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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I think the sooner we tell father the better, because he'll think of some way to help us."
"I shall never be able to begin," said Ambrose despairingly.
"Well, you ought to," said David, "because you're older than me, and because you thought of the whole thing, and because I wanted to tell long ago, and because I did say when we found it that it was only an old honey-pot."
Far from being a comfort, every word David spoke seemed to add to the sharpness of Ambrose's misery, their very truth made them bitter.
"It's no good saying all that now," he cried impatiently. "Oh, I wish I was in bed and had told father!"
After a little consultation it was agreed that this must be done that very evening, directly after the school-room tea, when Mr Hawthorne was generally to be found alone in his study. If he should happen to be engaged, it must be put off till the next day.
"I hope he wont be," said David, as the boys went down-stairs together, "because it will be getting dark, and even if the lamp is lighted it will be much easier than telling it in the daylight."
But Ambrose, in his own heart, could not help a faint hope that their father might be too busy to speak to them that night. Anything to put off the confession. He dreaded it far more than David, partly because he was naturally more timid, and partly because he felt himself chiefly to blame in the whole affair, for David would certainly never have thought of the adventure unless his elder brother had suggested it. During tea-time, therefore, he found it impossible either to join in the conversation or to eat anything with this dreaded interview still before him.
Resting his hot cheek on his hand, he looked on with surprise at his brother's steady appetite, for David, perhaps feeling that this was the last comfortable meal he might enjoy for some time, munched away with his usual zeal, not forgetting to ask for the "burnt side" when his slice of cake was cut. It was hard to realise that all this might be changed on the morrow for a lonely cell, bread and water, and the deepest disgrace! Ambrose's headache was considered sufficient reason for his silence and want of appetite, and his sisters, finding that they could not even extract any news about Miss Barnicroft's visit from him, left him undisturbed to his moody misery.
Late that afternoon the vicar came in from a long ride to a distant part of his parish, threw himself into his easy-chair, and took up the newspaper for a little rest before dinner. At this hour he was generally secure from interruption, his day's work was over, the children were safe in the school-room, there was a comfortable half-hour before he need think of going upstairs. He was just rejoicing in the prospect of this repose when a little knock came at his door. It was a very little knock, one of many which Ambrose and David had already made so timidly that they could not be heard at all. With a patient sigh Mr Hawthorne laid his paper across his knees and said, "Come in."
The door opened very slowly and the boys entered, David somewhat in front, holding Ambrose by the hand. Their father saw at once that they had something of importance on their minds, for while Ambrose kept his eyes fixed on the ground, David's were open to their widest extent with a sort of guilty stare. Neither spoke a word, but marched up to Mr Hawthorne and stood in perfect silence at his elbow.
"Well?" said the vicar inquiringly.
Ambrose gave a twitch to David's sleeve, for he had promised to speak first.
"We've come to say--" began David and then stopped, his eyes getting bigger and rounder, but not moving from his father's face.
"Go on," said Mr Hawthorne.
But David seemed unable to say anything more. He turned to his brother and whispered hoarsely, "You go on now."
Ambrose had gathered a little courage now that the confession had really begun, and he murmured without looking up:
"We know where Miss Barnicroft's money is."
The vicar started. He had in truth forgotten all about Miss Barnicroft and her money, for he had thought it merely one of her own crazy inventions. That Ambrose and David should have anything to do with it seemed impossible, and yet the guilty solemn looks of the two little boys showed that they were in the most serious earnest.
"Miss Barnicroft's money!" he repeated.
"It's in my garden," continued David, taking his turn to speak, "buried."
Completely bewildered Mr Hawthorne looked from one face to the other.
"I don't know what you're both talking about," he said. "Ambrose, you are the elder, try to explain what you mean, and how you and David come to know anything about Miss Barnicroft's money."
That was not so easy, but at last, by dint of some help from David and many questions from his father, Ambrose halted lamely through the history. He had a feeling that the vicar's face was getting graver and graver as he went on, but he did not dare to look up, and it was David who asked anxiously when he had finished:
"Are we thieves, father? Will she put us in prison?"
"Did you remember, Ambrose," said Mr Hawthorne, "when you asked your brother to go with you to Rumborough Camp, that you and he are strictly forbidden to go so far alone?"
"Yes, father," whispered Ambrose, "but we did so want things for the museum."
