Chapter Seven.Pennie at Nearminster.Miss Unity was surprised to find, as time went on, that Pennie’s weekly visits were neither irksome nor disturbing; there was something about them, on the contrary, that she really liked. She could not account for it, but it was certainly true that instead of dreading Thursday she was glad when it came, and quite sorry when it was over. And then it was such a comfort to find that Betty, far from making any objection or difficulty, was pleased to approve of the arrangement, and even when Pennie, who was very untidy, rumpled the anti-macassars and upset the precise position of the drawing-room chairs, she neither murmured nor frowned.Miss Unity was happier just now than she had been for a long while, for although her life flowed on from year to year in placid content it had not much active interest in it. If it had few anxieties it also had few pleasures, and each day as it came was exactly like the one which had gone before. But now there was one day, Pennie’s day, as Miss Unity called it in her thoughts, which was quite different from any other in the week. The moment she arrived, full of her eager little schemes and fancies, with all sorts of important news from Easney, Dickie’s last funny saying, how far baby could crawl, and what the boys had been doing, the quiet old house seemed to brighten up and grow young again. Echoes of all the little voices which had sounded there long ago woke from their sleep, and filled the staircase and the sombre rooms with chatter and laughter.It made Miss Unity herself feel younger to hear the news, and she soon found it easy to be really interested in all that Pennie had to tell her. She proved such an attentive listener, and Pennie, after the restraint of the dancing-class, was so inclined to be confidential and talkative, that tea became a most agreeable and sociable meal. Betty, on her part, honoured the occasion by sending up hot-buttered cakes of peculiar excellence, which ever afterwards were closely connected with dancing in Pennie’s mind.As for the class itself, the misery of it was certainly softened as time went on, but it always remained somewhat of a trial to Pennie, and she never distinguished herself as a pupil. It was disappointing to find, too, that the acquaintance with the Merridews from which Miss Unity had hoped so much, did not advance quickly; she inquired anxiously, after a few lessons, how Pennie got on with her companions.“Pretty well,” answered Pennie; “I like the look of Sabine best, I think.”“But she’s quite a little thing,” said Miss Unity. “Ethel is your age, is she not?”Pennie assented with some reserve.“If you like,” said Miss Unity with a great effort, “we might ask Ethel to come to tea with you and spend the evening on Thursday.”Pennie raised a face of unfeigned alarm from her plate.“Oh, please not!” she exclaimed pleadingly, “what should we talk about all the evening? I’m sure we don’t like the same things at all—and I’m sure she wouldn’t care about coming either.”So, greatly to Miss Unity’s own relief, it was decided once for all that Ethel should not be asked to tea, and she continued to find increasing satisfaction in her god-daughter’s society.There was another matter which Pennie had not advanced since her visits to Nearminster, and that was her acquaintance with Kettles. She neither saw nor heard anything of her, which was not surprising, since neither Miss Unity nor the Merridews were likely to know of her existence. To Nancy, however, it seemed absurd that Pennie should go every week to Nearminster and bring back no news at all. She began to feel sure that Pennie had not made good use of her opportunities.“Do you mean to say you know nothing more about her at all?” she asked with contempt. “Well, if I were you, I should have found out something by this time, I know.”Pennie bore these reproofs meekly, for she felt their justice. Nancy always did manage to find out things better than she did, but at the same time she could not think of any way of getting information. At last accident came to her aid.One evening as they sat together after tea, Miss Unity winding wool and Pennie holding the skein, the former rose to get something out of the cupboard near the fireplace. As she reached to the back of it something round and smooth rolled forward and fell on the floor.It was the head of the poor mandarin.“Ah!” said Miss Unity with a long-drawn sigh, as though she were in sudden pain.Pennie picked it up, and her godmother, replacing it gently, shut the cupboard door and took up her wool again. Her face was very grave, and the frown on her forehead had deepened, but Pennie knew by this time that Miss Unity was not cross when she looked like that, but sad. So, although there was something she wanted to say very much, she kept silence for a little while. Her thoughts went back to the day when Ethelwyn had broken the mandarin, and then to her plan for getting another, and how it had failed. When she reached this point she ventured to inquire gently:“Where did the mandarin come from?”“A long, long way off, my dear,” replied Miss Unity, with a far-away look in her eyes as though she saw the distant country herself.“Could another be got?” continued Pennie.Her godmother looked inquiringly at her eager face.