Chapter Eight.
Kettles Again.
Pennie sat one afternoon sewing wearily a way at a long seam. Sometimes she looked at the clock, sometimes out of the window, and sometimes dropped her work into her lap, until Miss Unity gave a grave look, and then she took it up and plodded on again.
For Miss Unity had discovered another point in which Pennie needed improvement. Her sewing was disgraceful! Now was the moment to take it in hand, for she had no lessons to learn and a great deal of spare time which could not be better employed; so it was arranged that one hour should be spent in “plain needlework” every afternoon.
“Every gentlewoman, my dear, should be apt at her needle,” said Miss Unity with quiet firmness. “It is a branch of education as important in its way as any other, and I should grieve if you were to fail in it.”
“But it does make me ache all over so,” said poor Pennie.
“My dear Pennie, that must be fancy. Surely it is much more fatiguing to sit stooping over your writing so long, yet I never hear you complain.”
“Well, but I like it, you see,” answered Pennie, “so I suppose that’s why I don’t ache.”
“It is neither good for you nor profitable to others,” said Miss Unity seriously. “You may dislike your needle, but you cannot deny that it is more useful than your pen.”
So Pennie submitted, and argued no more. With a view to making the work more attractive, her godmother gave her a new work-box with a shiny picture of the Cathedral on the lid. Every afternoon, with this beside her, Pennie, seated stiffly in a straight chair with her shoulders well pressed up against the back, passed an hour of great torture, which Miss Unity felt sure was of immense benefit to her.
The room in which they sat looked out into the Close. It increased Pennie’s misery this afternoon to see how bright and pleasant everything was outside, how the sunlight played about the carved figures on the west front of the Cathedral, how the birds darted hither and thither, and how the fallen leaves danced and whirled in the breeze. Everything was gay and active, while she must sit fastened to that dreadful chair, and push her needle in and out of the unyielding stuff.
First the back of her neck ached, so that she felt she must poke her head out, and Miss Unity looking up, said, “Draw in your chin, my dear.” Then she felt that she must at any cost kick out her legs one after the other, and Miss Unity said, “Don’t fidget, my dear. A lady always controls her limbs.” It was wonderful to see how long her godmother could sit quite still, and to hear her thimble go “click, click,” so steadily with never a break. It was as constant as the tick of the clock on the mantel-piece. Would that small hand never reach the hour of three?
Nurse’s proverb of a “watched kettle never boils” came into Pennie’s mind, and she resolved not to look at the clock again until the hour struck. The word “kettle” made her think of Kettles and of Nancy’s last letter, and she wondered whether Miss Unity would go to the College that afternoon, as she had half promised. Those thoughts carried her a good way down the seam, and meanwhile the hands of the clock crept steadily on until the first stroke of three sounded deeply from the Cathedral. Pennie jumped up, threw her work on the table, and stretched out her arms.
“Oh how glad I am!” she cried, spreading out her cramped fingers one by one. “And now, may we go and see old Nurse?”
Miss Unity looked up from her work, hesitating a little. Pennie was always making her do things at odd hours, upsetting the usual course of events, and introducing all sorts of disturbing ideas.
“Well, dear,” she said, “the morning is our time for walking, isn’t it?”
“But this morning it rained,” said Pennie; “and now look, only look, dear Miss Unity, how beautiful it is—do let us go.”
She went close to her godmother and put her arm coaxingly round her neck. Miss Unity gave in at once.
“Well, then, we will go,” she said, rising to look out of the window. “But it’s very damp, Pennie. Put on goloshes, and a waterproof, for I think we shall have more rain.”
Nothing could have shown Pennie’s influence more strongly than Miss Unity’s consenting to leave the house just after it had rained, or just before it was going to rain. Damp was dreadful, and mud was a sort of torture, but it had become worse than either to deny Pennie a pleasure, and they presently set out for the College shrouded in waterproofs, though the sun was now shining brightly.
Old Nurse was at home, and received them with great delight. Miss Unity and she had so much to say to each other about the measles at Easney, and other matters, that Pennie began to fear it might be difficult to get in a word upon any subject more interesting to herself. She was quite determined, however, to do it if possible, and the thought of how bold Nancy would be in like circumstances gave her courage. She would be bold too when the moment came, and she sat watching for it, her eyes fixed on Nurse’s face, and a sentence all ready to thrust in at the first crevice in the conversation.
At last it came.
“Does Kettles’ mother still come and scrub for you?” she asked, shooting out the sentence so suddenly that Miss Unity started.
