Penelope and the Others by Amy Walton (best e book reader android .TXT) π
Excerpt from the book:
This is another story by Amy Walton about life in the English countryside towards the end of the nineteenth century. It is a sequel to "The Hawthorns", except that, for some reason, the name has become "Hawthorne".
On the whole the principal dramatis personae, the Hawthorne household, are unchanged. The additions are Miss Barnicroft, an eccentric old lady from the village; Kettles, an impoverished child from Nearminster, the cathedral city close by; Dr Budge, a learned old man in the village, who takes on the grounding of one of the boys in Latin; Mrs Margetts, who had spent her life in the Hawthorne family's employment as a children's nurse; the Dean of the Cathedral and his family, particularly Sabine, who is the same age as Pennie; and Dr Budge's pet Jackdaw.
There is no reason why a child of today should not read this story and profit by it. They will perhaps be surprised to find how much more civilised life was a hundred years ago and more, than it is today
On the whole the principal dramatis personae, the Hawthorne household, are unchanged. The additions are Miss Barnicroft, an eccentric old lady from the village; Kettles, an impoverished child from Nearminster, the cathedral city close by; Dr Budge, a learned old man in the village, who takes on the grounding of one of the boys in Latin; Mrs Margetts, who had spent her life in the Hawthorne family's employment as a children's nurse; the Dean of the Cathedral and his family, particularly Sabine, who is the same age as Pennie; and Dr Budge's pet Jackdaw.
There is no reason why a child of today should not read this story and profit by it. They will perhaps be surprised to find how much more civilised life was a hundred years ago and more, than it is today
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and her grey eyes flickered uncertainly beneath well-marked brows. Although she was not more than middle-aged her hair was snowy white, and sometimes escaping here and there in stray locks from her head-dress, added to the strangeness of her appearance. Miss Barnicroft was indeed quite unlike other people; her very food was different, for she lived on vegetables and drank goat's milk. It was even whispered that she did not sleep in a bed, but in a hammock slung up to the ceiling.
Nothing could be more interesting than all this, but the children did not see her very often, for she went out seldom and never came to church. Occasionally, however, she paid a visit to the Vicarage, when she would ask for the vicar and carry on a very long conversation with him on all manner of subjects, darting from one to the other with most confusing speed. Mr Hawthorne did not appreciate these visits very much, but the children were always pleasantly excited by them. When, therefore, Nancy caught sight of Miss Barnicroft proceeding up the drive she abruptly left the subject of Kettles' boots and stockings, and lost no time in pointing out the visitor to her mother.
"I expect Miss Barnicroft wants to see your father," said Mrs Hawthorne.
And so indeed it proved, for by the time they reached the door Miss Barnicroft had been shown into the study, and to their great disappointment the girls saw her no more.
Ambrose, however, was more fortunate, for it chanced that afternoon that he had been excused some of his lessons on account of a headache, and at that very moment was lying flat on the hearth-rug in his father's study with a book. He was afraid, on the visitor's entrance, that he would be sent away, but was soon relieved to find that no notice was taken of him, so that he was able to see and hear all that passed. What a lucky chance! and what a lot he would have to tell the others!
At first the conversation was not interesting, for it was about some question of taxation which he did not understand; but suddenly dropping this, Miss Barnicroft began to tell a story of some white owls who lived in the keep of a castle in Scotland. Just as the point of this history was reached she dropped that too, and asked, casting a lofty and careless glance down at Ambrose:
"Is that one of your children?"
"That is my eldest boy," said the vicar. "Come and speak to Miss Barnicroft, Ambrose."
"Ah!" said Miss Barnicroft with a coldly disapproving look as Ambrose shyly advanced, "I don't like boys."
"How is that?" asked Mr Hawthorne.
"They grow to be men," she answered with a shudder, "and even while they are young there is no barbarity of which they are not capable. I could believe anything of a boy."
"Dear me!" said the vicar, smiling, "that is very severe; I hope all boys are not so bad as that!"
"It is greatly, I believe, owing to the unnatural manner in which they are fed," she continued, turning away from Ambrose. "Most wickedness comes from eating meat. Violence, and cruelty, and bloodthirstiness would vanish if men lived on fruit and vegetables."
"Do you think so?" said the vicar mildly; "but women are not as a rule cruel and bloodthirsty, and they eat meat too."
"Women are naturally better than men, and it does not do them so much harm; but they would be still better without it. It makes them selfish and gross," said Miss Barnicroft.
Mr Hawthorne never encouraged his visitor to argue long on this subject, which somehow crept into all her conversations, however far-away from it they might begin. So he merely bowed his head in silence.
Miss Barnicroft rose with an air of having settled the question, but suddenly sat down again and said with a short laugh:
"By the way, you have thieves in your parish."
