I slepton rather later than usual next morning. I suppose I really was tired. And when I began to awake, and gradually remembered all that had happened the night before, I heartily wished I hadn't promised Peterkin to snort at all.
I took care not to open my eyes for a good bit, but I couldn't carry on humbugging that I was still asleep for very long. Something made me open my eyes, and as soon as I did so I knew what it was. There was Pete—bolt upright—as wide awake as if he had never been asleep, staring at me with all his might, his eyes as round and blue as could be. You know the feeling that some one is looking at you, even when you don't see them. I had not given one snort, and I could not help feeling rather cross with Peterkin, even when he exclaimed—
'Oh, I am so glad you're awake!'
'You've been staring me awake,' I said, very grumpily. 'I'd like to know who could go on sleeping with you wishing them awake?'
'I'm very sorry if you wanted to go on sleeping,' he replied meekly. He did not seem at all surprised at my saying he had wakened me. He used to understand rather queer things like that so quickly, though we counted him stupid in some ways.
'But as I am awake you can start talking,' I said, closing my eyes again, and preparing to listen.
Pete was quite ready to obey.
'Well,' he began, 'it was this way. Mamma didn't want me to be late for tea, so she stopped at the end of that big street—a little farther away than Lindsay Square, you know——'
'Yes, Meredith Place,' I grunted.
'And,' Pete went on, 'told me to run home. It's quite straight, if you keep to the front, of course.'
'And you did run straight home, didn't you?' I said teasingly.
'No,' he replied seriously, but not at all offended. 'When I got to the corner of the squareI looked up it, and I remembered that it led to the funny little houses where Clem and I had seen the parrot. So, almost without settling it in my mind, I ran along that side of the square till I came to Rock Terrace. I ranveryfast——'
'I wish I'd been there to see you,' I grunted again.
'And I thought if I kept round by the back, I'd get out again to the front nearly as soon—running all the way, you see, to make up. And I'd scarcely got to the little houses when I heard the parrot. His cage was out on the balcony, you know. And it is very quiet there—scarcely any carts or carriages passing—and it was getting dark, and I think you hear things plainer in the dark; don't you think so, Gilley?'
I did not answer, so he went on.
'I heard the parrot some way off. His voice is so queer, you know. And when I got nearer I could tell every word he said. He kept on every now and then talking for himself—real talking—"Getting cold. Polly wants to go to bed. Quick, quick." And then he'd stop for a minute, as if he was listening and heard something I couldn't.Thatwas the strange part that makes me think perhaps he isn't really aparrot at all, Giles,' and here Pete dropped his voice and looked very mysterious. I had opened my eyes for good now; it was getting exciting.
'What did he say?' I asked.
'What you and Clement heard, and a lot more,' Peterkin replied. 'Over and over again the same—"I'm so tired, Nana, I won't be good, no I won't."'
'Yes, that's what we heard,' I said, 'but what was the lot more?'
'Oh, perhaps there wasn't soverymuch more,' said he, consideringly. 'There was something about "I won't be locked up," and "I'll write a letter," and then again and again, "I won't be good, I'm so tired." That was what you and Clement heard, wasn't it?'
'Yes,' I said.
'And one funny thing about it was that his voice, the parrot's, sounded quite different when he was talking his own talking, do you see?—like "Pretty Poll is cold, wants to go to bed"—from when he was copying the little girl's. It was always croaky, of course, butsqueakier, somehow, when he was copying her.'
Peterkin sat up still straighter and looked at me, evidently waiting for my opinion about it all. I was really very interested, but I wanted first to hear all he had in his head, so I did not at once answer.
'Isn't it very queer?' he said at last.
'What do you think about it?' I asked.
He drew a little nearer me and spoke in a lower voice, though there was no possibility of any one ever hearing what he said.
'P'raps,' he began, 'it isn'tonlya parrot, or p'raps some fairy makes it say these things. The little girl might be shut up, you see, like the princess in the tower, by somebadfairy, and there might be agoodone who wanted to help her to get out. I wonder if they ever do invite fairies to christenings now, and forget some of them,' he went on, knitting his brows, 'or not ask them, because they are bad fairies? I can't remember about Elf's christening feast; can you, Gilley?'
