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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bustled forward to serve them. Her husband was a verger at the Cathedral, and this justified her in expressing an interest from a discreet distance in all that went on there.
"Quite a stir in the town since the bishop's sermon, Miss," she remarked as she placed a pile of calico on the counter. "I think this will suit your purpose--if not too fine."
"I was thinking of unbleached," said Miss Unity, "such as we use for the Working Societies. Yes, it was a very fine sermon."
Mrs Bolton retired into the back of the shop, and reappeared with a boy carrying another large bale.
"This will be the article then," she said, unrolling it, "and certainly more suitable too. Yes, there's nothing talked of now but the missions. Is he a coloured gentleman, do you know, Miss, or does the climate produce that yellow look he has? Six yards, _and_ some Welsh flannel. Thank you."
It was rather alarming to Pennie to see such quantities of calico measured off without shape or make, and to think how far her needle would have to travel before it took the form of clothes for Kettles. She sat soberly eyeing it, and following the rapid course of Mrs Bolton's scissors.
"I wish I could work as fast as she cuts," she thought to herself, "they'd be ready in no time."
"You'll no doubt be present at the Institute on Friday, Miss," resumed Mrs Bolton after the flannel was disposed of. "I'm told the dissolving views will be something quite out of the common. This is a useful width in tape."
"I will take two pieces of the narrow, thank you," said Miss Unity, "and that will be all. Yes, I think perhaps I may go."
"What did she mean by dissolving views?" asked Pennie on the way home.
"They are coloured pictures, my dear;" said her godmother after some consideration, "which fade imperceptibly one into the other."
"Are they like a magic lantern?" continued Pennie. "What are the pictures about?"
"Various subjects," answered Miss Unity; "but these will represent scenes from the Karawayo Islands. There is to be a missionary address."
"Haven't we done a lot this afternoon?" said Pennie, as they turned into the Close. "Lots we never meant to do."
It was true indeed as far as Miss Unity was concerned; she had seldom spent such an afternoon in her life. She had been taken out for a walk in the mud, with rain threatening; she had talked in the open High Street, under the very eye of the dean, with a little vagrant out of Anchor and Hope Alley; she had of her own accord, unadvised and unassisted, formed an original plan, and not only formed it, but taken the first step towards carrying it out. Miss Unity hardly knew herself and felt quite uncertain what she might do next, and down what unknown paths she might find herself hurrying. In spite, however, of some fatigue and a sense of confusion in the head, she sat down to tea in a cheerful and even triumphant spirit.
Pennie, too, had a great deal to think over after she had written to Nancy, and made a careful entry in her diary. It had been such a nice afternoon, and it came just when she had been feeling a little discontented and tired of Nearminster. There were the dissolving views, too.
Did Miss Unity mean to take her to the Institute on Friday? Pennie had been to very few entertainments. The circus at Easney, and the fair at Cheddington made up her experience, and she thought she should like to go very much. The address would not be very interesting if it were like the bishop's sermon, but the pictures fading one into the other had a beautiful sound; and then it was to be in the evening, which would involve stopping up late, and this was in itself agreeable and unusual. She went to sleep with this on her mind, and it was the first thing she thought of in the morning.
When she entered the breakfast-room her godmother was reading a note.
"Pennie, my dear," she said, "here is a very kind invitation from the deanery. We are asked to go there to tea, and afterwards to see the dissolving views at the Institute."
Pennie sat down very soberly at the table. All the pleasure to be got out of the dissolving views would be spoilt if they were to be preceded by such a trial.
"You will like that, won't you?" said Miss Unity anxiously.
"I'd much rather be going alone with you," said Pennie.
"That's very nice of you," answered Miss Unity with a gratified smile; "but I expect some of the Merridew girls are going too, and I know it is natural for you to enjoy being with your young friends."
"They're not exactly friends, you see," said Pennie thoughtfully; "although, of course, I do know them, because I see them every week at the dancing. But there's nothing we care to talk about."
"That will come in time," said Miss Unity encouragingly.
Pennie did not contradict her, but she felt sure in her own mind that it would never come, and she now looked forward to Friday with very mixed feelings. "I only hope I shall have tea in the school-room," she said to herself, "because then I sha'n't see the dean."
