"SOAP-BUBBLING"
"And every colour see I there."The Rainbow,Charles Lamb.
Therewas no one upstairs. Miss Earnshaw had gone down to the kitchen to iron the seams of her work, without giving special thought to Peggy. If any one had asked her where the child was she would have probably answered that she was counting over her money in the night nursery. So she was rather surprised when coming upstairs again in a few minutes she was met by Peggy flying to meet her with the pipes in her hand.
"I've got them, Miss Earnshaw; aren't they beauties?" she cried. "And I don't think my frock's reely spoilt? It only just looks alittlefunny where the mud was."
"Bless me!" exclaimed the young dressmaker,"wherever have you been, Miss Peggy? No, your frock'll brush all right; but you don't mean to say you've been out in the rain? You should have asked me, my dear."
She spoke rather reproachfully; she was a little vexed with herself for not having looked after the child better, but Peggy was one of those quiet "old-fashioned" children, who never seem to need looking after.
"I did ask you," said Peggy, opening wide her eyes, "and you said, 'Very well, my dear.'"
Miss Earnshaw couldn't help smiling.
"I must have been thinking more of your new frock than of yourself," she said. "However, I hope it's done you no harm. Your stockings aren't wet?"
"Oh no," said Peggy; "my slippers were a weeny bit wet, so I've changed them. My frock wouldn't have been dirtied, only I felled in the wet, Miss Earnshaw, but Brown—one of the little girls, you know, that lives in the house where the shop is—picked me up, and there's no harm done, is there? And I've got the pipes, and won't my brothers be peleased," she chirruped on in her soft, cheery way.
Miss Earnshaw could not blame her, though shedetermined to be more on the look-out for the future. And soon after came twelve o'clock, and then the young dressmaker was obliged to go, bidding Peggy "Good-bye till Monday morning."
The boys came home wet and hungry, and grumbling a good deal at the rainy half-holiday. Peggy had hidden the six pipes in her little bed, but after dinner she made the three boys shut their eyes while she fetched them out and laid them in a row on the table. Then, "You may look now," she said; "it's my apprise," and she stood at one side to enjoy the sight of their pleasure.
"Hurrah," cried Terry, "pipes for soap-bubbles! Isn't it jolly? Isn't Peggy a brick?"
"Dear Peggy," said Baldwin, holding up his plump face for a kiss.
"Poor old Peg-top," said Thor, patronisingly. "They seem very good pipes; and as there's six of them, you and I can break one a-piece if we like, Terry, without its mattering."
Peggy looked rather anxious at this.
"Don't try to break them, Thor, pelease," she said; "for if you beginned breaking it might go on, and then it would be all spoilt like the last time, for there's no fun in soap-bubbling by turns."
"No, that's quite true," said Terry. "You remember the last time how stupid it was. But of course we won't break any, 'specially as they're yours, Peggy. We'll try and keep them good for another time."
"Did you spend all your pennies for them?" asked Baldwin, sympathisingly.
"Not quite all," said Peggy. "I choosed them myself," she went on, importantly. "There was a lot in a box."
"Why, where did you get them? You didn't go yourself to old Whelan's, surely?" asked Thor, sharply.
"Yes, I runned across the road," said Peggy. "You always get them there, Thor."
"But it's quite different. I can tell you mamma won't be very pleased when she comes home to hear you've been so disobedient."
Poor Peggy's face, so bright and happy, clouded over, and she seemed on the point of bursting into tears.
"I weren't disobedient," she began. "Miss Earnshaw said, 'Very well, dear,' and so I thought——"
"They were soon all four very happy at the pretty play...."
"Of course," interrupted Terry; "Peggy's never disobedient, Thor. We'll ask mamma when she comeshome; but she won't be vexed with you, darling. You won't need to go again before then."
"No," said Peggy, comforted, "I don't want to go again, Terry dear. It doesn't smell very nice in the shop. But thechildren'shouse is very clean, Terry. I'm sure mamma would let us gothere."
"Those Simpkinses over old Whelan's," said Terry. "Oh yes, I know mother goes there herself sometimes, though as for that she goes to old Whelan's too. But we're wasting time; let's ask Fanny for a tin basin and lots of soap."
They were soon all four very happy at the pretty play. The prettiness of it was what Peggy enjoyed the most; the boys, boy-like, thought little but of who could blow the biggest bubbles, which, as everybody knows, are seldom as rich in colour as smaller ones.
"I like the rainbowiest ones best," said Peggy. "I don't care for those 'normous ones Thor makes. Do you, Baldwin?"
Baldwin stopped to consider.
"I suppose very big things aren't never so pretty as littler things," he said at last, when a sort of grunt from Terry interrupted him. Terry could not speak, his cheeks were all puffed out round the pipe, and hedared not stop blowing. He could only grunt and nod his head sharply to catch their attention to the wonderful triumph in soap-bubbles floating before his nose. There was a big one, as big as any of Thorold's, and up on the top of it a lovely every-coloured wee one, the most brilliant the children had ever seen—a real rainbow ball.
They all clapped their hands, at least Peggy and Baldwin did so. Thorold shouted, "Hurrah for Terry's new invention. It's like a monkey riding on an elephant." But Peggy did not think that was a pretty idea.
"It's more like one of the very little stars sitting on the sun's knee," was her comparison, which Baldwin corrected to the moon—the sun was too yellow, he said, to be like a no-colour bubble.
Then they all set to work to try to make double-bubbles, and Thor actually managed to make three, one on the top of the other. And Terry made a very big one run ever so far along the carpet without breaking, bobbing and dancing along as he blew it ever so gently.
And as a finish-up they all four put their pipes into the basin and blew together, making what they called "bubble-pudding," till the pudding seemed toget angry and gurgled and wobbled itself up so high that it ended by toppling over, and coming to an untimely end as a little spot of soapy water on the table.
"Pride must have a fall, you see," said Thor.
"It's like the story of the frog that tried to be as big as an ox," said Terence, at which they all laughed as a very good joke.
Altogether Peggy's pipes turned out a great success, and the rainy afternoon passed very happily.
