PENELOPE.
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
Chapter III.
"Why, aunt," exclaimed Penelope, "what do you mean? Surely you can't have seen this screen of Lion's?"
"But I have, dearest," Miss Harleford said, dreamily. "I have seen this long ago—before you were born. Oh, Penny dear, it all comes back to me. This screen, I am sure, is one your own papa gave to Nora Phillips, an American girl who visited us at Baynham. Oh yes, love, I am sure of it, for we had such a discussion about it; and don't you suppose I would know my dear brother's painting? I was looking over his shoulder half the time he was putting in those letters—'Penelope.' Dear, you were named Penelope, I believe, for her sake. Your mother was very fond of the name, and when it was suggested, your father remembered pretty Nora. Well! well!"
"But she was not Penelope," said the girl, wonderingly. "Oh, aunt, what does it all mean?"
"But we always called her Penelope in fun, because she was such an indefatigable little worker. Oh, what a darling she was, and how we all loved her!"
"But what became of her?"
"Well, my dear, you see, after she and her father went back to America, we rather lost sight of her—she and my mother had a little misunderstanding. It is all a long time ago, and your grandmamma and my dear brother are both dead. Nora may be gone as well, but I seem to see her now just as she stood, laughing gayly, with this screen in her hand. Oh, where can she be? Where did Lion find it? I feel as if I must know."
Penelope felt as if she would dearly like to solve the mystery of her cousin Lionel's present. She went back to the breakfast table very grave, and so preoccupied in manner that she had to explain herself at once; and then all the young people were fired by the story. What did it mean? Penny grew absolutely mournful trying to understand it, but it was finally resolved to write to Lionel, who, in a few weeks at least, would let them have the history of the screen, so far as he knew it. This was all that could be done at present.
Penelope and her aunt were only visitors at the Deanery. Their own home was ten miles distant from Nunsford. There Penny was mistress of a beautiful old home known as The Manor. Miss Harleford had been for years as a mother to the girl, and although her uncle, the Dean of Nunsford, was her legal guardian, she knew no heavier rule than the gentle old lady's. If there could be needed a complete contrast to poor Nora Mayne, it might have been in the petted heiress of Harleford Manor. Every one tried his best to make her life happy, and I think only her natural loveliness of disposition saved Penelope from being completely spoiled.
The letter to Lionel Harleford, Penelope's second cousin, who had just gone to India, was dispatched at once, and for days Aunt Letty talked over old times with her brother and nieces. The Dean only half remembered the beautiful, bright American girl who had visited his mother's house, now Penelope's, twenty years before; but Miss Harleford recalled so many scenes to his memory that he was soon as eager about Lion's letter as the most romantic member of the family could desire. Many conjectures were put forth, many ideas suggested; but who could guess that not half a mile away the once light-hearted Nora Phillips lay poor and dying!
Meanwhile things continued to sink lower and lower with Nora and her mother, the worst feature of their case being the fact that kind-hearted Mrs. Bruce could no longer keep them; her son James had suddenly appeared, and declared himself horrified to find his mother keeping lodgers who could not pay their rent; and so, with many tears, poor Mrs. Bruce had broken this news to Mrs. Mayne.
"Of course we must go," said poor Nora, looking at the tender-hearted landlady with a white face and set lips. "Oh, Mrs. Bruce, I know it isn't your fault, and if the day comes when I can earn anything, you shall be paid."
Mrs. Bruce wept bitterly the day that saw Mrs. Mayne, still weak and ill, leave the house with Nora, whose brave heart was tried to its uttermost. Where were they to go? Nora could not be sure enough to tell even Mrs. Bruce. She had sold the last of their wardrobe that morning, and as Mrs. Bruce refused to take a penny from them, they started forth with money enough to pay somewhere for a week's lodging.
"I will try to let you know where we are, Mrs. Bruce, as soon as possible," said Nora, turning back with a weary smile as they were leaving.
