burst forth at last. Casting discretion to the winds, she threw her
arms vehemently round Ambrose, and blurted out half laughing and half
crying:
"I made it up! I made it up! There _isn't_ any Goblin Lady. Oh, dear!
Oh, dear! I made it every bit up!"
The two children sobbed and laughed and kissed each other, and made
incoherent exclamations in a way which their puzzled father felt to be
most undesirable for an invalid's room. He had been carefully warned
not to excite Ambrose, and what _could_ be worse than this sort of
thing?
Perfectly bewildered, he said sternly:
"Pennie, if you don't command yourself, you must go out of the room.
You will make your brother ill. It is most thoughtless of you. Tell me
quietly what all this means."
With many jerks and interruptions, and much shamefacedness Pennie
proceeded to do so. Looking up at her father's face at the end she was
much relieved to see a little smile there, though he did not speak at
once.
"You're not angry, are you, father?" said Ambrose doubtfully at last.
"No, I am not angry," replied Mr Hawthorn, "but I am certainly
surprised to find I have two such foolish children. I don't know who
was the sillier--Pennie to make up such nonsense, or Ambrose to believe
it. But now I am not going to say anything more, because it is quite
time for Ambrose to go to bed, so Pennie and the owl and I will say
good-night."
What a relief it was to hear the dreaded subject spoken of so lightly.
Pennie felt as though a great heavy weight had been suddenly lifted off
her mind, and she was so glad and happy that after she had left
Ambrose's room she could not possibly walk along quietly. So she hopped
on one leg all down a long passage, and at the top of the stairs she met
Nurse hastening up to her patient:
"You look merry, Miss Pennie," said she. "I hope you haven't been
exciting Master Ambrose."
"Why, yes," Pennie couldn't help answering. "Father and I have both
excited him a good deal; but he's much better, and now he'll get quite
well."
And Pennie was right, for from that night Ambrose improved steadily,
though it was some time before he became quite strong and lost his
nervous fears.
The first visit he paid, when he was well enough to be wheeled into the
garden in a bath-chair, escorted by the triumphant children, was to see
his new pet, the owl. There he was, hanging in his cage in the darkest
corner of the barn. Ambrose looked up at him with eyes full of the
fondest affection.
"What shall we call him, Pennie?" he said. "I want some name which has
to do with a goblin."
Pennie considered the subject with her deepest frown.
"Would `Goblinet' do?" she said at length; "because, you see, he is so
small."
"Beautifully," said Ambrose.
So the owl was called "Goblinet."
CHAPTER FOUR.
DAVID'S PIG.
By the time Ambrose was quite well again, and able to run about with the
others and play as usual, the holidays were over; Miss Grey came back,
and lessons began.
It was late autumn; hay-time had passed and harvest, and all the fields
looked brown and bare and stubbly. The garden paths were covered with
dry withered leaves, which made a pleasant sound when you shuffled your
feet in them, and were good things for Dickie to put into her little
barrow, for as often as she collected them there were soon plenty more.
Down they came from the trees, red, brown, yellow, when the wind blew,
and defied the best efforts of Dickie and Andrew. There were very few
flowers left now--only a few dahlias and marigolds, and some clumps of
Michaelmas daisies, so the garden looked rather dreary; but to make up
for this there was a splendid crop of apples in the orchard, and the
lanes were thickly strewn with bright brown acorns. And these last were
specially interesting to David, for it was just about this time that he
got his pig.
David was a solid squarely-built little boy of seven years old, with
hair so light that it looked almost grey, and very solemn blue eyes. He
spoke seldom, and took a long time to learn things, but when once that
was done he never forgot them; and in this he was unlike Nancy, who
could learn quickly, but forget almost as soon. Miss Grey always felt
sure that when once David had struggled through a lesson, whether it
were the kings and queens of England, or the multiplication table, that
he would remember it if she asked him a question weeks afterwards. But
then it was a long time before he knew it--so long that it often seemed
a hopeless task. Nevertheless, if David was slow he was certainly sure,
and people had a habit of depending upon him in various matters. For
instance, when Nurse wanted to intrust the baby for a few moments to any
of the children during her absence from the nursery, it was never to the
three elder she turned, but to David, and her confidence was not
misplaced. Once having undertaken any charge or responsibility, David
would carry it through unflinchingly, whether it were to amuse the baby,
or to take care of any of the animals while their various owners were
away. It would have been impossible to him to have forgotten to feed
the dormouse for a week as Nancy did, or to have left Sappho the canary
without any water, which Pennie to her great agony of mind was once
guilty of doing.
