Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Hawthorns; a Story about Children
by Amy Walton
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This is a nice little book, which would certainly appeal to
its intended audience of eleven- or twelve-year-old little
girls. Its background is distinctly late Victorian, but
nevertheless a modern child would find nothing it could not
relate to other than the more pleasant general atmosphere
of those days.
Amy Walton has written a sequel to this book, "Penelope and
the Others," also published on the Athelstane website.
NH
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THE HAWTHORNS; A STORY ABOUT CHILDREN
BY AMY WALTON
CHAPTER ONE.
EASNEY VICARAGE.
Quite close to the nursery window at Easney Vicarage there grew a very
old pear-tree. It was so old that the ivy had had time to hug its trunk
with strong rough arms, and even to stretch them out nearly to the top,
and hang dark green wreaths on every bough. Some day, the children had
been told, this would choke the life out of the tree and kill it; that
would be a pity, but there seemed no danger of it yet, for every spring
the pear-tree still showed its head crowned with white blossoms, and
every summer the pears grew yellow and juicy, and fell with a soft
"splosh!" on the gravel path beneath. It was interesting to watch that,
and it happened so often, that it was hard to imagine a windsor pear
without a great gash where the sharp stones had cut into it; it was also
natural to expect when you picked it up that there would be a cunning
yellow wasp hidden somewhere about it, for all the little Hawthorns had
always found it so except the baby, and she was too small to have any
experience. Five little Hawthorns, without counting the baby, had
looked out of the nursery window and watched the pear-tree blossom, and
the sparrows build their nests, and the pears fall; but by the time this
story begins, four of them, whose names were Penelope, Ambrose, Nancy,
and David, were schoolroom children, and learnt lessons of Miss Grey
down-stairs. They had no longer much time for looking out of the
window, and the nursery was left in the possession of Dickie and Cicely
the baby. Dickie, whose real name was Delicia, was three years old--a
great girl now she thought--but she was still fond of kneeling up in the
window seat and flattening her little nose against the glass. She could
not see very much. Through the branches of the pear-tree a little to
the left appeared the church tower, and a glimpse here and there of grey
and white tombstones in the churchyard. Straight in front of her there
was a broad lawn sloping down to a sunk fence, and beyond that a meadow
with tall elms in it, and after that another meadow where cows were
feeding, and that was all. In the spring the meadows turned to gold and
silver with the buttercups and daisies, and the rooks cawed noisily in
the elms; but in the summer it was all very green and very quiet.
Particularly at lesson time, when the "others" were busy with Miss Grey,
and Dickie must not make a noise because baby was asleep. Then there
was only Andrew to be seen in the distance, bending over his barrow or
rake or spade; but he never looked up to the nursery window, and this
was not surprising, for Andrew had a great deal to do. He worked in the
garden, and fed the chickens, and took care of Ruby the horse, and
sometimes drove the wagonette into Nearminster; he also rang the church
bell, and was parish clerk. Perhaps it was because he had so much on
his mind that he was of a melancholy disposition, and seldom disposed
for conversation with the children.
They thought it a pity sometimes that neither the nursery nor the
schoolroom window looked out to the front of the house, for it was only
a little way back from the street; not that there was much going on in
the village, but still you could hear the "clink, clink" from the
blacksmith's forge opposite, and see anyone passing the white gate which
led out into the road. The vicarage was an old house; many and many a
vicar had lived in it, and altered or added to it according to his
liking, so that it was full of twists and turns, inside and out, and had
wonderful nooks and corners, and strange cupboards under the stairs.
Pennie, who was eleven years old, and a great hand at "making up,"
thought a good deal about those old bygone vicars, and founded some of
her choicest romances upon them. There was one particular vicar, a
tablet to whose memory was placed in the chancel just opposite the
Hawthorns' seat in church.
"Godfrey Ablewhite, sometime vicar of this parish," etcetera.
It seemed to Pennie, as she sat staring up at this during her father's
sermons, that she saw plainly what sort of man this Godfrey Ablewhite
had been. He was broad and strong, and rode a tall white horse, and had
doubtless built those large stables at the vicarage, because he was fond
of hunting. From this she would go on to adorn his character with many
daring feats of horsemanship, and by the time the sermon was over there
was another story ready to be eagerly listened to by the other
children--and, indeed, believed also, for they had an infinite trust in
Pennie. This was partly because she was the eldest, and partly because
she "made up" so well, and had such good ideas about games and plans.
No one could make a better plan than Pennie if she put her mind to it,
and this was a valuable faculty, for toys were not plentiful at Easney
Vicarage, and the children had to find their own amusements. These,
fortunately, did not depend upon anything to be bought in shops, for
there was only one in the village, and that was the post-office too.
There you could get bacon, and peppermint drops, and coarse grey
stockings; but for anything more interesting you had to drive to
Nearminster, ten miles away. Mother went over there sometimes, and took
each child with her in turn, but even then there was a serious drawback
to buying much, and that was want of money.
Some children would doubtless think living at Easney a very dull affair.
No shops, nothing new to play with, and very little new to wear.