'I can remember hers, and yours too, for that matter,' I replied. 'You forget how much older I am. But of course it's not like that now. There are no fairies to invite, as I've often told you, Pete. At least,' for, in spite of my love of teasing, I never liked to see the look of distress that came over his chubby face when any one talked that sort of common sense to him, 'at least, people have got out of the way of seeing them or getting into fairy-land.'
'But wemightfind it again,' said Peterkin, brightening up.
And I didn't like to disappoint him by saying I could not see much chance of it.
Then another idea struck me.
'How about Mrs. Wylie?' I said. 'Didn't she explain it at all? You told her what you had heard, didn't you? Yes, of course, she heard some of it herself, when we were all three standing at the door of her house.'
'Well,' said Peterkin, 'I was going to tell you the rest. I was listening to the parrot, and it was much plainer thanyouheard, Gilley, for when you were there you only heard him from down below, and I was up near him—well, I was just standing there listening to him, when that old lady came up.'
'I know all about that,' I interrupted.
'No, you don't, not nearly all,' Peterkin persisted. He could be as obstinate as a little pig sometimes, so I said nothing. 'I was just standing there when she came up. She looked at me, and then she went in at her own gate, next door to the parrot's, you know, and then she looked at me again, and spoke over the railings. She said, "Are you talking to the parrot, my dear?" and I said, "No, I'm only listeningto him, thank you"; and then she looked at me again, and she said, "You don't live in this terrace, I think?" And I said, "No, I live on the Esplanade, number 59." Then she pulled out her spectacles—long things, you know, at the end of a turtle-shell stick.'
'Tortoise-shell,' I corrected.
'Tortoise-shell,' he repeated, 'and then she looked at me again. "If you live at 59," she said, "I think you must be one of dear Mrs. Lesley's little sons," and I said, "That's just what I am, thank you." And then she said, "Won't you come in for a few minutes? You can see the Polly from my balcony, and it is getting cold for standing about. Are you on your way home from school?" So I thought it wouldn't be polite not to go in. She was so kind, you see,' and here his voice grew 'cryey' again, 'I never thought about mamma being flightened, and I only meant to stay a min——'
'Shut up about all that,' I interrupted. 'We've had it often enough, and I want to hear what happened.'
'Well,' he said, quite briskly again, 'she took me in, and up to her drawing-room. The window was a tiny bit open, and she made me stand just on the ledge between it and the balcony, so that I could seethe parrot without his seeing me, for she said if he saw me he'd set up screeching and not talk sense any more. He knows when people are strangers. The cage was close to the old lady's end of the balcony, so that I could almost have touched it, and then I heard him say all those queer things. I didn't speak for a good while, for fear of stopping him talking. But after a bit he got fidgety; I daresay he knew there was somebody there, and then he flopped about and went back to his own talking, and said he was cold and wanted to go to bed, and all that. And somebody inside heard him and took him in. And then—' Pete stopped to rest his voice, I suppose. He was always rather fond of resting, whatever he was doing.
'Hurry up,' I said. 'What happened after that?'
'The old lady said I'd better come in, and she shut up the window—I suppose she felt cold, like the parrot—and she made me sit down; and then I asked her what made him say such queer things in his squeakiest voice; and she said he was copying what he heard, for there was a little girl in thenexthouse—not in his own house—who cried sometimes and seemed very cross and unhappy, so that Mrs.Wylie often is very sorry for her, though she has never really seen her. And I said, did she think anybody was unkind to the little girl, and she said she hoped not, but she didn't know. And then she seemed as if she didn't want to talk about the little girl very much, and she began to ask me about if I went to school and things like that, and then I said I'd better go home, and she came downstairs with me and—I think that's all, till you and Clement came and we all heard the parrot again.'
'I wonder what started him copying the little girl again, after he'd left off,' I said.
'P'raps he hears her through the wall,' said Pete. 'P'raps he hears quicker than people do. Yes,' he went on thoughtfully, 'I think he must, for the old lady has never heard exactly what the little girl said. She only heard her crying and grumbling. She told me so.'
'I daresay she's just a cross little thing,' I said. 'And I think it was rather silly of Mrs. Wylie to let you hear the parrot copying her. It's a very bad example. And you said Mrs. Wylie seemed as if she didn't want to talk much about her.'
