Chapter Six.
Ethelwyn.
“Oh, dear me!” said Pennie, looking at herself in the glass over the nursery mantel-shelf; “it is ugly, and so uncomfortable. I wish I needn’t wear it.”
“It,” was Pennie’s new winter bonnet, and certainly it was not very becoming; it was made of black plush with a very deep brim, out of which her little pointed face peered mournfully, and seemed almost swallowed up. There was one exactly like it for Nancy, and the bonnets had just come from Miss Griggs, the milliner at Nearminster, where they had been ordered a week ago. “Do you come and try yours on, Miss Pennie,” said Nurse as she unpacked them, “there’s no getting hold of Miss Nancy.”
So Pennie put it on with a little secret hope that it might be a prettier bonnet than the last; she looked in the glass, and then followed the exclamation with which this chapter begins.
“I don’t see anything amiss with it,” said Nurse, who stood with her head on one side, and the other bonnet perched on her hand. “They’re as alike as two pins,” she added, twirling it round admiringly.
“They’re both just as ugly as they can be,” said Pennie mournfully; “but mine’s sure to look worse than Nancy’s—it always does. And they never will stay on,” she added in a still more dejected voice, “unless I keep on catching at the strings in front with my chin.”
“Oh, well, Miss Pennie,” said Nurse, “your head will grow to it, and you ought to be thankful to have such a nice warm bonnet. How would you like to go about with just a shawl over your head, like them gypsies we saw the other day?”
“Very much indeed,” said Pennie, who had now taken off the bonnet and was looking at it ruefully. “There was one gypsy who had a red handkerchief, which looked much prettier than this ugly old thing.”
“You oughtn’t to mind how things look,” returned Nurse. “You think too much of outsides, Miss Pennie.”
“But the outside of a bonnet is the only part that matters,” replied Pennie.
She was quite prepared to continue the subject, but this was not the case with Nurse.
“I’ve no time for argufying, miss,” she said as she put the bonnets carefully back into their boxes. “I’m sure my mistress will like them very much. They’re just as she ordered them.” And so the subject was dismissed, and Pennie felt that she was again a victim.
For, as Nurse had said, Pennie did care a great deal about outsides, and she thought it hard sometimes that she and Nancy must always be dressed alike, for the same things did not suit them at all. Probably this very bonnet which was such a trial to Pennie would be a suitable frame for Nancy’s round rosy face, and look quite nice. It was certainly hard. Pennie loved all beautiful things, from the flowers in the garden and fields to the yellow curls on Cicely’s ruffled head, and it often troubled her to feel that with pretty things all round her she did not look pretty herself. So the winter bonnet cast quite a gloom on her for the moment, and although it may seem a small trial to sensible people it was a large one to Pennie. How often she had sighed over the straight little serge frocks which she and Nancy always wore, and secretly longed for brighter colours and more flowing lines, and now this ugly dark bonnet had come to make things worse. It would make her feel like a blot in a fair white copybook, to walk about in it when the beautiful clean snow covered the earth. What a pity that everything in the world was not pretty!
Pennie’s whole soul went out towards beauty, and anyone with a pretty face might be sure of her loving worship and admiration. “All is not gold that glitters, Miss Pennie,” Nurse would say, or, “Handsome is that handsome does;” but it made no impression at all; Pennie continued to feel sure that what looked pretty must be good, and that a fair outside meant perfection within.
She stood thoughtfully watching Nurse as she put the bonnets away. It would be nice to wear a scarlet handkerchief over your head like that gypsy. Such a lovely colour! And then there would be no tormenting “caught back” feeling when the wind blew, which made it necessary to press the chin firmly on the strings to keep that miserable bonnet on at all. And besides these advantages it would be much cheaper, for she had heard her mother say that Miss Griggs’ things were so expensive; “but then,” Mrs Hawthorn had added, “the best of them is that they do last.” Pennie thought that decidedly “the worst” of them, for she and Nancy would have to wear those bonnets for at least two winters before they showed any signs of wearing out—indeed, they had been made rather large in the head on purpose.
