it more and more difficult to amuse their guest. It was astonishing to
find how very soon she tired of any game. "What shall we do now?" was
her constant cry; and it grew so tiresome that Nancy and the boys at
last went off to play together, and left her entirely to Pennie. And
this arrangement grew to be a settled thing, for it really was almost
impossible to play the usual games with Ethelwyn; there was no sort of
check on her overbearing ways, because "she was a visitor," and must do
as she liked. Now, she was a very poor hand at "making up," and did not
understand "Shipwrecks" or "Desert Islands" in the least; but this would
not have mattered if she had been willing to learn. Joined, however, to
complete ignorance on those subjects, she had a large amount of conceit,
and seemed to think she could do everything better than anyone else.
For instance, if they were going to play "Shipwrecks"--"I'll be
captain," she would exclaim at once. This had always been Ambrose's
part, and he rather prided himself on his knowledge of nautical affairs,
gathered from a wide acquaintance with Captain Marryat's stories. He
gave it up politely to Ethelwyn, however, and the game began. But in
two minutes she would say: "I'm tired of being captain; I'd rather be
Indian savages." Indian savages was being performed with great spirit
by Nancy, but the change was made, and the game went on, until Ethelwyn
cast an envious eye upon Dickie, who, with a small pail and broom, was
earnestly scrubbing at the carpet, under the impression that she was a
cabin-boy washing the deck of a ship. "_I_ should like to be
cabin-boy," said Ethelwyn.
But here the limit of endurance was reached, for Dickie grasped her
little properties tightly and refused to give up office.
"_Me_ will be cabin-boy," was all she said when Pennie tried to persuade
her.
"You see she's so little," said the latter apologetically to Ethelwyn,
"there's no other part she _can_ take, and she likes the pail and broom
so."
"Oh, very well," said the latter carelessly, "then I don't care to play
any more. It's a very stupid game, and only fit for boys."
Things did not go on pleasantly at Easney just now, and the longer
Ethelwyn stayed the more frequent became the quarrels; she had certainly
brought strife and confusion with her, and by degrees there came to be a
sort of division amongst the children. Pennie and Ethelwyn walked
apart, and looked on with dignified superiority, while the others played
the old games with rather more noise than usual. Pennie tried to think
she liked this, but sometimes she would look wistfully after her merry
brothers and sisters and feel half inclined to join them; the next
minute, however, when Ethelwyn tossed her head and said, "How vulgar!"
she was quite ashamed of her wish.
She wondered now how it was that she had been able to play with the boys
so long without disagreement before Ethelwyn came. Of course these
quarrels were all their fault, for in Pennie's eyes Ethelwyn could do no
wrong; if sometimes it was impossible to help seeing that she was greedy
and selfish, and even told fibs, Pennie excused it in her own mind--
indeed, these faults did not seem to her half so bad in Ethelwyn as in
other people, and by degrees she thought much more lightly of them than
she had ever done before.
For Ethelwyn had gained a most complete influence over her, partly by
her beauty, and partly by her coaxing, flattering ways. It was all so
new to Pennie; and, though she was really a sensible little girl, she
loved praise and caresses overmuch; like many wiser people, she could
not judge anyone harshly who seemed to admire her.
So she was Ethelwyn's closest companion in those days, and even began to
imitate what she considered her elegant manners. She spoke mincingly,
and took short little stiff steps in walking, and bent her head
gracefully when she said, "Yes, please," or "No, thank you." The new
plush bonnet was a misery to her, and she sighed to be beautifully
dressed.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
THE CHINESE MANDARIN.
This uncomfortable state of things had been going on for nearly a
fortnight, and Ethelwyn's visit was drawing to a close, when one morning
there came a letter from Miss Unity. It contained an invitation to
Pennie to stay three days at Nearminster, and ended with these words:
"If my god-daughter has her little friend still with her, I shall be
glad to see her also, if she would like to come."
Now it happened that this suggestion of Miss Unity's came at a
wonderfully convenient moment; for it had been arranged already that
Ethelwyn's governess should meet her at the Nearminster station in three
days' time, and take her back to London. She would now go from Miss
Unity's house instead of from Easney, and Mrs Hawthorn was not at all
sorry to think that the children would be separated a little earlier
than was first intended.
