Penelope and the Others Part 18

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 G.o.dmother 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, pa.s.sed 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 G.o.dmother could sit quite still, and to hear her thimble go "click, click," so steadily with never a break. It was as constant as the tick of the clock on the mantel-piece. Would that small hand _never_ reach the hour of three?

Nurse's proverb of a "watched kettle never boils" came into Pennie's mind, and she resolved not to look at the clock again until the hour struck. The word "kettle" made her think of Kettles and of Nancy's last letter, and she wondered whether Miss Unity would go to the College that afternoon, as she had half promised. Those thoughts carried her a good way down the seam, and meanwhile the hands of the clock crept steadily on until the first stroke of three sounded deeply from the Cathedral.

Pennie jumped up, threw her work on the table, and stretched out her arms.

"Oh how glad I am!" she cried, spreading out her cramped fingers one by one. "And now, may we go and see old Nurse?"

Miss Unity looked up from her work, hesitating a little. Pennie was always making her do things at odd hours, upsetting the usual course of events, and introducing all sorts of disturbing ideas.

"Well, dear," she said, "the morning is our time for walking, isn't it?"

"But this morning it rained," said Pennie; "and now look, only look, dear Miss Unity, how beautiful it is--do let us go."

She went close to her G.o.dmother 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 circ.u.mstances 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 G.o.dmother's hand, "do let me go to see them with Nurse and take them the things she buys."

But to this Miss Unity would not listen for a moment. She would not even consider such a thing possible. All she would promise was that they would soon come again to the College and hear from Mrs Margetts how the poor woman was getting on, and with this Pennie was obliged to be contented.

Miss Unity herself was strangely stirred and interested by what she had been told. The story of Kettles and her mother seemed to cast a different light on Anchor and Hope Alley, that "scandal to Nearminster,"

as the dean had called it. She had always considered it the abode of outcasts and wickedness, but surely it could not be right that these people should remain uncared for and uncomforted in sickness and want.

They were surrounded by clergymen, district visitors, schools, churches, societies of all sorts established on purpose for their help, and yet here was Kettles' mother three weeks down with the rheumatism, and only a little child to look after her. What did it mean?

And then, Miss Unity went on to think, her mind getting tangled with perplexity, what of their spiritual privileges? The great Cathedral lifted its spire and pointed heavenwards in vain for them, so near, yet so very far-off. The peace and rest of its solemn silence, the echo of its hymn and praise were useless; it was an unknown land to Anchor and Hope Alley. They were as much shut out from all it had to give as those dusky inhabitants of another country with whose condition Nearminster had lately been concerned. Pennie's words occurred to Miss Unity. "I know Anchor and Hope Alley, and that makes it so much nicer." She looked down at her side--where _was_ Pennie?

Now while Miss Unity had been walking along in silence, her mind full of these thoughts and her eyes turned absently away from outward things, Pennie had been sharply observant of all that was going on in the High Street through which they were pa.s.sing. 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 G.o.dmother'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.