fetched him home. Father said we might. I asked Miss Unity to ask him
to have him back for a birthday present. And she did. She was so kind;
and I don't think she's ugly now at all."
Nor did David; and he never said again that the thing he liked least at
Nearminster was Miss Unity, for he had a long memory for benefits as
well as for injuries.
CHAPTER SIX.
ETHELWYN.
"Oh, dear me!" said Pennie, looking at herself in the glass over the
nursery mantel-shelf; "it _is_ ugly, and _so_ uncomfortable. I wish I
needn't wear it."
"It," was Pennie's new winter bonnet, and certainly it was not very
becoming; it was made of black plush with a very deep brim, out of which
her little pointed face peered mournfully, and seemed almost swallowed
up. There was one exactly like it for Nancy, and the bonnets had just
come from Miss Griggs, the milliner at Nearminster, where they had been
ordered a week ago. "Do you come and try yours on, Miss Pennie," said
Nurse as she unpacked them, "there's no getting hold of Miss Nancy."
So Pennie put it on with a little secret hope that it might be a
prettier bonnet than the last; she looked in the glass, and then
followed the exclamation with which this chapter begins.
"I don't see anything amiss with it," said Nurse, who stood with her
head on one side, and the other bonnet perched on her hand. "They're as
alike as two pins," she added, twirling it round admiringly.
"They're both just as ugly as they can be," said Pennie mournfully; "but
mine's sure to look worse than Nancy's--it always does. And they never
_will_ stay on," she added in a still more dejected voice, "unless I
keep on catching at the strings in front with my chin."
"Oh, well, Miss Pennie," said Nurse, "your head will grow to it, and you
ought to be thankful to have such a nice warm bonnet. How would you
like to go about with just a shawl over your head, like them gypsies we
saw the other day?"
"_Very much indeed_," said Pennie, who had now taken off the bonnet and
was looking at it ruefully. "There was one gypsy who had a red
handkerchief, which looked much prettier than this ugly old thing."
"You oughtn't to mind how things look," returned Nurse. "You think too
much of outsides, Miss Pennie."
"But the outside of a bonnet is the only part that matters," replied
Pennie.
She was quite prepared to continue the subject, but this was not the
case with Nurse.
"I've no time for argufying, miss," she said as she put the bonnets
carefully back into their boxes. "I'm sure my mistress will like them
very much. They're just as she ordered them." And so the subject was
dismissed, and Pennie felt that she was again a victim.
For, as Nurse had said, Pennie _did_ care a great deal about outsides,
and she thought it hard sometimes that she and Nancy must always be
dressed alike, for the same things did not suit them at all. Probably
this very bonnet which was such a trial to Pennie would be a suitable
frame for Nancy's round rosy face, and look quite nice. It was
certainly hard. Pennie loved all beautiful things, from the flowers in
the garden and fields to the yellow curls on Cicely's ruffled head, and
it often troubled her to feel that with pretty things all round her she
did not look pretty herself. So the winter bonnet cast quite a gloom on
her for the moment, and although it may seem a small trial to sensible
people it was a large one to Pennie. How often she had sighed over the
straight little serge frocks which she and Nancy always wore, and
secretly longed for brighter colours and more flowing lines, and now
this ugly dark bonnet had come to make things worse. It would make her
feel like a blot in a fair white copybook, to walk about in it when the
beautiful clean snow covered the earth. What a pity that everything in
the world was not pretty!
Pennie's whole soul went out towards beauty, and anyone with a pretty
face might be sure of her loving worship and admiration. "All is not
gold that glitters, Miss Pennie," Nurse would say, or, "Handsome is that
handsome does;" but it made no impression at all; Pennie continued to
feel sure that what looked pretty _must_ be good, and that a fair
outside meant perfection within.
She stood thoughtfully watching Nurse as she put the bonnets away. It
_would_ be nice to wear a scarlet handkerchief over your head like that
gypsy. Such a lovely colour! And then there would be no tormenting
"caught back" feeling when the wind blew, which made it necessary to
press the chin firmly on the strings to keep that miserable bonnet on at
all. And besides these advantages it would be much cheaper, for she had
heard her mother say that Miss Griggs' things were _so_ expensive; "but
then," Mrs Hawthorn had added, "the best of them is that they _do_
last." Pennie thought that decidedly "the worst" of them, for she and
Nancy would have to wear those bonnets for at least two winters before
they showed any signs of wearing out--indeed, they had been made rather
large in the head on purpose.
