The Hawthorns Part 3

On this theme Nurse was apt to become very voluble, and there were few things she liked better than describing her own feelings on the occasion. Mrs Hawthorn held up her hand entreatingly: "Do not talk of it, Nurse," she said; "I cannot bear it." And then they went on to discuss other matters.

Now all this while Pennie had been trying to make up her mind to speak.

There was a fly just in front of her on the window-pane, and as she watched it crawling slowly along she said to herself:

"When it gets as far as the corner I will tell mother." But alas!

before the fly had nearly completed his journey Mrs Hawthorn rose to leave the nursery. As she pa.s.sed Pennie she stopped and said:

"Why, Pennie, my child, it is not like you to be idle. And you look mournful; what's the matter?"

"I think Miss Pennie frets after her brother, ma'am," observed Nurse.

"Well, then," said Mrs Hawthorn, "I have something to tell you that I am sure you will like. The doctor thinks Ambrose much better to-day, and if you are very quiet and discreet I will let you go and have tea with him this afternoon at five o'clock."

"Oh, mother, mother," cried Pennie, "how lovely! May I really?"

"Yes; but you must promise me one thing, and that is that you will not speak of anything that has to do with the garret or his accident."

Pennie's face fell.

"Very well, mother," she said in a dejected tone.

"If you can't feel sure, Pennie," said her mother observing the hesitation, "I can't let you go."

"I won't, really, mother," repeated Pennie with a sigh--"truly and faithfully."

But she felt almost as low-spirited as ever, for what was the good of seeing Ambrose if she could not make him understand about the Goblin Lady? She remained at the window pondering the subject, with her eyes fixed on the grey church tower, the top of which she could just see through the branches of the pear-tree. It reminded her somehow of her father's text last Sunday, and how pleased she and Nancy had been because it was such a short one to learn. Only two words: "Pray always." She said it to herself now over and over again without thinking much about it, until it suddenly struck her that it would be a good thing to say a little prayer and ask to be helped out of the present difficulty. "If I believe enough," she said to herself, "I shall be helped. Father says people always are helped if they believe enough when they ask."

She shut her eyes up very tight and repeated earnestly several times: "I _do_ believe. I really and truly do believe;" and then she said her prayer.

After this she felt a little more comfortable and ran out to play with Nancy, firmly believing that before five o'clock something would turn up to her a.s.sistance.

But Pennie was doomed to disappointment, for five o'clock came without any way out of the difficulty having presented itself.

"I suppose I didn't believe hard enough," she said to herself as she made her way sorrowfully upstairs to Ambrose's room. Just as she thought this the study door opened and her father came out. He was carrying something which looked like a large cage covered with a cloth.

Pennie stopped and waited till he came up to her.

"Why, whatever can that be, father?" she said. "Is it alive? Where are you taking it?"

"It is a little visitor for Ambrose," he answered; "and I'm taking him upstairs to tea with you both. But you're not to look at him yet;" for Pennie was trying to peep under the cloth.

When they got into Ambrose's room she was relieved to find that he looked just like himself, though his face was very white and thin. He was much better to-day, and able to sit up in a big arm-chair with a picture-book. But nevertheless before Nurse left the room she whispered to Pennie again that she must be very quiet.

There was no need for the caution at present, for Pennie was in one of her most subdued moods, though at any other time she would have been very much excited to know what was inside the cage.

"Now," said the vicar when he was seated in the arm-chair, with Ambrose settled comfortably on his knee, "we shall see what Ambrose and this little gentleman have to say to each other."

He lifted off the covering, and there was the dearest little brown and white owl in the world, sitting winking and blinking in the sudden light.

Ambrose clasped his little thin hands, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure.

"Oh, father," he cried, "what a darling dear! Is he for me? I always _did_ want to have an owl so!"

He was in such raptures when he was told that the owl was to be his very own, that when the tea was brought in he could hardly be persuaded to touch it. Pennie, too, almost forgot her troubles in the excitement of pouring out tea, and settling with Ambrose where the owl was to live.

"The nicest place will be," at last said Ambrose decidedly, "in that corner of the barn just above where Davie's rabbits are. You know, Pennie. Where it's all dusky, and dark, and cobwebby."

"I think that sounds just the sort of place he would feel at home in,"

said their father; "and now, would you like me to tell you where I got him?"

"Oh, yes, please, father," said Ambrose, letting his head drop on Mr Hawthorn's shoulder with a deep sigh of contentment. "Tell us every little sc.r.a.p about it, and don't miss any."

"Well, last night, about nine o'clock, when I was writing in the study, I wanted to refer to an old book of sermons, and I couldn't remember where it was. I looked all over my book-cases, and at last I went and asked mother, and she told me that it was most likely put away in the garret."

Ambrose stirred uneasily, and Pennie thought to herself, "They said I wasn't to mention the garret, and here's father talking about it like anything."

"So I took a lamp," continued Mr Hawthorn, "and went upstairs, and poked about in the garret a long while. I found all sorts of funny old things there, but not the book I wanted, so I was just going down again when I heard a rustling in one corner--"

Pennie could see that Ambrose's eyes were very wide open, with a terrified stare as if he saw something dreadful, and he was clinging tightly with one hand to his father's coat.

"So I went into the corner and moved away a harp which was standing there, and what do you think I saw? This little fluffy gentleman just waked up from a nap, and making a great fuss and flapping. He was very angry when I caught him, and hissed and scratched tremendously; but I said, 'No, my friend, I cannot let you go. You will just do for my little son, Ambrose.' So I put him into a basket for the night, and this morning I got a cage for him in the village, and here he is."

Mr Hawthorn looked down at Ambrose as he finished his story: the frightened expression which Pennie had seen had left the boy's face now, and there was one of intense relief there. He folded his hands, and said softly, drawing a deep breath:

"Then it was not the Goblin Lady after all."

"The Goblin Lady! What can the child mean?" said the vicar looking inquiringly at Pennie.

But he got no answer to his question, for Pennie's long-pent-up feelings burst forth at last. Casting discretion to the winds, she threw her arms vehemently round Ambrose, and blurted out half laughing and half crying:

"I made it up! I made it up! There _isn't_ any Goblin Lady. Oh, dear!

Oh, dear! I made it every bit up!"

The two children sobbed and laughed and kissed each other, and made incoherent exclamations in a way which their puzzled father felt to be most undesirable for an invalid's room. He had been carefully warned not to excite Ambrose, and what _could_ be worse than this sort of thing?

Perfectly bewildered, he said sternly:

"Pennie, if you don't command yourself, you must go out of the room.

You will make your brother ill. It is most thoughtless of you. Tell me quietly what all this means."

With many jerks and interruptions, and much shamefacedness Pennie proceeded to do so. Looking up at her father's face at the end she was much relieved to see a little smile there, though he did not speak at once.

"You're not angry, are you, father?" said Ambrose doubtfully at last.

"No, I am not angry," replied Mr Hawthorn, "but I am certainly surprised to find I have two such foolish children. I don't know who was the sillier--Pennie to make up such nonsense, or Ambrose to believe it. But now I am not going to say anything more, because it is quite time for Ambrose to go to bed, so Pennie and the owl and I will say good-night."

What a relief it was to hear the dreaded subject spoken of so lightly.

Pennie felt as though a great heavy weight had been suddenly lifted off her mind, and she was so glad and happy that after she had left Ambrose's room she could not possibly walk along quietly. So she hopped on one leg all down a long pa.s.sage, and at the top of the stairs she met Nurse hastening up to her patient:

"You look merry, Miss Pennie," said she. "I hope you haven't been exciting Master Ambrose."