PENELOPE.
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
Chapter II.
To any one unaccustomed to serving in a shop the duties seem very perplexing. Left alone, Nora sat down behind the counter feeling decidedly confused by the novelty of her position. There was a glare of gas-light in the window above the fancy articles, and Nora watched the faces of the passers-by who peered in, sometimes pausing for a more critical survey, sometimes hurrying on with absent-minded glances, but it seemed to her as if a real customer never would appear. Finally, with a rush of frosty air, a small boy appeared who wanted some needles; then a bevy of girls who had wools to match, and drove Nora wild with their questions. These were followed by a cross old gentleman, who had evidently been induced by his wife to match some silk, and who vented his ill-humor on poor little Nora, scolding her about the silk, and the change she made, and everything she tried to do for him. To his visit succeeded an interval of solitude, and then the pleasant figure of Mrs. Bruce came hurrying in, her face glowing from the night air, and a tempting parcel of Cambridge sausages in her hands.
"Now, my dear," said Mrs. Bruce, "what do you say to stopping another 'arf an hour, and then trying a bit of supper? Why, wot's on your mind?"
For Nora's face had suddenly colored.
"Dear Mrs. Bruce," she exclaimed, "I have such a favor to ask of you. You sell fancy articles, and I know we have one or two things that might fetch something. Oh, could I put them in your window?"
"Why, of course," said Mrs. Bruce, cheerily; "why not? Here, run and get them. I'll wait a minute."
Nora flew up stairs, but on reaching the upper room found her mother sleeping so peacefully she had not the heart to disturb her. But she felt sure her purpose could not be disapproved, and so she opened a small trunk, searching among their few possessions for the articles she had referred to. There was a sandal-wood box which Nora knew from childhood, in it were a few of Mrs. Mayne's girlish treasures, and opening this Nora drew out a pretty, old-fashioned hand screen, just such as fashion, tired of novelty, is bringing back to use. The faded colors, the delicate scent, the decoration, all would have made it valuable to the bric-à-brac collector of to-day. And there, painted fancifully across the back, was the name
Nora held the little screen carefully in her hands, puzzling over the name, unknown in her family she was sure, yet bringing back to her mind the wintry morning when she had seen the Deanery gate open, and that pretty, unknown "Penelope" come out in the clear crisp sunshine of the morning. "Oh, if she were only here to buy it!" thought Nora, hastening down stairs with her treasure. Mrs. Bruce approved highly of it.
"You see, people are buying the old things now," said the good woman. "So put it in the window, and we'll see what it will do."
THE OLD-FASHIONED HAND SCREEN.—Drawn by E. A. Abbey.
Nora tremblingly chose a place for the little screen. She tried to be very conscientious, and interfere with none of Mrs. Brace's wares, but she contrived to hang the screen so that the name "Penelope" shone in the glare of the gas. Then she sat down, feeling as if she were awaiting a Fate. People came and went; a few customers who were more troublesome than profitable; some of the hurrying glances were bestowed upon Nora's screen, but no one asked to examine it. The savory odors from Mrs. Bruce's kitchen were finding their way into the shop, making poor Nora hungrier than ever, when she noticed a tall young man in passing look critically at the screen, and then turn back, and finally open the door.
Nora's heart throbbed.
"Will you let me see that screen, miss, if you please?" he said, politely.
Nora unfastened it from the line with rather nervous fingers. The young gentleman held it up in the light, f examining it carefully. It was a moment of suspense that to Nora seemed an hour. Then she heard him say, half under his breath, "Penelope—queer—"
"Yes, sir," said Nora, earnestly; "it is an odd name. I don't know how it came there; it—" Then she stopped short, remembering there was no necessity for explanation to this stranger.
The young man seemed, however, scarcely to have heard what she had said. He continued his inspection of the quaint little screen, finally lifting his eyes with a look of amusement or pleasure in them, as he said:
"How much is this?—it is wonderfully good."
Nora hesitated.
"What do you think it is worth?" she asked, timidly.
The customer looked surprised.
"Is there no fixed price?" he asked.
