CHAPTER XVII.

To Penelope the weeks that followed the great day were very sorrowful ones. Miss Row apparently could not forgive her. Day after day she waited, hoping for a message bidding her come to renew her lessons; but no message came, and Penelope grew sick with disappointment and grief that she should have given such offence to her good friend. She went to Cousin Charlotte about it—she had told her at once the story of how they had given offence—but Cousin Charlotte only shook her head.

"I think you cannot do anything, dear, but go and apologise if you feel you spoke rudely; but—well, to tell you the truth, Penelope, Miss Row has a most unfortunate temper. She was born with it, and she was never taught to check it, and now it is too late. I tell you this as a warning, child."

Penelope did go to Cold Harbour to apologise. She thought she would feel happier if she did; but there she only met with another blow. Miss Row had gone away, and no one knew when she would come back. Returning more dejected than ever, she looked in at the church on her way home. If she could have practised a little it would have comforted her, but the organ was locked. Miss Row had probably left the key with some one, but Penelope felt she could not ask for it, as Miss Row had not said anything to her about it; so everything seemed at a standstill and full of gloom.

Esther, meantime, was spending what were perhaps the happiest weeks she had ever known. She went to Mademoiselle Leperier three times a week to sit with her and read to her and do little things she needed done, and in return Mademoiselle gave her lessons and talked to her in French, so that very soon Esther began to feel she was becoming quite proficient in the language. So the visits were a double and a treble joy to her. She loved to be with Mademoiselle in the dear little brown house where all was so quiet and peaceful, and nothing rubbed her the wrong way; or to stroll about the moor together. She loved to learn, and, perhaps best of all, she loved to be of use and feel she was some help. Such pleasant walks they had, and such long talks as they strolled slowly about, or sat in the sunny sweet garden, looking over the great empty space where nature dwelt alone, or in the cosy little parlour, fragrant always with the scent of flowers and the pot-pourri with which the old blue bowls and teapots were filled. One of Esther's self-appointed duties was to keep the vases always fresh and sweet.

The days were very full and happy now for Esther. She had quite a number of duties at Moor Cottage, duties that were now left entirely to her, and for which she was held responsible. She worked hard at her studies with Cousin Charlotte, and she was still to some extent 'little mother' to Poppy, so her mind and her time were very much occupied. This perhaps made her a little blind to Penelope's distress, yet poor Penelope's distress was very complete and apparent, for Miss Row had been away for months, and never once in all that time had she sent a word to her little pupil. The truth was she was so absorbed, as was her habit, in the people and things she was amongst that she quite forgot all else.

It was Angela who felt most distressed by Penelope's trouble, and most sympathetic; and Angela it was who, on one of her rare visits to Edless, told the tale to Mademoiselle Leperier.

"Poor child, poor child," sighed Mademoiselle sympathetically, and asked many questions until she drew from Angela all details, even to what Mr. Somerset had said about her voice. "Ah!" she said. "It ought not to be neglected, it ought not to be neglected. It will soon be too late."

She said no more then; but when Angela and Esther were leaving she sent a message to Penelope. "Tell her to come to me to-morrow. We may be able perhaps to do something that will fill up the waiting time."

Angela returned home in a high state of joy, which was scarcely damped by Esther's silence during the first part of their walk, or her vexed remark, "I do think you should know better than pour out all the family troubles to Mademoiselle. I wonder you didn't ask her to teach—" but she stopped before she finished what she had been going to say. "You three never go there but what you make me wish you hadn't."

"But I haven't done anything, Esther. Mademoiselle asked how Pen was, and when I told her she was very unhappy about something she asked me why, and what it was, and I had to tell her; and then she just asked me all about it, and I—I told her. I couldn't help it—could I? I couldn't say I wouldn't."

"Penelope isn't very unhappy, nothing to make such a fuss about," grumbled Esther. "When I am unhappy no one takes any notice of me. I don't see anything wrong with her."