The Sunday that came after that Saturday was showery, sunny, and rainy by turns, like a child who having had a great fit of crying and sobbing can't get over it all at once, and keeps breaking into little bursts of tears again, long after the sorrow is all over. But by Monday morning the world—Peggy's world, that is to say—seemed to have quite recovered its spirits. The sun came out smiling with pleasure, and even the town birds, who know so little about trees, and grass, and flowers, and all those delightful things, hopped about and chirruped as nicely as could be. The boys set off to school in good spirits, and while Fanny was taking down the breakfast-things Peggy got out the little red shoes, and set them on the window-sill, where they had not been for several days.
"There, dear little red shoes," she said, softly, "you may look out again at the pretty sun and the sky, and the fairy cottage up on the mounting. You can see it quite plain to-day, dear little shoes. The clouds is all gone away, and it's shinin' out all white and beautiful, and I daresay the mamma's standin' at the door with the baby—or p'raps," Peggy was never very partial to the baby, "it's asleep in its cradle. Yes, I think that's it. And the hens and cocks and chickens is all pecking about, and the cows moo'in. Oh,howI do wish we could go and see them all, don't you, dear little shoes?"
She stood gazing up at the tiny white speck, to other eyes almost invisible, as if by much gazing it would grow nearer and clearer to her; there was a smile on her little face, sweet visions floated before Peggy's mind of a day, "some day," when mamma should take her out "to the country," to see for herself the lovely and delightful sights that same dear mamma had described.
Suddenly Fanny's voice brought her back to present things. Fanny was looking rather troubled.
"Miss Peggy, love," she said, "cook and I can't think what's making Miss Earnshaw so late this morning. She's always so sharp to her time. Idon't like leaving you alone, but I don't know what else to do. Monday's the orkardest day, for we're always so busy downstairs, and your papa was just saying this morning that I was to tell Miss Earnshaw to take you a nice long walk towards the country, seeing as it's so fine a day. It will be right down tiresome, it will, if she don't come."
"Never mind, Fanny," said Peggy. "I don't mind much being alone, and I daresay Miss Earnshaw will come. Ishouldlike to go a nice walk to-day," she could not help adding, with a longing glance out at the sunny sky.
"To be sure you would," said Fanny, "and it stands to reason as you won't be well if you don't get no fresh air. I hope to goodness the girl will come, but I doubt it—her mother's ill maybe, and she's no one to send. Well, dear, you'll try and amuse yourself, and I'll get on downstairs as fast as I can."
Peggy went back to the window and stood there for a minute or two, feeling rather sad. It did seem hard that things should go so very "contrarily" sometimes.
"Just when it's such a fine day," she thought, "Miss Earnshaw doesn't come. And on Saturday when wecouldn'thave goned a walk she did come.Only on Saturday it did rain very badly in the afternoon and she didn't stay, so that wasn't a pity."
Then her thoughts went wandering off to what the dressmaker had told her of having to go a long way out into the country on Saturday afternoon, and of how wet and muddy the lanes would be. Peggy sighed; shecouldn'tbelieve country lanes could ever be anything but delightful.
"Oh howverypretty they must be to-day," she said to herself, "with all the little flowers coming peeping out, and the birds singing, and the cocks and hens, and the cows, and—and——" she was becoming a little confused. Indeed she wasn'tquitesure what a "lane" really meant—she knew it was some kind of a way to walk along, but she had heard the word "path" too,—were "lane" and "path" quite the same? she wondered. And while she was wondering and gazing out of the window, she was startled all of a sudden by a soft, faint tap at the door. So soft and faint that if it had been at the window instead of at the door it might have been taken for the flap of a sparrow's wing as it flew past. Peggy stood quite still and listened; she heard nothing more, and was beginning to think it must have been her fancy,when again it came, and this time rather more loudly. "Tap, tap." Yes, "certingly," thought Peggy, "there's somebody there."
She felt a little, averylittle frightened.
Should she go to the door and peep out, or should she call "Come in"? she asked herself. And one or two of the "ogre" stories that Thorold and Terry were so fond of in their "Grimm's Tales,"wouldkeep coming into her head—stories of little princesses shut up alone, or of giants prowling about to find a nice tender child for supper. Peggy shivered. But after all what was the use of standing there fancying things? It was broad, sunny daylight—not at all the time for ogres or such-like to be abroad. Peggy began to laugh at her own silliness.
"Very likely," she thought, "it's Miss Earnshaw playing me a trick to 'apprise me, 'cos she's so late this morning."
This idea quite took away her fear.
"It's you, Miss Earnshaw, I'm quite sure it's you," she called out; "come in quick, you funny Miss Earnshaw. Come in."
But though the door slowly opened, no Miss Earnshaw appeared. Peggy began to think this was carrying fun too far.
"Why don't you come in quick?" she said, her voice beginning to tremble a little.
The door opened a little farther.
"Missy," said a low voice, a childish hesitating voice, quite different from Miss Earnshaw's quick bright way of speaking, "Missy, please, it's me, Sarah, please, miss."
And the door opened more widely, and in came, slowly and timidly still, a small figure well known to Peggy. It was none other than Light Smiley.
Peggy could hardly speak. She was so very much astonished.
"Light Smiley—Sarah, I mean," she exclaimed, "how did you come? Did you see Fanny? Did she tell you to come upstairs?"
Sarah shook her head.
"I don't know who Fanny is, missy. I just comed in of myself. The doors was both open, and I didn't meet nobody. I didn't like for to ring or knock. I thought mebbe your folk'd scold if I did—a gel like me. Mother knows I've comed; she said as how I'd better bring it myself."
And she held up what Peggy had not noticed that she was carrying—the big umbrella that had caused so much trouble two days before.
"The numbrella," cried Peggy. "Oh thank you, Sarah, for bringing it back. I never thought of it! How stupid it was of me."
"Mother told me for to bring it to the door and give it in," Sarah went on. "I didn't mean to come upstairs, but, the door was open, you see, miss, and I knowed your nussery was at the top, and—I 'ope it's not a liberty."
