THE LITTLE RED SHOES
"Pif-paf Pottrie, what trade are you? Are you a tailor?""Better still!" "A shoemaker?"Brothers Grimm.
Therewas another reason why the children liked Field's shop. At the back of it was a sort of little room railed off by a low wooden partition with curtains at the top, into which customers were shown to try on and be fitted with new boots or shoes. This little room within a room had always greatly taken Peggy's fancy; she had often talked it over with her brothers, and wished they could copy it in their nursery. Inside it had comfortable cushioned seats all round, making it look like one of the large, square, cushioned pews still to be found in some old churches, pews which all children who have ever sat in them dearly love.
There was always some excitement in peepinginto this little room to see if any one was already there; if that were the case the children knew they should have to be "tried on" in the outer shop. To-day, however, there was no doubt about the matter—Miss Field, who acted as her father's shop-woman, marshalled them all straight into the curtained recess without delay; there was no one there—and when Peggy and Hal had with some difficulty twisted themselves on to the seats with as much formality as if they were settling themselves in church, and nurse had explained what they had come for, the girl began operations by taking off one of Hal's boots to serve as a pattern for his size.
"The same make as these, I suppose?" she asked.
"No, miss, a little thicker, I think. They're to be good strong ones for country wear," said nurse.
Peggy looked up with surprise.
"For the country, nursie," she said. "He'll have weared them out before it's time for us to go to the country. It won't be summer for a long while, and last year we didn't go even when summer comed."
Nurse looked a little vexed. Miss Field, though smiling and good-natured, was not a special favourite of nurse's; she was too fond of talking, and shestood there now looking very much amused at Peggy's remonstrance.
"If you didn't go to the country last year, Miss Margaret," said nurse, "more reason that you'll go this. But little girls can't know everything."
Peggy opened her eyes and her mouth. She was just going to ask nurse what was the matter, which would not have made things better, I am afraid, when Baby changed the subject by bursting out crying. Poor Baby—he did not like the little curtained-off room at all; it was rather dark, and he felt frightened, and as was of course the most sensible thing to do under the circumstances, as he could not speak, he cried.
"Dear, dear," said nurse, after vainly trying to soothe him, "he doesn't like being in here, the poor lamb. He's frightened. I'll never get him quiet here. Miss Peggy, love," forgetting in her hurry the presence of Miss Field, for before strangers Peggy was always "Miss Margaret," with nurse, "I'll have to put him back in his perambulator at the door, and if you'll stand beside him he'll be quite content."
"Baby did not interrupt her....
And nurse got up as she spoke. Peggy slid herself down slowly and reluctantly from her seat; shewould have liked to stay and watch Hal being fitted with boots, and she would have liked still more to ask nurse what she meant by speaking of the country so long before the time, but it was Peggy's habit to do what she was told without delay, and she knew she could ask nurse what she wanted afterwards. So with one regretful look back at the snug corner where Hal was sitting comfortably staring at his stockinged toes, she trotted across the shop to the door where Baby, quite restored to good humour, was being settled in his carriage.
"There now, he'll be quite happy. Nurse will come soon, dear. Just let him stay here in the doorway; he can see all the boots and shoes in the window—that will amuse him."
"Yes," said Peggy, adding in her own mind that she would have a good look at the dear, tiny dolls' ones and fix which she would like to buy if she had the money.
Baby did not interrupt her; he was quite content now he was out in the light and the open air, and amused himself after his own fashion by crowing and chuckling to the passers-by. So Peggy stood still, her eyes fixed on the baby shoes. They were of all colours, black and red and bronze and blue—itwas difficult to say which were the prettiest. Peggy had almost decided upon a red pair, and was wondering how much money it would take to buy them, when some one touched her on the shoulder. She looked up; a lady was standing behind her, smiling in amusement.
"What are you gazing at so, my dear? Is this your baby in the perambulator? You had better wheel him a little bit farther back, or may I do so for you?—he has worked himself too far into the doorway."
Peggy looked up questioningly in the lady's face. Like many children she did not like being spoken to by strangers in any unceremonious way; she felt as if it were rather a freedom.
But the face that met hers was too kind and bright and pleasant to resist, and though Peggy still looked grave, it was only that she felt rather shy.
"Yes," she said, "he's our baby. I was looking at those sweet little shoes. I didn't see Baby had pushed hisself away. Thank you," as the lady gently moved the perambulator a little farther to one side.
"You and Baby are not alone? Are you waiting for some one?" she asked.
"Nurse is having Hal tried on for new boots," Peggy replied, "and Baby didn't like the shop 'cos it were rather dark."
"And so his kind little sister is taking care of him. I see," said the lady. "And what are the sweet little shoes you like so much to look at? Are they some that would fit Baby?"
"Oh no," said Peggy, "they'd be too little for him. Babyisrather fat. Oh no, it'sthoseunder the glass basin turned upside down," and she pointed to the dolls' shoes. "Aren't they lovely? I've seen them ever since I was quite little—I suppose they'd cost a great lot," and Peggy sighed.
"Which do you think the prettiest?" asked the lady.
"The red ones," Peggy replied.
"Well, I almost think I agree with you," said the lady. "Good-bye, my dear, don't let Baby run himself out into the street." And with a kind smile she went on into the shop.
She passed back again in a few minutes.
