When Esther awoke the next morning, she wondered for a moment why she felt so happy and light-hearted. Then memory returned. She recollected the talk of last night, Cousin Charlotte's kiss, and the plan for Monday. She would begin to learn at last! But even greater was her joy at the other thought—her own plan to help Miss Charlotte. She could hardly lie still when she thought of all she meant to do. She would dust, and tidy and sweep, and sew, and polish the furniture, and she even pictured herself making bread and cleaning windows.
She longed to be dressed, and beginning already. She sat up in bed and looked across at Poppy. She wanted to tell her and the others all the news, but Poppy was sleeping in the most aggravatingly persistent way.
Too impatient to wait for her to wake, she slipped out of bed and crept along the corridor, past Miss Charlotte's room, to Penelope's.
Angela was asleep, but Penelope lay awake reading.
"What is that you are reading?" asked Esther, eyeing the red-covered book with a sort of feeling that it was familiar to her.
"Oh, it's onlyThe Invasion of the Crimea," said Penelope, withdrawing her eyes almost reluctantly from the page.
"I didn't know you were going on with it," said Esther, a touch of resentment in her voice. She did not like to feel that Penelope was more persevering than she herself, and had outstripped her. She was conscious in her inmost heart that she had not been sorry when the readings were broken off; the history did not interest her. At the same time it mortified her a little that it did interest Penelope.
"It's awfully exciting," said Penelope. "Of course I have to skip some, I can't understand it, but here and there it's lovely."
Esther's first fresh joyful feeling was a little dashed, but as it came back to her mind what it was that she wanted to say, she recovered herself. "In a few days I shall be learning properly," she thought, and then Penelope would not outstrip her.
"Listen to me," she said eagerly, as she perched herself on the foot of Penelope's bed. Angela stirred, and catching sight of Esther, was wide awake in a moment.
"What is it?" she demanded. "Has anything happened?"
"Listen," said Esther again, "both of you. I want to tell you about our schooling. Cousin Charlotte stopped me last night as I was going to bed, to have a talk; it was about our lessons. We are to begin on Monday."
"Where are we going?" asked Penelope. "There isn't any school here, is there?"
"No, Cousin Charlotte is going to teach us herself. Isn't it good of her?"
"I am sure I shall never learn. She will be shocked at me," said Angela nervously. "She doesn't know how backward I am. Fancy me, nine years old, and not able to read yet. I shall be ashamed to look, and there she will be all day long. I would rather go somewhere where I could get away when lessons are over."
"Don't be silly," said Esther. But Angela had only expressed something of her own feeling.
Penelope was sitting up in bed now, her eyes alight. "How jolly," she said, half absently. Then in low, eager tones, "I wonder if she will let us learn just what we want to? I don't want to learn grammar and sums. I want to know about people, and wars, and battles, and revolutions, and I want to learn French and music and to sing. When I grow up I should like to be able to sing and playverywell. I would rather do that than anything. I wonder if Cousin Charlotte would let me learn?"
Esther looked up in mild disapproval of Pen's enthusiasm. It worried her when her sisters showed any unusual traits, or expressed desires that differed from her own. Penelope very often worried her in that way. Poppy too, at times. She felt a twinge of jealousy always that the idea had not first come to her, and of resentment that they should have tastes apart from her.
"I don't suppose Cousin Charlotte would if she could," she said coldly. "Of course you must learn grammar, and history, and geography, and all those things first. Every one has to learn them."
Penelope looked disappointed, but she was not one to worry. "Perhaps before long I shall be able to do both," she said cheerfully. "I wish Cousin Charlotte had an organ. I do want to be able to play the organ."
Esther grew impatient; these things seemed so trifling and useless compared with what she had in her mind. "I think you ought to try and think how you can help Cousin Charlotte instead of giving her more to do."
"That's just it," persisted Penelope. "If I only knew how to play well, I could be an organist, and teach people, too, and earn quite a lot of money."
"Not for years and years," said Esther, in a very crushing manner. "And we ought to begin to help at once. I'll tell you what I am going to do—I thought of it last night when I was in bed; it is not nonsense, but something very sensible. I am going to ask Cousin Charlotte to let me help Anna; I can do a lot if I have some big aprons like Anna's, and big white sleeves to go over my frocks. I know Cousin Charlotte and Anna don't want to have a strange servant in; she would cost a lot, and Anna wouldn't like her in the kitchen—and I could save all that."
"And I could help too," cried Angela excitedly. She was a born housewife, and all her tastes lay in that direction. "I can dust, and clean silver, and all sorts of things—"
"I am going to do all that," said Esther loftily, resenting at once any encroachment on her domain. "You can keep Poppy out of mischief, and play with her. I can do the hard work, if you will only be good and keep out of harm."
Angela's face and spirits fell. She did so love to do real work, it was so much more interesting than play; and keeping out of harm was not a bit interesting—it was very dull and stupid, in fact. But Angela was used to disappointments; besides which experience had already taught her that if she waited patiently she could often find little things to do, little ways of helping, that others forgot, or did not care about, so she said no more, but waited. "When I am older, perhaps I'll be able to do the things I like," she very often said to herself, by way of encouragement.
Esther crept back to her room and to her bed, and lay there impatiently, waiting to be called. The minutes seemed endless, and Anna so slow in coming!
And when at last she was dressed and downstairs she had scarcely patience to endure prayers and breakfast, she was so longing to broach her great idea to Cousin Charlotte. But Cousin Charlotte seemed to be wanted by everybody. First Ephraim kept her ever so long talking over the day's work; then Anna came in with a question to be answered; then Cousin Charlotte began to talk to the others about the lessons which were to begin on Monday, and Penelope was telling her all about her longing to learn to play and sing, and Cousin Charlotte seemed so interested, she talked on and on for quite a long time about it; and all the while Esther was growing more and more vexed, until, when Cousin Charlotte at last sprang up, exclaiming, "My dear children, do you know how long we have been talking? I must hurry away this minute, or I shall be behindhand all day!" the limit of poor Esther's patience was passed.
Angela looked up eagerly. "Can't I do something to help you, Cousin Charlotte?" she asked eagerly; "I should love to."
Cousin Charlotte paused and looked down at the pretty, eager face thoughtfully. "I wonder if you could pick some strawberries for us. Would you like to?"
