"KETTLES."
Pennie was haunted for days after the fair by the bright pages of
"_Siegfried the Dragon Slayer_," for she became more and more conscious
that she had made a useless sacrifice. She might just as well have
bought it, she sadly reflected; none of the others seemed the least
likely to help her in her plan, and certainly she could not carry it out
alone. The more she thought of it the more injured and disappointed she
felt. It was certainly a good plan, and it was certainly right to
sacrifice one's self; of those two things she was sure, and it both hurt
and surprised her to be unable to impress this on her brothers and
sisters. Pennie was used to command, and accustomed to success in most
of her little schemes, and it seemed hard to be deserted in this way.
She stood on a lonely height of virtue, conscious of setting a good
example of generosity; but it was not a cheerful position, and, besides,
no one seemed to notice it, which was vexatious and trying. This made
her by turns condescending and cross, so that she was neither so happy
herself nor so pleasant a companion as she had been.
"I can't think why you're so disagreeable," said Nancy at last. "If
it's because you've put all your money into the box, I wish you'd take
it out again and be as you were before."
"You don't understand," said Pennie, "you never give up anything."
"Yes, I do," replied Nancy quickly, "I've given up three weeks' money
for that broken window."
"That wasn't sacrifice," answered Pennie; "you _had_ to do that.
Sacrifice means giving up something you like for the sake of other
people."
"Well, if it makes you cross and tiresome I wish you wouldn't sacrifice
things," replied Nancy; "I don't see the good of it. Do you know," she
added, seizing hold of David's black kitten, "that mother says we may go
and see old Nurse?"
Pennie's brow cleared at once, the peevish look left her face.
"Oh, when?" she exclaimed joyfully.
"This afternoon," said Nancy. "Mother's going to drive into
Nearminster, and leave us at the College while she goes to see Miss
Unity. Isn't it jolly?"
"I suppose we shall have tea with Nurse," said Pennie; "but," she added,
"I hope Dickie isn't to go this time. She does spoil everything so."
"Only you and me," said Nancy, rolling the kitten tightly up in a
newspaper so that only its head appeared. "Doesn't it look like a mummy
cat? There's one just like it at Nearminster. It would do for the
boys' museum."
"It wouldn't stay there long," said Pennie, as the kitten writhed and
wriggled itself out of the paper. "I am real glad we're going to see
old Nurse."
"Do you like going in winter or summer best?" asked Nancy.
"Oh, I don't know!" said Pennie. "I like both. But I think perhaps it
looks nicer in summer, because you see the flowers are in bloom and the
old people are sitting on the benches, and all that."
"I like winter best," said Nancy, "because of making the toast."
All the year round a visit to old Nurse was one of the children's
greatest pleasures, but it was specially so to Pennie. She now felt
quite cheerful and happy in the prospect, not only because she was very
fond of her, but because she lived in such an extremely delightful and
interesting place. For Mrs Margetts, who had been Mrs Hawthorne's
nurse when she was a child, had now left service for many years and
taken up her abode in the almshouse at Nearminster, or The College as it
was called. Next to the cathedral Pennie thought it the nicest place
she had ever seen, and there was something most attractive to her in its
low-arched massive doors, its lattice windows with their small leaded
panes, and its little old chapel where the pensioners had a service and
a chaplain all to themselves.
The College was built in the form of a quadrangle, one side of which
faced the High Street, so that though they were snugly sheltered within
from noise and turmoil, the inmates could still look out upon the busy
life they had quitted. As you passed the entrance you caught glimpses
of bright green turf, of trim borders of flowers, of neat gravel paths
and quaint old figures standing about, or sitting on stone benches
against the walls. Over it all rested the air of peace and stillness.
It was a place where neither hope nor fear, labour nor struggle could
come. These were left outside in the troublesome world, and all who
entered here had nothing more to do with them. They might sit in the
sun with folded hands, talk over their past hardships, grumble a little
at their present aches and pains, gossip a great deal, and so get gently
nearer and nearer to the deepest rest of all.
The bishop, who had founded the College long ago, still stood carved in
stone over the doorway, crozier in hand, watching the many generations
of weary old souls who crept in at his gate for refuge. Pennie thought
he had an expression of calm severity, as if he knew how ungrateful many
of them were for his bounty, how they grumbled at the smallness of the
rooms, the darkness of the windows, and the few conveniences for
cooking. It must be hard for him to hear all those murmurs after he had
done so much for them; but he had at any rate no want of gratitude to
complain of in old Nurse, who was as proud of her two tiny rooms as
though they had been a palace.