Pennie _did_ get a little tired sometimes of always wearing serge in
winter and holland in summer; but neither she nor her brothers and
sisters ever found their lives dull. They would have been astonished at
the idea. There were so many interesting things to do. For instance,
there was a large family of pet beasts and birds, some living in the
barn in cages, and some free. Snuff the terrier was the most intimate
and friendly of these last, and Methuselah the tortoise the greatest
stranger. The children regarded him with respectful awe, for he passed
so much of his life hidden away in the cold dark earth, that he must
know many strange and wonderful things which went on there; but, like
all people of really wide experience, he was singularly modest and
retiring in his behaviour, and appeared on the border the first mild day
in spring after his disappearance, with no fuss at all, and as if he had
done nothing remarkable.
Pennie's jackdaw, a forward bird, who hopped about with an air of
understanding everything, was one day found perched on the tortoise's
shell with the evident intention of making some searching inquiries.
Methuselah, however, had very prudently drawn in his head, and Jack was
both baffled and disgraced.
Next to the animals in point of interest came the Wilderness. This was
a part of the garden shut off from the rest by a shrubbery, and given up
to the children as their very own. Here they messed and muddled to
their hearts' content, carried out a great many interesting designs, and
reared quantities of mustard and cress; once they each had a garden, but
Nancy, Ambrose, and David had lately struck out the bold idea of joining
their plots of ground and digging a well. It was a delightful
occupation, and when the hole got deep it was pleasant to see how the
small frogs and other slimy reptiles crawled about at the bottom; but,
after much heated labour, there were no signs of water. Interest
flagged then, and the well was deserted, until the ever-ready Pennie
suggested the game of Joseph and his brethren, and it became a favourite
amusement to lower Dickie down in a basket amongst the frogs and newts.
Dickie was both small and brave, two very necessary qualities for her
part, for the basket was narrow, and wobbled about a good deal in its
descent; but she was used to perilous positions, and had a soul above
fear.
The Wilderness was certainly very interesting; nevertheless at a certain
time in the summer it was completely forsaken, and that was when the hay
was down. Then everyone must help to get it in; and there could be no
lessons done, for even Miss Grey was in the hay-field. Then the excited
children, with flushed faces, worked as hard as though the whole matter
depended on them alone, and even Dickie, with tiny rake and sturdy legs
planted wide apart, did brave service. Then the maids, with sun-bonnets
tilted well forward on their foreheads, came out to toss a little hay,
and giggle a great deal, and say how hot it was; then the surly Andrew
threw sour looks of scorn at them, and the vicar, casting aside his
black coat, did more real work than anyone. Then mother came into the
field with Cicely in her arms, and was welcomed with acclamations, and
forthwith seated on a royal throne of hay; then, under her watchful
eyes, the ambitious Ambrose worked feverishly, and threw his arms and
legs about like an excited spider. Then Nancy laughed at him, and David
pushed him down, and Pennie covered him with hay; and it got into his
eyes and down his throat and he choked and kicked, and mother said:
"That will do, children!" Then tea was brought out and laid under the
great oak-tree, and everyone's face was very red, and everyone was very
thirsty. And then the cool evening came stealing on, and a tiny breeze
blew, and the hay smelt sweet, and the shadows lengthened, and it was
bed-time just as things were getting pleasant.
Each time all this happened it was equally delightful, and it seemed a
pity when the field stood bare and desolate after the hay was carried,
shorn of its shadowy grass and pretty flowers; yet there was consolation
too in the size of the stack which the children had helped to make, and
which they always thought "bigger than last year."
Soon after this autumn came and made the orchard and woods and lanes
interesting with apples and nuts and blackberries; and then, after the
apples and nuts had been stored away, and the blackberries made into
jam, it was time to look forward to the winter.
Winter brought a great deal that was very pleasant; for sometimes he
came with snow and ice, and the children would wake up to find that in
the night he had quietly covered everything out-of-doors with a
sparkling white garment.
Then what could be more delicious than to make a snow man or a snow
palace?
Pennie, who was a great reader, and always anxious to carry out
something she had read about, inclined towards the palace; but the
others had less lofty minds. It quite contented them to make a snow
man, to put one of Andrew's pipes in his mouth and a battered hat on his
head, and stick in bits of coal for his eyes.
"Isn't he lovely?" Nancy would exclaim when all these adornments were
complete.
"Zovely!" echoed Dickie, clapping red worsted mittens ecstatically.
"I think he's rather vulgar," Pennie said doubtfully on one of these
occasions with an anxiously puckered brow; "and besides, there's nothing
to make up about him. What can you pretend?"
The snow man certainly looked hopelessly prosaic as Ambrose tilted his
hat a little more to one side.
"Guy Fawkes?" suggested David, having studied the matter solidly for
some minutes.
"No," said Pennie, "not Guy Fawkes--he's so common--we've had him heaps
of times. But I'll tell you what would be splendid; we'll make him a
martyr in Smithfield."
The boys looked doubtful, but Nancy clapped her hands.
"That's capital," she said.
"You know," continued Pennie for the general information, "they burned
them."
"Alive?" inquired Ambrose eagerly.
"Yes."
"How jolly!" murmured David.
"Jolly! jolly! jolly!" repeated Dickie, jumping up and down in the snow.
"Why were they burned?" asked Ambrose, who was never tired of asking
questions, and liked to get to the bottom of a matter if possible.
