Penelope and the Others - Amy Walton (best book club books .txt) 📗

/> Finding two gypsy boys about to hang a black kitten, they had offered them sixpence to let it go, at which they had only laughed. The price had then risen to two shillings besides all the marbles Ambrose had in his pocket, and this being paid David had seized the kitten, and here it was.

"And so," said Pennie, "you've both spent every bit of your money."

"We couldn't let them hang the kitten, you see," remarked Ambrose.

At another time Pennie would have been the first to agree to this, and to feel interested in the rescue of the kitten; but now she was so full of her own good deed, that she only said coldly:

"It wasn't worth nearly all that. Why, you can get a kitten for nothing--anywhere."

David, still grasping his treasure, stared at her solemnly, for this speech was strangely unlike Pennie.

"What did you buy?" he asked.

The moment had come. Pennie looked round her with conscious virtue as she replied, "I saw a book I wanted very much, quite as much as you wanted the kitten, but I saved all my money for the mandarin."

"How stupid!" said Ambrose.

"It's much better to save someone's life than to buy a mandarin," said David.

Pennie felt hurt and disappointed; the reward of virtue was not supporting under these circumstances. She wanted a word of praise or admiration. If someone had only said, "That _was_ good of you," she would have been satisfied; but no one seemed even surprised at what she had done. And yet how much she would have liked to buy Siegfried! The boys had the kitten; Nancy had her cocoa-nut, even Dickie was clasping a rabbit on a green stand, and a gingerbread man. Pennie alone had brought nothing home from the fair; she was very sorry for herself.

A sudden outburst from Dickie roused her, as she sat sad and silent in the midst of chatter and laughter. No one could make out at first what was the matter, and Dickie could not tell them: she only kicked out her fat little legs and sobbed more convulsively at every fresh attempt to comfort her. But at last she managed to make them understand that her gingerbread man was spoilt; she had eaten his head, and he would never, never be whole again. This was followed by a torrent of tears, for Dickie never did anything by halves, and when she cried she put her whole heart into it.

"Bless the child, she'll make herself ill," said Nurse, taking her upon her knee. "Now, Dickie, my dear, don't give way. You know you can stop if you like. Look at your pretty rabbit!"

Dickie dealt the offered rabbit a blow on the nose with her doubled fist.

She did not want the rabbit, she sobbed out, but she thought she could stop if she had the black kitten to hold. To this David had a decided objection. It was his kitten, and if Dickie had it she would let it go. Fresh screams from Dickie.

"Lor, Master David," said Nurse in despair, "let her have it, do. I'll take care it don't get away."

Peace was somewhat restored after Dickie had been allowed to stroke the kitten on Nurse's lap; but it was not a cheerful carriageful that arrived shortly afterwards at the Vicarage, every one seemed to have something to grumble at and be injured about.

"I'm thankful to be home," said Nurse to Jane as they went upstairs. "I'd rather anyday have a week's work than an afternoon's pleasure."

As for Pennie, she dropped her money into the china-house, and went to bed that night with the feelings of a martyr. She would not give up her plan, but she was now beginning to see that it was a failure. No one showed any real interest in it--no one except herself was willing to sacrifice anything in the cause. It was certainly lonely and uncomfortable to stand so high above other people.


CHAPTER FOUR.

"KETTLES."

Pennie was haunted for days after the fair by the bright pages of "_Siegfried the Dragon Slayer_," for she became more and more conscious that she had made a useless sacrifice. She might just as well have bought it, she sadly reflected; none of the others seemed the least likely to help her in her plan, and certainly she could not carry it out alone. The more she thought of it the more injured and disappointed she felt. It was certainly a good plan, and it was certainly right to sacrifice one's self; of those two things she was sure, and it both hurt and surprised her to be unable to impress this on her brothers and sisters. Pennie was used to command, and accustomed to success in most of her little schemes, and it seemed hard to be deserted in this way. She stood on a lonely height of virtue, conscious of setting a good example of generosity; but it was not a cheerful position, and, besides, no one seemed to notice it, which was vexatious and trying. This made her by turns condescending and cross, so that she was neither so happy herself nor so pleasant a companion as she had been.

"I can't think why you're so disagreeable," said Nancy at last. "If it's because you've put all your money into the box, I wish you'd take it out again and be as you were before."

"You don't understand," said Pennie, "you never give up anything."

"Yes, I do," replied Nancy quickly, "I've given up three weeks' money for that broken window."