"No, no," said Peggy, her hospitable feelings awaking to see that her little visitor was still standing timidly in the doorway, "I'mveryglad you've comed. You don't know how glad I am. It's so lonely all by myself—Miss Earnshaw hasn't come this morning. Come in, Light Smiley, do come in. Oh how nice! I can show you the mountings and the little white cottage shining in the sun."
She drew Sarah forwards. But before the child looked out of the window, her eyes were caught by the tiny red slippers on the sill.
"Lor'," she said breathlessly, "what splendid shoes! Are they for—for your dolly, missy? They're too small for a baby, bain't they?"
"Oh yes," said Peggy, "they're too small for our baby, a great deal. But then he's very fat."
"They'd be too small for ours too, though she'snot a hextra fine child for her age. She were a very poor specimint for a good bit, mother says, but she's pickin' up now she's got some teeth through. My—but them shoes is neat, to be sure! They must be for a dolly."
"I'veno doll they'd do for," said Peggy, "but I like them just for theirselves.Ialways put them to stand there on a fine day; they like to look out of the window."
Sarah stared at Peggy as if she thought she was rather out of her mind!—indeed the children at the back had hinted to each other that missy, for all she was a real little lady, was very funny-like sometimes. But Peggy was quite unconscious of it.
"Lor'," said Sarah at last, "how can shoes see, they've no eyes, missy?"
"But you canfancythey have. Don't you ever play in your mind at fancying?" asked Peggy. "I think it's the nicest part of being alive, and mamma says it's no harm if we keep remembering it's not real. But never mind about that—do look at the hills, Sarah, and oh,canyou see the white speck shining in the sun?That'sthe cottage—I call it my cottage, butp'raps," rather unwillingly, "it's the one your papa lived in when he was little."
"D'ye really think so?" said Sarah, eagerly. "It's Brackenshire over there to be sure, and father's 'ome was up an 'ill—deary me, to think as it might be the very place. See it—to be sure I do, as plain as plain. It do seem a good bit off, but father he says it's no more'n a tidy walk. He's almost promised he'll take some on us there some fine day when he's an 'oliday. I axed 'im all I could think of—missy—all about the cocks and 'ens and cows and pigses."
"Not pigs," interrupted Peggy. "I don't like pigs, and I won't have them in my cottage."
"I wasn't a-talking of your cottage," said Sarah, humbly. "'Twas what father told us of all the things he seed in the country when he were a boy there. There's lots of pigses in Brackenshire."
"Never mind. We won't have any," persisted Peggy. "But oh, Light Smiley, do look how splendid the sky is—all blue and all so shiny. I never sawed such a lovely day. I would so like to go a walk."
"And why shouldn't you?" asked Sarah.
"There's no one to take me," sighed Peggy. "It's Monday, and Fanny's very busy on Mondays, and I told you that tiresome Miss Earnshaw's not comed."
Sarah considered a little.
"Tell you what, missy," she said, "why shouldn't we—you and me—go a walk? I'm sure mother'd let me. I've got my 'at, all 'andy, and I did say to mother if so as missy seed me I might stop a bit, and she were quite agreeable. I'm a deal older nor you, and I can take care of you nicely. Mother's training me for the nussery."
Peggy started up in delight. She had been half sitting on the window-sill, beside the shoes.
"Oh, Light Smiley," she said, "how lovely! Of course you could take care of me. We'd go up Fernley Road, straight up—that's the way to Brackenshire, you know, and p'raps we might go far enough to see the white cottage plainer. If it's not a very long way to get there, we'd be sure to see it much plainer if we walked a mile or two. A mile isn't very far. Oh, do let's go—quick! quick!"
But Sarah stopped her.
"You'd best tell your folks first, missy," she said. "They'll let you go and be glad of it, I should say, if they're so busy, and seein' as they let you come over to our 'ouse, and your mar knowin' us and all."
"It was Miss Earnshaw that let me go," said Peggy, "and then she said she didn't know I'd goned. And Thor said—oh no, he only said Ishouldn't have goned to the shop. But I'll ask Fanny—I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll put on my boots and my hat and jacket—you shall help me, Sarah, and then we'll go down and I'll call to Fanny from the top of the kitchen stairs and ask her if I may go out with you, Sarah, dear. I'm sure she'll say I may."
So the two little maidens went into the night nursery, where Light Smiley was greatly interested in looking at her own dwelling-place from other people's windows, and quite in her element too, seeing that she was being trained for the nursery, in getting out Peggy's walking things, buttoning her boots, and all the rest of it.
UP FERNLEY ROAD
"But the way is long and toilsome,And the road is drear and hard;Little heads and hearts are aching,Little feet with thorns are scarred."The Children's Journey.
Light Smileykept looking round the room with great satisfaction.
"It is nice in 'ere and no mistake," she said at last. "Your 'ats and coats and frocks all in a row, as neat as neat, and these little white beds a sight to be seen. I should love for Rebecca and Matilda-Jane to see it."
"They will," said Peggy, "when I avite you all to a tea-party, you know."
Sarah drew a deep breath. A tea-party in these beautiful nurseries seemed almost too good ever to come true.
"Is there a many nusseries as nice as this 'un, do you think, missy? I do 'ope as I'll get into a nice one when I'm big enough. One 'ud take a pride in keeping it clean and tidy."
"I don't think this is at all agrandone," Peggy replied. "Mamma's was much grander when she was little, I know. But, of course, she's very pertickler, and so's nurse, about it being very tidy."
And then, Peggy being ready, the quaint pair of friends took each other's hands and set off to the top of the kitchen stairs.
"Should we take the humberellar?" said Sarah, suddenly stopping at the foot of the first little flight of stairs. "I don't think it looks any ways like rain, still one never knows, and I can carry it easy."
In her heart she hoped Peggy would say yes. For to Sarah's eyes the clumsy umbrella was a very "genteel" one indeed, and she felt as if it would add distinction to their appearance.
Peggy, not looking at it from this point of view, hesitated.
"P'raps it would do to keep the sun off us," she said. "My parasol's wored out, so I can't take it. Mamma's going to get me a new one."
Sarah ran back and fetched the umbrella.
When they got to the door at the top of the kitchen stairs, Peggy opened it and called down softly, "Fanny, are you there? Can you hear me?" for she was not allowed to go down to the kitchen by herself.