But it was of no use to think about it any more now, so with a little
sigh she turned away and went back to her dolls, prepared to treat the
ugly one, Jemima, with even more than usual severity. Jemima was the
oldest doll of the lot, made of a sort of papier-mache; her hair was
painted black and arranged in short fat curls; her face, from frequent
washing and punishment, had become of a leaden hue, and was full of
dents and bruises; her nose was quite flat, and she had lost one arm; in
her best days she had been plain, but she was now hideous. And no
wonder! Poor Jemima had been through enough trials to mar the finest
beauty. She had been the victim at so many scenes of torture and
executions that there was scarcely a noted sufferer in the whole of the
History of England whom she had not, at some time or other, represented.
To be burnt alive was quite a common thing to Jemima, and sometimes,
descending from the position of martyr to that of criminal, she was
hanged as a murderer! In an unusually bloodthirsty moment Ambrose had
once suggested _really_ putting out her eyes with red-hot
gauffering-irons, but this was overruled, and Jemima's eyes, pale blue
and quite expressionless, continued to stare placidly on the stake,
gibbet, or block, as the case might be.
It was a relief to Pennie just now to cuff and scold Jemima, and to pet
the Lady Dulcibella, who was a wax doll with a lovely pink and white
complexion, and real golden hair and eyelashes. She had everything
befitting a doll of her station and appearance--a comfortable bed with
white curtains, an arm-chair with a chintz cushion, private brushes and
combs, and an elegant travelling trunk. Her life altogether was a
contrast to Jemima's, who never went to bed at all, and had no
possessions except one ragged old red dress; nevertheless, it is
possible that Dulcibella with all her elegance would have been the more
easily spared of the two.
Nancy soon joined Pennie, and the little girls became so absorbed in
their play that they were still busy when tea-time came; they hurried
down-stairs to the schoolroom, for Miss Grey was particular about
punctuality, and found that David and Ambrose were already seated, each
with his own special mug at his side; mother was in the room too,
talking to Miss Grey about an open letter which she held in her hand.
Mrs Hawthorn always paid the children a visit at schoolroom tea, and
they generally had something wonderful to tell her saved up for this
occasion--things which had occurred during their walk, or perhaps
exciting details about the various pet animals. Sometimes she in her
turn had news for them, and when Pennie saw the open letter she changed
her intention of saying that the bonnets had come home, and waited
quietly. Perhaps mother had something interesting to tell.
Pennie was right, for Mrs Hawthorn presently made an announcement of
such a startling character that the new bonnets sank at once into
insignificance.
"Children," she said, "a little girl is coming to stay with you."
Now such a thing had never happened before, and it was so astonishing
that they all stared at their mother in silence with half-uplifted mugs,
and slices of bread and butter in their hands. Then all at once they
began to pour forth a torrent of questions:-- What is she like? Where
does she live? How old is she? What is her name?
Mrs Hawthorn held up her hand.
"One at a time," she said. "If you will be quiet you shall hear all
about it. This little girl lives in London. Her mother is a very old
friend of mine, though you have never seen her, and I have asked her to
let her little daughter come here for a visit. She is about Pennie's
age, and her name is Ethelwyn."
"What a long one!" said Nancy; "must we call her all of it?"
"I think it's a beautiful name," said Pennie. "Almost as good as
`Dulcibella.' And then we might call her `Ethel,' or `Winnie,' they're
both pretty."
"Well, you can settle that afterwards," said their mother. "You must
wait and see what she likes best to be called. And that reminds me to
say that I hope my children will be hospitable to their guest. Do you
know what that means?"
"I know," said Ambrose, gulping a piece of bread and butter very quickly
in his haste to be first. "Let _me_ say. It means taking care of
people when they're ill."
"Not quite right," said Mrs Hawthorn. "You are thinking of `hospital,'
which is a different thing, though both words come from the same idea;
can you tell, Pennie?"
"It means being kind, doesn't it?" said Pennie.
"It means something more than that. What do you say, Davie?"
"Always to give her the biggest piece," said David, with his eyes
thoughtfully fixed on the pile of bread and butter.