'I think she's got some plan in her head,' said Peterkin, eagerly, 'for she said—oh, I forgot that—shesaid she was going to come to see mamma some day very soon, to ask her to let me go to have tea with her. And I daresay she'll ask you too, Gilley, if we both go down to the drawing-room when she comes.'
'I hope it'll be a half-holiday, then,' I said, 'or, anyway, that she will come when I'm here. It is very funny about the crying little girl. Has she been there a long time? Did your old lady tell you that?'
Peterkin shook his head.
'Oh no, she's only been there since Mrs. Wylie came back from the country. She told me so.'
'And when was that?' I asked, but Pete did not know. He was sometimes very stupid, in spite of his quickness and fancies. 'It's been long enough for the parrot to learn to copy her grumbling,' I added.
'That wouldn't take him long,' said Peterkin, in his whispering voice again, 'ifhe's some sort of a fairy, you know, Gilley.'
This time, perhaps, it was a good thing he spoke in a low voice, for at that moment nurse came in to wake us, or rather to make us get up, as we were nearly always awake already, and if she had heardthe word 'fairy,' she would have begun about Peterkin's 'fancies' again.
Some days passed without our hearing anything of the parrot or the old lady or Rock Terrace. We did not exactly forget about it; indeed, it was what we talked about every morning when we awoke. But I did not think much about it during the day, although I daresay Pete did.
So it was quite a surprise to me one afternoon, about a week after the evening of all the fuss, when, the very moment I had rung the front bell, the door was opened by Pete himself, looking very important.
'She's come,' he said. 'I've been watching for you. She's in the drawing-room with mamma, and mamma told me to fetch you as soon as you came back from school. Is Clem there?'
'No,' I said, 'it's one of the days he stays later than me, you know.'
Peterkin did not seem very sorry.
'Then she's come just to invite you and me,' he said. 'Clementistoo big, but she might have asked him too, out of polititude, you know.'
He was always fussing about being polite, but I don't think I answered her in that way.
'Bother,' I said, for I was cross; my books wereheavier than usual, and I banged them down; 'bother your politeness. Can't you tell me what you're talking about? Who is "she" that's in the drawing-room? I don't want to go up to see her, whoever she is.'
'Giles!' said Peterkin, in a very disappointed tone. 'You can't have forgotten. It's the old lady next door to the parrot's house, of course. I told you she meant to come. And she's going to invite us, I'm sure.'
In my heart I was very anxious to go to Rock Terrace again, to see the parrot, and perhaps hear more of the mysterious little girl, but I was feeling rather tired and cross.
'I must brush my hair and wash my hands first,' I said, 'and I daresay mamma won't want me without Clement. She didn't say me alone, did she?'
'She said "your brothers,"' replied Peterkin, 'but of course you must come. And she said she hoped "they" wouldn't be long. So you must come as you are. I don't think your hands are very dirty.'
It is one of the queer things about Peterkin that he can nearly always make you do what he wants if he's really in earnest. So I had to give in, and he went puffing upstairs, with me after him, to thedrawing-room, when, sure enough, the old lady was sitting talking to mamma.
Mamma looked up as we came in, and I saw that her eyes went past me.
'Hasn't Clement come in?' she asked, and it made me wish I hadn't given in about it to Pete.
'No, mamma,' I said. 'It's one of his late days, you know. And Peterkin made me come up just as I was.'
I felt very ashamed of my hair and crushed collar and altogether. I didn't mind so much about my hands; boys' handscan'tbe like ladies'. But Mrs. Wylie was so awfully neat—she might have been a fairy herself, or a doll dressed to look like an old lady. I felt as clumsy and messy as could be. But she was awfully jolly; she seemed to know exactly how uncomfortable it was for me.
'Quite right, quite right,' she said. 'For I must be getting back. It looks rather stormy, I'm afraid. It was very thoughtful of you both, my dear boys, to hurry. I should have liked to see Mr. Clement again, but that must be another time. And may we fix the day now, dear Mrs. Lesley? Saturday next we were talking of. Will you come about four o'clock, or even earlier, my dears? The parrot staysout till five, generally, and indeed his mistress is very good-natured, and so is her maid. They were quite pleased when I told them I had some young friends who were very interested in the bird and wanted to see him again. So you shall make better acquaintance with him on Saturday, and perhaps—' but here the old lady stopped at last, without finishing her sentence.
