"It is not fair to speak to Esther like that, Miss Row," she said reproachfully. "It was by accident she came to know Mademoiselle Leperier, and Mademoiselle asked her to go again, or she wouldn't have gone, for Esther knew she did not want to have strange visitors—she told her so. She said she didn't want any one to know she was living here, for she was not strong enough to have visitors, or to go anywhere. Esther ought not to have said anything about her, and she was frightened when she had; but when she had, she had to tell you—about—about not going there."
Miss Row was not in the frame of mind to be reasonable. She felt she was in the wrong, and that made her the more cross. "Well, Penelope," she said icily, "I did not expect to be spoken to like this by you, after all I have done for you, too. I did expect civility and some gratitude in return, I must confess; but I find I have been grossly mistaken in you."
Penelope started, and her face flushed crimson.
"I suppose," went on Miss Row, turning to Mr. Somerset, "I was foolish to expect it from children brought up as they were." Then turning to Penelope again—"Esther's unfortunate temper one has grown accustomed to; but you—"
Penelope hung her head for a moment, overcome with mortification; then suddenly raising it she looked fearlessly, but wistfully, into Miss Row's angry eyes. "I wish you would understand," she said earnestly. "We neither of us mean to be rude or—or ungrateful." She stammered a little over the last word. "It was only Mademoiselle we were thinking of—and—and then you were unfair to Esther, and—and I couldn't bear that."
"And I can't bear rudeness," said Miss Row, beginning to move away. Her face was very red, and her eyes ugly. "Don't come to me again this week for a lesson," she said, turning round to face Penelope once more. "I—I don't want to see you for a while. When I do I will send for you."; and Miss Row walked away very quickly, chattering volubly all the way to her companion, while Penelope stood, stunned and wounded, scarcely able to believe her own ears.
For a few seconds she remained looking after the retreating pair, then turned, walked silently for a little distance, and suddenly dropped on the old brown turf in a passion of sobs.
For a moment Poppy gazed, too entirely astonished to know what to do. She could not remember when she had last seen Penelope weep; it happened so rarely. Flinging herself on the turf beside her, she threw her arms lovingly about her. "Don't cry, darling. Oh, Pen, don't cry," she pleaded. "It doesn't matter what that horrid old Miss Row says, and we all love you. Don't cry, dear." She was too young to comprehend what was hurting Penelope most—the words that rankled, and stung; the charge of ingratitude; the taunt; the throwing up to her of favours she had received—things no lady should ever permit herself to do.
Under the lash of it all Penelope sobbed on uncontrollably. When she did weep, she did weep—a perfect storm of tears that shook and exhausted her. Poppy grew frightened at the violence of her grief. There seemed to be something more here than she could understand. "Oh, where is Essie? Essie must come," she cried, raising herself on her knees and looking about for her sisters; but Esther and Angela were at some distance, walking slowly but steadily away, apparently absorbed in talk.
Poppy sighed a big sigh which sounded almost like a sob. "My poor little birthday," she murmured wistfully, "that I fought was going to be so lovely!"