Nancy was then appealed to, but she always refused to apply her mind out
of lesson hours, and only shook her head.
"Well," said Mrs Hawthorn, "I think Davie's explanation is about the
best, for hospitality does mean giving our friends the best we have.
But it means something more, for you might give Ethelwyn the biggest
piece of everything, and yet she might not enjoy her visit at all. But
if you try to make her happy in the way _she likes best_, and consider
her amusement and comfort before your own, you will be hospitable, and I
shall be very pleased with you all. I expect, however, she will be
chiefly Pennie and Nancy's companion, because, as she has no brothers
and sisters, she may not care about the games you all play together.
She has not been used to boys, and might find them a little rough and
noisy."
Pennie drew herself up a little. It would be rather nice to have a
friend of her very own, and already she saw herself Ethelwyn's sole
support and adviser.
The children continued to ask questions until there was nothing else to
be learnt about Ethelwyn, and she was made the subject of conversation
after their mother left the room, and until tea was over. They made
various plans for the amusement of the expected guest.
"I can show her my pig," said David.
"And the rabbits and the jackdaw and the owl," added Ambrose.
"Oh, I don't suppose she'll care at all about such common things as pigs
and rabbits," said Pennie rather scornfully, for the very name of
Ethelwyn had a sort of superior sound.
"Then she'll be a stupid," said Ambrose.
"Owdacious," added David.
"Davie," said Miss Grey, "where did you hear that word?"
"Andrew says it," answered David triumphantly; "he says Antony grows
owdacious."
A lively argument followed, for David could not be brought to understand
for some time why Andrew's expressions were not equally fit for little
boys and gardeners. Ethelwyn was for the time forgotten by everyone
except Pennie, who continued to think about her all that evening.
Indeed, for days afterwards her mind was full of nothing else; she
wondered what she was like, and how she would talk, and she had Ethelwyn
so much on the brain that she could not keep her out of her head even in
lesson time. She came floating across the pages of the History of
England while Pennie was reading aloud, and caused her to make strange
mistakes in the names of the Saxon kings.
"Ethelbert, not Ethelwyn, Pennie," Miss Grey would say for the twentieth
time, and then with a little impatient shake Pennie would wake up from
her day-dreams, and try to fix her mind on the matter in hand. But it
was really difficult, for those kings seemed to follow each other so
fast, and to do so much the same things, and even to have names so much
alike, that it was almost impossible to have clear ideas about them.
Pennie's attention soon wandered away again to a more attractive
subject: Ethelwyn! it was certainly a nice name to have, and seemed to
mean all sorts of interesting things; how small and poor the name of
Pennie sounded after it! shortened to Pen, as it was sometimes, it was
worse still. No doubt Ethelwyn would be pretty. She would have long
yellow hair, Pennie decided, not plaited up in a pig-tail like her own
and Nancy's, but falling over her shoulders in a nice fluffy way like
the Lady Dulcibella's. Pennie often felt sorry that there was no
fluffiness at all about her hair, or that of her brothers and sisters;
their heads all looked so neat and tight, and indeed they could not do
otherwise under Nurse's vigorous treatment, for she went on the
principle that anything rough was untidy. Even Dickie's hair, which
wanted to curl, was sternly checked, and kept closely cropped like a
boy's; it was only Cicely's that was allowed at present to do as it
liked and wave about in soft little rings of gold.
Pennie made her plans and thought her thoughts, and often went to bed
with Ethelwyn's imaginary figure so strongly before her that she had
wonderful dreams. Ethelwyn took the shape of the "Fair One with the
Golden Locks," in the fairy book, and stood before her with yellow hair
quite down to her feet--beautiful, gracious, smiling. Even in the
daylight Pennie could not quite get rid of the idea, and so, long before
she had seen her, the name of Ethelwyn came to mean, in her romantic
little mind, everything that was lovely and desirable.
And at last Ethelwyn came. It was an exciting moment, for the children
were so unused to strangers that they were prepared to look upon their
visitor with deep curiosity. They were nevertheless shy, and it had
occurred to David and Nancy that the cupboard under the stairs would be
a favourable position from which to take cautious observations when she
arrived.
Ambrose, therefore, and Pennie were the only two ready to receive their
guest, for Dickie was busy with her own affairs in the nursery; they
waited in the schoolroom with nervous impatience, and presently the
drawing-room bell rang twice, which was always a signal that the
children were wanted.
