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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Peterkin, by Mary Louisa Molesworth
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Title: Peterkin
Author: Mary Louisa Molesworth
Illustrator: H. R. Millar
Release Date: August 15, 2008 [EBook #26322]
Language: English
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<h1>PETERKIN</h1>
<div class='center'>
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Cover and frontispiece images">
<tr><td align='left'><div class="figcenter" style="width: 317px;">
<img src="images/icover.jpg" width="317" height="500" alt="Cover" title="Cover" />
</div>
</td><td align='left'><div class="figcenter" style="width: 285px;"><a name="front" id="front"></a>
<img src="images/i005.png" width="285" height="500" alt="Mamma . . . hugged him as if he'd been lost for a year. [Frontispiece." title="Mamma . . . hugged him as if he'd been lost for a year. [Frontispiece." />
<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Mamma . . . hugged him as if he'd been lost for a year.</span> <br /><span style="margin-left: 10em;">[<i>Frontispiece.</i></span></span>
</div></td></tr>
</table></div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
<img src="images/emblem.png" width="200" height="68" alt="Emblem" title="Emblem" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h1>PETERKIN</h1>
<h3>BY</h3>
<h2>MRS. MOLESWORTH</h2>
<div class='center'>AUTHOR OF 'CARROTS,' 'CUCKOO CLOCK,' 'TELL ME A STORY'<br />
<br /><br /><br />
<br />
<br /><i>WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. R. MILLAR</i><br />
<br /><br /><br /><br />
<br />
<b>London</b><br />
MACMILLAN AND CO., <span class="smcap">Limited</span><br />
<small>NEW YORK : THE MACMILLAN COMPANY</small><br />
1902<br />
<br />
<small><i>All rights reserved</i></small><br />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class='center'>
<small>TO</small><br />
<br />
"ALEX"<br />
<br />
ALEXANDER DOBREE HERRIES<br />
<br />
<small>I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE STORY</small><br />
</div><div class='blockquot'>155 <span class="smcap">Sloane Street</span>, S.W.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>May Day</i> 1902</span><br />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
<div class='center'>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents">
<tr><td align='left' colspan='2'><small>CHAP.</small></td><td align='right'><small>PAGE</small></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>I.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">What <i>can</i> have become of Him?</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>II.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">Found</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_19">19</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>III.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">An Invitation</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>IV.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">Very Mysterious</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_50">50</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>V.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">'Stratagems'</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_69">69</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>VI.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">Margaret</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_84">84</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>VII.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">The Great Plan</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_101">101</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>VIII.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">A Terrible Idea</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_118">118</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>IX.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">In A Fog</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_135">135</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>X.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">Beryl</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_149">149</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XI.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">Dear Mamma</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_165">165</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XII.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">No Mystery after all</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_182">182</a></td></tr>
</table></div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2>
<div class='center'>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Illustrations">
<tr><td align='left'><div class='hang1'><span class="smcap">Mamma . . . hugged him as if he'd been lost for a year</span></div></td>
<td align='right' colspan='3'><a href="#front"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><div class='hang1'><span class="smcap">Our missing Peterkin</span></div></td>
<td align='right' colspan='2'><i>To face page</i> </td>
<td align='right' valign='bottom'><a href="#Page_13">13</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><div class='hang1'><span class="smcap">No sooner did he catch sight of us two with his ugly round beady eyes . . . than he shut up</span></div></td>
<td align='center'>"</td>
<td align='center'>"</td>
<td align='right' valign='bottom'><a href="#Page_52">52</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><div class='hang1'><span class="smcap">Pete held out his brown-paper parcel. 'This is the poetry-book,' he said</span></div></td><td align='center'>"</td><td align='center'>"</td><td align='right' valign='bottom'><a href="#Page_97">97</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><div class='hang1'><span class="smcap">We had no difficulty in finding her bath-chair</span></div></td><td align='center'>"</td><td align='center'>"</td><td align='right' valign='bottom'><a href="#Page_108">108</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><div class='hang1'><span class="smcap">He looked at the tickets. . . . 'How's this?' he said</span></div></td><td align='center'>"</td><td align='center'>"</td><td align='right' valign='bottom'><a href="#Page_145">145</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><div class='hang1'><span class="smcap">'Now,' she began . . . drawing Margaret to her, 'tell me all about it'</span></div></td><td align='center'>"</td><td align='center'>"</td><td align='right' valign='bottom'><a href="#Page_159">159</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><div class='hang1'><span class="smcap">The frills had worked up all round his face</span></div></td><td align='center'>"</td><td align='center'>"</td><td align='right' valign='bottom'><a href="#Page_173">173</a></td></tr>
</table></div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>
<h2>PETERKIN</h2>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CHAPTER I</h2>
<h3>WHAT <i>CAN</i> HAVE BECOME OF HIM?</h3>
<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">We</span> were all at tea in the nursery. All except him.
The door burst open and James put his head in.</div>
<p>'If you please, Mrs. Brough,' he began,—'Mrs.
Brough' is the servants' name for nurse. Mamma
calls her 'Brough' sometimes, but we always call her
'nurse,' of course,—'If you please, Mrs. Brough, is
Master Peterkin here?'</p>
<p>Nurse looked up, rather vexed. She doesn't like
burstings in.</p>
<p>'Of course not, James,' she said. 'He is out
driving with his mamma. You must have seen them
start.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p>
<p>'It's just that,' said James, in his silly way. 'It's
his mamma that wants to know.'</p>
<p>And then we noticed that James's face was much
redder than usual. It may have been partly that he
had run upstairs very fast, for he is really very good-natured,
but it looked as if he was rather in a fuss,
too.</p>
<p>Nurse sat very bolt up in her chair, and <i>her</i> face
began to get queer, and her voice to get vexeder.
Lots of people get cross when they are startled or
frightened. I have noticed it.</p>
<p>'What do you mean, James? Please to explain,'
she said.</p>
<p>'I can't stop,' he said, 'and I don't rightly understand,
myself. His mamma sent Master Peterkin
home before her, half-an-hour ago or more, but he
hasn't come in, not as I've seen, nor nobody else, I'm
afraid. So where he's got to, who can say?'</p>
<p>And James turned to go.</p>
<p>Nurse stopped him, getting up from her place as
she spoke.</p>
<p>'Was he in the carriage?' she asked.</p>
<p>'Of course not. Beckett would have seen him
in, all right, if he had been,' said James, in a very
superior tone. 'He was to run home by himself a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span>
bit of a way, as I take it,' he added, as he hurried off
at last.</p>
<p>'I must go downstairs to your mamma,' said
nurse. 'Miss Blanchie, my dear, will you look after
Miss Elvira, and see that she doesn't spill her tea?'</p>
<p>'<i>Nursie</i>,' said Elvira, in a very offended tone,
'you know I never spill my tea now.'</p>
<p>'Not since the day before yesterday,' I was
beginning to say, but I didn't. For I thought to
myself, if there was any real trouble about Peterkin,
it wouldn't be at all a good time to tease each other.
I don't think Elf—that's Elvira's pet name—had
understood about him being lost. Indeed, I don't
think I had quite taken it in myself, till I saw how
grave the two eldest ones were looking.</p>
<p>'Clem,' I said, 'do you think there can really be
anything the matter?'</p>
<p>Clement is the eldest of us all, and he is always
the one we go to first if we are in any trouble. But
he is sometimes rather slow; he is not as quick and
clever as Blanche, and she often puts him down at
first, though she generally comes round to his way in
the end. She answered for him now, though I
hadn't spoken to her.</p>
<p>'How can there not be something the matter?' she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>
said sharply. 'If Peterkin has been half-an-hour or
an hour, perhaps, wandering about the streets, it
shows he has at least lost his way, and who knows
where he's got to. I wish you wouldn't ask such
silly questions, Giles.'</p>
<p>Then, all of a sudden, Elf burst out crying. It
may have been partly Blanche's sharp tone, which
had startled her, and made her take more notice of
it all.</p>
<p>'Oh, Clem, Clem,' she wailed, 'could he have been
stolened?'</p>
<p>'No, no, darling,' said Clement, dabbing her face
with his pocket-handkerchief. 'There are kind policemen
in the streets, you know. They wouldn't let a
little boy like Peterkin be stolen.'</p>
<p>'But they does take little boys to pison,' said
Elf. 'I've see'd them. It's 'cos of that I'm frightened
of them for Peterkin.'</p>
<p>That was not quite true. She had never thought
of policemen till, unluckily, Clem spoke of them in
his wish to comfort her. She did not mean to say
what was not true, of course, but there never was
such a child as Elf for arguing, even then when she
was only four years old. Indeed, she's not half as
bad now that she is eight, twice as old, and I often<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span>
tell her so. Perhaps that evening it wasn't a bad
thing, for the talking about policemen stopped her
crying, which was even worse than her arguing, once
she started a good roar.</p>
<p>'It's just because of that, that I'm so frightened
about dear sweet little Peterkin,' she repeated.</p>
<p>'Rubbish, Elf,' I began, but Clem looked at me
and I stopped.</p>
<p>'You needn't be frightened that Peterkin will be
taken to prison, Elfie,' he said in his kind, rather
slow way. 'It's only naughty little boys that the
policemen take to prison, and Peterkin isn't naughty,'
and then he wiped Elf's eyes again, and she forgot to
go on crying, for just then nurse came upstairs. <i>She</i>
was not actually crying, of course, but she did look
very worried, so Clem and Blanche's faces did not
clear up at all. Nor did mine, I suppose. I really
did not know what to think, I was waiting to see
what the others thought, for we three younger ones
looked up to Clement and Blanche a good deal, and
we still do. They are twins, and they seem to mix
together so well. Blanche is quick and clever, and
Clement is awfully sensible, and they are both very
kind, though Clem is the gentlest. They are nearly
sixteen now, and I am thirteen past, so at the time I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>
am writing about they were twelve and I was going
to be ten my next birthday, and Peterkin was eight
and Elvira five. I won't say much about what sort
of a boy Peterkin was, for as my story is mostly
about him and the funny things he did and thought,
it will show of itself.</p>
<p>He <i>was</i> a funny child; a queer child in some ways,
I mean, and he still is. Mamma says it is stupid to
say 'funny' when we mean queer or odd, but I think
it says it better than any other word, and I am sure
other children will think so too.</p>
<p>Blanche was the first to speak to nurse.</p>
<p>'Is mamma really frightened about Peterkin,
nurse?' she asked. 'Tell us what it is.'</p>
<p>But nurse had caught sight of her darling pet
baby's red eyes.</p>
<p>'Miss Blanchie,' she said, 'I asked you to look
after Miss Elvira, and she's been crying.'</p>
<p>'You asked me to see that she didn't spill her tea,
and she hasn't spilt it. It's some nonsense she has
got in her head about policemen taking strayed
children to prison that she has been crying about,'
replied Blanche, rather crossly.</p>
<p>'I only wish,' began nurse, but the rest of her
sentence she mumbled to herself, though I heard part<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>
of it. It was wishing that the policemen <i>had</i> got
Peterkin safely.</p>
<p>'Of course, your poor mamma is upset about it,'
she went on, though I could see she did not want to
say very much for fear of Elf's beginning to cry
again. 'It was this way. Your mamma had to go
round by Belton Street, and she did not want to
keep Master Peterkin out so late to miss his tea, so
she dropped him at the corner of Lindsay Square,
and told him to run home. It's as straight as
straight can be, and he's often run that far alone.