“Another!” she repeated. “I suppose so. But I could never care about another.”“Not if it were just exactly the same?” persisted Pennie.“It could not be the same to me,” said Miss Unity; “but why do you ask, my dear?”“Because,” said Pennie, “we wanted to get you another one for a surprise—only—things happened—and we couldn’t save enough money.”Miss Unity leant forward suddenly and kissed her little guest.“I thank you quite as much for the thought, dear Pennie, as if you had done it,” she said. “But I am glad you did not. There were reasons which made me fond of the old mandarin years and years ago. I do not think I should like to see a new one in his place.”Pennie and she were both silent. Miss Unity’s thoughts had perhaps travelled to that far-off country where the mandarin had lived, but Pennie’s were nearer home.“Then,” she said half aloud, “I suppose it really would be better to collect for Kettles.”The voice at her side woke Miss Unity from her day-dream. The last word fell on her ear.“Kettles, my dear!” she said. “What do you want with kettles?”“It’s a person,” explained Pennie, “a little girl. We saw her at old Nurse’s. And Nancy wants to give her a new pair of boots and stockings.”“Does she live with old Nurse?” asked Miss Unity.“Oh, no!” answered Pennie. “She only came in for the tea-leaves. She lives in Anchoranopally.”“Where?” said Miss Unity in a surprised voice.“Oh!” cried Pennie with a giggle of amusement, “I forgot you wouldn’t understand. Nancy and I always call it that when we talk together. It really is the ‘Anchor and Hope Alley,’ you know, turning out of the High Street close to the College.”Poor Miss Unity became more and more confused every moment. It all sounded puzzling and improper to her. “Kettles” coming in for tea-leaves, and living in “Anchoranopally.” How could Pennie have become familiar with such a child?“But—my dear—” she said faintly. “That’s the very worst part of Nearminster. Full of dirty, wicked people. You ought to know nothing of such places. And I don’t like to hear you mispronounce words, it might grow into a habit. It’s not at all nice.”“We only call it so because Kettles did, you see,” said Pennie. “She didn’t look at all wicked, and old Nurse says her mother is a decent woman. Her face was rather dirty, perhaps. She’s got a bad father. He drinks—like lots of the people at Easney—”“I am sorry to hear,” interrupted Miss Unity, drawing himself up, “that Mrs Margetts allowed you to see such a person at all, or to hear anything of her relations. I am afraid she forgot herself.”“She couldn’t help it,” said Pennie eagerly. “Nancy and I were at tea with her, and Kettles came in for the tea-leaves, and had some bread and honey. And we asked Nurse to let her come and see us again, and she said ‘No, she knew her duty better.’ So we’ve never seen her since, but we’ve always wanted to. Her real name is Keturah. Nurse says it’s a Scripture name, but we think Kettles suits her best.” Pennie stopped to take breath.“The dean was saying only the other day,” remarked Miss Unity stiffly, “that Anchor and Hope Alley is a scandal to Nearminster. A disgraceful place to be so near the precincts.”“Does he go to see the people in it?” asked Pennie.“Thedean, my dear! He has other and far more important matters to attend to. It would be most unsuitable to the dignity of his position.”“I knew Nancy was wrong,” said Pennie with some triumph. “She thought he might know Kettles’ father and mother, but I was quite sure he didn’t. Does anyone go to see them?” she added.“I have no doubt they are visited by people properly appointed for the purpose,” said Miss Unity coldly; “and you see, Pennie, if they are good people they can come to church and enjoy all the church privileges as well as any one else.”Pennie was silent. She could not fancy Kettles coming to church in that battered bonnet and those big boots. What a noise she would make, and how everyone would look at her!“Father goes to see the bad people in Easney as well as the good ones,” she said, more to herself than her godmother. “Lots of them never come to church.”“Easney is quite different from a cathedral town,” said Miss Unity with dignity.And here the conversation ended, partly because Pennie had no answer to make to this statement, and partly because it was time to go to the evening service. It was a special service to-night, for a sermon was to be preached in aid of foreign missions by the Bishop of Karawayo. This was particularly interesting to Miss Unity, and though Pennie did not care about the bishop it was always a great pleasure to her to go to the Cathedral.“May we go in through the cloisters?” she asked as they crossed the Close.Miss Unity much preferred entering at the west door and thought the cloisters damp, but she willingly assented, for it was difficult for her to refuse Pennie anything.There was something about the murky dimness of the cloisters which filled Pennie with a sort of pleasant awe. She shivered a little as she walked through them, not with cold, but because she fancied them thronged with unseen presences. How many, many feet must have trod those ancient flag-stones to have worn them into such waves and hollows. Perhaps they still went hurrying through the cloisters, and that was what made the air feel so thick with mystery, and why she was never inclined to talk while she was there.Miss Unity always went as swiftly through the cloisters as possible; and Pennie, keeping close to her side, tried as she went along to make out the half-effaced inscriptions at her feet. There was one she liked specially, and always took care not to tread upon:Jane Lister Deare Childe.Aged 6 Years. 