of her mouse."
"If I were you," said Ambrose with a superior air, "I wouldn't use such
long words; you never say them right."
"I say," interrupted Pennie, putting down her book, "what do you all
like best when you go to Nearminster? I know what _I_ like best."
"Well, what is it?" said Ambrose; "you say first, and then Nancy, and
then me, and then David."
"Well," said Pennie, clasping her knees with much enjoyment, "what I
like best is going to church in the Cathedral in the afternoon. When
it's a little bit dusky, you know, but not lighted up, and all the
pillars look misty, and a long way off, and there are very few people.
And then the boys sing, and you feel quite good and just a little bit
sad; I can't think why it is that I never feel like that in our church;
I suppose it's a cathedral feeling. That's what I like best. Now you,
Nancy."
"Why," said Nancy without the least hesitation. "I like that little
Chinese mandarin that stands on the mantel-piece in Miss Unity's
sitting-room, and wags its head."
"And _I_ like the drive back here best," said Ambrose, "because, when
we're going there's only Miss Unity to see at the end; but when we get
here there are all the animals and things."
"I don't call that liking Nearminster. I call it liking home," said
Nancy. "Now, it's your turn, David."
"I don't know what I like best," said David solemnly. "I only know what
I like least."
"What's that?"
"Miss Unity," said David with decision.
"Should you call her very ugly?" inquired Ambrose.
"Yes, of course, quite hideous," replied Nancy indistinctly, with her
paint-brush in her mouth.
"Well, I'm not quite sure," said Pennie; "once I saw her eyes look quite
nice, as if they had a light shining at the back of them."
"Like that face Andrew made for us out of a hollow pumpkin, with a
candle inside?" suggested Nancy.
"You're always so stupid, Nancy!" said Ambrose scornfully. "I know what
Pennie means about Miss Unity; _I've_ seen her eyes look nice too.
Don't you remember, too, how kind she was when Dickie was so rude to
her? I've never been so afraid of her since that."
The next day the party started for Nearminster in the wagonette, David
sitting in front with his feet resting comfortably on his own little
trunk. Andrew, who drove, allowed him to hold the whip sometimes, and
the end of the reins--so it was quite easy to fancy himself a coachman;
but this delightful position did not make him forget other things.
Beckoning to Nancy, who stood with the rest on the rectory steps, he
lifted a solemn finger.
"Remember!" he said.
Nancy nodded, the wagonette drove away followed by wavings, and
good-byes, and shrieking messages from the children, and was soon out of
sight.
"That was like Charles the First," said Pennie; "don't you remember just
before they cut off his head--"
"Oh, don't!" said Nancy; "pray, don't talk about Charles the First out
of lesson time."
CHAPTER FIVE.
MISS UNITY.
It was a lonely life which Miss Unity Cheffins lived at Nearminster, but
she had become so used to it that it did not occur to her to wish for
any other. Far far in the distance she could remember a time when
everything had not been so quiet and still round her--when she was one
of a group of children who had made the old house in the Close echo with
their little hurrying footsteps and laughing voices. One by one those
voices had become silent and the footsteps had hastened away, and Miss
Unity was left alone to fill the empty rooms as she best might with the
memories of the past. That was long long ago, and now her days were all
just alike, as formal and even as the trimly-kept Close outside her
door. And she liked them to be so; any variety or change would have
been irksome to her. She liked to know that exactly as eight o'clock
sounded from the cathedral Bridget would bring her a cup of tea, would
pull up her blind to a certain height, and would remark, "A fine
morning, ma'am," or "A dull morning," as the case might be. At eleven
o'clock, wet or dry, she would sally forth into the town to do the light
part of her marketing and cast a thoughtful eye on the price of
vegetables; after which, girt with a large linen apron, and her head
protected by a mob-cap, she would proceed to dust and wash her cherished
china. From much loneliness she had formed a habit of talking quietly
to herself during these operations; but no one could have understood
her, for she only uttered the fag-ends of her thoughts aloud.
The Chinese mandarin which Nancy admired was the object of Miss Unity's
fondest care; some bygone association was doubtless connected with him,
for she seldom failed to utter some husky little sentences of endearment
while she lingered over his grotesque person with tender touches of her
feather brush. So the day went on. After her dinner, if the weather
were fair, she would perhaps deck herself with a black silk mantilla and
a tall bonnet with nodding flowers, and go out to visit some old friend.