So where he's got to or gone to, there's no
guessing.'</p>
<p>'And what is mamma doing?' asked Blanche.</p>
<p>'She has sent Mr. Drew and James off in different
directions,' said nurse, 'and she has gone herself
again in the carriage to the station, as it's just time
for your papa's train, and he will know what more
to do.'</p>
<p>We did not live in London then; papa went up
and down every day from the big town by the sea
where our home was. Clement thinks perhaps I
had better not say what town it is, as some people
might remember about us, and I <i>might</i> say things
that would vex them; so I won't call it anything,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>
though I must explain that it is not at all a little
place, but quite big enough for any one to lose their
way in, if they were strangers. But Peterkin wasn't
a stranger; and the way he had to come was, as
nurse said, as straight as straight.</p>
<p>We all listened with grave faces to what nurse
told us. Suddenly Clement got up—I can't say
'jumped up,' for he was always rather slow.</p>
<p>'Nurse,' he said, 'mamma's out, so I can't ask her
leave. But I've got an idea about Peterkin. Will
you give me leave to go out for half-an-hour or so?
I promise you I won't go far, but I would rather not
tell you where I want to go, as it may be all
nonsense.'</p>
<p>Nurse looked at him doubtfully. She trusted
Clem the most of us all, I know, and she had good
reason to do so, for he was and is very trustworthy.
And it was nice of him to ask her leave, considering
he was twelve years old and quite out of the nursery,
except that he still liked having tea there when he
came in from school every evening.</p>
<p>'Well, Master Clement,' said nurse, 'I don't quite
know. Supposing you go out and don't get back as
soon as you expect? It would be just a double
fright for your poor mamma.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span></p>
<p>'Let me go too!' I exclaimed, and I jumped up so
suddenly that I made all the cups rattle and nearly
threw over the table altogether. 'Then if anything
stops Clem getting back quickly, I can run home
and explain. Anyway you'd be more comfortable if
you knew the two of us were on the hunt together.
You don't mind my coming, do you, Clem?'</p>
<p>'No,' said Clem, 'but do let's go.'</p>
<p>'And you won't be long?' pleaded nurse.</p>
<p>Clem shook his head.</p>
<p>'I don't think we can be—not if there's anything
in my idea', he called out, as we ran off.</p>
<p>We didn't take a minute to pull on our coats,
which were hanging in the hall. I daresay I should
never have thought of mine at all, if Clem hadn't
reminded me, even though it was late in November
and a cold evening. And as soon as we were outside
and had set off at a good pace, I begged Clem
to tell me what his idea was, and where we were
going to look for Peterkin.</p>
<p>'It's the parrot,' he replied; 'the parrot in Rock
Terrace.'</p>
<p>'I don't know what you mean,' I said. 'I never
heard of a parrot, and I don't know where Rock
Terrace is.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span></p>
<p>'Nonsense,' said Clem, stopping for a moment.
'You must have forgotten.'</p>
<p>'I haven't indeed,' I said.</p>
<p>'Not about the parrot that Peterkin has been
dreaming of ever since we passed it on Saturday,
when we were out with mamma—next door to old
Mrs. Wylie's?' Clem exclaimed.</p>
<p>'No,' I repeated. 'I wasn't with you that day,
and——'</p>
<p>'No more you were,' said Clem.</p>
<p>'And,' I went on, 'I don't know where Mrs.
Wylie lives, though I've often seen her herself at
our house. And you know, Clement, that's just like
Peterkin. If he's got anything very much in his
head, he often doesn't speak of it, except to any one
who knows about it already.'</p>
<p>'He hasn't said very much about it, even to me,'
said Clement. 'But, all the same, I know he has got
it tremendously in his head.'</p>
<p>'How do you mean? Is he making up fairy
stories about it?'</p>
<p>'Perhaps! You see he had never heard a parrot
speaking. I'm not sure if he knew they ever did.
But he wanted very much to see it again, and it just
came into my mind all at once, that if he had a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>
chance he might have run round there and lost his
way. I don't suppose he <i>meant</i> to when mamma
told him to go home. It may just have struck
him when he got to the corner of Lindsay
Square.'</p>
<p>I did not answer. We were walking so fast that
it was not easy to go on speaking. But I did think
it was very clever of Clement to have thought of it.
It was so like Peterkin.</p>
<p>Clement hurried on. It was quite dark by now,
but the lamps were lighted, and Clem seemed
quite sure of his way. In spite of feeling rather
unhappy about Peterkin, I was enjoying myself a
little. I did not think it possible that he was really
badly lost, and it was very exciting to rush along
the streets after dark like this, and then I could not
help fancying how triumphant we should feel if we
actually found him.</p>
<p>It was not very surprising that I did not know
where Rock Terrace was, or that I had never even
heard of it. It was such a tiny little row of such tiny
houses, opening out of one corner of Lindsay Square.
The houses were rather pretty; at least, very neat-looking
and old-fashioned, with a little bit of garden
in front, and small iron gates. They looked as if old<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>
maids lived in them, and I daresay there were a
good many.</p>
<p>Clement hurried along till he was close to the
farther off end. Then he stopped short, and for the
first time seemed at a loss.</p>
<p>'I don't know the number,' he said, 'but I'm
sure it was almost the end house. And—yes—isn't
that a big cage on the little balcony, Giles? Look
well.'</p>
<p>I peeped up. The light of the lamps was not
very good in Rock Terrace.</p>
<p>'Yes,' I said. 'It is a big cage, but I can't see
if there's a bird in it.'</p>
<p>'Perhaps they take him in at night,' said Clement.
Then he looked up again at the balconies.</p>
<p>'Let me see,' he went on, 'which side is Mrs.
Wylie's? Mamma went in at the—' but before
he had time to finish his sentence his doubts were
set at rest—his doubts and all our fears about
Peterkin. For the door on the left of the parrot's
home opened slowly, letting out what seemed, in
contrast with the darkness outside, a flood of light,
just within which, in the small hall or lobby of the
miniature house, stood two figures—the one, that of
a short thin old lady with white hair, dressed all in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>
black; the other, a short fat little boy in a thick
coat—our missing Peterkin!</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 274px;">
<img src="images/i027.png" width="274" height="500" alt="OUR MISSING PETERKIN.—p. 13." title="OUR MISSING PETERKIN.—p. 13." />
<span class="caption">OUR MISSING PETERKIN.—p. 13.</span>
</div>
<p>They were speaking to each other most politely.</p>
<p>'So pleased to have seen you, my dear,' said
Mrs. Wylie. 'Give my love to your dear mamma.
I will not forget about the parrot, you may be
sure. He shall have a proper invitation. And—you
are quite certain you can find your way
home? Oh, dear!—that poor child must have
been bemoaning herself again! Polly always
knows.'</p>
<p>And as we stood there, our minds scarcely
made up as to what we should do, we heard
a queer croaking voice, from inside the house on
the right of Mrs. Wylie—the parrot's voice, of
course, calling out—</p>
<p>'I'm so tired, Nana; I'm so tired. I won't be
good; no, I won't.'</p>
<p>Mrs. Wylie and Peterkin both stood silent for a
moment, listening. So did we. Then Clement
opened the gate and ran up the two or three steps,
I following him.</p>
<p>'Peterkin!' he exclaimed, 'mamma has been so
frightened about you.'</p>
<p>And Peterkin turned round and looked up in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>
his face with his big blue eyes, apparently quite
astonished.</p>
<p>'Has mamma come back?' he said. 'I've only
been here for a minute or two. I just wanted to
look at the parrot.'</p>
<p>Mrs. Wylie was a quick-witted old lady. She
took it all in, in a moment.</p>
<p>'Dear, dear!' she said. 'I am afraid it is my
fault. I saw the dear boy looking up at the parrot
next door when I came in from my stroll round to
the pillar-box with a letter, and he told me he was
one of Mrs. Lesley's little sons, and then we got
talking. But I had no idea his mamma would be
alarmed. I am afraid it has been much more than
a few minutes. I <i>am</i> sorry.'</p>
<p>It was impossible to say anything to trouble the
poor old lady: she looked as if she were going to cry.</p>
<p>'It will be all right now,' said Clement. 'Mamma
will be so delighted to see him safe and sound.
But we had better hurry home. Come along,
Peterkin.'</p>
<p>But nothing would make Peterkin forget his good
manners. He tugged off his sailor cap again, which
he had just put on, and held out his hand, for the
second or third time, I daresay, as he and his old<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>
lady had evidently been hobnobbing over their
leave-takings for some minutes before we made our
appearance.</p>
<p>'Good-bye!' he said; 'and thank you very much.
And I'll ask mamma to let me come whenever you
fix the day for the parrot. And please tell me all
he tells you about the little girl. And—thank you
very much.'</p>
<p>They were the funniest pair. She so tiny and
thin and white, with bright dark eyes, like some
bird's, and Peterkin so short and sturdy and rosy,
with his big dreamy ones looking up at her. She
was just a little taller than he. And suddenly I
saw his rosy face grow still rosier; crimson or
scarlet, really. For Mrs. Wylie made a dash at him
and kissed him, and unluckily Peterkin did not like
being kissed, except by mamma and Elf. His
politeness, however, stood him in good stead. He
did not pull away, or show that he hated it, as lots
of fellows would have done. He stood quite still,
and then, with another tug at his cap, ran down the
steps after Clem and me.</p>
<p>Clement waited a moment or two before he
spoke. It was his way; but just now it was a good
thing, as Mrs. Wylie did not shut the door quite at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>
once, and everything was so quiet in that little side
street, in the evening especially, that very likely our
voices would have carried back to her. I, for my
part, was longing to shake Peterkin, though I felt
very inclined to burst out laughing, too. But I
knew it was best to leave the 'rowing' to Clem.</p>
<p>'Peterkin,' he began at last, 'I don't know what
to say to you.'</p>
<p>Peterkin had got hold of Clem's hand and was holding
it tight, and he was already rather out of breath,
as Clem was walking fast—very fast for him—and
he has always been a long-legged chap for his age,
thin and wiry, too; whereas, in those days—though,
thank goodness, he is growing like a house on fire
<i>now</i>—Peterkin was as broad as he was long. So to
keep up with Clement's strides he had to trot, and
that sort of pace soon makes a kid breathless, of
course.</p>
<p>'I—I never thought mamma'd be flightened,' he
managed to get out at last. He had been a long
time of saying his 'r's' clearly, and now they still all
got into 'l's' if he was bothered or startled. 'I
never thought she'd be flightened.'</p>
<p>'Then you were a donkey,' I burst out, and
Clement interrupted me.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p>
<p>'How could she not have been frightened?' he
went on. 'She told you to run straight home,
which wouldn't have taken you five minutes, and
you have been at least an hour.'</p>
<p>'I thought it wouldn't be no farther to come this
way,' replied Peterkin, 'and I only meant to look at
the pallot one minute. And it would have been
very lu—<i>rude</i> not to speak to the old lady, and go
into her house for a minute when she asked me.
