The Penningtons' Girl by Lucy Maud
Winslow had been fishing—or pretending to—all the morning, and he was
desperately thirsty. He boarded with the Beckwiths on the Riverside East Shore,
but he was nearer Riverside West, and he knew the Penningtons well. He had often
been there for bait and milk and had listened times out of mind to Mrs.
Pennington's dismal tales of her tribulations with hired girls. She never could
get along with them, and they left, on an average, after a fortnight's trial.
She was on the lookout for one now, he knew, and would likely be cross, but he
thought she would give him a drink.
He rowed his skiff into the shore and tied it to a fir that hung out from the
bank. A winding little footpath led up to the Pennington farmhouse, which
crested the hill about three hundred yards from the shore. Winslow made for the
kitchen door and came face to face with a girl carrying a pail of water—Mrs.
Pennington's latest thing in hired girls, of course.
Winslow's first bewildered thought was "What a goddess!" and he wondered, as
he politely asked for a drink, where on earth Mrs. Pennington had picked her up.
She handed him a shining dipper half full and stood, pail in hand, while he
She was rather tall, and wore a somewhat limp, faded print gown, and a big
sunhat, beneath which a glossy knot of chestnut showed itself. Her skin was very
fair, somewhat freckled, and her mouth was delicious. As for her eyes, they were
grey, but beyond that simply defied description.
"Will you have some more?" she asked in a soft, drawling voice.
"No, thank you. That was delicious. Is Mrs. Pennington home?"
"No. She has gone away for the day."
"Well, I suppose I can sit down here and rest a while. You've no serious
objections, have you?"
She carried her pail into the kitchen and came out again presently with a
knife and a pan of apples. Sitting down on a bench under the poplars she
proceeded to peel them with a disregard of his presence that piqued Winslow, who
was not used to being ignored in this fashion. Besides, as a general rule, he
had been quite good friends with Mrs. Pennington's hired girls. She had had
three strapping damsels during his sojourn in Riverside, and he used to sit on
this very doorstep and chaff them. They had all been saucy and talkative. This
girl was evidently a new species.
"Do you think you'll get along with Mrs. Pennington?" he asked finally. "As a
rule she fights with her help, although she is a most estimable woman."
The girl smiled quite broadly.
"I guess p'r'aps she's rather hard to suit," was the answer, "but I like her
pretty well so far. I think we'll get along with each other. If we don't I can
leave—like the others did."
"What is your name?"
"Well, Nelly, I hope you'll be able to keep your place. Let me give you a bit
of friendly advice. Don't let the cats get into the pantry. That is what Mrs.
Pennington has quarrelled with nearly every one of her girls about."
"It is quite a bother to keep them out, ain't it?" said Nelly calmly.
"There's dozens of cats about the place. What on earth makes them keep so many?"
"Mr. Pennington has a mania for cats. He and Mrs. Pennington have a standing
disagreement about it. The last girl left here because she couldn't stand the
cats; they affected her nerves, she said. I hope you don't mind them."
"Oh, no; I kind of like cats. I've been tryin' to count them. Has anyone ever
"Not that I know of. I tried but I had to give up in despair—never could tell
when I was counting the same cat over again. Look at that black goblin sunning
himself on the woodpile. I say, Nelly, you're not going, are you?"
"I must. It's time to get dinner. Mr. Pennington will be in from the fields
The next minute he heard her stepping briskly about the kitchen, shooing out
intruding cats, and humming a darky air to herself. He went reluctantly back to
the shore and rowed across the river in a brown study.
I don't know whether Winslow was afflicted with chronic thirst or not, or
whether the East side water wasn't so good as that of the West side; but I do
know that he fairly haunted the Pennington farmhouse after that. Mrs. Pennington
was home the next time he went, and he asked her about her new girl. To his
surprise the good lady was unusually reticent. She couldn't really say very much
about Nelly. No, she didn't belong anywhere near Riverside. In fact, she—Mrs.
Pennington—didn't think she had any settled home at present. Her father was
travelling over the country somewhere. Nelly was a good little girl, and very
obliging. Beyond this Winslow could get no more information, so he went around
and talked to Nelly, who was sitting on the bench under the poplars and seemed
absorbed in watching the sunset.
She dropped her g's badly and made some grammatical errors that caused
Winslow's flesh to creep on his bones. But any man could have forgiven mistakes
from such dimpled lips in such a sweet voice.
He asked her to go for a row up the river in the twilight and she assented;
she handled an oar very well, he found out, and the exercise became her. Winslow
tried to get her to talk about herself, but failed signally and had to content
himself with Mrs. Pennington's meagre information. He told her about himself
frankly enough—how he had had fever in the spring and had been ordered to spend
the summer in the country and do nothing useful until his health was fully
restored, and how lonesome it was in Riverside in general and at the Beckwith
farm in particular. He made out quite a dismal case for himself and if Nelly
wasn't sorry for him, she should have been.
