It was Saturday morning; the Carters were going to Whitby, the Griffiths
to Scarborough, Mr Aldworth and his son to a place called Anchorville,
on the coast, a remote little fishing hamlet, far away from railways, or
any direct communication. Nevertheless a telegram could bring Mr
Aldworth back to his wife if necessity arose, within six or seven hours.
The whole place seemed to be redolent of paper and string and trunks and
labels and all the rest of it, thought Penelope Carter. Penelope was
watching eagerly for the post, and that letter from Jim, which never
came. She was really working herself into a fever, and when Saturday
arrived and the sun shone brilliantly, and the whole world--or at least,
all their world--was full of confusion, she could scarcely eat her
breakfast. At each sound she started, and Clara came to the conclusion
that the child was not well. In reality, Pen, having given up all hope
of Jim's coming to the rescue, was struggling to make up her mind. If,
by any chance, her father did not miss the sovereign, she would not
tell, but if he missed it, and if he began to suspect any one of having
stolen it; why, tell him she must.
She ran up to Jim's room; shut the door and fell on her knees by Jim's
bedside.
"Give me strength," she murmured. "Give me strength. I am awfully
frightened. Please, God, give me strength. I won't let any one else be
suspected."
Just then Clara's voice was heard calling her.
"Come along, Pen, what are you hiding for? And in Jim's room of all
places! We want every hand that we can get; we'll never be in time for
the train."
"Where's father?" said Pen wildly.
"How do I know where father is? Pen, you must be mad. What do you want
with father of all people?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing?" said Pen. "Nothing at all." She felt
frightened at Clara's manner.
"Now, do bustle up," continued Clara. "Look here, we want a lot of
peaches to eat by the way. There are some peaches in the hothouse at
the end of the garden, you can pick some of those; never mind how cross
old Archer is. Tell him that I want them. He won't dare to keep
anything back from me."
Pen started on her errand. She was glad to be out, but when she reached
the place where the peaches were, she stood for a long time in
contemplation. Then she suddenly roused herself.
"I haven't a bit of strength; I don't know how I can do it," she
thought.
She went in and picked some peaches, without giving much thought to the
fact that they were not ripe, and she was presently aware that old
Archer was standing over her. Archer was rather a terrible personage;
he began to scold Pen. How dare she take his peaches? and she had not
taken the ripe ones. Here were ten lovely peaches absolutely destroyed,
good for nothing.
"You can't have 'em," he said. "I'll lay 'em in the sun. Maybe they'll
ripen. It's a sinful shame to have a tree with its fruit torn off in
this fashion. Why, Miss Pen, haven't you got any sense at all? Don't
you know by this time when a peach is ripe and when it isn't? Miss
Clara'll be in a fine tantrum when she sees these sort of things. Here,
give me yer basket, you stand by me, and I'll select 'em."
Pen did not seem to care. Archer made a careful choice. He picked
seven or eight peaches, then chose some nectarines, then some apricots,
and then some grapes; the basket was packed, and he was proud of its
appearance when he handed it to Pen.
She went back to the house. Clara was in the hall, her face was
scarlet.
"What a time you've been," she said. "I do declare you've been away
three-quarters of an hour. But oh, that fruit does look good. Put it
there in the hall; I'll tell James to cover it over. Pen, what do you
think has happened?"
"What?" asked Pen faintly.
"Why, father went to his room, as usual, to get his purse to pay the
men, and he found a sovereign short. He's in a thundering rage. Who in
the world can have taken it? He has made up his mind that it is Betty,
that new under-housemaid. She's not been with us a month yet. He says
he'll dismiss her; nothing will induce him to keep her unless she
confesses."
"Has he--has he--accused her?" asked Pen.
"Of course, he has; he went to her and spoke to her, and she's crying
fit to break her heart, but I suppose all the same she has done it.
There, there, Pen, it's no affair of yours. Father would be fit to kill
anybody who did such a mean thing. Fancy going to his room and taking a
sovereign out of his drawer."
"He--he wouldn't be likely to forgive very easily?" said Pen.
"Forgive! I wouldn't like to be in Betty's shoes." Penelope went
slowly upstairs.
"Now do hurry; the carriage will be at the door in twenty minutes. And,
Pen, do change your dress. We may meet smart people going to Whitby, we
may indeed."
Pen turned an angle in the staircase. She walked more and more slowly.
Clara's words kept echoing in her brain. "Father would half kill
anybody who had done this. She wouldn't like to be in Betty's shoes."
Pen went straight into Jim's room. When she had shut the door, she said
aloud:
"You might have helped me out of this awful mess; oh, you might, I wrote
you such a distracted letter. Oh, I can't see Betty. I can't, I can't!
Oh, what am I to do? Well, I won't go to Whitby, on that point I have
quite made up my mind."
Before her resolution could falter she ran downstairs again.