So, with many cautions not to be troublesome, not to talk in bed, and
not to touch the china, she told the little girls that they were to go
to Nearminster. The news quickly spread through the family, and caused
a deep but secret joy to the other children, for they were very tired of
Ethelwyn; nevertheless they restrained any expression of their pleasure
until the day of departure, when they gathered at the white gate to see
the wagonette pass. The little girls were feeling even more dignified
and grown-up than usual, for it was a great event to drive over to
Nearminster quite alone; therefore it was all the more trying to be
greeted by a derisive song:
"Hurray, hurray, hurray!
Ethelwyn is gone away!"
screamed the shrill voices, even Dickie doing her best to swell the
chorus. It was so loud that it sounded a long way up the road; and
Ethelwyn's favourite remark, "How very vulgar!" did not disguise it in
the least.
The first day at Nearminster was fine and bright, and the children found
plenty to entertain them. It was all new to Ethelwyn; and to Pennie,
although she knew them so well, every object had an ever fresh interest.
They went into the market with Miss Unity in the morning, and watched
her buy a chicken, fresh eggs, and a cauliflower, which she carried home
herself in a brown basket. Then in the afternoon Bridget was allowed to
take the children into the town that they might see the shops, and that
Pennie might spend her money. For she had brought with her the contents
of her money-box, which amounted to fivepence-halfpenny, and intended to
lay out this large sum in presents for everyone at home. It was an
anxious as well as a difficult matter to do this to the best advantage,
and she spent much time in gazing into shop-windows, her brow puckered
with care and her purse clutched tightly in her hand. Ethelwyn's
advice, which might have been useful under these circumstances, was
quite the reverse; for the suggestions she made were absurdly above
Pennie's means, and only confusing to the mind.
"I should buy that," she would say, pointing to something which was
worth at least a shilling.
Pennie soon left off listening to her, and bent her undivided attention
to the matter--how to buy seven presents with five pence halfpenny? It
might have puzzled a wiser head than Pennie's; but at last, by dint of
much calculation on the fingers, she arrived with a mind at rest at the
following results:-- An india-rubber ball for the baby, a lead pencil
for father, a packet of pins for mother, a ball of twine for Ambrose, a
paint-brush for Nancy, a pen-holder for David, and a tiny china dog for
Dickie.
Ethelwyn was very impatient long before the shopping was done.
"Oh, spend the rest in sweets," she said over and over again in the
midst of Pennie's difficulties.
But Pennie only shook her head, and would not even look at chocolate
creams or sugar-candy until she had done her business satisfactorily.
In the evening she amused herself by packing and unpacking the presents,
and printing the name of each person on the parcels, while Miss Unity
read aloud. It was not a very amusing book, and Ethelwyn, who had spent
all her money on sweets and eaten more of them than was good for her,
felt cross and rather sick and discontented. She yawned and fidgeted,
and frowned as openly as she dared, for she was afraid of Miss Unity;
and when at last bed-time came, and the little girls were alone, she
expressed her displeasure freely.
"I can't bear stopping here," she said. "It's a dull, ugly old place, I
think I wish I was back in London."
"Well, so you will be the day after to-morrow," replied Pennie shortly.
She did not like even Ethelwyn to abuse Nearminster, and she was
beginning to be just a little tired of hearing so much about London.
Unfortunately for Ethelwyn's temper the next day was decidedly wet--so
wet that even Miss Unity could not get out into the market, and settled
herself with a basket of wools for a morning's work. Through the
streaming window-panes the grass in the Close looked very green and the
Cathedral very grey; the starlings were industriously pecking at the
slugs, and the jackdaws chattered and darted about the tower as usual,
but there was not one other living thing to be seen. "Dull, horribly
dull!" Ethelwyn thought as she knelt up in the window-seat and pressed
her nose against the glass. It was just as bad inside the room; there
was Miss Unity's stiff upright figure, there was her needle going in and
out of her canvas, there was the red rose gradually unfolding with every
stitch. There was Pennie, bent nearly double over a fairy book, with
her elbows on her knees and a frown of interest on her brow. There was
nothing to see, nothing to do, no one to talk to. Ethelwyn gaped
wearily.
Then her idle glance fell on the clock. Would it _always_ be twelve
o'clock that morning? And from that it passed to the Chinese mandarin,
which stood close to it. He was a little fellow, with a shining bald
head and a small patch of hair on each side of it; his face, which was
broad, had no features to speak of, and yet bore an expression of feeble
good-nature. Ethelwyn knew that the merest touch would set his head
nodding in a helpless manner, and she suddenly felt a great longing to
do it. But that was strictly forbidden; no one must touch the mandarin
except Miss Unity; and, though she was generally quite willing to make
him perform, Ethelwyn did not feel inclined to ask her. She wanted to
do it herself. "If she would only go out of the room," thought the
child, "I'd make him wag his head in a minute, whatever Pennie said."
