“The seaside is doing the child no good,” she thought. “I will take her straight back home. She is certainly not herself; she got a much greater shock than we knew of or had any idea of. When she gets home the sight of the other children and the old place will rouse her. She is not consumptive at the present moment. That is one thing to be thankful for. I shall take her to London for the winter. If going back to The Dales does not arouse her, she must go somewhere else, for roused she certainly must be.”
“We are going home to-morrow, Verena,” she said.
“And a very good thing,” answered the young girl.
“Do you really think so?”
“I do, Aunt Sophy. Pauline has got all she can get out of the sea at present. She does not love the sea; she is afraid of it. She may be better when she is home.”
“And yet she is well,” said Miss Tredgold. “The doctor pronounces her in perfect health.”
“In body she is certainly well,” said Verena.
“Oh, then, you have observed it?”
“Yes, I have,” replied Verena slowly. “There is some part of her stunned4. I can’t make out myself what ails5 her, but there is undoubtedly6 one part of her stunned.”
“We will take her home,” said Miss Tredgold.
The good lady was a person of very direct action and keen resource. She had whisked Pauline and Verena off to the sea almost at a moment’s notice, and quite as quickly she brought them back. They were all glad to go. Even Pen was pleased. Pen looked very still and solemn and contented7 during these days. She sat close to Pauline and looked into her eyes over and over again; and Pauline never 176resented her glance, and seemed to be more pleased to be with Penelope than with anybody else.
The nice landau which Miss Tredgold had purchased met the travellers at Lyndhurst Road, and the first piece of news which Briar, who had come to meet them, announced was that the ponies8 had arrived.
“Peas-blossom and Lavender are so sweet!” she said. “They came yesterday. We are quite longing9 to ride them. As to Peas-blossom, he is quite the dearest pony10 I ever looked at in my life.”
“Peas-blossom will be Pauline’s special pony,” said Miss Tredgold suddenly. “Do you happen to know if the sidesaddles have arrived?”
“Oh, yes, they have; and the habits, too,” said Briar. “It is delicious—delicious!”
“Then, Pauline, my dear, you shall have a ride to-morrow morning.”
Pauline scarcely replied. She did not negative the idea of the ride, but neither did she accept it with any enthusiasm.
There was a wild moment when the entire family were reassembled. All the girls surrounded Pauline, and kissed her and hugged her as though she had come back from the dead.
“You quite forget,” said Penelope, “that I was nearly drownded, too. I was very nearly shutting up of my eyes, and closing of my lips, and stretching myself out and lying drownded and still on the top of the waves. I was in as big a danger as Pauline, every bit.”
“But you didn’t get ill afterwards, as Paulie did,” said the other girls.
They kissed Pen, for, being their sister, they had to love her after a fashion; but their real adoration11 and deepest sympathy were centred round Pauline.
Meanwhile Pen, who never cared to find herself neglected, ran off to discover nurse.
“Well,” she said when she saw that worthy12, “here I am. I’m not pale now. I am rosy13. The seaside suits me. The salty waves and the sands, they all agrees with me. How are you, nursey?”
“Very well,” replied nurse, “and glad to see you again.”
“And how is Marjorie? Kiss me, Marjorie.”
She snatched up her little sister somewhat roughly.
“Don’t make the darling cry,” said nurse.
“All right,” replied Pen. “Sit down, baby; I have no time to ’tend you. Nursey, when I was at the sea I was a very ’portant person.”
“Were you indeed. Miss Pen? But you always think yourself that. And how is Miss Pauline?”
“Paulie?” said Penelope. “She’s bad.”
“Bad!” echoed nurse.177
“Yes, all-round bad,” said Penelope.
As she spoke she formed her mouth into a round O, and looked with big eyes at nurse.
“The seaside didn’t agree with her,” said Pen. “Nor does the fuss, nor the petting, nor the nice food, nor anything else of that sort. The only thing that agrees with Paulie is me. She likes to have me with her, and I understand her. But never mind about Paulie now. I want to ask you a question. Am I the sort of little girl that lions would crunch14 up?”
“I never!” cried nurse. “You are the queerest child!”
“But am I, nursey? Speak.”
“I suppose so, Miss Pen.”
“I thought so,” answered Pen, with a sigh. “I thought as much. I am bad through and through, then. They never eat good uns. You know that, don’t you, nursey? They wouldn’t touch Marjorie, though she is so round and so white and so fat; and they wouldn’t look at Adelaide or Josephine, or any of those dull ones of the family; but they’d eat me up, and poor Paulie. Oh! they’d have a nice meal on Paulie. Thank you, nursey. I am glad I know.”
“What is the child driving at?” thought nurse as Penelope marched away. “Would lions crunch her up, and would they crunch up Miss Paulie? Mercy me! I wouldn’t like any of us to be put in their way. I do hope Miss Pen won’t go off her head after a time; she is too queer for anything. But what is wrong with Miss Pauline? I don’t like what she said about Miss Pauline.”