“Lor’, now, Miss Pennie, what a memory you have got to be sure!” exclaimed old Nurse with sincere admiration. “To think of your remembering that! No, she doesn’t, poor soul, and I begin to doubt if she ever will again.”
“Why?” asked Pennie breathlessly.
“She’s been down with rheumatic fever these three weeks,” said Nurse, shaking her head regretfully. “It’s a poor woman who lives close by, Miss,”—turning to Miss Unity—“a very sad case.”
“She knows,” interrupted Pennie, for she thought it a great waste of time to explain matters all over again.
“My dear,” corrected Miss Unity, “let Mrs Margetts speak.”
“I run over to see her sometimes,” continued old Nurse, “and take her a morsel of something, but it beats me to understand how those people live. There’s five children, and the only person earning anything, laid on her back.”
“Don’t they get parish relief?” inquired Miss Unity with a look of distress. “They ought to have an allowance from the sick fund. Who visits them?”
“It’s my belief,” said old Nurse lowering her voice, “that no one ever goes nigh them at all. You see, Miss, the husband takes more than is good for him, and then he gets vi’lent and uses bad language. Of course the ladies who visit don’t like that.”
“I can quite understand it,” said Miss Unity, drawing herself up.
“Of course you can, Miss,” said old Nurse soothingly. “Now I don’t mind him at all myself. I don’t take any count of what he says, and I always think ‘hard words break no bones;’ but it’s different for such as you.”
“Who looks after the poor thing while she’s so ill and helpless?” asked Miss Unity, taking out her purse.
“That’s the wonder of it,” said Nurse. “The eldest’s a girl of Miss Pennie’s age, but not near so big. That child would shame many grown-up people, Miss, by the way she carries on. Nurses her mother and looks after the children, (there’s a baby in arms), and she’s on her feet from morning till night. If it wasn’t for Kettles they’d all have been in the workhouse long ago.”
Miss Unity here offered some money, but Nurse shook her head sagely.
“No use to give ’em money, Miss. He’d get hold of it and drink it in no time.”
“Well, you must spend it for the poor woman in the way you think best,” said Miss Unity, “and let me know when you want more.”
Pennie had listened eagerly to every word. Here indeed was news of Kettles and her family at last. How interested Nancy would be!
“Oh!” she exclaimed, taking her godmother’s hand, “do let me go to see them with Nurse and take them the things she buys.”
But to this Miss Unity would not listen for a moment. She would not even consider such a thing possible. All she would promise was that they would soon come again to the College and hear from Mrs Margetts how the poor woman was getting on, and with this Pennie was obliged to be contented.
Miss Unity herself was strangely stirred and interested by what she had been told. The story of Kettles and her mother seemed to cast a different light on Anchor and Hope Alley, that “scandal to Nearminster,” as the dean had called it. She had always considered it the abode of outcasts and wickedness, but surely it could not be right that these people should remain uncared for and uncomforted in sickness and want. They were surrounded by clergymen, district visitors, schools, churches, societies of all sorts established on purpose for their help, and yet here was Kettles’ mother three weeks down with the rheumatism, and only a little child to look after her. What did it mean?
And then, Miss Unity went on to think, her mind getting tangled with perplexity, what of their spiritual privileges? The great Cathedral lifted its spire and pointed heavenwards in vain for them, so near, yet so very far-off. The peace and rest of its solemn silence, the echo of its hymn and praise were useless; it was an unknown land to Anchor and Hope Alley. They were as much shut out from all it had to give as those dusky inhabitants of another country with whose condition Nearminster had lately been concerned. Pennie’s words occurred to Miss Unity. “I know Anchor and Hope Alley, and that makes it so much nicer.” She looked down at her side—where was Pennie?
Now while Miss Unity had been walking along in silence, her mind full of these thoughts and her eyes turned absently away from outward things, Pennie had been sharply observant of all that was going on in the High Street through which they were passing. Nothing escaped her, and the minute before Miss Unity noted her absence she had caught sight of a familiar figure in the distance, and had dashed across the road without a thought of consequences. When her godmother’s startled glance discovered her she was standing at the entrance of Anchor and Hope Alley, and by her side was a figure of about her own height.
And what a figure! Three weeks of nursing, scrubbing, minding children and running errands had not improved poor Kettles’ appearance. The same old bonnet, which Pennie remembered, hung back from her head, but it was more crushed and shapeless; the big boots had large holes in them, and the bony little hand, which clasped a bottle to her chest, was more like a black claw than ever. When Miss Unity reached them the children were staring at each other in silence, Pennie rather shy, and Kettles with a watchful glimmer in her eyes as though prepared to defend herself if necessary. Miss Unity took Pennie’s hand.