"That's for us," said Pennie. "Come, Ambrose."
But Ambrose held back. "_You_ go," he said. "Mother doesn't want me."
And Pennie, after trying a few persuasions, was obliged to go alone.
But when she got to the door and heard voices inside the room she found
it difficult to go in, and stood on the mat for some minutes before she
could make up her mind to turn the handle. She looked down at her
pinafore and saw that it was a good deal crumpled, and an unlucky
ink-spot stared at her like a little black eye in the very middle of it;
surely, too, Nurse had drawn back her hair more tightly than usual from
her face. Altogether she felt unequal to meeting the unknown but
elegant Ethelwyn.
It must be done, however, and at last she turned the handle quickly and
went into the room. Mrs Hawthorn was sitting by the fire, and in front
of her stood a little girl. Her hair _was_ fluffy and yellow, just as
Pennie had thought, and hung down her back in nice waves escaping from
the prettiest possible quilted bonnet (how different from that black
plush one upstairs!) This was dark blue like her dress, and she carried
a dear little quilted muff to match. Her features were neat and
straight, and her large violet eyes had long lashes curling upwards;
there was really quite a striking likeness between her face and the Lady
Dulcibella's, except that the cheeks of the latter were bright pink, and
Ethelwyn was delicately pale.
Pennie noticed all this as she advanced slowly up the room, deeply
conscious of the crumpled pinafore and the ink-spot.
"This is Pennie," said her mother, and Ethelwyn immediately held out her
hand, and said, "How do you do?" in rather a prim voice and without any
shyness at all.
"Now I shall give Ethelwyn into your care, Pennie," continued Mrs
Hawthorn. "You may take her into the garden and show her the pets, or
if she likes it better you may go upstairs and play with your dolls.
Make her as happy as you can, and I shall see you all again at
tea-time."
The two little girls left the room together, and Pennie led the way
silently to the garden, giving furtive glances now and then at her
visitor. She felt sure that Ethelwyn would be surprised and pleased,
because mother had said that in London people seldom had gardens; but
her companion made no remark at all, and Pennie put the question which
had been a good deal on her mind:
"What do you like to be called?"
"My name's Ethelwyn," said the little girl.
"Yes, I know," said Pennie. "Mother told us. But I mean, what are you
called for short?"
"I'm _always_ called Ethelwyn. Father and mother don't approve of names
being shortened."
"Oh!" said Pennie deeply impressed. Then feeling it necessary to assert
herself, she added: "_My_ name's Penelope Mary Hawthorn; but I'm always
called Pennie, and sometimes the children call me Pen."
Ethelwyn made no answer; she was attentively observing Pennie's blue
serge frock, and presently asked:
"What's your best dress?"
"It's the same as this," said Pennie, looking down at it meekly, "only
newer."
"Mine's velveteen," said Ethelwyn, "the new shade, you know--a sort of
mouse colour. Nurse says I look like a picture in it. Do you always
wear pinafores?"
Before Pennie had time to answer they had arrived at the Wilderness, and
were now joined by Nancy and the two boys, who came shyly forward to
shake hands.
"These are our gardens," said Pennie, doing the honours of the
Wilderness; "that's mine, and that's Dickie's, and the well belongs to
the others. They dug it themselves."
Ethelwyn looked round, with her little pointed nose held rather high in
the air:
"Why don't you keep it neater?" she said. "What an untidy place!"
It was a blow to Pennie to hear this, but the truth of it struck her
forcibly, and she now saw for the first time that to a stranger the
Wilderness might not be very attractive. There were, of course, no
flowers now, and Dickie had tumbled a barrowful of leaves on to the
middle of Pennie's border, which was further adorned by a heap of oyster
shells, with which David intended some day to build a grotto. It looked
more like a rubbish heap than a garden, and the close neighbourhood of
the well did not improve it. There was only one cheerful object in the
Wilderness just now, and that was a little monthly rose-bush in Dickie's
plot of ground, which, in spite of most unfavourable circumstances, bore
two bright pink blossoms.
After glancing scornfully round, Ethelwyn stooped and stretched out her
hand to pick the roses; but Pennie caught hold of her dress in alarm.