"And when you had taken all this trouble to get them, why did you not put the coins into the museum?"
"Because," put in David, "we were afraid the others would ask where we got them. But we didn't know they belonged to Miss Barnicroft, so _are_ we thieves, father?"
That seemed to David the one important point to be settled. If they were not thieves they would not be sent to prison.
"As far as Miss Barnicroft is concerned, you are not thieves," replied Mr Hawthorne.
David gave a sigh of relief.
"But--" he continued gravely, "you and Ambrose have stolen something from me of much more value than Miss Barnicroft's money. Do you know what that is?"
The boys were silent.
"Listen, and I will try to explain what I mean," said the vicar; "and I speak more particularly to you, Ambrose, because you are older than David, and he did wrong through your persuasion. When you dug the coins up you did not know that you were taking what belonged to someone else, but you did know very well that you were disobedient in going there at all. That is what was wrong, and by doing that you have destroyed my trust in you. Now, trust in anyone is a most precious thing, more precious a great deal than Miss Barnicroft's money, and much harder to give back when it is once lost. The money you will return to-morrow; but how are you going to restore my trust? That is not to be done in a moment. Sometimes, after we once lose a person's trust, we can never give it back at all, and that is very sad, because nothing else in the world makes up for it."
"Sha'n't you ever trust us any more?" asked David bluntly, with his eyes full of tears.
"I hope so," said his father, "but that must depend on yourselves. You will have to show me that you are worthy of trust."
Crest-fallen and sorrowful, the boys crept out of the study when the interview was over.
"I do believe," said Ambrose, "I would rather have been sent to prison, or have had some very bad punishment."
"It'll be rather bad, though, to-morrow to have to take it back to Miss Barnicroft, won't it?" said David. "Do you suppose father will go in with us?"
That very evening, in the twilight, the crock with its glittering pieces was unearthed for the second time, but with far less labour than at first.
"I'm glad it's out of my garden anyway," said David as they went back to the house with it.
"I'm not glad of anything," replied Ambrose despairingly; and indeed he felt that he should never care about pleasure or be happy again until his father had said that he could trust him.
Snuff, the terrier, knew quite well the next morning when the boys started with their father that there was something wrong. No smiles, no shouts, no laughter, no throwing of sticks for him to fetch--only two sad and sober little boys marching along by the vicar's side. The dog tried at first, by dancing round them with short barks and jumps, to excite the dull party into gaiety, but soon finding no response forsook them altogether, and abandoned himself heart and soul to a frantic rabbit hunt. Rumborough Common looked coldly desolate as ever, and as they passed the Camp and saw the very hole where the crock had been buried an idea struck David.
"Mightn't we put it where we got it, and tell her it's there?" he asked.
But the vicar would not hear of this.
"You must give it back into Miss Barnicroft's own hands," he answered, "and tell her how you came to dig it up. Perhaps Ambrose had better go in alone, and we will wait here in the lane for him."
Arrived at Miss Barnicroft's gate, Ambrose hung back and cast an imploring glance at his father. He had wished for a "bad punishment;" but it was too dreadful to face all the unknown terrors of Miss Barnicroft's house alone.
"Come, Ambrose," said Mr Hawthorne encouragingly, "you must take courage. It is never easy to confess our faults, but there is nothing really to fear. It will soon be over."
Ambrose pushed open the gate, and with the crock under his arm crept a few steps towards the cottage door. Then he turned, his face white with fear.
"You won't go away till I come out," he said. David had been standing by his father's side, feeling very much relieved that he was not to go in and see Miss Barnicroft. He had still a lingering doubt in his mind that she might wish to send him and his brother to prison. But when Ambrose gave that frightened look back, something made him feel that he must go in too; he left his father without a word, went up to Ambrose, and took hold of his hand.
"I'll go in with you," he said.
How often they had longed to see the inside of this mysterious dwelling, and yet now that the moment had come, how gladly would they have found themselves safely at home in the Vicarage! Pennie and Ambrose had vied with each other in providing strange and weird articles of furniture and ornaments for it; but the reality was almost startlingly different. When, after several knocks, the boys were told to "come in," they entered a room which was just like that in any other cottage, except that it was barer. There was, indeed, scarcely any furniture at all, no curtain to the window, no pictures on the blank whitewashed walls, and only a very
"I shall never be able to begin," said Ambrose despairingly.