David's animals never missed their meals, or were neglected in any way;
he was particularly proud of his sleek rabbits, which, together with a
family of white rats, lived in the barn, and certainly throve
wonderfully, if numbers mean prosperity. The biggest rabbit was called
Goliath, and it was David's delight to hold him up by the ears, in spite
of his very powerful kicks, and exhibit his splendid condition to any
admiring beholder. But though Goliath was handsome, and the white rats
numerous, their owner was not quite satisfied, for his fondest wish for
some time past had been to possess a pig. A nice little round black
pig, with a very curly tail; he would then be content, and ask nothing
further of fortune.
He thought of the pig, and hoped for the pig, and it would not be too
much to say that he dreamed of the pig. When he passed a drove of them
in the road, squeaking, pushing, grunting, and going every way but the
right, he would stand in speechless admiration. His mind was a
practical one, and did not dwell merely on the pleasure of owning the
pig itself, but also on the prospect of fattening, selling, and
realising money by it.
"You'd never be able to have it killed," said Nancy, who was his chief
confidante, "after you got fond of it, and it got to know you; you'd as
soon kill Goliath."
"I shouldn't have it killed," answered David. "I should sell it to the
farmer."
"Well; but _he'd_ have it killed," pursued the relentless Nancy.
This was unanswerable.
"Never mind. I want a pig, and I shall save up my money," said David
sturdily.
David's bank was a white china house which stood on the nursery
mantel-shelf; it had a very red roof with a hole in it, and into this he
continued for some time to drop all his pennies, and halfpennies, and
farthings with great persistency, and a mind steadily fixed on the pig.
After all, however, he got it without spending any of his savings, and
this is how it happened:--
One fine morning at the end of September the children were all ready for
their usual walk with Miss Grey--all, that is, except Dickie, who, being
still a nursery child, went out walking with Nurse and baby. The other
four, however, were ready, not only as regards hats and jackets, but
were also each provided with something to "take out," which, in their
opinion, was quite as indispensable. Penelope therefore carried a
sketching book, Ambrose a boat under one arm, and under the other a
camp-stool in case Miss Grey should be tired, Nancy two dolls and a
skipping-rope, and David a whip and a long chain. At the end of this
was the terrier dog Snuff, choking and struggling with excitement, and
giving vent to smothered barks. Snuff would willingly have been loose,
and there was indeed not the least occasion for this restraint, as it
would have been far easier to lose David than the dog; he knew well,
however, that children have their little weaknesses in these matters,
and submitted to his bondage with only a few whines of remonstrance when
the company had once fairly started.
His patience was a good deal tried on this occasion, as well as that of
the children, for it seemed as though Mrs Hawthorn never would finish
talking to Miss Grey in the hall. At last, however, she said something
which pleased them very much:
"I want you to go to Hatchard's Farm for me, and ask about the butter."