"Really! I hope not," said the vicar.
Ambrose, who had retired to his former position on the rug, began to listen intently. This sounded interesting.
"A month ago," she continued, "I put away some gold pieces for which I had no use, and they have been stolen."
"Did you lock them up?" asked Mr Hawthorne.
"I did a safer thing than that," said Miss Barnicroft, laughing contemptuously; "I buried them."
"In your garden?"
"No. I put them into a honey-jar and buried it in what, I believe, is called the Roman Camp, not far from my house."
The words, spoken in Miss Barnicroft's clear cold tones, fell icily on Ambrose's ear, and seemed to turn him to stone. He and David were thieves! It was no antique vessel they had discovered, but a common honey-pot; no Roman coins, but Miss Barnicroft's money. If only he had done as David wished, and told his father long ago!
He clasped his hands closely over his scarlet face and listened for the vicar's answer.
"I don't think you chose a very safe place to hide your money," he said. "Gypsies and pedlars and tramps are constantly passing over Rumborough Common. Someone probably saw you bury it there."
"I am more inclined to think that it was stolen by someone in the parish," said Miss Barnicroft. "They were French napoleons," she added.
"Then you see they would be of no use to anyone living here, for they could not change them. They were more likely to be dug up by some of the gypsy people who so often camp about there, and are now far enough from Easney."
It was truly dreadful to Ambrose to hear his father talk in that calm soothing tone, and to imagine how he would feel if he knew that his own son Ambrose had taken Miss Barnicroft's money, and that the hateful little crock of gold was at that very moment lying quite near him in David's garden. His heart beat so fast that the sound of it seemed to fill the room. Would Miss Barnicroft never go away? He longed and yet dreaded to hear her say good-bye; for after that only one course was before him--confession.
But she remained some time longer, for she was not at all satisfied to have the matter treated so quietly. She tried to impress upon Mr Hawthorne that it was his duty to make a thorough inquiry amongst his people, for she felt certain, she said with an air of conviction which made Ambrose tremble, that her money was somewhere in Easney.
"I should advise you in future, Miss Barnicroft," said the vicar when she at last took her departure, "to bring me anything you wish taken care of--it would be safer here than burying it. And there's the bank, you know, in Nearminster. I should be glad to take any money there for you at any time."
"You are very kind," she answered with an airy toss of the feathers and ribbons on her head, "but no banks for me. Banks fail."
She flitted out of the room, followed by Mr Hawthorne, and Ambrose was alone. Now, in a minute, he would have to tell his father. There was the hall-door shutting; there was his step coming back. How should he begin?
"Well, my boy," said the vicar, "how's the head? Not much better, I'm afraid. You look quite flushed. You'd better go to your mother now; she's just come in."
He sat down and lifted his pen to go on with a letter. Ambrose got up from the rug and stood irresolute by the door. He tried to say "Father," but no voice came, and Mr Hawthorne did not look round or ask what he wanted. It made it so much worse that he did not notice or suspect anything.
"I can't do it now," said Ambrose to himself, "I must tell David first."
Lessons were only just over in the school-room, and he found David putting away his books, while Pennie and Nancy, still with their hats and cloaks on, were talking very fast about all they had seen and done in Nearminster. How happy they looked! They had nothing dreadful on their minds. It made Ambrose all the more anxious to have someone to bear his secret with him, and he went softly up to David and said in a low voice:
"I want to speak to you."
"All right!" said David rather unwillingly, for he wanted to hear more about Nearminster and Kettles.
"Not here," whispered Ambrose. "Upstairs--in the museum. It's very important."
David turned and looked at his brother. Ambrose's cheeks were scarlet, his eyes had a scared expression, and his hair was sticking up in spikes as if he had been running his hands through it.
At these certain signs of excitement David at once concluded that something had happened. He hastily thrust away his last books, and the two boys left the school-room.
"Is it a ghost?" he asked as they ran up the flight of stairs leading to the museum.
"Much worse," returned Ambrose. "It's something real. It's awful."
The museum looked bare and cold, and rather dusty, as if it had been neglected lately; its deal shelves with their large white labels and wide empty spaces seemed to gape hungrily--a cheerless place altogether, with nothing comfortable or encouraging about it.
The boys sat down facing each other on two boxes, and Ambrose at once began his story. Alarming as the news was, he had a faint hope while he was telling it that David might not think it so bad as he did. David always took things calmly, and his matter-of-fact way of looking at them was often a support to Ambrose, whose imagination made him full of fears. So now when he had finished he looked wistfully at his brother and said, in a tone full of awe:
"Should you think we really are _thieves_?"
David's blue eyes got very large and round, but before answering this question he put another: "What can they do to thieves?"
