Penelope managed to reach home unattended. She was tired and draggled and dusty, and also very much scratched. Her sisters received her with whoops1 of astonishment3 and welcome. They had not missed her, it is true, but when they saw her coming sadly and sheepishly in at the wicket-gate they concluded that they had. Adelaide was the first to reach her.
“Don’t ask me any questions and you’ll hear no lies,” was Pen’s remark. She waved her fat hand as she spoke4. “I am going to nursey straight away. I has something I wants to say to nursey. Has the post gone? I want to catch the post immediate5.”
“You are too queer for anything,” said Adelaide; “but go your own way. You’ll catch it for being out all by yourself in the woods.”
“I won’t catch it, but there are others who will,” replied Penelope. “And now keep out of my way. I want to find nursey.”
She marched in a most defiant6 and even queenly style towards the house; and the others, after laughing for a moment, returned to their various pursuits and forgot all about her.
When nurse saw Penelope she uttered a groan7.
“There you come,” she said. “You are a handful! You never turned up at dinner-time, although we looked for you everywhere. Now, where were you hiding?”
“Never mind that, nursey. Get out your writing ’terials.”
“Now, whatever does the child mean? Sakes! you are scratched, and your nice new holland frock is all torn, and you are dusty and pale and trembling—as pale and trembling as can be.”
“Is it pale I am?” cried Penelope. “Is it? Is it? Nursey, I love you, love you, love you!”
With a flop8 Penelope’s fat arms were flung round nurse’s neck; her hot little lips caressed9 nurse’s cheeks.
“Oh,” she cried, “how much I love you! Get writing ’terials quick. Get pen and ink and paper, and sit down and write. I will tell you what to say. You must write this instant minute. It is the most ’portant thing in all the world. Write, and be quick. If you don’t I’ll go to Betty, and she’ll do what I want her to do.”
“You needn’t do that,” cried nurse. “You are a queer child, and more trouble than you’re worth, but when you are in a bit of a mess I’m not the one to refuse my aid. Who have I to write to?”143
“To my darlingest Aunt Sophy.”
“My word! What on earth have you got to say to her?”
“Get ’terials and you’ll know.”
Nurse complied somewhat unwillingly10. She produced a portfolio11, got out her ink-bottle and pen, dipped the pen in ink, and looked up at Penelope.
“Go on, and be quick,” she said. “I can’t be fashed with the whims12 of children. What is it that you want to say?”
“Write, ‘Dear, darling Aunt Sophia.’”
“You are too queer!”
Nevertheless nurse put the words on the sheet of paper, and Pen proceeded to deliver herself quickly.
“‘I am paled down, and want change of air. My breaf is too quick. My legs is all tored with briers and things. I has got a prickly feeling in my froat, and I gets wet as water all over my hands and round my neck and my forehead. It’s ’cos I’m weak, I ‘spect.’”
“Miss Penelope,” said the nurse, “if those symptoms are correct, it is the doctor you want.”
“‘I has a doubly-up pain in my tum-tum,’” proceeded Penelope, taking no notice of nurse’s interruption. “‘I shrieks13 in my sleep. I wants change of air. I am very poorly. Nursey is writing this, and she knows I am very poorly. I feel sort of as though I could cry. It’s not only my body, it’s my mind. I has got a weight on my mind. It’s a secret, and you ought to know. Send for me quick, ’cos I want change of air.
Pen.’”
“I never wrote a queerer letter,” said nurse; “and from the looks of you there seems to be truth in it. You certainly don’t look well.”
“You will send it, nursey?” asked Pen, trembling with excitement.
“Yes, child; you have dictated14 it to me, and it shall go by the post. Whether Miss Tredgold will mind a word you say or not remains15 to be proved. Now leave me, and do for goodness’ sake try not to run about wildly any more for to-day at least.”
Penelope left the room. She stooped slightly as she walked, and she staggered a little. When she got near the door she coughed. As she reached the passage she coughed more loudly.
“It’s my froat,” she said in a very sad tone, and she crept down the passage, nurse watching her from the open door of the nursery.
She did not guess that when Penelope turned the last corner she gave a sudden whoop2, leapt nearly a foot into the air, and then darted16 out of the house as fast as she could.
“I ’spect I’s done it this time,” thought Pen.
Meanwhile in the nursery, after a moment’s reflection, nurse added a postscript17 of her own to Pen’s letter.144
“Miss Penelope is very queer, and don’t look well at all.”
That letter was put in the post, and in due time received by Miss Tredgold.
Penelope began to count the hours. She knew that no answer could come for some time after the letter was written. During the next day she went at intervals18 to visit Betty, and begged her for drinks of vinegar; and as she paid Betty by more and more presents out of Pauline’s old bandbox, she found that individual quite amenable19. After drinking the vinegar Penelope once again suffered from the “doubly-up pain in her tum-tum.” She spoke of her agonies to the others, who pitied her a good deal, and Josephine even presented her with some very precious peppermints20 for the purpose of removing it. Towards evening she seemed better, and talked continually of the seaside and how she intended to enjoy herself there. And then she suggested that her sisters should come and help her to pack her things. The girls naturally asked why they were to do it, and she replied:
“’Cos I’m going on a journey, and it’s most ’portant. None of you are going, but I am.”
“You’re not going on any journey,” said Lucy. “You do talk rubbish.”
“What you bet?” asked Penelope, who saw an instant opportunity of making a little money.
“Nothing,” replied Lucy. “You are talking rubbish. Get out of my way. I’m very busy.”
Pen looked wildly around her. She was in such a state of suppressed excitement that she could stop at nothing. Her sisters were all close at hand. Patty and Briar were sitting as usual almost in each other’s pockets. Adelaide, Josephine, Lucy, and Helen made a group apart. Pen thought carefully.