Nevertheless, as each of us told the other afterwards, both Peterkin and I finished it for her in our own minds. We glanced at each other, and the same thought ran through us—had Mrs. Wylie got some plan in her head about the little girl?
'It is very kind indeed of you, Mrs. Wylie,' said mamma. 'Giles and Peterkin will be delighted to go to you on Saturday, won't you, boys?'
And we both said, 'Yes, thank you. It will be very jolly,' so heartily, that the old lady trotted off, as pleased as pleased.
Of course, I ran downstairs to see her out, and Pete followed more slowly, just behind her. She had a very nice, rather stately way about her, though she was so small and thin, and it never suited Pete to hurry in those days, either up or down stairs; his legs were so short.
We were very eager for Saturday to come, and we talked a lot about it. I had a kind of idea that Mrs. Wylie had said something about the little girl to mamma, though mamma said nothing at all to us, except that we must behave very nicely and carefully at Rock Terrace, and not forget that, though she was so kind, Mrs. Wylie was an old lady, and old ladies were sometimes fussy.
We promised we would be all right, and Peterkin said to me that he didn't believe Mrs. Wylie was at all 'fussy.'
'She is too fairyish,' he said, 'to be like that.'
That was a very 'Peterkin' speech, but I did not snub him for it, as I sometimes did. I was really so interested in all about the parrot and the invisible little girl that I was almost ready to join him in making up fanciful stories—that there was an ogre who wouldn't let her out, or that any one who tried to see her would be turned into a frog, or things like that out of the old fairy-tales.
'But Mrs. Wyliehasseen her,' said Peterkin, 'andshehasn't turned into a frog!'
That was a rather tiresome 'way' of his—if I agreed about fairies and began making up, myself, hewould get quite common-sensical, and almost make fun of my ones.
'How do you know that she doesn't turn into a frog half the day?' I said. 'That's often the way in enchantments.'
And then we both went off laughing at the idea of a frog jumping down from Mrs. Wylie's drawing-room sofa, and saying, 'How do you do, my dears?' instead of the neat little old lady.
So our squabble didn't come to anything that time.
Blanchie and Elf were rather jealous of our invitation, I think, though Blanche always said she didn't care to go anywhere without Clement. But Elf made us promise that some day we would get leave to take her round by the parrot's house for her to see him.
Of course we never said anything to any one but ourselves about the shut-up little girl, and Clement had forgotten what he had heard that evening. He was very busy just then working extra for some prize he hoped to get at school—I forget what it was, but he did get it—and Blanche was helping him.
Saturdaycame at last. Of course jolly things and timesdocome, however long the waiting seems. But the worst of it is that they are so soon gone again, and then you wish you were back at the looking forward; perhaps, after all, it is often the jolliest part of it.
Clement says I mustn't keep saying 'jolly'; he says 'nice' would be better in a book. He is looking it over for me, you see.Ithink 'nice' is a girl's word, but Clem says you shouldn't write slang in a book, so I try not to; though of course I don't really expect this story ever to be made into an actual book.
Well, Saturday came, and Peterkin and I set off to Mrs. Wylie's. She was a very nice person to go to see; she seemed so really pleased to have us.And she hadn't turned into a frog, or anything of the kind. She was standing out on the little balcony, watching for us, with a snowy-white, fluffy shawl on the top of her black dress, which made her seem more fairyish, or fairy-godmotherish, than ever. I never did see any one so beautifully neat and spotless as she always was.
As soon as the front door was opened, we heard her voice from upstairs.
'Come up, boys, come up. Polly and I have both been watching for you, and he is in great spirits to-day, and so amusing.'
We skurried up, and nearly tumbled over each other into the drawing-room. Then, of course, Peterkin's politeness came into force, and he walked forward soberly to shake hands with his old lady and give her mamma's love and all that sort of thing, which he was much better at than I. She had just stepped in from the balcony, but was quite ready to step out again at the parrot's invitation.
'Come quick,' he said, 'Polly doesn't like waiting.'
NO SOONER DID HE CATCH SIGHT OF US TWO WITH HIS UGLY ROUND BEADY EYES . . . THAN HE SHUT UP.—p. 52.NO SOONER DID HE CATCH SIGHT OF US TWO WITH HIS UGLY ROUND BEADY EYES . . . THAN HE SHUT UP.—p. 52.