"_Why_, I am not quite sure," answered Pennie cautiously, "because I've
only just got to it; but I _think_ it was something about the Bible.
I'll ask Miss Grey."
"Oh, never mind all that," interrupted the practical Nancy impatiently;
"we'll make a splendid bonfire all round him and watch him melt. Come
and get the wood."
"And we'll call him `a distinguished martyr,'" added Pennie as she moved
slowly away, "because I can't remember any of their real names."
Pennie was never satisfied to leave things as they were; she liked to
adorn them with fancies and make up stories about them, and her busy
little mind was always ready to set to work on the smallest event of the
children's lives. Nothing was too common or familiar to have mysteries
and romance woven round it; and this was sometimes a most useful
faculty, for winter was not always kind enough to bring snow and ice
with him. Very often there was nothing but rain and fog and mud, and
then mother uttered those dreadful words:
"The children must not go out."
Then when lessons were over, and all the games exhausted, and it was
still too early for lights, the schoolroom became full of dark corners,
and the flickering fire cast mysterious shadows which changed the very
furniture into something dim and awful.
Then was Pennie's time--then, watching her hearers' upturned faces by
the uncertain light of the fire, she saw surprise or pity or horror on
them as her story proceeded, and, waxing warmer, she half believed it
true herself. And this made the tales very interesting and thrilling.
Yet once Pennie's talent had an unfortunate result, as you shall hear in
the next chapter.
CHAPTER TWO.
THE "GARRET."
The children all thought that Pennie's best stories were about a certain
lumber-room in the vicarage which was called the "Garret." They were
also the most dreadful and thrilling, for there was something about the
garret which lent itself readily to tales of mystery and horror. The
very air there was always murky and dim, and no sunlight could steal
through the tiny lattice window which came poking out from the roof like
a half-shut eyelid. Dust and cobwebs had covered the small leaded panes
so thickly that a dusky gloom always dwelt there, and gave an unnatural
and rather awful look to the various objects. And what a strange
collection it was! Broken spindle-legged chairs, rickety boxes, piles
of yellow old music-books and manuscripts, and in one corner an ancient
harp in a tarnished gilt frame. Poor deserted dusty old things! They
had had their day in the busy world once, but that was over now, and
they must stay shut up in the silent garret with no one to see them but
the spiders and the children. For these last came there often; treading
on tiptoe they climbed the steep stairs and unlatched the creaky door
and entered, bold but breathless, and casting anxious glances over their
shoulders for strange things that might be lurking in the corners. They
never saw any, but still they came half hoping, half fearing; and they
had, besides, another object in their visits, which was a great great
secret, and only known to Pennie, Nancy, and Ambrose. It was indeed a
daring adventure, scarcely to be spoken of above a whisper, and
requiring a great deal of courage. This was the secret:
They had one day succeeded in forcing open the rickety lattice, which
was fastened by a rusty iron hasp, and looked out. There was a steep
red-tiled piece of roof covered with little lumps of lichen which ended
in a gutter and a low stone balustrade; there were tall crooked
chimneys, and plenty of places where cats and children could walk with
pleasure and safety. Soon it was impossible to resist the temptation,
and one after the other they squeezed themselves through the narrow
window, and wriggled cautiously down the steep roof as far as the
balustrade. It scraped the hands and knees a good deal to do this, and
there was always the danger of going down too fast, but when once the
feet arrived safely against the stone coping, what a proud moment it
was!
Standing upright, they surveyed the prospect, and mingled visions of
Robinson Crusoe, Christopher Columbus, and Alexander Selkirk floated
across their brains. "I am monarch of all I survey," said Pennie on the
first occasion. And so she was, for everything seen from that giddy
height looked strange and new to her, and it was quite like going into
another country.
The old church tower with the chattering jackdaws flying round it, the
pear-tree near the nursery window, the row of bee-hives in the
kitchen-garden, the distant fields where the cows were no bigger than
brown and white specks, all were lifted out of everyday life for a
little while. No one had forbidden this performance, because no one
knew of it, and the secrecy of it added to the mystery which belonged to
everything in the garret.
It was not difficult to keep it hidden from the elders, for they did not
go into the lumber-room from year's end to year's end; so the spiders
and the children had it all to themselves, and did just as they liked
there, and wove their cobwebs and their fancies undisturbed. Now,
amongst Pennie's listeners when she told her tales of what went on in
the garret after nightfall, Ambrose was the one who heard with the most
rapt attention and the most absolute belief. He came next to Nancy in
age, and formed the most perfect contrast to her in appearance and
character, for Nancy was a robust blue-eyed child, bold and fearless,
and Ambrose was a slender little fellow with a freckled skin and a face
full of sensitive expression. He was full of fears and fancies, too,
poor little Ambrose, and amongst the children he was considered not far
short of a coward; it had become a habit to say, "Ambrose is afraid," on
the smallest occasions, and if they had been asked who was the bravest
amongst them, they would certainly have pointed out Nancy. For Nancy
did not mind the dark, Nancy would climb any tree you liked, Nancy could
walk along the top of a high narrow wall without being giddy, Nancy had
never been known to cry when she was hurt, therefore Nancy was a brave
child. Ambrose, on the contrary, _did_ mind all these things very much;
his imagination pictured dangers and terrors in them which did not exist
for Nancy, and what she performed with a laugh and no sense of fear, was
to him often an occasion of trembling apprehension. And then he was
_so_ afraid of the dark! That was a special subject of derision from
the others, for even Dickie was bolder in the matter of dark passages
and bed-rooms than he was. Ambrose was ashamed, bitterly ashamed of
this failing, and he made up his mind a hundred times that he would get
over it, but that was in the broad daylight when the sun was shining.