Mrs. Bruce wiped her eyes, and vented her feelings upon James, her tall, vulgarly dressed son, who was gazing with great satisfaction upon the lodgers' departure.
"You good-for-nothing creature!" exclaimed his mother, angrily indignant.
Mr. James Bruce smiled sarcastically. He did not share any of his mother's compassion for forlorn lodgers.
"Never you mind, mother," he said. "You'll thank me one of these days."
Days passed with no tidings from the Maynes. Mrs. Bruce could not forget her lodgers, and Nora's face, as she had seen it last, haunted her painfully. Where were they? Had the mother died? Was Nora ill? Were they starving? These and many other conjectures tormented the poor woman as the days lengthened into weeks, and no sign was made by mother or daughter. Many times Mrs. Bruce's tears fell over her wools when she was alone in the shop, and recalled the December evening Nora had served there, uniting so much sweet good-humor with her refined, lady-like ways, which had from the first captivated the heart of the simple-minded country-woman. Mrs. Bruce had a small assistant now in the person of a niece, and this young woman was never tired of hearing about Miss Mayne. She was listening to one of her aunt's stories as they sat over the fire in the shop one February day, when she suddenly exclaimed:
"Law, aunt, there's Miss Penelope Harleford in the Deanery carriage—coming in here, too!" and there, sure enough, was bright Miss Penny, in a long fur cloak, and a pretty felt hat shading her sweet young face. "A picter," as Mrs. Bruce said, "worth taking down." Young Miss Harleford came hurrying in, looking very eager and interested.
"I've come to inquire for some one who sold a screen here, Mrs. Bruce," said the young lady, cheerfully. "My cousin, Mr. Lionel Harleford, bought it here in December—a young lady sold it to him."
"Land, miss!" cried Mrs. Bruce, "so she did, my poor pretty! I wish I knew where she was now—she and her mother."
Penelope looked dismayed.
"And you don't know!" she exclaimed.
"I wish I did," repeated Mrs. Bruce. "Mary Jane and I was just talking of her. Gone, poor lamb, she and her mother, and I know nothing of them."
And Mrs. Bruce proceeded to detail the history of Nora and her mother, so far as she knew it. The sad, simple story left no doubt upon Penelope's mind as to who they were.
"Nora Phillips," she said to herself. "Yes, she was Mrs. Mayne, I feel sure, and so near us!"
"PENELOPE—IS IT PENELOPE?"—Drawn by E. A. Abbey.
She confided a few facts only to Mrs. Bruce, and then sorrowfully drove back to the Deanery, where she and Aunt Letty held a long confab in the twilight. What could be done? Aunt Letty cried, and Penelope shook her head sadly, but she declared that she would not give up the search suggested in so strange a manner that it seemed her duty to continue it. Could Penelope and her aunt have seen Nora at that moment, I fear they would have gone to rest with a bitterer heart-ache.
Afternoon service was over the next day at the abbey church, yet Penelope lingered with little Joe, loitering down the path, where the snow still lay white on the ground, talking to the little boy about the service, which that day had peculiarly impressed her. She was thinking of Nora Mayne, recalling Mrs. Bruce's description of the sweet young girl whose life was so heavily burdened.
"And I," thought Penny, with a shamefaced color—"I have everything, and yet how cross and selfish I am!"
"Penelope! Penelope!" cried out little Joe, pulling at her hand; "see those sparrows—do they mind the snow?"
And at this moment Penny heard what she thought the echo of her name.
"Penelope," said a strange voice; there was a faint, despairing ring in it.
Penelope stood still, turning her head quickly in the direction of the unfamiliar voice. Standing in the side path was a girl's figure; the hands were tremblingly clasped together, the face, thin and pale, eagerly watching her.
"Penelope—is it Penelope?" said the tired voice again. "Oh, was it for you he bought the screen?"
And in a moment more Nora Mayne felt her hands fast imprisoned in young Miss Harleford's. There were tears running down the English girl's cheeks.
"Oh, Nora," she said, joyfully, "I am so thankful to have found you!"