"Oh, don't you? I do. She is always so quiet, not like she used to be. She frets so about having vexed Miss Row, and not going on with her music."

"If Miss Row had acted so to me I should have too much pride to grieve. Why doesn't Penelope ask Mr. Jeffry to lend her the key of the organ? He would in a moment."

"She won't because she feels Miss Row did not mean her to have it."

"That is nonsense," retorted Esther. "She can't want it so very much if she won't take the trouble to speak to Mr. Jeffry. After all, it is not Miss Row's organ."

"Pen does want it very much," said Angela gently.

"I never did like Miss Row," Esther went on, still in her most disagreeable mood. "I could see she had a horrid temper. If Pen lets herself be taken up and made a lot of she must expect what she gets."

"But Miss Row didn't make more of Penelope than Mademoiselle has of you," urged Angela, always ready to defend her adored Penelope, "and you would feel it if Mademoiselle acted so to you."

"Oh, Mademoiselle is quite different from Miss Row," said Esther loftily. She did not admit even to herself that much of the charming difference lay in the fact that she had singled out her, Esther, from her sisters.

She underwent some change of opinion, though, when, a few days later, Penelope came dancing down the road from Edless beside herself, almost, with happiness. "Oh, Cousin Charlotte!" she cried as she rushed into the house. "Oh, Cousin Charlotte! oh, girls! Mademoiselle has been talking to me. She is so kind! What do you think? She actually says she will give me lessons in singing if Cousin Charlotte will permit her. She says she would like to. Isn't it lovely! splendiferous! beautiful! Cousin Charlotte, you will, won't you? I do want to learn, and this is such a splendid chance. Isn't it wonderful how the very things one wants most come to one! I never dreamed of such a lovely thing as this."

Esther got up and walked away without speaking a word. Cousin Charlotte, who had seen her face, looked after her sadly, and sighed a little as she watched her go. Then she turned to Penelope. "Yes, dear, certainly. It is a wonderful opportunity for you here in this out-of-the-way spot, and I could not deny it to you. I am most grateful to Mademoiselle for her thoughtful kindness. I must call on her," Miss Charlotte added a moment later, "whether she likes it or not. I must thank her for her goodness to all my chicks."

"Oh, she will be glad," cried Penelope, flinging her arms about Miss Ashe's neck, and kissing the soft old cheek. "She will love you, Cousin Charlotte, I know she will. She can't help it. Now I am going out to think about it all. Oh, I am so happy. Thank you ever so much, Cousin Charlotte," and she kissed her impetuously again.

"You are easily made happy, my Penelope," said the little lady with a sigh, as she put her arm around Penelope's shoulders and gave her a little squeeze; and she sighed again as she thought of her Esther, and the expression on her face. "I had that same sort of temper once," she said to herself, "so I ought to understand her, and help her through; but oh, I pray she may be spared the sorrow I had to bear, and the bitterness of such regrets."

But whatever Esther felt she said nothing. She never once spoke to Penelope, then or later, of her singing lessons, or mentioned the subject to any one, and when Penelope returned from her lessons, full of talk of what had been seen and done and said, Esther might have been dumb and deaf for all the share she took in the conversation. But she carefully avoided Edless on those days; in fact she rarely went to the cottage at all from the time Mademoiselle made her kind offer to Penelope.

No one knew it, though, for she went off as usual three times a week in the direction of Edless; but usually she turned aside when she got out of sight, and wandered on the moor hour after hour, lonely and most unhappy, breaking her heart for neglecting her beloved Mademoiselle, yet such a victim to her temper that she could not conquer it. Often and often she threw herself on the turf in a passion of tears, angry, wretched, ashamed. More than once, in a better mood, she determined not to be so weak and contemptible, but to be nobler and braver, and truer to her aims. She hoped Mademoiselle did not notice anything and understand. But how could Mademoiselle help noticing? She saw and grieved; and in part she understood, but she said nothing. She knew that time alone could set things right. Esther must learn by experience. But how that lesson was to come, or how bitter was to be the experience, she little dreamed until the dreadful day I am going to tell you of.