As surely as night came, and he was asked perhaps to fetch something
from the schoolroom, those wretched feelings of fear came back, for the
schoolroom was at the end of a long dark passage.
Nancy, who was always good-natured, though she laughed at him, would
give him a nudge on such occasions if she were near him, and say:
"Never mind, _I'll_ go;" but Ambrose never accepted the offer. He went
with a shiver down his back, and a sort of distended feeling in his
ears, which seemed to be unnaturally on the alert for mysterious noises.
He always made up his mind before he got to the passage to check a wild
desire to run at full speed, and walk through it slowly, but this
resolve was never carried out.
Before he had gone two steps in the darkness there would be a sense of
something following close behind, and then all was over, and nothing to
be seen but a panic-stricken little boy rushing along with his hands
held over his ears. How foolish! you will say. Very foolish, indeed,
and so said all the other children, adding many a taunt and jeer.
But that did not do poor Ambrose any good, and he remained just as timid
as ever. Nevertheless there were moments of real danger when Ambrose
had been known to come gallantly to the front, and when he seemed to
change suddenly from a fearful, shrinking boy into a hero. Such was the
occasion when, alone of all the children, who stood shrieking on the
other side of the hedge, he had ventured back into the field to rescue
Dickie, who by some accident had been left behind among a herd of cows.
There she stood bewildered, holding up her little pinafore full of
daisies, helpless among those large horned monsters.
"Run, Dickie," shouted the children; but Dickie was rooted to the ground
with terror, and did not move.
Then Ambrose took his courage in both hands, and leaving the safe
shelter of the hedge, ran back to his little sister's side. As he
reached her a large black cow with crooked horns detached herself from
the herd, and walked quickly up to the children lashing her tail.
Ambrose did not stir. He stood in front of Dickie, took off his straw
hat and waved it in the cow's face. She stood still.
"Run back to the others, Dickie," said Ambrose quietly, and, Dickie's
chubby legs recovering power of movement, she toddled quickly off,
strewing the ground with daisies as she went. Covering her retreat,
Ambrose remained facing the cow, and walked slowly backwards still
brandishing his hat; then, one quick glance over his shoulder assuring
him of Dickie's safety, he too took to his heels, and scrambled through
the gap.
That was certainly brave of Ambrose; for though Farmer Snow told them
afterwards, "Thuccy black coo never would a touched 'ee," still she
_might_ have, and for the moment Ambrose was a hero.
The children carried home an excited account of the affair to their
father, penetrating into his very study, which was generally forbidden
ground.
"And so it was Ambrose who went back, eh?" he said, stroking Dickie's
round head as she sat on his knee.
"Yes, father," said Pennie, very much out of breath with running and
talking, "we were all frightened except Ambrose."
"And why weren't you frightened, Ambrose?"
"I was," murmured Ambrose.
"And yet you went?"
"Yes. Because of Dickie."
"Then you were a brave boy."
"A brave boy, a brave boy," repeated Dickie in a sort of sing-song,
pulling her father's whiskers.
"Now I want you children to tell me," pursued the vicar, looking round
at the hot little eager faces, "which would have been braver--not to be
frightened at all, or to go in spite of being frightened?"
"Not to be frightened at all," answered Nancy promptly.
"Do you all think that?"
"Yes," said Pennie doubtfully, "I suppose so."
"Well," continued the vicar, "I _don't_ think so, and I will tell you
why. I believe the brave man is not he who is insensible to fear, but
he who is able to rise above it in doing his duty. People are sometimes
called courageous who are really so unimaginative and dull that they
cannot understand danger--so of course they are not afraid. They go
through their lives very quietly and comfortably, as a rule, but they do
not often leave great names behind them, although they may be both good
and useful.
"Others, again, we are accustomed to consider cowards, because their
active, lively imagination often causes them to see danger where there
is none. These people do not pass such peaceable lives as the first;
but there is this to be remembered: the same nature which is so alive to
fear will also be easily touched by praise, or blame, or ridicule, and
eager therefore to do its very best. It is what we call a `sensitive'
nature, and it is of such stuff very often, that great men and heroes
are made."
The children listened very attentively to what their father said, and if
they did not understand it all they gathered enough to make them feel
quite sure that Ambrose had been very brave about the cow. So they
treated him for a little while with a certain respect, and no one said
"Ambrose is afraid." As for Ambrose himself, his spirits rose very
high, and he began to think he never should feel afraid of anything
again, and even to wish for some great occasion to show himself in his
new character of "hero." He walked about in rather a blustering manner
just now, with his straw hat very much on one side, and brandished a
stick the gardener had cut for him in an obtrusively warlike fashion.