"Still there?" she said, nodding to Peggy, and then she made her way down the street and was soon out of sight. Peggy's attention, since the lady had warned her, had been entirely given to Baby,otherwise she might perhaps have noticed a very wonderful thing that had happened in the shop-window. The pair of red dolls' shoes was no longer there! They had been quietly withdrawn from the case in which they, with their companions, had spent a peaceful, but it must be allowed a rather dull life for some years.
In another minute nurse and Hal made their appearance, and Hal had a parcel, which he was clutching tightly in both hands.
"My new boots issoshiny," he said, "I do so hope they'll squeak. Does you think they will, nursie? But isn't poor Peggy to have new boots, too?PoorPeggy!"
Peggy looked down at her feet.
"Mine isn't wored out yet," she said; "it would take all poor mamma's money to buy new boots for usall."
"Never fear," said nurse, who heard rather a martyr tone in Peggy's voice, "you'll not be forgotten, Miss Peggy. But Master Hal, hadn't you better put your boots in the perambulator? You'll be tired of carrying them, for we're not going straight home."
Hal looked as if he were going to grumble at this,but before he had time to say anything, Miss Field came hurrying out of the shop.
"Oh, you're still here," she said; "that's all right. The lady who's just left told father to give this little parcel to missie here," and she held out something to Peggy, who was so astonished that for a moment or two she only stared at the girl without offering to take the tiny packet.
"For me," she said at last.
"Yes, missie, to be sure—for you, as I say."
Peggy took the parcel, and began slowly to undo it. Something red peeped out—Peggy's eyes glistened—then her cheeks grew nearly as scarlet as the contents of the packet, and she seemed to gasp for breath, as she held out for Hal and nurse to see the little red shoes which five minutes before she had been admiring under the glass shade.
"Nursie, Hal," she exclaimed, "see, oh see! The sweet little shoes—for me—for my very own."
Nurse was only too ready to be pleased, but with the prudence of a "grown-up" person she hesitated a moment.
"Are you sure there's no mistake, miss?" she said, anxiously. "Do you know the lady's name? Is she a friend of Missis's, I wonder?"
The girl shook her head.
"Can't say, I'm sure," she replied. "She's a stranger to us. She only just bought a pair of cork soles and these here. There's no mistake, that, I'm sure of. She must have seen the young lady was admiring of them."
"Yes," said Peggy, "she asked me which was the prettiest, and I said the red ones."
"You see?" said Miss Field to nurse. "Well, missie, I hope as they'll fit Miss Dolly, and then you'll give us your custom when they're worn out, won't you?"
And with a good-natured laugh she turned back into the shop.
"It's all right, nursie, isn't it? Do say it is. I may keep them; theyismine, isn't they?" said Peggy, in very unusual excitement.
Nurse still looked undecided.
"I don't quite know what to say, my dear," she replied. "We must ask your mamma. I shouldn't think she'd object, seeing as it was so kindly meant. And we can't give back the shoes now they're bought and paid for. It wouldn't be fair to the lady to give them back to Field just to be sold again. It wasn'thimshe wanted to give a present to."
"No," said Peggy, trotting along beside the perambulator and clasping her little parcel as Hal was clasping his bigger one, "it wasmeshe wanted to please. She's averykind lady, isn't she, nursie? I'm sure they cost a great lot of money—p'raps a pound. Oh! I do so hope mamma will say I may keep them for my very own. Can't we go home now this minute to ask her?"
"We shouldn't find her in if we did," said nurse, "and we've had nothing of a walk so far. But don't you worry, Miss Peggy. I'm sure your mamma will not mind."
Peggy's anxious eager little face calmed down at this; a corner of the paper in which her treasures were wrapped up was torn. She saw the scarlet leather peeping out, and a gleam of delight danced out of her eyes; she bent her head down and kissed the speck of bright colour ecstatically, murmuring to herself as she did so, "Oh, how happy I am!"
Nurse overheard the words.
"Missis will never have the heart to take them from her, poor dear," she thought. "She'll be only too pleased for Miss Peggy to have something to cheer her up when she has to be told about our going."
And Peggy, in blissful ignorance of any threatening cloud to spoil her pleasure, marched on, scarcely feeling the ground beneath her feet; as happy as if the tiny red shoes had been a pair of fairy ones to fit her own little feet.
Mamma was not at home when they got in, even though they made a pretty long round, coming back by Fernley Road, which, however, Peggy did not care about as much as when they set off by it. For coming back, of course she could not see the hills without turning round, nor could she have the feeling that every step was taking her nearer to them. The weather was clearing when they came in; from the nursery window the sky towards the west had a faint flush upon it, which looked as if the sunset were going to be a rosy one.
"Red at night," Peggy said to herself as she glanced out; "nursie, that means a fine day, doesn't it?"
"So they say," nurse replied.
"Then it'll be a fine day to-morrow, and I'll see the cottage, and I'll put the little shoes on the window-sill, so that they shall see it too—thedearlittle sweets," chattered the child to herself.
Hal meanwhile was seated on the floor, engagedin a more practical way, namely,tryingto try on his new boots. But "new boots," as he said himself, "is stiff." Hal pulled and tugged till he grew very red in the face, but all in vain.
"Oh, Peggy!" he said, "do help me. I does so want to hear them squeak, and to 'upprise the boys when they come in."