"Oh, yes!" cried Angela delightedly. "I should like to do anything to help." She did not mean to trespass on Esther's plan. This, she thought, was quite different work from what Esther was going to do. But her promptness added to Esther's vexation.
"Well, there are a great many ripe ones, and I want some for ourselves and some to give away; and Anna has no time this morning to pick them, and— well, my back is not young enough to enjoy such work."
"I will do it," said Angela, very pleased and proud.
"May I help, Cousin Charlotte?" pleaded Poppy. "I'd love to."
"Yes," said Cousin Charlotte, smiling. "Can you whistle? Strawberry-pickers must whistle all the time they are at work; you know that, don't you?"
Poppy looked up very gravely. "I can't whistle," she said regretfully, "but I can sing. Will that do, Cousin Charlotte?"
Miss Charlotte laughed and kissed her. "Yes, my pet, anything that will prevent too many strawberries finding their way down Red Lane."
The others laughed merrily. Poppy began to understand.
"Put on your shady hats, and I will get you some baskets." And off they ran in a high state of delight.
Esther waited. Though she had been full of excitement and pleasure about approaching Miss Charlotte, she had felt very nervous, too, and this long delay only increased her nervousness.
Anna came in to clear the table; Penelope strolled away, no one knew where. Esther stood by the window looking out and drumming impatiently on it with her fingers. Anna looked at her once or twice as though she would like to say something. No one cares to see a window covered with finger-marks. But she did not say anything; she was in a hurry, and presently retired to her kitchen, and Esther was left alone.
"I thought last night it would be quite easy to be good here," she said to herself, "but it doesn't seem so now." She stood and gazed out at the river disconsolately. It seemed to her that the others, who were not nearly as anxious to help as she was, were taking all her opportunities, and she was left, to seem idle and unkind—and really she meant so differently.
Poor Esther! Once more, while full of big aims, she was overlooking the little chances.
"Well," she said at last in a very proud tone, "if no one wants me I will go for a walk by myself. I shan't be in any one's way then!" She knew quite well she was in no one's way, but she was very aggrieved and full of self-pity.
She was just crossing the hall to put on her hat, when Miss Charlotte entered it. Then was her chance, and she knew it; but the old sullen temper had the upper hand, and forbade her to speak. By this time she had let herself feel as hurt as though Miss Charlotte had known what was in her mind and purposely ignored her.
She passed on, put on her hat, and went out. She would not go to the garden because she did not want to see the others happily at their work; so, when Miss Charlotte turned in to the kitchen, she slipped out at the front door and walked away quickly up the road towards the station. She would not go past the cottages, she wanted to avoid every one; for that reason she avoided that part of the moor behind the house, where Penelope would probably be, if she were not in the house or garden. A little way up the road, on the right-hand side, a bridge crossed the river. Esther went over it and found herself on the moor beyond, but she turned away from it lest she should be seen, and clambered down to the river's edge, where boughs and bushes shut her off from view. It was lonely there, and she wandered on and on, through sun and shadow, under low-hanging branches, by tiny beaches of clean river-sand, and all the way she went the river ran beside her singing a low, cheery song as it rippled over its uneven bed.
It could not be long before such loveliness must have a soothing effect on any troubled spirit. By degrees Esther's mood changed, her sense of wrong grew less, and presently she began to wish she had acted differently. If she only had, she might now have been busy and happy too. She began to feel ashamed of herself. How foolish she had been. She would go back again and see if she could not be more sensible, and she rose from her seat and turned her face homewards.
The house seemed deserted when at last she reached it. She went into the hall, looked in the dining-room and drawing-room, saw no one, and strolled out to the garden.
"Where can they all be?" she wondered, "and what can they be doing?"
From the kitchen came a great clatter of crockery. Anna was washing dishes, and by the noise one could gather that Anna's temper was not of the smoothest.
As Esther stepped out she saw Miss Charlotte coming towards her from the group of outbuildings, carrying a basket of eggs. She was looking grave and worried, and for a moment Esther felt she could not speak to her then; she must wait until she found her again in such a mood as last night's. But a second glance told her that Miss Charlotte looked tired, and without giving herself time to think, Esther stepped up to her.
"Cousin Charlotte," she said, "I have nothing to do; let me help you—may I?"
Cousin Charlotte's face brightened. "Oh, could you, dear? I am so busy I don't know what to do first. I wonder if you could wash those eggs for me, and write the date on them?"
Esther assented joyfully, and Miss Ashe led her to the pantry and showed her where to find a cloth and a pencil and a place to store the eggs.
"While you are doing that, I can make out my list to send to Gorley; that will be capital!"
"Cousin Charlotte," said Esther, in a voice that trembled a little with nervousness, "I—I wanted to speak to you. I—I—you said you were trying to get another servant." Miss Charlotte sighed. "I know you don't want to, and—and don't you think we could manage without one, if I—if I helped Anna?" Her voice was trembling, uncertain, but there was no mistaking the earnestness of her purpose. "I used to help a lot at home, and I should like to here. I can sweep, and dust, and make beds, and clean silver, and cook some things, and—oh, I can do lots of little useful things. I could keep our bedrooms dusted, and the drawing-room— and it would all help, wouldn't it?"
Miss Ashe, who had paused in what she was doing, listened attentively. "My dear," she said, as gravely as Esther herself, "it is very good and thoughtful of you to think of such a thing, and you can certainly be most useful in many ways, but I hardly know what to think about trying to do without an extra servant. I cannot let you work too hard; you will have your studies, you know, and we are rather a large family now. I cannot let you become a little slave with no time for enjoyment; at the same time, I must admit I really do not know how Anna and another maid would get on. Anna does not like the idea, and to prove that one is not necessary, she slaves and slaves to do everything herself, gets over-tired and worried, and—and—well, she is very difficult; her only fault is her temper, but thatisrather trying. I know she means well, and I keep on telling myself so. She gets so hurt and offended if I try to help her; she seems quite to resent it; and it requires a great deal of tact, more than I possess, I am afraid," concluded Miss Ashe with another deep sigh.
"Perhaps she wouldn't mind so much if I helped her," said Esther shrewdly; "you see, it is we who have made so much extra work. Do let me try, Cousin Charlotte, if it is only for a time."