But no one answered. Fanny was busy washing in the back kitchen with both doors shut to keep in the steam, and the cook had gone out to the butcher's.
"Fanny," called Peggy again.
Then a voice came at last in return.
"Is it anything I can tell the cook when she comes in, please, miss?" and a boy came forward out of the kitchen and stood at the foot of the steep stone stairs. "I'm the baker's boy, and I met cook and she told me to wait; she'd be back with change to pay the book in a minute. There's no one here."
Peggy turned to Sarah in distress.
"Fanny must be out too," she said.
"Well, it'll be all right if the boy 'ull tell her, won't it, missy? 'Tisn't the cook," she went on, speaking to the boy herself, "'tis t'other one. Jest you tell her when she comes in that miss has gone out a little walk with me—Sarah Simpkins—she'll know. I'll take good care of missy."
"All right," said the boy, with no doubt that so it was, and thinking, if he thought at all, that Sarah Simpkins must be a little nurse-girl, or something of the kind about the house, though certainly a small specimen to be in service! He whistled as he turned away, and something in the cheerful sound of his whistle helped to satisfy Peggy that allwasright!
"He's a nice boy," she said to Sarah. "He won't forget, will he?"
"Not he," Sarah replied. "He'll tell 'em fast enough. And as like as not we'll meet 'em along the street as we go. Is Webb's your butcher, missy—'tis just at the corner of Fernley Road?"
Peggy shook her head.
"I don't know," she said, feeling rather ashamed of her ignorance; "but I'd like to meet Fanny, so, pelease, let us go that way."
And off the two set, by the front door this time, quite easy in their minds though, as far as they knew, the baker's boy was the only guardian of the house.
They trotted down the street in the sunshine; it was very bright and fine—the air, even there in the smoky town, felt this morning deliciously fresh and spring-like.
"How nice it is," said Peggy, drawing a deep breath; "it's just like summer. I'd like to go a quite long walk, wouldn't you, Sarah?"
Light Smiley looked about her approvingly.
"Yes," she said, "I does enjoy a real fine day. And in the country it must be right-down fust-rate."
"Oh, the country!" said Peggy; "oh dear, how I do wish we could go as far as the country!"
"Well," said Sarah, "if we walk fast we might come within sight of it. There's nice trees and gardings up Fernley Road, and that's a sort of country, isn't it, missy?"
They were at the corner of the road by this time, but there was no sign of Fanny or cook. "Webb's" shop stood a little way down the other side, but as far as they could see it was empty.
"P'raps your folk don't deal there," said Sarah, to which Peggy had nothing to say, and they stood looking about them in an uncertain kind of way.
"We may as well go on a bit," said Sarah at last, "that there boy's sure to tell."
Peggy had no objection, and they set off along Fernley Road at a pretty brisk pace.
They had not very far to go before, as Sarah said, the road grew less town-like; the houses had littlegardens round them, some of which were prettily kept, and after a while they came to a field or two, not yet built upon, though great placards stuck up on posts told that they were waiting to be sold for that purpose. They were very towny sort of fields certainly, still the bright spring sunshine made the best of them as of everything else this morning, and the two children looked at them with pleasure.
"There's nicer fields still, a bit farther on," said Sarah. "I've been along this 'ere road several times. It goes on and on right into the country."
"I know," said Peggy, "it goes on into the country of the mountings. But, Sarah," she said, stopping short, and looking rather distressed, "I don't think we see them any plainer than from the nursery window, and the white cottage doesn't look even as plain. Are you sure we're going the right way?"
"We couldn't go wrong," answered Sarah, "there's no other way. But we've come no distance yet, missy, and you see there's ups and downs in the road that comes between us and the 'ills somehow. I suppose at the window we could see straight-forward-like, and then we was 'igher up."
"Yes, that must be it," said Peggy; "but I wouldlike to go far enough to see alittleplainer, Sarah, wouldn't you? I've got the red shoes in my pocket, you know, and when we come to a place where we can see very nice and clear I'll take them out and let them see too."
"Lor'," said Sarah, "youarefunny, missy."
But she smiled so good-naturedly that Peggy did not mind.
After a bit they came to a place where another road crossed the one they were on. This other road was planted with trees along one side, and the shade they cast looked cool and tempting.
"I wish we could go along that way," said Peggy, "but it would be the wrong way. It doesn't go on to the mountings."
Sarah did not answer for a minute. She was trying to spell out some letters that were painted up on the corner of a wall, which enclosed the garden of a house standing in the road they were looking down.
"'B, R, A,'" she began, "'B, R, A, C, K:' it's it, just look, missy. Bain't that Brackenshire as large as life? 'Brackenshire Road.' It must be this way," and she looked quite delighted.
"But how can it be?" objected Peggy. "Thisroaddoesn'tgo to the hills, Sarah. They're straight in front."
"But maybe it slopes round again after a bit," said Sarah. "Lots of roads does that way, and runs the same way really, though you wouldn't think so at the start. It stands to reason, when it's got the name painted up, it must lead Brackenshire way;" and then suddenly, as a man with a basket on his arm appeared coming out of one of the houses, she darted up to him.
"Please, mister, does this road lead to Brackenshire?" she asked.
The man did not look very good-natured.
"Lead to where?" he said, gruffly.
"To Brackenshire—it's painted up on the wall, but we want to be sure."
"If it's painted up on the wall, what's the sense of askin' me?" he said. "If you go far enough no doubt you'll get there. There's more'n one road to Brackenshire."
Sarah was quite satisfied.
"You see," she said to Peggy, running back to her, "it's all right. If we go along this 'ere road a bit, I 'specs it'll turn again and then we'll see the 'ills straight in front."
Peggy had no objection. Fernley Road was bare and glaring just about there, and the trees were very tempting.
"It's really getting like the country," said Peggy, as they passed several pretty gardens, larger and much prettier than the small ones in Fernley Road.
"Yes," Light Smiley agreed, "but though gardings is nice, I don't hold with gardings anything like as much as fields. Fieldsissplendid where you can race about and jump and do just as you like, and no fears of breakin' flowers or nothink."