A muffin, a cup of tea, and perhaps a little cathedral gossip would
follow; and then Miss Unity, stepping primly across the Close, reached
the dull shelter of her own home again, and was alone for the rest of
the evening. At ten o'clock she read prayers to Bridget and the little
maid, and so to bed.
The even course of these days was only disturbed twice in the year--once
by Mr and Mrs Hawthorn's visit to Nearminster, and once by Miss
Unity's visit to Easney. These were important events to her,
anticipated for months, not exactly with pleasure; for, though she was
really fond of her friends, she was shy, and to be put out of her usual
habits was, besides, a positive torture to her. Then there were the
children! Troublesome little riddles Miss Unity often found them,
impossible to understand; and it is a question whether she or they were
the more uncomfortable when they were together. For she had an idea,
gathered from some dim recollection of the past, that children needed
constant correction and reproof; and she felt sure Mary Hawthorn
neglected her duty in this respect, and was over-indulgent. So, being a
most conscientious woman, she tried to supply this shortcoming, and the
result was not a happy one.
She was ill at ease with all the children, but of Dickie she was fairly
frightened, for Dickie had disgraced herself at her very first
introduction. Seeing Miss Unity's grim face framed by the nodding
bonnet bending down to kiss her, the child looked up and said with a
sweet smile, "Ugly lady!"
There was no disguising it, for Dickie's utterance had the clearness of
a bell, and a horrified silence fell on the assembly.
"Don't be naughty, Dickie," said Mrs Hawthorn reprovingly; "say, `How
do you do?' directly."
But Miss Unity had straightened herself up and turned away with an odd
look in her eyes.
"Don't scold the child, Mary," she said; "she's not naughty, she's only
honest."
From that time Pennie never considered Miss Unity quite ugly, and indeed
her features were not so much ugly as rugged and immovable. When her
feelings were stirred she was not ugly at all; for they were good, kind
feelings, and made her whole face look pleasant. So little happened in
her life, however, that they generally remained shut up as in a sort of
prison, and were seldom called forth; people, therefore, who did not
know her often thought her cross. But Miss Unity was not cross--she was
only lonely and dull because she had so little to love. Nothing could
have passed off better than the Hawthorns' visit on this particular
occasion, and indeed when David was with her Mrs Hawthorn never feared
the unlucky accidents which were apt to occur with the other children.
He was so deliberate and careful by nature that there was no risk of his
knocking down the china, or treading on the cat's tail, or on the train
of Miss Unity's gown. Nancy did all these things frequently, however
hard she tried to be good, and was, besides, very restive under reproof
and ready to answer pertly.
On the whole Miss Unity liked to have the grave little David with her
better than the other children, though she sometimes felt when she found
his solemn and disapproving gaze fixed upon her. David on his side had
his opinions, though he said little, and he had long ago made up his
mind that he did not like Miss Unity at all. So he was sorry to find,
when the day came for leaving Nearminster, that she was going back to
Easney with them instead of making her visit later in the year. It
would not be nearly as pleasant as driving alone with his father and
mother, he thought; for now he could not ask questions on the way,
unless he talked to Andrew, and he was always so silent.
When the wagonette came round there were so many little packages
belonging to Miss Unity that it was quite difficult to stow them away,
and as fast as that was done Bridget brought out more. Not that there
was much luggage altogether, but it consisted in such a number of
oddly-shaped parcels and small boxes that it was both puzzling and
distracting to know where to put them. Mr Hawthorn was busy for a good
quarter of an hour disposing of Miss Unity's property; while David
looked on, keenly interested, and full of faith in his father's
capacity.
"That's all, I think," said Mr Hawthorn triumphantly at last, as he
emerged from the depths of the wagonette, and surveyed his labours;
"there's not much room left for us, certainly, but I daresay we shall
manage."
As he spoke Bridget came out of the house carrying a waterproof bundle,
bristling with umbrellas and parasols.
"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed the vicar in a discouraged voice, "is that to
go? Does your mistress want all those umbrellas?"
"She wouldn't like to go without 'em, sir," replied Bridget.
"Where _shall_ you put them, father?" asked David in quite an excited
manner.
