Penelope and the Others, Amy Walton [best interesting books to read .TXT] 📗

when the missionary began his address, and they were obliged to be silent and listen to him, for she would have been more interested in continuing the conversation. It was, however, so pleasant to have found a friend that other things did not seem to matter so much; even when the dissolving views turned out to be dull in subject though very dazzling in colour she bore the disappointment calmly, and that evening she added in her diary, "By this we see that things never turn out as we expect them to."

Miss Unity might have said the same. It was strange to remember how she had dreaded Pennie's visits, for now it was almost equally dreadful to think of her going home. Little by little something had sprung up in Miss Unity's life which had been lying covered up and hidden from the light for years. Pennie's unconscious touch had set it free to put forth its green leaves and blossoms in the sunshine. How would it flourish without her?


CHAPTER NINE.

DR. BUDGE.

We must now leave Pennie at Nearminster for a while and return to Easney, where things had been quite put out of their usual order by the arrival of the measles. The whole house was upset and nothing either in nursery or school-room went on as usual, for everything had to give way to the invalids.

There was always someone ill. First Dickie, who took it "very hard," Nurse said. Then just as she was getting better the baby sickened, and before anxiety was over about her, Ambrose began to complain and shortly took to his bed. Only Nancy and David showed no signs of it, and to their great annoyance had to continue their lessons as usual, and share in none of the privileges of being ill.

They were particularly jealous of Ambrose, who seemed to have all manner of treats just now--mother reading aloud to him the sort of books he liked best, cook making jellies for him, and Nurse constantly to be met on the stairs carrying something very nice on a tray. Nancy and David not only felt themselves to be of no importance at all, but if they made the least noise in the house they were at once sharply rebuked. They began to think it was their turn to be petted and coaxed, and have everyone waiting on them; but to their own disappointment and the relief of the household their turn never came, and they remained in the most perfect health.

Perhaps Ambrose, in spite of all his privileges, did not feel himself much to be envied. It was nice, of course, to have mother reading _Ivanhoe_ aloud, and to be surrounded by attention, and for everyone to be so particularly kind, but there were other things that were not nice. It was not nice to have such bad headaches, or to lie broad awake at night and feel so hot, and try in vain to find a cool place in bed. And it was not nice to have such funny dreams, half awake and half asleep, in which he was always fighting or struggling with something much stronger than himself.

Through all these conflicts he had a confused sense that if he overcame his enemy his father would trust him again, for since the adventure of the crock the vicar's words had always been on Ambrose's mind. He had been continually on the look-out for some great occasion in which he might prove that he was trustworthy, and now that he was feverish and ill this idea haunted him in all sorts of strange shapes. Sometimes it was a tall black knight in mailed armour, with whom he must fight single-handed; sometimes a great winged creature covered with scales; sometimes a swift thing like a lizard which he tried to catch and could not, and which wearied him by darting under rocks and through crevices where he could not follow.

But whatever shape they took, in one respect Ambrose's dreams were always alike--he was never successful. Always striving, and pursuing, and fighting, and never victorious, it was no wonder that he was worn out and quite exhausted when morning came. As he got better, and the fever left him, the dreams left him too, but the idea that had run through them was still there, and he thought about it a great deal.

What could he do to make his father trust him? He pondered over this question in his own mind without talking of it to anyone. If Pennie had been there he could have told her about it, but he knew Nancy would only laugh, so he kept it to himself and it got stronger every day. This was partly because he had so much more time than usual on his hands, before he was considered quite well enough to go into the school-room and employ himself with the others. He was allowed, however, to sit up and to read as many story-books as he liked. They were full of stirring adventure and hairbreadth escape. It was quite a common everyday thing in them for a boy to save a person's life and risk his own. Why could not something of the same nature happen at Easney?