"Do you think we shall come to fields like that soon?" said Peggy. "If there was a very nice one we might go into it p'raps and rest a little, and look at the mountings. I wish we could begin to see the mountings again, Sarah, it seems quite strange without them, and I'm getting rather tired of looking at gardens when we can't go inside them, aren't you?"
Sarah was feeling very contented and happy. She was, though a little body for her age, much stronger than Peggy, as well as two years older, and she looked at her companion with surprise when she began already to talk of "resting."
"Lor', missy, you bain't tired already," she wasbeginning, when she suddenly caught sight of something which made her interrupt herself. This was another road crossing the one they were on at right angles, and running therefore in the same direction as Fernley Road again. "'Ere's our way," she cried, "now didn't I tell you so? And this way goes slopin' up a bit, you see. When we get to the top we'll see the 'ills straight 'afore us, and 'ave a beeyutiful view."
Peggy's rather flagging steps grew brisker at this, and the two ran gaily along the new road for a little way. But running uphill is tiring, and it seemed to take them a long time to get to the top of the slope, and when they did so, it was only to be disappointed. Neither mountains nor hills nor white cottage were to be seen, only before them a rather narrow sort of lane, sloping downwards now and seeming to lead into some rather rough waste ground, where it ended. Peggy's face grew rather doleful, but Sarah was quite equal to the occasion. A little down the hill she spied a stile, over which she persuaded Peggy to climb. They found themselves in a potato field, but a potato field with a path down the middle; it was a large field and at the other end of the path was a gate, opening on toa cart track scarcely worthy the name of a lane. The children followed it, however, till another stile tempted them again, this time into a little wood, where they got rather torn and scratched by brambles and nettles as they could not easily find a path, and Sarah fancied by forcing their way through the bushes they would be sure to come out on to the road again.
It was not, however, till they had wandered backwards among the trees and brambles for some time that they got on to a real path, and they had to walk a good way along this till they at last came on another gate, this time sure enough opening into the high road.
Sarah's spirits recovered at once.
"'Ere we are," she said cheerfully, "all right. 'Ere's Fernley Road again. Nothink to do but to turn round and go 'ome if you're tired, missy.I'mnot tired, but if you'd rayther go no farther——"
Peggy did not answer for a moment; she was staring about her on all sides. The prospect was not a very inviting one; the road was bare and ugly, dreadfully dusty, and there was no shade anywhere, and at a little distance some great tall chimneys were to be seen, the chimneys of some iron-works,from which smoke poured forth. There were a good many little houses near the tall chimneys, they were the houses of the people who worked there, but they were not sweet little cottages such as Peggy dreamed of. Indeed they looked more like a very small ugly town, than like rows of cottages on a country road.
"This isn't a pretty road at all," said Peggy at last, rather crossly I am afraid, "it is very nugly, and you shouldn't have brought me here, Sarah. I can't see the mountings; they is quite goned away, more goned away than when it rains, for then they're only behind the clouds. This isn't Fernley Road, Light Smiley. I do believe you've losted us, and Peggy's so tired, and very, very un'appy."
It was Peggy's way when she grew low-spirited to speak more babyishly than usual; at such times it was too much trouble to think about being a big girl. Poor Sarah looked dreadfully distressed.
"Oh, missy dear, don't cry," she said. "If it bain't Fernley Road, it'saroad any way, and there's no call to be frightened. We can ax our way, but I'd rayther not ax it at the cottages, for they might think I was a tramp that'd stoled you away."
"And what would they do then?" asked Peggy, leaving off crying for a minute.
"They'd 'av me up mebbe, and put us in the lock-ups."
"What's that?"
"The place where the pl'ice leaves folk as they isn't sure about."
"Prison, do you mean?" said Peggy, growing very pale.
"Well, not ezackly, but somethin' like."
Peggy caught hold of Sarah in sudden terror.
"Oh come along, Light Smiley, quick, quick. Let's get back into the fields and hide or anything. Oh come quick, for fear they should catch us." And she tugged at Sarah, trying to drag her along the road.
"Stop, missy, don't take on so; there's no need. We'll just go along quietly and no one'll notice us, only you stop crying, and then no one'll think any 'arm. We'll not go back the way we came, it's so drefful thorny, but we'll look out for another road or a path. I 'spects you're right enough—this 'ere bain't Fernley Road."
Peggy swallowed down her sobs.
"I don't think you look quite big enough to have stolened me, Sarah," she said at last. "But I would like to get back into the fields quick. If only wecould see the mountings again, I wouldn't be quite so frightened."
They had not gone far before they came upon a gateway and a path leading through a field where there seemed no difficulties. Crossing it they found themselves at the edge of the thorny wood, which they skirted for some way. Peggy's energy, born of fear, began to fail.
"Sarah," she said at last, bursting into fresh tears, "Peggy can't go no farther, and I'm so hungry too. I'm sure it's long past dinner-time. You must sit down and rest; p'raps if I rested a little, I wouldn't feel so very un'appy."
"And at last, though she was really so anxious and distressed....
Sarah looked at her almost in despair. She herself was worried and vexed, very afraid too of the scolding which certainly awaited her at home, but she was not tired nor dispirited, though very sorry for Peggy, and quite aware that it was she and not "missy" who was to blame for this unlucky expedition.
"I'd like to get on," she said, "we're sure to gets back into a road as'll take us 'ome before long. Couldn't I carry you, missy?"
"No," said Peggy, "you're far too little. And I can't walk any more without resting. You're veryunkind, Light Smiley, and I wish I'd never seen you."
Poor Sarah bore this bitter reproach in silence.
She looked about for a comfortable seat in the hedge, and settled herself so that Peggy could rest against her. The sunshine, though it had seemed hot and glaring on the bare dusty road was not really very powerful, for it was only late April, though a very summerlike day. Peggy left off crying and said no more, but leant contentedly enough against Sarah.
"I'm comf'able now," she said, closing her eyes. "Thank you, Light Smiley. I'll soon be rested, and then we'll go on."
But in a moment or two, by the way she breathed, Sarah saw that she had fallen asleep.