Mamma always says we mustn't be rude,' said
Peterkin, plucking up some spirit.</p>
<p>'Mamma always says we must be <i>obedient</i>'
replied Clement, severely.</p>
<p>Then he relapsed into silence, and his quick
footsteps and Peterkin's short trotty ones were the
only sounds.</p>
<p>'I believe,' I couldn't help murmuring, half to
myself, half to Peterkin—'I believe you've got some
rubbish in your head about the parrot being a fairy.
If I were mamma I'd stop your——' but at that I
stopped <i>myself</i>. If Clement had heard me he would
have been down upon me for disrespectfulness in
saying to a baby like Pete what I thought mamma
should or should not do; and I didn't care to be
pulled up by Clement before the little ones.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span></p>
<p>Peterkin was as sharp as needles in some ways.
He guessed the end of my unfinished sentence.</p>
<p>'No,' he half whispered, 'mamma'd <i>never</i> stop me
reading faily stolies—you know she wouldn't, Gilly,
and it's velly unkind of you to say so.'</p>
<p>'I didn't say so,' I replied.</p>
<p>'Be quiet, both of you,' said Clem, 'and hurry on,'
for we had slackened a little.</p>
<p>But in spite of the breathlessness of the pace, I
heard another gasp from Peterkin—</p>
<p>'It <i>is</i> velly like the blue-bird,' were the words I
distinguished.</p>
<p>And 'I knew I was right,' I thought to myself
triumphantly.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER II</h2>
<h3>FOUND</h3>
<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">The</span> carriage was standing waiting at our own house
when we got there. And there was some bustle
going on, for the front door was not shut, and we
could see into the hall, which of course was brightly
lighted up.</div>
<p>Papa was there, speaking to some one; he had his
hat on, as if he was just coming out again. And—yes—it
was Drew he was speaking to, and James too,
I think—but behind them was poor mamma, looking
so dreadfully unhappy. It did make me want to
shake Peterkin again.</p>
<p>They did not see us as quickly as we saw them,
for it was dark outside and they were all talking:
papa giving directions, I fancy.</p>
<p>So they did jump when Clem—hurrying for once—rushed
up the steps, dragging Peterkin after him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span></p>
<p>'We've found him—we've found him!' he shouted.
'In with you, Pete: show yourself, quick.'</p>
<p>For mamma had got quite white, and looked as if
she were going to faint or tumble down in some kind
of a fit; but luckily before she had time for anything,
there was that fat boy hugging and squeezing her so
tight that she'd have been clever to move at all,
though if she <i>had</i> tumbled down he would have
made a good buffer.</p>
<p>'Oh, mamma, mamma—oh, mummy,' he said, and
by this time he was howling, of course, 'I never meant
to flighten you. I never did. I thought I'd been
only five minutes, and I thought it was nearly as
quick home that way.'</p>
<p>And of course mamma didn't scold him! She
hugged him as if he'd been lost for a year, and as if
he was the prodigal son and the good brother mixed
up together.</p>
<p>But papa looked rather stern, and I was not
altogether sorry to see it.</p>
<p>'Where have you been, Peterkin?' he said. And
then he glanced up at us two—Clem and me—as
Peterkin seemed too busy crying to speak. 'Where
has he been?' papa repeated. 'It was very clever of
you to find him, I must say.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p>
<p>And mamma's curiosity began to awaken, now
that she had got old Pete safe in her arms again.
She looked up with the same question in her face.</p>
<p>'Where—' she began.</p>
<p>And I couldn't help answering.</p>
<p>'It was all Clem's idea,' I said, for it really was
only fair for Clem to get some praise. 'He thought
of the parrot.'</p>
<p>'The <i>parrot</i>', mamma repeated, growing more
puzzled instead of less.</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Clement. 'The parrot next door to
Mrs. Wylie's. Perhaps you don't remember, mamma.
It was the day Peterkin and I were out with you—Giles
wasn't there—and you went in to Mrs. Wylie's
and we waited outside, and the parrot was in a cage
on the balcony, and we heard it talk.'</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Peterkin, 'he <i>talked</i>,' as if that was
an explanation of everything.</p>
<p>Mamma's face cleared.</p>
<p>'I think I do remember something about it,' she
said. 'But I have never heard you mention it since,
Peterkin?'</p>
<p>'No,' said Peterkin, getting rather red.</p>
<p>'He has spoken of it a little to me,' said Clement;
'that's how I knew it was in his mind. But Peterkin<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>
often doesn't say much about what he's thinking a
lot about. It's his way.'</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Peterkin, 'it's my way.'</p>
<p>'And have you been planning all these days to
run off to see the parrot again?' asked mamma. I
wasn't quite sure if she was vexed or not, but <i>I</i> was;
it seemed so queer, queer as Pete often was, for him
not to have confided in somebody.</p>
<p>But we were mistaken.</p>
<p>'No, no, truly, mamma,' he said, speaking in a
much more determined way now, and shaking his
curly head. 'I didn't ever think of it till after I'd
got out of the calliage and I saw it was the corner of
the big square where the little houses are at one end,
and then I only meant to go for one minute. I
thought it was nearly as quick that way, and I ran
fast. I never meant to flighten you, mamma,' he
repeated again, his voice growing plaintive. 'I
wasn't planning it a bit all these days. I only kept
thinking it <i>were</i> like the blue-bird.'</p>
<p>The last sentence was almost in a whisper; it was
only a sort of honesty that forced him to say it. As
far as Clement and I were concerned, he needn't
have said it.</p>
<p>'I knew he'd got some fairy-story rubbish in his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>
head,' I muttered, but I don't think Peterkin heard
me, though papa and mamma did; for I saw them
glance at each other, and papa said something under
his breath, of which I only caught the words 'getting
too fanciful,' and 'schoolboy,' which made
mamma look rather unhappy again.</p>
<p>'I don't yet understand how old Mrs. Wylie got
mixed up in it all,' said papa.</p>
<p>'She lives next door to the parrot,' said Clem, and
we couldn't help smiling at the funny way he said it.</p>
<p>'And she saw me when she was coming back from
the post, and she was very kind,' Peterkin went on,
taking up the story again, as the smile had encouraged
him. 'She 'avited me to go in, up to her
drawing-room, so that I could hear him talking
better. And he said lots of things.'</p>
<p>'Oh yes, by the bye,' I exclaimed, 'there was
something about a little girl, Mrs. Wylie said.
What was it, Pete?'</p>
<p>But Peterkin shut up at this.</p>
<p>'I'll tell you the next time I go there. Mummy,
you will let me go to see that old lady again, won't
you?' he begged. 'She was so kind, and I only
thought I'd been there five minutes. Mayn't I go
again to see her?'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span></p>
<p>'<i>And</i> the parrot,' said mamma, smiling. She
was sharp enough to take in that it was a
quarter for Mrs. Wylie and three quarters for the
parrot that he wanted so to go back to Rock Terrace.
'Well, you must promise never to pay visits on your
own account again, Peterkin, and then we shall see.
Now run upstairs to the nursery as fast as you can
and get some tea. And I'm sure Clem and Giles will
be glad of some more. I hope poor nurse and
Blanche and Elfie know he is all right,' she added,
glancing round.</p>
<p>'Yes, ma'am. I took the liberty of going up to
tell the young ladies and Mrs. Brough, when Master
Peterkin first returned,' said James in his very
politest and primmest tone.</p>
<p>'That was very thoughtful of you,' said mamma,
approvingly, which made James get very red.</p>
<p>We three boys skurried upstairs after that. At
least I did. Clement came more slowly, but as his
legs were long enough to take two steps at a time, he
got to the top nearly as soon as I did, and Peterkin
came puffing after us. I was rather surprised that
Blanche and Elf had been content to stay quietly in
the nursery, considering all the excitement that had
been going on downstairs, and I think it was very<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>
good of Blanche, for she told me afterwards that she
had only done it to keep Elvira from getting into
one of her endless crying fits. They always say Elf
is such a nervous child that she can't help it, but <i>I</i>
think it's a good bit of it cross temper too.</p>
<p>Still she is rather growing out of it, and, after all,
that night there was something to cry about, and
there might have been worse, as nurse said. She had
been telling the girls stories of people who got lost,
though she was sensible enough to make them turn
up all right at the end. She can tell very interesting
stories sometimes, but she keeps the <i>best</i> ones
to amuse us when we are ill, or when mamma's gone
away on a visit, or something horrid like that has
happened.</p>
<p>They all three flew at Peterkin, of course, and
hugged him as if he'd been shipwrecked, or putting
out a fire, or something grand like that. And he
took it as coolly as anything, and asked for his tea, as
if he deserved all the petting and fussing.</p>
<p>That was another of his little 'ways,' I suppose.</p>
<p>Then, as we were waiting for the kettle to boil up
again to make fresh tea, if you please, for his lordship—though
Clem and I were to have some too, of
course, and we did deserve it—all the story had to be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>
told over for the third or fourth time, of the parrot,
and old Mrs. Wylie meeting Pete as she came in, and
his thinking he'd only been there about five minutes,
and all the rest of it.</p>
<p>'And what did the Polly parrot talk about?'
asked Elf. She had a picture of a parrot in one of
her books, and some rhymes about it.</p>
<p>'Oh,' answered Peterkin,' he said, "How d'ye
do?" and "Pretty Poll," and things like that.'</p>
<p>'He said queerer things than that; you know
he—' I began. I saw Pete didn't want to tell about
the parrot copying the mysterious child that Mrs.
