The Hawthorns Part 9

Mrs Hawthorn held up her hand.

"One at a time," she said. "If you will be quiet you shall hear all about it. This little girl lives in London. Her mother is a very old friend of mine, though you have never seen her, and I have asked her to let her little daughter come here for a visit. She is about Pennie's age, and her name is Ethelwyn."

"What a long one!" said Nancy; "must we call her all of it?"

"I think it's a beautiful name," said Pennie. "Almost as good as 'Dulcibella.' And then we might call her 'Ethel,' or 'Winnie,' they're both pretty."

"Well, you can settle that afterwards," said their mother. "You must wait and see what she likes best to be called. And that reminds me to say that I hope my children will be hospitable to their guest. Do you know what that means?"

"I know," said Ambrose, gulping a piece of bread and b.u.t.ter very quickly in his haste to be first. "Let _me_ say. It means taking care of people when they're ill."

"Not quite right," said Mrs Hawthorn. "You are thinking of 'hospital,'

which is a different thing, though both words come from the same idea; can you tell, Pennie?"

"It means being kind, doesn't it?" said Pennie.

"It means something more than that. What do you say, Davie?"

"Always to give her the biggest piece," said David, with his eyes thoughtfully fixed on the pile of bread and b.u.t.ter.

Nancy was then appealed to, but she always refused to apply her mind out of lesson hours, and only shook her head.

"Well," said Mrs Hawthorn, "I think Davie's explanation is about the best, for hospitality does mean giving our friends the best we have.

But it means something more, for you might give Ethelwyn the biggest piece of everything, and yet she might not enjoy her visit at all. But if you try to make her happy in the way _she likes best_, and consider her amus.e.m.e.nt and comfort before your own, you will be hospitable, and I shall be very pleased with you all. I expect, however, she will be chiefly Pennie and Nancy's companion, because, as she has no brothers and sisters, she may not care about the games you all play together.

She has not been used to boys, and might find them a little rough and noisy."

Pennie drew herself up a little. It would be rather nice to have a friend of her very own, and already she saw herself Ethelwyn's sole support and adviser.

The children continued to ask questions until there was nothing else to be learnt about Ethelwyn, and she was made the subject of conversation after their mother left the room, and until tea was over. They made various plans for the amus.e.m.e.nt of the expected guest.

"I can show her my pig," said David.

"And the rabbits and the jackdaw and the owl," added Ambrose.

"Oh, I don't suppose she'll care at all about such common things as pigs and rabbits," said Pennie rather scornfully, for the very name of Ethelwyn had a sort of superior sound.

"Then she'll be a stupid," said Ambrose.

"Owdacious," added David.

"Davie," said Miss Grey, "where did you hear that word?"

"Andrew says it," answered David triumphantly; "he says Antony grows owdacious."

A lively argument followed, for David could not be brought to understand for some time why Andrew's expressions were not equally fit for little boys and gardeners. Ethelwyn was for the time forgotten by everyone except Pennie, who continued to think about her all that evening.

Indeed, for days afterwards her mind was full of nothing else; she wondered what she was like, and how she would talk, and she had Ethelwyn so much on the brain that she could not keep her out of her head even in lesson time. She came floating across the pages of the History of England while Pennie was reading aloud, and caused her to make strange mistakes in the names of the Saxon kings.

"Ethelbert, not Ethelwyn, Pennie," Miss Grey would say for the twentieth time, and then with a little impatient shake Pennie would wake up from her day-dreams, and try to fix her mind on the matter in hand. But it was really difficult, for those kings seemed to follow each other so fast, and to do so much the same things, and even to have names so much alike, that it was almost impossible to have clear ideas about them.

Pennie's attention soon wandered away again to a more attractive subject: Ethelwyn! it was certainly a nice name to have, and seemed to mean all sorts of interesting things; how small and poor the name of Pennie sounded after it! shortened to Pen, as it was sometimes, it was worse still. No doubt Ethelwyn would be pretty. She would have long yellow hair, Pennie decided, not plaited up in a pig-tail like her own and Nancy's, but falling over her shoulders in a nice fluffy way like the Lady Dulcibella's. Pennie often felt sorry that there was no fluffiness at all about her hair, or that of her brothers and sisters; their heads all looked so neat and tight, and indeed they could not do otherwise under Nurse's vigorous treatment, for she went on the principle that anything rough was untidy. Even d.i.c.kie's hair, which wanted to curl, was sternly checked, and kept closely cropped like a boy's; it was only Cicely's that was allowed at present to do as it liked and wave about in soft little rings of gold.