But it was of no use to think about it any more now, so with a little sigh she turned away and went back to her dolls, prepared to treat the ugly one, Jemima, with even more than usual severity. Jemima was the oldest doll of the lot, made of a sort of papier-maché; her hair was painted black and arranged in short fat curls; her face, from frequent washing and punishment, had become of a leaden hue, and was full of dents and bruises; her nose was quite flat, and she had lost one arm; in her best days she had been plain, but she was now hideous. And no wonder! Poor Jemima had been through enough trials to mar the finest beauty. She had been the victim at so many scenes of torture and executions that there was scarcely a noted sufferer in the whole of the History of England whom she had not, at some time or other, represented. To be burnt alive was quite a common thing to Jemima, and sometimes, descending from the position of martyr to that of criminal, she was hanged as a murderer! In an unusually bloodthirsty moment Ambrose had once suggested really putting out her eyes with red-hot gauffering-irons, but this was overruled, and Jemima’s eyes, pale blue and quite expressionless, continued to stare placidly on the stake, gibbet, or block, as the case might be.
It was a relief to Pennie just now to cuff and scold Jemima, and to pet the Lady Dulcibella, who was a wax doll with a lovely pink and white complexion, and real golden hair and eyelashes. She had everything befitting a doll of her station and appearance—a comfortable bed with white curtains, an arm-chair with a chintz cushion, private brushes and combs, and an elegant travelling trunk. Her life altogether was a contrast to Jemima’s, who never went to bed at all, and had no possessions except one ragged old red dress; nevertheless, it is possible that Dulcibella with all her elegance would have been the more easily spared of the two.
Nancy soon joined Pennie, and the little girls became so absorbed in their play that they were still busy when tea-time came; they hurried down-stairs to the schoolroom, for Miss Grey was particular about punctuality, and found that David and Ambrose were already seated, each with his own special mug at his side; mother was in the room too, talking to Miss Grey about an open letter which she held in her hand.
Mrs Hawthorn always paid the children a visit at schoolroom tea, and they generally had something wonderful to tell her saved up for this occasion—things which had occurred during their walk, or perhaps exciting details about the various pet animals. Sometimes she in her turn had news for them, and when Pennie saw the open letter she changed her intention of saying that the bonnets had come home, and waited quietly. Perhaps mother had something interesting to tell.
Pennie was right, for Mrs Hawthorn presently made an announcement of such a startling character that the new bonnets sank at once into insignificance.
“Children,” she said, “a little girl is coming to stay with you.”
Now such a thing had never happened before, and it was so astonishing that they all stared at their mother in silence with half-uplifted mugs, and slices of bread and butter in their hands. Then all at once they began to pour forth a torrent of questions:— What is she like? Where does she live? How old is she? What is her name?
Mrs Hawthorn held up her hand.
“One at a time,” she said. “If you will be quiet you shall hear all about it. This little girl lives in London. Her mother is a very old friend of mine, though you have never seen her, and I have asked her to let her little daughter come here for a visit. She is about Pennie’s age, and her name is Ethelwyn.”
“What a long one!” said Nancy; “must we call her all of it?”
“I think it’s a beautiful name,” said Pennie. “Almost as good as ‘Dulcibella.’ And then we might call her ‘Ethel,’ or ‘Winnie,’ they’re both pretty.”
“Well, you can settle that afterwards,” said their mother. “You must wait and see what she likes best to be called. And that reminds me to say that I hope my children will be hospitable to their guest. Do you know what that means?”
“I know,” said Ambrose, gulping a piece of bread and butter very quickly in his haste to be first. “Let me say. It means taking care of people when they’re ill.”
“Not quite right,” said Mrs Hawthorn. “You are thinking of ‘hospital,’ which is a different thing, though both words come from the same idea; can you tell, Pennie?”