“My dear,” she said breathlessly, “how could you? I was so alarmed.”
“This is Kettles,” was Pennie’s answer, “and she says her mother isn’t any better.”
“Don’t you belong to the Provident Club?” asked Miss Unity, with a faint hope that Nurse might have been wrong.
“No, ’um,” said Kettles, looking up at the strange lady.
“Nor the Clothing Club, nor the Coal Club? Does nobody visit your mother?” asked Miss Unity again.
“Nobody don’t come ’cept Mrs Margetts from the College,” said Kettles. “Father says—”
“Oh, never mind that!” said Miss Unity hastily, “we don’t want to know.”
“Please let her talk,” put in Pennie beseechingly. “Father says,” continued Kettles, her sharp eyes glancing rapidly from one face to the other, “as how he won’t have no ’strict ladies in his house; nor no pa’sons nuther,” she added.
As these last dreadful words passed Kettles’ lips the dean, rosy and smiling, went by on the other side arm in arm with another clergyman. Could he have heard them? He gave a look of surprise at the group as he took off his hat. Poor Miss Unity felt quite unnerved by this unlucky accident, and hardly knew what to say next.
“But—” she stammered, “that isn’t kind or—or nice, of your father, when they want to come and see you and do you good.”
“Father says he doesn’t want doing good to,” said Kettles, shutting her lips with a snap.
Miss Unity felt incapable of dealing further with Kettles’ father. She changed the subject hurriedly.
“What have you in that bottle?” she asked. “It would be better to spend your money on bread.”
“Oils to rub mother with,” answered Kettles with a pinched smile; then with a business-like air she added, “I can’t stop talking no longer, she’s alone ’cept the children. If the baby was to crawl into the fire she couldn’t move to stop him, not if he was burnt ever so.”
Without further leave-taking she dived down the dark alley at a run, her big boots clattering on the flag-stones.
Pennie felt very glad to have met and talked to Kettles at last, and as she and her godmother went on, she made up her mind to write to Nancy that very night and tell her all about it; also to write a long description of the meeting in her diary. She was just putting this into suitable words when Miss Unity spoke.
“I have thought of something, Pennie, that would be nice for you to do for that little girl—Keturah her name is, I think.”
“She’s never called by it,” said Pennie. “Don’t you think Kettles suits her best, and it’s far easier to say.”
“Not to me!” answered Miss Unity. “I do not like the name at all. But what I want to suggest is this; you are anxious to do something for her, are you not?”
“I told you about it, you know,” said Pennie seriously. “Nancy and I mean to collect for some boots and stockings. Did you see her boots? I should think they must have been her father’s, shouldn’t you?”
“I don’t wish to think about her father in any way,” said Miss Unity with a slight shudder, “but I should like to do something for the poor mother and the little girl. Now it seems to me that we could not do better than make her a set of underlinen. I would buy the material, Betty would cut out the clothes from patterns of yours, and you and I would make them. This would give you an object for your needlework, and you would not find it so wearisome perhaps.”
She spoke quite eagerly, for she felt that she had hit upon an excellent scheme which would benefit both Pennie and Keturah. It was new and interesting, besides, to take an independent step of this kind instead of subscribing to a charity, as she had hitherto done when she wished to help people.
It may be questioned whether Pennie looked upon the plan with equal favour, but she welcomed it as a sign that Miss Unity was really beginning to take an interest in Kettles. She would have preferred the interest to show itself in any other way than needlework, but it was much better than none at all, and, “I should have to work anyway,” she reflected.
“I don’t see why, Pennie,” said her godmother hesitatingly, “we should not buy the material this afternoon.”
Pennie could see no reason against it, in fact it seemed natural to her that after you had thought of a thing you should go and do it at once. To Miss Unity, however, used to weigh and consider her smallest actions, there was something rash and headlong in it.
“Perhaps we had better think it over and do it to-morrow,” she said, pausing at the door of a linen-draper’s shop.
“Kettles wants clothes very badly,” said Pennie, “and I shall be a long while making them. I should think we’d better get it now. But shall you go to Bolton’s?” she added; “mother always goes to Smith’s.”
“Bolton’s” was a magnificent place in Pennie’s eyes. It was the largest shop in the High Street, and she had heard her mother call it extravagantly dear. Miss Unity, however, would not hear of going anywhere else. She had always dealt at Bolton’s; they supplied the materials for the Working Societies and the choristers’ surplices, and had always given satisfaction. So Pennie, with rather an awed feeling, followed her godmother into the shop, and was soon much interested in her purchases; also in the half-confidential and wholly respectful remarks made from time to time across the counter by Mrs Bolton, who had bustled forward to serve them. Her husband was a verger at the Cathedral, and this justified her in expressing an interest from a discreet distance in all that went on there.
