Girls of the Forest Part 50

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.

"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 consultation in their own room.

"We must do it after breakfast to-morrow," said Patty.

Just then there was a slight rustle. Briar paused to listen.

"Those horrid 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 stout, 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 mischief. 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, and 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 fretted, 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 remorse. 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-p.r.i.c.ks 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."

CHAPTER XXVI.

DECEITFUL GIRLS.

Miss Tredgold was dreadfully puzzled to know what to make of the girls.

The time was autumn now; all pretense of summer had disappeared. Autumn had arrived and was very windy and wet, and the girls could no longer walk in twos and twos on the pretty lawn. They had to keep to the walks, and even these walks were drenched, as day after day deluges of rain fell from the heavens. The Forest, too, was sodden with the fallen leaves, and even the ponies slipped as they cantered down the glades. Altogether it was a most chilling, disappointing autumn, winter setting in, so to speak, all at once. Verena said she never remembered such an early season of wintry winds and sobbing skies. The flowers disappeared, several of the Forest trees were rooted up in consequence of the terrible gales, and Miss Tredgold said it was scarcely safe for the children to walk there.

"The best cure for weather of this sort," she said to herself, "is to give the young people plenty to do indoors."

Accordingly she reorganized lessons in a very brisk and up-to-date fas.h.i.+on. She arranged that a good music-master was to come twice a week from Southampton. Mistresses for languages were also to arrive from the same place. A pretty little pony-cart which she bought for the purpose conveyed these good people to and from Lyndhurst Road station. Besides this, she asked one or two visitors to come and stay in the house, and tried to plan as comfortable and nice a winter as she could. Verena helped her, and the younger girls were pleased and interested; and Pen did what she was told, das.h.i.+ng about here and there, and making suggestions, and trying to make herself as useful as she could.

"The child is improved," said Miss Tredgold to Verena. "She is quite obliging and unselfish."

Verena said nothing.

"What do you think of my new plans, Verena?" said her aunt. "Out-of-door life until the frost comes is more or less at a standstill. Beyond the mere walking for health, we do not care to go out of doors in this wet and sloppy weather. But the house is large. I mean always to have one or two friends here, sometimes girls to please you other girls, sometimes older people to interest me. I should much like to have one or two _savants_ down to talk over their special studies with your father; but that can doubtless be arranged by-and-by. I want us to have cheerful winter evenings--evenings for reading, evenings for music. I want you children to learn at least the rudiments of good acting, and I mean to have two or three plays enacted here during the winter. In short, if you will all help me, we can have a splendid time."

"Oh, I will help you," said Verena. "But," she added, "I have no talent for acting; it is Paulie who can act so well."

"I wish your sister would take an interest in things, Verena. She is quite well in body, but she is certainly not what she was before her accident."

"I don't understand Pauline," said Verena, shaking her head.

"Nor do I understand her. Once or twice I thought I would get a good doctor to see her, but I have now nearly resolved to leave it to time to restore her."

"But the other girls--can you understand the other girls, Aunt Sophy?"

asked Verena.

"Understand them, my dear? What do you mean?"

"Oh, I don't mean the younger ones--Adelaide and Lucy and the others. I mean Briar and Patty. They are not a bit what they were."

"Now that you remark it, I have noticed that they are very grave; but they always do their lessons well, and I have nothing to complain of with regard to their conduct."