Mrs Margetts was in all matters disposed to think herself one of the
most fortunate people upon earth. For instance, to be settled so near
her dear "Miss Mary," as she still called Mrs Hawthorne, and to have
the pleasure of visits from the little "ladies and gentlemen," was
enough to fill anyone's heart with thankfulness. What could she want
more? She was indeed highly favoured beyond all desert. Other people
may have thought that a life of faithful service and unselfish devotion
to the interests of her employers had well earned the reward of a few
quiet years at its end. But old Nurse did not look upon her good
fortune as due to any merits of her own, but to the extraordinary
kindness and generosity of others, so that she was in a constant state
of surprise at their thoughtfulness and affection.
Not less did she cherish and respect the memory of the days which came
before Mrs Hawthorne's marriage, and this was what the children liked
best to hear. Stories of Miss Mary, Master Charles, Miss Prissy, and
the rest, who were now all grown-up people, never became wearisome, and
certainly Nurse was never tired of telling them. Her listeners knew
them almost by heart, and if by any chance she missed some small detail,
it was at once demanded with a sense of injury.
Pennie, in particular, drank in her words eagerly, and would sit
entranced gazing with an ever-new interest at the relics of the "family"
with which the little room was filled. Hanging by the fireplace was a
very faded kettle-holder, worked in pink and green wool by Miss Mary,
now Mrs Hawthorne; on the mantel-piece a photograph of a family group,
in which Miss Mary appeared at the age of ten in a plaid poplin frock,
low in the neck and short in the sleeves, with her hair in curls; on
each side of her stood a brother with a grave face and a short jacket.
There was a great deal to be told about this picture. Nurse remembered,
she said, as if it was yesterday, the day it was "took." Master Owen
had a swollen cheek, and had cried and said he did not want his picture
done, but he had been promised a pop-gun if he stood still, and had then
submitted. And that was why he stood side-face in the photograph, while
Master Charles faced you. It was almost past belief to Pennie and Nancy
that Uncle Owen, who was now a tall man with a long beard, had ever been
that same puffy-cheeked little boy, bribed to stand-still by a pop-gun.
There were also on the mantel-piece two white lions or "monsters," as
Nurse called them, presented by Miss Prissy, and quite a number of small
ornaments given from time to time by the Hawthorne children themselves.
But perhaps the crowning glory of Nurse's room was a sampler worked by
herself when a girl. Pennie looked at this with an almost fearful
admiration, for the number of tiny stitches in it were terrible to think
of. "I'm glad people don't have to work samplers now," she often said.
This was indeed a most wonderful sampler, and it hung against the wall
framed and glazed as it well deserved, a lasting example of industry and
eyesight. At the top sat the prophet Elijah under a small green bush
receiving the ravens, who carried in their beaks neat white bundles of
food. Next came the alphabet, all the big letters first, and then a row
of small ones. Then the Roman numerals up to a hundred, then a verse of
poetry:--
"Time like an ever-rolling stream
Bears all its sons away,
They fly forgotten as a dream
Dies at the break of day."
And then Nurse's name, "Kezia Margetts," and the date when this great
work was completed.
Dickie's favourite amongst all Nurse's curious possessions was what she
called her "weather-house," a building of cardboard covered with some
gritty substance which sparkled. The weather-house had two little
doors, out of one of which appeared an old woman when it was fine, and
out of the other an old man when it was going to be wet. They had
become rather uncertain, however, in their actions, because Dickie had
so often banged the naughty old man to make him go in, supposing him to
have a bad influence on the weather. Nurse spoiled Dickie dreadfully,
the other children considered, and they were pleased when she did not
make one of the party.
"I suppose Nurse knows we're coming?" said Pennie, as they were driving
from Miss Unity's house, where they had left their mother, to the
College.
"Of course," replied Nancy; "you know we never take her by surprise,
because she always likes to get something for tea."
"I don't think surprises are nice," said Pennie. "I like to have lots
of time to look forward to a thing. That's the best part."
"I like to surprise other people though," said Nancy; "it's great fun, I
think. Here we are!"
There were no old people standing about in the garden, and all the
benches were empty, for it was a chilly autumn afternoon. As the
children crossed the quadrangle they saw here and there, through the
latticed panes, the cheerful glow of a fire.
"It must be very nice to be an old woman and live here," said Pennie.
"Well, I don't know," said Nancy. "How would you like to be Mrs
Crump?"
Mrs Crump was a discontented old lady who lived in the room beneath
Nurse. For some reason Nancy took a deep interest in her, and even in
the middle of Nurse's best stories she was always on the alert for the
least sound of the sharp complaining tones below.
"Oh, of course not!" said Pennie hastily; "I mean some contented,
good-natured old woman."