“Quite a stir in the town since the bishop’s sermon, Miss,” she remarked as she placed a pile of calico on the counter. “I think this will suit your purpose—if not too fine.”
“I was thinking of unbleached,” said Miss Unity, “such as we use for the Working Societies. Yes, it was a very fine sermon.”
Mrs Bolton retired into the back of the shop, and reappeared with a boy carrying another large bale.
“This will be the article then,” she said, unrolling it, “and certainly more suitable too. Yes, there’s nothing talked of now but the missions. Is he a coloured gentleman, do you know, Miss, or does the climate produce that yellow look he has? Six yards, and some Welsh flannel. Thank you.”
It was rather alarming to Pennie to see such quantities of calico measured off without shape or make, and to think how far her needle would have to travel before it took the form of clothes for Kettles. She sat soberly eyeing it, and following the rapid course of Mrs Bolton’s scissors.
“I wish I could work as fast as she cuts,” she thought to herself, “they’d be ready in no time.”
“You’ll no doubt be present at the Institute on Friday, Miss,” resumed Mrs Bolton after the flannel was disposed of. “I’m told the dissolving views will be something quite out of the common. This is a useful width in tape.”
“I will take two pieces of the narrow, thank you,” said Miss Unity, “and that will be all. Yes, I think perhaps I may go.”
“What did she mean by dissolving views?” asked Pennie on the way home.
“They are coloured pictures, my dear;” said her godmother after some consideration, “which fade imperceptibly one into the other.”
“Are they like a magic lantern?” continued Pennie. “What are the pictures about?”
“Various subjects,” answered Miss Unity; “but these will represent scenes from the Karawayo Islands. There is to be a missionary address.”
“Haven’t we done a lot this afternoon?” said Pennie, as they turned into the Close. “Lots we never meant to do.”
It was true indeed as far as Miss Unity was concerned; she had seldom spent such an afternoon in her life. She had been taken out for a walk in the mud, with rain threatening; she had talked in the open High Street, under the very eye of the dean, with a little vagrant out of Anchor and Hope Alley; she had of her own accord, unadvised and unassisted, formed an original plan, and not only formed it, but taken the first step towards carrying it out. Miss Unity hardly knew herself and felt quite uncertain what she might do next, and down what unknown paths she might find herself hurrying. In spite, however, of some fatigue and a sense of confusion in the head, she sat down to tea in a cheerful and even triumphant spirit.
Pennie, too, had a great deal to think over after she had written to Nancy, and made a careful entry in her diary. It had been such a nice afternoon, and it came just when she had been feeling a little discontented and tired of Nearminster. There were the dissolving views, too.
Did Miss Unity mean to take her to the Institute on Friday? Pennie had been to very few entertainments. The circus at Easney, and the fair at Cheddington made up her experience, and she thought she should like to go very much. The address would not be very interesting if it were like the bishop’s sermon, but the pictures fading one into the other had a beautiful sound; and then it was to be in the evening, which would involve stopping up late, and this was in itself agreeable and unusual. She went to sleep with this on her mind, and it was the first thing she thought of in the morning.
When she entered the breakfast-room her godmother was reading a note.
“Pennie, my dear,” she said, “here is a very kind invitation from the deanery. We are asked to go there to tea, and afterwards to see the dissolving views at the Institute.”
Pennie sat down very soberly at the table. All the pleasure to be got out of the dissolving views would be spoilt if they were to be preceded by such a trial.
“You will like that, won’t you?” said Miss Unity anxiously.
“I’d much rather be going alone with you,” said Pennie.
“That’s very nice of you,” answered Miss Unity with a gratified smile; “but I expect some of the Merridew girls are going too, and I know it is natural for you to enjoy being with your young friends.”
“They’re not exactly friends, you see,” said Pennie thoughtfully; “although, of course, I do know them, because I see them every week at the dancing. But there’s nothing we care to talk about.”
“That will come in time,” said Miss Unity encouragingly.
Pennie did not contradict her, but she felt sure in her own mind that it would never come, and she now looked forward to Friday with very mixed feelings. “I only hope I shall have tea in the school-room,” she said to herself, “because then I sha’n’t see the dean.”