"Put them in prison, and make them work hard for ever so long," replied Ambrose. "They used to hang them," he added gloomily.
"I don't believe father would let them put us in prison," said David.
"He couldn't help it," said Ambrose. "Nobody's father can. Don't you remember when Giles Brown stole a silver mug, his father walked ten miles to ask them to let him off, and they wouldn't?"
"Well, but,"--said David, feeling that there was a difference between the two cases--"he stole a thing out of a house, and we didn't; and his father was a hedger and ditcher, and our father is vicar of Easney."
"That wouldn't matter," said Ambrose. "It would depend on Miss Barnicroft. She wouldn't let us off. She said she couldn't bear boys. She'd be glad to have us punished."
He rested his chin on his hand and stared forlornly on the ground.
"It's telling father I mind most," he added presently, "much more than going to prison."
But here David disagreed. He thought it would be dreadful to go to prison.
"I suppose," he said, "we should be shut up in different cells, and only have bread and water.
Nothing could be more interesting than all this, but the children did not see her very often, for she went out seldom and never came to church. Occasionally, however, she paid a visit to the Vicarage, when she would ask for the vicar and carry on a very long conversation with him on all manner of subjects, darting from one to the other with most confusing speed. Mr Hawthorne did not appreciate these visits very much, but the children were always pleasantly excited by them. When, therefore, Nancy caught sight of Miss Barnicroft proceeding up the drive she abruptly left the subject of Kettles' boots and stockings, and lost no time in pointing out the visitor to her mother.
"I expect Miss Barnicroft wants to see your father," said Mrs Hawthorne.
And so indeed it proved, for by the time they reached the door Miss Barnicroft had been shown into the study, and to their great disappointment the girls saw her no more.
Ambrose, however, was more fortunate, for it chanced that afternoon that he had been excused some of his lessons on account of a headache, and at that very moment was lying flat on the hearth-rug in his father's study with a book. He was afraid, on the visitor's entrance, that he would be sent away, but was soon relieved to find that no notice was taken of him, so that he was able to see and hear all that passed. What a lucky chance! and what a lot he would have to tell the others!
At first the conversation was not interesting, for it was about some question of taxation which he did not understand; but suddenly dropping this, Miss Barnicroft began to tell a story of some white owls who lived in the keep of a castle in Scotland. Just as the point of this history was reached she dropped that too, and asked, casting a lofty and careless glance down at Ambrose:
"Is that one of your children?"
"That is my eldest boy," said the vicar. "Come and speak to Miss Barnicroft, Ambrose."
"Ah!" said Miss Barnicroft with a coldly disapproving look as Ambrose shyly advanced, "I don't like boys."
"How is that?" asked Mr Hawthorne.
"They grow to be men," she answered with a shudder, "and even while they are young there is no barbarity of which they are not capable. I could believe anything of a boy."
"Dear me!" said the vicar, smiling, "that is very severe; I hope all boys are not so bad as that!"
"It is greatly, I believe, owing to the unnatural manner in which they are fed," she continued, turning away from Ambrose. "Most wickedness comes from eating meat. Violence, and cruelty, and bloodthirstiness would vanish if men lived on fruit and vegetables."
"Do you think so?" said the vicar mildly; "but women are not as a rule cruel and bloodthirsty, and they eat meat too."
"Women are naturally better than men, and it does not do them so much harm; but they would be still better without it. It makes them selfish and gross," said Miss Barnicroft.
Mr Hawthorne never encouraged his visitor to argue long on this subject, which somehow crept into all her conversations, however far-away from it they might begin. So he merely bowed his head in silence.
Miss Barnicroft rose with an air of having settled the question, but suddenly sat down again and said with a short laugh:
"By the way, you have thieves in your parish."
"Really! I hope not," said the vicar.
Ambrose, who had retired to his former position on the rug, began to listen intently. This sounded interesting.
"A month ago," she continued, "I put away some gold pieces for which I had no use, and they have been stolen."
"Did you lock them up?" asked Mr Hawthorne.
"I did a safer thing than that," said Miss Barnicroft, laughing contemptuously; "I buried them."
"In your garden?"
"No. I put them into a honey-jar and buried it in what, I believe, is called the Roman Camp, not far from my house."
The words, spoken in Miss Barnicroft's clear cold tones, fell icily on Ambrose's ear, and seemed to turn him to stone. He and David were thieves! It was no antique vessel they had discovered, but a common honey-pot; no Roman coins, but Miss Barnicroft's money. If only he had done as David wished, and told his father long ago!
He clasped his hands closely over his scarlet face and listened for the vicar's answer.