Esther's face was very eager, her voice very pleading; Cousin Charlotte could not resist the appeal, and gave in with another sigh, but of relief this time. Esther, in her joy and excitement, marked every egg twice with the wrong date, but what did it matter when she had gained her point?
For a few minutes Miss Ashe went on making her list, but in an absent-minded fashion. "I wonder," she said at last, rather nervously, "how it would be best to broach the subject to Anna?"
Esther looked up somewhat puzzled; she would have gone straight out to Anna and told her she was going to undertake this, that, and the other thing, and give all the help she could, but Miss Ashe had other views, born of experience.
"My dear," she said, smiling rather shamefacedly, as though aware of her weakness, "it all depends on how we manage it, whether all goes smoothly, or there is constant friction. I think the best way will be not to speak to Anna about it as though we had planned it, but just begin gradually, doing what you can. I think it is always wiser not to begin violently with changes and reforms. No one likes to have new plans made and thrust on them, or their work taken from them, even though they grumble at having to do it. We should not like it ourselves, should we, dear?"
Esther's memory flashed back to the morning, and her objection to Angela's desire to share in the new scheme; she understood something of what Miss Charlotte meant.
"I think, dear, if you just go about quietly, with your eyes open, ready to give a little help when you see an opportunity, that would be the best way; then by degrees you will build a little niche for yourself, and get your own duties; and Anna, instead of resenting your help, will grow to trust you, and count on you, and be grateful."
"Yes, Cousin Charlotte," agreed Esther, but in a not very enthusiastic voice. She saw the wisdom of the plan, but it was rather a descent from the beautiful scheme by which she was to have been the help and comfort of them all, and she felt she might as well say 'good-bye' at once to the big aprons and white sleeves which had formed such a delightful feature of her plans.
"Things never turn out just as we want them to," she sighed, "and they might so easily if people's tempers were not so tiresome." But at that point she paused suddenly, and had the grace to blush warmly, though no one was there to see her.
"Oh dear!" sighed Esther, dropping wearily into the chair by her bedroom window. "Iamso tired!"
Anna looked up in surprise from her task of bed-making.
"Tired, Miss Esther!" she exclaimed. "Whatever with? You oughtn't to be tired at this time of day."
"I am though," said Esther, sighing again; "tired of doing nothing, I suppose. You see, I used to have lots to do at home, and I miss it."
"Did you, missie? Well, I'm thinking if I had a chance to sit still I'd be only too glad, and not grumble, I know." And Anna thumped a pillow vigorously.
"I don't think you would," said Esther. "You would soon get tired. But perhaps you don't like doing housework. I do; I love it."
"Do you really, miss?" said Anna, as though such a taste were past her comprehension. "Well, you'll have enough to do next week, when your lessons begin."
"Yes," assented Esther, "but they won't take long; and it's dusting and tidying, and all that sort of thing that I like. I wish I had a little house of my very own. I would do all the work in it myself. I'd love to blacklead a grate, and clean windows, and scrub tables and things—oh, Anna, do let me help you, or I shall grow homesick and miserable. Do let me do some dusting for you; I'd love to—will you?"
Anna was quite touched by Esther's piteous appeal; also she herself detested dusting and 'finicking work,' as she called it.
"Would you really like to, dearie? Then you shall. I know it's miserable not to know what to do with yourself; I used to feel like it when I was a child. I was never so happy as when I'd got real work to do; 'twas better to me than play. You shall dust your own room presently, if you like."
"Shall I? Oh, that will be nice." Esther was on her feet in a moment, all her melancholy gone. "Where shall I find a duster, Anna?"
"Don't be in too much of a 'urry, Miss Esther. I reckon you wouldn't feel so pleased if you'd got to do it," added Anna, laughing. "I'll give you the duster and brush in a minute. You lend me a hand with this, if you will," turning the mattress on Poppy's bed, "and I'll be ready in half the time; it's ever so much quicker done if there's two at it; you see, when one's alone, one wastes so much time running round and round the bed."
"Of course," said Esther. "I wish I'd helped you sooner. I wonder how long I should be learning to make a bed. Is it very difficult?"
"Not a bit," said Anna, "once you've got into the way of it. First you spreads the blanket like so, and tucks it in—you must always begin at the bottom."
"First the foot and then the head, That's the way to make a bed."
"My old grandmother taught me them lines when I wasn't more'n eleven, and I've never forgot 'em. Next you spreads the sheet just so, and you must be careful not to leave any creases in it. Then you beat up the bolster and pillow, and lay them like that," suiting the action to the words. "Then comes the top sheet, and the blankets. You must tuck each one in at the bottom first, and then at the sides, and leave the top end loose, so that when you've got the blankets spread, you turn the sheet neatly down over the blankets; and then you see it's all tidy under the quilt, ready for when you come to turn down the bed at night."
Esther followed her instructions closely to the end. "Shall I come and help you with the others?" she asked, as Anna moved off to Penelope's room; and Anna quite graciously consented.
"I shall be glad enough to have the dusting done," she said, as they finished off the other two little beds. "I've got to make jam to-day, and that means that I can't leave the kitchen a minute when once I've put it on," and Esther could have danced with joy. She was managing wonderfully, she told herself, and felt very proud.
From the French window below they heard Miss Charlotte's voice. "Penelope!" she called. "Penelope, dear!"
Penelope came running up the garden at once.
"Do you think you could walk as much as two miles without getting over-tired?"
"Oh yes," said Penelope, without a moment's hesitation. "I often walked five or six miles at home. Do you want me to go somewhere, Cousin Charlotte?"
"Well, dear, I very much want some one to go to Four Winds for me. I promised some strawberries to a friend of mine, Miss Row, who lives just outside Four Winds. She is giving a garden-party to-day, and I know she is relying on my sending her some fruit. I thought Ephraim would have been able to go, but he started for Gorley before I could speak to him."
"I should love to go," said Penelope. "I will start at once. Which way is it, Cousin Charlotte?"
"You go past the houses here, and keep on the main road, right up the hill, until you come to the top; just before you reach the top you will come to a church."