Wylie had spoken of, so I thought I'd tease him a
bit by reminding him of it. I felt sure he had got
some of his funny ideas out of his fairy stories in his
head; that the little girl—for Mrs. Wylie had spoken
of a 'her'—was an enchanted princess or something
like that, and I wasn't far wrong, as you will see.
But I didn't finish my sentence, for Peterkin, who was
sitting next me, gave me a sort of little kick, not to
hurt, of course, and whispered, 'I'll tell you afterwards.'
So I felt it would be ill-natured to tease
him, and I didn't say any more, and luckily the
others hadn't noticed what I had begun. Blanchie
was on her knees in front of the fire toasting for us,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>
and Elf was putting lumps of sugar into the cups, to
be ready.</p>
<p>Pete was as hungry as a hunter, and our sharp
walk had given Clem and me a fresh appetite, so we
ate all the toast and a lot of plum-cake as well, and
felt none the worse for it.</p>
<p>And soon after that, it was time to be tidied up
to go down to the drawing-room to mamma. Peterkin
and Elvira only stayed half-an-hour or so, but
after they had gone to bed we three big ones went
into the library to finish our lessons while papa and
mamma were at dinner. Sometimes we went into
the dining-room to dessert, and sometimes we
worked on till mamma called us into the drawing-room:
it all depended on how many lessons we'd got
to do, or how fast we had got on with them. Clement
and Blanche were awfully good about that sort of
thing, and went at it steadily, much better than I,
I'm afraid, though I could learn pretty quickly if I
chose. But I did not like lessons, especially the
ones we had to do at home, for in these days Clem
and I only went to a day-school and had to bring
books and things back with us every afternoon.
And besides these lessons we had to do at home for
school, we had a little extra once or twice a week, as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span>
we had French conversation and reading on half-holidays
with Blanche's teachers, and they sometimes
gave us poetry to learn by heart or to translate. We
were not exactly <i>obliged</i> to do it, but of course we
didn't want Blanche, who was only a girl, to get ahead
of us, as she would very likely have done, for she did
grind at her lessons awfully. I think most girls do.</p>
<p>It sounds as if we were rather hard-worked, but I
really don't think we were, though I must allow that
we worked better in those days, and learnt more in
comparison, than we do now at—I won't give the
name of the big school we are at. Clement says it
is better not—people who write books never do give
the real names, he says, and I fancy he's right. It
is an awfully jolly school, and we are as happy as
sand-boys, whatever that means, but I can't say that
we work as Blanche does, though she does it all at
home with governesses.</p>
<p>That part of the evening—when we went back to
the drawing-room to mamma, I mean—was one of the
times I shall always like to remember about. It is
very jolly now, of course, to be at home for the
holidays, but there was then the sort of 'treat'
feeling of having got our lessons done, and the little
ones comfortably off to bed, and the grown-up-ness.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></p>
<p>Mamma looked so pretty, as she was always
nicely dressed, though I liked some of her dresses
much better than others—I don't like her in black
ones at all; and the drawing-room was pretty, and
then there was mamma's music. Her playing was
nice, but her singing was still better, and she used to
let us choose our favourite songs, each in turn.
Blanche plays the violin now, very well, they say,
and mamma declares she is really far cleverer at
music than she herself ever was; but for all that,
I shall never care for her fiddle anything like
mamma's singing; if I live to be a hundred, I shall
never forget it.</p>
<p>It is a great thing to have really jolly times like
those evenings to think of when you begin to get
older, and are a lot away from home, and likely to
be still less and less there.</p>
<p>But I must not forget that this story is supposed
to be principally about Peterkin and his adventures,
so I'll go on again about the night after he'd been
lost.</p>
<p>He and I had a room together, and he was
nearly always fast asleep, like a fat dormouse, when
I went up to bed. He had a way of curling himself
round, like a ball, that really did remind you of a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>
dormouse. I believe it kept him from growing;
I really do, though I did my best to pull him out
straight. He didn't like that, ungrateful chap, and
used to growl at me for it, and I believe he often
pretended to be asleep when he wasn't, just to stop
me doing it; for one night, nurse had come in to
know what the row was about, and though she
agreed with me that it was much better for him to
lie properly stretched at his full length, she said I
wasn't to wake him up because of it.</p>
<p>But if he was generally fast asleep at night when
I came to bed, he certainly made up for it by
waking in the morning. I never knew anything
like him for that. I believe he woke long before
the birds, winter as well as summer, and then
was his time for talking and telling me his stories
and fancies. Once I myself was well awake I didn't
mind, as it was generally rather interesting; but I
couldn't stand the being awakened ages before the
time. So we made an agreement, that if I didn't
wake him up at night, he'd not bother me in the
morning till I gave a sign that I was on the way to
waking of myself. The sign was a sort of snort
that's easy to make, even while you're still pretty
drowsy, and it did very well, as I could lie quiet in a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>
dreamy way listening to him. He didn't want me
to speak, only to snort a little now and then till I
got quite lively, as I generally did in a few minutes,
as his stories grew more exciting, and there came
something that I wanted him to alter in them.</p>
<p>That night, however, when I went up to bed
there was no need to think of our bargain, for
Peterkin was as wide awake as I was.</p>
<p>'Haven't you been to sleep yet?' I asked him.</p>
<p>'Not exactly,' he said. 'Just a sort of half. I'm
glad you've come, Gilley, for I've got a lot of things
in my head.'</p>
<p>'You generally have,' I said, 'but <i>I'm</i> sleepy, if
you're not. That scamper in the cold after you, my
good boy, was rather tiring, I can tell you.'</p>
<p>'I'm very sorry,' said he, in a penitent tone of
voice, 'but you know, Giles, I never meant to——'</p>
<p>'Oh, stop that!' I exclaimed; 'you've said it
twenty times too often already. Better tell me a
bit of the things in your head. Then you can go to
sleep, and dream them out, and have an interesting
story ready for me in the morning.'</p>
<p>'Oh, but—' objected Pete, sitting up in bed
and clasping his hands round his knees, his face very
red, and his eyes very blue and bright, 'they're not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>
dreamy kind of things at all. There's really something
very misterist—what is the proper word,
Gilley?'</p>
<p>'"Mysterious," I suppose you mean,' I said.</p>
<p>'Yes, misterous,' repeated he, 'about what the
parrot said, and I'm pretty sure that old lady thinks
so too.'</p>
<p>'Didn't she explain about it, at all?' I asked him.
I began to think there <i>was</i> something queer, perhaps,
for Peterkin's manner impressed me.</p>
<p>'Well, she did a little,' he replied. 'But I'd
better tell you all, Gilley; just what I first heard,
before she came up and spoke to me, you know,
and——'</p>
<p>Just then, however, there came an interruption.</p>
<p>Mamma put her head in at the door.</p>
<p>'Boys,' she said, 'not asleep yet? At least <i>you</i>
should be, Peterkin. You didn't wake him, I hope,
Giles?'</p>
<p>I had no time for an indignant 'No; of course,
not,' before Pete came to my defence.</p>
<p>'No, no, mummy! I was awake all of myself.
I wanted him to come very much, to talk a little.'</p>
<p>'Well, you must both be rather tired with all the
excitement there has been,' mamma said. 'So go to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span>
sleep, now, and do your talking in the morning.
Promise,—both of you—eh?'</p>
<p>'Yes,' we answered; 'word of honour, mamma,'
and she went away, quite sure that we would keep
our promise, which was sealed by a kiss from her.</p>
<p>Dear little mother! She did not often come up
to see us in bed, for fear of rousing us out of our
'beauty' sleep, but to-night she had felt as if she
must make sure we were all right after the fuss of
Peterkin's being lost, you see.</p>
<p>And of course we were as good as our word, and
only just said 'Good-night!' to each other; Pete
adding, 'I'll begin at the beginning, and tell you
everything, as soon as I hear your first snort in the
morning, Giles.'</p>
<p>'You'd better wait for my second or third,'
I replied. 'I'm never very clear-headed at the first,
and I want to give my attention, as it's something
real, and not one of your make-ups,' I said. 'So,
good-night!'</p>
<p>It is awfully jolly to know that you are trusted,
isn't it?</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER III</h2>
<h3>AN INVITATION</h3>
<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">I slept</span> on 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.</div>
<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>—</p>
<p>'Oh, I am so glad you're awake!'</p>
<p>'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?'</p>
<p>'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.</p>
<p>'But as I am awake you can start talking,'
I said, closing my eyes again, and preparing to
listen.</p>
<p>Pete was quite ready to obey.</p>
<p>'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——'</p>
<p>'Yes, Meredith Place,' I grunted.</p>
<p>'And,' Pete went on, 'told me to run home.
It's quite straight, if you keep to the front, of
course.'</p>
<p>'And you did run straight home, didn't you?'