Down went kind Peggy on the floor, and thanks to her the boots were got on, though the buttoning of them was beyond her skill. Hal was quite happy, though.
"They do squeak, don't they, Peggy?" he said; "and nurse'll let me wear them a little for them to get used to my feet 'afore we go to the country."
"You mean for your feet to get used to them, Hallie," said Peggy. "But there's lots of time for that. Why, they'll be half wored out before we go to the country if you begin them now."
"'Tisn't nonsense," said Hal, sturdily. "Nurse said so to that girl in the shop."
Peggy felt very puzzled.
"But, Hal," she was beginning, when a voice interrupted her. It was nurse. She had been downstairs, having heard the front door bell ring.
"Miss Peggy, your mamma wants you. She's come in. You'll find her in her own room."
"Nursie," she said, "Hal's been saying——"
"You mustn't keep your mamma waiting," said nurse. "I've told her about the little shoes."
"I'll take them to show her—won't she be pleased?" said Peggy, seizing the little parcel which she had put down while helping Hal.
And off she set.
She stopped at her mother's door; it was only half shut, so she did not need to knock.
"Mamma dear, it's me—Peggy," she said.
"Come in, darling," mamma's voice replied.
"I've brought you thesweetlittle red shoes to see," said Peggy, carefully unfolding the paper which held her treasures, and holding them out for mamma's admiration.
"They are very pretty indeed—really lovely little shoes," she said, handling them with care, but so as to see them thoroughly. "It wasverykind of that lady. I wonder who she was? Of course in a general way I wouldn't like you to take presents from strangers, but she must have done it in such a very nice way. Was she an old lady, Peggy?"
"Oh yes!" said Peggy, "quite old. She was neely as big as you, mamma dear. I daresay she'sneelyas old as you are."
Mamma began to laugh.
"You little goose," she said. But Peggy didn't see anything to laugh at in what she had said, and her face remained quite sober.
"I don't understand you, mamma dear," she said.
"Well, listen then; didn't Hal buy a pair of new boots for himself to-day?" mamma began.
"No, mamma dear. Nurse buyed themforhe," Peggy replied.
"Or ratherIbought them, for it was my money nurse paid for them with, if you are so very precise, Miss Peggy. But never mind about that. All I want you to understand is the difference between 'big' and 'old.' Hal's boots are much bigger than these tiny things, but they are not on that accountolder."
Peggy began to laugh.
"No, mamma dear. P'raps Hallie's boots is younger than my sweet little red shoes, for they has been a great long while in the shop window, and Baldwin and Terry sawed them when they was little."
"Not 'younger,' Peggy dear; 'newer,' you mean. Boots aren't alive. You only speak of live things as 'young.'"
Peggy sighed.
"It is rather difficult to understand, mamma dear."
"It will all come by degrees," said mamma. "When I was a little girl I know I thought for a long time that the moon was the mamma of the stars, because she looked so much bigger."
"I think that's very nice, mamma, though, of course, I understand it's only afancyfancy. I haven't seen the moon for a long time, mamma. May I ask nurse to wake me up the next time the moon comes?"
"You needn't wait till dark to see the moon," said mamma. "She can often be seen by daylight, though, of course, she doesn't look so pretty then, as in the dark sky which shows her off better. But, of course, the sky here is so often dull with the smoke of the town that we can't see her as clearly in the daytime as where the air is purer."
"Like in the country, mamma," said Peggy. "It'salwaysclear in the country, isn't it?"
"Not quite always," said mamma, smiling. "But, Peggy dear, speaking of the country——"
"Oh yes!" Peggy interrupted, "I want to tell you, mamma, what a silly thing Halliewouldsayabout going to the country;" and she told her mother all that Hal had said about his boots, and indeed what nurse had said too; "and nursie was just a weeay, teeny bit cross to me, mamma dear," said Peggy, plaintively. "She wouldn't say she'd mistooked about it."
Mamma looked rather grave, and instead of saying at once that of course nurse had only meant that Hal's boots should last till the summer, she took Peggy on her knee and kissed her—kissed her in rather a "funny" way, thought Peggy, so that she looked up and said—
"Mamma dear, why do you kiss me like that?"
Instead of answering, mamma kissed her again, which almost made Peggy laugh.
But mamma was not laughing.
"My own little Peggy," she said, "I have something to tell you which I am afraid will make you unhappy. It is makingmevery unhappy, I know."
"Poor dear little mamma," said Peggy, and as she spoke she put up her little hand and stroked her mother's face. "Don't be unhappy if it isn't anythingverybad. Tell Peggy about it, mamma dear."
FELLOW-FEELINGS AND SLIPPERS
"If I'd as much money as I could tellI never would cry 'old clothes to sell'!"London Cries.
Mammahesitated a moment. Then she began.
"You know, Peggy, my pet," she said, "for a good while now I haven't been as strong and well as I used to be——"
"Stop, mamma, stop," said Peggy, with a sort of cry, and as she spoke she threw up her hands and pressed them hard against her ears; "I know what you're going to say, but I can't bear it, no, I can't. Oh mamma, you're not to say you're going to die."
For all answer mamma caught Peggy into her arms and kissed her again and again. For a minute or two it seemed as if she could not speak, but at last she got her voice. And then, rather to Peggy'ssurprise, she saw that although there were tears in mamma's eyes, and even one or two trickling down her face, she was smiling too.