Now Hatchard's Farm was the place of all others that the children
delighted to visit. It was about two miles from Easney, and the nicest
way to it was across some fields, where you could find mushrooms, into a
little narrow lane where the thickly growing blackberry brambles caught
and scratched at you as you passed. This lane was muddy in winter, and
at no time in the year did it appear so desirable to Miss Grey as to the
children; but it was such a favourite walk with them that she generally
yielded. The only other way of getting to the farm was by the
high-road, and that was so dreadfully dull! After scrambling along the
lane a little while, you saw the red-brown roofs of the barns and
outbuildings clustering round the house itself, and almost hiding it,
and soon a pleasant confusion of noises met your ear. Ducks quacked,
hens cackled, pigeons perched about on the roofs kept up a monotonous
murmur; then came the deep undertones of the patient cows, and as you
neared the house you could generally hear Mrs Hatchard's voice in her
dairy adding its commanding accents to the medley of sounds. It
certainly was a delightful farm, and David had long ago determined that
when he grew up he would have one just like it, and wear brown leather
gaiters like Farmer Hatchard's. He would also keep pigs like his--quite
black, with very short legs and faces, and tightly curled tails. But
some time must pass before this, and the next best thing was to go as
often as possible to see them, and ask all manner of questions of the
farmer or his men. There was no one in the great wide kitchen when the
party arrived on this occasion, and Miss Grey sat down to wait for Mrs
Hatchard, while the children made their usual tour of admiring
examination. They had seen every object in the room hundreds of times
before, but how interesting they always were! The high-backed settle on
each side of the fire was dark with age, and bright with the toil of
Mrs Hatchard's hands; the heavy oak rafters were so conveniently low
that the children could see the farmer's gun, a bunch of dips, a pair of
clogs, a side of bacon kept there as in a sort of storehouse. At the
end of the room opposite the wide hearth was the long narrow deal table,
where the farmer and his men all dined together at twelve o'clock, for
they were old-fashioned people at Hatchard's Farm; and behind the door
hung the cuckoo clock, before which the children never failed to stand
in open-mouthed expectation if it were near striking the hour. On all
this the sun darted his rays through the low casement, and failed to
find, for all his keen glances, one speck of dust.
Miss Grey sat in the window-seat looking absently out at the marigolds
and asters in the gay garden, when she felt a little hand suddenly
placed in hers, and, turning round, saw David, his face crimson with
suppressed excitement:
"Come," he said, pulling her gently, "come and look here."
He led her to the hearth, and pointed speechless to something which
looked like a small flannel bundle in a basket. As she looked at it, it
moved a little.
"Well, Davie," said she, "what is this wonderful thing? Something
alive?"
David had knelt down close to the bundle and was peering in between the
folds of the flannel with an expression of reverent awe. He looked up
gravely.
"Don't you see," he said slowly in lowered accents, "it's a little baby
pig!"
Stooping down Miss Grey examined it more closely, and found that it was
indeed a little black pig of very tender age, so closely covered up in
flannel that only its small pointed snout and one eye were visible.
"Do you suppose it's ill?" inquired David.
"I daresay it is," answered Miss Grey; "we'll ask Mrs Hatchard about it
presently."
The other children had gathered round, all more or less interested in
the invalid pig; but presently, Pennie having suggested that they should
go and see the new little calf, they ran out of the kitchen in search of
fresh excitement.
"Come along, Davie," said Ambrose, looking back from the door; "come out
and see the other pigs."
"No," said David decidedly, "I shall stop here."
He took his seat as he spoke on the corner of the settle nearest the
pig, with the evident intention of waiting for Mrs Hatchard's arrival;
he was not going to lose a chance of inquiring closely into such an
important subject.
And at last Mrs Hatchard came bustling in, cheerful, brisk, and
ruddy-faced as usual, with many apologies for her delay. Miss Grey
plunged at once into business with her, and the patient David sat
silently biding his time for the fit moment to put his questions.
"Won't you run out, little master?" said the good-natured farmer's wife,
noticing the grave little figure at last. "There's the calves to see,
and a fine litter of likely young pigs too."
"No, thank you," said David politely. "I want to know, please, why you
keep this one little pig in here, and whether it's ill."
"Oh, aye," said Mrs Hatchard, coming up to the basket and stooping to
look at the occupant, which was now making a feeble grunting noise.
"I'd most forgot it. You see it's the Antony pig, and it's that weakly
and dillicut I took it away to give it a chance. I doubt I sha'n't rear
it, though, for it seems a poor little morsel of a thing."
"How many other little pigs are there?" asked David.
"Why, there's ten on 'em--all fine likely pigs except this one, and they
do that push and struggle and fight there's no chance for him."
"Why do you call it the Antony pig?" pursued David with breathless
interest.
"Well, I don't rightly know why or wherefore," said Mrs Hatchard; "it's
just a name the folks about here always give to the smallest pig in the
litter."
"Do you think Farmer Hatchard knows?" inquired David.
"Well, he might," said Mrs Hatchard, "and then again he mightn't. But
I tell you what, Master David, if yonder little pig lives, and providin'
the vicar has no objections, I'll give him to you. You always fancied
pigs, didn't you now?"
David was still leaning fondly over the basket, and made no reply at
first. It took some time to fully understand the reality of such a
splendid offer.