"Oh, I know," cried Penelope. "I went there yesterday, and when I came to the church it was open, and some one was playing the organ, and I went in and sat in one of the pews for ever so long to listen."
"Oh, is that where you were?" said Miss Charlotte. "I wondered what had become of you. Well, when you go so far another time, dear, take Guard with you. We rarely, if ever, get a tramp, or any other undesirable person about these parts, we are too remote, and too poor to be worth coming so far to find, but all the same I do not like you to go about quite alone. Take him with you now, dear. When you reach the church you must go on a little further, until you come to the village; then you cross the square straight, keep down the next hill a little way, and you will soon come to a large white gate with 'Cold Harbour' painted on it. That is my friend's house. Go in, and ask for Miss Row, and if you can see her, give her the basket and this note. If you can't see her you must leave them; but I hope you will, for I should like you to rest a little before you take the walk back."
Penelope took the basket, and was starting straight away with it.
"I think, dear, you had better wash your hands and brush your hair before you go," said Cousin Charlotte. "Miss Row is very good and kind, but she is a very particular lady, and I want you to make a good impression on her; besides, one lady never calls on another with soiled hands."
"Oh, of course!" Penelope blushed and ran upstairs, and some few minutes elapsed before she walked out and through the village, her basket of strawberries on her arm, and Guard at her heels.
It was a glorious day, with rather a stiff breeze blowing, and clouds and sunshine chasing each other along the road. If it had not been for the clouds, and the intervals when the shadows had overtaken the sun, the walk would have been a hot one; but Penelope did not notice that, her mind was absorbed by other things, for suddenly it seemed to her that it was rather an alarming thing to be going alone to face a strange, and very particular, lady, and she felt a great shyness coming over her. She tried to forget it by racing the cloud, as it chased the sunshine, and the sunshine as it overtook the cloud, and so, at last, she came to the church. She paused a moment to listen, but the organ was silent to-day, so on she went again, but more soberly, and soon found herself in the village square, with little low-roofed houses on either side and a pump in the middle of the square, and two or three happy ducks paddling about in the damp earth by the trough. Guard, as though he knew it of old, went up to the pump for a drink. The ducks fled, tumbling over each other in their hurry, scrambling and quacking indignantly at the great creature who had so disturbed their pleasure; but Guard, quite unconcerned, drank, and went calmly on his way again until he led Penelope straight to the white gate with 'Cold Harbour' painted on it.
A short drive led from the gate to the house, and Penelope felt horribly shy and conscious as she made her way up it. It seemed to her that somebody might be watching her from every window, and there were so many windows it was quite embarrassing.
But, apparently, no one had witnessed her approach, for she stood quite a long time at the door, not able to reach the knocker or find the bell. She rapped with her knuckles; but they grew sore and produced no result, for the sound did not reach beyond the door-mat, or so it seemed to her, and the vast, still hall within appeared to swallow up everything. Guard lay down at last on the gravel and went to sleep, and Penelope longed to sit beside him. She was tired, and her arm aching a good deal from carrying the basket.
But at last, just as she was beginning to get anxious and a little vexed, a servant crossed the hall on her way to one of the rooms, and saw her.
"Good morning," said Penelope. "I have been trying to ring the bell, but I don't know where you keep it."
The servant, an elderly woman, who looked like the cook, smiled. "There's a brave many can't do that," she said. "There," showing Penelope a little knob like a button, "there 'tis; 'tis one of them new-fangled electric things. I can't abide 'em myself; they may be very fine and nice for towns, but in the country, where we don't have to count every inch of room, give me the good old sort. 'Tis such a silly noise these makes, too, like a child's toy, yet it never sounds but what I jumps nearly out of my skin."
Penelope wished one would sound then, that she might see so wonderful a sight. But she only smiled.
"I wanted to see Miss Row, please. I've come from Miss Ashe."
"Please to walk inside, miss," said cook, very amiably; and Penelope followed her through the dim hall to a large room where a lady was sitting at a table littered with vases, cans of water, and quantities of cut flowers. She was rather a severe-looking lady, and glanced up so sharply when cook opened the door and showed the visitor in, that Penelope was, for the moment, quite frightened. But it was not Penelope's way to remain frightened for long, and she soon recovered herself, as did Miss Row when she saw that the intruder was not a very formidable person.
"I have brought you these from Cousin Charlotte," said Penelope, advancing to the table with her wide, frank smile; "and I was to give them to you myself if you were at home."
Miss Row took the basket and the letter, but she was paying more attention to their bearer than to either.
"I suppose you are one of Miss Ashe's young cousins?" said Miss Row abruptly.
"Yes, I am Penelope, the second eldest."
"Well, sit down for a little while, and rest before you walk back again."
Penelope, not being directed to any particular seat, and seeing by the window a little low, upright chair, evidently made for small people like herself, went over and seated herself on it with much satisfaction.
But Miss Row, glancing up presently from her letter, felt no satisfaction at all; in fact she gave quite a scream when she saw her. "Oh, child," she cried. "Get off that chair this moment, quick! quick! It isn't meant to be sat on; it is far too old and valuable. Oh dear! you might have broken it right down, or—oh dear, oh dear, to think that out of all in the room you should have chosen that one!"
Penelope sprang to her feet at once. At first she felt terribly alarmed, then very angry; it made one feel so small to be screamed at in that way.
"I—I didn't know—how could I?" she said crossly. "Is it a broken chair?" What she longed to say was, "Why do you keep it there if it is so unsafe?" but she felt that would be rude. "I am very sorry," she added, forcing herself to be polite. "Is it a very old chair?"
"Yes, very old. It was made for my great-great-grandmother, when she was a little girl, and I value it exceedingly. Unfortunately the last two or three years worms have got into the wood, and have eaten it so it is quite crumbling away."
"But can't you do anything for it?" asked Penelope, her vexation swallowed up in pity for the chair. She was thinking that if she had valued it so much she would have taken better care of it.
But Miss Row had returned to her letter again. When she had done she rose and rang the bell. "You can take some milk and cake before you go, can't you?" she asked.
"Yes, I think so, thank you," said Penelope modestly. "But I left Guard outside. Will he stay, do you think?"
"Oh yes, he is used to waiting here."