"My darling Peggy," she said, "did I frighten you? I am so, so sorry. Oh no, darling, it is nothing like that. Please God I shall live to see my Peggy as old as I am now, and older, I hope. No, no, dear, it is nothing so very sad I was going to tell you. It is only that the doctor says the best way for me to get quite well and strong again is to go away for a while to have change of air as it is called, in some nice country place."
"In the country," said Peggy, her eyes brightening with pleasure. "Oh, how nice! will it perhaps be that country where my cottage is? Oh, dear mamma, how lovely! And when are we to go? May we begin packing to-day? And how could you think it would make me unhappy——" she went on, suddenly remembering what her mother had said at first.
Mamma's face did not brighten up at all.
"Peggy dear, it is very hard for me to tell you," she said. "Of course, if we had all been going together it would have been only happy. But that's just the thing. I can't take you with me, my sweet. Baby must go, because nurse must, and Hallie too.But the friend I am going to stay with can't have more of us than the two little ones, and nurse, and me—it is very, very good of her to take so many."
"Couldn't I sleep with you, mamma dear?" said Peggy in a queer little voice, the tone of which went to mamma's heart.
"My pet, Hallie must sleep with me, as it is. My friend's house isn't very big. And there's another reason why I can't take you—I'm not sure if you could understand——"
"Tell it me, please, mamma."
"The lady I am going to had a little girl just like you—I mean just the same age, and rather like you altogether, I think. And the poor little girl died two years ago, Peggy. Since then it is a pain to her mother to see other little girls. When you are bigger and not so like what her little girl was, I daresay she won't mind."
Peggy had been listening, her whole soul in her eyes.
"I understand," she said. "I wouldn't like to go if it would make that lady cry—if it hadn't been for that—oh mamma, I could have squeezed myself up so very tight in the bed! You and Hallie wouldn't have knowed I were there. But I wouldn't like tomake her cry. I am so sorry about that little girl. Mamma, how is it that dying is so nice, about going to heaven, you know, andstillit is so sorry?"
"There is the parting," said mamma.
"Yes—that must be it. And, mamma, I hope it isn't naughty, but if you were to die I'd beverysorry not to see you again just the same—even if you were to be a very pretty angel, with shiny clothes and all that, I'd want you to be my own old mamma."
"I would be your own old mamma, dear. I am sure you would feel I was the same."
"I'm so glad," said Peggy. "Still it is sad to die," and she sighed. "Mamma dear, you won't be very long away, will you? It'll only be a little short parting, won't it?"
"Only a few weeks, dear. And I hope you won't be unhappy even though you must be a little lonely."
"If only I had a sister," said Peggy.
But mamma went on to tell her all she had planned. Miss Earnshaw, a dressmaker who used sometimes to come and sew, was to be with Peggy as much as she could. She was a gentle nice girl, and Peggy liked her.
"She has several things to make for me just now,"said mamma, "and as she lives near, she will try to come every day, so that she will be with you at dinner and tea. And Fanny will help you to dress and undress, and either she or Miss Earnshaw will take you a walk every day that it is fine enough. And then in the evenings, of course, the boys will be at home, and papa will see you every morning before he goes."
"And I daresay he'll come up to see me in bed at night too," said Peggy. Then she was silent for a minute or two; the truth was, I think, that she was trying hard to swallow down a lump in her throat thatwouldcome, and to blink away two or three tiresome tears that kept creeping up to her eyes.
Two days later and they were gone. Mamma, nurse, Hal, and Baby, with papa to see them off, and two boxes outside the cab, and of course a whole lot of smaller packages inside.
Peggy stood at the front-door, nodding and kissing her hand and making a smile, as broad a one as she possibly could, to show that she was not crying.
When they were gone, really gone, and Fanny had shut the door, she turned kindly to Peggy.
"Now, Miss Peggy, love, what will you do? Miss Earnshaw won't be here till to-morrow. I'll try tobe ready so as to take you out this afternoon if it's fine, for it's not a half-holiday. It'd be very dull for you all day alone—to-morrow the young gentlemen will be at home as it's Saturday."
A bright idea struck Peggy.
"Fanny," she said, "did mamma or nurse say anything about soap-bubbles?"
Fanny shook her head.
"No, miss. But I'm sure there'd be no objection to your playing at them if you liked. I can easy get a little basin and some soap and water for you. But have you a pipe?"
Peggy shook her head.
"It isn't for me, Fanny, thank you," she said. "It's for my brothers most. I'd like to make a surprise for them while mamma's away."
"Yes, that would be very nice," said Fanny, who had been charged at all costs to make Peggy happy. "We'll talk about it. But I'd better get on with my work, so as to get out a bit this afternoon."
"Very well. I'll go up to the nursery," said the little girl.
The nursery seemed very strange. Peggy had never seen it look quite so empty. Not only werenurse and the little ones gone, but it seemed as if everything belonging to them had gone too, for nurse had sat up late the night before and got up very early this same morning to put everything into perfect order before leaving. The tidiness was quite unnatural. Peggy sat down in a corner and gave a deep sigh. Just then she did not even care to turn to the window, where the sunshine was pouring in brightly, sparkling on the two little scarlet shoes, standing side by side on the sill, where Peggy placed them every fine morning, that they might enjoy the sight of the white cottage on the hill!