Curiously enough Bridget appeared at the door just then with a message.
"If you please, ma'am," she said, "could Cook speak to you in the
kitchen about the preserving?"
Now was Ethelwyn's opportunity, and she lost no time. She went quickly
up to the mantel-piece directly Miss Unity closed the door, and touched
the mandarin gently on the head.
"Look, Pennie! look!" she cried.
Pennie raised her face from her book with an absent expression, which
soon changed to horror as she saw the mandarin wagging his head with
foolish solemnity. Ethelwyn stood by delighted.
"I'll make him go faster," she said, and raised herself on tiptoe, for
the mantel-piece was high.
"Don't! don't!" called out Pennie in an agony of alarm; but it was too
late. Growing bolder, Ethelwyn gave the mandarin such a sharp tap at
the back of his head that he lost his balance and toppled down on the
hearth with a horrible crash.
There he lay, his poor foolish head rolling about on the carpet, and his
body some distance off. Hopelessly broken, a ruined mandarin, he would
never nod any more!
For a minute the little girls gazed speechlessly at the wreck; there was
silence in the room, except for the steady tick-tack of the clock. Then
Ethelwyn turned a terrified face towards her friend.
"Oh, Pennie!" she cried, "what _shall_ I do?" for she was really afraid
of Miss Unity.
Pennie rose, picked up the mandarin's head, and looked at it
sorrowfully.
"Mother _told_ us not to touch the china," she said.
"But can't we do anything?" exclaimed Ethelwyn wildly; "couldn't we
stick it on? He's not broken anywhere else. See, Pennie!"
She put the mandarin on the mantel-piece and carefully balanced the
broken head on his shoulders.
"He looks as well as ever," she said; "no one would guess he was
broken."
"But he _is_," replied Pennie; "and even if he _can_ be mended I don't
suppose he'll ever nod like he used to."
"Are you going to _tell_ her we broke him?" asked Ethelwyn after a short
pause.
Pennie stared.
"_We_ didn't break him," she said; "it was you, and _of course_ you'll
tell her."
"That I sha'n't," said Ethelwyn sulkily; "and if you do, you'll be a
sneak."
"But you'll _have_ to say," continued Pennie, "because directly he's
touched his head will come off, and then Miss Unity will ask us."
"Well, I shall wait till she finds out," said Ethelwyn, "and if you tell
her before I'll never never speak to you again, and I won't have you for
my friend any longer."
"I'm not going to tell," said Pennie, drawing herself up proudly,
"unless she asks me straight out. But I _know_ you ought to."
As she spoke a step sounded in the passage, and with one bound Ethelwyn
regained her old place in the window-seat and turned her head away.
Pennie remained standing by the fire, with a startled guilty look and a
little perplexed frown on her brow.
Miss Unity's glance fell on her directly she entered; but her mind was
occupied with the cares of preserving, and though she saw that the child
looked troubled she said nothing at first.
"If Ethelwyn would _only_ tell," thought Pennie, and there was such
yearning anxiety in her face as she watched Miss Unity's movements that
presently the old lady observed it, and looked curiously at her through
her spectacles.
"Do you want anything, Penelope?" she asked, and as she spoke she
stretched out her hand to the mantel-piece, for the mandarin was a
trifle out of his usual place. She moved him gently a little nearer the
clock; Pennie's expression changed to one of positive agony, and the
mandarin's head fell immediately with a sharp "click" on to the marble!
Clasping her hands, Pennie turned involuntarily towards Ethelwyn. Now
she _must_ speak. But Ethelwyn was quite silent, and did not even turn
her head. It was Miss Unity's voice which broke the stillness.
"Child," she said, "you have acted deceitfully."
She fixed her eyes on Pennie, who flushed hotly, and certainly looked
the very picture of guilt.
_Of course_ Ethelwyn would speak now. But there was no sound from the
window-seat.
Pennie twisted her fingers nervously together, her chest heaved, and
something within her said over and over again: "I didn't do it--I didn't
do it." She had quite a struggle to prevent the little voice from
making itself heard, and her throat ached with the effort; but she kept
it down and stood before Miss Unity in perfect silence.
The latter had taken the broken head in her hand, and was looking at it
sorrowfully.
