really thought there was; but when Nesta
saw us both in our true lights, she, of course, would never give me up
just because you are the richest."
"I should hope not," said Pen. "It would be contemptible. But here we
are at the Aldworths'. I am going in too."
"Are you? You don't want Nesta, I hope?"
"No; I don't care who I see. I just want a sheet of paper and a pen and
some ink. I have a stamp in my pocket."
"Well, come along; I know the way better than you do," said Flossie.
They went up to the front entrance, and Flossie rang the bell. Then she
pressed her face against the glass of the side window.
"Oh, dear," she said, "I see that dreadful, stately old-maidish Miss
Aldworth coming downstairs. Don't let her see me. Just let me hide
behind you. There, that's better."
Pen stood back a little stiffly. Presently the door was opened by
Marcia herself.
"How do you do, Flossie?" she said. "How do you do, Miss Carter?"
"I have come," said Flossie, "to see Nesta. Where is she?"
"You cannot see her at present. She is engaged with her mother."
"But mayn't I just see her for the shortest of minutes?"
"I am sorry you cannot. Have you any message for me to take to her?"
"No; yes, that is if you are quite sure I can't see her."
"I am certain on the subject. She is very busy with her mother, and
cannot possibly be disturbed until after the midday meal."
"Well, tell her--tell her--oh, no; don't tell her anything. You may
just mention that I called, and, if she is free, I can be in the wood
this afternoon."
"Very well; I'll remember," said Marcia with a grave smile.
Flossie was forced to take her departure, and Penelope, with a sigh of
relief, turned to Marcia.
"I'd be so awfully obliged to you," she said. "I know it's a cool sort
of thing to ask, but I want to write a letter--it's to Jim, my brother.
He is staying with people of the name of Holroyd. They're very nice
people; they're your sort, you know. He has gone off rather suddenly,
and there's something he was going to do for me, and I want to remind
him. Do you greatly object to my writing him a little note here?"
"Of course not, dear," said Marcia, in her kindest tone. "Come along
into this room. I'll give you pen, ink, and paper."
She supplied Pen with the necessary materials, and the little girl wrote
her note.
"My Darling Jim:
"Don't forget father and the big fat purse on Saturday morning. Your
loving and distracted Pen.
"P.S.--You went off in such a hurry I suppose you forgot, you old
darling. But please, please remember your most wildly distracted sister
Pen."
This note was put into an envelope, and was addressed to Mr Jim Carter,
care of the Holroyds, The Chase, Dewsbury. Pen took out her little
purse, which alas! held little or no coins, produced a sticky stamp, put
it on the letter, and prepared to leave the house.
In the hall she met Marcia.
"Is your letter ready?" she said. "I am just going to the post. I'll
post it for you."
"When do you think it will get to Dewsbury?" asked Pen, raising an
anxious face.
"Oh, that's no way off; it will get there to-night."
"Thank you, so very, very much."
"Good-bye, dear," said Marcia. "I don't seem to know you as well as the
others."
"Good-bye. I'm ever so grateful," said Pen.
She wrung Marcia's hand.
"How nice she is. How kind she is--not a bit like the others," thought
the child.
Marcia, as she dropped the letter into the post, glanced at the address.
She smiled a little and then forgot all about it. Penelope went home
in a far happier state of mind. Surely there was deliverance at hand.
Jim, if he could not come back, and she did not expect him even for her
sake, to leave such wonderfully grand people as the Holroyds, would at
least write a long, explanatory letter to his father.