I said teasingly.</p>
<p>'No,' he replied seriously, but not at all
offended. 'When I got to the corner of the square<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span>
I 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 ran <i>very</i> fast——'</p>
<p>'I wish I'd been there to see you,' I grunted
again.</p>
<p>'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?'</p>
<p>I did not answer, so he went on.</p>
<p>'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. <i>That</i> was the strange
part that makes me think perhaps he isn't really a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>
parrot 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.</p>
<p>'What did he say?' I asked.</p>
<p>'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."'</p>
<p>'Yes, that's what we heard,' I said, 'but what was
the lot more?'</p>
<p>'Oh, perhaps there wasn't so <i>very</i> much 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?'</p>
<p>'Yes,' I said.</p>
<p>'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,
but <i>squeakier</i>, somehow, when he was copying her.'</p>
<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span></p>
<p>'Isn't it very queer?' he said at last.</p>
<p>'What do you think about it?' I asked.</p>
<p>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>
<p>'P'raps,' he began, 'it isn't <i>only</i> a 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 some <i>bad</i> fairy, and there might be
a <i>good</i> one 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?'</p>
<p>'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.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span></p>
<p>'But we <i>might</i> find it again,' said Peterkin,
brightening up.</p>
<p>And I didn't like to disappoint him by saying I
could not see much chance of it.</p>
<p>Then another idea struck me.</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>'Well,' said Peterkin, 'I was going to tell you the
rest. I was listening to the parrot, and it was much
plainer than <i>you</i> heard, 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.'</p>
<p>'I know all about that,' I interrupted.</p>
<p>'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 listening<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>
to 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.'</p>
<p>'Tortoise-shell,' I corrected.</p>
<p>'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——'</p>
<p>'Shut up about all that,' I interrupted. 'We've
had it often enough, and I want to hear what happened.'</p>
<p>'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 see<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>
the 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.</p>
<p>'Hurry up,' I said. 'What happened after
that?'</p>
<p>'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 the <i>next</i>
house—not in his own house—who cried sometimes
and seemed very cross and unhappy, so that Mrs.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
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.'</p>
<p>'I wonder what started him copying the little girl
again, after he'd left off,' I said.</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>'I think she's got some plan in her head,' said
Peterkin, eagerly, 'for she said—oh, I forgot that—she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>
said 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.'</p>
<p>'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?'</p>
<p>Peterkin shook his head.</p>
<p>'Oh no, she's only been there since Mrs. Wylie
came back from the country. She told me so.'</p>
<p>'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.</p>
<p>'That wouldn't take him long,' said Peterkin, in
his whispering voice again, '<i>if</i> he's some sort of a
fairy, you know, Gilley.'</p>
<p>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 heard<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
the word 'fairy,' she would have begun about Peterkin's
'fancies' again.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'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?'</p>
<p>'No,' I said, 'it's one of the days he stays later
than me, you know.'</p>
<p>Peterkin did not seem very sorry.</p>
<p>'Then she's come just to invite you and me,' he
said. 'Clement <i>is</i> too big, but she might have asked
him too, out of polititude, you know.'</p>
<p>He was always fussing about being polite, but I
don't think I answered her in that way.</p>
<p>'Bother,' I said, for I was cross; my books were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>
heavier 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.'</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'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?'</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>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 the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>
drawing-room, when, sure enough, the old lady was
sitting talking to mamma.</p>
<p>Mamma looked up as we came in, and I saw that
her eyes went past me.</p>
<p>'Hasn't Clement come in?' she asked, and it
made me wish I hadn't given in about it to Pete.</p>
<p>'No, mamma,' I said. 'It's one of his late days,
you know. And Peterkin made me come up just as
I was.'</p>
<p>I felt very ashamed of my hair and crushed collar
and altogether. I didn't mind so much about my
hands; boys' hands <i>can't</i> be 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.</p>
<p>'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 stays<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>
out 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.</p>
<p>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?</p>
<p>'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?'</p>
<p>And we both said, 'Yes, thank you. It will be
very jolly,' so heartily, that the old lady trotted off,
as pleased as pleased.</p>
<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span></p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>We promised we would be all right, and Peterkin
said to me that he didn't believe Mrs. Wylie was at
all 'fussy.'</p>
<p>'She is too fairyish,' he said, 'to be like
that.'</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'But Mrs. Wylie <i>has</i> seen her,' said Peterkin,
'and <i>she</i> hasn't turned into a frog!'</p>
<p>That was a rather tiresome 'way' of his—if I
agreed about fairies and began making up, myself, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>
would get quite common-sensical, and almost make
fun of my ones.</p>
<p>'How do you know that she doesn't turn into a
frog half the day?' I said. 'That's often the way in
enchantments.'</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>So our squabble didn't come to anything that
time.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2>
<h3>VERY MYSTERIOUS</h3>
<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">Saturday</span> came at last. Of course jolly things and
times <i>do</i> come, 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.</div>
<p>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. <i>I</i> think '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.</p>
<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>As soon as the front door was opened, we heard
her voice from upstairs.</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'Come quick,' he said, 'Polly doesn't like
waiting.'</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 309px;">
<img src="images/i068.png" width="309" height="500" alt="NO SOONER DID HE CATCH SIGHT OF US TWO WITH HIS UGLY ROUND BEADY EYES . . . THAN HE SHUT UP.—p. 52." title="NO SOONER DID HE CATCH SIGHT OF US TWO WITH HIS UGLY ROUND BEADY EYES . . . THAN HE SHUT UP.—p. 52." />
<span class="caption">NO SOONER DID HE CATCH SIGHT OF US TWO WITH HIS UGLY ROUND BEADY EYES . . . THAN HE SHUT UP.—p. 52.</span>
</div>
<p>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 a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>
bird, 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>I was quite sorry for her, she seemed so disappointed.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'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 two<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>
go 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.'</p>
<p>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—</p>
<p>'Good-bye, then, my dears. My love to your
mamma, and the next time you come I hope Poll-parrot
will be more friendly.'</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Then Mrs. Wylie stepped out again.</p>
<p>'Polly,' she said, 'I'm ashamed of you. Why<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>
couldn't you be kind and friendly to those nice boys
who came to see you?'</p>
<p>'Pretty Poll,' he said, in a coaxing tone.</p>
<p>'No,' she replied; 'not pretty Poll at all. Ugly
Poll, I should say.'</p>
<p>'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.</p>
<p>'Nonsense!' said Mrs. Wylie. 'You are not
tired or cold, Polly, and nobody is going to lock you
up.'</p>
<p>He was silent for a moment, and peeping out
again, we saw that he was staring hard at the old
lady.</p>
<p>Then he said very meekly—I am not sure which
voice it was in—</p>
<p>'Polly be good! Polly very sorry!'</p>
<p>Mrs. Wylie nodded approvingly.</p>
<p>'Yes,' she said, 'that's a much prettier way to
talk. Now, supposing we have a little music,' and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>
she began to sing in a very soft, very thin, old voice
a few words of 'Home, Sweet Home.'</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>And when it was over, there came another voice.
It was the maid next door, who had stepped quietly
on to the balcony—</p>
<p>'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.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p>
<p>Mrs. Wylie gave a little laugh of pleasure.</p>
<p>'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.</p>
<p>'Oh yes,' said Mrs. Wylie, 'they are here still.
But Polly was very naughty,' and she explained
about it.</p>
<p>'He's learnt that "won't be good" from next
door,' said the girl, 'and I do believe he knows what
it means.'</p>
<p>'I very sorry; I be good,' here said the parrot.</p>
<p>They both started.</p>
<p>'Upon my word!' exclaimed the maid.</p>
<p>'Has he learnt <i>that</i> from next door?' said Mrs.
Wylie, in a lower voice.</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>'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.</p>
<p>Peterkin squeezed my hand, and I understood.
There <i>was</i> a mystery of some kind!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></p>
<p>Then Mrs. Wylie came in and shut the glass door.
She was smiling now with pleasure and satisfaction.</p>
<p>'I did get him to talk, did I not?' she said. 'He
<i>is</i> a funny bird. By degrees I hope he will grow
quite friendly with you too.'</p>
<p>I did not feel very sure about it.</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>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 that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>
she 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 we <i>hadn't</i> heard 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. <i>Then</i>, he says, it's your
duty—you're in honour bound—to tell that you've
heard, and <i>what</i> you've heard.</p>
<p>'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?'</p>
<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></p>
<p>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 cups <i>were</i> rather 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.</p>
<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>And then Peterkin asked her if there were any
children next door. Mrs. Wylie shook her head.</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>'And is the—the little girl the only little girl or
boy in <i>her</i> house?' asked Peterkin.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Our old lady was too good-natured to mind; still,
there was something in her manner when she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>
answered that stopped any more questions from
Pete.</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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, <i>Peterkin's</i> head 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.</p>
<p>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—we<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>
thought we might as well go, for mamma had
said, 'soon after six.'</p>
<p>'Is any one coming to fetch you?' Mrs. Wylie
said.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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—</p>
<p>'Oh no, Peterkin will be all right with me!'</p>
<p>And then we said good-bye, and 'thank you very
much for inviting us.' And Pete actually said—</p>
<p>'May we come again soon, please?'</p>
<p>His ideas of politeness were rather original,
weren't they?</p>
<p>But Mrs. Wylie was quite pleased.</p>
<p>'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?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span>
I am very pleased to think that you care to
come, and I hope you feel the same,' she went on,
turning to me.</p>
<p>She was so kind that I felt I had been rather
horrid, for I <i>had</i> enjoyed 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.</p>
<p>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—</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>'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.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p>
<p>'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——'</p>
<p>'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——'</p>
<p>But just as I got so far, we both stopped—we
were passing the railing of the <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'little's girl'">little girl's</ins> house
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.</p>
<p>It was so queer, our hearing the voices and
almost seeing into the room, <i>just</i> as 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'm<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>
pretty sure he never had the slightest idea that we
were doing anything caddish.</p>
<p>What we heard was this—</p>
<p>'No, I don't want any more tea. I'd better go to
bed. It's so dull, Nana.'</p>
<p>Then another voice replied—it came from some
one further back in the room, but we could not distinguish
the words—</p>