Really it did seem wonderful to me, though he wasn't the first parrot I had ever seen, and though I had heard him before—it did seem wonderful for abird, only a bird, to talk so sensibly, and I felt as if there might be something in Peterkin's idea that he was more than he seemed. And to this day parrots, clever ones, still give me that feeling.
They are very like children in some ways. They are so 'contrairy.' You'd scarcely believe it, but no sooner did the creature catch sight of us two with his ugly, round, painted-bead-looking eyes—I don't like parrot's eyes—than he shut up, and wild horses couldn't have made him utter another word, much less Mrs. Wylie.
I was quite sorry for her, she seemed so disappointed.
It was just like a tiresome baby, whose mamma and nurse want to show off and bring it down to the drawing-room all dressed up, and it won't go to anybody, or say 'Dada,' or 'Mam-ma,' or anything, and just screeches. I can remember Elvira being like that, and I daresay we all were.
'It is too bad,' said our old lady. 'He has got to know me, and I have been teaching him some new words. And his mistress and her maid are out this afternoon, so I thought we should have him all to ourselves, and it would be so amusing. But'—just then a bright idea struck her—'supposing you twogo back into the room, so that he can't see you, and I will say "Good-bye, my dears," very loud and plainly, to make him think you have gone. Then I will come out again, and you shall listen from behind the curtain. I believe he will talk then, just as he has been doing.'
Pete and I were most willing to try—we were all three quite excited about it. It was really quite funny how his talking got the Polly treated as if he was a human being. We stalked back into the drawing-room, Mrs. Wylie after us, saying in a very clear tone—
'Good-bye, then, my dears. My love to your mamma, and the next time you come I hope Poll-parrot will be more friendly.'
And then I shut the door with a bang, to sound as if we had gone, though, of course, it was all 'acting,' to trick the parrot. Peterkin and I peeped out at him from behind the curtain, and we could scarcely help laughing out loud. He looked so queer—his head cocked on one side, listening, his eyes blinking; he seemed rather disgusted on the whole, I thought.
Then Mrs. Wylie stepped out again.
'Polly,' she said, 'I'm ashamed of you. Whycouldn't you be kind and friendly to those nice boys who came to see you?'
'Pretty Poll,' he said, in a coaxing tone.
'No,' she replied; 'not pretty Poll at all. Ugly Poll, I should say.'
'Polly's so tired; take Polly in. Polly's cold,' he said, in what we called his natural voice; and then it seemed as if the first words had reminded him of the little girl, for his tone suddenly changed, and he began again: 'I'm so tired, Nana. No, I won't be good; no, I won't. I'll write a letter, and I won't be locked up,' in the squeakier sort of voice that showed he was copying somebody else.
'Nonsense!' said Mrs. Wylie. 'You are not tired or cold, Polly, and nobody is going to lock you up.'
He was silent for a moment, and peeping out again, we saw that he was staring hard at the old lady.
Then he said very meekly—I am not sure which voice it was in—
'Polly be good! Polly very sorry!'
Mrs. Wylie nodded approvingly.
'Yes,' she said, 'that's a much prettier way to talk. Now, supposing we have a little music,' andshe began to sing in a very soft, very thin, old voice a few words of 'Home, Sweet Home.'
There was something very piteous about it. I think there is a better word than 'piteous'—yes, Clement had just told it me. It is 'pathetic.' I felt as if it nearly made me cry, and so did Peterkin. We told each other so afterwards, and though we were so interested in the parrot and in hearing him, I wished he would be quiet again, and let Mrs. Wylie go on with her soft, sad little song. But of course he didn't. He started, too, a queer sort of whistle, not very musical, certainly, but yet, no doubt, there was a bit of the tune in it, and now and then sounds rather like the words 'sweet' and 'home.' I do think, altogether, it was the oddest musical performance that ever was heard.
And when it was over, there came another voice. It was the maid next door, who had stepped quietly on to the balcony—
'I'm afraid, ma'am, I must take him in now,' she said, very respectfully. 'It is getting cold, and it would never do for him to get a sore throat just as he's learning to sing so. You are clever with him, ma'am; you are, indeed: there's quite a tune in his voice.'