"I almost wish it was raining," she half whispered to herself, till she remembered how very disagreeable a wet day would have been for mamma and the others to travel on. "I hope it will be a sunny day when they come back," she added, as a sort of make-up for her forgetfulness.
And then she got up and wandered into the other room. Here one of Hal's old shoes, which had fallen out of a bundle of things to be given away which nurse had taken downstairs just before going, was lying on the floor. Peggy stooped and picked it up. How well she knew the look of Hal's shoes; there was the round bump of his big toe, and the hole atthe corner where a bit of his red sock used to peep out! It gave her a strange dreamy feeling as she looked at it. It seemed as if it could not be true that Hallie was far away—"far, far away" by this time, thought Peggy, for she always felt as if the moment people were in the railway they were whizzed off hundreds of miles in an instant. She stroked the poor old shoe lovingly and kissed it. I don't think just then she would have parted with it for anything; it would have cost her less to give away the lovely little scarlet ones.
The thought of the old clothes turned her mind to the children at the back.
"I wonder if nurse gave them any of Hal's and Baby's old things," she said to herself.
And she went to the window with a vague idea of looking to see. She had not watched the Smileys or their relations much for some days; she had been busy helping mamma and nurse in various little ways, and her mind had been very full of the going away. She almost felt as if she had neglected her opposite neighbours, though, of course, they knew nothing about it, and she was quite pleased to see them all there as usual, or even more than usual. For it was so fine a day that Reddy and her motherwere evidently having a grand turn-out—a sort of spring cleaning, I suppose.
Small pieces of carpet, and one or two mats, much the worse for wear, were hanging out at the open windows. Reddy's head, tied up in a cloth to keep the dust out of her hair, was to be seen every minute or two, as she thumped about with a long broom, and Mary-Hann presently appeared with a pail of soapy water which she emptied at a grid in the gutter. Mary-Hann looked rather depressed, but Reddy's spirits were fully equal to the occasion. Had the window been open, Peggy felt sure she would have been able to hear her shouting to her sister to "look sharp," or to "mind what she was about," even more vigorously than usual.
The rest of the family, excepting, of course, the boys, were assembled on the pavement in front of Mr. Crick the cobbler's shop. He too had opened his window to enjoy the fine day, and in the background he could be dimly seen working, as dingy and leathery as ever. Mrs. Whelan's frilled cap and pipe looked out for a moment and then disappeared again. Apparently just then there was nobody or nothing shecouldscold.
For the poor children on the pavement werebehaving very quietly. The Smileys had stayed at home from school to mind the babies, with a view to smoothing the way for the spring cleaning, no doubt, and were sitting, each with a child on her lap, in two little old chairs they had carried down. Crippley was rocking herself gently in her chair beside them, and the last baby but two, as Peggy then thought, was on his knees on the ground, amusing himself with two or three oyster shells and a few marbles. All these particulars Peggy, from her high-up nursery window, could not, of course, see clearly, but she saw enough to make her sigh deeply as she thought that after all, the Smileys were much to be envied.
"I daresay they're telling theirselves stories," she said to herself. "They look so comfable."
Just then the big baby happened to come more in sight, and she saw that one of the things he was playing with was a little shoe—an odd one apparently. He had filled it with marbles, and was pulling it across the stones. Up jumped Peggy from her seat on the window-sill.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, though there was no one to hear, "it must be the nother shoe of this. What a pity! They'd do for Tip, and p'raps they'vethought there wasn't a nother. How I would like to take it them! I'll call Fanny and see if she'll run across with it."
Downstairs she went, calling Fanny from time to time as she journeyed. But no Fanny replied; she was down in the kitchen, and to the kitchen Peggy knew mamma would not like her to go. She stood at last in the passage wondering what to do, when, glancing round, she noticed that the back-door opening into the yard was temptingly open. Peggy peeped out—there was no one there, but, still more tempting, the door leading into the small back street—the door just opposite the Smiley mansion—stood open, wide open too, and even from where she was the little girl could catch sight of the group on the other side of the narrow street.
She trotted across the yard, and stood for a minute, the shoe in her hand, gazing at the six children. The sound of their voices reached her.
"Halfred is quite took up with his shoe," said Brown Smiley. "I told mother she moight as well give it he—a hodd shoe's no good to nobody."
"'Tis a pity there wasn't the two of 'em," said Crippley, in a thin, rather squeaky voice. "They'd a done bee-yutiful for——"
'"For Tip—yes, that's what I were thinking," cried an eager little voice....
"For Tip—yes, that's whatIwere thinking," cried an eager little voice. "Here's the other shoe; I've just founded it."
And little Peggy, with her neat hair and clean pinafore, stood in the middle of the children holding out Hal's slipper, and smiling at them, like an old friend.
For a moment or two they were all too astonished to speak; they could scarcely have stared more had they caught sight of a pair of wings on her shoulders, by means of which she had flown down from the sky.
Then Light Smiley nudged Crippley, and murmured something which Peggy could not clearly hear, about "th' young lady hopposite."
"Thank you, miss," then said Crippley, not quite knowing what to say. "Here, Halfred, you'll have to find summat else to make a carridge of; give us the shoe—there's a good boy."