"Mrs Crump says," continued Nancy, "that she never knew what it was to
be quick in her temper till she felt the want of an oven. She thinks
it's the baker's bread that makes her cross. She turns against it, and
that makes her speak sharp."
"She's a tiresome old woman," said Pennie, "and I can't make out why you
like to hear about her, or talk to her. Let's go up softly, else she'll
come out."
"I should like her to," said Nancy as the little girls climbed the steep
carpeted stairs which led up to Nurse's room. "She's just like an old
witch woman."
The children were warmly received by Nurse, who was waiting for them
with all her preparations made. A snug round tea-table, with a bunch of
chrysanthemums in the middle, a kettle hissing hospitably on the hob,
and something covered up hot in the fender. She herself was arrayed in
her best cap, her black silk gown, and her most beaming smiles of
welcome.
"It's my turn to make the toast," said Nancy, pulling off her gloves
briskly. "You've got a lovely fire. You cut the bread, Pennie.
Thick."
"And how's Miss Dickie?" said Nurse, watching these preparations with a
delighted face. "Bless her dear little heart, I haven't seen her this
long while."
"She wanted to come," said Pennie, "but she's got a cold, so mother
wouldn't let her."
"A little dear," repeated Nurse. She sat with her hands folded on her
waist, turning her kind round face first on Pennie and then on Nancy,
who, kneeling on the hearth, was making toast in a business-like serious
manner.
"How's Mrs Crump?" inquired the latter.
"Well, she's rather contrairy in her temper just now, my dear," answered
Nurse.
"She always is, isn't she?" returned Nancy.
"I can't altogether deny that, Miss Nancy," said Nurse, chuckling
comfortably; "but you see it's a constant trouble with her that her room
window don't look on the street. She's been used to a deal of life
before she came here, and she finds it dull, and that makes her short.
When you've been used to stirring and bustling about, charing and so on,
it do seem a bit quiet, I daresay."
"I should have thought," said Nancy, "that she'd have been glad to rest
after all that; but I think I'd rather have a room looking on the street
too. I should like watching people pass."
Pennie was sitting in her favourite place, the window-seat, where
Nurse's flower-pots stood in a row--a cactus, a geranium, and some musk.
She looked out into the garden.
"I think this way's much the nicest," she said, "because of the flowers
and the grass, and the quietness."
"Tea's ready!" exclaimed Nancy, springing up from the fire with one
scarlet cheek, and waving the last piece of toast on the top of the
toasting-fork.
The little party drew in their chairs, Pennie pouring out tea, as usual
on these occasions, for to her own great delight Nurse was always
treated rather as a guest than hostess. By the good luck which, she
considered, always attended her, she had that very morning received a
present of a pot of honey, and she was pressing this on her visitors
when the sound of a footstep was heard on the stairs.
"Perhaps it's Mrs Crump!" exclaimed Nancy eagerly. "If it is, do ask
her to tea."
"It isn't Mrs Crump," said Pennie, listening; "it's somebody whose
boots are much too big."
The steps came slowly up the steep stairs, one at a time, with evident
difficulty, and then there was a timid knock at the door.
"I know who it is. You may come in, Kettles," said Nurse, raising her
voice.
The door opened and Kettles came in. She was a little girl of about
Nancy's age, in a tattered frock, an old shawl, and a straw bonnet
hanging back from her head by the strings. Her hair fell rough and
tangled over her forehead, beneath which a pair of bright grey eyes
looked out half suspiciously at the company, and yet with a sort of
mouse-like shrewdness, which was increased by the whole expression of
her sharp little pointed face. Pennie glanced at once at her feet. She
had been right. Kettles' boots were many sizes too large for her, which
accounted for her difficulty in getting upstairs, and indeed everything
she wore seemed to belong to a bigger and older person.
The children both stared in surprise at this little dingy figure, and
Kettles returned their gaze, shifting her furtive glance from one face
to the other with wonderful swiftness as she stood just inside the door,
clasping a cracked china jug to her chest.
"You've come for my tea-leaves, haven't you?" said Nurse as she opened
her corner cupboard and took out a basin. "How's your mother to-day?"
"She's bad," said Kettles decidedly, shutting up her mouth very tight
after she had spoken.
"Is it her head again?" inquired Nurse.
"It's 'ralgy all down one side of her face--orful," said Kettles.
"Well, a cup of tea will do her good," said Nurse as she put the
tea-leaves into the jug.
"Her knees is bad too," added Kettles, as if unwilling to have the
matter too slightly treated.
"Ah! I don't wonder," said Nurse sympathetically, "kneeling about in
the damp so much as she's forced to."