That was indeed a question, but it was at length solved by Mr Hawthorn
deciding to walk, and the wagonette was ready to proceed, David sitting
in front as usual. After several efforts to make Andrew talk he fell
back for amusement on his own thoughts, and in recognising all the
well-known objects they passed on the road. Presently they came to a
certain little grey cottage, and then he knew they were halfway home.
It had honeysuckle growing over the porch, and a row of bee-hives in the
garden, which was generally bright and gay with flowers; just now,
however, it all looked withered and unattractive, except that on one
tree there still hung some very red apples, though it was the beginning
of November. That reminded David of Antony, who had a great weakness
for apples. He smiled to himself, and felt glad that he should see his
pet so soon.
After this cottage there was a long steep hill to go up, and here Ruby
the horse always waited for Andrew to get down and walk. David might
really drive now, and even flick at Ruby's fat sides with the whip,
which was pleasant, but did not make the least difference to his speed.
When they had reached the top of the hill, the little square tower of
Easney church could just be seen, and the chimneys of the vicarage, but
though they looked near, there were still nearly four miles to drive.
Now it was all downhill, and Ruby pounded along at an even trot, which
seemed to make a sort of accompaniment to David's thoughts--
To market, to market,
To buy a fat pig;
Home again, home again,
Jig a jig, jig!
it said, over and over again. "I wonder whether Antony will know me!"
thought David.
Five minutes more and the carriage stopped at the white gate, and Andrew
getting down to open it, David drove in a masterly manner up to the
front door, where Ambrose, Pennie, and Dickie were assembled to welcome
the return. Amidst the bustle which followed, while Miss Unity's
belongings were being unpacked and carried indoors under the watchful
eye of their owner, David slipped down from his perch and hurried away
towards the kitchen-garden; Antony lived there, and he would go and see
him first of all. As he ran along the narrow path, bordered with
fruit-trees, he stooped to pick up a wrinkled red apple which had
fallen. "He's _so_ fond of 'em!" thought he, as he put it in his
pocket. There was the sty, and now he should soon hear the low grunt so
delightful to his ears. All was silent, however, and he went on more
slowly, with a slight feeling of dread, for somehow the sty had a
strangely empty look about it. "He's eating," said David encouragingly
to himself; but even as he said so he stood still, quite afraid to go
any nearer. Then he called gently: "Choug, choug, choug." No sign of
life. No inquiring black snout peering over the edge. Unable to bear
the uncertainty, he rushed forward and looked into the sty.
Empty! Yes, quite empty--Antony's straw bed was there, and the remains
of some food in his trough, but no Antony!
David stood staring at the desolate dwelling for some minutes, hardly
able to believe his eyes; then with a thrill of hope he said to himself:
"He must have got out. He must be somewhere in the garden;" and he
turned round to go and search for him. As he did so, he saw a small
dejected figure coming down the path towards him with downcast face and
lagging step. It was Nancy--grief in every feature, and guilt in every
movement. One glance was enough for David; he understood it all now,
and he flushed angrily, and turned his back upon her, clenching his
fists tightly. She came slowly up and stood close to him; she was
crying.
"Oh, Davie," she said. "I am so sorry."
"Where's Antony?" said David in a muffled voice without looking at her.
"He's gone."
"Where?"
"Back to the farm."
"Why?"
"Andrew took him. He found him eating the spinach, and he said he must
obey orders. And I asked Miss Grey to stop him, and she said she
couldn't interfere--"
Nancy stopped and gasped.
"Then," said David sternly, "you didn't fasten his gate."
"Oh, I _thought_ I did," said Nancy, beginning to sob again in an
agonised manner; "but I forgot to put that stick through the staple, and
he must have pushed it open. I am so sorry."
"That's no good at all," said David with a trembling lip; "Antony's
gone."
"I'll give you anything of mine to make up," said Nancy eagerly--"my
bantam hen, or my dormouse, or my white kitten."
"I don't want anything of yours," said David, "I want my own pig."
Nancy was silent, except for some little convulsive sobs. Presently she
made a last effort.
"Please, Davie," she said humbly, "won't you forgive me? I _am_ so
sorry."