To begin with it seemed like any other day. Penelope had to go to Edless, for it was one of her singing-lesson days, and Esther, jealous, angry, wretched, had watched her start, envying her and full of wrath. She herself had not been to Edless for a fortnight, and she had lately felt shy about going again after such a long neglect. She wondered what Mademoiselle was thinking of her. She was hurt that no message was sent by Penelope, yet relieved that Mademoiselle was keeping her secret; she often dreaded what Cousin Charlotte would think of her if she should discover her deceit, for she had often and often gone out pretending she was bound for Edless, and had even said, in answer to her inquiries for Mademoiselle, that she was 'about the same,' or something to that effect, though she really had no knowledge at all, and the deception made her conduct trebly bad. She was angry that all this misery should have come and spoilt her happy life, jealous that Penelope should be able to go off with such an honest, light heart and smiling face; and blamed every one but herself.

Before Penelope was more than out of sight, on this particular tragic day, Cousin Charlotte came into Esther's bedroom, looking alarmed and bothered.

"Esther dear," she said, "I wish you would go to Edless to-day and home again with Penelope, and take Guard with you. If you are quick you can overtake her. She has gone quite alone, and I am anxious. Ephraim told Anna that a lot of the cattle have wandered to this part of the moor, and are in a very wild state. I shall be afraid for you children to go on the moor at all if they stay in this neighbourhood. I wish Anna had spoken about it before Penelope started; I would have sent Ephraim with her or not have let her go. Do you mind going, dear?"

"Oh no," said Esther, but very coldly.

"You will be quite safe with Guard, even if they do come near. He will drive the creatures off," said Cousin Charlotte, thinking Esther was nervous. "Penelope ought to have taken him. I should not have been anxious about her if she had."

But Esther had none of that sort of fear. "Oh, I am not afraid," she said more heartily, and went away to put on her hat. But when she was actually on her way to Edless she felt she could not go there; she could not obey Miss Charlotte and hurry after Penelope until she overtook her, and then escort her to the very door. In those days she could rarely bring herself to talk to Penelope at all, so far had her feelings got the mastery over her, and so deeply did her grievance rankle; and the farther she went the less able did she feel to do so now.

"If I keep her in sight it will be all right," she said, with sudden inspiration; and so they went all the way, the unconscious Penelope walking on in front, Esther behind dodging and hiding and loitering so that Penelope might not see her, until at last she knew the cottage was almost reached, and stopped altogether.

She had had to lead Guard all the way, for he, catching sight of another of his mistresses before him, was full of eagerness to tear on and greet her; but Penelope, still quite ignorant of what was behind her, reached the cottage safely, knocked, and was admitted. Esther, from her hiding-place behind a rock, saw the door opened by Laura, Anne's smiling wife, and closed again, and resentment against her sister grew hotter than ever.

"She gets everything," she muttered, "and if I have a friend or a chance she takes them away; but she doesn't share hers with me." She had told herself all this so often she really believed it by this time. Poor Esther! poor unhappy Esther! Guard sat by her watching her with wistful, wondering eyes. He felt that something was wrong, poor old doggie.

She seated herself behind the rock to await Penelope's return. It would be no use to conceal her presence any longer, for Cousin Charlotte would certainly speak of it; so she must join Penelope on the way home, and make some sort of explanation. That, though, would be nothing compared with the mortification of having to go into the cottage with her.

Esther in her nook, cut off from every view but the moor in the direction from which she had just come, sat and dreamed troubled dreams, and brooded over her grievances, but never once gave a thought to the danger she had been sent to protect Penelope from. And all the time that danger was drawing nearer and nearer.

