never be in time forthe train."
"Where's father?" said Pen wildly.
"How do I know where father is? Pen, you must be mad. What do you wantwith father of all people?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing?" said Pen. "Nothing at all." She feltfrightened at Clara's manner.
"Now, do bustle up," continued Clara. "Look here, we want a lot ofpeaches to eat by the way. There are some peaches in the hothouse atthe end of the garden, you can pick some of those; never mind how crossold Archer is. Tell him that I want them. He won't dare to keepanything back from me."
Pen started on her errand. She was glad to be out, but when she reachedthe place where the peaches were, she stood for a long time incontemplation. Then she suddenly roused herself.
"I haven't a bit of strength; I don't know how I can do it," shethought.
She went in and picked some peaches, without giving much thought to thefact that they were not ripe, and she was presently aware that oldArcher was standing over her. Archer was rather a terrible personage;he began to scold Pen. How dare she take his peaches? and she had nottaken the ripe ones. Here were ten lovely peaches absolutely destroyed,good for nothing.
"You can't have 'em," he said. "I'll lay 'em in the sun. Maybe they'llripen. It's a sinful shame to have a tree with its fruit torn off inthis fashion. Why, Miss Pen, haven't you got any sense at all? Don'tyou know by this time when a peach is ripe and when it isn't? MissClara'll be in a fine tantrum when she sees these sort of things. Here,give me yer basket, you stand by me, and I'll select 'em."
Pen did not seem to care. Archer made a careful choice. He pickedseven or eight peaches, then chose some nectarines, then some apricots,and then some grapes; the basket was packed, and he was proud of itsappearance when he handed it to Pen.
She went back to the house. Clara was in the hall, her face wasscarlet.
"What a time you've been," she said. "I do declare you've been awaythree-quarters of an hour. But oh, that fruit does look good. Put itthere in the hall; I'll tell James to cover it over. Pen, what do youthink has happened?"
"What?" asked Pen faintly.
"Why, father went to his room, as usual, to get his purse to pay themen, and he found a sovereign short. He's in a thundering rage. Who inthe world can have taken it? He has made up his mind that it is Betty,that new under-housemaid. She's not been with us a month yet. He sayshe'll dismiss her; nothing will induce him to keep her unless sheconfesses."
"Has he--has he--accused her?" asked Pen.
"Of course, he has; he went to her and spoke to her, and she's cryingfit to break her heart, but I suppose all the same she has done it.There, there, Pen, it's no affair of yours. Father would be fit to killanybody who did such a mean thing. Fancy going to his room and taking asovereign out of his drawer."
"He--he wouldn't be likely to forgive very easily?" said Pen.
"Forgive! I wouldn't like to be in Betty's shoes." Penelope wentslowly upstairs.
"Now do hurry; the carriage will be at the door in twenty minutes. And,Pen, do change your dress. We may meet smart people going to Whitby, wemay indeed."
Pen turned an angle in the staircase. She walked more and more slowly.Clara's words kept echoing in her brain. "Father would half killanybody who had done this. She wouldn't like to be in Betty's shoes."Pen went straight into Jim's room. When she had shut the door, she saidaloud:
"You might have helped me out of this awful mess; oh, you might, I wroteyou such a distracted letter. Oh, I can't see Betty. I can't, I can't!Oh, what am I to do? Well, I won't go to Whitby, on that point I havequite made up my mind."
Before her resolution could falter she ran downstairs again.
"My dear Pen, not ready yet?" said Mabel, who was now in the hall.
"No, I'm not, and what is more, I'm not going."
"Not going, Penelope? Not going?"
"No, I'm not well, and I'm not going."
"You do look hot, we all noticed it this morning; but you are not so badas all that."
"Yes, I am, but you needn't stay, I can get nursey to look after me. Iwill go when I am better; anyhow, I am not going to-day, so there."
Mabel rushed at her sister, and felt her brow, and took her hot hand.
"I don't believe you are so bad you can't go. I wonder where father is?Oh, here you are, Clara. What do you think this tiresome Pen has goneand done?"
"What now?" said Clara. "Does she want father? He is at Newcastle. Hewon't be back until late this evening. He bade us all good-bye. Heasked for Pen, but as she was not about he sent his love to her."
"I don't want to go," said Pen, "that's all. I'm going to stay behind.I'm--I'm not well."
"But what ails you? A headache?"
"Splitting," said Pen.
"Pain in your back?"
"A bit."
"Sore throat?"
"A bit."
"Good gracious! What else have you got a bit of?"
"I don't know--a bit of everything. Anyhow, I'm not going."
"Hadn't we better take her temperature?" said Clay. "It seemsfrightfully wrong to leave her."
"No, no, I won't put that horrid little thing into my mouth," said Pen."I'll stay with nursey. Nursey shall look after me. You can all go,and if nursey wants to send for the doctor she can. But I'm not badenough for that, only I can't stand the train. Do let me stay, please,please. If you don't, you'll have to take me by force, for I'll screamand shriek all the way."
The waggonette appeared at the door. The coachman bent down.
"Young ladies," he said, "it's about time to go."
"Our luggage has gone," said Clara, "and yours too, Pen."
"Perhaps I'll come to-morrow," said Pen. "I can't--I can't go now."
"We'll have to leave her," said Clara. "I'll just run up and tell oldRichardson to look after her."
Clara rushed upstairs, and found Nurse Richardson, who told her therewas not the slightest occasion for any of them to stay with Pen, for shecould nurse her and fifty more like her, if it were necessary. Clara,therefore, returned to the hall.
"Where is the child?" she asked.
"I don't know," said Mabel. "Isn't the here!"
"You'll miss your train, Miss," said the coachman. "So we will. Clara,do get in!" called out Mabel. "Here you are, Annie, we are both waitingfor you." Clara jumped into the waggonette; the door was slammed to,the delicious fruit lay in a basket on the seat, and the horses startedforward. They went down the avenue at a spanking pace. Pen waswatching them from behind the house. She gave one glad cry, a cryalmost of ecstasy, and then she burst into tears.
"Oh, I'm glad and yet I'm sorry," she said. "Both glad and sorry! bothglad and sorry!"
Mrs Richardson called and called in vain for Pen; there was no sign ofher darling young lady. What in the world had become of her?
But Pen was determined to stay out. She had got to make up her mind.There was just a vague hope within her that perhaps Jim might yetreturn. Perhaps he was coming back in person; he was answering herletter in that best of all ways. Still, it was scarcely likely, for hemust know that by Saturday morning his father would have discovered themissing sovereign. There was Betty, too. Pen had scarcely given Bettya thought. She was a very common, rather untidy little girl. She hadnever in the least attracted Pen; but she hardly thought of any one elsethat day. And yet, after a fashion, she quite envied Betty, for Bettyat least was innocent.
"She hasn't my guilty conscience," thought Pen. "Oh dear, oh dear, whatis to become of me?"
By-and-by Pen heard the sound of crying. It came nearer and nearer. Agirl with her apron over her head was coming down the shady path wherePen herself was sitting. Pen started to her feet. That was Betty; shecould not meet Betty, she would not see her for all the world.
But Betty had caught sight of Pen. She ran up to her, removed herapron, and said:
"Oh, Miss Pen, couldn't you save me? Won't you speak for me to MrCarter? I ain't do
ne it, Miss. I ain't done it. I wouldn't touch whatdon't belong to me. He says I'm the only one that _could_ ha' done it,and if I don't confess I'm to go, but if I confess he'll forgive me.But I ain't done it, and I'll have to go, and he won't give me acharacter, and mother--mother,