David turned round. His face was very red, but he spoke slowly and
quietly:
"No," he said, "I won't forgive you. I never mean to. You promised to
take care of Antony, and you haven't. You're _very_ wicked."
Then he went away and left Nancy in floods of tears by the empty sty.
Everyone sympathised with David at first, and was sorry for his loss,
though perhaps no one quite understood what a great one it was to him;
but there was another feeling mingled with his grief for Antony, which
was even stronger, and that was anger towards his sister. David had a
deep sense of justice, and it seemed hard to him that he alone should
suffer for Nancy's wrong-doing. When he saw her after a time as merry
and gay as though Antony had never existed, he felt as hard as stone,
and would neither speak to her nor join in any game in which she took
part. She ought to be punished, he thought, and made to feel as unhappy
as he did. Poor little Davie! he was very miserable in those days, and
sadly changed, for his once loving heart was torn with grief and anger,
which are both hard to bear, but anger far the worse of the two. So he
moped about mournfully alone, and no one took much notice of him, for
people got tired of trying to comfort him and persuade him to forgive.
Even his mother was unsuccessful:
"You ought to forgive and forget, Davie," said she.
"I _can't_ forget Antony," replied David, "and I don't want to forgive
Nancy. I'd rather _not_."
"But she would be the first to forget any wrong thing you did to her,"
continued Mrs Hawthorn.
"Nancy _always_ forgets," said David, "wrong things and right things
too."
Mrs Hawthorn was silenced, for this was strictly true.
"I don't know what to make of David," she said to her husband
afterwards. "I would ask you to let him have the pig back, but I don't
think he ought to have it while he shows this unforgiving spirit."
"Let him alone," said the vicar. "Leave it to time."
So David was left alone; but time went on and did not seem to soften his
feelings in the least, and this was at last brought about by a very
unexpected person.
One morning Miss Unity, who had now been staying some time at Easney,
went out to take a little air in the garden: it was rather damp under
foot, for it had rained in the night, but now the sun shone brightly,
and she stepped forth, well protected by over-shoes and thick shawl,
with the intention of taking exercise for exactly a quarter of an hour.
From the direction of the Wilderness she heard shouts and laughter which
warned her of the children's whereabouts, and she turned at once into
another path which led to the kitchen-garden.
"How Mary does let those children run wild!" she said to herself, "and
Pennie getting a great girl, too. As for Miss Grey, she's a perfect
cipher, and doesn't look after them a bit. If they were _my_
children--"
But here Miss Unity's reflections were checked. Lifting her eyes she
saw at the end of the narrow path a low shed which looked like a
pig-sty; by it was a plank, raised at each end on a stone, so as to form
a rough bench, and on this there crouched a small disconsolate figure.
It was bent nearly double, and had its face buried in its hands, so that
only a rough shock of very light hair was visible; but though she could
not see any features Miss Unity knew at once that it was David mourning
for his pig.
Her first impulse was to turn round and go quickly away, for she had
gathered from what she had heard of the affair that he was a very
naughty, sulky little boy; as she looked, however, she saw by a slight
heaving movement of the shoulder that he was crying quietly, and her
heart was stirred with sudden pity:
"It's a real grief to the child, that's evident, though it's only about
a pig," she said to herself, and, yielding to another impulse, she
walked on towards him instead of going back. But after all it was a
difficult situation when she got close to him, for she did not know what
to say, although she felt an increasing desire to give him comfort. At
any rate it was useless to stand there in silence looking at that little
bowed head; would it be better to sit down by him, perhaps? she
wondered, casting a doubtful eye on the decidedly dirty plank. Miss
Unity was delicately particular, and her whole soul recoiled from dirt
and dust, so it was really with heroic resolution that she suddenly
folded her nice grey gown closely about her and took a seat, stiffly
erect, by David's side. When there she felt impelled to pat his head
gently with two long fingers, and say softly: "Poor little boy!"
David had watched all Miss Unity's movements narrowly through a chink in
his fingers, though he kept his face closely hidden, and when she sat
down beside him he was so surprised that he stopped crying. He wondered
what she was going to say. She would scold him, of course, everyone
scolded him now, and he set his teeth sullenly and prepared to defend
himself. Then the unexpected kind words fell on his ear, and he could
not help bursting into fresh tears, and sobbed as if his heart would
break. It was partly for Antony, partly for Nancy, partly for himself,
that he was crying; he was so tired of being naughty, and he wanted so
much to be made good again.