In the distance, just over the horizon behind her, on her left, there appeared a shaggy brown form, followed closely by another and another and another until a whole herd was descending the slope towards her, sniffing the air and the strange ground, cropping the turf a little here and there, or gazing about them with curiosity. Closer and closer they came, the soft turf deadening the noise of their coming.

"It must be nearly time for her to come out," said Esther at last, taking out her watch. Guard, at the sound of her voice, rose on his long legs and, stretching himself, wandered away a little. The foremost of the shaggy brown creatures looked up sharply, looked again, suspiciously, at this other occupant of this strange land who had so unexpectedly appeared, and his eyes wore a new glint as he stood and watched with increasing fear or suspicion, or both. Then he took a pace nearer, and another, followed by the others, all staring now at Guard, tossing their heads ominously, and pawing the ground as they sniffed the air.

And just at that unfortunate moment Penelope came around the bend, dancing along light-heartedly, singing to herself the exercise she had just been learning. Guard, looking about him eagerly, recognised her at once, and with a yelp of joy dashed towards her.

Esther was not alarmed at his outcry. She guessed the cause of it, and rising with feigned indifference went out from her shelter to meet her sister. With cold, hard eyes and unsmiling face she looked towards Penelope, framing the while her explanation of her presence there—only to see that explanation had come too late.

The cattle, roused to anger by Guard's sudden bark and spring, were coming down on him in a body, their pace growing faster, their anger increasing with every step. In charging him they must inevitably charge Penelope too. There was no escape for her, unless Guard ran away from her, drawing the enemy off; but that, of course, he was not likely to do, he was too pleased at seeing her again.

Esther saw and realised all at a glance, and the horror of it struck her dumb. Once, twice, three times she tried to call. If she could only get Guard away the cattle would follow him; but no voice came. She grew desperate, mad with fear for her sister. Oh, if she could but get them to come towards her and leave Pen. She tried to whistle, but her lips trembled too much. She tried to shriek and failed, and when at last she succeeded, the weak, strained voice could hardly be recognised as hers. But Guard heard it. "Guard, Guard, come here!" she called, running a little to draw him after her. The obedient old dog turned, saw the enemy, and, all his fury aroused by the danger, charged them like a hurricane.

But what was one amongst so many! They overwhelmed him, were on him, closed around him, and around Penelope too.

Esther saw it—saw her sister fall, saw the big beasts trampling over her, and Guard in their midst barking, snarling, flying at their noses, dodging away from their horns, and punishing them so severely that in spite of their numbers the poor brutes gave up the game at last, worsted, and tore away over the moor in the direction whence they had come, as though they had a pack behind them.

When Anne Roth came panting up a moment later, having seen the cattle disappearing and been filled with alarm lest Penelope should have been frightened by them, he found the two sisters unconscious on the ground, with their poor protector lying bleeding and exhausted between them, and whining piteously as he licked his bleeding wounds.

Here was a sight for one man in a lonely spot! For a moment Anne was bewildered; then, picking up Penelope, who he saw was the most injured, he carried her with all the speed he could back to his own house. But he was full of a double dread, for to the most casual eye it was plain that the child was seriously injured, and the sight of her, bruised, bleeding, and unconscious could not but be a shock to his mistress.

But Mademoiselle bore the shock well. "Let me attend to her while you and Laura go to poor Miss Esther and the dear dog," she said promptly; and Penelope was taken up to her own room, where she undressed her and got her to bed, and bathed her cuts, while they went out and brought in the other two.

Esther was in a swoon, but quite uninjured, so they laid her on the couch in the little sitting-room and administered restoratives, while Guard was taken to the kitchen to have his wounds bathed and dressed, and Anne hurried off for a doctor and Miss Ashe, for Penelope's injuries were far too serious for home dressing. She was bleeding so profusely from the cuts on her head that there was real cause for alarm; her arm was broken, and her collar-bone, too, they feared, while her poor body was bruised and crushed all over.