Pennie made her plans and thought her thoughts, and often went to bed with Ethelwyn's imaginary figure so strongly before her that she had wonderful dreams. Ethelwyn took the shape of the "Fair One with the Golden Locks," in the fairy book, and stood before her with yellow hair quite down to her feet--beautiful, gracious, smiling. Even in the daylight Pennie could not quite get rid of the idea, and so, long before she had seen her, the name of Ethelwyn came to mean, in her romantic little mind, everything that was lovely and desirable.

And at last Ethelwyn came. It was an exciting moment, for the children were so unused to strangers that they were prepared to look upon their visitor with deep curiosity. They were nevertheless shy, and it had occurred to David and Nancy that the cupboard under the stairs would be a favourable position from which to take cautious observations when she arrived.

Ambrose, therefore, and Pennie were the only two ready to receive their guest, for d.i.c.kie was busy with her own affairs in the nursery; they waited in the schoolroom with nervous impatience, and presently the drawing-room bell rang twice, which was always a signal that the children were wanted.

"That's for us," said Pennie. "Come, Ambrose."

But Ambrose held back. "_You_ go," he said. "Mother doesn't want me."

And Pennie, after trying a few persuasions, was obliged to go alone.

But when she got to the door and heard voices inside the room she found it difficult to go in, and stood on the mat for some minutes before she could make up her mind to turn the handle. She looked down at her pinafore and saw that it was a good deal crumpled, and an unlucky ink-spot stared at her like a little black eye in the very middle of it; surely, too, Nurse had drawn back her hair more tightly than usual from her face. Altogether she felt unequal to meeting the unknown but elegant Ethelwyn.

It must be done, however, and at last she turned the handle quickly and went into the room. Mrs Hawthorn was sitting by the fire, and in front of her stood a little girl. Her hair _was_ fluffy and yellow, just as Pennie had thought, and hung down her back in nice waves escaping from the prettiest possible quilted bonnet (how different from that black plush one upstairs!) This was dark blue like her dress, and she carried a dear little quilted m.u.f.f to match. Her features were neat and straight, and her large violet eyes had long lashes curling upwards; there was really quite a striking likeness between her face and the Lady Dulcibella's, except that the cheeks of the latter were bright pink, and Ethelwyn was delicately pale.

Pennie noticed all this as she advanced slowly up the room, deeply conscious of the crumpled pinafore and the ink-spot.

"This is Pennie," said her mother, and Ethelwyn immediately held out her hand, and said, "How do you do?" in rather a prim voice and without any shyness at all.

"Now I shall give Ethelwyn into your care, Pennie," continued Mrs Hawthorn. "You may take her into the garden and show her the pets, or if she likes it better you may go upstairs and play with your dolls.

Make her as happy as you can, and I shall see you all again at tea-time."

The two little girls left the room together, and Pennie led the way silently to the garden, giving furtive glances now and then at her visitor. She felt sure that Ethelwyn would be surprised and pleased, because mother had said that in London people seldom had gardens; but her companion made no remark at all, and Pennie put the question which had been a good deal on her mind:

"What do you like to be called?"

"My name's Ethelwyn," said the little girl.

"Yes, I know," said Pennie. "Mother told us. But I mean, what are you called for short?"

"I'm _always_ called Ethelwyn. Father and mother don't approve of names being shortened."

"Oh!" said Pennie deeply impressed. Then feeling it necessary to a.s.sert herself, she added: "_My_ name's Penelope Mary Hawthorn; but I'm always called Pennie, and sometimes the children call me Pen."

Ethelwyn made no answer; she was attentively observing Pennie's blue serge frock, and presently asked:

"What's your best dress?"

"It's the same as this," said Pennie, looking down at it meekly, "only newer."

"Mine's velveteen," said Ethelwyn, "the new shade, you know--a sort of mouse colour. Nurse says I look like a picture in it. Do you always wear pinafores?"

Before Pennie had time to answer they had arrived at the Wilderness, and were now joined by Nancy and the two boys, who came shyly forward to shake hands.

"These are our gardens," said Pennie, doing the honours of the Wilderness; "that's mine, and that's d.i.c.kie's, and the well belongs to the others. They dug it themselves."

Ethelwyn looked round, with her little pointed nose held rather high in the air: