The Hawthorns Part 6

"I don't know what I like best," said David solemnly. "I only know what I like least."

"What's that?"

"Miss Unity," said David with decision.

"Should you call her very ugly?" inquired Ambrose.

"Yes, of course, quite hideous," replied Nancy indistinctly, with her paint-brush in her mouth.

"Well, I'm not quite sure," said Pennie; "once I saw her eyes look quite nice, as if they had a light s.h.i.+ning at the back of them."

"Like that face Andrew made for us out of a hollow pumpkin, with a candle inside?" suggested Nancy.

"You're always so stupid, Nancy!" said Ambrose scornfully. "I know what Pennie means about Miss Unity; _I've_ seen her eyes look nice too.

Don't you remember, too, how kind she was when d.i.c.kie was so rude to her? I've never been so afraid of her since that."

The next day the party started for Nearminster in the wagonette, David sitting in front with his feet resting comfortably on his own little trunk. Andrew, who drove, allowed him to hold the whip sometimes, and the end of the reins--so it was quite easy to fancy himself a coachman; but this delightful position did not make him forget other things.

Beckoning to Nancy, who stood with the rest on the rectory steps, he lifted a solemn finger.

"Remember!" he said.

Nancy nodded, the wagonette drove away followed by wavings, and good-byes, and shrieking messages from the children, and was soon out of sight.

"That was like Charles the First," said Pennie; "don't you remember just before they cut off his head--"

"Oh, don't!" said Nancy; "pray, don't talk about Charles the First out of lesson time."

CHAPTER FIVE.

MISS UNITY.

It was a lonely life which Miss Unity Cheffins lived at Nearminster, but she had become so used to it that it did not occur to her to wish for any other. Far far in the distance she could remember a time when everything had not been so quiet and still round her--when she was one of a group of children who had made the old house in the Close echo with their little hurrying footsteps and laughing voices. One by one those voices had become silent and the footsteps had hastened away, and Miss Unity was left alone to fill the empty rooms as she best might with the memories of the past. That was long long ago, and now her days were all just alike, as formal and even as the trimly-kept Close outside her door. And she liked them to be so; any variety or change would have been irksome to her. She liked to know that exactly as eight o'clock sounded from the cathedral Bridget would bring her a cup of tea, would pull up her blind to a certain height, and would remark, "A fine morning, ma'am," or "A dull morning," as the case might be. At eleven o'clock, wet or dry, she would sally forth into the town to do the light part of her marketing and cast a thoughtful eye on the price of vegetables; after which, girt with a large linen ap.r.o.n, and her head protected by a mob-cap, she would proceed to dust and wash her cherished china. From much loneliness she had formed a habit of talking quietly to herself during these operations; but no one could have understood her, for she only uttered the f.a.g-ends of her thoughts aloud.

The Chinese mandarin which Nancy admired was the object of Miss Unity's fondest care; some bygone a.s.sociation was doubtless connected with him, for she seldom failed to utter some husky little sentences of endearment while she lingered over his grotesque person with tender touches of her feather brush. So the day went on. After her dinner, if the weather were fair, she would perhaps deck herself with a black silk mantilla and a tall bonnet with nodding flowers, and go out to visit some old friend.

A m.u.f.fin, a cup of tea, and perhaps a little cathedral gossip would follow; and then Miss Unity, stepping primly across the Close, reached the dull shelter of her own home again, and was alone for the rest of the evening. At ten o'clock she read prayers to Bridget and the little maid, and so to bed.

The even course of these days was only disturbed twice in the year--once by Mr and Mrs Hawthorn's visit to Nearminster, and once by Miss Unity's visit to Easney. These were important events to her, antic.i.p.ated for months, not exactly with pleasure; for, though she was really fond of her friends, she was shy, and to be put out of her usual habits was, besides, a positive torture to her. Then there were the children! Troublesome little riddles Miss Unity often found them, impossible to understand; and it is a question whether she or they were the more uncomfortable when they were together. For she had an idea, gathered from some dim recollection of the past, that children needed constant correction and reproof; and she felt sure Mary Hawthorn neglected her duty in this respect, and was over-indulgent. So, being a most conscientious woman, she tried to supply this shortcoming, and the result was not a happy one.

She was ill at ease with all the children, but of d.i.c.kie she was fairly frightened, for d.i.c.kie had disgraced herself at her very first introduction. Seeing Miss Unity's grim face framed by the nodding bonnet bending down to kiss her, the child looked up and said with a sweet smile, "Ugly lady!"

There was no disguising it, for d.i.c.kie's utterance had the clearness of a bell, and a horrified silence fell on the a.s.sembly.

"Don't be naughty, d.i.c.kie," said Mrs Hawthorn reprovingly; "say, 'How do you do?' directly."

But Miss Unity had straightened herself up and turned away with an odd look in her eyes.

"Don't scold the child, Mary," she said; "she's not naughty, she's only honest."

From that time Pennie never considered Miss Unity quite ugly, and indeed her features were not so much ugly as rugged and immovable. When her feelings were stirred she was not ugly at all; for they were good, kind feelings, and made her whole face look pleasant. So little happened in her life, however, that they generally remained shut up as in a sort of prison, and were seldom called forth; people, therefore, who did not know her often thought her cross. But Miss Unity was not cross--she was only lonely and dull because she had so little to love. Nothing could have pa.s.sed off better than the Hawthorns' visit on this particular occasion, and indeed when David was with her Mrs Hawthorn never feared the unlucky accidents which were apt to occur with the other children.