"Well, you ought to," said David, "because you're older than me, and because you thought of the whole thing, and because I wanted to tell long ago, and because I did say when we found it that it was only an old honey-pot."
Far from being a comfort, every word David spoke seemed to add to the sharpness of Ambrose's misery, their very truth made them bitter.
"It's no good saying all that now," he cried impatiently. "Oh, I wish I was in bed and had told father!"
After a little consultation it was agreed that this must be done that very evening, directly after the school-room tea, when Mr Hawthorne was generally to be found alone in his study. If he should happen to be engaged, it must be put off till the next day.
"I hope he wont be," said David, as the boys went down-stairs together, "because it will be getting dark, and even if the lamp is lighted it will be much easier than telling it in the daylight."
But Ambrose, in his own heart, could not help a faint hope that their father might be too busy to speak to them that night. Anything to put off the confession. He dreaded it far more than David, partly because he was naturally more timid, and partly because he felt himself chiefly to blame in the whole affair, for David would certainly never have thought of the adventure unless his elder brother had suggested it. During tea-time, therefore, he found it impossible either to join in the conversation or to eat anything with this dreaded interview still before him.
Resting his hot cheek on his hand, he looked on with surprise at his brother's steady appetite, for David, perhaps feeling that this was the last comfortable meal he might enjoy for some time, munched away with his usual zeal, not forgetting to ask for the "burnt side" when his slice of cake was cut. It was hard to realise that all this might be changed on the morrow for a lonely cell, bread and water, and the deepest disgrace! Ambrose's headache was considered sufficient reason for his silence and want of appetite, and his sisters, finding that they could not even extract any news about Miss Barnicroft's visit from him, left him undisturbed to his moody misery.
Late that afternoon the vicar came in from a long ride to a distant part of his parish, threw himself into his easy-chair, and took up the newspaper for a little rest before dinner. At this hour he was generally secure from interruption, his day's work was over, the children were safe in the school-room, there was a comfortable half-hour before he need think of going upstairs. He was just rejoicing in the prospect of this repose when a little knock came at his door. It was a very little knock, one of many which Ambrose and David had already made so timidly that they could not be heard at all. With a patient sigh Mr Hawthorne laid his paper across his knees and said, "Come in."
The door opened very slowly and the boys entered, David somewhat in front, holding Ambrose by the hand. Their father saw at once that they had something of importance on their minds, for while Ambrose kept his eyes fixed on the ground, David's were open to their widest extent with a sort of guilty stare. Neither spoke a word, but marched up to Mr Hawthorne and stood in perfect silence at his elbow.
"Well?" said the vicar inquiringly.
Ambrose gave a twitch to David's sleeve, for he had promised to speak first.
"We've come to say--" began David and then stopped, his eyes getting bigger and rounder, but not moving from his father's face.
"Go on," said Mr Hawthorne.
But David seemed unable to say anything more. He turned to his brother and whispered hoarsely, "You go on now."
Ambrose had gathered a little courage now that the confession had really begun, and he murmured without looking up:
"We know where Miss Barnicroft's money is."
The vicar started. He had in truth forgotten all about Miss Barnicroft and her money, for he had thought it merely one of her own crazy inventions. That Ambrose and David should have anything to do with it seemed impossible, and yet the guilty solemn looks of the two little boys showed that they were in the most serious earnest.
"Miss Barnicroft's money!" he repeated.
"It's in my garden," continued David, taking his turn to speak, "buried."
Completely bewildered Mr Hawthorne looked from one face to the other.
"I don't know what you're both talking about," he said. "Ambrose, you are the elder, try to explain what you mean, and how you and David come to know anything about Miss Barnicroft's money."
That was not so easy, but at last, by dint of some help from David and many questions from his father, Ambrose halted lamely through the history. He had a feeling that the vicar's face was getting graver and graver as he went on, but he did not dare to look up, and it was David who asked anxiously when he had finished:
"Are we thieves, father? Will she put us in prison?"
"Did you remember, Ambrose," said Mr Hawthorne, "when you asked your brother to go with you to Rumborough Camp, that you and he are strictly forbidden to go so far alone?"
"Yes, father," whispered Ambrose, "but we did so want things for the museum."