Nancy, who had noticed that Kettles' eyes were straying over the
eatables on the table, here nudged Nurse with her elbow.
"Wouldn't she like some bread and honey?" she whispered.
"This little lady wants to know if you'd like some bread and honey?"
repeated Nurse aloud condescendingly.
Kettles made no answer, though there was a sudden gleam in her eyes.
"Perhaps you don't like honey?" ventured Pennie slyly.
"Don't know what it is," answered Kettles. "I like bread and dripping."
"Oh, I'm sure it must be much nicer than that," said Nancy. "That
doesn't sound at all nice. May I spread some for her?" she asked
eagerly of Nurse.
It is doubtful if Nurse quite liked such a use made of her honey, for
she thought dripping more suitable for such as Kettles, but she could
not refuse Nancy anything. So she answered readily enough,--"To be
sure, my dear," and made no objection; while Nancy, choosing the biggest
piece of toast, proceeded to plaster it thickly with honey. When,
however, these preparations being finished, she dragged up a chair and
hospitably invited Kettles to take a seat between herself and Pennie,
Nurse felt it time to protest.
"Kettles had better run home now, my dear, and eat it on the way. Her
mother will want her."
But there was such an outcry against this from both the girls that she
had to give way, and in a moment the energetic Nancy had seated Kettles
at the table, taken away her jug of tea-leaves, and placed the bread and
honey before her. A strange addition certainly to Nurse's tea-party,
and quite out of keeping with the fresh neatness of the other visitors,
the bright ribbons in Nurse's cap, and her glistening satin apron. From
her battered old bonnet to the grimy little claw in which she held her
bread, there was nothing neat or fresh or bright about poor Kettles.
Nurse sat looking on at all this with very mixed feelings. She liked to
give the children pleasure, and yet what could be more unsuitable than
the close neighbourhood of Kettles? If Mrs Hawthorne or Miss Unity
"chanced in," what would they think of finding Pennie and Nancy in such
strange company? They would certainly blame Nurse for allowing it, and
quite rightly too--even if Kettles had been a neat clean little girl it
would not be "the thing;" but as it was, nothing could have been more
unlucky than her appearance just at that time.
While these thoughts passed through Nurse's mind and completely spoilt
any enjoyment of her tea, Pennie and Nancy cast sidelong glances, full
of curiosity and interest, at their visitor. They were too polite to
stare openly at her, and went through the form of a conversation with
Nurse in order that she might feel quite at her ease. Presently,
however, when she had got well on with her meal, to which she applied
herself in a keen and business-like manner, Nancy could not forbear
asking:
"Where do you live?"
Kettles held the slice away from her mouth just long enough to say, very
quickly:
"Anchoranopally," and immediately fastened her teeth into it again.
The children looked at Nurse for an explanation.
"It's the `Anchor and Hope Alley,' she means, my dears, turning out of
the High Street just below here."
Pennie nodded seriously. She knew where the Anchor and Hope Alley was,
and also that it was called the lowest quarter in Nearminster. She
looked at Kettles with greater interest than ever, and longed to make
some inquiries about her home and surroundings. This was so evident in
her face that poor Nurse's uneasiness increased. If Kettles began to
talk she might drop into language and mention details quite usual in
Anchor and Hope Alley, but also quite unfit for Pennie and Nancy to
hear. What was to be done? Kettles' slice of bread seemed endless, and
here was Pennie on the point of speaking to her again. Nurse rushed
nervously in with a question, which she repented as soon as she had put
it:
"What's your father doing now, Kettles?"
"Drinkin'," answered Kettles at once. "He come home last night, and--"
"There, there, that'll do," said Nurse hastily. "We don't want to hear
about that just now. You finish your tea and run home to mother."
And in spite of beseeching looks from the girls, Kettles was shortly
afterwards hurried away with her jug of tea-leaves, and Nurse gave a
great sigh of relief as the big boots went clumping down the stairs.
"She's far nicer than Mrs Grump," said Nancy when they were left alone
with Nurse, "only you don't let her talk half enough. I wanted to ask
her lots of things. Is her name really Kettles? and how did you come to
know her? and why does she wear such large boots?"
It appeared that Kettles' real name was Keturah, but being, Nurse
explained, a hard sort of name to say, it had got changed into Kettles.
"Her mother, a decent, hard-working woman, came to the College to scrub
and clean sometimes. She was very poor, and had a great many children
and a bad husband." Here Nurse shook her head.
"What do you give her tea-leaves for?" asked Pennie.
"Why, my dear, when folks are too poor to buy fresh tea, they're glad
enough to get it after it's been once used."