Cook came in presently with a tray, on which was a large jug of milk, some glasses, and a plate of cakes of various kinds. Penelope thought they looked beautiful, so beautiful that she longed to take some back to the others. She knew exactly how thoroughly they would enjoy them; but, of course, no sign of what she was thinking escaped her.
She was wondering which of all them she might take for herself, when Miss Row took up the plate. "I think you will find that very nice," pointing to a piece of uninteresting-looking shortbread, "or that," pointing to a slice of ginger-cake. "They would be less likely than the others to disagree with you."
Penelope longed to say that nothing disagreed with her, but she did not like to, and helped herself with the best grace she could to the shortbread.
Miss Row continued arranging her flowers, sipping a glass of milk meanwhile, and eating one after another of the fascinating little sugared cakes Penelope was eyeing so wistfully, while she nibbled at her thick piece of shortbread, unable to get a real bite. There really was no satisfaction about that shortbread. It was so hard as to be unbiteable, and so crumbly it scattered all over the floor; while with one hand occupied holding the glass of milk, and the other the cake, she could not pick up the crumbs, or break the piece. When she saw the crumbs filling her lap and pouring off on to the carpet, poor Penelope wished she had declined to have anything, and sat in misery wondering what she could do.
Presently Miss Row looked around at her, and her sharp eyes fell immediately on the litter on her usually speckless carpet. "Oh dear," she said with the little click of her tongue which expressed annoyance more effectually than any words could. Then, perhaps catching sight of the child's mortified face, she tried to pass it off.
"I expect your Cousin Charlotte has a trial with the four of you," she said, in what she meant to be a joking manner; but her words, and the little laugh that accompanied them, were worse to Penelope than anything.
"I—we—try not to be more troublesome than we can help," she said shortly, without a trace of a smile on her face. "Cousin Charlotte doesn't seem to mind—and we try to help as much as we can." Then, after a moment's silence, "I—I wish I hadn't taken it. It was so crumbly Icouldn'teat it without its falling all about; and the chair is so high my feet don't touch, so they all ran off my lap." She meant the crumbs, though it sounded as if she was speaking of her feet.
Perhaps something told Miss Row that she had not been very kind, for her tone changed. "I ought to have thought of it, dear," she said. It was the first time she had ever been known to call any one 'dear'.
"I think I had better go now, please Miss Row," said Penelope very gravely. She still felt mortified and unhappy.
"I wonder if you would mind waiting just a little longer, then I could have your company as far as the church. I must go and have my practice, or I shall not be ready for Sunday."
Penelope looked up with sudden interest, all her mortification and resentment forgotten. "Oh, was it you who was playing there on Tuesday?"
Miss Row nodded. "Probably, I don't know of any one else who plays that organ. Why? What do you know about it?"
"I walked up there the day after we came, and I heard the organ, and I went in and listened for ever so long. I hope you don't mind. The door was open, and I thought any one might go in."
"Mind? Oh dear no! I am only thankful some one besides myself takes any interest in it. Are you fond of music?"
"I love it! I love to hear it! I can't play yet, but I want to learn, and Ithink," gravely, "I'd rather play the organ than anything. I do want to learn to play so well that I can earn money by it."
"Oh, you mercenary little person," laughed Miss Row. "What can you want with money?"
Penelope did not know what 'mercenary' meant. She understood the second question, but she did not know whether she was at liberty to answer it or not. Miss Row seemed, though, to be waiting for a reply, so she felt obliged to.
"We all want to help Cousin Charlotte and father," she added, with great earnestness. "You see we are so many, and it costs such a lot to keep us all, so Esther says, and I don't knowhowto help, but I am trying to think of a way."
Miss Row looked at her little companion very thoughtfully, with a somewhat puzzled expression. She herself had never known what it was to want money. She was a wealthy woman, and she did a certain amount of good with her wealth, subscribing to many charities, but it never occurred to her that there might be anxiety and need amongst people of her own class, still less among those she knew. Penelope's words opened a new vista before her, and set her wondering if there were not many things she had missed for want of eyes and understanding.
"If you could play the organ," she said at last slowly, "it would be years before you could earn your living by it. You could not do much until you were seventeen or eighteen."
"No," said Penelope sadly. "That is the worst of it, and by that time perhaps daddy will be able to have us out to Canada; but it would always be useful, for I daresay there are organs in Canada, and I don't suppose daddy will ever be very rich again, and—and if I only knew how to play I could help if I was wanted to."
"It is always a great pleasure and solace too, even if one only plays for one's own pleasure," said Miss Row softly.
She led the way into the hall, unhung a hat and put it on, and preceded Penelope to the door. Guard, hearing their footsteps, rose from his sleep in the sun, and expressed his delight.
On their way through the garden Miss Row gathered quite a large nosegay of lovely roses and carnations and mignonette, and as she wandered from bush to bush, Penelope followed her in a state of perfect delight. She was passionately fond of flowers.
At last they made their way into the road and up the hill. Miss Row was rather silent. Penelope talked and Miss Row listened, but she did not say much until they came to the gate of the church and stopped.
"Tell Miss Ashe I will come and see her tomorrow. Give her my love and thanks for the fruit, and for introducing one of her cousins to me—you, I mean," touching Penelope's cheek lightly with her finger. "And these are for you," placing in Penelope's hands the lovely flowers she had been carrying all this time.
Penelope gasped with delight. "For Cousin Charlotte! oh, how lovely, I thought they were for the church."
"They are for neither. They are for you yourself," said Miss Row, with just the faintest tinge of colour in her cheeks. For one second Penelope looked incredulous; then in a kind of rapture she held her bouquet closer. "Oh, thank you very, very,verymuch," she said earnestly. "I never had anything so lovely in my life before," and she put up her face with the prettiest grace imaginable to kiss her new friend.
"I am glad you are pleased," said Miss Row smilingly. "Now, good-bye. Perhaps I may see you on Sunday."
"On Sunday?" said Penelope puzzled.
"If you come to church."
"Oh, do we come up here to this dear little church? I am so glad, I didn't know. I hope we shall all come. Good-bye, and thank you, and,"—hesitating a little and colouring warmly—"I amsosorry about the crumbs;" and waving her hand to her new friend as she disappeared within the church, she ran off in a state of high glee.
