like the hammock?" she said, "or this seat? The hammock ismost comfortable."
"I will take the seat," said the young lady.
She leant back and looked across the garden.
"That is our tennis lawn," said Pen, pointing in the distance. "It usedto be the old garden, with the queer dragons and beasts and birds cutout of the box trees. Doesn't it make a beautiful tennis lawn?Wouldn't you like to see it? Clay is so proud of it."
"No, I shouldn't like to see it," said Angela very gently.
She turned those misty, unfathomable eyes of hers towards the littlegirl.
"Don't you understand," she said impulsively, and she laid her slenderhand on Pen's arm, "that the old garden was more to me than the tennislawn is to you?" Pen felt a vague, very vague sort of flutter at herheart. She did not know that she understood, but she felt puzzled anduneasy.
"Why have you come here to-day?" was her next question.
"I am waiting for my friend, Marcia Aldworth. I hope to take her backwith me to-night--that is if Mrs Aldworth's mind is relieved."
"But what has happened?" said Pen. "Is Mrs Aldworth ill again?"
"Not exactly, but she is anxious. Perhaps you can tell us something.It is Nesta."
"What about Nesta?" asked Pen.
"She cannot be found. Since early this morning no one has seen her.They are searching for her everywhere, and are making inquiries, but noone knows anything about her. Mrs Aldworth hasn't been told exactlywhat has happened, but she particularly misses Nesta, and dear Marciawill not be able to come to me unless Nesta turns up. Do you knowanything about her?"
"No," said Pen, a little wearily. She was not deeply interested inNesta, nor particularly interested in Mrs Aldworth.
"I half hoped you might, or some of you. You were so kind to theAldworths when they were in such trouble about their mother."
"No, I wasn't kind," said Pen abruptly, "I didn't like them."
Angela did not smile; she looked grave.
"Still, I don't know why you came here?" was Pen's next remark.
"Your sister wanted me to come; she invited me, and I thought I wouldcome to see her. Is she at home?"
"I'm the only one at home. They have all gone to Whitby to have aspree. I didn't want to go."
"But why? You are the youngest, are you not?"
"Yes, I'm the youngest."
"Why didn't you want to go?"
Pen coloured. There was nothing at all inquisitive in the visitor'svoice, but there was a note of sympathy in it as though in someindescribable, marvellous way she could guess that Pen was in trouble,and that Pen had something on her mind that was worrying her a gooddeal. Insensibly Pen drew a little nearer to the white-robed visitor.
"I say," she exclaimed, "shall I tell you what I thought you were when Isaw you coming down the path?"
"What?" asked Angela.
"Well, perhaps I had been asleep, I can't quite tell, but I opened myeyes with a start, and there was an angel coming along; I really thoughtfor a minute that you were an angel; and that is your name, isn't it?"
"Angela is my name."
"Now that I come to look at you more closely, Angela," said Pen,bringing out the word without the slightest hesitation, "I think you arevery like an angel. Have you ever seen them?"
"I have never seen them, but I have often thought about them."
"I don't quite know why you are different from others," said Pen. "It'sthat far-away sort of look, and yet it isn't the far-away look--you aredifferent, anyhow."
Angela laid her hand again on Pen's arm.
"Tell me your name," she said.
"Pen, Penelope."
"Penelope, what a grand old name. Have you got that wonderfulperseverance that the real Penelope had? Will you be as faithful as shewas?"
But Pen did not know the story of the real Penelope, nor did she ask.Angela's hand seemed to draw her in some marvellous way.
"Look at me," said Angela very gravely. "I must go in a few minutes. Iwonder why I came to you instead of going straight to the front door.Your servant would have sent me away. But as I drew up my ponies at thefront entrance, I saw a girl in the garden, and I thought I could bearthis visit to the old place best if I came across the garden and spoketo the girl. And do you know, what is more, I hoped the girl would beyou?"
"Did you?" said Pen, her black eyes dancing with a look of intensepleasure.
"I did, for you have such an honest face."
"No, no; if you knew you wouldn't say that. You wouldn't speak to me.Angels would have nothing to do with me; but I can't help it--oh, whydid you come?"
"Tell me, dear; tell me."
Pen struggled and struggled. Give herself away to this girl, to AngelaSt Just, whom all the neighbourhood worshipped from afar; tell thisgirl what she had done? She could not! But just as little as thoughAngela were a real angel could Pen withstand the matchless sympathywhich Angela could throw into her voice, with which she could fill hereyes, with which she could wrap the sore heart of the puzzled littlesufferer.
"It was Jim," said Pen at last in a stricken voice. "Jim--he's mybrother; he's not a bit like others. Jim has thoughts, you know,_thoughts_, and he is splendid, and full of honour. He said he wouldhelp me out. He promised faithfully, but he went away, he went to aplace called The Chase, to some people of the name of Holroyd. He wentquite suddenly. I had a talk with him one evening, and I told him; andhe said there was only one thing to do, and he'd put it right, and bewith me when I did it. But he's away. Oh dear, oh dear!"
"Was the thing you had to do very difficult?"
"Awfully. But oh, Angela, you don't know."
It never occurred to Pen to call this fascinating visitor by any othername.
"I am sure I can partly guess; it is exceedingly difficult for any oneto own himself or herself in the wrong, and we all do wrong at times.Your brother must be a very nice boy."
"Oh, he's grand, only I don't know why he forsook me."
"Tell me more. I think I must have been guided to go down the gardenpath and have a talk with you."
"But you will never speak to me again."
"Does that really matter, Penelope? The one thing for you to do is toput wrong right."
"I will tell you more," said Penelope suddenly.
"You won't always be in the house to stare at me as Clay would do, andas Mabel and Annie would do, thinking that perhaps I'd do it again, andalways taunting me with it. Oh, no, you won't be there."
"Only in spirit, and my spirit will be very tender, and full of love toyou."
"Love to me?" said Pen.
"Of course, Penelope. Can you doubt it?"
Penelope could not look in those eyes, which were full of matchlesslove, eyes such as she had never before encountered. She burst into atorrent of tears, struggled with her emotions, and finally laid hercurly head with its wealth of red-gold hair on Miss St Just's whitedress. The slender hand touched the head once or twice, but Pen wasallowed to cry until the pain in her heart was eased a little.
"It was this way," she said, and then she told her story.
"I spoke to Jim first, I was driven to it, and--and Nesta was sopersistent. But I don't want to excuse myself."
"I wouldn't," said Angela, "for of course you have no excuse."
Her words were perfectly gentle, perfectly firm. Pen looked up at her.
"Ah," she said, "you and my conscience say the same thing."
"I hope so; your conscience is sure to tell you the right thing."
"Well, anyhow, I told Jim, and Jim agreed with me. He said there wasonly one thing to do. Only, you see, it was like this; he had promisedto help me, and he didn't. He went away instead. I wrote to him, andhe took no notice of my letter, no notice at all. I know he must havegot it, and I couldn't speak, although I tried. Then Saturday came, andfather has discovered all about the lost sovereign, and Clay said he wasin a thundering rage, quite wild with rage. She said he was fit to killany one who had
done it, and he accuses Betty, our new under-housemaid,Betty Wren is her name, and of course, Betty is innocent. He saysunless she confesses she will be sent away; that's quite awful. I don'tknow how I am to tell him; I can't imagine how I am to do it, for he'llhalf kill me, and I shall die, die, if Betty Wren is sent away. Oh, Iam so frightened. I wish Jim were here. What shall I do?"
"You must do this," said Angela, "you must give your fears to God, hewill