Penelope and the Others Part 16

"Because it is the military rule."

This impressed Pennie a good deal; but afterwards when she found that Monsieur never failed to ask this before the march began, the effect wore off, and she even felt equal to answering him herself. But that was after many lessons had pa.s.sed; at present everything seemed strange and difficult, and she was so nervous that she hardly knew her right foot from her left.

After the marching was over it was time for Monsieur to put his fiddle into its case, and to say with a graceful sweeping bow, "Good evening, young ladies!" A joyful sound to Pennie. In a minute she had torn off her mittens, changed her shoes, and was on her way back to Miss Unity's house.

"It was much worse than I thought it would be," she said as she sat at tea with her G.o.dmother; "but I sha'n't see any of them again for another week, that's one good thing."

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-maca.s.sars 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, d.i.c.kie'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-cla.s.s, 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-b.u.t.tered cakes of peculiar excellence, which ever afterwards were closely connected with dancing in Pennie's mind.

As for the cla.s.s 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 a.s.sented 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 G.o.d-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 G.o.dmother, 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 G.o.dmother 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, "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 misp.r.o.nounce 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."