Mrs. Wylie gave a little laugh of pleasure.
'And did the young gentlemen you were speaking of never come, after all?' the maid asked, as she was turning away, the big cage in her hand.
'Oh yes,' said Mrs. Wylie, 'they are here still. But Polly was very naughty,' and she explained about it.
'He's learnt that "won't be good" from next door,' said the girl, 'and I do believe he knows what it means.'
'I very sorry; I be good,' here said the parrot.
They both started.
'Upon my word!' exclaimed the maid.
'Has he learntthatfrom next door?' said Mrs. Wylie, in a lower voice.
'I hope so. It's very clever of him, and it's not unlikely. The child is getting better, I believe, and there's not near so much crying and complaining.'
'So I have heard,' said the old lady, and we fancied she spoke rather mysteriously, 'and I hope,' she went on, but we could not catch her next words, as she dropped her voice, evidently not wishing us to hear.
Peterkin squeezed my hand, and I understood. Therewasa mystery of some kind!
Then Mrs. Wylie came in and shut the glass door. She was smiling now with pleasure and satisfaction.
'I did get him to talk, did I not?' she said. 'Heisa funny bird. By degrees I hope he will grow quite friendly with you too.'
I did not feel very sure about it.
'I'm afraid,' I said, 'that he will not see us enough for that. It isn't like you, Mrs. Wylie, for I daresay you talk to him every day.'
'Yes,' she replied, 'I do now. I have felt more interested in him since—' here she hesitated a little, then she went on again—'since the evening I found Peterkin listening to him,' and she smiled very kindly at Pete. 'Before that, I had not noticed him very much; at least, I had not made friends with him. But he has a wonderful memory; really wonderful, you will see. He will not have forgotten you the next time you come, and each time he will cock his head and pretend to be shy, and gradually it will get less and less.'
This was very interesting, but what Peterkin and I were really longing for was some news of the little girl. We did not like to ask about her. It would have seemed rather forward and inquisitive, as the old lady did not mention her at all. We felt thatshe had some reason for it, and of course, though we could not have helped hearing what she and the parrot's maid had said to each other, we had to try to think wehadn'theard it. Clement says that's what you should do, if you overhear things not meant for you, unless, sometimes, when your having heard them might really matter.Then, he says, it's your duty—you're in honour bound—to tell that you've heard, andwhatyou've heard.
'Now,' said our old lady, 'I fancy tea will be quite ready. I thought it would be more comfortable in the dining-room. So shall we go downstairs?'
We were quite ready, and we followed her very willingly. The dining-room was even smaller than the drawing-room, and that was tiny enough. But it was all so neat and pretty, and what you'd call 'old-fashioned,' I suppose. It reminded me of a doll-house belonging to one of our grandmothers—mamma's mother, who had kept it ever since she was a little girl, and when we go to stay with her in the country she lets us play with it. Even Peterkin and I are very fond of it, or used to be so when we were smaller. There's everything you can think of in it, down to the tiniest cups and saucers.
The tea was very jolly. There were buns and cakes, and awfully good sandwiches. I remember that particular tea, you see, though we went to Mrs. Wylie's often after that, because it was the first time. The cupswererather small, but it didn't matter, for as soon as ever one was empty she offered us more. I would really be almost ashamed to say how many times mine was filled.
And Mrs. Wylie was very interesting to talk to. She had never had any children of her own, she told us, and her husband had been dead a long time. I think he had been a sailor, for she had lots of curiosities: queer shells, all beautifully arranged in a cabinet, and a book full of pressed and dried seaweed, and stuffed birds in cases. I don't care for stuffed birds: they look too alive, and it seems horrid for them not to be able to fly about and sing. Peterkin took a great fancy to some of the very tiny ones—humming-birds, scarcely bigger than butterflies; and, long afterwards, when we went to live in London, Mrs. Wylie gave him a present of a branch with three beauties on it, inside a glass case. He has it now in his own room. And she gave me four great big shells, all coloured like a rainbow, which I still have on my mantelpiece.
Once or twice—I'm going back now to that first time we went to have tea with her—I tried to get the talk back to the little girl. I asked the old lady if she wouldn't like to have a parrot of her own. I thought it would be so amusing. But she said No; she didn't think she would care to have one. The one next door was almost as good, and gave her no trouble or anxiety.