As he was a small thin boy, these airs looked all the more ridiculous,
and his sister Nancy was secretly much provoked by them; however, she
said nothing until one evening when Pennie was telling them stories.
The children were alone in the schoolroom, for it was holiday time. It
was just seven o'clock. Soon Nurse would come and carry off Dickie and
David to bed, but at present they were sitting one each side of Pennie
on the broad window-seat, listening to her with open ears and mouths.
Nancy and Ambrose were opposite on the table, with their legs swinging
comfortably backwards and forwards.
All day long it had been raining, and now, although it had ceased, the
shrubs and trees, overladen with moisture, kept up a constant drip,
drip, drip, which was almost as bad. The wind had risen, and went
sighing and moaning round the house, and shook the windows of the room
where the children were sitting. Pennie had just finished a story, and
in the short interval of silence which followed, these plaintive sounds
were heard more plainly than ever.
"Hark," she said, holding up her finger, "how the Goblin Lady is playing
her harp to-night! She has begun early."
"Why does she only play when the wind blows?" asked Ambrose.
"She comes _with_ the wind," answered Pennie, "that is how she travels,
as other people use carriages and trains. The little window in the
garret is blown open, and she floats in and takes one of those big
music-books, and finds out the place, and then sits down to the harp and
plays."
"What tune does she play?" asked David.
"By the margin of fair Zurich's waters," answered Pennie; "sometimes she
sings too, but not often, because she is very sad."
"Why?" inquired Ambrose, ruffling up his hair with one hand, as he
always did when he was getting interested.
Pennie paused a moment that her next remark might have full weight; then
very impressively and slowly she said:
"She has not _always_ been a Goblin Lady."
This was so unexpected, and suggested so much to be unfolded, that the
children gazed speechless at Pennie, who presently continued:
"Once she was a beautiful--"
"Is she ugly now?" hastily inquired David.
"Don't, Davie; let Pennie go on," said Ambrose.
"I want to know just one thing," put in Nancy; "if it's dark when she
comes, how does she see to read the music?"
"She carries glowworms with her," answered Pennie; "they shine just like
the lamps in father's gig at night, and light up all the garret."
"Now, go on, Pennie," said Ambrose with a deep sigh, for these
interruptions were very trying to him. "Once she was a beautiful--"
"A most beautiful lady, with long golden hair. Only she was very very
proud and vain. So after she died she could not rest, but has to go
flying about wherever the wind will take her. The only pleasure she has
is music, and so she always tries to get in where there is anything to
play. That is why she goes so often to the garret and plays the harp."
"Why doesn't she go into the drawing-room and play the piano?" asked
Nancy bluntly. Nancy's questions were often very tiresome; she never
allowed the least haze or uncertainty to hang over any subject, and
Pennie was frequently checked in the full flow of her eloquence by the
consciousness that Nancy's eye was upon her, and that she was preparing
to put some matter-of-fact inquiry which it would be most difficult to
meet.
"There you go, interrupting again," muttered Ambrose.
"Well, but why doesn't she?" insisted Nancy, "it would be so much
easier."
"Why, of course she can't," resumed Pennie in rather an injured voice,
"because of the lights, and the people, and, besides, she never learnt
to play the piano."
"I wish I needn't either," sighed Nancy. "How nice to be like the
Goblin Lady, and only play the harp when one likes!"
"I should like to see her," said Ambrose thoughtfully.
"You'd be afraid," said Nancy; "why, you wouldn't even go into the
garret by daylight alone."
"That was a long time ago," said Ambrose quickly. "I wouldn't mind it
now."
"In the dark?"
"Well, I don't believe you'd go," said Nancy. "You might perhaps go two
or three steps, and then you'd scream out and run away; wouldn't he,
Pennie?"
"Why, you know he _was_ brave about the cow," said Pennie, "braver than
any of us."
"That was different. He's quite as much afraid of the dark as ever. I
call it babyish."
Nancy looked defiantly at her brother, who was getting very red in the
face. She was prepared to have something thrown at her, or at least to
have her hair, which she wore in a plaited pig-tail, violently pulled,
but nothing of the sort happened. Nurse came soon afterwards and bore
away David and Dickie, and as she left the room she remarked that the
wind was moaning "just like a Christian."
It certainly was making a most mournful noise that evening, but not at
all like a Christian, Ambrose thought, as he listened to it--much more
like Pennie's Goblin Lady and her musical performances.
Pennie had finished her stories now, and she and Nancy were deeply
engaged with their dolls in a corner of the room; this being an
amusement in which Ambrose took no interest, he remained seated on the
table occupied with his own reflections after Nurse had left the room
with the two children.
Nancy's taunt about the garret was rankling in his mind, though he had
not resented it openly as was his custom, and it rankled all the more
because he felt that it was true. Yes, it _was_ true. He could not
possibly go into the garret alone in the dark, and yet if he really were
a brave boy he ought to be able to do it. Was he brave, he wondered?
Father had said so, and yet just now he certainly felt something very
like fear at the very thought of the Goblin Lady.
In increasing perplexity he ruffled up his hair until it stood out
wildly in all directions; boom! boom! went the wind, and then there
followed a long wailing sort of sigh which seemed to come floating down
from the very top of the house.