"I valued this image, Penelope," she went on, "and I grieve to have it
destroyed. But I grieve far more to think you should have tried to
deceive me. Perhaps I can mend the mandarin, but I can't ever forget
that you have been dishonest--nothing can mend that. I shall think of
it whenever I see the image, and it will make me sad."
The little voice struggled and fought in Pennie's breast to make itself
heard: "I didn't do it, I didn't do it," it cried out wildly. With a
resolute gulp she kept it down, but the effort was almost too great, and
Miss Unity's grave face was too much to bear. She burst into tears and
ran out of the room. Then hurrying upstairs she plunged her head into
the side of the big bed where she and Ethelwyn slept together, and cried
bitterly. Unjustly accused, disappointed, betrayed by her best friend--
the world was a miserable place, Pennie thought, and happiness
impossible ever again. There was no one to take her part--Ethelwyn was
deceitful and unkind; and as she remembered how she had loved and
worshipped her, the tears flowed faster. How could she, _could_ she
have done it? Then looking back, she saw how wilfully she had shut her
eyes to Ethelwyn's faults, plain enough to everyone else. That was all
over now: she had broken something beside the mandarin that day, and
that was Pennie's belief in her. It was quite gone; she could never
love her the least little bit again, beautiful and coaxing as she might
be; like the mandarin, she had fallen all the lower because she had once
stood so high.
Then Pennie's thoughts turned longingly towards home. Home, where they
were all fond of her, and knew she was not a deceitful little girl. She
was very sorry now to remember how she had neglected her brothers and
sisters lately for her fine new friend, and how proud and superior she
had felt.
"Oh," she cried to herself in a fervour of repentance, "I never, never
will care so much about `outsides' again! Insides matter much the
most."
The next day passed sorrowfully for Pennie, who felt a heavy cloud of
undeserved disgrace resting upon her. Whenever she saw Miss Unity
glance at the empty space on the mantel-piece, she felt as guilty as
though she really had broken the mandarin, and longed for an opportunity
of justifying herself. But there was no chance of that; the day went on
and Miss Unity asked no questions, and behaved just as usual to the
little girls--only she looked rather sad and stern.
As for Ethelwyn, when she was once quite sure that Pennie would not
"tell," her spirits rose, and she was lavish of her thanks and caresses.
She pressed gifts upon her, and kisses, and was anxious to sit quite
close to her and hold her hand; but Pennie was proof against all this
now. It had no effect upon her at all, and she even looked forward with
a feeling of positive relief to the next day, when she would say
good-bye to the once-adored Ethelwyn.
And the time came at last; smiling, nodding, and tossing her yellow
hair, Ethelwyn got into the train which was to take her away from
Nearminster, and Pennie stood at Miss Unity's side on the platform,
gazing seriously after her from the depths of the plush bonnet. In her
hand she held almost unconsciously a large packet of sweets which
Ethelwyn had thrust into it just before entering the carriage; but there
was no smile on her face, and when the train had rolled out of sight,
she offered the packet to Miss Unity:
"Please, take these," she said; "I don't want them."
That same afternoon Mrs Hawthorn and Nancy were to drive in from Easney
and fetch Pennie home, and she stationed herself at the window a good
hour before they could possibly arrive, ready to catch the first glimpse
of Ruby's white nose. When, at length, after many disappointments,
caused by other horses with white noses, the wagonette really appeared,
she could hardly contain herself for joy, and was obliged to hop about
excitedly. She was so glad to see them. There was mother, and there
was Nancy, dear old Nancy, in the black plush bonnet, which was now a
far more pleasant object to Pennie than the smart blue one she had
lately envied. Now the carriage was stopping, and Nancy was lowering
one stout determined leg to the step, clutching mother's umbrella and a
doll in her arms. Pennie stayed no longer, but rushed down-stairs into
the hall and opened the door. It might have been a separation of years,
instead of three days, from the warmth of her welcome, and Nancy said
presently with her usual blunt directness:
"What makes you so glad to see us?"
Pennie could not explain why it was, but she felt as if she had never
really been at home during Ethelwyn's visit to Easney, and was now going
back again--the real old Pennie once more. So she only hugged her
sister for reply, and both the little girls went and sat in the
window-seat together, while their mother and Miss Unity were talking.
But soon Nancy's observant glance, roving round the room, fell on the
empty space beside the clock.
"Why!" she said in a loud voice of surprise, "where's the mandarin?"
For she was very fond of the funny little image, and always expected to
see him wag his head when she went to Nearminster.