And then Peterkin asked her if there were any children next door. Mrs. Wylie shook her head.
'No,' she said. 'The parrot's mistress is an old maid—not nearly as old as I am, all the same, but she lives quite alone; and on the other side there are two brothers and a sister, quite young, unmarried people.'
'And is the—the little girl the only little girl or boy inherhouse?' asked Peterkin.
He did stumble a bit over asking it, for it had been very plain that Mrs. Wylie did not want to speak about her; but I got quite hot when I heard him, and if we had been on the same side of the table, or if his legs had been as long as they are now, I'd have given him a good kick to shut him up.
Our old lady was too good-natured to mind; still, there was something in her manner when sheanswered that stopped any more questions from Pete.
'Yes,' she said, 'there are no other children in that house, or in the terrace, except some very tiny ones, almost babies, at the other end. I see them pass in their perambulators, dear little things.'
It was quite dark by the time we had finished tea, and the lamps were lighted upstairs in the drawing-room, where Mrs. Wylie showed us some of the curiosities and things that I have already written about.
They were rather interesting, but I think we've got to care more for collections and treasures like that, now, than we did then. Perhaps we were not quite old enough, and, I daresay, it was a good deal that the great reason we liked to go to Mrs. Wylie's was because of the parrot and the mysterious little girl. At least,Peterkin'shead was full of the little girl. I myself was beginning to get rather tired of all his talk about her, and I thought the parrot very good fun of himself.
So when the clock struck six, and Mrs. Wylie asked us if mamma had fixed any time for us to be home by—it wasn't that she wanted to get rid of us, but she was very afraid of keeping us too late—wethought we might as well go, for mamma had said, 'soon after six.'
'Is any one coming to fetch you?' Mrs. Wylie said.
I didn't quite like her asking that: it made me seem so babyish. I was quite old enough to look after Pete, and the fun of going home by ourselves through the lighted-up streets was one of the things we had looked forward to.
But I didn't want Master Peterkin to begin at me afterwards about not being polite, so I didn't show that I was at all vexed. I just said—
'Oh no, Peterkin will be all right with me!'
And then we said good-bye, and 'thank you very much for inviting us.' And Pete actually said—
'May we come again soon, please?'
His ideas of politeness were rather original, weren't they?
But Mrs. Wylie was quite pleased.
'Certainly, my dear. I shall count on your doing so. And I am glad you spoke of it, for I wanted to tell you that I am going to London the end of this next week for a fortnight. Will you tell your dear mamma so, and say that I shall come to see her on my return, and then we must fix on another afternoon?I am very pleased to think that you care to come, and I hope you feel the same,' she went on, turning to me.
She was so kind that I felt I had been rather horrid, for Ihadenjoyed it all very much. And I said as nicely as I could, that I'd like to come again, only I hoped we didn't bother her. She beamed all over at that, and Peterkin evidently approved of it too, for he grinned in a queer patronising way he has sometimes, as if I was a baby compared to him.
I was just going to pull him up for it after we had got on our coats and caps, and were outside and the door shut, but before I had got farther than—'I say, youngster,'—he startled me rather by saying, in a very melancholy tone—
'It's too bad, Giles, isn't it? Her going away, and us hearing nothing of the little girl. I really thought she'd have asked her to tea too.'
'How you muddle your "her's" and "she's"!' I said. But of course I understood him. 'I think you muddle yourself too. If there's a mystery, and you know you'd be very disappointed if there wasn't, you couldn't expect the little girl to come to tea just as if everything was quite like everybody else about her.'
'No, that's true,' said he, consideringly. 'P'raps she's invisible sometimes, or p'raps she's like the "Light Princess," that they had to tie down for fear she'd float away, or p'raps——'
'She's invisible to us, anyway,' I interrupted, for, as I said, I was getting rather tired of Pete's fancies about the little girl, 'and so——'
But just as I got so far, we both stopped—we were passing the railing of thelittle girl'shouse at that moment, and voices talking rather loudly caught our ears. Peterkin touched my arm, and we stood quite still. No one could see us, it was too dark, and there was no lamp just there, though some light was streaming out from the lower windows of the house. One of them, the dining-room one, was a little open, even though it was a chilly evening.