At the end of a fortnight Riverside folks began to talk about Winslow and the
Penningtons' hired girl. He was reported to be "dead gone" on her; he took her
out rowing every evening, drove her to preaching up the Bend on Sunday nights,
and haunted the Pennington farmhouse. Wise folks shook their heads over it and
wondered that Mrs. Pennington allowed it. Winslow was a gentleman, and that
Nelly Ray, whom nobody knew anything about, not even where she came from, was
only a common hired girl, and he had no business to be hanging about her. She
was pretty, to be sure; but she was absurdly stuck-up and wouldn't associate
with other Riverside "help" at all. Well, pride must have a fall; there must be
something queer about her when she was so awful sly as to her past life.
Winslow and Nelly did not trouble themselves in the least over all this
gossip; in fact, they never even heard it. Winslow was hopelessly in love, when
he found this out he was aghast. He thought of his father, the ambitious
railroad magnate; of his mother, the brilliant society leader; of his sisters,
the beautiful and proud; he was honestly frightened. It would never do; he must
not go to see Nelly again. He kept this prudent resolution for twenty-four hours
and then rowed over to the West shore. He found Nelly sitting on the bank in her
old faded print dress and he straightway forgot everything he ought to have
Nelly herself never seemed to be conscious of the social gulf between them.
At least she never alluded to it in any way, and accepted Winslow's attentions
as if she had a perfect right to them. She had broken the record by staying with
Mrs. Pennington four weeks, and even the cats were in subjection.
Winslow was well enough to have gone back to the city and, in fact, his
father was writing for him. But he couldn't leave Beckwiths', apparently. At any
rate he stayed on and met Nelly every day and cursed himself for a cad and a cur
and a weak-brained idiot.
One day he took Nelly for a row up the river. They went further than usual
around the Bend. Winslow didn't want to go too far, for he knew that a party of
his city friends, chaperoned by Mrs. Keyton-Wells, were having a picnic
somewhere up along the river shore that day. But Nelly insisted on going on and
on, and of course she had her way. When they reached a little pine-fringed
headland they came upon the picnickers, within a stone's throw. Everybody
recognized Winslow. "Why, there is Burton!" he heard Mrs. Keyton-Wells exclaim,
and he knew she was putting up her glasses. Will Evans, who was an especial chum
of his, ran down to the water's edge. "Bless me, Win, where did you come from?
Come right in. We haven't had tea yet. Bring your friend too," he added,
becoming conscious that Winslow's friend was a mighty pretty girl. Winslow's
face was crimson. He avoided Nelly's eye.
"Are them people friends of yours?" she asked in a low tone.
"Yes," he muttered.
"Well, let us go ashore if they want us to," she said calmly. "I don't mind."
For three seconds Winslow hesitated. Then he pulled ashore and helped Nelly
to alight on a jutting rock. There was a curious, set expression about his fine
mouth as he marched Nelly up to Mrs. Keyton-Wells and introduced her. Mrs.
Keyton-Wells's greeting was slightly cool, but very polite. She supposed Miss
Ray was some little country girl with whom Burton Winslow was carrying on a
summer flirtation; respectable enough, no doubt, and must be treated civilly,
but of course wouldn't expect to be made an equal of exactly. The other women
took their cue from her, but the men were more cordial. Miss Ray might be
shabby, but she was distinctly fetching, and Winslow looked savage.
Nelly was not a whit abashed, seemingly, by the fashionable circle in which
she found herself, and she talked away to Will Evans and the others in her soft
drawl as if she had known them all her life. All might have gone passably well,
had not a little Riverside imp, by name of Rufus Hent, who had been picked up by
the picnickers to run their errands, come up just then with a pail of water.
"Golly!" he ejaculated in very audible tones. "If there ain't Mrs.
Pennington's hired girl!"
Mrs. Keyton-Wells stiffened with horror. Winslow darted a furious glance at
the tell-tale that would have annihilated anything except a small boy. Will
Evans grinned and went on talking to Nelly, who had failed to hear, or at least
to heed, the exclamation.
The mischief was done, the social thermometer went down to zero in Nelly's
neighbourhood. The women ignored her altogether. Winslow set his teeth together
and registered a mental vow to wring Rufus Hent's sunburned neck at the first
opportunity. He escorted Nelly to the table and waited on her with ostentatious
deference, while Mrs. Keyton-Wells glanced at him stonily and made up her mind
to tell his mother when she went home.
Nelly's social ostracism did not affect her appetite. But after lunch was
over, she walked down to the skiff. Winslow followed her.
"Do you want to go home?" he asked.
"Yes, it's time I went, for the cats may be raidin' the pantry. But you must
not come; your friends here want you."
"Nonsense!" said Winslow sulkily. "If you are going I am too."
But Nelly was too quick for him; she sprang into the skiff, unwound the rope,
and pushed off before he guessed her intention.