1629.By degrees she had built up a history about this little girl, and felt that she knew her quite well, so that she was always glad to pass her resting-place and say something to her in her thoughts.Through a very low-arched doorway—so low that Miss Unity had to bend her head to go under it—they entered the dimly-lighted Cathedral. Only the choir was used for the service, and the great nave, with its solemn marble tombs here and there, was half-dark and deserted. Pillars, shafts, and arches loomed indistinct yet gigantic, and seemed to rise up, up, up, till they were lost in a misty invisible region together with the sounds of the organ and the echoes of the choristers’ voices.The greatness and majesty of it all gave Pennie feelings which she did not understand and could not put into words; they were half pleasure and half pain, and quite prevented the service from being wearisome to her, as it sometimes was at Easney. She had so much to think of here. The Cathedral was so full of great people, from the crusader in his mailed armour and shield, to the mitred bishop with his crozier, lying so quietly on their tombs with such stern peaceful faces.Pennie knew them all well, and in her own mind she decided that Bishop Jocelyne, who had built the great central tower hundreds of years ago, was a far nicer bishop to look at than the one who was preaching this evening. She tried to pay attention to the sermon, but finding that it was full of curious hard names and a great number of figures, she gave it up and settled comfortably into her corner to think her own thoughts. These proved so interesting that she was startled when she found the service over and Miss Unity groping for her umbrella.Just outside the Cathedral they were overtaken by Mrs Merridew and her eldest daughter.“Most interesting, was it not?” she observed to Miss Unity, “and casts quite a new light on the condition of those poor benighted creatures. The bishop is a charming man, full of information. The dean is delighted. He has always been so interested in foreign missions. The children think of having a collecting-box.”“Did you like the sermon, Pennie?” asked Miss Unity as they passed on; “I hope you tried to listen.”“I did—at first,” said Pennie, “till all those names came. I liked the hymn,” she added.“Wouldn’t it be nice for you to have a collecting-box at home,” continued Miss Unity, “like the Merridews, so that you might help these poor people?”Pennie hung her head. She felt sure she ought to wish to help them, but at the same time she did not want to at all. They lived so far-away, in places with names she could not even pronounce, and they were such utter strangers to her.“Wouldn’t you like it?” repeated her godmother anxiously.Pennie took courage.“You see,” she said, “I haven’t got much money—none of us have. And I know Kettles—at least I’ve seen her. And I know where Anchor and Hope Alley is, and that makes it so much nicer. And so I’d rather give it to her than to those other people, if you don’t mind.”“Of course not, my dear,” said Miss Unity. “It is your own money, and you must spend it as you like.”Pennie fancied there was a sound of disapproval in her voice, and in fact Miss Unity was a little disappointed. She had always felt it to be a duty to support missions and to subscribe to missionary societies, to attend meetings, and to make clothes for the native children in India. At that very time she was reading a large thick book about missions, which she had bought at the auction of the Nearminster book club. She read a portion every evening and kept a marker carefully in the place. She was sure that she, as well as the dean, was deeply interested in foreign missions. If she could have made them attractive to Pennie also, it might take the place of Kettles and Anchor and Hope Alley.For Miss Unity thought this a much more suitable object, and one moreover which could be carried out without any contact with dirt and wickedness! Squalor and the miseries of poverty had always been as closely shut out of her life as they were from the trim prosperity of the precincts, and Miss Unity considered it fitting that they should be so. She knew that these squalid folk were there, close outside; she was quite ready to give other people money to help them, or to subscribe to any fund for their improvement or relief, but it had always seemed to her unbecoming and needless for a lady to know anything about the details of their lives.The children’s idea, therefore, of providing Kettles with new boots and stockings did not commend itself to her in the least. There were proper ways of giving clothes to the poor. If the child’s mother was a decent woman, as old Nurse had said, she belonged to a clothing club and could get them for herself. If she was not