When nurse saw Pauline she liked matters even less. For though her dearly beloved young lady looked quite well in health, her eyes were no longer bright, and she did not take the slightest interest in the different things which the children had to show her. When asked if she would not like to visit the stables, now in perfect restoration, and see for herself those darling, most angelic creatures that went by the names of Peas-blossom and Lavender, she said she was tired and would rather sit in the rocking-chair on the lawn.
The others, accompanied by Aunt Sophia, went off to view the ponies; and then at the last moment Pen came back. She flung herself on the ground at Pauline’s feet.
“I has quite made up my mind for ever and ever,” she said. “Not even lions will drag it from me.”
“What?” asked Pauline.
“Why, all that I know: about who stole the thimble, and about the picnic on the birthday, and about what Briar and Patty did, and about you, Paulie, and all your wicked, wicked ways. I meant to tell once, but I will never tell now. So cheer up; even lions won’t drag it from me.”
Pauline put her hand to her forehead.178
“I keep having these stupid headaches,” she said. “They come and go, and whenever I want to think they get worse. I suppose I have been very bad, and that all you say is right, but somehow I can’t think it out. Only there is one thing, Pen—if I were you I wouldn’t do wrong any more. It isn’t worth while.”
“It is quite worth while getting you cheered up,” said Pen, “so I thought I’d let you know.”
That same evening Briar and Patty held a consultation15 in their own room.
“We must do it after breakfast to-morrow,” said Patty.
“Those horrid17 mice have come back again,” she said. “We must get Tiddledywinks to spend a night or two in this room.”
“Oh, bother the mice!” was Patty’s response. “Let us arrange when we must see her.”
“I have planned it all out,” said Briar. “We must tell her just everything we know. She won’t be so terribly angry with Paulie, because poor Paulie is not well. But I suppose she will punish us terribly. I have been thinking what our punishment ought to be.”
“What?” asked Patty.
“Why, not to ride either of the ponies until after Christmas.”
“Oh! don’t tell her to do that,” said Patty, in some alarm. “I have been so pining for my rides.”
“There’s that mouse again,” said Briar.
The children now looked under the little beds, and under the farther one there was something which would certainly have preferred to be thought an enormous mouse. On being dragged to the front, the stout18, dishevelled figure of Penelope Dale was discovered.
“I comed a-purpose,” said Pen, who did not look the least taken aback. “I saw by your faces that you were up to fun, and I thought I’d like to be in it. It is well I comed. I am willing to talk to you about everything. Call me a mouse if you like. I don’t care. I meant to listen. I am glad I comed.”
“You are too mean for anything,” said Briar. “You are the horridest girl I ever came across. Why did you dare to hide under my bed in order to listen to what I had to say to Patty?”
“I knew it all afore,” said Penelope, “so that wasn’t why I comed. I comed to keep you from doing mischief19. What are you going to tell to-morrow?”
“That isn’t your business,” said Briar.
“But I am going to make it my business. What you have to tell isn’t news to me. You are going to ’fess ’cos of the pain in your little hearts. You must keep your pain, 179and you must not ’fess. You are going to tell Aunt Sophy about that wicked, wicked birthday night—how you stole away in the dark across the lawn, and wore your Glengarry caps, and how you didn’t come back until the morning. But you mustn’t tell. Do you hear me, Briar and Patty?”
“But why not? Why should you talk to us like that?” asked Patty. “Why shouldn’t we say exactly what we like?”
“You mustn’t tell ’cos of Paulie. She is ill—more ill than you think. She mustn’t be punished, nor fretted20, nor teased, nor worrited. If you tell it will worrit her, so you mustn’t tell. Why do you want to tell? You have kept it dark a long time now.”
“Because we are unhappy,” said Patty then. “We haven’t got hard hearts like yours. My heart aches so badly that I can’t sleep at nights for thinking of the lies I’ve told and how wicked I am.”
“Pooh!” said Penelope. “Keep your achy hearts; don’t worrit.”
“But it’s past bearing,” said Briar. “What we feel is remorse21. We must tell. The Bible is full of the wickedness of people not confessing their sins. We can’t help ourselves. We are obliged to tell.”
“Just because you have a bit of pain,” said Pen in a tone of deepest contempt. “I suppose you think I never have any pain. Little you know. I have done a lot of wicked things. I consider myself much the most desperate wicked of the family. Your little pains is only pin-pricks compared to mine. It would relieve me to tell, but I love Paulie too much, so I won’t. We have all got to hold our tongues for the present. Now good-night. I am not a mouse, nor a rat, nor a ferret. But I mean what I say. You are not to tell.”
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1
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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2
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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3
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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4
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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5
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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6
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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7
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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8
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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9
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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10
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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11
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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12
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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13
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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14
crunch
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| n.关键时刻；艰难局面；v.发出碎裂声 | |
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15
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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16
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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17
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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19
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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20
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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21
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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