"Come, Davie," said Miss Grey, "we must say good-bye and go and find the
others."
Then he got up, and held out his hand gravely to Mrs Hatchard.
"Good-bye," he said. "Thank you. I hope you'll accede in rearing the
Antony pig. I should like to have it very much, if father will let me."
David went home from the farm hardly able to believe in his own good
fortune, but according to his custom he said very little.
The matter was discussed freely, however, by the other children, and it
was so interesting that it lasted them all the way back. Would the pig
live? they wondered, and if it did, would their father let David have
it? Where would it live? What would David call the pig if he did get
it? This last inquiry was put by Ambrose, and he felt quite rebuked
when his brother replied scornfully, "Antony, of course."
But there was some demur on the part of the vicar when he was informed
of the proposed addition to his live stock.
"I don't like to disappoint you, my boy," he said, "but you know Andrew
has plenty to do already. He has the garden to look after, and the
cows, and my horse. I don't think I could ask him to undertake anything
more."
Poor little David's face fell, and his underlip was pushed out
piteously. He would not have cried for the world, and none of the
children ever thought of questioning what their father said; so he stood
silent, though he felt that the world without the Antony pig would be
empty indeed.
"Do you want it very much, Davie?" said the vicar, looking up from his
writing at the mournful little face.
"Yes, father, I do," said David, and with all his resolution he could
not choke back a little catching sob as he spoke.
"Well, then, look here," said his father; "if you will promise me to
take entire charge of it, and never to trouble Andrew, or call him away
from his work to attend to it, you shall have the pig. But if I find
that it is neglected in any way, I shall send it back at once to Farmer
Hatchard. Is that a bargain?"
"Oh, yes, indeed," cried the delighted David; and he ran out to tell the
result of his interview to the anxious children waiting outside the
study door.
So David was to have the pig; and, with the assistance of Ambrose and a
few words of advice from Andrew, he at once began to prepare a
habitation for it. Fortunately there was an old sty still in existence,
which only wanted a little repairing, and everything was soon ready.
But the rearing of the Antony pig still hung trembling in the balance,
and some anxious weeks were passed by David; he called to inquire after
it as often as he possibly could, and, to his great joy, found it on
each occasion more lively and thriving--thanks to Mrs Hatchard's
devoted care.
And at last the long-wished-for day arrived. Antony was driven to his
new home with a string tied round his leg, in the midst of a triumphal
procession of children, and David's joy and exultation were complete.
There was certainly no danger of his neglecting his charge, or of asking
anyone to assist him in its service; never was pig so well cared for as
Antony, and as time went on he showed an intelligent appreciation of
David's attentions not unmixed with affection. Perhaps in consequence
of these attentions he soon developed much shrewdness of character, and
had many little humorous ways which were the pride of his master's
heart. The two were fast friends, and seemed to understand each other
without the need of speech, though David had been known to talk to his
pig when he believed himself to be in private. As for the _selling_
part of the plan, it seemed quite to have faded away, and when Andrew
said with a grin:
"Well, young master, t'pig 'ull soon be ready for market noo," David got
quite hot and angry, and changed the subject at once.
On rare occasions Antony was conducted, making unctuous snorts of
pleasure, into the field to taste a little fresh grass and rout about
with his inquisitive nose; but the garden was of course forbidden
ground. Therefore, when he was once discovered in the act of enjoying
himself amongst Andrew's potatoes, the consternation was extreme. It
was Nancy who saw him, as she sat one morning learning a French verb,
and staring meanwhile absently out of the schoolroom window. Her
expression changed suddenly from utter vacancy to keen interest, and her
monotonous murmur of "J'ai, Tu as, Il a," to a shout of, "Oh, Davie,
there's Antony in the garden!"
"Nancy," said Miss Grey severely, "you know it is against rules to talk
in lesson time. Be quiet."
"But I can't really, Miss Grey," said Nancy, craning her neck to get a
better view of the culprit; "he's poking up the potatoes like anything.
Andrew _will_ be so cross. You'd better just let us go and chase him
back again."
The excitement had now risen so high that Miss Grey felt this would
really be the best plan, for attention to lessons seemed impossible, and
soon the four children were rushing helter-skelter across the garden in
pursuit of Antony. With a frisk of his tail and a squeak of defiance he
led the chase in fine style, choosing Andrew's most cherished borders.