Mrs. Vercoe was standing at her door as Penelope passed. "Good-morning, missie," she said. "I reckon you'm fond of walking. I was the same when I was young. Oh my! what bootiful flowers!"
Penelope stayed to display her treasures. "You must have one of them, Mrs. Vercoe," she said, selecting one of the handsomest roses from her bouquet.
Mrs. Vercoe was vastly pleased. "'Tisn't often one has a flower like that now," she exclaimed delightedly. "It'll brighten up my bit of a place wonderful. Thank you kindly, missie "; and she disappeared into her house to place her treasure in water.
Penelope was hurrying on, when, glancing round to look for Guard, her eye fell on Mrs. Bennett standing at her shop door. Mrs. Bennett said "good-morning," and Penelope returned the greeting; but she had gone a step or two before it occurred to her that she had not been very gracious or kind to the post-mistress. Mrs. Bennett must have seen her stop and give a flower to Mrs. Vercoe. She paused, then slipped back to Mrs. Bennett's door. "Would you like one of my pretty flowers?" she asked.
"Oh no, thank you, miss. Don't you pull your bookay to pieces for me," she answered civilly, but with just the slightest toss of her head. She was really a little hurt and jealous, for she had seen that Penelope's offer to Mrs. Vercoe was quite spontaneous. Penelope, conscious of the feeling that had been in her own heart, was ashamed and sorry. "Do please let me give you one," she said earnestly. "I want to. I have such a lot it would be greedy to keep them all."
Mrs. Bennett backed into her shop. "Won't you come inside, missie?" she said, much more graciously. "Your little hands are almost too small; you'm in danger of dropping some of them."
Penelope followed her in gladly enough. She could not bear to think she had hurt any one's feelings, even any one she did not particularly like. Mrs. Bennett led the way into her parlour, where Penelope had never been before. It held all the treasures she was most proud of, and the window was full of geraniums, fuchsias, and hanging baskets of 'Mothers of Thousands,' blocking out most of the light. While Penelope was selecting a flower Mrs. Bennett stepped to the window.
"Are you fond of flowers, miss?"
"Oh,very," said Penelope, "Ilovethem. I wish I could grow some. I think I shall ask Cousin Charlotte to let me have a little bit of garden of my own. Do you think I should ever get anything to grow?"
She talked on rapidly, partly because she was really interested and partly in the hope of ministering balm to Mrs. Bennett's wounded feelings.
"Oh yes, missie, of course you could, and if you'd like a split or two of geranium I'd be glad to give 'ee some off of any of mine, or you could have 'em in pots in your own windy. Have 'ee got a windy-ledge to your room?"
"Yes," said Penelope eagerly.
"Then you could grow mignonette and lots of things there. Look at mine. I've got flowers 'most all the year round."
Penelope stepped over to look closer at the beautiful pelargoniums, the great white geraniums, and graceful fuchsias, all blooming as happily in their narrow space as though it had been a handsome conservatory.
"Oh, and what is that?"
Two halves of a cocoanut shell hung from the top of the window with a curious little creeping plant growing in them, and sending long, hanging tendrils down over the sides.
"I was going to ask you if you would accept one of these, missie, by way of a beginning. We calls 'em 'Mothers of Thousands' here, and a very good name for 'em. I tilled both those last year from my old plant there, and look how they've growed a'ready."
Penelope was overjoyed. To have a plant of her very own, and growing in a cocoanut shell, too, gave her the greatest delight. She thanked Mrs. Bennett profusely, took her new present almost reverently, and hardly knew how she got home, her hands were so full of treasures and her mind of excitement.
The next day, according to promise, Miss Row came to call on Miss Ashe. The children were all out and very busy when she came, and did not know anything about the call until Cousin Charlotte came to the garden to them after.
Esther was shelling peas, Penelope was filling flower-pots in which to plant some mignonette seeds she had bought at Mrs. Vercoe's that morning. Angela and Poppy were playing shops. They had the long stool Anna used for her washing-trays on washing-days. This was their counter, and on it they had arranged their stock of goods—a little pile of unripe strawberries, another of currants, a heap of pebbles to represent nuts, gravel for sugar, and earth for tea. One of their greatest treasures was a little tin scoop which Anna had presented to them, and which they took it in turns to use. They both stood behind the stool, with a pile of newspaper cut into all kinds of shapes and sizes in front of them, and were apparently kept as busy as could be by the constant stream of invisible customers which flowed into their shop.
When Miss Charlotte came out she found them as busy as possible. "Penelope," she called, "I want to speak to you, dear. I have something to tell you—something that I think will please you very much, dear."
Penelope looked up from her seed-sowing with a face full of pleased surprise.
"I have had a visitor, Miss Row, and she has offered to give you lessons on the organ if you would like to learn. She tells me she thinks you would. It is very kind of Miss Row, and a great opportunity for you."
"I'dloveto, I told her so." Penelope stopped abruptly, her face crimsoning. "Oh, I hope she did not think I was asking!"
"No, dear, she certainly did not think that," said Miss Charlotte reassuringly. "I know my friend well enough to know that she would never have made the offer if she had."
"But where can I learn?" asked Penelope. "I shouldn't be allowed to use the organ in the church, should I?"
"I think so; but Miss Row will settle all that. You see, her father used to be the vicar at Four Winds, and she has been the organist ever since she was sixteen—"
"Sixteen!" cried Penelope. "Can I be an organist when I am sixteen?"
"As I was saying," said Cousin Charlotte, in a slight tone of reproof, "she has been the organist there since she was sixteen, and all for love, so no one would be so ungrateful as to object to her using it."
"Oh, how beautiful, how beautiful, and just the very thing I wanted." Penelope fairly danced with delight. "Isn't it strange," she said, "how one gets just the very things one has been longing for?"
Esther did not make any remark. The old demon jealousy surged up in her heart and forbade her saying anything that was nice or kind.
"Why was it that Penelope always attracted all the notice, and made friends, and got the very things she longed for?" she asked herself angrily. She wished she had said she would like to learn to play the organ, and had made friends with Miss Row; then perhaps she would have had lovely flowers given her, and be thought a lot of. Having finished her task she picked up her things and walked away into the house. Penelope looked after her, a little hurt at her seeming want of interest. Angela and Poppy had dropped their play and were bubbling over with joyful sympathy.