Halfred stopped playing, and still on his knees on the pavement stared up suspiciously at his sister. Brown Smiley, by way of taking part in what was going on, swooped down over him and caught up the shoe before he saw what she was doing, cleverly managing to hold her baby on her knee all the same.
"'Ere it be," she said. "Sarah, put Florence on Lizzie's lap for a minute, and run you upstairs with them two shoes to mother. They'll do splendid for Tommy, they will. And thank the young lady."
Sarah, otherwise Light Smiley, got up obediently, depositedherbaby on Crippley's lap and held out her hand to Peggy for the other shoe, bobbing as she did so, with a "Thank you, miss."
Peggy left off smiling and looked rather puzzled.
"For Tommy," she repeated. "Who is Tommy? I thought they'd do for Tip. I——"
It was now the sisters' turn to stare, but they had not much time to do so, for Halfred, who had taken all this time to arrive at the knowledge that his new plaything had been taken from him, suddenly burst into a loud howl—so loud, so deliberate and determined, that Peggy stopped short, and all the group seemed for a moment struck dumb.
Brown Smiley was the first to speak.
"Come, now, Halfred," she said, "where's your manners? You'd never stop Tommy having a nice pair o' shoes."
But Halfred continued to weep—he gazed up at Peggy, the tears streaming down his smutty face, his mouth wide open, howling hopelessly.
"Poor little boy," said Peggy, looking ready to cry herself. "I wish I'd a nother old shoe for him."
"Bless you, miss, he's always a-crying—there's no need to worry," said Crippley, whose real name was Lizzie. "Take him in with you, Sarah, and tell mother he's a naughty boy, that's what he is," and Light Smiley picked him up and ran off with him in such a hurry that Peggy stood still repeating "poor little boy" before she knew what had become of him.
Quiet was restored, however. Peggy, having done what she came for, should have gone home, but the attractions of society were too much for her. She lingered—Crippley pushed Sarah's empty chair towards her.
"Take a seat, miss," she said. "You'll excuse me not gettin' up. Onst I'm a-sittin' down, it's not so heasy."
Peggy looked at her with great interest.
"Does it hurt much?" she asked.
Lizzie smiled in a superior way.
"Bless you," she said again, "hurt'sno word for it. It's hall over—but it's time I were used to it—never mind about me, missy. I'm sure it was most obligin' of you to bring the shoe, but won't your mamma and your nurse scold you?"
"My mamma's gone away, and so has my nurse," said Peggy. "I'm all alone."
All the eyes looked up with sympathy.
"Deary me, who'd a thought it?" said Brown Smiley. "But there must be somebody to do for you, miss."
"To what?" asked Peggy. "Of course there's cook, and Fanny, and my brothers, and my papa when he comes home."
Brown Smiley looked relieved. She was only a very little girl, not more than three years older than Peggy herself, though she seemed so much more, and she had really thought that the little visitor meant to say she was quite, quite by herself.
"Oh!" she said, "that's not being real alone."
"But it is," persisted Peggy. "It is very alone, I can tell you. I've nobody to play with, and nothing to do 'cept to look out of the window at you playing, and at the nother window at——"
"The winder to the front," said Lizzie, eagerly. "It must be splendid at your front, miss. Father told me onst you could see the 'ills—ever so far right away in Brackenshire. Some day if I could but get along a bit better I'd like fine to go round to your front, miss. I've never seed a 'ill."
Lizzie was quite out of breath with excitement. Peggy answered eagerly,
"Oh I do wish you could come to our day nursery window. When it's fine you can see the mountings—that's old, no, big hills, you know. And—on one of them you can see a white cottage; it does so shine in the sun."
"Bless me," said Lizzie, and both the Smileys, for Sarah had come back by now, stood listening with open mouths.
"Father's from Brackenshire," said Light Smiley, whose real name was Sarah. She spoke rather timidly, for she was well kept in her place by her four elder sisters. For a wonder they did not snub her.
"Yes, he be," added Matilda, "and he's told us it's bee-yutiful over there. He lived in a cottage, he did, when he were a little lad."
"Mebbe 'tis father's cottage miss sees shining," ventured Sarah. But this time she was not so lucky.
"Rubbish, Sarah," said Lizzie. "There's more'n one cottage in Brackenshire."
"And there's a mamma and a baby—and a papa who goes to work, in my cottage," said Peggy. "SoI don't think it could be——" but here she grew confused, remembering that all about the white cottage was only fancy, and that besides the Smileys' fathermighthave lived there long ago. She got rather red, feeling somehow as if it was not very kind of her not to like the idea of its being his cottage. She had seen him once or twice; he looked big and rough, and his clothes were old—she could not fancy him ever having lived in her dainty white house.
Just then came a loud voice from the upper story, demanding Sarah.
"'Tis Mother Whelan," said Brown Smiley, starting up. "Rebecca said as how I was to run of an errant for her. It's time I were off."
Peggy turned to go.
"I must go home," she said. "P'raps I'll come again some day. If mamma was at home I'd ask her if you mightn't come to look out of the nursery window," she added, turning to Lizzie.
"Bless you," said the poor girl, "I'd never get up the stairs; thank you all the same."
And with a deep sigh of regret at having to leave such pleasant company, Peggy ran across the street home.