"Oh, sir," exclaimed Nora, "it is mine, you see. Mrs. Bruce let me put it in the window. I—we—my mother—"
Her cheeks were crimson. She stopped, not knowing how to continue the explanation. The young man looked at her very kindly. Something in the care-worn little face, the pathetic eagerness of the eyes, told Nora's story.
"I think," said her customer—"I think it is worth about two pounds."[1]
Nora's eyes glistened. Two pounds! She could scarcely believe her senses. Was it possible!
"Oh!" she whispered. "Is it really—do you want it so much?"
The young man laughed good-naturedly.
"I want it very much," he answered. "I have a cousin named Penelope."
And almost before the young girl could realize her good fortune her customer was gone, the evidence that she was not dreaming being the two gold pieces shining in her hand.
Mrs. Bruce was delighted; but when Nora wished her to accept the money in payment for the room—the rent of which was long overdue—she stoutly refused. "Give me ten shillings," she said, busily making the change. "There, now. I've a cozy bit of supper ready for your mother, if you'll carry it up to her." A nice plate of mashed potatoes and steaming brown sausages was ready in the little parlor. Nora could hardly express her appreciation of the good woman's kindness. She carried the little tray up stairs with a grateful heart. Her mother was awake, and, putting down the supper, Nora hastened to tell her story; but to her surprise her mother listened in dismay.
"Oh, Nora!" exclaimed Mrs. Mayne. "What have you done, my darling? I would rather have parted with anything, before that little screen. It was my one relic of the past!"
Poor Nora! her heart swelled with grief. She was tired and worn with anxiety, and looking at her mother piteously she burst into a flood of tears.
The Deanery at Nunsford is a large old house full of beautiful rooms, each, it seems to me, setting the charms of the next at defiance. There is a wide long hall leading to the dining-room, with deep windows fronting the garden, and in winter-time their seats are always full of flowers: roses clambering against the old lattice-work panes; hyacinths filling the air with odors; and pots of yellow primroses, which so early star the borders of every Devonshire garden.
On a certain January morning one of these bright windows was made brighter still by the figure of a tall, brown-haired young lady who had stopped to open a parcel on her way to breakfast.
"Penelope—Penny!" called half a dozen voices further up the hall, where the Dean's children were grouped about the fire. "Do come; we won't go in to breakfast without you."
"I am coming," said Penelope, slowly. "I've got a birthday present from Lionel," she added. "Poor boy! he is far enough away now." And still looking at her gift, Penelope Harleford, the Dean's niece, made her way toward the eager little group just as the Dean himself appeared in the dining-room door.
"Lion has sent Penelope a present," said Joe, the youngest boy. "Look, papa; it is a funny old fan."
"No," said Penelope; "it is a hand screen, and it is so quaint and pretty."
And the little screen, which at that moment Nora Mayne would have given a great deal to possess again, was put into the Dean's hands.
"Mayn't I show it to Aunt Letitia before breakfast?" pleaded Penny, with a coaxing air. "I know she would be so interested in it; she dearly likes old things."
"As you like, dear," said the Dean, giving her blooming cheek a pinch. "Hurry back, though; we don't see so much of you, now that Aunt Letty is back again."
Pretty Miss Penny laughed and ran away, holding her treasure tightly, stopping half a minute in a bend of the old staircase to look at it again, and to whisper, "Poor dear Lion—poor Lion!" and then hurrying on to a door, before which she paused, knocking lightly.
The "Come in" was in a sweet low voice. Penelope opened the door leading into a beautiful room rich in color and arrangement. A crippled lady, the same Nora Mayne had seen carried to the Bath-chair, was seated near the window.
"Well, my love, have you breakfasted already?" said the lady, holding out a thin white hand.
"No, aunt," said Penelope, kneeling beside the invalid's chair; "but I want you to see Lion's birthday present to me. Poor boy! He put it up the night before he sailed for India. Isn't it charming?"
Miss Harleford, Penelope's aunt, took the screen rather carelessly in her hands, then she uttered a quick, sharp little cry.
"Penny," she exclaimed, "where did Lion get this? I have not seen it in over twenty years, but I remember it perfectly."