But things turned out unfortunately, for when Miss Unity and Pennie, in their best dresses, arrived on Friday evening at the deanery they were both shown into the drawing-room. There were a good many guests assembled, and two of the girls were there, but the first person who caught Pennie's eye was the dean himself, standing on the rug, coffee-cup in hand, smiling and talking. She shrank into the background as much as she could, and sat down by Sabine Merridew in the shelter of a curtain, hoping that no one would notice her in this retired position.
And at first this seemed likely, for everyone had a great deal to say to each other, and there was a general buzz of conversation all over the room. Pennie soon grew secure enough to listen to what the dean was saying to Miss Unity, who had taken a seat near him. He stood before her with upraised finger, while she, fearful of losing a word, neglected her tea and refused any kind of food, gazing at him with rapt attention.
This missionary address at the Institute, he was telling her, was an idea of his own. He wanted to keep up the impression made by the bishop's sermon. "That, my dear Miss Unity," he said, "is our great difficulty--not so much to make the impression as to keep it up. To my mind, you know, that's a harder matter than just to preach one eloquent sermon and go away. The bishop's lighted the torch and we must keep it burning--keep it burning--"
"Sabine," said Mrs Merridew, raising her voice, "has Penelope any cake?"
The dean caught the name at once.
"What!" he said, looking round, "is my old friend Miss Penelope there?"
The dreaded moment had come. How Pennie wished herself anywhere else!
"And how," said the dean, gently stirring his coffee and preparing to be facetious--"how does that long job of needlework get on, Mrs Penelope?"
Did he mean Kettles' clothes? Pennie wondered. How could he know?
"I've only just begun," she answered nervously, twisting her hands together.
There was such a general sound of subdued laughter at this from the guests, who had all kept silence to listen to the dean's jokes, that Pennie saw she had said something silly, though she had no idea what it could be. All the faces were turned upon her with smiles, and the dean, quite ignorant of the misery he was causing her, drank up his coffee well pleased.
"And so," he continued, as he put down his cup, "you're going to see the dissolving views. And are you as much interested in the Karawayo missions as my young folks?"
Poor Pennie! She was a rigidly truthful child, and she knew there could be only one answer to this question. Miss Unity had told her that the Merridew girls were very much interested, whereas she knew she was not interested at all. Deeply humiliated, and flushing scarlet, she replied in a very small voice, "No."
The dean raised his eyebrows.
"Dear me, dear me!" he said, pretending to be shocked. "How's this, Miss Unity? We must teach your god-daughter better."
Pennie felt she could not bear to be held up to public notice much longer. The hot tears rose in her eyes; if the dean asked her any more questions she was afraid she should cry, and that, at her age, with everyone looking at her, would be a lasting disgrace.
At this moment sympathy came from an unexpected quarter. A hand stole into hers, and Sabine's voice whispered:
"Don't mind. I don't care for them either."
It was wonderfully comforting. Pennie gulped down her tears and tried to smile her thanks, and just then general attention was turned another way. Some one asked Dr Merridew if he were going to the Institute that evening.
"I'm extremely sorry to say no," he replied, his smiles disappearing, and his lips pursed seriously together. "Important matters keep me at home. But I much regret it."
All the guests much regretted it also, except Pennie, who began to feel a faint hope that she might after all enjoy herself if the dean were not going too.
The party set out a little later to walk to the Institute, which was quite a short distance off.
"May I sit by you?" asked Pennie, edging up to her newly-found friend, Sabine.
She was a funny little girl, rather younger than Nancy, with short black curls all over her head, and small twinkling eyes. Pennie had always thought she liked her better than the others, and now she felt sure of it.
"Do you like dissolving views or magic lanterns best?" she went on.
"Magic lanterns much," said Sabine promptly. "You see dissolving views are never funny at all. They're quite serious and _teachy_."
"What are they about?" asked Pennie.
"Oh! sunsets, and palm-trees, and natives, and temples, and things like that," said Sabine. "I don't care about them at all, but Joyce likes them, so perhaps you will."
"Why do you come, if you don't like them?" asked Pennie.
"Because it's my turn and Joyce's," said Sabine. "We always go to things in twos; there are six of us, you see."
"So there are of us," said Pennie, "only Baby doesn't count because she's too young to go to things. There isn't often anything to go to in Easney, but when there is we all five go at once. Dickie wouldn't be left out for anything."
By the time the Institute was reached they had become quite confidential, and Pennie had almost forgotten her past sufferings in the pleasure of finding a companion nearer her own age than Miss Unity. She told Sabine all about her life at home, the ages of her brothers and sisters, and their favourite games and pets.