It was quite a relief to hear Nancy's matter-of-fact voice just then, as
she chattered away about her dolls:
"Now, I shall brush Jemima's hair," Ambrose heard her say to Pennie,
"and you can put Lady Jane Grey to bed."
"I ought to be able to go," said Ambrose to himself, "and after all I
don't suppose the Goblin Lady _can_ be worse than Farmer Snow's black
cow."
"But her head's almost off," put in Pennie's voice. "You did it the
last time we executed her."
"If I went," thought Ambrose, continuing his reflections, "they would
never, never be able to call me a coward again."
He slid off the table as he reached this point, and moved slowly towards
the door. He stood still as he opened it and looked at his sisters,
half hoping they would call him back, or ask where he was going, but
they were bending absorbed over the body of the unfortunate Lady Jane
Grey, so that two long flaxen pig-tails were turned towards him. They
did not even notice that he had moved.
He went quickly through the long dimly-lighted passage, which led into
the hall, and found that Mary was just lighting the lamp. This looked
cheerful, and he lingered a little and asked her a few questions, not
that he really wanted to know anything, but because light and human
companionship seemed just now so very desirable. Mary went away soon,
and then he strolled a few steps up the broad old staircase, and met
Kittles the fluffy cat coming slowly down. Here was another excuse for
putting off his journey, and he sat down on the stairs to pass a few
agreeable moments with Kittles, who arched his back and butted his head
against him, and purred his acknowledgments loudly. But presently,
having business of his own, Kittles also passed on his way, and Ambrose
was alone again, sitting solitary with his ruffled head leaning on one
hand. Then the church clock struck eight. In half an hour it would be
bed-time, and his plan not carried out. He must go at once, or not at
all. He got up and went slowly on. Up the stairs, down a long winding
passage, up some more stairs, and across a landing, on to which the
nursery and the children's bedrooms opened. He stopped again here, for
there was a pleasant sound of Dickie and David's voices, and the
splashing of water; but presently he thought he heard Nurse coming out,
and he ran quickly round the corner into a little passage which led to
the foot of the garret stairs. This passage was dimly-lighted by a
small low window, which was almost covered outside by the thickly
growing ivy. Even in the daytime it was very dusky, and now it was
quite dark, but Ambrose knew the way well, and he groped about with his
hands until he came to the steep carpetless steps. And now his heart
began to beat very quickly, for he felt that he was in the region of
mystery, and that anything might happen at any moment. The wind had
dropped, and there was no sound at all to be heard, though he strained
his ears to the utmost for some signs of the presence of the Goblin
Lady.
"Perhaps," thought he, "she has finished playing and gone away again
with the wind." This was an encouraging idea, and though his knees
trembled a good deal, he went on bravely until he came to the place
where the stairs took a sudden sharp turn; but here he saw something
which brought him to a standstill again, for underneath the garret door
at the top there was a faint gleam of light. "That's the glowworms,"
thought Ambrose, "and she's there still." His spirits sank.
_Could_ he go on? It must be now or never. With a tremendous effort he
went quickly up the remaining steps, stood on tiptoe to unlatch the
door, and pushed it open. It swung back with a creak upon its rusty
hinges, and a cold wind rushed in Ambrose's face, for the window was
open. The room was faintly lighted, not with glowworms, but by the pale
rays of a watery moon, which made some of the objects whitely distinct,
and left others dark and shadowy. Standing motionless on the threshold,
Ambrose turned his eyes instinctively to the corner where the harp was
dimly visible. There was certainly no one playing it, but as he looked
he heard a faint rustle in that direction. What was it? Again it came,
this time louder, with a sound like the flapping of feathers. Could it
be the Goblin Lady? But Pennie never said she had wings. Unable to go
either backwards or forwards, Ambrose remained rooted to the spot with
his eyes fixed on the mysterious corner. Rustle, rustle, flap, flap,
went the dreadful something, and presently there followed a sort of low
hiss. At the same moment a sudden gust of wind burst through the window
and banged the door behind him with a resounding clap. Panic-stricken
he turned and tried to open it, but his cold trembling fingers could not
move the rusty fastening. He looked wildly round for a means of escape,
and his eye fell on a bright ray of moonlight resting on the lattice
window. He rushed towards it, scrambled up on to a box, from thence to
the window-ledge, and thrust himself through the narrow opening. If the
thing came after him now, he could go no further than the balustrade,
unless he jumped down into the garden, "and that would kill me," he
thought, "Pennie has often said so."
He stood on the rough tiles, holding on to the iron window frame with
one hand; behind him the dark garret, where the thing still flapped and
rustled, and before him the sloping roof, the tall chimneys, the garden
beneath, partly lighted up by the moon. He could see the nursery
window, too, in an angle of the house, brightly illumined by the
cheerful fire within. Dickie and David were snugly in bed now, warm and
safe, and Nurse was most likely searching everywhere for him. If they
only knew!
"If ever I get back," he said to himself, "I never _will_ try to be
brave again; it's much better to be called a coward always." He had
hardly come to this conclusion before, with a tremendous whirring noise,
something came banging up against the shut part of the window from
within the garret. Ambrose gave one wild scream, let go his hold, and
went rolling over and over quicker and quicker, down--down--down.
CHAPTER THREE.
GOBLINET.
