The Hawthorns - Amy Walton (e book reader .TXT) 📗

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."

The rest of the day went on in much the same way, and the children found 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.