When Esther came back to consciousness twilight had fallen. She looked about her for a moment in the dimness, bewildered and incredulous. That she was in the dear familiar room she loved so well, she felt sure, yet how came she there? and what had happened? She lay still for a moment, wondering; then, her head growing confused, she raised herself a Little and looked again. This time she recognised a figure seated by the window, but so quiet and drooping she scarcely seemed alive.

For a second or so Esther gazed in sheer bewilderment, then raising herself still more, she whispered, half-alarmed, half-questioning, "Mademoiselle, is that you?"

Mademoiselle rose at once. "Are you better, darling?" she said, bending over and laying a soft hand on her head. Esther noticed that she spoke in a strange, hushed voice.

"Are you ill, Mademoiselle?" she asked anxiously.

"No, darling. I am well, but—" she paused, as though listening, and then for the first time Esther noticed the sounds of strange voices and many footsteps overhead, and with the same, memory returned.

"Penelope!" she cried frantically. "Oh, Penelope! where is she? Is she—is she—oh,"—burying her face in her hands as memory returned to her—"I thought she was killed—I saw her—under their hoofs. I saw them trampling on her—is she—killed?" in a hushed, gasping voice.

Mademoiselle laid a soothing hand on her. "No, dear, she is alive and safe. She is badly injured, but she will recover, please God. The doctor is with her now, and Miss Ashe, so I came down to see my poor Esther. My child, we have much to be thankful for that things are not worse. It might have been—"

"Oh, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle," cried Esther, "I can never tell you how bad I have been—" but she found herself clasped in a warm embrace that told of pity and love and sympathy unbounded. Mademoiselle asked no questions, but the whole story had to be told. Esther knew she would know no rest until she had unburthened her heart and humbled herself, and was possessed by a feeling that if she did not do it then she might never again be able to. And Mademoiselle, with complete understanding, let her talk.

"I saw her fall. I heard her scream. She tried to get up, but was knocked down again. She called 'Esther, Esther,' but I couldn't help her—and I thought she was being killed. Oh, Mademoiselle, I shall never be able to forget it—never, never, never!" and Esther clung to her, shaken with terror and the shock of all she had gone through.

"Darling, you must try not to dwell upon it. You must try to be strong and brave, and get well, for Penelope will need you, and Angela and Poppy will need you—and Guard—"

"Oh! Guard?" gasped Esther, afraid to ask the question which filled her mind.

"Do you think you can bear to see him? He will be so much happier if he may be with you."

"Then he is—all right?" breathlessly.

"No, darling, not all right. He has come out of the battle alive, which is more than one could have dared to hope; but he is badly injured. You will not be shocked by the sight of bandages, will you? Guard looks a poor old battered warrior at present, but we hope he will soon recover."

A battered warrior indeed did he look as he came creeping, limping in, his head bound up in bandages, one leg in a splint, and bandages about his body and chest where big gashes had been stitched and strapped up. His pain was so great he could scarcely drag himself in, but he crept forward, wagging his tail bravely; and when Esther laughed a little weak, almost tearful laugh, at the sight of his long nose coming out of his 'nightcap,' as she called it, he smiled and wagged his tail again, and tried to raise himself to kiss her.

The other victim Esther did not see until the next day, for Penelope was too ill to bear anything more that night, and when Esther went into the sickroom the next day she could hardly recognise her bonnie, smiling sister in the pale, bandaged face on the pillow, so drawn with pain, so dark about the eyes, so wan and changed in even that short time.

She was too weak and exhausted even then to speak much, but the old smile flickered for a moment in her tired eyes, and the sound arm was stretched out to creep around Esther's neck.

"I am all—all right," she whispered. "I shall be well—soon. It isn't— so very—bad, now."

"Pen," Esther whispered back in an agony, "oh, Pen, you don't know all, but—I'll never, never—"

Penelope put up her lips to be kissed. "Never—mind," she whispered faintly. "Nothing shall—ever—come between us—again, shall it, dear?"

"Never," said Esther decisively, "if I can help it." And she honestly tried to keep her word.