He remembered nothing more until he woke up that night in his own little
bed with a very confused feeling that something dreadful had happened,
though he could not think what it was. There was a light in his room,
which was strange too, and presently he saw that Nurse was sitting there
with her spectacles on, nodding sleepily over a book. What could it
mean? He clasped his head with both hands, and tried to remember; but
it was startling to find that there was a wet bandage round it, and
inside it there was a dull throbbing ache, so he soon gave up trying and
lay quietly with his eyes fixed on Nurse, and the funny shadow she made
on the wall. At last she gave a most tremendous nod, which knocked off
her spectacles, and then she gathered herself up and opened her eyes
very wide. Presently she came to the bed with a glass in her hand and
leant over Ambrose to see if he was awake; he drank what she gave him
eagerly, for he was thirsty, and as he lay down again he said with an
effort:
"I think I've had a very bad dream, Nurse, and my head _does_ ache so."
"Well, you're safe and sound now, my lamb," she answered, patting his
shoulder soothingly; "just you turn round and go to sleep again."
Still puzzled Ambrose closed his eyes, and wondered vaguely for a few
minutes why Nurse called him "lamb." She had not done it since he had
the measles, so he supposed he must be ill; but he did not feel at all
equal to asking questions about anything, and was soon fast asleep
again.
But this was the beginning of many weary days and nights for poor little
Ambrose. When the doctor came the next day he looked gravely at Mrs
Hawthorn.
"The child is in a high fever," he said, "and has had, I should think,
some great nervous shock. Great care and quiet are needed. Let him
sleep as much as possible."
But that was the difficulty, for, as time went on, Ambrose seemed less
and less able to sleep quietly at night. As evening drew on the fever
and restlessness increased; he could not bear to be left alone a moment,
and often in the night he would start up and cry out trembling:
"Take her away." "She is coming." "Don't let her catch me."
It was most distressing for everyone and puzzling too, for no one could
imagine what it was that had frightened him in the garret, or how he
came to be there at all at that time in the evening. It was evidently a
most terrible remembrance to him, for he could not bear the least
reference to it, and to question him was a sure way to give him what he
called "bad dreams." So in his presence the subject was dropped; but
Mrs Hawthorn and Nurse did not cease their conjectures, and there was
one person who listened to their conversation with a feeling of the
deepest guilt. This was Pennie, who just now was having a most
miserable time of it, for she felt that it was all her fault. If she
had not told those stories about the Goblin Lady it never would have
happened, although it certainly was Nancy who had put the garret into
Ambrose's head.
Nancy was the only person she could talk to on the subject, but she was
not any comfort at all.
"Don't let's think about it," she said. "I knew you made it up. I
daresay he'll get better soon."
Poor Pennie could not take matters so lightly; it was a most dreadful
weight on her mind, and she felt sure she should never have another
happy minute till she had confessed about the Goblin Lady. But she was
not allowed to see Ambrose, and she could not bring herself to tell
anyone else about it. Once she nearly told mother, and then something
stuck in her throat; and once she got as far as the study door with the
intention of telling father, but her courage failed her and she ran
away.
She would creep to Ambrose's door and listen, or peep round the screen
at him while he was asleep, and her face got quite thin and pointed with
anxiety. Every morning she asked:
"Is he better, mother? May I go and sit with him?" But the answer
always was:
"Not to-day, dear. We hope he is better, but he has such bad nights."
Pennie was very wretched, and felt she could not bear it much longer.
She was in the nursery one morning looking listlessly out of the window,
when her attention was caught by a conversation going on between Nurse
and Mrs Hawthorn, who was sitting there with Cicely in her arms.
"I know no more than that baby, ma'am," said Nurse emphatically, as she
had said a hundred times before, "why or wherefore Master Ambrose should
take such a thing into his head. It's easy to frame that he should get
scared--when once he was up there in the dark, for he's a timid child
and always has been. But what _took_ him there all alone? That's what
_I_ want to know!"
"I cannot understand it," said Mrs Hawthorn; "but it makes him so much
worse to ask him questions that we must leave it alone until he is
stronger. We cannot be too thankful that he was not killed."
"Which I never doubted for one moment that he was, ma'am, when I found
him," continued Nurse; "he was lying all crumpled up and stone-cold, for
all the world like Miss Nancy's dormouse when she forgot to feed it for
a week."
On this theme Nurse was apt to become very voluble, and there were few
things she liked better than describing her own feelings on the
occasion. Mrs Hawthorn held up her hand entreatingly: "Do not talk of
it, Nurse," she said; "I cannot bear it." And then they went on to
discuss other matters.
Now all this while Pennie had been trying to make up her mind to speak.
There was a fly just in front of her on the window-pane, and as she
watched it crawling slowly along she said to herself:
"When it gets as far as the corner I will tell mother." But alas!
before the fly had nearly completed his journey Mrs Hawthorn rose to
leave the nursery. As she passed Pennie she stopped and said:
"Why, Pennie, my child, it is not like you to be idle. And you look
mournful; what's the matter?"
"I think Miss Pennie frets after her brother, ma'am," observed Nurse.