Certainly it was a very quiet place, with no wild animals or dangerous mountains, but still there might be a chance even at Easney of doing something remarkable. Dickie might tumble into a pond and he might save her life--only there was no water deep enough to drown her, and if there were he could not swim. Or the house might catch fire. That would do better. It would be in the night, and Ambrose would be the only one awake, and would have to rouse his father, who slept at the other end of the house. He would wrap himself in a blanket, force his way through smothering smoke and scorching flames, cross over burning planks with bare feet, climb up a blazing flight of stairs just tottering before they fell with a crash, and finally stand undismayed at his father's side. Then he could say quietly, "Father, the house is on fire, but do not be alarmed;" and his father would soon put everything right. After which he would turn to Ambrose and say, "My son, you have saved our lives by your courage and presence of mind. Henceforth I know that I can trust you."

How easy and natural all this seemed in fancy!

It was late in October when the doctor paid his last visit to the Vicarage and declared everyone to be quite well again, but he advised change of air for Dickie, who did not get very strong. Shortly afterwards, therefore, it was settled that she and the baby should go away for a month with Mr and Mrs Hawthorne. This would leave only Ambrose, Nancy, and David at home with Miss Grey, and the nursery would be empty, which seemed a very strange state of things. But there was something else settled which was stranger still to Ambrose, and he hardly knew if he liked or dreaded it. He was to go every morning to learn Latin with Dr Budge.

Although it was strange, it was not a new idea, only it had been talked of so long that he had come to feel it would never really happen. He knew how vexed his father was that he could not give more regular time and attention to teaching him Latin. When he knocked at the study door with his books under his arm, it often happened that the vicar would be full of other business, and say, "I can't have you this morning, Ambrose, we must do double another day." But when the next time came it was often the same thing over again, so that Ambrose's Latin did not get on much.

Lately his father had said more often than ever, "I really will try to arrange with Dr Budge," and now it had actually been done.

Now Dr Budge was an old book-worm, supposed to be engaged in writing some mighty and learned work, who lived in a cottage on the Nearminster road. The children knew it and its owner very well, for it was not more than half a mile from the rectory, and they passed it whenever they drove into Nearminster. Its casement window was generally open, so that they could see him bending over his papers with his greenish wig pushed back from his forehead, and his large nose almost touching the top of his pen. The doctor was a tall, portly person with a red face, and had the air of being deeply occupied with some inward subject, so that he could spare no attention to outward things.

When he came to see their father, to whom he paid long visits, the children never expected him to notice them, or even to know them apart from each other, though he must have seen them so often. If the doctor ventured on a name it was always the wrong one, and lately he seemed to think it best to call them all "David," which saved trouble and which no one thought of correcting.

And now he was to be Ambrose's master. There was something rather awful in it, though at the same time there was a good deal to be proud of in having a master all to one's self. Ambrose wondered what Pennie would think of it, and wished she were at home that he might hear her opinion.

"Of course he'll call you `David,'" said Nancy, "and I should think he'd often forget you're in the room at all. Wouldn't that be fun?"

"Father's going to take me to see him to-morrow," said Ambrose. "Perhaps if he says very plainly `This is my son _Ambrose_,' Dr Budge will remember."

"Not a bit likely," said Nancy. "He met me in the garden the last time he was here, and said, `How are you, David?' Now you know I'm not a bit like David. I don't believe he sees us at all when he looks at us."

"I think," said Ambrose, "that when people are very wise and know a great deal, that perhaps they always get like that."

"Then I like silly people best," said Nancy; but I don't believe that's true. Father's as wise as he can be, and he always knows people apart, and calls them by their right names.

On their way to the doctor's house the next day the vicar told Ambrose that it was a great honour and advantage to have such a master as Dr Budge.

"I hope you will always remember," he said, "that he is a great scholar and a very wise man, and that it is extremely kind of him to be willing to teach a little boy like you. It is out of friendship for me that he does it, and I think I can trust you to do your best, and at any rate not to give him more trouble than you need."

The word "trust" caught Ambrose's attention, and while his father went on talking he began to make all sorts of resolutions in his own mind. In this way he might show him what he could do, and regain his good opinion. He saw himself working so hard, and learning so fast, that Dr Budge would be struck with amazement. Nothing would