"Angela dear," said Miss Charlotte, "will you go to the henhouse for me, and see if there are any eggs there?"
Angela was delighted. She was always longing to be employed, and she loved anything to do with the fowls or the garden.
Miss Ashe's fowl-houses were models of what fowl-houses should be, airy, snug, and beautifully clean; and her fowls were something to be proud of. Angela ran off at once, found three eggs, and took them into the house. Miss Ashe was busy in the pantry tying down jam.
"I wonder if you could mark them for me," she said. "My fingers are very sticky."
Angela took the pencil and did her best. The figures were clumsy, but they were her neatest. They were something like this—22/6.
She looked up at her cousin with shamed eyes and rosy cheeks as she held out the eggs.
"That will do," said Miss Charlotte kindly. "You will soon be able to make tiny figures." Then, as Esther had done once before, Angela put the eggs in their box; but Esther had forgotten all about her first task in her anxiety to get others.
"Cousin Charlotte, if I learn to write better, may I always collect the eggs and mark them? I'd love to. I love the chicken and fowls, and I'd try to do it properly." She was very eager and very shy about making her request.
"I shall be very glad indeed of your help," said Cousin Charlotte. "Anna seems too busy and Ephraim forgets; he thinks eggs and hens too unimportant for his notice. I, though, think them very important indeed; they make quite a nice little addition to one's income, I find."
"Do they?" said Angela, full of interest. "When I grow up I shall keep fowls too, I think."
"You will have to learn all about them first," said Cousin Charlotte, "but that you can begin to do at once. You have them here always under your eyes, and you must keep your eyes open and take in all you can."
Angela felt, as Penelope had done, that all her dearest wishes were being granted at once. "Is there something else I can do for you, Cousin Charlotte?" she asked.
"Yes, dear, if you will. I want to send those fresh eggs up to Miss Bazeley. She has a lady lodging there who is ill, and Miss Bazeley's hens seem to have all stopped laying just as she most wants fresh eggs."
"I'd like to go. I'll go now," said Angela, running off to get her hat.
"You can take Poppy with you, dear. It is not far, and you can't make a mistake. Miss Bazeley's house is the very last in the village; it stands at the side of the hill on the way to Four Winds."
"I think I know; it has a honeysuckle arch over the gate, hasn't it?"
"Yes, sharp eyes. Now run along."
Esther was up in her room, trying to work herself into a better state of mind. She knew she was jealous of Penelope's good fortune, and she was vexed with herself for being so. When people recognise their weaknesses, and see the wrong of them, they are on a fair way to recovery—if they choose.
Esther did really want to get the better of the nasty moods and tempers that she, better than any one, knew she suffered from, and presently she came down in quite an altered frame of mind, though a little embarrassed to know how to express herself.
Penelope was in the garden alone, busy over her flower-pots once more. Esther went up to her wondering what she could say, but Penelope looked up with so grave a face Esther found her speech at once.
"Aren't you glad?" she asked in surprise.
"Oh yes," cried Penelope enthusiastically.
"So am I," said Esther, and with the same felt her burden of jealousy fall from her. "It will be fine; it was the very thing you wanted. But you don't look glad."
"I am," said Penelope emphatically; "but I was thinking how kind every one is, and I do want to do something for them—and I don't know how. There don't seem to be any ways for children to help grown-ups."
Esther stood very still and quiet for a moment. Then, after a little shy hesitation, she said, "Cousin Charlotte says we can always help each other, only we must not be always looking out for big things to do. If we do the little things, we shall do big things, too, in time."
"Oh," said Penelope. "I suppose I shall get to know what little things to do. What I would like would be to give Miss Row a beautiful organ, and Mrs. Bennett a greenhouse, and Cousin Charlotte—oh, a lot of money and things, and—and—"
"I don't suppose Mrs. Bennett would know what to do with a greenhouse if she had it," said Esther wisely.
"Don't you?" said Penelope disappointedly, and was silent for some time, pondering the matter. "Well," with a sigh of resignation, "I'll give her one of my pots of mignonette when it grows—that will be something—just to show I care, and perhaps—"
But what Penelope intended to say further was lost for ever, for at that moment there was a rush through the house and garden, a chorus of cries and exclamations, and Angela and Poppy and Guard burst on them like a small hurricane.
"Oh, do look!" cried Angela, her face flushed, her eyes dancing with joy— "do look what Miss Bazeley has given me! Oh, it is such a darling! And the poor mite has no mother, or brothers or sisters. Anddoyou think Cousin Charlotte will let me keep it? It is a very good one, Miss Bazeley says. What sort did she call it, Poppy? I said it over and over so as to remember, and have forgotten it after all."
"It was somefin like the name of a sweety," said Poppy, racking her brain so hard she brought a frown to her brow. "Was it somefin drop, or rock, or—"
"I know it was something like Edinburgh Rock."
"Plymouth Rock, perhaps," said Miss Ashe's voice, close behind them. In their excitement they had not heard her coming, and they all sprang around with a start. "What is it, dear?" looking at the little basket Angela was holding so carefully.
As if in reply, a tiny, very forlorn 'che-ep' came from the inside.
"It is a dear little motherless chick, Cousin Charlotte," cried Angela eagerly. "A tiny baby one, and it's an orphan. A fox killed its poor mother, and the other hens won't be kind to it; they are very cruel to it, Miss Bazeley says, and she asked me if I would like to have it. May I, Cousin Charlotte? Do you mind? I will take care of it, and then some day, when it lays eggs, you shall have all the eggs."
"Well, we will see about that when the time comes," said Cousin Charlotte. "Yes, dear, you may certainly keep it. I foresee I shall have a rival poultry-yard in my own garden."
Angela and Poppy ran off in a state of the highest glee; but when they got to the yard, and all the hens ran towards them in expectation, they were afraid to trust their treasure alone among the crowd.
"You will have to try to get one of the hens to mother it," said Miss Charlotte, who had followed them, "or it will die of cold and loneliness."
This presented some difficulty. As soon as the little chick was put down it would run to the nearest hen as if it thought it had found its mother, but the hens would have nothing to say to it; first one and then another pecked it savagely, until the poor little thing was nearly scared to death.
