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

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.

She laid her dry sticks neatly in the corner, and grasping the handles of her barrow, stood facing Andrew silently, who did not raise his grave long face from his work; he did not look encouraging, but she was quite used to that.

"Did 'oo like it, Andoo?" she inquired presently with her head on one side.

"Well, you see, missie," replied Andrew, "I lost the best thing I had there, through being a fool."

"Tell Dickie all about it," said Dickie in a coaxing voice.

She turned her little barrow upside down as she spoke, sat down upon it, and placed one mittened hand on each knee.

"Dickie kite yeddy. Begin," she said in a cheerful and determined manner.

Andrew took off his hat, and feebly scratched his head; he looked appealingly at the little figure on the barrow as though he would gladly have been excused the task, but though placid, the round face was calmly expectant.

"I dunno as I can call it to mind," he said apologetically; "you see, missie, it wur a powerful time ago. A matter of twenty years, it wur. It was when I lost my little gal."

"Where is 'oor 'ittle gal?" asked Dickie.

"Blessed if I know," said Andrew, shaking his head mournfully; "but wherever she be, she ain't not to call a _little_ gal now, missie. She wur jest five years old when I lost her, an' it's twenty years ago. That'll make her a young woman of twenty-five, yer see, missie, by this time."

"Why did 'oo lose 'oor 'ittle gal?" pursued Dickie, avoiding the question of age.

"Because I wur a fool," replied Andrew frowning.

"Tell Dickie," repeated the child, to whom the "little gal" had now become more interesting than the circus; "tell Dickie