<p>'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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'Come along,' I said, and we walked on.</p>
<p>'Did you hear?' asked Peterkin at last. 'She
said she wanted somebody to play with her.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p>
<p>'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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>I did not so much mind about <i>that</i> part 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.</p>
<p>'What do you want to talk about?' I said.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span></p>
<p>'Oh! of course, you know,' he replied. 'It's
about the <i>poor</i> little 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. <i>P'raps</i> they 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.'</p>
<p>'Well, then, the best thing to do <i>is</i> to lock her up,'
I said sensibly.</p>
<p>But that wasn't Peterkin's way of looking at
things.</p>
<p>'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.'</p>
<p>'The enchantment, you mean,' I said.</p>
<p>'No, no; a shorter word. Oh, I know—the
spell,' he replied. 'Yes, somebody comes to break
the <i>spell</i>. 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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>
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——'</p>
<p>'Perhaps he's the bad fairy himself,' I interrupted,
half joking, but rather interested, all the same, in
Peterkin's ideas.</p>
<p>'Oh no,' he replied, 'I know he's not, and I'm
sure Mrs. Wylie has nothing to do with the bad
fairy.'</p>
<p>'Then why do you think she won't talk about
the little girl, or invite her, or anything?' I asked.</p>
<p>Pete seemed puzzled.</p>
<p>'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—'<i>p'raps</i>
the 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?'</p>
<p>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.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER V</h2>
<h3>'STRATAGEMS'</h3>
<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">I really</span> don't quite know what made me listen to
Peterkin's fancies about his invisible princess, as I
got into the habit of calling her. It was partly, I
suppose, because it amused me—we had nothing
much to take us up just then: there was no skating
that winter, and the weather was dull and muggy—and
partly that somehow he managed to make me
feel as if there might really be something in it. I
suppose when anybody quite believes in a thing, it's
rather catching; and Peterkin's head was so stuffed
and crammed with fairy stories that at that time,
I think, they were almost more real to him than
common things.</div>
<p>He went about, dreaming of ogres and magicians,
and all the rest, so much, that I scarcely think anything
marvellous would have surprised him. If I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
had suddenly shot up to the ceiling, and called out
that I had learnt how to fly, I don't believe he would
have been startled; or if I had shown him a purse
with a piece of gold in it, and told him that it was
enchanted, and that he'd always find the money in it
however often he spent it, he'd have taken it quite
seriously, and been very pleased.</p>
<p>So the idea of an enchanted little girl did not
strike us as at all out of the way.</p>
<p>We did not talk about her any more that night
after we had been at Mrs. Wylie's, for we had to
hurry up to get neat again to come down to the
drawing-room to mamma. Blanche and Elf were
already there when we came in, and they, and
mamma too, were full of questions about how we'd
enjoyed ourselves, and about the parrot, and what
we'd had for tea—just as I knew they would be;
I don't mean that mamma asked what we'd had for
tea, but the girls did.</p>
<p>And then Pete and Elf went off to bed, and when
I went up he was quite fast asleep, and if he hadn't
been, I could not have spoken to him because of my
promise, you know.</p>
<p>He made up for it the next morning, however.</p>
<p>I suppose he had had an extra good night, for I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>
felt him looking at me long before I was at all inclined
to open my eyes, or to snort for him to know
I was awake. And when at last I did—it's really
no good trying to go to sleep again when you feel
there's somebody fidgeting to talk to you—there he
was, his eyes as bright and shiny as could be, sitting
bolt up with his hands round his knees, as if he'd
never been asleep in his life?</p>
<p>I couldn't help feeling rather cross, and yet I
had a contradictory sort of interest and almost eagerness
to hear what he had to say. I suppose it was a
kind of love of adventure that made me join him in
his fancies and plans. I knew that his fancies were
only fancies really, but still I felt as if we might get
some fun out of them.</p>
<p>He was too excited to mind my being grumpy.</p>
<p>'Oh, Gilley!' he exclaimed at my first snort, 'I
am so glad you are awake at last.'</p>
<p>'I daresay you are,' I said, 'but I'm not. I should
have slept another half-hour if you hadn't sat there
staring me awake.'</p>
<p>'Well, you needn't talk,' he went on, in a 'smoothing-you-down'
tone; 'just listen and grunt sometimes.'</p>
<p>I did grunt there and then. There was one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>
comfortable thing about Peterkin even then, and it
keeps on with him now that he is getting big and
sensible. He always understands what you say,
however you say it, or half say it. He was not the
least surprised at my talking of his staring me
awake, though he had not exactly meant to do so.</p>
<p>'It has come into my mind, Giles,' he began, very
importantly, 'how queer and lucky it is that the old
lady is going away for a fortnight. I should not
wonder if it had been managed somehow.'</p>
<p>He waited for my grunt, but it turned into—</p>
<p>'What on earth do you mean?'</p>
<p>'I mean, perhaps it's part of the spell, without
her knowing, of course, that she should have to go to
London. For if she was still there, we couldn't do
anything without her finding out.'</p>
<p>'I don't know what you mean about doing anything,'
I said. 'And please don't say "we." I
haven't promised to join you. Most likely I'll do my
best to stop whatever it is you've got in that rummy
head of yours.'</p>
<p>'Oh no, you won't!' he replied coolly. 'I don't
know that you could if you tried, without telling the
others. And you can't do that, of course, as I've
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>trusted you. It's word of honour, you see, though
I didn't exactly make you say so. And it's nothing
naughty or mischievous, else I wouldn't plan it.'</p>
<p>'What is it, then? Hurry up and tell me, without
such a lot of preparation,' I grumbled.</p>
<p>'I can't tell you very much,' he answered, ''cos,
you see, I don't know myself. It will show as we
go on—I'm certain you'll help me, Gilley. You
remember the prince in the "Sleeping Beauty"
did not know exactly what he would do—no more
did the one in——'</p>
<p>'Never mind all that,' I interrupted.</p>
<p>'Well, then, what we've got to do is to try to talk
to her ourselves without any one hearing. That's the
first thing. We will tell her what the parrot says,
and then it will be easy to find out if she knows
herself about the spell.'</p>
<p>'But what do you think the spell is?' I asked,
feeling again the strange interest and half belief in
his fancies that Peterkin managed to put into me.
'What do you suppose your bad fairies, or whatever
they are, have done to her?'</p>
<p>'There are lots of things, it might be,' he replied
gravely. 'They may have made her not able to walk,
or very queer to look at—p'raps turned her hair
white, so that you couldn't be sure if she was a little<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>
girl or an old woman; or made her nose so long
that it trails on the floor. No, I don't think it's that,'
he added, after stopping to think a minute. 'Her
voice sounds as if she was pretty, even if it's rather
grumbly. P'raps she turns into a mouse at night,
and has to run about, and that's why she's so tired.
It might be that.'</p>
<p>'It would be easy to catch her, then, and bring
her home in your pocket, if you waited till the
magic time came,' I suggested, half joking again, of
course.</p>
<p>'It might be,' agreed Pete, quite seriously, 'or it
might be very, very difficult, unless we could make
her understand at the mouse time that we were
friends. We can't settle anything till we see her,
and talk to her like a little girl, of course.'</p>
<p>'You certainly couldn't talk to her like anything
else,' I said; 'but I'm sure I don't see how you mean
to talk to her at all.'</p>
<p>'I do,' said Peterkin. 'I've been planning it since
last night. We can go round that way once or twice
to look at the parrot, and just stand about. Nobody
would wonder at us if they saw we were looking at
him. And very likely we'd see <i>something</i>, as she
lives in the very next-door house. P'raps she comes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>
to the window sometimes, and she might notice
us if we were looking up at the parrot. It would
be easiest if she was in the downstairs room.'</p>
<p>'I don't suppose she is there all day,' I said. 'The
parrot would not have heard her talking so much if
she were. I think she must have been out on the
balcony sometimes when it was warmer.'</p>
<p>'Yes,' Peterkin agreed. 'I thought of that. Very
likely she only comes downstairs for her dinner and
tea. It's the dining-room, like Mrs. Wylie's.'</p>
<p>'And if she only comes down there late she
wouldn't see us in the dark, and, besides, the parrot
wouldn't be out by then. And besides that, except
for going to tea to Mrs. Wylie's, we'd never get leave
to be out by ourselves so late. At least <i>you</i> wouldn't.
Of course, for me, it's sometimes nearly dark when I
come home from school.'</p>
<p>I really did not see how Pete did mean to manage
it. But the difficulties I spoke of only seemed to
make him more determined. I could not help rather
admiring him for it: he quite felt, I fancy, as if he
was one of his favourite fairy-tale princes. And in
the queer way I have spoken of already, he somehow
made me feel with him. I did not go over all the
difficulties in order to stop him trying, but because I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>
was actually interested in seeing how he was going
to overcome them.</p>
<p>He was silent for a moment or two after my last
speech, staring before him with his round blue eyes.</p>
<p>Then he said quietly—</p>
<p>'Yes; I'd thought of most of those things. But
you will see. We'll manage it somehow. I daresay
she comes downstairs in the middle of the day, too,
for she's sure to have dinner early, and the parrot
will be out then, if we choose a fine day.'</p>
<p>'But we always have to be in for our own dinner
by half-past one,' I said.</p>
<p>'Well, p'raps <i>she</i> has hers at one, or even half-past
twelve, like we used to, till you began going to
school,' said he hopefully. 'And a <i>very</i> little talking
would do at the first beginning. Then we could be
very polite, and say we'd come again to see the
parrot, and p'raps—' here Peterkin looked rather
shy.</p>
<p>'Perhaps what? Out with it!' I said.</p>
<p>'We might take her a few flowers,' he answered,
getting red, 'if—if we could—could get any. They're
very dear to buy, I'm afraid, and we haven't any of
our own. The garden is so small; it isn't like if we
lived in the country,' rather dolefully.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span></p>
<p>'You wouldn't have known anything about Rock
Terrace, or the invisible princess, or the parrot, if we
lived in the country,' I reminded him.</p>
<p>'No,' said Pete, more cheerfully, 'I hadn't thought
of that.'</p>
<p>'And—' I went on, 'I daresay I could help you a
bit if it really seemed any good,' for I rather liked
the idea of giving the little girl some flowers. It
made it all look less babyish.</p>
<p>Peterkin grinned with delight.</p>
<p>'You <i>are</i> kind, Gilley!' he exclaimed. 'I knew
you would be. Oh, bother! here's nurse coming, and
we haven't begun to settle anything properly.'</p>
<p>'There's no hurry,' I said; 'you've forgotten that
we certainly can't go there again till Mrs. Wylie's
out of the way. And she said, "the end of the week";
that means Saturday, most likely, and this is—oh dear!
I was forgetting—it's Sunday, and we'll be late.'</p>
<p>Nurse echoed my words as she came in—</p>
<p>'You'll be late, Master Giles, and Master Peterkin,
too,' she said. 'I really don't think you should talk
so much on Sunday mornings.'</p>
<p>It wasn't that we had to be any earlier on
Sundays than any other day, but that dressing in
your best clothes takes so much longer somehow,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>
and we had to have our hair very neat, and all like
that, because we generally went down to the dining-room,
while papa and mamma and Clement and
Blanche were at breakfast, after we had had our own
in the nursery.</p>
<p>There would be no good in trying to remember all
our morning talks that week about Peterkin's plans.
He did not get the least tired of them, and I didn't,
for a wonder, get tired of listening to him, he was so
very much in earnest.</p>
<p>He chopped and changed a good bit in little parts
of them, but still he stuck to the general idea, and I
helped him to polish it up. It was really more interesting
than any of his fairy stories, for he managed
to make both himself and me feel as if we were going
to be <i>in</i> one of them ourselves.</p>
<p>So I will skip over that week, and go on to the
next. By that time we knew that Mrs. Wylie was
in London, because mamma said something one day
about having had a letter from her. Nothing to do
with the little girl, as far as we knew; I think it
was only about somebody who wanted a servant, or
something stupid like that.</p>
<p>It got on to the Monday of the next week <i>again</i>,
and by that time Pete had got a sort of start of his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>
plans. He had got leave to come to meet me at the
corner of Lindsay Square, once or twice in the last
few days. I used to get there about a quarter or
twenty minutes to one. We were supposed to leave
school not later than a quarter past twelve, but you
know how fellows get fooling about coming out of a
day-school, so, though it was really quite near, I was
often later.</p>
<p>Mamma was pleased for Peterkin to want to come
to meet me. She was not at all coddling or stupid
like that about us boys, though her being in such a
fuss that evening Pete was lost may have seemed so.