"Well, then," said Mrs Hawthorn, "I have something to tell you that I
am sure you will like. The doctor thinks Ambrose much better to-day,
and if you are very quiet and discreet I will let you go and have tea
with him this afternoon at five o'clock."
"Oh, mother, mother," cried Pennie, "how lovely! May I really?"
"Yes; but you must promise me one thing, and that is that you will not
speak of anything that has to do with the garret or his accident."
Pennie's face fell.
"Very well, mother," she said in a dejected tone.
"If you can't feel sure, Pennie," said her mother observing the
hesitation, "I can't let you go."
"I won't, really, mother," repeated Pennie with a sigh--"truly and
faithfully."
But she felt almost as low-spirited as ever, for what was the good of
seeing Ambrose if she could not make him understand about the Goblin
Lady? She remained at the window pondering the subject, with her eyes
fixed on the grey church tower, the top of which she could just see
through the branches of the pear-tree. It reminded her somehow of her
father's text last Sunday, and how pleased she and Nancy had been
because it was such a short one to learn. Only two words: "Pray
always." She said it to herself now over and over again without
thinking much about it, until it suddenly struck her that it would be a
good thing to say a little prayer and ask to be helped out of the
present difficulty. "If I believe enough," she said to herself, "I
shall be helped. Father says people always are helped if they believe
enough when they ask."
She shut her eyes up very tight and repeated earnestly several times: "I
_do_ believe. I really and truly do believe;" and then she said her
prayer.
After this she felt a little more comfortable and ran out to play with
Nancy, firmly believing that before five o'clock something would turn up
to her assistance.
But Pennie was doomed to disappointment, for five o'clock came without
any way out of the difficulty having presented itself.
"I suppose I didn't believe hard enough," she said to herself as she
made her way sorrowfully upstairs to Ambrose's room. Just as she
thought this the study door opened and her father came out. He was
carrying something which looked like a large cage covered with a cloth.
Pennie stopped and waited till he came up to her.
"Why, whatever can that be, father?" she said. "Is it alive? Where are
you taking it?"
"It is a little visitor for Ambrose," he answered; "and I'm taking him
upstairs to tea with you both. But you're not to look at him yet;" for
Pennie was trying to peep under the cloth.
When they got into Ambrose's room she was relieved to find that he
looked just like himself, though his face was very white and thin. He
was much better to-day, and able to sit up in a big arm-chair with a
picture-book. But nevertheless before Nurse left the room she whispered
to Pennie again that she must be very quiet.
There was no need for the caution at present, for Pennie was in one of
her most subdued moods, though at any other time she would have been
very much excited to know what was inside the cage.
"Now," said the vicar when he was seated in the arm-chair, with Ambrose
settled comfortably on his knee, "we shall see what Ambrose and this
little gentleman have to say to each other."
He lifted off the covering, and there was the dearest little brown and
white owl in the world, sitting winking and blinking in the sudden
light.
Ambrose clasped his little thin hands, and his eyes sparkled with
pleasure.
"Oh, father," he cried, "what a darling dear! Is he for me? I always
_did_ want to have an owl so!"
He was in such raptures when he was told that the owl was to be his very
own, that when the tea was brought in he could hardly be persuaded to
touch it. Pennie, too, almost forgot her troubles in the excitement of
pouring out tea, and settling with Ambrose where the owl was to live.
"The nicest place will be," at last said Ambrose decidedly, "in that
corner of the barn just above where Davie's rabbits are. You know,
Pennie. Where it's all dusky, and dark, and cobwebby."
"I think that sounds just the sort of place he would feel at home in,"
said their father; "and now, would you like me to tell you where I got
him?"
"Oh, yes, please, father," said Ambrose, letting his head drop on Mr
Hawthorn's shoulder with a deep sigh of contentment. "Tell us every
little scrap about it, and don't miss any."
"Well, last night, about nine o'clock, when I was writing in the study,
I wanted to refer to an old book of sermons, and I couldn't remember
where it was. I looked all over my book-cases, and at last I went and
asked mother, and she told me that it was most likely put away in the
garret."
Ambrose stirred uneasily, and Pennie thought to herself, "They said I
wasn't to mention the garret, and here's father talking about it like
anything."
"So I took a lamp," continued Mr Hawthorn, "and went upstairs, and
poked about in the garret a long while. I found all sorts of funny old
things there, but not the book I wanted, so I was just going down again
when I heard a rustling in one corner--"
Pennie could see that Ambrose's eyes were very wide open, with a
terrified stare as if he saw something dreadful, and he was clinging
tightly with one hand to his father's coat.
"So I went into the corner and moved away a harp which was standing
there, and what do you think I saw? This little fluffy gentleman just
waked up from a nap, and making a great fuss and flapping. He was very
angry when I caught him, and hissed and scratched tremendously; but I
said, `No, my friend, I cannot let you go. You will just do for my
little son, Ambrose.' So I put him into a basket for the night, and
this morning I got a cage for him in the village, and here he is."
Mr Hawthorn looked down at Ambrose as he finished his story: the
frightened expression which Pennie had seen had left the boy's face now,
and there was one of intense relief there. He folded his hands, and
said softly, drawing a deep breath:
"Then it was not the Goblin Lady after all."
"The Goblin Lady! What can the child mean?" said the vicar looking
inquiringly at Pennie.