Miss Unity was sadly perplexed by the result of her efforts; she seemed
to have made matters worse instead of better, and she sat for some
minutes in silent dismay by the side of the sobbing David. But having
begun she felt she must go on, and taking advantage of a little lull she
presently said:
"Was it a nice pig, David?"
"B-b-beautiful."
"And you miss it?"
This was so evident a fact that David seemed to think it needed no
answer, and Miss Unity continued:
"It's sad to lose anything we know and love. Very hard to bear. It's
quite natural and right to be sorry."
David took his hands away from his face, which was curiously marked by
dirty fingers and tears, and lifted a pair of blurred blue eyes to Miss
Unity. He was listening, and she felt encouraged to proceed:
"But though it's hard, there is something else that is much worse; do
you know what that is?"
"No," said David.
"To be angry with anyone we love," said Miss Unity solemnly; "that is a
very bitter feeling, and hurts us very much. All the while we have it
in our hearts we can't be happy, because anger and love are fighting
together."
David's eyes grew rounder and larger. Could this really be Miss Unity?
He was deeply impressed.
"And they fight," she went on, "until one is killed. Very often love is
stronger, but sometimes it is anger that conquers, and then sad things
follow. In this way, David, much evil has happened in the world from
time to time."
Miss Unity paused. She felt that she was getting on very well, and was
surprised at her own success, for David had stopped crying, and was
staring at her with absorbed interest. She went on:
"When once we let anger drive love quite out of our hearts all manner of
bad things enter; but we don't often succeed in doing it, because love
is so great and strong. Do you know why you're so unhappy just now?"
"Because I've lost Antony," said David at once.
"Yes, that is one reason, but there is a bigger one. It is because you
are angry with Nancy."
David hung his head.
"You're fond of Nancy, Davie? I've heard your mother say that you and
she are favourite playfellows."
"No," said David, "not now. She promised to shut Antony's gate--and she
forgot."
Miss Unity stopped a moment to think; then she said:
"Would you be happier, David, if Nancy were to be punished?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it would be fair."
"Well--you know it's Nancy's birthday soon, and she has to choose what
present I shall give her?"
David nodded his head. He knew it very well; and not only that, he knew
what Nancy was going to choose, for she had confided to him as a great
secret that her heart was set on a kitchen-range for the doll's house.
"When she chooses, would you like me to say: `No, Nancy. Because you
were careless and forgot David's pig I shall give you nothing this
year?'"
Miss Unity waited eagerly for the answer. How she hoped it would be
"No." She had not been so anxious for anything for a long time.
But David raised his head, gazed at her calmly, and said quite
distinctly:
"Yes."
Miss Unity sighed as she got up from her lowly seat.
"Very well, David," she said, "it shall be so; but I am sorry you will
not forgive your sister."
She went sadly back to the house, thinking to herself:
"Of course _I_ could not persuade where others have failed. It was
foolish to try. I have no influence with children. I ought to have
remembered that."
But she was mistaken. That night when she was dressing for dinner there
was a little knock at her door, very low down as though from somebody of
short stature. She opened it, and there was David.
"If you please," he said, "I've come to say that I'd rather you gave
Nancy the kitchen-range--I mean, whatever she chooses for her birthday."
"Then you've forgiven her?" asked Miss Unity excitedly.
"Yes," said David. "Good-night, because it's bed-time. Nurse said I
was to go back directly."
He held out his hand, and also raised a pursed-up mouth towards Miss
Unity, which meant that he wished to be kissed.
Feeling the honour deeply she stooped and kissed him, and her eyes
followed the little square figure wistfully as it trotted down the
passage to the nursery; when it disappeared she turned into her room
again with a warmer feeling about her heart than she had known for many
a day.
Three days after this was Nancy's birthday, and although the
kitchen-range did not appear she hopped and skipped and looked so
brimful of delight that David could not help asking: "What are you so
pleased about?"
"Come with me," was Nancy's reply, "and I'll show you Miss Unity's
birthday present. It's the best of all."
She hurried David into the garden, and up to the pig-sty--empty no
longer! There was Antony as lively as ever, and ready to greet his
master with a cheerful grunt!