"I don't think you chose a very safe place to hide your money," he said. "Gypsies and pedlars and tramps are constantly passing over Rumborough Common. Someone probably saw you bury it there."
"I am more inclined to think that it was stolen by someone in the parish," said Miss Barnicroft. "They were French napoleons," she added.
"Then you see they would be of no use to anyone living here, for they could not change them. They were more likely to be dug up by some of the gypsy people who so often camp about there, and are now far enough from Easney."
It was truly dreadful to Ambrose to hear his father talk in that calm soothing tone, and to imagine how he would feel if he knew that his own son Ambrose had taken Miss Barnicroft's money, and that the hateful little crock of gold was at that very moment lying quite near him in David's garden. His heart beat so fast that the sound of it seemed to fill the room. Would Miss Barnicroft never go away? He longed and yet dreaded to hear her say good-bye; for after that only one course was before him--confession.
But she remained some time longer, for she was not at all satisfied to have the matter treated so quietly. She tried to impress upon Mr Hawthorne that it was his duty to make a thorough inquiry amongst his people, for she felt certain, she said with an air of conviction which made Ambrose tremble, that her money was somewhere in Easney.
"I should advise you in future, Miss Barnicroft," said the vicar when she at last took her departure, "to bring me anything you wish taken care of--it would be safer here than burying it. And there's the bank, you know, in Nearminster. I should be glad to take any money there for you at any time."
"You are very kind," she answered with an airy toss of the feathers and ribbons on her head, "but no banks for me. Banks fail."
She flitted out of the room, followed by Mr Hawthorne, and Ambrose was alone. Now, in a minute, he would have to tell his father. There was the hall-door shutting; there was his step coming back. How should he begin?
"Well, my boy," said the vicar, "how's the head? Not much better, I'm afraid. You look quite flushed. You'd better go to your mother now; she's just come in."
He sat down and lifted his pen to go on with a letter. Ambrose got up from the rug and stood irresolute by the door. He tried to say "Father," but no voice came, and Mr Hawthorne did not look round or ask what he wanted. It made it so much worse that he did not notice or suspect anything.
"I can't do it now," said Ambrose to himself, "I must tell David first."
Lessons were only just over in the school-room, and he found David putting away his books, while Pennie and Nancy, still with their hats and cloaks on, were talking very fast about all they had seen and done in Nearminster. How happy they looked! They had nothing dreadful on their minds. It made Ambrose all the more anxious to have someone to bear his secret with him, and he went softly up to David and said in a low voice:
"I want to speak to you."
"All right!" said David rather unwillingly, for he wanted to hear more about Nearminster and Kettles.
"Not here," whispered Ambrose. "Upstairs--in the museum. It's very important."
David turned and looked at his brother. Ambrose's cheeks were scarlet, his eyes had a scared expression, and his hair was sticking up in spikes as if he had been running his hands through it.
At these certain signs of excitement David at once concluded that something had happened. He hastily thrust away his last books, and the two boys left the school-room.
"Is it a ghost?" he asked as they ran up the flight of stairs leading to the museum.
"Much worse," returned Ambrose. "It's something real. It's awful."
The museum looked bare and cold, and rather dusty, as if it had been neglected lately; its deal shelves with their large white labels and wide empty spaces seemed to gape hungrily--a cheerless place altogether, with nothing comfortable or encouraging about it.
The boys sat down facing each other on two boxes, and Ambrose at once began his story. Alarming as the news was, he had a faint hope while he was telling it that David might not think it so bad as he did. David always took things calmly, and his matter-of-fact way of looking at them was often a support to Ambrose, whose imagination made him full of fears. So now when he had finished he looked wistfully at his brother and said, in a tone full of awe:
"Should you think we really are _thieves_?"
David's blue eyes got very large and round, but before answering this question he put another: "What can they do to thieves?"
"Put them in prison, and make them work hard for ever so long," replied Ambrose. "They used to hang them," he added gloomily.
"I don't believe father would let them put us in prison," said David.
"He couldn't help it," said Ambrose. "Nobody's father can. Don't you remember when Giles Brown stole a silver mug, his father walked ten miles to ask them to let him off, and they wouldn't?"
"Well, but,"--said David, feeling that there was a difference between the two cases--"he stole a thing out of a house, and we didn't; and his father was a hedger and ditcher, and our father is vicar of Easney."
"That wouldn't matter," said Ambrose. "It would depend on Miss Barnicroft. She wouldn't let us off. She said she couldn't bear boys. She'd be glad to have us punished."
He rested his chin on his hand and stared forlornly on the ground.
"It's telling father I mind most," he added presently, "much more than going to prison."
But here David disagreed. He thought it would be dreadful to go to prison.
"I suppose," he said, "we should be shut up in different cells, and only have bread and water.
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