a respectable person, the less Pennie knew of her the better. At any rate Miss Unity resolved to do her best to discourage the project, and certainly Pennie was not likely to hear much, either at her house or the deanery, to remind her of Anchor and Hope Alley and its unfortunate inmates.Pennie on her side, though a trifle discouraged by the coldness with which any mention of Kettles was received, felt that at least she had taken a step towards her further acquaintance. Very likely her godmother might come in time to approve of the idea and to wish to hear more about it. “I shall have something to tell Nancy at last,” she said to herself when she woke up the next morning and remembered the conversation.But she was not to see Nancy as soon as she thought. After breakfast Andrew arrived, not with the waggonette as usual to fetch Pennie home, but mounted on Ruby with a letter from Mrs Hawthorne to Miss Unity. Dickie was ill. It might be only a severe cold, her mother said, but there were cases of measles in the village, and she felt anxious. Would Miss Unity keep Pennie with her for the next few days? Further news should be sent to-morrow.As she read this all sorts of plans and arrangements passed through Miss Unity’s mind and stirred it pleasantly. She was sorry for Dickie and the others, but it was quite an excitement to her to think of keeping Pennie with her longer.“Miss Penelope will remain here to-night,” she said to Betty, “and probably for two or three days. Miss Delicia is ill, and they think it may be measles.”“Oh, indeed, Miss!” said Betty with a sagacious nod. “Then it’ll go through all the children.”“Do you think so?” said Miss Unity, who had great faith in Betty’s judgment. “Then it may be a matter of weeks?”“Or months, Miss,” replied Betty. “It depends on how they sicken.”“In that case I’ve been thinking,” said Miss Unity timidly, “whether it would be better to put Miss Penelope into the little pink-chintz room.”“Well, it is more cheerful than the best room, Miss,” said Betty condescendingly, “though it’s small.”The pink-chintz room was a tiny apartment opening out of Miss Unity’s. She had slept in it herself as a child, and though there was not much pink left in the chintz now, there were still some pictures and small ornaments remaining from that time. It had a pleasant look-out, too, on to the quiet green Close, and was altogether a contrast to the dark sombrely furnished room Pennie had been occupying. So after Betty had scoured and cleaned and aired as much as she thought fit, Pennie and all her small belongings were settled into the pink-chintz roomy and it turned out that her stay there was to be a long one. The news from Easney did not improve. Dickie certainly had the measles, the baby soon followed her example, and shortly afterwards Ambrose took it, so that Nancy and David were the only two down-stairs.“What a good thing, my dear, that you were here!” said Miss Unity kindly to her guest. Pennie was obliged to answer “Yes” for the sake of politeness, but in truth she thought she would rather risk the measles and be at home.Nearminster was nice in many ways and Miss Unity was kind, but it was so dreadfully dull as time went on to have no one of her own age to talk to about things. There were the Merridews, but in spite of Miss Unity’s praises Pennie did not like them any better, and had not become more familiar with them. She had certainly plenty of conversation with her godmother, who did her best to sympathise except on the subject of Kettles; but nothing made up for the loss of Nancy and her brothers—not even the long letters which the former sent now and then from Easney, written in a bold sprawling hand, covering three sheets of paper, and a good deal blotted. Here is one of these epistles:—“My dear Pennie,—Dickie got up and had chicken for dinner to-day, and was very frackshus. Ambrose is in bed still. He has Guy Manring read aloud to him, and he will toss his arms out of bed at the egsiting parts; so mother says she must leave off. David and I have lessons. David said yesterday he would rather have meesles than do his sums, so Miss Grey said he was ungrateful. I never play with the dolls now.If you were here we could play their having meesles, but it is no good alone. Baby had the meesles worst of all. Doctor Banks comes every day. He has a new grey horse. Have you been to see old Nurse lately? and have you seen Kettles? Dickie sends you these sugar kisses she made herself. She burnt her fingers and screamed for nearly an hour.—Your loving sister, Nancy Hawthorne.”Pennie answered these letters fully, and moreover, in case she might forget anything, she kept a diary, and wrote something in it at the end of each day. Sometimes there was so little to put down that she had to make some reflections, or copy a piece of poetry to fill it up; but it was a comfort to her to think that some day she should read it over with Nancy and Ambrose.Meanwhile, this visit of Pennie’s, which was to her a kind of exile, was a very different matter to Miss Unity. Day by day Pennie’s comfort, Pennie’s improvement, Pennie’s pleasure filled her thoughts more and more, and it became strange to think of the time when the little pink-chintz room had been empty.