“It means being kind, doesn’t it?” said Pennie.
“It means something more than that. What do you say, Davie?”
“Always to give her the biggest piece,” said David, with his eyes thoughtfully fixed on the pile of bread and butter.
Nancy was then appealed to, but she always refused to apply her mind out of lesson hours, and only shook her head.
“Well,” said Mrs Hawthorn, “I think Davie’s explanation is about the best, for hospitality does mean giving our friends the best we have. But it means something more, for you might give Ethelwyn the biggest piece of everything, and yet she might not enjoy her visit at all. But if you try to make her happy in the way she likes best, and consider her amusement and comfort before your own, you will be hospitable, and I shall be very pleased with you all. I expect, however, she will be chiefly Pennie and Nancy’s companion, because, as she has no brothers and sisters, she may not care about the games you all play together. She has not been used to boys, and might find them a little rough and noisy.”
Pennie drew herself up a little. It would be rather nice to have a friend of her very own, and already she saw herself Ethelwyn’s sole support and adviser.
The children continued to ask questions until there was nothing else to be learnt about Ethelwyn, and she was made the subject of conversation after their mother left the room, and until tea was over. They made various plans for the amusement of the expected guest.
“I can show her my pig,” said David.
“And the rabbits and the jackdaw and the owl,” added Ambrose.
“Oh, I don’t suppose she’ll care at all about such common things as pigs and rabbits,” said Pennie rather scornfully, for the very name of Ethelwyn had a sort of superior sound.
“Then she’ll be a stupid,” said Ambrose.
“Owdacious,” added David.
“Davie,” said Miss Grey, “where did you hear that word?”
“Andrew says it,” answered David triumphantly; “he says Antony grows owdacious.”
A lively argument followed, for David could not be brought to understand for some time why Andrew’s expressions were not equally fit for little boys and gardeners. Ethelwyn was for the time forgotten by everyone except Pennie, who continued to think about her all that evening. Indeed, for days afterwards her mind was full of nothing else; she wondered what she was like, and how she would talk, and she had Ethelwyn so much on the brain that she could not keep her out of her head even in lesson time. She came floating across the pages of the History of England while Pennie was reading aloud, and caused her to make strange mistakes in the names of the Saxon kings.
“Ethelbert, not Ethelwyn, Pennie,” Miss Grey would say for the twentieth time, and then with a little impatient shake Pennie would wake up from her day-dreams, and try to fix her mind on the matter in hand. But it was really difficult, for those kings seemed to follow each other so fast, and to do so much the same things, and even to have names so much alike, that it was almost impossible to have clear ideas about them. Pennie’s attention soon wandered away again to a more attractive subject: Ethelwyn! it was certainly a nice name to have, and seemed to mean all sorts of interesting things; how small and poor the name of Pennie sounded after it! shortened to Pen, as it was sometimes, it was worse still. No doubt Ethelwyn would be pretty. She would have long yellow hair, Pennie decided, not plaited up in a pig-tail like her own and Nancy’s, but falling over her shoulders in a nice fluffy way like the Lady Dulcibella’s. Pennie often felt sorry that there was no fluffiness at all about her hair, or that of her brothers and sisters; their heads all looked so neat and tight, and indeed they could not do otherwise under Nurse’s vigorous treatment, for she went on the principle that anything rough was untidy. Even Dickie’s hair, which wanted to curl, was sternly checked, and kept closely cropped like a boy’s; it was only Cicely’s that was allowed at present to do as it liked and wave about in soft little rings of gold.
Pennie made her plans and thought her thoughts, and often went to bed with Ethelwyn’s imaginary figure so strongly before her that she had wonderful dreams. Ethelwyn took the shape of the “Fair One with the Golden Locks,” in the fairy book, and stood before her with yellow hair quite down to her feet—beautiful, gracious, smiling. Even in the daylight Pennie could not quite get rid of the idea, and so, long before she had seen her, the name of Ethelwyn came to mean, in her romantic little mind, everything that was lovely and desirable.