It was so queer, our hearing the voices and almost seeing into the room,justas we had been making up our minds that we'd never know anything about the little girl; it seemed so queer, that we didn't, at first, think of anything else. It wasn't for some minutes, or moments, certainly, that it came into my head that we shouldn't stay there peeping and listening. I'm afraid it wasn't a very gentlemanly sort of thing to do. As for Peterkin, I'mpretty sure he never had the slightest idea that we were doing anything caddish.
What we heard was this—
'No, I don't want any more tea. I'd better go to bed. It's so dull, Nana.'
Then another voice replied—it came from some one further back in the room, but we could not distinguish the words—
'There aren't any stars. You may as well shut the window. And stars aren't much good. I want some one to play with me. Other little—' but just then we saw the shadow of some one crossing the room, and the window—it was a glass-door kind of window like the ones up above, which opened on to the balcony, for there was a little sort of balcony downstairs too—was quickly closed. There was no more to be heard or seen; not even shadows, for the curtains were now drawn across.
Pete gave a deep sigh, and I felt that he was looking at me, though it was too dark to see, and there was no lamp just there. He wanted to know what I thought.
'Come along,' I said, and we walked on.
'Did you hear?' asked Peterkin at last. 'She said she wanted somebody to play with her.'
'Yes,' I said, 'it is rather queer. You'd think Mrs. Wylie might have made friends with her, and invited her to tea. But it's no good our bothering about it,' and I walked a little faster, and began to whistle. I did not want Pete to go on again talking a lot about his invisible princess, for such she seemed likely to remain.
It was far easier, however, to get anything into Peterkin's fancy than to get it out again, as I might have known by experience. We had not gone far before I felt him tugging at my arm.
'Don't walk so fast, Gilley,' he said—poor, little chap, he was quite breathless with trying to keep up with me, so I had to slacken a bit,—'and do let me talk to you. When we get home I shan't have a chance—not till to-morrow morning in bed, I daresay; for they'll all be wanting to hear about Mrs. Wylie, and what we had for tea, and everything.'
I did not so much mind aboutthatpart of it, but I did not want to be awakened before dawn the next morning to listen to all he'd got to say. So I thought I might as well let him come out with some of it.
'What do you want to talk about?' I said.
'Oh! of course, you know,' he replied. 'It's about thepoorlittle girl. I am so dreffully sorry for her, Gilley, and I want to plan something. It's no good asking Mrs. Wylie. We'll have to do something ourselves. I'm afraid the people she's with lock her up, or something.P'rapsthey daren't let her go out, if there's some wicked fairy, or a witch, or something like that, that wants to run off with her.'
'Well, then, the best thing to doisto lock her up,' I said sensibly.
But that wasn't Peterkin's way of looking at things.
'It's never like that in my stories,' he said—and I know he was shaking his curly head,—'and some of them are very, very old—nearly as old as Bible stories, I believe; so they must be true, you see. There's always somebody that comes to break the—the—I forget the proper word.'
'The enchantment, you mean,' I said.
'No, no; a shorter word. Oh, I know—the spell,' he replied. 'Yes, somebody comes to break thespell. And that's what we've got to do, Gilley. At least, I'm sure I've got to, and you must help me. You see, it's all been so funny. The parrot knows,I should think, for I'm sure he's partly fairy. But, very likely, he daren't say it right out, for fear of the bad fairy, and——'
'Perhaps he's the bad fairy himself,' I interrupted, half joking, but rather interested, all the same, in Peterkin's ideas.
'Oh no,' he replied, 'I know he's not, and I'm sure Mrs. Wylie has nothing to do with the bad fairy.'
'Then why do you think she won't talk about the little girl, or invite her, or anything?' I asked.
Pete seemed puzzled.
'I don't know,' he said. 'There's a lot to find out. P'raps Mrs. Wylie doesn't know anything about the spell, and has just got some stupid, common reason for not wanting us to play with the little girl, or p'raps'—and this was plainly a brilliant idea—'p'rapsthe spell's put on her without her knowing, and stops her when she begins to speak about it. Mightn't it very likely be that, Giles?'
But I had not time to answer, for we had got to our own door by now, and it was already opened, as some tradesman was giving James a parcel. So we ran in.