Miss Unity was surprised to find, as time went on, that Pennie’s weekly visits were neither irksome nor disturbing; there was something about them, on the contrary, that she really liked. She could not account for it, but it was certainly true that instead of dreading Thursday she was glad when it came, and quite sorry when it was over. And then it was such a comfort to find that Betty, far from making any objection or difficulty, was pleased to approve of the arrangement, and even when Pennie, who was very untidy, rumpled the anti-macassars and upset the precise position of the drawing-room chairs, she neither murmured nor frowned.
Miss Unity was happier just now than she had been for a long while, for although her life flowed on from year to year in placid content it had not much active interest in it. If it had few anxieties it also had few pleasures, and each day as it came was exactly like the one which had gone before. But now there was one day, Pennie’s day, as Miss Unity called it in her thoughts, which was quite different from any other in the week. The moment she arrived, full of her eager little schemes and fancies, with all sorts of important news from Easney, Dickie’s last funny saying, how far baby could crawl, and what the boys had been doing, the quiet old house seemed to brighten up and grow young again. Echoes of all the little voices which had sounded there long ago woke from their sleep, and filled the staircase and the sombre rooms with chatter and laughter.
It made Miss Unity herself feel younger to hear the news, and she soon found it easy to be really interested in all that Pennie had to tell her. She proved such an attentive listener, and Pennie, after the restraint of the dancing-class, was so inclined to be confidential and talkative, that tea became a most agreeable and sociable meal. Betty, on her part, honoured the occasion by sending up hot-buttered cakes of peculiar excellence, which ever afterwards were closely connected with dancing in Pennie’s mind.
As for the class itself, the misery of it was certainly softened as time went on, but it always remained somewhat of a trial to Pennie, and she never distinguished herself as a pupil. It was disappointing to find, too, that the acquaintance with the Merridews from which Miss Unity had hoped so much, did not advance quickly; she inquired anxiously, after a few lessons, how Pennie got on with her companions.
“Pretty well,” answered Pennie; “I like the look of Sabine best, I think.”
“But she’s quite a little thing,” said Miss Unity. “Ethel is your age, is she not?”
Pennie assented with some reserve.
“If you like,” said Miss Unity with a great effort, “we might ask Ethel to come to tea with you and spend the evening on Thursday.”
Pennie raised a face of unfeigned alarm from her plate.
“Oh, please not!” she exclaimed pleadingly, “what should we talk about all the evening? I’m sure we don’t like the same things at all—and I’m sure she wouldn’t care about coming either.”
So, greatly to Miss Unity’s own relief, it was decided once for all that Ethel should not be asked to tea, and she continued to find increasing satisfaction in her god-daughter’s society.
There was another matter which Pennie had not advanced since her visits to Nearminster, and that was her acquaintance with Kettles. She neither saw nor heard anything of her, which was not surprising, since neither Miss Unity nor the Merridews were likely to know of her existence. To Nancy, however, it seemed absurd that Pennie should go every week to Nearminster and bring back no news at all. She began to feel sure that Pennie had not made good use of her opportunities.
“Do you mean to say you know nothing more about her at all?” she asked with contempt. “Well, if I were you, I should have found out something by this time, I know.”
Pennie bore these reproofs meekly, for she felt their justice. Nancy always did manage to find out things better than she did, but at the same time she could not think of any way of getting information. At last accident came to her aid.
One evening as they sat together after tea, Miss Unity winding wool and Pennie holding the skein, the former rose to get something out of the cupboard near the fireplace. As she reached to the back of it something round and smooth rolled forward and fell on the floor.
It was the head of the poor mandarin.
“Ah!” said Miss Unity with a long-drawn sigh, as though she were in sudden pain.
Pennie picked it up, and her godmother, replacing it gently, shut the cupboard door and took up her wool again. Her face was very grave, and the frown on her forehead had deepened, but Pennie knew by this time that Miss Unity was not cross when she looked like that, but sad. So, although there was something she wanted to say very much, she kept silence for a little while. Her thoughts went back to the day when Ethelwyn had broken the mandarin, and then to her plan for getting another, and how it had failed. When she reached this point she ventured to inquire gently:
“Where did the mandarin come from?”
“A long, long way off, my dear,” replied Miss Unity, with a far-away look in her eyes as though she saw the distant country herself.
“Could another be got?” continued Pennie.
Her godmother looked inquiringly at her eager face.
“Another!” she repeated. “I suppose so. But I could never care about another.”
“Not if it were just exactly the same?” persisted Pennie.
“It could not be the same to me,” said Miss Unity; “but why do you ask, my dear?”
“Because,” said Pennie, “we wanted to get you another one for a surprise—only—things happened—and we couldn’t save enough money.”