"And when you had taken all this trouble to get them, why did you not put the coins into the museum?"
"Because," put in David, "we were afraid the others would ask where we got them. But we didn't know they belonged to Miss Barnicroft, so _are_ we thieves, father?"
That seemed to David the one important point to be settled. If they were not thieves they would not be sent to prison.
"As far as Miss Barnicroft is concerned, you are not thieves," replied Mr Hawthorne.
David gave a sigh of relief.
"But--" he continued gravely, "you and Ambrose have stolen something from me of much more value than Miss Barnicroft's money. Do you know what that is?"
The boys were silent.
"Listen, and I will try to explain what I mean," said the vicar; "and I speak more particularly to you, Ambrose, because you are older than David, and he did wrong through your persuasion. When you dug the coins up you did not know that you were taking what belonged to someone else, but you did know very well that you were disobedient in going there at all. That is what was wrong, and by doing that you have destroyed my trust in you. Now, trust in anyone is a most precious thing, more precious a great deal than Miss Barnicroft's money, and much harder to give back when it is once lost. The money you will return to-morrow; but how are you going to restore my trust? That is not to be done in a moment. Sometimes, after we once lose a person's trust, we can never give it back at all, and that is very sad, because nothing else in the world makes up for it."
"Sha'n't you ever trust us any more?" asked David bluntly, with his eyes full of tears.
"I hope so," said his father, "but that must depend on yourselves. You will have to show me that you are worthy of trust."
Crest-fallen and sorrowful, the boys crept out of the study when the interview was over.
"I do believe," said Ambrose, "I would rather have been sent to prison, or have had some very bad punishment."
"It'll be rather bad, though, to-morrow to have to take it back to Miss Barnicroft, won't it?" said David. "Do you suppose father will go in with us?"
That very evening, in the twilight, the crock with its glittering pieces was unearthed for the second time, but with far less labour than at first.
"I'm glad it's out of my garden anyway," said David as they went back to the house with it.
"I'm not glad of anything," replied Ambrose despairingly; and indeed he felt that he should never care about pleasure or be happy again until his father had said that he could trust him.
Snuff, the terrier, knew quite well the next morning when the boys started with their father that there was something wrong. No smiles, no shouts, no laughter, no throwing of sticks for him to fetch--only two sad and sober little boys marching along by the vicar's side. The dog tried at first, by dancing round them with short barks and jumps, to excite the dull party into gaiety, but soon finding no response forsook them altogether, and abandoned himself heart and soul to a frantic rabbit hunt. Rumborough Common looked coldly desolate as ever, and as they passed the Camp and saw the very hole where the crock had been buried an idea struck David.
"Mightn't we put it where we got it, and tell her it's there?" he asked.
But the vicar would not hear of this.
"You must give it back into Miss Barnicroft's own hands," he answered, "and tell her how you came to dig it up. Perhaps Ambrose had better go in alone, and we will wait here in the lane for him."
Arrived at Miss Barnicroft's gate, Ambrose hung back and cast an imploring glance at his father. He had wished for a "bad punishment;" but it was too dreadful to face all the unknown terrors of Miss Barnicroft's house alone.
"Come, Ambrose," said Mr Hawthorne encouragingly, "you must take courage. It is never easy to confess our faults, but there is nothing really to fear. It will soon be over."
Ambrose pushed open the gate, and with the crock under his arm crept a few steps towards the cottage door. Then he turned, his face white with fear.
"You won't go away till I come out," he said. David had been standing by his father's side, feeling very much relieved that he was not to go in and see Miss Barnicroft. He had still a lingering doubt in his mind that she might wish to send him and his brother to prison. But when Ambrose gave that frightened look back, something made him feel that he must go in too; he left his father without a word, went up to Ambrose, and took hold of his hand.
"I'll go in with you," he said.
How often they had longed to see the inside of this mysterious dwelling, and yet now that the moment had come, how gladly would they have found themselves safely at home in the Vicarage! Pennie and Ambrose had vied with each other in providing strange and weird articles of furniture and ornaments for it; but the reality was almost startlingly different. When, after several knocks, the boys were told to "come in," they entered a room which was just like that in any other cottage, except that it was barer. There was, indeed, scarcely any furniture at all, no curtain to the window, no pictures on the blank whitewashed walls, and only a very
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