What a refreshment it was, after the tedium of French verbs and English
history, and what a pity when Antony, after a brave resistance, was at
length hustled back into his sty!
Whether the door was insecure, or not too carefully fastened after this,
remains uncertain; but it is a fact that these pig-chases came to be of
pretty frequent occurrence, and always happened, by some strange chance,
during school hours. The cry of, "Pig out!" and the consequent rush of
children in pursuit, at last reached such a pitch that both Miss Grey
and the much-tried Andrew made complaint to the vicar. Miss Grey
declared that discipline was becoming impossible, and Andrew that there
would not be a "martal vegetable in the garden if Master David's pig got
out so often." Then the vicar made a rule to this effect:
"If David's pig is seen in the garden again, it goes back that same day
to Farmer Hatchard."
The vicar's rules were not things to be disregarded, and his threats
were always carried out. David and Ambrose might have been seen with a
large hammer and nails very busy at the pig-sty that afternoon, and
Antony's visits to the garden ceased, until one unlucky occasion when
David was away from home, and it fell out in the following manner:--
In the cathedral town of Nearminster, ten miles from Easney, lived
Pennie's godmother Miss Unity Cheffins, and it was Mr and Mrs
Hawthorn's custom to pay her an annual visit of two or three days,
taking each of the four elder children with them in turn. It was an
occasion much anticipated by the latter, but more for the honour of the
thing than from any actual pleasure connected with it, for Miss Unity
was rather a stiff old lady, and particular in her notions as to their
proper behaviour. She was fond of saying, "In _my_ time young people
did so and so," and of noticing any little failure in politeness, or
even any personal defect. She was a rich old lady, and lived in a great
square house just inside the Cathedral Close; it was sombrely furnished,
and full of dark old portraits, and rare china bowls and knick-knacks,
which last Miss Unity thought a great deal of, and dusted carefully with
her own hands. Amongst the many injunctions impressed upon the
children, they were told never to touch the china, and there were indeed
so many pitfalls to be avoided, that the visit was not by any means an
unmixed pleasure to Mrs Hawthorn. The children themselves, however,
though they missed the freedom of their home, and were a little afraid
of the upright Miss Unity, managed to extract enjoyment from it, and
always looked enviously upon the one of their number whose turn it was
to go to Nearminster.
And now the time had come round again, and it was David's turn to go,
but there was one drawback to his pleasure, because he must leave the
pig. Who could say that some careless hand might not leave the door of
the sty open or insecurely fastened during his absence? Then Antony's
fate would be certain, for Andrew was only too eager to carry out the
vicar's sentence of banishment, and was on the watch for the least
excuse to hurry the pig back to the farm.
After turning it over in his mind, David came to the conclusion that he
could best ensure Antony's safety by placing him under someone's special
care, and he chose Nancy for this important office.
"You _will_ take care of him, won't you?" he said, drawing up very close
to her and fixing earnest eyes upon her face, "and see that his gate is
always fastened."
Nancy was deeply engaged in painting a picture in the _Pilgrim's
Progress_; she paused a moment to survey the effect of Apollyon in
delicate sea-green, and said rather absently:
"Of course I will. And so will Ambrose and so will Pennie."
"No, but I want you partickerlerlery to do it," said David, bungling
dreadfully over the long word in his anxiety--"you _more_ than the
others."
"All right," said Nancy with her head critically on one side.
"I want you to promise three things," went on David--"to keep his gate
shut, and to give him acorns, and not to let Dickie poke a stick at
him."
"Oh, yes, I'll promise," said Nancy readily.
"Truly and faithfully?" continued David, edging still closer up to her;
"you won't forget?"
"No, I really won't," said Nancy with an impatient jerk of her elbow;
"don't you worry me any more about it."
"I took care of your dormouse when _you_ went," continued David, "and
didn't forget it once. So you ought to take care of my pig, it's only
fair."
"Well, don't I tell you I'm going to?" said Nancy, laying down her
paint-brush with an air of desperation. "I sha'n't do it a bit more for
your asking so often. Do leave off."
"You'll only be away three days, Davie," said Pennie, looking up from
her book; "we can manage to take care of Antony that little while I
should think."