A BUN TO THE GOOD
"The little gift from out our store."
Theyard door was still open; so was the house door. Peggy met no one as she ran in.
"Fanny's upstairs, p'raps," she said to herself. But no, she saw nothing of Fanny either on the way up or in the nursery. She did not feel dull or lonely now, however. She went to the back window and stood there for a minute looking at Crippley and Light Smiley, who were still there with the two babies. How funny it seemed that just a moment or two ago she had been down there actually talking to them! She could scarcely believe they were the very same children whom for so long she had known by sight.
"I am so glad I found the shoe," thought Peggy. "I wish, oh I do wish I could have a tea-party, and'avite them all to tea. I daresay the father could carry Crippley upstairs—he's a very big man."
The thought of the father carried her thoughts to Brackenshire and the cottage on the hill, and she went into the day-nursery to look if the white spot was still to be seen. Yes, it was very bright and clear in the sunshine. Peggy gazed at it while a smile broke over her grave little face.
"How I do wish I could go there," she thought. "I wonder if the Smileys' father 'amembers about when he was a little boy, quite well. If he wasn't such a 'nugly man we might ask him to tell us stories about it."
Then she caught sight of the little scarlet shoes patiently standing on the window-sill.
"Dear little shoes," she said. "Peggy was neely forgetting you," and she took them up and kissed them. "Next time I go to see the Smileys," she thought, "I'll take the red shoes with me to show them. Theywillbe pleased."
Then she got out her work and sat down to do it, placing her chair where she could see the hills from, the little shoes in her lap, feeling quite happy and contented. It seemed but a little while till Fanny came up to lay the cloth for Peggy's dinner. Shehad been working extra hard that morning, so as to be ready for the afternoon, and perhaps her head was a little confused. And so when Peggy began telling her her adventures she did not listen attentively, and answered "yes" and "no" without really knowing what she was saying.
"And so when I couldn't find you, Fanny, I just runned over with the 'nother shoe myself. And the poor little boy what was playing with the—thenotthe 'nother one, you know, did so cry, but I think he soon left off. And some day I'm going to ask mamma to let me 'avite them all to tea, for them to see the hills, and——" but here Peggy stopped, "the hills, you know, out of the window."
"Yes, dear; very nice," said Fanny. "You've been a good little girl to amuse yourself so quietly all the morning and give no trouble. I do wonder if the washerwoman knows to come for the nursery things, or if I must send," she went on, speaking, though aloud, to herself.
So Peggy felt perfectly happy about all she had done, not indeed that she had had the slightest misgiving.
The afternoon passed very pleasantly. It was quite a treat to Peggy to go a walk in a grown-upsort of way with Fanny, trotting by her side and talking comfortably, instead of having to take Hal's hand and lugging him along to keep well in front of the perambulator. They went up the Ferndale Road—a good way, farther than Peggy had ever been—so far indeed that she could scarcely understand how it was the hills did not seem much nearer than from the nursery window, but when she asked Fanny, Fanny said it was often so with hills—"nothing is more undependable." Peggy did not quite understand her, but put it away in her head to think about afterwards.
And when they came home it was nearly tea-time. Peggy felt quite comfortably tired when she had taken off her things and began to help Fanny to get tea ready for the boys, and when they arrived, all three very hungry and rather low-spirited at the thought of mamma and nurse being away, it was very nice for them to find the nursery quite as tidy as usual—indeed, perhaps, rather tidier—and Peggy, with a bright face, waiting with great pride to pour out tea for them.
"I think you're a very good housekeeper, Peg," said Terence, who was always the first to say something pleasant.
"Not so bad," agreed Thorold, patronisingly.
Baldwin sat still, looking before him solemnly, and considering his words, as was his way beforehesaid anything.
"I think," he began at last, "I think that when I'm a big man I'll live in a cottage all alone with Peggy, and not no one else."
Peggy turned to him with sparkling eyes.
"Awhitecottage, Baldwin dear; do say a white cottage," she entreated.
"I don't mind—a white cottage, but quite a tiny one," he replied.
"Hum!" said Thor, "that's very good-natured, I must say. There'll be no room for visitors, do you hear, Terry?"
"Oh yes; p'raps there will sometimes," said Peggy.
"You'll let your poor old Terry come, won't you, Peg-top?" said Terence, coaxingly.
"Dear Terry," said Peggy.
"Haven't you been very dull all day alone, by the bye?" Terence went on.
"Not very," Peggy replied. "Fanny took me a nice walk, and this morning——" But she stopped short before telling more. She was afraid thatThorold would laugh at her if she said how much she liked the children at the back, and then she had another reason. She wanted to "surprise" her brothers with a present of pipes for soap-bubbles, and very likely if she began talking about the back street at all it would make them think of Mrs. Whelan's, and then they might think of the pipes for themselves, which Peggy did not wish at all. She felt quite big and managing since she had paid a visit to the Smileys, and had a plan for going to buy the pipes "all by my own self."
"To-morrow," said Thorold, "there's to be a party at our school. We're all three to go."
Peggy's face fell.
"It's Saturday," she said. "I thought you'd have stayed with me."
Terence and Baldwin looked sorry.
"I'llstay at home," said Terry.
"No," said Thor, "I really don't think you can. They're counting on you for some of the games. Peg won't mind much for once, will you? I'm sorry too."
