“I want you, father,” she spoke in a tremulous voice—“I want you to come into the study the very minute you get home. I have something to say to you.”
Mr Carter turned round and gazed at Pen in surprise.
“Have you been ill?” he asked. “Why didn’t you go with the others to Whitby?”
“I’ll tell you when we get in the study.”
He looked at her again, and a frown came between his brows. He did not know why he was suddenly reminded of young Hanson and of Betty Wren, but he was. Oh, of course it was all nonsense, his little Pen—and yet she kept her face averted.
Presently they reached the house. Her father helped her out of the carriage.
“Now, come along, child,” he said with a sort of gentle roughness. “I guess by your manner that you have got into a bit of a scrape. I cannot make out what it is, but you are right to come to the old father; the old father will help you, if he can. What on earth are you trembling for?”
“Oh, come at once to the study, father.”
Pen pulled him along. He was tired, he had gone through a hard day; he wanted his customary cup of tea; he wanted to go into the garden and talk to Archer. He loved his garden, he enjoyed counting his peaches and gloating over his fruit trees, and considering how he could make more and more money out of the old place. He was terribly keen about money making. He was interested in money, it was a power, and he meant to have it whatever else he failed in.
But there was Pen, why had she not gone with the others to Whitby? Something ailed her; she was his youngest. He was fonder of Penelope than of any of his other children, except Jim. Jim, of course, was altogether on a different platform; there was no one like Jim in the world. It was worth struggling hard to make a fortune for a boy like Jim.