But things turned out unfortunately, for when Miss Unity and Pennie, in their best dresses, arrived on Friday evening at the deanery they were both shown into the drawing-room. There were a good many guests assembled, and two of the girls were there, but the first person who caught Pennie’s eye was the dean himself, standing on the rug, coffee-cup in hand, smiling and talking. She shrank into the background as much as she could, and sat down by Sabine Merridew in the shelter of a curtain, hoping that no one would notice her in this retired position.
And at first this seemed likely, for everyone had a great deal to say to each other, and there was a general buzz of conversation all over the room. Pennie soon grew secure enough to listen to what the dean was saying to Miss Unity, who had taken a seat near him. He stood before her with upraised finger, while she, fearful of losing a word, neglected her tea and refused any kind of food, gazing at him with rapt attention.
This missionary address at the Institute, he was telling her, was an idea of his own. He wanted to keep up the impression made by the bishop’s sermon. “That, my dear Miss Unity,” he said, “is our great difficulty—not so much to make the impression as to keep it up. To my mind, you know, that’s a harder matter than just to preach one eloquent sermon and go away. The bishop’s lighted the torch and we must keep it burning—keep it burning—”
“Sabine,” said Mrs Merridew, raising her voice, “has Penelope any cake?”
The dean caught the name at once.
“What!” he said, looking round, “is my old friend Miss Penelope there?”
The dreaded moment had come. How Pennie wished herself anywhere else!
“And how,” said the dean, gently stirring his coffee and preparing to be facetious—“how does that long job of needlework get on, Mrs Penelope?”
Did he mean Kettles’ clothes? Pennie wondered. How could he know?
“I’ve only just begun,” she answered nervously, twisting her hands together.
There was such a general sound of subdued laughter at this from the guests, who had all kept silence to listen to the dean’s jokes, that Pennie saw she had said something silly, though she had no idea what it could be. All the faces were turned upon her with smiles, and the dean, quite ignorant of the misery he was causing her, drank up his coffee well pleased.
“And so,” he continued, as he put down his cup, “you’re going to see the dissolving views. And are you as much interested in the Karawayo missions as my young folks?”
Poor Pennie! She was a rigidly truthful child, and she knew there could be only one answer to this question. Miss Unity had told her that the Merridew girls were very much interested, whereas she knew she was not interested at all. Deeply humiliated, and flushing scarlet, she replied in a very small voice, “No.”
The dean raised his eyebrows.
“Dear me, dear me!” he said, pretending to be shocked. “How’s this, Miss Unity? We must teach your god-daughter better.”
Pennie felt she could not bear to be held up to public notice much longer. The hot tears rose in her eyes; if the dean asked her any more questions she was afraid she should cry, and that, at her age, with everyone looking at her, would be a lasting disgrace.
At this moment sympathy came from an unexpected quarter. A hand stole into hers, and Sabine’s voice whispered:
“Don’t mind. I don’t care for them either.”
It was wonderfully comforting. Pennie gulped down her tears and tried to smile her thanks, and just then general attention was turned another way. Some one asked Dr Merridew if he were going to the Institute that evening.
“I’m extremely sorry to say no,” he replied, his smiles disappearing, and his lips pursed seriously together. “Important matters keep me at home. But I much regret it.”
All the guests much regretted it also, except Pennie, who began to feel a faint hope that she might after all enjoy herself if the dean were not going too.
The party set out a little later to walk to the Institute, which was quite a short distance off.
“May I sit by you?” asked Pennie, edging up to her newly-found friend, Sabine.
She was a funny little girl, rather younger than Nancy, with short black curls all over her head, and small twinkling eyes. Pennie had always thought she liked her better than the others, and now she felt sure of it.
“Do you like dissolving views or magic lanterns best?” she went on.
“Magic lanterns much,” said Sabine promptly. “You see dissolving views are never funny at all. They’re quite serious and teachy.”
“What are they about?” asked Pennie.
“Oh! sunsets, and palm-trees, and natives, and temples, and things like that,” said Sabine. “I don’t care about them at all, but Joyce likes them, so perhaps you will.”
“Why do you come, if you don’t like them?” asked Pennie.
“Because it’s my turn and Joyce’s,” said Sabine. “We always go to things in twos; there are six of us, you see.”
“So there are of us,” said Pennie, “only Baby doesn’t count because she’s too young to go to things. There isn’t often anything to go to in Easney, but when there is we all five go at once. Dickie wouldn’t be left out for anything.”
By the time the Institute was reached they had become quite confidential, and Pennie had almost forgotten her past sufferings in the pleasure of finding a companion nearer her own age than Miss Unity. She told Sabine all about her life at home, the ages of her brothers and sisters, and their favourite games and pets.
She was indeed quite sorry 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?