Miss Unity leant forward suddenly and kissed her little guest.
“I thank you quite as much for the thought, dear Pennie, as if you had done it,” she said. “But I am glad you did not. There were reasons which made me fond of the old mandarin years and years ago. I do not think I should like to see a new one in his place.”
Pennie and she were both silent. Miss Unity’s thoughts had perhaps travelled to that far-off country where the mandarin had lived, but Pennie’s were nearer home.
“Then,” she said half aloud, “I suppose it really would be better to collect for Kettles.”
The voice at her side woke Miss Unity from her day-dream. The last word fell on her ear.
“Kettles, my dear!” she said. “What do you want with kettles?”
“It’s a person,” explained Pennie, “a little girl. We saw her at old Nurse’s. And Nancy wants to give her a new pair of boots and stockings.”
“Does she live with old Nurse?” asked Miss Unity.
“Oh, no!” answered Pennie. “She only came in for the tea-leaves. She lives in Anchoranopally.”
“Where?” said Miss Unity in a surprised voice.
“Oh!” cried Pennie with a giggle of amusement, “I forgot you wouldn’t understand. Nancy and I always call it that when we talk together. It really is the ‘Anchor and Hope Alley,’ you know, turning out of the High Street close to the College.”
Poor Miss Unity became more and more confused every moment. It all sounded puzzling and improper to her. “Kettles” coming in for tea-leaves, and living in “Anchoranopally.” How could Pennie have become familiar with such a child?
“But—my dear—” she said faintly. “That’s the very worst part of Nearminster. Full of dirty, wicked people. You ought to know nothing of such places. And I don’t like to hear you mispronounce words, it might grow into a habit. It’s not at all nice.”
“We only call it so because Kettles did, you see,” said Pennie. “She didn’t look at all wicked, and old Nurse says her mother is a decent woman. Her face was rather dirty, perhaps. She’s got a bad father. He drinks—like lots of the people at Easney—”
“I am sorry to hear,” interrupted Miss Unity, drawing himself up, “that Mrs Margetts allowed you to see such a person at all, or to hear anything of her relations. I am afraid she forgot herself.”
“She couldn’t help it,” said Pennie eagerly. “Nancy and I were at tea with her, and Kettles came in for the tea-leaves, and had some bread and honey. And we asked Nurse to let her come and see us again, and she said ‘No, she knew her duty better.’ So we’ve never seen her since, but we’ve always wanted to. Her real name is Keturah. Nurse says it’s a Scripture name, but we think Kettles suits her best.” Pennie stopped to take breath.
“The dean was saying only the other day,” remarked Miss Unity stiffly, “that Anchor and Hope Alley is a scandal to Nearminster. A disgraceful place to be so near the precincts.”
“Does he go to see the people in it?” asked Pennie.
“Thedean, my dear! He has other and far more important matters to attend to. It would be most unsuitable to the dignity of his position.”
“I knew Nancy was wrong,” said Pennie with some triumph. “She thought he might know Kettles’ father and mother, but I was quite sure he didn’t. Does anyone go to see them?” she added.
“I have no doubt they are visited by people properly appointed for the purpose,” said Miss Unity coldly; “and you see, Pennie, if they are good people they can come to church and enjoy all the church privileges as well as any one else.”
Pennie was silent. She could not fancy Kettles coming to church in that battered bonnet and those big boots. What a noise she would make, and how everyone would look at her!
“Father goes to see the bad people in Easney as well as the good ones,” she said, more to herself than her godmother. “Lots of them never come to church.”
“Easney is quite different from a cathedral town,” said Miss Unity with dignity.
And here the conversation ended, partly because Pennie had no answer to make to this statement, and partly because it was time to go to the evening service. It was a special service to-night, for a sermon was to be preached in aid of foreign missions by the Bishop of Karawayo. This was particularly interesting to Miss Unity, and though Pennie did not care about the bishop it was always a great pleasure to her to go to the Cathedral.
“May we go in through the cloisters?” she asked as they crossed the Close.
Miss Unity much preferred entering at the west door and thought the cloisters damp, but she willingly assented, for it was difficult for her to refuse Pennie anything.
There was something about the murky dimness of the cloisters which filled Pennie with a sort of pleasant awe. She shivered a little as she walked through them, not with cold, but because she fancied them thronged with unseen presences. How many, many feet must have trod those ancient flag-stones to have worn them into such waves and hollows. Perhaps they still went hurrying through the cloisters, and that was what made the air feel so thick with mystery, and why she was never inclined to talk while she was there.