"I can row myself home and I mean to," she announced, taking up the oars
"Nelly," he implored.
Nelly looked at him wickedly.
"You'd better go back to your friends. That old woman with the eyeglasses is
Winslow said something strong under his breath as he went back to the others.
Will Evans and his chums began to chaff him about Nelly, but he looked so
dangerous that they concluded to stop. There is no denying that Winslow was in a
fearful temper just then with Mrs. Keyton-Wells, Evans, himself, Nelly—in fact,
with all the world.
His friends drove him home in the evening on their way to the station and
dropped him at the Beckwith farm. At dusk he went moodily down to the shore. Far
up the Bend was dim and shadowy and stars were shining above the wooded shores.
Over the river the Pennington farmhouse lights twinkled out alluringly. Winslow
watched them until he could stand it no longer. Nelly had made off with his
skiff, but Perry Beckwith's dory was ready to hand. In five minutes, Winslow was
grounding her on the West shore. Nelly was sitting on a rock at the landing
place. He went over and sat down silently beside her. A full moon was rising
above the dark hills up the Bend and in the faint light the girl was wonderfully
"I thought you weren't comin' over at all tonight," she said, smiling up at
him, "and I was sorry, because I wanted to say goodbye to you."
"Goodbye? Nelly, you're not going away?"
"Yes. The cats were in the pantry when I got home."
"Well, to be serious. I'm not goin' for that, but I really am goin'. I had a
letter from Dad this evenin'. Did you have a good time after I left this
afternoon? Did Mrs. Keyton-Wells thaw out?"
"Hang Mrs. Keyton-Wells! Nelly, where are you going?"
"To Dad, of course. We used to live down south together, but two months ago
we broke up housekeepin' and come north. We thought we could do better up here,
you know. Dad started out to look for a place to settle down and I came here
while he was prospectin'. He's got a house now, he says, and wants me to go
right off. I'm goin' tomorrow."
"Nelly, you mustn't go—you mustn't, I tell you," exclaimed Winslow in
despair. "I love you—I love you—you must stay with me forever."
"You don't know what you're sayin', Mr. Winslow," said Nelly coldly. "Why,
you can't marry me—a common servant girl."
"I can and I will, if you'll have me," answered Winslow recklessly. "I can't
ever let you go. I've loved you ever since I first saw you. Nelly, won't you be
my wife? Don't you love me?"
"Well, yes, I do," confessed Nelly suddenly; and then it was fully five
minutes before Winslow gave her a chance to say anything else.
"Oh, what will your people say?" she contrived to ask at last. "Won't they be
in a dreadful state? Oh, it will never do for you to marry me."
"Won't it?" said Winslow in a tone of satisfaction. "I rather think it will.
Of course, my family will rampage a bit at first. I daresay Father'll turn me
out. Don't worry over that, Nelly. I'm not afraid of work. I'm not afraid of
anything except losing you."
"You'll have to see what Dad says," remarked Nelly, after another eloquent
"He won't object, will he? I'll write to him or go and see him. Where is he?"
"He is in town at the Arlington."
"The Arlington!" Winslow was amazed. The Arlington was the most exclusive and
expensive hotel in town.
"What is he doing there?"
"Transacting a real estate or railroad deal with your father, I believe, or
something of that sort."
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I say."
Winslow got up and looked at her.
"Nelly, who are you?"
"Helen Ray Scott, at your service, sir."
"Not Helen Ray Scott, the daughter of the railroad king?"
"The same. Are you sorry that you're engaged to her? If you are, she'll stay
Winslow dropped back on the seat with a long breath.
"Nelly, I don't understand. Why did you deceive me? I feel stunned."
"Oh, do forgive me," she said merrily. "I shouldn't have, I suppose—but you
know you took me for the hired girl the very first time you saw me, and you
patronized me and called me Nelly; so I let you think so just for fun. I never
thought it would come to this. When Father and I came north I took a fancy to
come here and stay with Mrs. Pennington—who is an old nurse of mine—until Father
decided where to take up our abode. I got here the night before we met. My trunk
was delayed so I put on an old cotton dress her niece had left here—and you came
and saw me. I made Mrs. Pennington keep the secret—she thought it great fun; and
I really was a great hand to do little chores and keep the cats in subjection
too. I made mistakes in grammar and dropped my g's on purpose—it was such fun to
see you wince when I did it. It was cruel to tease you so, I suppose, but it was
so sweet just to be loved for myself—not because I was an heiress and a belle—I
couldn't bear to tell you the truth. Did you think I couldn't read your thoughts
this afternoon, when I insisted on going ashore? You were a little ashamed of
me—you know you were. I didn't blame you for that, but if you hadn't gone ashore
and taken me as you did I would never have spoken to you again. Mrs. Keyton-Wells
won't snub me next time we meet. And some way I don't think your father will
turn you out, either. Have you forgiven me yet, Burton?"
"I shall never call you anything but Nelly," said Winslow