"My dear Pen, not ready yet?" said Mabel, who was now in the hall.
"No, I'm not, and what is more, I'm not going."
"Not going, Penelope? Not going?"
"No, I'm not well, and I'm not going."
"You do look hot, we all noticed it this morning; but you are not so bad
as all that."
"Yes, I am, but you needn't stay, I can get nursey to look after me. I
will go when I am better; anyhow, I am not going to-day, so there."
Mabel rushed at her sister, and felt her brow, and took her hot hand.
"I don't believe you are so bad you can't go. I wonder where father is?
Oh, here you are, Clara. What do you think this tiresome Pen has gone
and done?"
"What now?" said Clara. "Does she want father? He is at Newcastle. He
won't be back until late this evening. He bade us all good-bye. He
asked for Pen, but as she was not about he sent his love to her."
"I don't want to go," said Pen, "that's all. I'm going to stay behind.
I'm--I'm not well."
"But what ails you? A headache?"
"Splitting," said Pen.
"Pain in your back?"
"A bit."
"Sore throat?"
"A bit."
"Good gracious! What else have you got a bit of?"
"I don't know--a bit of everything. Anyhow, I'm not going."
"Hadn't we better take her temperature?" said Clay. "It seems
frightfully wrong to leave her."
"No, no, I won't put that horrid little thing into my mouth," said Pen.
"I'll stay with nursey. Nursey shall look after me. You can all go,
and if nursey wants to send for the doctor she can. But I'm not bad
enough for that, only I can't stand the train. Do let me stay, please,
please. If you don't, you'll have to take me by force, for I'll scream
and shriek all the way."
The waggonette appeared at the door. The coachman bent down.
"Young ladies," he said, "it's about time to go."
"Our luggage has gone," said Clara, "and yours too, Pen."
"Perhaps I'll come to-morrow," said Pen. "I can't--I can't go now."
"We'll have to leave her," said Clara. "I'll just run up and tell old
Richardson to look after her."
Clara rushed upstairs, and found Nurse Richardson, who told her there
was not the slightest occasion for any of them to stay with Pen, for she
could nurse her and fifty more like her, if it were necessary. Clara,
therefore, returned to the hall.
"Where is the child?" she asked.
"I don't know," said Mabel. "Isn't the here!"
"You'll miss your train, Miss," said the coachman. "So we will. Clara,
do get in!" called out Mabel. "Here you are, Annie, we are both waiting
for you." Clara jumped into the waggonette; the door was slammed to,
the delicious fruit lay in a basket on the seat, and the horses started
forward. They went down the avenue at a spanking pace. Pen was
watching them from behind the house. She gave one glad cry, a cry
almost of ecstasy, and then she burst into tears.
"Oh, I'm glad and yet I'm sorry," she said. "Both glad and sorry! both
glad and sorry!"
Mrs Richardson called and called in vain for Pen; there was no sign of
her darling young lady. What in the world had become of her?
But Pen was determined to stay out. She had got to make up her mind.
There was just a vague hope within her that perhaps Jim might yet
return. Perhaps he was coming back in person; he was answering her
letter in that best of all ways. Still, it was scarcely likely, for he
must know that by Saturday morning his father would have discovered the
missing sovereign. There was Betty, too. Pen had scarcely given Betty
a thought. She was a very common, rather untidy little girl. She had
never in the least attracted Pen; but she hardly thought of any one else
that day. And yet, after a fashion, she quite envied Betty, for Betty
at least was innocent.
"She hasn't my guilty conscience," thought Pen. "Oh dear, oh dear, what
is to become of me?"
By-and-by Pen heard the sound of crying. It came nearer and nearer. A
girl with her apron over her head was coming down the shady path where
Pen herself was sitting. Pen started to her feet. That was Betty; she
could not meet Betty, she would not see her for all the world.
But Betty had caught sight of Pen. She ran up to her, removed her
apron, and said:
"Oh, Miss Pen, couldn't you save me? Won't you speak for me to Mr
Carter? I ain't done it, Miss. I ain't done it. I wouldn't touch what
don't belong to me. He says I'm the only one that _could_ ha' done it,
and if I don't confess I'm to go, but if I confess he'll forgive me.
But I ain't done it, and I'll have to go, and he won't give me a
character, and mother--mother, she'll never forgive me. She'll believe
as I done it."
"But--but--" said Pen, bringing out her words with difficulty, "didn't
you take it?"
"Oh, no, Miss Pen. Oh, that you should think that! All my people are
as honest as honest can be. I never took it, I never knew anything
about that purse, and I never, never opened a drawer in my master's
room, not since I came to the house. But there, I see you don't believe
me."
Betty did not waste any more time with Pen. She walked on, her sobs
grew louder, and then fainter; she was perfectly distracted, she did not
know what to do with herself.