Miss Unity always went as swiftly through the cloisters as possible; and Pennie, keeping close to her side, tried as she went along to make out the half-effaced inscriptions at her feet. There was one she liked specially, and always took care not to tread upon:
Jane Lister Deare Childe.Aged 6 Years. 1629.
Jane Lister Deare Childe.Aged 6 Years. 1629.
By degrees she had built up a history about this little girl, and felt that she knew her quite well, so that she was always glad to pass her resting-place and say something to her in her thoughts.
Through a very low-arched doorway—so low that Miss Unity had to bend her head to go under it—they entered the dimly-lighted Cathedral. Only the choir was used for the service, and the great nave, with its solemn marble tombs here and there, was half-dark and deserted. Pillars, shafts, and arches loomed indistinct yet gigantic, and seemed to rise up, up, up, till they were lost in a misty invisible region together with the sounds of the organ and the echoes of the choristers’ voices.
The greatness and majesty of it all gave Pennie feelings which she did not understand and could not put into words; they were half pleasure and half pain, and quite prevented the service from being wearisome to her, as it sometimes was at Easney. She had so much to think of here. The Cathedral was so full of great people, from the crusader in his mailed armour and shield, to the mitred bishop with his crozier, lying so quietly on their tombs with such stern peaceful faces.
Pennie knew them all well, and in her own mind she decided that Bishop Jocelyne, who had built the great central tower hundreds of years ago, was a far nicer bishop to look at than the one who was preaching this evening. She tried to pay attention to the sermon, but finding that it was full of curious hard names and a great number of figures, she gave it up and settled comfortably into her corner to think her own thoughts. These proved so interesting that she was startled when she found the service over and Miss Unity groping for her umbrella.
Just outside the Cathedral they were overtaken by Mrs Merridew and her eldest daughter.
“Most interesting, was it not?” she observed to Miss Unity, “and casts quite a new light on the condition of those poor benighted creatures. The bishop is a charming man, full of information. The dean is delighted. He has always been so interested in foreign missions. The children think of having a collecting-box.”
“Did you like the sermon, Pennie?” asked Miss Unity as they passed on; “I hope you tried to listen.”
“I did—at first,” said Pennie, “till all those names came. I liked the hymn,” she added.
“Wouldn’t it be nice for you to have a collecting-box at home,” continued Miss Unity, “like the Merridews, so that you might help these poor people?”
Pennie hung her head. She felt sure she ought to wish to help them, but at the same time she did not want to at all. They lived so far-away, in places with names she could not even pronounce, and they were such utter strangers to her.
“Wouldn’t you like it?” repeated her godmother anxiously.
Pennie took courage.
“You see,” she said, “I haven’t got much money—none of us have. And I know Kettles—at least I’ve seen her. And I know where Anchor and Hope Alley is, and that makes it so much nicer. And so I’d rather give it to her than to those other people, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not, my dear,” said Miss Unity. “It is your own money, and you must spend it as you like.”
Pennie fancied there was a sound of disapproval in her voice, and in fact Miss Unity was a little disappointed. She had always felt it to be a duty to support missions and to subscribe to missionary societies, to attend meetings, and to make clothes for the native children in India. At that very time she was reading a large thick book about missions, which she had bought at the auction of the Nearminster book club. She read a portion every evening and kept a marker carefully in the place. She was sure that she, as well as the dean, was deeply interested in foreign missions. If she could have made them attractive to Pennie also, it might take the place of Kettles and Anchor and Hope Alley.
For Miss Unity thought this a much more suitable object, and one moreover which could be carried out without any contact with dirt and wickedness! Squalor and the miseries of poverty had always been as closely shut out of her life as they were from the trim prosperity of the precincts, and Miss Unity considered it fitting that they should be so. She knew that these squalid folk were there, close outside; she was quite ready to give other people money to help them, or to subscribe to any fund for their improvement or relief, but it had always seemed to her unbecoming and needless for a lady to know anything about the details of their lives.
The children’s idea, therefore, of providing Kettles with new boots and stockings did not commend itself to her in the least. There were proper ways of giving clothes to the poor. If the child’s mother was a decent woman, as old Nurse had said, she belonged to a clothing club and could get them for herself. If she was not a respectable person, the less Pennie knew of her the better. At any rate Miss Unity resolved to do her best to discourage the project, and certainly Pennie was not likely to hear much, either at her house or the deanery, to remind her of Anchor and Hope Alley and its unfortunate inmates.