Everyone heard the question, and for a minute no one answered. Then
Miss Unity said gravely:
"There has been an accident, Nancy. The mandarin is broken. I fear you
will never see him nod his head again."
"Oh, what a pity!" exclaimed Nancy. "Who did it?" Then turning to her
sister with an alarmed face, "Was it you?"
"I _hope_ not," said Mrs Hawthorn, leaning forward and looking
earnestly at Pennie.
In fact everyone was looking at her just then--Miss Unity with sorrow,
Mrs Hawthorn with anxiety, and Nancy with fear. How delightful it was
to be able at last to stand straight up, and answer triumphantly with a
clear conscience, "No!"
At that little word everyone looked relieved except Miss Unity, and her
face was graver than before as she said:
"Then, Pennie, why didn't you say so?"
"You never asked me," said Pennie proudly.
Miss Unity's frown relaxed a little; she bethought herself that she
really never had asked the child; she had taken it for granted, judging
only by guilty looks.
"If it was not you, Pennie," she said gently, "who was it?"
"I can't tell that," said Pennie, "only _I_ didn't."
"Then," exclaimed Nancy eagerly, "I expect it was that mean Ethelwyn."
Miss Unity took off her spectacles and rubbed them nervously; then she
went up to Pennie and kissed her.
"I am sorry I called you deceitful, Pennie," she said, "but I am very
glad to find I was wrong. When I look at the mandarin now, I shall not
so much mind his being broken, because he will remind me that you are a
good and honourable child."
Now the cloud was gone which had made Pennie's sky so dark, and all was
bright again; the drive back to Easney, which she always enjoyed, was on
this occasion simply delightful. Though the afternoon was dull and
foggy, and there was a little drizzling rain, everything looked pleasant
and gay from under the big umbrella which she and Nancy shared together;
the old woman at the halfway cottage smiled and nodded as they passed,
as though she knew that Pennie felt specially happy, and when they got
to the white gate, there were Ambrose and David waving their caps and
shouting welcome. How delightful to be at home again--without Ethelwyn!
Pennie rushed about, hugging everybody and everything she happened to
meet, animals and human beings alike, till she became quite tiresome in
her excess of joy.
"There, there, Miss Pennie, that'll do. Leave the child alone now,
you'll make her quite fractious," said Nurse, rescuing Cicely from a
too-energetic embrace. Pennie looked round for something fresh to
caress, and her eye fell on the Lady Dulcibella sitting in her arm-chair
by the dolls' house. There was a satisfied simper on her pink face, as
though she waited for admiration; she held her little nose high in the
air, and one could almost hear her say, "How very vulgar!" Pennie
turned from her with a shudder, and picked up Jemima, who was lying on
the floor flat on her face.
"Why, Pennie," exclaimed Nancy, opening her eyes very wide, "you're
_kissing Jemima_!"
"Well," replied Pennie, giving the battered cheek another hearty kiss,
"I feel fond of her. She's the oldest of all, and very useful I think
she ought to be kissed sometimes."
CHAPTER EIGHT.
HOW DICKIE WENT TO THE CIRCUS.
"Has you ever seen a circus, Andoo?"
"Aye, missie."
"When has you seen it?"
"Years ago, little missie--years ago. When I was a fool."
"Is you fool now, Andoo?"
"Maybe, missie, maybe," (with a grim smile); "but I surely was then."
Dickie dismissed the subject for the moment, and turned her attention to
the little green barrow full of sticks which she had just wheeled into
the potting shed. There was a pleasant mingled scent of apples, earth,
and withered leaves there; from the low rafters hung strings of onions,
pieces of bass, and bunches of herbs, and in one corner there was a
broken-backed chair, and Andrew's dinner upon it tied up in a blue
checked handkerchief. Bending over his pots and mould by the window in
his tall black hat, and looking as brown and dried-up as everything
round him, was Andrew himself, and Dickie stood opposite, warmly muffled
up, but with a pink tinge on her small round nose from the frosty air.
She was always on good terms with Andrew, and could make him talk
sometimes when he was silent for everyone else; so, although she very
seldom understood his answers, they held frequent conversations, which
seemed quite satisfactory on both sides.
Her questions to-day about the circus had been called forth by the fact
that she had seen, when out walking with Nurse, a strange round white
house in a field near the village. On asking what it was, she had been
told that it was a tent. What for? A circus. And what was a circus?
A place where horses went round and round. What for? Little girls
should not ask so many questions. Dickie felt this to be
unsatisfactory, and she accordingly made further inquiries on the first
opportunity.