"Bless us," thought the little guardian to herself, "she may sleep for hours. Whatever 'ull I do? She's that tired—and when she wakes she'll be that 'ungry, there'll be no getting her along. She'll be quite faint-like. If I dared leave her, I'd run on till I found the road and got somebody to 'elp carry her. But I dursn't. If she woked up and me gone, she'd be runnin' who knows where, and mebbe never be found again. Poor missy—it'll be lock-ups andno mistake, wusser I dessay for me, and quite right too. Mother'll never say I'm fit for a nussery after makin' sich a fool of myself."
And in spite of her courage, the tears began to trickle down Sarah's face. Peggy looked so white and tiny, lying there almost in her arms, that it made her heart ache to see her. So she shut her own eyes and tried to think what to do. And the thinking grew gradually confused and mixed up with all sorts of other thinkings. Sarah fancied she heard her mother calling her, and she tried to answer, but somehow the words would not come.
And at last, though she was really so anxious and distressed, the quiet and the mild air, and the idleness perhaps, to which none of the Simpkins family were much accustomed, all joined together and by degrees hushed poor Light Smiley to sleep, her arms clasped round Peggy as if to protect her from any possible danger.
It would have been a touching picture, had there been any one there to see. Unluckily, not merely for the sake of the picture, but for that of the children themselves, there was no one.
THE SHOES-LADY AGAIN
"I'll love you through the happy years,Till I'm a nice old lady."Poems written for a Child.
Whenthey woke, both of them at the same moment it seemed, though probably one had roused the other without knowing it, the sun had gone, the sky looked dull, it felt chilly and strange. Peggy had thought it must be past dinner-time before they had sat down to rest; it seemed now as if it must be past tea-time too!
Sarah started up, Peggy feebly clinging to her.
"Oh dear, dear," said Sarah, "I shouldn't have gone to sleep, and it's got that cold!" She was shivering herself, but Peggy seemed much the worse of the two. She was white and pinched looking, and as if she were half stupefied.
"I'm so cold," she said, "and so hungry. I thought I was in bed at home. I do so want to go home. I'm sure it's very late, Light Smiley; do take me home."
"I'm sure, missy, it's what I want to do," said poor Sarah. "I'm afeared it's a-going to rain, and whatever 'ull we do then? You wouldn't wait 'ere a minute, would you, while I run to see if there's a road near?"
"No, no," said Peggy, "I won't stay alone. I'm very, very frightened, Light Smiley, and I think I'm going to die."
"Oh Lor', missy, don't you say that," said Sarah, in terror. "If you can't walk I'll carry you."
"I'll try to walk," said Peggy, picking up some spirit when she saw Sarah's white face.
And then the two set off again, dazed and miserable, very different from the bright little pair that had started up Fernley Road that morning.
Things, however, having got to the worst, began to mend, or at least were beginning to mend for them, though Peggy and Sarah did not just yet know it. Not far from the edge of the field where they were, a little bridle-path led into a lane, and afew yards down this lane brought them out upon Fernley Road again at last.
"I see the mountings," cried Peggy, "oh, Light Smiley, Peggy sees the mountings. P'raps we won't die, oh p'raps we'll get home safe again."
But though she had been trying to be brave, now that she began to hope again, it was too much for her poor little nerves—Peggy burst into loud sobbing.
"Oh, dear missy, try not to cry," said Sarah. "There—there—where's your hankercher?" and she dived into Peggy's pocket in search of it. And as she pulled it out, out tumbled at the same time the two little scarlet shoes, falling on the ground.
"Oh Light Smiley, my red shoes. They'll be all spoilt and dirtied," said Peggy, as well as she could, for Sarah was dabbing the handkerchief all over her face.
Sarah stooped to pick them up; both children were too much engaged to notice the sound of wheels coming quickly along the quiet road. But the sight of a speck of dirt on one of the shoes set Peggy off crying again, and she cried for once pretty loudly. The wheels came nearer, and then stopped, and this made Sarah look round. A pony-carriage driven bya lady had drawn up just beside them. The groom, sitting behind, jumped down, though looking as if he did not know what he was to do.
"What is the matter, little girls?" said the lady.
"It's, please'm—we've lost our road—it's all along o' me, mum—but I didn't mean no 'arm, only missy's that wore out'm, and——" but before Sarah could get farther, she was stopped by a sort of cry from both the lady and Peggy at once.
"Oh, oh," called out Peggy, "it's the shoes-lady—oh, pelease, pelease, take me home," and she seemed ready to dart into the lady's arms.
"I do believe,"shesaid, "I do believe it's the little girl I saw at the bootmaker's, and—yes, of course it is—there are the shoes themselves! My dear child, whatever are you doing to be so far from home—at least I suppose you live in the town?—and what have you got the dolly's shoes with you for?"
"I brought them for them to see the mountings and the white cottage," sobbed Peggy; "but I'm so cold and hungry, pelease take me home, oh, pelease, do."
The lady seemed rather troubled. Even if she had not remembered Peggy, she would have seen ina moment that she was a little lady, though Peggy looked miserable enough with her torn clothes, and scratched and tear-stained face.
"Poor child," she said, "tell me your name, and where you live."
"I'm Peggy, but I don't 'amember my nother name, 'cos I'm tired and it's very long," she said.
The lady looked at Sarah. Sarah shook her head.
"No, mum, I don't know it neither, but I knows the name of the street. 'Tis Bernard Street'm—off Fernley Road, and their back winders looks over to us. We're Simpkinses'm, and missy's mar knows as we're 'speckable, and mother she never thought when she told me to take back the humberellar, as I'd lead missy sich a dance. I'll never do for the nussery, no never. I'm not steady enough," and here Light Smiley gave signs of crying herself.
It was not easy for the lady to make out the story, but by degrees, with patience she did so. But while talking she had lifted Peggy into the carriage beside her, and wrapped her up in a shawl that lay on the seat, Peggy nestling in, quite contentedly.
"Now," said the lady, "you get in too, Sarah Simpkins, and I'll drive you both home. I was onmy way home out into the country, but I can't leave you here on the road. This is Fernley Road, but it's quite four miles from the town."