And at last Ethelwyn came. It was an exciting moment, for the children were so unused to strangers that they were prepared to look upon their visitor with deep curiosity. They were nevertheless shy, and it had occurred to David and Nancy that the cupboard under the stairs would be a favourable position from which to take cautious observations when she arrived.
Ambrose, therefore, and Pennie were the only two ready to receive their guest, for Dickie was busy with her own affairs in the nursery; they waited in the schoolroom with nervous impatience, and presently the drawing-room bell rang twice, which was always a signal that the children were wanted.
“That’s for us,” said Pennie. “Come, Ambrose.”
But Ambrose held back. “You go,” he said. “Mother doesn’t want me.”
And Pennie, after trying a few persuasions, was obliged to go alone. But when she got to the door and heard voices inside the room she found it difficult to go in, and stood on the mat for some minutes before she could make up her mind to turn the handle. She looked down at her pinafore and saw that it was a good deal crumpled, and an unlucky ink-spot stared at her like a little black eye in the very middle of it; surely, too, Nurse had drawn back her hair more tightly than usual from her face. Altogether she felt unequal to meeting the unknown but elegant Ethelwyn.
It must be done, however, and at last she turned the handle quickly and went into the room. Mrs Hawthorn was sitting by the fire, and in front of her stood a little girl. Her hair was fluffy and yellow, just as Pennie had thought, and hung down her back in nice waves escaping from the prettiest possible quilted bonnet (how different from that black plush one upstairs!) This was dark blue like her dress, and she carried a dear little quilted muff to match. Her features were neat and straight, and her large violet eyes had long lashes curling upwards; there was really quite a striking likeness between her face and the Lady Dulcibella’s, except that the cheeks of the latter were bright pink, and Ethelwyn was delicately pale.
Pennie noticed all this as she advanced slowly up the room, deeply conscious of the crumpled pinafore and the ink-spot.
“This is Pennie,” said her mother, and Ethelwyn immediately held out her hand, and said, “How do you do?” in rather a prim voice and without any shyness at all.
“Now I shall give Ethelwyn into your care, Pennie,” continued Mrs Hawthorn. “You may take her into the garden and show her the pets, or if she likes it better you may go upstairs and play with your dolls. Make her as happy as you can, and I shall see you all again at tea-time.”
The two little girls left the room together, and Pennie led the way silently to the garden, giving furtive glances now and then at her visitor. She felt sure that Ethelwyn would be surprised and pleased, because mother had said that in London people seldom had gardens; but her companion made no remark at all, and Pennie put the question which had been a good deal on her mind:
“What do you like to be called?”
“My name’s Ethelwyn,” said the little girl.
“Yes, I know,” said Pennie. “Mother told us. But I mean, what are you called for short?”
“I’m always called Ethelwyn. Father and mother don’t approve of names being shortened.”
“Oh!” said Pennie deeply impressed. Then feeling it necessary to assert herself, she added: “My name’s Penelope Mary Hawthorn; but I’m always called Pennie, and sometimes the children call me Pen.”
Ethelwyn made no answer; she was attentively observing Pennie’s blue serge frock, and presently asked:
“What’s your best dress?”
“It’s the same as this,” said Pennie, looking down at it meekly, “only newer.”
“Mine’s velveteen,” said Ethelwyn, “the new shade, you know—a sort of mouse colour. Nurse says I look like a picture in it. Do you always wear pinafores?”
Before Pennie had time to answer they had arrived at the Wilderness, and were now joined by Nancy and the two boys, who came shyly forward to shake hands.
“These are our gardens,” said Pennie, doing the honours of the Wilderness; “that’s mine, and that’s Dickie’s, and the well belongs to the others. They dug it themselves.”
Ethelwyn looked round, with her little pointed nose held rather high in the air:
“Why don’t you keep it neater?” she said. “What an untidy place!”
It was a blow to Pennie to 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.