She was indeed quite sorry
"Quite a stir in the town since the bishop's sermon, Miss," she remarked as she placed a pile of calico on the counter. "I think this will suit your purpose--if not too fine."
"I was thinking of unbleached," said Miss Unity, "such as we use for the Working Societies. Yes, it was a very fine sermon."
Mrs Bolton retired into the back of the shop, and reappeared with a boy carrying another large bale.
"This will be the article then," she said, unrolling it, "and certainly more suitable too. Yes, there's nothing talked of now but the missions. Is he a coloured gentleman, do you know, Miss, or does the climate produce that yellow look he has? Six yards, _and_ some Welsh flannel. Thank you."
It was rather alarming to Pennie to see such quantities of calico measured off without shape or make, and to think how far her needle would have to travel before it took the form of clothes for Kettles. She sat soberly eyeing it, and following the rapid course of Mrs Bolton's scissors.
"I wish I could work as fast as she cuts," she thought to herself, "they'd be ready in no time."
"You'll no doubt be present at the Institute on Friday, Miss," resumed Mrs Bolton after the flannel was disposed of. "I'm told the dissolving views will be something quite out of the common. This is a useful width in tape."
"I will take two pieces of the narrow, thank you," said Miss Unity, "and that will be all. Yes, I think perhaps I may go."
"What did she mean by dissolving views?" asked Pennie on the way home.
"They are coloured pictures, my dear;" said her godmother after some consideration, "which fade imperceptibly one into the other."
"Are they like a magic lantern?" continued Pennie. "What are the pictures about?"
"Various subjects," answered Miss Unity; "but these will represent scenes from the Karawayo Islands. There is to be a missionary address."
"Haven't we done a lot this afternoon?" said Pennie, as they turned into the Close. "Lots we never meant to do."
It was true indeed as far as Miss Unity was concerned; she had seldom spent such an afternoon in her life. She had been taken out for a walk in the mud, with rain threatening; she had talked in the open High Street, under the very eye of the dean, with a little vagrant out of Anchor and Hope Alley; she had of her own accord, unadvised and unassisted, formed an original plan, and not only formed it, but taken the first step towards carrying it out. Miss Unity hardly knew herself and felt quite uncertain what she might do next, and down what unknown paths she might find herself hurrying. In spite, however, of some fatigue and a sense of confusion in the head, she sat down to tea in a cheerful and even triumphant spirit.
Pennie, too, had a great deal to think over after she had written to Nancy, and made a careful entry in her diary. It had been such a nice afternoon, and it came just when she had been feeling a little discontented and tired of Nearminster. There were the dissolving views, too.
Did Miss Unity mean to take her to the Institute on Friday? Pennie had been to very few entertainments. The circus at Easney, and the fair at Cheddington made up her experience, and she thought she should like to go very much. The address would not be very interesting if it were like the bishop's sermon, but the pictures fading one into the other had a beautiful sound; and then it was to be in the evening, which would involve stopping up late, and this was in itself agreeable and unusual. She went to sleep with this on her mind, and it was the first thing she thought of in the morning.
When she entered the breakfast-room her godmother was reading a note.
"Pennie, my dear," she said, "here is a very kind invitation from the deanery. We are asked to go there to tea, and afterwards to see the dissolving views at the Institute."
Pennie sat down very soberly at the table. All the pleasure to be got out of the dissolving views would be spoilt if they were to be preceded by such a trial.
"You will like that, won't you?" said Miss Unity anxiously.
"I'd much rather be going alone with you," said Pennie.
"That's very nice of you," answered Miss Unity with a gratified smile; "but I expect some of the Merridew girls are going too, and I know it is natural for you to enjoy being with your young friends."
"They're not exactly friends, you see," said Pennie thoughtfully; "although, of course, I do know them, because I see them every week at the dancing. But there's nothing we care to talk about."
"That will come in time," said Miss Unity encouragingly.
Pennie did not contradict her, but she felt sure in her own mind that it would never come, and she now looked forward to Friday with very mixed feelings. "I only hope I shall have tea in the school-room," she said to herself, "because then I sha'n't see the dean."
But things turned out unfortunately, for when Miss Unity and Pennie, in their best dresses, arrived on Friday evening at the deanery they were both shown into the drawing-room. There were a good many guests assembled, and two of the girls were there, but the first person who caught Pennie's eye was the dean himself, standing on the rug, coffee-cup in hand, smiling and talking. She shrank into the background as much as she could, and sat down by Sabine Merridew in the shelter of a curtain, hoping that no one would notice her in this retired position.