“There’s six of ’em,” she said to herself. “I ought to make a little money by six of ’em. Look here!” she called out. “You all say I’m not going on a journey to-morrow; I say I am. Will you give me a penny each if I go? Is it done? Is it truly done? If I don’t go I’ll give you a penny each.”
“But you haven’t got any pence to give us.”
“I will borrow from nursey. I know she’ll lend me the money. But I shan’t need it, for I am going. Will you give me a penny each if I go?”
“Oh, yes, if you want it,” said Adelaide.
“But remember,” continued Lucy, “we shall keep you to your part of the bargain if you don’t go.”
“All right,” cried Pen; and, having received the promise, she walked sedately21 across the grass.
“Six pennies! I’ll find them useful at the seaside,” she thought. “There’s nothing like having a little money of your own. It buys sweetmeats and cakes. I’ll tell Aunt 145Sophy that my froat is so sore, and that I must have constant sweetmeats. Six pennies will get a lot.”
She walked more slowly. She was in reality in excellent health; even the vinegar was not doing her much harm.
“How hungry I’ll be when I get to the seaside!” she said to herself. “I’ll swell22 out and get very red and very fat. My body will be ’normous. Oh, there’s father!”
Mr. Dale was seated near his window. His head was bent23 as usual over his work.
“Father could give me something,” thought Pen. “He could and he ought. I’ll ask him. Dad!” she called.
Mr. Dale did not answer.
“Dad!” called Pen again.
He looked up with a fretful expression.
“Go away, my dear,” he said. “I am particularly busy.”
“I will if you’ll give me sixpence.”
“Go away.”
Pen’s father bent again over his book. He forgot Penelope.
“He’s sure to give me sixpence if I worrit him long enough,” thought the naughty little girl.
She stood close to the window. Suddenly it occurred to her that if she drew down the blind, which she could easily do by pushing her hand inside the window and then planting her fat little person on the window-sill, she would cause a shadow to come before the light on her father’s page.
“That will make him look up,” she thought. “When he does I’ll ask him again for sixpence. I’ll tell him I won’t go away till I get it.”
She sat down on the window-sill, cleverly manipulating the blind, and Mr. Dale found an unpleasant darkness steal over his page.
“Draw up that blind and go away, Penelope,” he said. “Do you hear? Go away.”
“I will ’mediately you give me sixpence. I will draw up the blind and I’ll go away,” said Pen.
“I will give you nothing. You are an extremely naughty little girl.”
Penelope sat on. Mr. Dale tried to read in the darkening light. Presently he heard a sniff24. The sniff grew louder.
“My froat,” said Penelope.
He glanced towards her. She was sitting huddled25 up; her back looked very round.
“Do go away, child. What is wrong?”
“My froat. I want something to moisten it. It is so dry, it hurts me.”
“Go and get a drink of water.”
“Oh, my froat! Oh, my tum-tum! Oh, my froat!” said Penelope again.146
Mr. Dale rose from his seat at last.
“I never was so worried in my life,” he said. “What is it, child? Out with it. What is wrong?”
Penelope managed to raise eyes brimful of tears to his face.
“If you knowed that your own little girl was suffering from bad froat and doubly-up tum-tum, and that sixpence would make her well—quite, really, truly well—wouldn’t you give it to her?” said Penelope.
“How can sixpence make you well? If you really have a sore throat and a pain we ought to send for the doctor.”
“Sixpence is much cheaper than the doctor,” said Penelope. “Sixpence will do it.”
“How?”
“It will buy peppermints.”
“Well, then, here it is, child. Take it and be off.”
Penelope snatched it. Her face grew cheerful. She shot up the blind with a deft27 movement. She jumped from her seat on the window-ledge. She was no longer doubled up.
“Thank you, dad,” she said. “Thank you—thank you.”
She rushed away.
“I’ll have another sixpence to-morrow,” she thought. “That’s a whole beautiful shilling. I will do fine when I am at the seaside.”
Penelope could scarcely sleep that night. She got up early the next morning. She was determined28 to stand at the gate and watch for the postman. The letters usually arrived about eight o’clock. The postman hove in sight, and Pen rushed to meet him.
“Have you letters—a letter for me?” she asked.
“No, Miss Penelope, but there is one for your nurse.”
“It is from Easterhaze,” said the child. “Thank you—thank you, posty.”
She snatched the first letter away from the old man and darted away with it. Into the nursery she rushed.
“Here it is, nursey. Open it, quick! I am to go; I know I am.”
Nurse did open the letter. It was from Miss Tredgold, and it ran as follows:
“Dear Nurse: Penelope is evidently too much for you. I intend to remain two or three days longer in this pleasant place, so do not expect me home next week. I shall have Penelope here, so send her to me by the first train that leaves Lyndhurst Road to-morrow. Take her to the station and put her into the charge of the guard. She had better travel first-class. If you see any nice, quiet-looking lady in the carriage, put Penelope into her charge. I enclose a postal29 order for expenses. Wire to me by what train to expect the child.”
The letter ended with one or two more directions, but 147to these Pen scarcely listened. Her face was pale with joy. She had worked hard; she had plotted much; she had succeeded.
“I feel as though I’d like to be really quite good,” was her first thought.
Nurse expected that she would be nearly mad with glee; but she left the nursery quietly. She went downstairs quietly. Her sisters were at breakfast. She entered the room and stood before them.
“Pennies, please,” she said.
“What do you mean?” asked Briar, who was pouring out coffee.
“Pennies from all of you, quick.”
Josephine put on a supercilious30 face............