At last Miss Charlotte threw down some oatmeal before a coop where a solemn old hen sat with half a dozen chicks playing about her. As soon as they saw the food, the greedy little creatures poured out, while the mother rose and clucked noisily with annoyance at not being able to follow. Angela put the orphan chick down amongst the others; for a second it cheeped pitifully; then it, too, began to eat. As soon as the last grain had gone some more was thrown into the coop for the old hen. All the chicks poured back helter-skelter into the coop, the orphan amongst them, and the hen took it into her family circle without demur, and the baby Plymouth Rock's life was saved.
After that, to say that Angela was as fussy as a hen with one chick was to speak but very mildly of her condition. She looked on it as the foundation of her fortunes, and, surely, she thought, no one had ever owned such a beautiful chick before.
The next day Penelope went to the church at twelve o'clock to have her first lesson. She went off jubilantly; she returned a little less so. Miss Row was unaccustomed to children, or to teaching, and she had never been considered a patient woman.
"I believe it is going to be dreadfully hard," Penelope confided to the others, as they gathered round her. They had all gone to meet her, and hear her experiences. They had always been so much together that what happened to one was of the keenest interest to all.
"I don't believe I shall ever learn, there are such lots of things to remember, and Miss Row doesn't like to explain a thing more than once, and you'vegotto remember."
Esther began to feel thankful that she had not expressed a desire to know how to play the organ. She much preferred to do housework and not be scolded. Penelope's next words then came as a shock.
"Oh, and whatdoyou think! Miss Row wants us to sing in the choir! She says wemust. She can get scarcely any one to sing, and she says it will be good for us, and we shall be very glad by and by—"
"Oh, I couldn't!" cried Angela, overcome with nervousness. "I haven't got any voice, and I don't know how to; and I couldn't sing with all the people looking at me."
"It will be dreadful," said Penelope drearily. "But Miss Row says we shall be glad later on—"
"People always say that when they want one to do anything one simply hates doing. But she can't make us, can she? I shall ask Miss Charlotte to say we can't. I am sure she will when she knows how much we don't want to. I wish you had never said anything, Penelope, about the organ, and learning to play, and all that. Miss Row would never have thought of it if you hadn't," grumbled Esther; and Penelope, feeling the truth of it, looked more dejected than ever. After her first encounter with Miss Row as a teacher, the prospect before her looked anything but enticing, and she was haunted by a feeling that she had not declined the honour as firmly as she might have done, for the sake of the others.
They all turned and walked homewards very gloomily. The only cheerful member of the party was Poppy. "I wouldn't mind singing in church," she said, "if nobody wouldn't look at me. I can sing 'Once in Royal David's City' all through."
"It doesn't seem so bad if you haven'tgotto," said Angela miserably. "But when you have, it is awful. I—I almost wish I'd never come to Dorsham, and yet—I loved it so till this happened."
During dinner Miss Charlotte looked at the four from time to time, first with faint surprise, then with anxiety. They were so quiet, so gloomy, so changed. When she had spoken two or three times and received polite, but the briefest of answers, she began to feel she must get to the bottom of the mystery.
"Well, Penelope, did you enjoy your organ lesson, dear?" she asked briskly.
Penelope looked up with the ghost of her old comical smile gleaming in her eyes. "Well, I—I didn't exactlyenjoyit," she said, trying to be polite and truthful at the same time. "It is rather hard at first, but— but I wouldn't mind that if—if—"
"If what, dear?" asked Miss Charlotte gently. "Is it anything I can help in?"
"No-o, I am afraid not, thank you. It's the singing—Miss Row wants us all to sing in the choir!"
The great and terrible news was out, the shadow that hung over them was explained, and eight eyes gazed at Miss Charlotte, expecting to read in her face something of the shock and dismay they had felt, instead of which she sat looking quite unmoved and rather amused. "Well, dears, I don't see anything very dreadful in that. Do you?"
"But we can't," cried Esther. "We can't sing, except just a little bit to ourselves." "But you can learn. I don't suppose Miss Row, or any one else, would expect you to sing perfectly at first. She would teach you. You said you wanted to learn all you could, didn't you, dear?"
"Ye-es," said Esther slowly, feeling she was having the worst of the argument, but unmoved in her dread and dislike of joining the choir. "But I never thought of this; this is different."
"Yes; but, dear, you will find very few things happen just as you would have them to. We may miss the best chances of our lives if we insist on that. You told me you wanted to save money and expense—now here is your opportunity. You will gain a knowledge of music and singing such as you could not gain in any other way, for even if we had the means, there is no one here to teach you. I dare say you feel a little shy and nervous, but don't be foolishly so, dears. All your lives you will be thankful you had this chance."
Esther had no word to say. She felt she was in the wrong again, and that is never a pleasant feeling.
"But I could never sing before so many people, Cousin Charlotte," said Angela. "I wouldn't mind so much if it was only just ourselves, but I am sure I couldn't sing before strangers."
"Then, dear, it will be good for you in another way. You must learn to get over your self-consciousness. You must not imagine the eyes of every one are on you. You must try to forget all about yourself. Remember that every one there has a lot else to think about, and that you are only one little person amongst a number." Cousin Charlotte laid her hand on Angela's to take away any seeming severity from her words.
"I know Miss Row is always trying to make up a choir, and she has such difficulty. You would be doing her a real kindness if you help her; and I know you would like to do that," with a smile at Esther.
Esther sighed. "Yes," she said hesitatingly. "But—but can't one ever do things just in the way one likes, Cousin Charlotte? There are lots of kind things I should love to do."
"We may choose, generally, whether we will do a thing or not, or whether we will do it in our way, or the way that is mapped out for us. But usually if we choose our own, it is ourselves we please, and not the person we are doing it for. But this we can always do, dearie—if we have to do a thing we do not like, we can teach ourselves to like to do it."
"It sounds like a riddle," said Penelope.
"It very often is," said Miss Charlotte. "But am sure you will all grow to love your singing and your choir when the first shyness is over, and then you will be glad you gave in, and did not choose your own way. And of one thing you may be quite sure: if, as you think, you have no voices, Miss Row will soon tell you so, and you will not be bothered any more about having to sing."
But, after all, somehow it did not seem to them that that was what they wanted.