And she was always awfully glad for us to be fond
of each other. She used to say she hoped we'd grow
up 'friends' as well as brothers, which always
reminded me of the verse about it in the Bible about
'sticking closer than a brother.' And I like to think
that dear little mummy's hopes will come true for
her sons.</p>
<p>It wasn't exactly a fit of affection for me, of
course, that made Pete want to get into the way of
coming to meet me. Still, we <i>were</i> very good
friends; especially good friends just then, as you
know.</p>
<p>So that Monday, which luckily happened to be a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>
very nice bright day, he had no difficulty in getting
leave for it again. I had promised him to hurry
over getting off from school, so we counted on having
a good bit of time to spend in looking at the parrot
and talking to him, and in 'spying the land'
generally, including the invisible princess, if we got a
chance, without risking coming in too late for our
dinner. We had taken care never to be late, up till
now, for fear of Peterkin's coming to meet me being
put a stop to; but we hadn't pretended that we
would come straight home, and once or twice we had
done a little shopping together, and more than once
we had spent several minutes in staring in at the
flower-shop windows, settling what kind of flowers
would be best, and in asking the prices of hers from
a flower-woman who often sat near the corner of the
square. She was very good-natured about it. We
shouldn't have liked to go into a regular shop only
to ask prices, so it was a good thing to know a little
about them beforehand.</p>
<p>I remember all about that Monday morning particularly
well. I did hurry off from school as fast as
I could, though of course—I think it nearly always
happens so—ever so many stupid little things turned
up to keep me later than I often was.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span></p>
<p>I skurried along pretty fast, you may be sure, once
I did get out, and it wasn't long before I caught sight
of poor old Pete <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'eagly'">eagerly</ins> watching for me at the corner
of Lindsay Square. He did not dare to come farther,
because, you see, he had promised mamma he never
would, and that if I were ever very late he'd go home
again.</p>
<p>I didn't give him time to be doleful about it.</p>
<p>'I've been as quick as I possibly could,' I said,
'and it's not so bad after all, Pete. We shall have
a quarter of an hour for Rock Terrace at least, if
we hurry now. Don't speak—it only wastes your
breath,' for in those days, with being so plump and
sturdy and his legs rather short, it didn't take much
to make him puff or pant. He's in better training
now by a long way.</p>
<p>He was always very sensible, so he took my
advice and we got over the ground pretty fast, only
pulling up when we got to the end, or beginning, of
the little row of houses.</p>
<p>'Now,' said I, 'let's first walk right along rather
slowly, and if we hear the Polly we can stop short,
as if we were noticing him for the first time, the
way people often do, you know.'</p>
<p>Peterkin nodded.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span></p>
<p>'I believe I see the corner of his cage out on the
balcony,' he said, half whispering, 'already.'</p>
<p>He was right. The cage was out.</p>
<p>We walked past very slowly, though we took care
not to look up as if we were expecting to see anything.
The parrot was in the front of the cage,
staring down, and I'm almost certain he saw us, and
even remembered us, though, out of contradiction, he
pretended he didn't.</p>
<p>'Don't speak or turn,' I whispered to Pete. It
was so very quiet along Rock Terrace, except when
some tradesman's cart rattled past—and just now
there was nothing of the kind in view—that even
common talking could have been heard. 'Don't
speak or seem to see him. They are awfully conceited
birds, and the way to make them notice you
and begin talking and screeching is to pretend you
don't see them.'</p>
<p>So we walked on silently to the farther end of the
terrace, in a very matter-of-fact way, turning to come
back again just as we had gone. And I could be
positive that the creature saw us all the time, for the
row of houses was very short, and he was well to the
front of the balcony.</p>
<p>Our 'stratagem'—I have always liked the word,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>
ever since I read <i>Tales of a Grandfather</i>, which I
thought a great take-in, as it's just a history book,
neither more nor less, and the only exciting part is
when you come upon stratagems—succeeded. As we
<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'get'">got</ins> close up to the parrot's house, next door to
Mother Wylie's, you understand, <i>and</i>, of course, next
door to the invisible princess's, we heard a sound.
It was a sort of rather angry squeak or croak, but
loud enough to be an excuse for our stopping short
and looking up.</p>
<p>And then, as we still did not speak, Master Poll,
his round eyes glaring at us, I felt certain, was forced
to open the conversation.</p>
<p>'Pretty Poll,' he began, of course. 'Pretty Poll.'</p>
<p>'All right,' I called back. 'Good morning, Pretty
Poll. A fine day.'</p>
<p>'Wants his dinner,' he went on. 'I say, wants his
dinner.'</p>
<p>'Really, does he?' I said, in a mocking tone,
which he understood, and beginning to get angry—just
what I wanted.</p>
<p>'Naughty boy! naughty boy!' he screeched, very
loudly. Pete and I grinned with satisfaction!</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2>
<h3>MARGARET</h3>
<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">There's</span> an old proverb that mamma has often quoted
to us, for she's awfully keen on our all being 'plucky,'
and, on the whole, I think we are—</div>
<p>'Fortune favours the brave.'</p>
<p>I have sometimes thought it would suit Peterkin
to turn it into 'Fortune favours the determined.'
Not that he's <i>not</i> 'plucky,' but there's nothing like
him for sticking to a thing, once he has got it into his
head. And certainly fortune favoured him at the
time I am writing about. Nothing could have suited
us better than the parrot's screeching out to us
'naughty boy, naughty boy.'</p>
<p>I suppose he had been taught to say it to errand-boys
and boys like that who mocked at him. But
we did not want to set up a row, so I replied gently—</p>
<p>'No, no, Polly, good boys. Polly shall have his
dinner soon.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></p>
<p>'Good Polly, good Polly,' he repeated with satisfaction.</p>
<p>And then—what <i>do</i> you think happened? The
door-window of the drawing-room of the next house,
<i>the</i> house, was pushed open a little bit, and out
peeped a child's head, a small head with smooth short
dark hair, but a little girl's head. We could tell that
at once by the way it was combed, or brushed, even
if we had not seen, as we did, a white muslin pinafore,
with lace ruffly things that only a girl would
wear. My heart really began to beat quite loudly,
as if I'd been running fast—we had been so excited
about her, you see, and afterwards Pete told me his
did too.</p>
<p>The only pity was, that she was up on the drawing-room
floor. We could have seen her so much better
downstairs. But we had scarcely time to feel disappointed.</p>
<p>When she saw us, and saw, I suppose, that we
were not errand-boys or street-boys, she came out a
little farther. I felt sure by her manner that she
was alone in the room. She looked down at us,
looked us well over for a moment or two, and then
she said—</p>
<p>'Are you talking to the parrot?'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span></p>
<p>She did not call out or speak loudly at all, but her
voice was very clear.</p>
<p>'Yes,' Peterkin replied. As he had started the
whole business I thought it fair to let him speak
before me. 'Yes, but he called out to us first. He
called us "naughty boys."'</p>
<p>'I heard him,' said the little girl, 'and I thought
perhaps you <i>were</i> naughty boys, teasing him, you
know, and I was going to call to you to run away.
But—' and she glanced at us again. I could see
that she wanted to go on talking, but she did not
quite know how to set about it.</p>
<p>So I thought I might help things on a bit.</p>
<p>'Thank you,' I said, taking off my cap. 'My
little brother is very interested in the parrot. He
seems so clever.'</p>
<p>At another time Pete would have been very
offended at my calling him 'little,' but just now he
was too eager to mind, or even, I daresay, to notice.</p>
<p>'So he is,' said the little girl. 'I could tell you
lots about him, but it's rather tiresome talking down
to you from up here. Wait a minute,' she added,
'and I'll come down to the dining-room. I may go
downstairs now, and nurse is out, and I'm very dull.'</p>
<p>We were so pleased that we scarcely dared look at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>
each other, for fear that somehow it should go wrong
after all. We did glance along the terrace, but nobody
was coming. If only her nurse would stay out
for ten minutes longer, or even less.</p>
<p>We stood there, almost holding our breath. But
it was not really—it could not have been—more than
half a minute, before the dark head and white pinafore
appeared again, this time, of course, on the
ground floor; the window there was a little bit open
already, to air the room perhaps.</p>
<p>We would have liked to go close up to the small
balcony where she stood, but we dared not, for fear
of the nurse coming. And the garden was very tiny,
we were only two or three yards from the little girl,
even outside on the pavement.</p>
<p>She looked at us first, looked us well over, before
she began to speak again. Then she said—</p>
<p>'Have you been to see the parrot already?'</p>
<p>'Oh yes,' said Peterkin, in his very politest tone,
'oh yes, thank you.' I did not quite see why he said
'thank you.' I suppose he meant it in return for her
coming downstairs. 'I've been here two, no, three
times, and Giles,' he gave a sort of nod towards me,
'has been here two.'</p>
<p>'Is your name Giles?' she asked me. She had a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
funny, little, rather condescending manner of speaking
to us, but I didn't mind it somehow.</p>
<p>'Yes,' I replied, 'and his,' and I touched Pete, 'is
"Peterkin."'</p>
<p>'They are queer names; don't you think so? At
least,' she added quickly, as if she was afraid she had
said something rude, 'they are very uncommon.
"Giles" and "Perkin."'</p>
<p>'Not "Perkin,"' I said, "Peterkin."'</p>
<p>'Oh, I thought it was like a man in my history,'
she said, 'Perkin War—something.'</p>
<p>'No,' said Peterkin, 'it isn't in history, but it's in
poetry. About a battle. I've got it in a book.'</p>
<p>'I should like to see it,' she said. 'There's lots of
<i>my</i> name in history. My name is Margaret. There
are queens and princesses called Margaret.'</p>
<p>Pete opened his mouth as if he was going to speak,
but shut it up again. I know what he had been
on the point of saying,—'Are you a princess?' 'a
shut-up princess?' he would have added very likely,
but I suppose he was sensible enough to see that if
she had been 'shut-up,' in the way he had been fancying
to himself, she would scarcely have been able to
come downstairs and talk to us as she was doing.
And she was not dressed like the princesses in his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>
stories, who had always gold crowns on and long
shiny trains. Still, though she had only a pinafore
on, I could see that it was rather a grand one, lots of
lace about it, like one of Elf's very best, and though
her hair was short and her face small and pale, there
was something about her—the way she stood and
the way she spoke—which was different from many
little girls of her age.</p>
<p>Peterkin took advantage very cleverly of what she
had said about his name.</p>
<p>'I'll bring you my poetry-book, if you like,' he
said. 'It's a quite old one. I think it belonged to
grandmamma, and she's as old as—as old as—' he
seemed at a loss to find anything to compare poor
grandmamma to, till suddenly a bright idea struck
him—'nearly as old as Mrs. Wylie, I should think,'
he finished up.</p>
<p>'Oh,' said Margaret, 'do you know Mrs. Wylie?
I've never seen her, but I think I've heard her talk.
Her house is next door to the parrot's.'</p>
<p>'Yes,' said I, 'but I wonder you've never seen her.