He was so deliberate and careful by nature that there was no risk of his knocking down the china, or treading on the cat's tail, or on the train of Miss Unity's gown. Nancy did all these things frequently, however hard she tried to be good, and was, besides, very restive under reproof and ready to answer pertly.

On the whole Miss Unity liked to have the grave little David with her better than the other children, though she sometimes felt when she found his solemn and disapproving gaze fixed upon her. David on his side had his opinions, though he said little, and he had long ago made up his mind that he did not like Miss Unity at all. So he was sorry to find, when the day came for leaving Nearminster, that she was going back to Easney with them instead of making her visit later in the year. It would not be nearly as pleasant as driving alone with his father and mother, he thought; for now he could not ask questions on the way, unless he talked to Andrew, and he was always so silent.

When the wagonette came round there were so many little packages belonging to Miss Unity that it was quite difficult to stow them away, and as fast as that was done Bridget brought out more. Not that there was much luggage altogether, but it consisted in such a number of oddly-shaped parcels and small boxes that it was both puzzling and distracting to know where to put them. Mr Hawthorn was busy for a good quarter of an hour disposing of Miss Unity's property; while David looked on, keenly interested, and full of faith in his father's capacity.

"That's all, I think," said Mr Hawthorn triumphantly at last, as he emerged from the depths of the wagonette, and surveyed his labours; "there's not much room left for us, certainly, but I daresay we shall manage."

As he spoke Bridget came out of the house carrying a waterproof bundle, bristling with umbrellas and parasols.

"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed the vicar in a discouraged voice, "is that to go? Does your mistress want all those umbrellas?"

"She wouldn't like to go without 'em, sir," replied Bridget.

"Where _shall_ you put them, father?" asked David in quite an excited manner.

That was indeed a question, but it was at length solved by Mr Hawthorn deciding to walk, and the wagonette was ready to proceed, David sitting in front as usual. After several efforts to make Andrew talk he fell back for amus.e.m.e.nt on his own thoughts, and in recognising all the well-known objects they pa.s.sed on the road. Presently they came to a certain little grey cottage, and then he knew they were halfway home.

It had honeysuckle growing over the porch, and a row of bee-hives in the garden, which was generally bright and gay with flowers; just now, however, it all looked withered and unattractive, except that on one tree there still hung some very red apples, though it was the beginning of November. That reminded David of Antony, who had a great weakness for apples. He smiled to himself, and felt glad that he should see his pet so soon.

After this cottage there was a long steep hill to go up, and here Ruby the horse always waited for Andrew to get down and walk. David might really drive now, and even flick at Ruby's fat sides with the whip, which was pleasant, but did not make the least difference to his speed.

When they had reached the top of the hill, the little square tower of Easney church could just be seen, and the chimneys of the vicarage, but though they looked near, there were still nearly four miles to drive.

Now it was all downhill, and Ruby pounded along at an even trot, which seemed to make a sort of accompaniment to David's thoughts--

To market, to market, To buy a fat pig; Home again, home again, Jig a jig, jig!

it said, over and over again. "I wonder whether Antony will know me!"

thought David.

Five minutes more and the carriage stopped at the white gate, and Andrew getting down to open it, David drove in a masterly manner up to the front door, where Ambrose, Pennie, and d.i.c.kie were a.s.sembled to welcome the return. Amidst the bustle which followed, while Miss Unity's belongings were being unpacked and carried indoors under the watchful eye of their owner, David slipped down from his perch and hurried away towards the kitchen-garden; Antony lived there, and he would go and see him first of all. As he ran along the narrow path, bordered with fruit-trees, he stooped to pick up a wrinkled red apple which had fallen. "He's _so_ fond of 'em!" thought he, as he put it in his pocket. There was the sty, and now he should soon hear the low grunt so delightful to his ears. All was silent, however, and he went on more slowly, with a slight feeling of dread, for somehow the sty had a strangely empty look about it. "He's eating," said David encouragingly to himself; but even as he said so he stood still, quite afraid to go any nearer. Then he called gently: "Choug, choug, choug." No sign of life. No inquiring black snout peering over the edge. Unable to bear the uncertainty, he rushed forward and looked into the sty.

Empty! Yes, quite empty--Antony's straw bed was there, and the remains of some food in his trough, but no Antony!

David stood staring at the desolate dwelling for some minutes, hardly able to believe his eyes; then with a thrill of hope he said to himself:

"He must have got out. He must be somewhere in the garden;" and he turned round to go and search for him. As he did so, he saw a small dejected figure coming down the path towards him with downcast face and lagging step. It was Nancy--grief in every feature, and guilt in every movement. One glance was enough for David; he understood it all now, and he flushed angrily, and turned his back upon her, clenching his fists tightly. She came slowly up and stood close to him; she was crying.

"Oh, Davie," she said. "I am so sorry."

"Where's Antony?" said David in a m.u.f.fled voice without looking at her.

"He's gone."

"Where?"

"Back to the farm."