"We've enjoyed ourselves tremendously," said Nancy when, the visit
nearly over, she and Pennie were putting on their hats again, "and
you'll ask Kettles to see us next time we come, won't you?"
But this Nurse would not promise. It was hard, she said, to refuse any
of the dear children anything, and she was aware how little she had to
give them, but she knew her duty to herself and Mrs Hawthorne. Kettles
must not be asked. "To think," she concluded, "of you two young ladies
sitting down to table with people out of Anchor and Hope Alley!"
"We always have tea with the children at the school feasts at home,"
said Nancy.
"That's quite different, my dear, in your dear papa's own parish," said
Nurse.
"Are they wicked people in Anchor and Hope Alley?" asked Pennie. "Is
Kettles wicked?"
"Poor little soul, no, I wouldn't say that," said Nurse. "She's a great
help to her mother and does her best. But she sees things and hears
things that you oughtn't to know anything about, and so she's not fit
company for such as you. And now it's time to go to the gate."
As they passed Anchor and Hope Alley on their way to Miss Unity's house
in the Close Pennie stretched her neck to see as far down it as she
could.
"How dark and narrow it is! Fancy living there!" she said. "Don't you
wonder which is Kettles' house?"
"Shouldn't you like to know," said Nancy, "what it was that her father
did when he came home that night? I do so wish Nurse hadn't stopped
her."
"What a nice little funny face she had!" said Pennie thoughtfully, "such
bright eyes! If it was washed clean, and her hair brushed back smooth,
and she had white stockings and a print frock, how do you suppose she'd
look?"
"Not half so nice," said Nancy at once, "all neat and proper, just like
one of the school-children at Easney."
And indeed it was her look of wildness that made Kettles attractive to
Pennie and Nancy, used to the trim propriety of well-cared-for village
children, who curtsied when you spoke to them, and always said "Miss."
There was a freedom in the glance of Kettles' eye and a perfect
carelessness of good manners in her bearing which was as interesting as
it was new.
"She's the sort of little girl who lives in a caravan and sells brushes
and brooms," continued Pennie as the carriage stopped at Miss Unity's
door.
Mrs Hawthorne was accustomed sometimes to read to herself during her
frequent drives between Easney and Nearminster, and to-day, when the
children saw that she had her book with her, they went on talking very
low so as not to disturb her. The conversation was entirely about
Kettles, and the subject proved so engrossing that Pennie quite forgot
all her late vexations and was perfectly amiable and pleasant. It was
indeed long since she and Nancy had had such a comfortable talk
together, and agreed so fully in their interests. As they jogged
steadily home along the well-known road, new fancies as to the details
of Kettles' life and surroundings constantly occurred to them; there was
even a certain pleasure in heightening all the miseries which they felt
sure she had to bear.
"In the winter," said Nancy, "she has chilblains on her feet--broken
ones."
Pennie shuddered. She knew what chilblains were.
"They must hurt her dreadfully," she said, "in those great, thick
boots."
"And no stockings," added Nancy relentlessly.
"Oh, Nancy!" said Pennie.
She felt almost as sorry as if Nancy were telling her positive facts.
"Wouldn't it be a good thing to get one of those thick grey pairs of
stockings for her out of the shop at Easney," said Nancy after a short
silence, "and a pair of boots to fit?"
"I've got no money," replied Pennie shortly.
"Well, no more have I now," said Nancy; "but we could save some. You'd
much better give up that stupid mandarin thing. You don't even know
whether Miss Unity would like it."
Now Pennie was at heart very much attracted by the idea of supplying
Kettles with comfortable stockings and boots. It was a splendid idea,
but it had one drawback--it was not her own. Her own plan had been cast
aside and rejected, and she could not meekly fall in with this new one
of Nancy's, however good it might be. Pennie was a kind-hearted little
girl, and always ready to help others, but she liked to do it in her own
way. She was fond of leading, advising, and controlling; but when it
came to following counsel and taking advice herself she did not find it
pleasant. Therefore, because the new mandarin was an idea of her own
she was still determined to carry it through, though, in truth, she had
almost lost sight of her first wish--to give Miss Unity pleasure.
So now she made no answer, and Nancy, looking eagerly at her, saw a
little troubled frown instead of a face covered with smiles.
"You'll never get enough to buy it alone," she continued. "And just
think how Kettles would like new boots and stockings!"
As she spoke they turned in at the Vicarage gate, and saw just in front
of them a figure stepping jauntily up the drive.
"Oh!" cried Nancy. "Mother! Pennie! Look! Phere's Miss Barnicroft
going to call."
Mrs Hawthorne roused herself at once from her book, for no one could
look forward with indifference to a visit from Miss Barnicroft.