In scrambled Sarah, divided between fear of her own and Peggy's relations' scoldings when they got home, and the delight and honour of driving in a carriage! The groom would have liked to look grumpy, I am quite sure, but he dared not. Peggy, for her part, crept closer and closer to the lady, and ended by falling asleep again, so that it was a good thing Light Smiley was sitting on the other side, to keep her from falling out.
The four miles seemed very short to Sarah, and as they got into the outskirts of the town her face grew longer and longer.
"I'm more'n half a mind to run away, I 'ave," she said to herself, quite unaware she was speaking aloud. "It'll be more'n I can stand, mother and Rebecca and all on 'em down on me, for I didn't mean no 'arm. I'd best run away."
The lady turned to her, hitherto she had not taken much notice of Sarah, but now she felt sorry for the little girl.
"What are you saying, my dear?" she said gently, though all the same her voice made Sarahjump. "Are you afraid of going home? You have not done anything naughty, exactly, as far as I understand. It was only thoughtless. I will go with you to your home if you like, and explain to your mother how it was."
"Oh thank you, mum," said Sarah, eagerly, her spirits rising again at once; "you see, mum, I do so want to be in the nussery onst I'm big enough, and I was so afeared mother'd never think of it again. I only wanted to please little missy, for she seemed so lonely like, her mar and all bein' away and no one for to take her a walk. She's a sweet little missy, she is, but she's only a baby, so to say; she do have such funny fancies. 'Twas all to see the cottage on the 'ills she wanted to come up Fernley Road so badly."
"The cottage—what cottage?" asked the lady.
Sarah tried to explain, and gradually the lady got to understand what little Peggy had meant about bringing the red shoes "to see the mountings and the cottage."
"She's always a-talking of the country, and father lived there when he was a boy, and missy had got it in her 'ead that he lived in a white cottage, like the one she fancies about," Sarah went on.
"I would like to take her out into the real country, poor little pet," said the lady, looking tenderly at the sweet tiny face of the sleeping child. She loved all children, but little girls of Peggy's age were especially dear to her, for many years before she had had a younger sister who had died, and the thought of her had come into her mind the first time she had seen Peggy at the door of the shoe shop. "If I can see any of her friends I will ask them to let her spend a day with me," she went on, speaking more to herself than to Sarah.
As they turned into Bernard Street a cab dashed past them coming very fast from the opposite direction. It drew up in front of the house which Sarah was just that moment pointing out to the lady as Peggy's home, and a gentleman, followed by a young woman, sprang out. The door was opened almost as soon as they rang, and then the three, the other servant who had answered the bell, the young woman and the gentleman, all stood together on the steps talking so anxiously and eagerly that for a moment or two they did not notice the pony-carriage, and though the groom knew the whole story by this time and had jumped down at once, hewas far too proper to do anything till he had his lady's orders.
"Ask the gentleman to speak to me," said the lady, "and you jump out, little Sarah. I think he must be Peggy's father."
He had turned round by this time and came hurrying forward. The moment the lady saw him she knew she had guessed right. He was so like Peggy—fair and gray-eyed, and with the same gentle expression, and very young looking to be the father not only of Peggy, but ofbiglittle boys like Thor and Terry. His face looked pale and anxious, but the moment he caught sight of the little sleeping figure leaning against the lady it all lighted up and a red flush came into his cheeks.
"Oh—thank God," he exclaimed, "my little Peggy! You have found her! How good of you! But—she is not hurt?—she is all right?"
"Yes—yes—only cold and hungry and tired," said the lady eagerly, for Peggy did look rather miserable still. "Will you lift her out?" and as he did so, she got out herself, and turned to Sarah. "May I bring this other child in for a moment," she said, "and then I can explain it all?"
Sarah followed gladly, but a sudden thoughtstruck her, "Please'm," she said, bravely, though the tears came to her eyes as she spoke, "p'raps I'd best run 'ome; mother'll be frightened about me."
"But I promised you should not be scolded," said the lady; "stay," and she turned to Fanny, "she lives close to, she says."
"At the back—over the cobbler's," said Sarah, readily.
"Can you let her mother know she's all right, then? And say I am coming to speak to her in a moment," said the lady, and Fanny went off. She had been so terrified about Peggy, and so afraid that she would be blamed for carelessness, that she dared not wait, though she was dying with curiosity to know the whole story and what one of the Simpkins children could have had to do with it.
Peggy awoke by the time her father had got her into the dining-room, where cook had made a good fire and laid out Peggy's dinner and tea in one to be all ready, for the poor woman had been hoping every instant for the last few hours that the little girl would be brought home again. It had been difficult to find Peggy's father, as he was not at his office, and Fanny had been there two or three times to fetch him.
"Oh dear papa," were Peggy's first words, "I'm so glad to be home. I'll never go up Fernley Road again; but I did so want to see the cottage and the mountings plainer. And it wasn't Light Smiley's fault. She was very good to me, and I was very cross."
This did not much clear up matters. Indeed Peggy's papa was afraid for a minute or two that his little girl was going to have a fever, and that her mind was wandering. But all such fears were soon set at rest, and when the lady went off with Sarah, she left Peggy setting to work very happily at her dinner or tea, she was not sure which to call it.
"And you will let her come to spend the day with me to-morrow?" said the lady, as she shook hands with Peggy's father. "I shall be driving this way, and I can call for her. I should not be happy not to know that she was none the worse for her adventures to-day."
Then the lady took Sarah by the hand and went round with her to her home in the back street, telling the groom to wait for her at the corner.
It was well she went herself, for otherwise I am afraid poor Light Smiley would not have escaped the scolding she dreaded. Her mother and sistershad been very unhappy and frightened about her, and when people—especially poor mothers like Mrs. Simpkins, with "so many children that they don't know what to do"—are anxious and frightened, I have often noticed that it makes them very cross.
As it was, however, the lady managed to smoothe it all down, and before she left she got not only Sarah's mother, but Rebecca and Mary-Hann and all of them to promise to say no more about it.