"Oh, you mustn't," she cried; "they're Dickie's."
Ethelwyn looked up astonished.
"Who's Dickie?" she said; "what does he want them for?"
"It isn't `he,' it's `she,'" said Nancy; "she's the youngest but one,
and she's saving them for mother's birthday."
"Wouldn't it be a joke," said Ethelwyn laughing, "to pick them? She'd
never know where they'd gone."
Pennie could not see anything funny in this idea at all, but she
remembered what Mrs Hawthorn had said about making their guest happy in
her own way, and she felt obliged to answer:
"If you want to do it _very_ much you may."
She was sorry to see that Ethelwyn immediately pulled both the little
roses off the tree, but tried to excuse her in her own mind. She did
not understand, perhaps, how much Dickie wanted them. Such a pretty
graceful creature as Ethelwyn _could_ not do anything purposely unkind.
Nancy, however, not the least dazzled by Ethelwyn's appearance, was
boiling with anger.
"I call that--" she began; but Pennie nudged her violently and
whispered: "She's a visitor," and the outspoken opinion was checked.
David, too, turned the general attention another way just then; he came
gravely up to Ethelwyn and inquired:
"Do you like animals?"
"Animals?" said Ethelwyn; "oh, you mean pets. Yes, I like them
sometimes."
"Then I'll show you my pig," said David.
"A pig!" exclaimed Ethelwyn in rather a squeaky voice of surprise; "what
a nasty, dirty thing to have for a pet! Don't you mean _pug_?"
"No, I don't," said David; "I mean pig."
"But it's not a common sort of pig at all," put in Pennie hastily, for
she saw her brother's face getting crimson with anger, "and it's
beautifully clean and clever. It shakes hands."
"We've got lots of animals," added Ambrose, "only you must come round to
the barn to see them."
"Well," said Ethelwyn as the children all moved away, David rather
sulkily, with hands in his pockets, "I _never_ heard of a pig as a pet.
I don't believe it's a proper sort of pet at all. Now, _I've_ got a
little tiny toy terrier at home, and he has a collar with silver bells.
I _had_ a canary, but Nurse left its cage on the window-ledge in a high
wind, and it blew right down on the pavement from the very tip-top of
the house, so it died."
"Oh," cried Nancy, horror-stricken, "how dreadful! Weren't you sorry?"
"Not very," said Ethelwyn coolly. "You see I'd had it a long time, and
I was rather tired of it, and I often forgot to feed it."
The animals were now visited, and introduced by their respective owners,
but without exciting much interest in Ethelwyn, for whatever she saw it
always appeared that she had something far better at home. Even
Antony's lively talents failed to move her, and, though she _could_ not
say she had a nicer pig herself, she observed calmly:
"Ah, you should see the animals in the Zoological Gardens!"
And to this there was no reply.
Then she was taken to swing in the barn, and this proved a more
successful entertainment, for as long as the children would swing her
Ethelwyn was content to be swung. When, however, Nancy boldly remarked:
"It's someone else's turn now," she was not quite so pleased, and soon
said in a discontented voice:
"I'm tired of this. Let's go indoors and see your playthings."
Here it was the same thing over again, for she found something slighting
to say even of the Lady Dulcibella, who was sitting prepared to receive
visitors in her best pink frock.
"Can she talk?" asked Ethelwyn. "_My_ last new doll says `papa,'
`mama.'"
Then her eye fell on the luckless Jemima, who, in her usual mean attire,
was sitting in the background with her head drooping helplessly, for it
had been loosened by constant execution.
"Oh," cried Ethelwyn, pouncing upon her with more animation than she had
yet shown, "here's a fright!"
She held the doll up by its frock, so that its legs and one remaining
arm dangled miserably in the air.
"It's only Jemima," said Pennie. She was vexed that Ethelwyn had seen
her at all, and there was something painful in having her held up to the
general scorn.
Ethelwyn began to giggle.
"Why do you keep a guy like that?" she said. "Why don't you burn it?"
"Well, so we do," replied Nancy, "very often. We burnt her only last
week."
"She was Joan of Arc," explained Pennie. "Only make-believe, you know.
Not real flames."
Ethelwyn stared. "What odd games you play!" she said. "I never heard
of them. But I know one thing: if she were mine I'd soon put her into
real flames."