Pennie on her side, though a trifle discouraged by the coldness with which any mention of Kettles was received, felt that at least she had taken a step towards her further acquaintance. Very likely her godmother might come in time to approve of the idea and to wish to hear more about it. “I shall have something to tell Nancy at last,” she said to herself when she woke up the next morning and remembered the conversation.
But she was not to see Nancy as soon as she thought. After breakfast Andrew arrived, not with the waggonette as usual to fetch Pennie home, but mounted on Ruby with a letter from Mrs Hawthorne to Miss Unity. Dickie was ill. It might be only a severe cold, her mother said, but there were cases of measles in the village, and she felt anxious. Would Miss Unity keep Pennie with her for the next few days? Further news should be sent to-morrow.
As she read this all sorts of plans and arrangements passed through Miss Unity’s mind and stirred it pleasantly. She was sorry for Dickie and the others, but it was quite an excitement to her to think of keeping Pennie with her longer.
“Miss Penelope will remain here to-night,” she said to Betty, “and probably for two or three days. Miss Delicia is ill, and they think it may be measles.”
“Oh, indeed, Miss!” said Betty with a sagacious nod. “Then it’ll go through all the children.”
“Do you think so?” said Miss Unity, who had great faith in Betty’s judgment. “Then it may be a matter of weeks?”
“Or months, Miss,” replied Betty. “It depends on how they sicken.”
“In that case I’ve been thinking,” said Miss Unity timidly, “whether it would be better to put Miss Penelope into the little pink-chintz room.”
“Well, it is more cheerful than the best room, Miss,” said Betty condescendingly, “though it’s small.”
The pink-chintz room was a tiny apartment opening out of Miss Unity’s. She had slept in it herself as a child, and though there was not much pink left in the chintz now, there were still some pictures and small ornaments remaining from that time. It had a pleasant look-out, too, on to the quiet green Close, and was altogether a contrast to the dark sombrely furnished room Pennie had been occupying. So after Betty had scoured and cleaned and aired as much as she thought fit, Pennie and all her small belongings were settled into the pink-chintz roomy and it turned out that her stay there was to be a long one. The news from Easney did not improve. Dickie certainly had the measles, the baby soon followed her example, and shortly afterwards Ambrose took it, so that Nancy and David were the only two down-stairs.
“What a good thing, my dear, that you were here!” said Miss Unity kindly to her guest. Pennie was obliged to answer “Yes” for the sake of politeness, but in truth she thought she would rather risk the measles and be at home.
Nearminster was nice in many ways and Miss Unity was kind, but it was so dreadfully dull as time went on to have no one of her own age to talk to about things. There were the Merridews, but in spite of Miss Unity’s praises Pennie did not like them any better, and had not become more familiar with them. She had certainly plenty of conversation with her godmother, who did her best to sympathise except on the subject of Kettles; but nothing made up for the loss of Nancy and her brothers—not even the long letters which the former sent now and then from Easney, written in a bold sprawling hand, covering three sheets of paper, and a good deal blotted. Here is one of these epistles:—
“My dear Pennie,—Dickie got up and had chicken for dinner to-day, and was very frackshus. Ambrose is in bed still. He has Guy Manring read aloud to him, and he will toss his arms out of bed at the egsiting parts; so mother says she must leave off. David and I have lessons. David said yesterday he would rather have meesles than do his sums, so Miss Grey said he was ungrateful. I never play with the dolls now.If you were here we could play their having meesles, but it is no good alone. Baby had the meesles worst of all. Doctor Banks comes every day. He has a new grey horse. Have you been to see old Nurse lately? and have you seen Kettles? Dickie sends you these sugar kisses she made herself. She burnt her fingers and screamed for nearly an hour.—Your loving sister, Nancy Hawthorne.”
Pennie answered these letters fully, and moreover, in case she might forget anything, she kept a diary, and wrote something in it at the end of each day. Sometimes there was so little to put down that she had to make some reflections, or copy a piece of poetry to fill it up; but it was a comfort to her to think that some day she should read it over with Nancy and Ambrose.
Meanwhile, this visit of Pennie’s, which was to her a kind of exile, was a very different matter to Miss Unity. Day by day Pennie’s comfort, Pennie’s improvement, Pennie’s pleasure filled her thoughts more and more, and it became strange to think of the time when the little pink-chintz room had been empty.
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 handneverreach 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—wherewasPennie?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 inhishouse; 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,andsome 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 andteachy.”“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?
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 handneverreach 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—wherewasPennie?
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 inhishouse; 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,andsome 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 andteachy.”
“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?