And at first this seemed likely, for everyone had a great deal to say to each other, and there was a general buzz of conversation all over the room. Pennie soon grew secure enough to listen to what the dean was saying to Miss Unity, who had taken a seat near him. He stood before her with upraised finger, while she, fearful of losing a word, neglected her tea and refused any kind of food, gazing at him with rapt attention.
This missionary address at the Institute, he was telling her, was an idea of his own. He wanted to keep up the impression made by the bishop's sermon. "That, my dear Miss Unity," he said, "is our great difficulty--not so much to make the impression as to keep it up. To my mind, you know, that's a harder matter than just to preach one eloquent sermon and go away. The bishop's lighted the torch and we must keep it burning--keep it burning--"
"Sabine," said Mrs Merridew, raising her voice, "has Penelope any cake?"
The dean caught the name at once.
"What!" he said, looking round, "is my old friend Miss Penelope there?"
The dreaded moment had come. How Pennie wished herself anywhere else!
"And how," said the dean, gently stirring his coffee and preparing to be facetious--"how does that long job of needlework get on, Mrs Penelope?"
Did he mean Kettles' clothes? Pennie wondered. How could he know?
"I've only just begun," she answered nervously, twisting her hands together.
There was such a general sound of subdued laughter at this from the guests, who had all kept silence to listen to the dean's jokes, that Pennie saw she had said something silly, though she had no idea what it could be. All the faces were turned upon her with smiles, and the dean, quite ignorant of the misery he was causing her, drank up his coffee well pleased.
"And so," he continued, as he put down his cup, "you're going to see the dissolving views. And are you as much interested in the Karawayo missions as my young folks?"
Poor Pennie! She was a rigidly truthful child, and she knew there could be only one answer to this question. Miss Unity had told her that the Merridew girls were very much interested, whereas she knew she was not interested at all. Deeply humiliated, and flushing scarlet, she replied in a very small voice, "No."
The dean raised his eyebrows.
"Dear me, dear me!" he said, pretending to be shocked. "How's this, Miss Unity? We must teach your god-daughter better."
Pennie felt she could not bear to be held up to public notice much longer. The hot tears rose in her eyes; if the dean asked her any more questions she was afraid she should cry, and that, at her age, with everyone looking at her, would be a lasting disgrace.
At this moment sympathy came from an unexpected quarter. A hand stole into hers, and Sabine's voice whispered:
"Don't mind. I don't care for them either."
It was wonderfully comforting. Pennie gulped down her tears and tried to smile her thanks, and just then general attention was turned another way. Some one asked Dr Merridew if he were going to the Institute that evening.
"I'm extremely sorry to say no," he replied, his smiles disappearing, and his lips pursed seriously together. "Important matters keep me at home. But I much regret it."
All the guests much regretted it also, except Pennie, who began to feel a faint hope that she might after all enjoy herself if the dean were not going too.
The party set out a little later to walk to the Institute, which was quite a short distance off.
"May I sit by you?" asked Pennie, edging up to her newly-found friend, Sabine.
She was a funny little girl, rather younger than Nancy, with short black curls all over her head, and small twinkling eyes. Pennie had always thought she liked her better than the others, and now she felt sure of it.
"Do you like dissolving views or magic lanterns best?" she went on.
"Magic lanterns much," said Sabine promptly. "You see dissolving views are never funny at all. They're quite serious and _teachy_."
"What are they about?" asked Pennie.
"Oh! sunsets, and palm-trees, and natives, and temples, and things like that," said Sabine. "I don't care about them at all, but Joyce likes them, so perhaps you will."
"Why do you come, if you don't like them?" asked Pennie.
"Because it's my turn and Joyce's," said Sabine. "We always go to things in twos; there are six of us, you see."
"So there are of us," said Pennie, "only Baby doesn't count because she's too young to go to things. There isn't often anything to go to in Easney, but when there is we all five go at once. Dickie wouldn't be left out for anything."
By the time the Institute was reached they had become quite confidential, and Pennie had almost forgotten her past sufferings in the pleasure of finding a companion nearer her own age than Miss Unity. She told Sabine all about her life at home, the ages of her brothers and sisters, and their favourite games and pets.
She was indeed quite sorry
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