But before Peggy had time to reply, Baldwin broke in.
"I'll stay at home with Peg-top," he said, in hisslow, distinct way. "It won't matter for me not going. I'm one of the little ones."
"And we'll go a nice walk, won't we, Baldwin?" said Peggy, quite happy again. "And I daresay we may have something nice for tea. I'll ask papa," she added to herself. "I'm sure he'll give me some pennies when he hears how good Baldwin is."
Miss Earnshaw came the next morning, and in the interest of being measured for her new spring frock, and watching it being cut out, and considering what she herself could make with the scraps which the young dressmaker gave her, the time passed very pleasantly for Peggy.
Miss Earnshaw admired the red shoes very much, and was interested to hear the story of the unknown lady who had given them to Peggy, and told a story of a similar adventure of her own when she was a little girl. And after dinner she, for Fanny was very busy, took Peggy and Baldwin out for a walk, and on their way home they went to the confectioner's and bought six halfpenny buns with the three pennies papa had given Peggy that morning. At least the children thought there were only six, but greatly to their surprise, when they undid the parcel on the nursery table, out rolled seven!
"Oh dear!" said Peggy, "she's gave us one too many. Must we go back to the shop with it, do you think, Miss Earnshaw? It's such a long way."
"I'll go," said Baldwin, beginning to fasten his boots again.
But Miss Earnshaw assured them it was all right.
"You always get thirteen of any penny buns or cakes for a shilling," she said; "and some shops will give you seven halfpenny ones for threepence. That's how it is. Did you never hear speak of a baker's dozen?"
Still Peggy did not feel satisfied.
"It isn't comfable," she said, giving herself a little wriggle—a trick of hers when she was put out. "Six would have been much nicer—just two for each," for Miss Earnshaw was to have tea with her and Baldwin.
The young dressmaker smiled.
"Youarefunny, Miss Peggy," she said. "Well, run off now and get ready for tea. We'll have Fanny bringing it up in a minute."
Peggy, the seventh bun still much on her mind, went slowly into the night nursery. Before beginning to take off her hat she strolled to the window and looked out. She had seen none of the childrento-day. Now, Brown Smiley was standing just in front of the house, a basket on her arm, staring up and down the street. She had been "of an errant" for Mrs. Whelan, but Mrs. Whelan's door was locked; she was either asleep or counting her money, and the little girl knew that if she went on knocking the old woman would get into a rage, so she was "waitin' a bit." She liked better to do her waiting in the street, for she had been busy indoors all the morning, and it was a change to stand there looking about her.
Peggy gazed at her for a moment or two. Then an idea struck her. She ran back into the nursery and seized a bun—the odd bun.
"They're all mine, you know," she called out to Baldwin; "but we'll have two each still."
Baldwin looked up in surprise. "What are you going to do with it?" he began to say, but Peggy was out of sight.
She was soon downstairs, and easily opened the back door. But the yard door was fastened; she found some difficulty in turning the big key. She managed it at last, however, and saw to her delight that Brown Smiley was still there.
"Brown," began Peggy, but suddenly recollecting that the Smileys had real names, she stopped short,and ran across the street. "I can't 'amember your name," she exclaimed, breathlessly, "but I've brought you this," and she held out the bun.
Brown Smiley's face smiled all over.
"Lor', miss," she exclaimed. "You are kind, to be sure. Mayn't I give it to Lizzie? She's been very bad to-day, and she's eat next to nought. This 'ere'll be tasty-like."
"Lizzie," repeated Peggy, "which is Lizzie? Oh yes, I know, it's Crippley."
Brown Smiley looked rather hurt.
"It's not her fault, miss," she said. "I'd not like her to hear herself called like that."
Peggy's face showed extreme surprise.
"How do you mean?" she said. "I've made names for you all. I didn't know your real ones."
Brown Smiley looked at her and saw in a moment that there was nothing to be vexed about.
"To be sure, miss. Beg your pardon. Well, she that's lame's Lizzie, and me, I'm Matilda-Jane."
"Oh yes," interrupted Peggy. "Well, you may give her the bun if you like. It's very kind of you, for I meant it for you. I'd like——" she went on, "I'd like to give you more, but you see papa gaved me the pennies for us, and p'raps he'd be vexed."
"To be sure, to be sure, that'd never do," replied Matilda, quickly. "But oh, miss, we've been asking father about Brackenshire, and the cottages. 'Tis Brackenshire 'ills, sure enough, that's seen from your front."
"I knew that," said Peggy, in a superior way.
But Brown Smiley was too eager to feel herself snubbed.
"And oh, but he says it is bee-yutiful there—over on the 'ills. The air's that fresh, and there's flowers and big-leaved things as they calls ferns and brackens."
"And white cottages?" asked Peggy, anxiously.
"There's cottages—I didn't think for to ask if they was all white. My! If we could but go there some fine day. Father says it's not so far; many's the time he's walked over there and back again the next morning when he first comed to work here, you see, miss, and his 'ome was still over there like."
"Yes, in the white cottage," said Peggy. She had made up her mind that it was unkind not to "let it be" that the Smileys' father had lived in that very cottage, for he did seem to be a nice man in spite of his bigness and his dingy workman's clothes. If he wasn't nice and kind she didn't think the children would talk of him as they did.