"That wasn't sacrifice," answered Pennie; "you _had_ to do that. Sacrifice means giving up something you like for the sake of other people."

"Well, if it makes you cross and tiresome I wish you wouldn't sacrifice things," replied Nancy; "I don't see the good of it. Do you know," she added, seizing hold of David's black kitten, "that mother says we may go and see old Nurse?"

Pennie's brow cleared at once, the peevish look left her face.

"Oh, when?" she exclaimed joyfully.

"This afternoon," said Nancy. "Mother's going to drive into Nearminster, and leave us at the College while she goes to see Miss Unity. Isn't it jolly?"

"I suppose we shall have tea with Nurse," said Pennie; "but," she added, "I hope Dickie isn't to go this time. She does spoil everything so."

"Only you and me," said Nancy, rolling the kitten tightly up in a newspaper so that only its head appeared. "Doesn't it look like a mummy cat? There's one just like it at Nearminster. It would do for the boys' museum."

"It wouldn't stay there long," said Pennie, as the kitten writhed and wriggled itself out of the paper. "I am real glad we're going to see old Nurse."

"Do you like going in winter or summer best?" asked Nancy.

"Oh, I don't know!" said Pennie. "I like both. But I think perhaps it looks nicer in summer, because you see the flowers are in bloom and the old people are sitting on the benches, and all that."

"I like winter best," said Nancy, "because of making the toast."

All the year round a visit to old Nurse was one of the children's greatest pleasures, but it was specially so to Pennie. She now felt quite cheerful and happy in the prospect, not only because she was very fond of her, but because she lived in such an extremely delightful and interesting place. For Mrs Margetts, who had been Mrs Hawthorne's nurse when she was a child, had now left service for many years and taken up her abode in the almshouse at Nearminster, or The College as it was called. Next to the cathedral Pennie thought it the nicest place she had ever seen, and there was something most attractive to her in its low-arched massive doors, its lattice windows with their small leaded panes, and its little old chapel where the pensioners had a service and a chaplain all to themselves.

The College was built in the form of a quadrangle, one side of which faced the High Street, so that though they were snugly sheltered within from noise and turmoil, the inmates could still look out upon the busy life they had quitted. As you passed the entrance you caught glimpses of bright green turf, of trim borders of flowers, of neat gravel paths and quaint old figures standing about, or sitting on stone benches against the walls. Over it all rested the air of peace and stillness. It was a place where neither hope nor fear, labour nor struggle could come. These were left outside in the troublesome world, and all who entered here had nothing more to do with them. They might sit in the sun with folded hands, talk over their past hardships, grumble a little at their present aches and pains, gossip a great deal, and so get gently nearer and nearer to the deepest rest of all. The bishop, who had founded the College long ago, still stood carved in stone over the doorway, crozier in hand, watching the many generations of weary old souls who crept in at his gate for refuge. Pennie thought he had an expression of calm severity, as if he knew how ungrateful many of them were for his bounty, how they grumbled at the smallness of the rooms, the darkness of the windows, and the few conveniences for cooking. It must be hard for him to hear all those murmurs after he had done so much for them; but he had at any rate no want of gratitude to complain of in old Nurse, who was as proud of her two tiny rooms as though they had been a palace.

Mrs Margetts was in all matters disposed to think herself one of the most fortunate people upon earth. For instance, to be settled so near her dear "Miss Mary," as she still called Mrs Hawthorne, and to have the pleasure of visits from the little "ladies and gentlemen," was enough to fill anyone's heart with thankfulness. What could she want more? She was indeed highly favoured beyond all desert. Other people may have thought that a life of faithful service and unselfish devotion to the interests of her employers had well earned the reward of a few quiet years at its end. But old Nurse did not look upon her good fortune as due to any merits of her own, but to the extraordinary kindness and generosity of others, so that she was in a constant state of surprise at their thoughtfulness and affection.

Not less did she cherish and respect the memory of the days which came before Mrs Hawthorne's marriage, and this was what the children liked best to hear. Stories of Miss Mary, Master Charles, Miss Prissy, and the rest, who were now all grown-up people, never became wearisome, and certainly Nurse was never tired of telling them. Her listeners knew them almost by heart, and if by any chance she missed some small detail, it was at once demanded with a sense of injury.

Pennie, in particular, drank in her words eagerly, and would sit entranced gazing with an ever-new interest at the relics of the "family" with which the little room was filled. Hanging by the fireplace was a very