"'Tisn't only for myself I was feelin' so put about, you see, ma'am," said Mrs. Simpkins, "but when I sent over the way and found the little missy was not to be found it flashed upon me like a lightenin' streak—it did that, ma'am—that the two was off together. And if any 'arm had come to the little lady through one of mine, so to say, it would 'ave gone nigh to break my 'art. For their mar is a sweet lady—a real feelin' lady is their mar."
"And a kind friend to you, I daresay," said the stranger.
"Couldn't be a kinder as far as friendly words and old clotheses goes," said Mrs. Simpkins. "But she's a large little fam'ly of her own, and not so very strong in 'ealth, and plenty to do with their money. And so to speak strangers in the place, though she'ave said she'd do her best to get a place in a nice fam'ly for one of my girls."
The lady glanced at the group of sisters.
"Yes," she said, "I should think you could spare one or two. How would you like to be in a kitchen?" she added, turning to Rebecca.
The girl blushed so that her face matched her arms, and she looked more "reddy" than ever. But she shook her head.
"I'm afraid——" she began.
"No, ma'am, thank you kindly, but I couldn't spare Rebecca," the mother interrupted. "If it were for Mary-Hann now—Matilda-Jane's coming on and could take her place. Only, for I couldn't deceive you, ma'am, she's rather deaf."
"I shouldn't mind that," said the lady, who was pleased by Mary-Ann's bright eyes and pleasant face. "I think deaf people sometimes work better than quick-hearing ones, besides, it may perhaps be cured. I will speak about her to my housekeeper and let you know. And you, Sarah, you are to be in the nursery some day."
Sarah grinned with delight.
"Not just yet," said Mrs. Simpkins; "she 'ave a deal to learn, 'ave Sarah. Schooling and stiddinessto begin with. She don't mean no 'arm, I'll allow."
"No; I'm sure she wants to be a very good girl," said the lady. "She was very kind and gentle to little Miss Peggy. So I won't forget you either, Sarah, when the time comes."
And then the lady said good-bye to them all, and Mrs. Simpkins's heart felt lighter than for long, for she was sure that through this new friend she might get the start in life she had been hoping for, for her many daughters.
Peggy slept off her fatigue, and by the next morning she was quite bright again and able to listen to and understand papa's explanation of how, though without meaning to be disobedient, she had done wrong the day before in setting off with Sarah Simpkins as she had done. Two or three tears rolled slowly down her cheeks as she heard what he said.
"I meant to be so good while mamma was away," she whispered. "But I'll never do it again, papa. I'll stay quiet in the nursery all alone, even if Miss Earnshaw doesn't come back at all."
For a message had come from the dressmaker that her mother was very ill, as Fanny had feared,and that she was afraid she would not be able to leave her for several days.
"It won't be so bad as that, dear," said her father. "Mamma will be back in five days now, and I don't think you are likely to be left alone in the nursery—certainly not to-day;" and then he told her about the lady having asked her to spend the day out in the country with her, and that Peggy must be ready by twelve o'clock, not to keep her new friend waiting.
Peggy's eyes gleamed with delight.
"Out into the country?" she said. "Oh, how lovely! And oh, papa, do you thinkp'rapsshe lives in a white cottage?"
Papa shook his head.
"I'm afraid it's not a cottage at all where she lives," he said. "But I'm sure it is a very pretty house, and let us hope it is a white one."
"No," said Peggy, "you don't understand, papa—not as well as mamma does. I don't care what colour it is if it's only an 'ouse."
And she couldn't understand why papa laughed so that he really couldn't correct her. "I'm afraid, Peggy," he said, "you've been taking lessons from little Miss Simpkins. It's time mamma came home again to look after you."
"Yes, I wish mamma was come home again," said Peggy. "We can't do without her, can we, papa?"
But when the dear little pony carriage came up to the door, and Peggy got in and drove off with her kind friend, she was so happy that she had not even time to wish for mamma.
And what a delightful day she had! The lady's house was very pretty, and the gardens and woods in which it stood even prettier in Peggy's opinion. And though it was not a cottage, there were all the country things to see which Peggy was so fond of—cocks and hens, and cows, and in one field lots of sheep and sweet little lambkins. There were pigs too, which Peggy would not look at, but ran away to the other end of the yard as soon as she heard them "grumphing," which amused the lady very much. And in the afternoon she went a walk with her friend through the village, where there were several pretty cottages, but none that quite fitted Peggy's fancy. When they came in again Peggy stood at the drawing-room window, which looked out towards Brackenshire, without speaking.
"You like that view, don't you, dear?" said the lady. "You can see the hills?"
"Yes," said Peggy, "I can see the mountings, but not the white cottage. It's got turned wrong somehow, from here. I can only seeitfrom the nursery window at home," and she gave a very little sigh.
"Some day," said the lady, "some day in the summer when the afternoons are very long, I will drive you right out a long way among the hills, and perhaps we'll find the cottage then. For I hope your mamma will often let you come to see me, my little Peggy."
"Yes," said Peggy, "that would be lovely. Iwonderif we'd find the white cottage."
No, they never did! The sweet long summer days came, and many a bright and happy one Peggy spent with her kind friend, but they never found the white cottage on the hill. Peggy knew it so well in her mind, she felt she could not mistake it, but though she saw many white cottages which any one elsemighthave thought was it, she knew better. And each time, though she sighed a little, she hoped again.
But before another summer came round Peggy and her father and mother, and Thor, and Terry, and Hal, and Baldwin, and Baby had all gone away—far away to the south, many hours' journey from thedingy town and the Fernley Road, and the queer old house in the back street where lived the cobbler and old Mother Whelan and Brown Smiley and Light Smiley and all the rest of them. Far away too from the hills and the strange white speck in the distance which Peggy called her cottage.
So it never was more than a dream to her after all, and perhaps—perhaps it was best so? For nothing has ever spoilt the sweetness and the mystery of the childish fancy—she can see it with her mind's eye still—the soft white speck on the far-away, blue hills—she can see it and think of it and make fancies about it even now—now that she has climbed a long, long way up the mountain of life, and will soon be creeping slowly down the other side, where the sun still shines, however, and there are even more beautiful things to hope for than the sweetest dreams of childhood.