She often goes out.'</p>
<p>'But—' began the little girl again, 'I've been—oh,
I do believe that's my dinner clattering in the
kitchen, and nurse will be coming in, and I've never<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>
told you about the parrot. I've lots to tell you.
Will you come again? Not to-morrow, but on
Wednesday nurse is going out to the dressmaker's.
I heard her settling it. Please come on Wednesday,
just like this.'</p>
<p>'We could come a little earlier, perhaps,' I
said.</p>
<p>Margaret nodded.</p>
<p>'Yes, do,' she replied, 'and I'll be on the look-out
for you. I shall think of lots of things to say. I
want to tell you about the parrot, and—about lots of
things,' she repeated. 'Good-bye.'</p>
<p>We tugged at our caps, echoing 'good-bye,' and
then we walked on towards the farther-off end of the
terrace, and when we got there we turned and walked
back again. And then we saw that we had not left
the front of Margaret's house any too soon, for a
short, rather stout little woman was coming along,
evidently in a hurry. She just glanced at us as
she passed us, but I don't think she noticed us
particularly.</p>
<p>'That's her nurse, I'm sure,' said Peterkin, in a
low voice. 'I don't think she looks unkind.'</p>
<p>'No, only rather fussy, I should say,' I replied.</p>
<p>We had scarcely spoken to each other before,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span>
since bidding Margaret good-bye. Pete had been
thinking deeply, and I was waiting to hear what he
had to say.</p>
<p>'I wonder,' he went on, after a moment or two's
silence,—'I wonder how much she knows?'</p>
<p>'Why?' I exclaimed. 'What do you think there
is to know?'</p>
<p>'It's all very misterous, still,' he answered
solemnly. 'She—the little girl—said she had lots to
tell us about the parrot and other things. And she
didn't want her nurse to see us talking to her. And
she said she could come downstairs <i>now</i>, but, I'm
sure, they don't let her go out. She wouldn't be so
dull if they did.'</p>
<p>'Who's "they"?' I asked.</p>
<p>'I don't quite know,' he replied, shaking his head.
'Some kind of fairies. P'raps it's bad ones, or
p'raps it's good ones. No, it can't be bad ones, for
then they wouldn't have planned the parrot telling
us about her, so that we could help her to get free.
The parrot is a sort of messenger from the good
fairies, I believe.'</p>
<p>He looked up, his eyes very bright and blue, as
they always were when he thought he had made a
discovery, or was on the way to one. And I, half in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>
earnest, half in fun, like I'd been about it all the
time, let my own fancy go on with his.</p>
<p>'Perhaps,' I said. 'We shall find out on Wednesday,
I suppose, when we talk more to Margaret.
We needn't call her the invisible princess any more.'</p>
<p>'No, but she is a princess sort of little girl, isn't
she?' he said, 'though her hair isn't as pretty as
Blanche's and Elf's, and her face is very little.'</p>
<p>'She's all right,' I said.</p>
<p>And then we had to hurry and leave off talking,
for we had been walking more slowly than we knew,
and just then some big clock struck the quarter.</p>
<p>I think, perhaps, I had better explain here, that
none of us—neither Margaret, nor Peterkin, nor I—thought
we were doing anything the least wrong in
keeping our making acquaintance a secret. What
Margaret thought about it, so far as she did think of
that part of it, you will understand as I go on; and
Pete and I had our minds so filled with his fairies
that we simply didn't think of anything else.</p>
<p>It was growing more and more interesting, for
Margaret had something very jolly about her, though
she wasn't exactly pretty.</p>
<p>I can't remember if it did come into my mind, a
very little, perhaps, that we should tell somebody—mamma,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>
perhaps, or Clement—about our visits to
Rock Terrace even then. But if it did, I think I put
it out again, by knowing that Margaret meant it to
be a secret, and that, till we saw her again, and heard
what she was going to tell us, it would not be fair to
mention anything about it.</p>
<p>We were both very glad that Wednesday was only
the day after to-morrow. It would have been a great
nuisance to have had to wait a whole week, perhaps.
And we were very anxious when Wednesday morning
came, to see what sort of weather it was, for on
Tuesday it rained. Not very badly, but enough for
nurse to tell Peterkin that it was too showery for
him to come to meet me, and it would not have been
much good if he had, as we couldn't have spoken to
Margaret.</p>
<p>Nor could we have strolled up and down the
terrace or stood looking at the parrot, even if he'd
been out on the terrace, which he wouldn't have been
on at all on a bad day—if it was rainy. It would have
been sure to make some of the people in the houses
wonder at us; just what we didn't want.</p>
<p>But Wednesday was fine, luckily, and this time I
got off from school to the minute without any one or
anything stopping me.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span></p>
<p>I ran most of the way to the corner of Lindsay
Square, all the same; and I was not too early either,
for before I got there I saw Master Peterkin's sturdy
figure steering along towards me, not far off. And
when he got up to me I saw that he had a small
brown-paper parcel under his arm, neatly tied up
with red string.</p>
<p>He was awfully pleased to see me so early, for his
round face was grinning all over, and as a rule it was
rather solemn.</p>
<p>'What's that you've got there?' I asked.</p>
<p>He looked surprised at my not knowing.</p>
<p>'Why, of course, the poetry-book,' he said. 'I
promised it her, and I've marked the poetry about
"Peterkin." It's the Battle of Blen—Blen-hime—mamma
said, when I learnt it, that that's the right
way to say it; but Miss Tucker' ('Miss Tucker' was
Blanche's and the little ones' governess) 'called it
Blen<i>nem</i>, and I always have to think when I say it.
I wish they didn't call him "<i>little</i> Peterkin," though,'
he went on, 'it sounds so babyish.'</p>
<p>'I don't see that it matters, as it isn't about you
yourself,' I said. 'I'd forgotten all about it; I think
it's rather sharp of you to have remembered.'</p>
<p>'I couldn't never forget anything I'd promised <i>her</i>,'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>
said Pete, and you might really have thought by his
tone that he believed he was the prince going to
visit the Sleeping Beauty—after she'd come awake, I
suppose.</p>
<p>We did not need to hurry; we were actually
rather too early, so we went on talking.</p>
<p>'How about the flowers we meant to get for her?'
I said suddenly.</p>
<p>'<i>I</i> didn't forget about them,' he answered, 'but
we didn't promise them, and I thought it would be
better to ask her first. She might like chocolates
best, you know.'</p>
<p>'All right,' I said, and I thought perhaps it was
better to ask her first. You see, if she didn't want
her nurse to know about our coming to see her it
would have been tiresome, as, of course, Margaret
could not have told a story.</p>
<p>There she was, peeping out of the downstairs
window already when we got there. And when she
saw us she came farther out, a little bit on to the
balcony. It was a sunny day for winter, and
besides, she had a red shawl on, so she could not very
well have caught cold. It was a very pretty shawl,
with goldy marks or patterns on it. It was like one
grandmamma had been sent a present of from India,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>
and afterwards Margaret told me hers had come
from India too. And it suited her, somehow, even
though she was only a thin, pale little girl.</p>
<p>She smiled when she saw us, though she did not
speak till we were near enough to hear what she
said without her calling out. And when we stopped
in front of her house, she said—</p>
<p>'I think you might come inside the garden. We
could talk better.'</p>
<p>So we did, first glancing up at the next-door
balcony, to see if the parrot was there.</p>
<p>Yes, he was, but not as far out as usual, and
there was a cloth, or something, half-down round his
cage, to keep him warmer, I suppose.</p>
<p>He was quite silent, but Margaret nodded her
head up towards him.</p>
<p>'He told me you were coming,' she cried, 'though
it wasn't in a very polite way. He croaked out—"Naughty
boys! naughty boys!"'</p>
<p>We all three laughed a little.</p>
<p>'And now,' Margaret went on, 'I daresay he won't
talk at all, all the time you are here.'</p>
<p>'But will he understand what we say?' asked
Peterkin, rather anxiously.</p>
<p>Margaret shook her head.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 311px;">
<img src="images/i115.png" width="311" height="500" alt="PETE HELD OUT HIS BROWN-PAPER PARCEL. 'THIS IS THE POETRY-BOOK,' HE SAID.—p. 97." title="PETE HELD OUT HIS BROWN-PAPER PARCEL. 'THIS IS THE POETRY-BOOK,' HE SAID.—p. 97." />
<span class="caption">PETE HELD OUT HIS BROWN-PAPER PARCEL. 'THIS IS THE POETRY-BOOK,' HE SAID.—p. 97.</span>
</div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></p>
<p>'I really don't know,' she replied. 'We had
better talk in rather low voices. I don't <i>think</i>,' she
went on, almost in a whisper, 'that he is fairy enough
to hear if we speak very softly.'</p>
<p>Peterkin gave a sort of spring of delight.</p>
<p>'Oh!' he exclaimed, 'I am <i>so</i> glad you think he
is fairyish, too.'</p>
<p>'Of course I do,' said she; 'that's partly what I
wanted to tell you.'</p>
<p>We came closer to the window. Margaret looked
at us again in her examining way, without speaking,
for a minute, and before she said anything, Pete held
out his brown-paper parcel.</p>
<p>'This is the poetry-book,' he said, 'and I've put a
mark in the place where it's about my name.'</p>
<p>He pulled off his cap as he handed the packet to
her, and stood with his curly wig looking almost red
in the sunlight, though it was not very bright.</p>
<p>'Put it on again,' said Margaret, in her little
queer way, meaning his cap. 'And thank you very
much, Perkin, for remembering to bring it. I think
I should like to call you "Perkin," if you don't mind.
I like to have names of my own for some people, and
I really thought yours was Perkin.'</p>
<p>I wished to myself she would have a name of her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span>
own for <i>me</i>, but I suppose she thought I was too
big.</p>
<p>'I think you are very nice boys,' she went on,
'not "naughty" ones at all; and if you will promise
not to tell any one what I am going to tell <i>you</i>, I will
explain all I can. I mean you mustn't tell any one
till I give you leave, and as it's only about my own
affairs, of course you can promise.'</p>
<p>Of course we did promise.</p>
<p>'Listen, then,' said Margaret, glancing up first of
all at the parrot, and drawing back a little into the
inside of the room. 'You can hear what I say, even
though I don't speak very loudly, can't you?'</p>
<p>'Oh yes! quite well,' we replied.</p>
<p>'Well, then, listen,' she repeated. 'I have no
brothers or sisters, and Dads and Mummy are in
India. I lived there till about three years ago, and
then they came here and left me with my grandfather.
That's how people always have to do who
live in India.'</p>
<p>'Didn't you mind awfully?' I said. 'Your father
and mother leaving you, I mean?'</p>
<p>'Of course I minded,' she replied. 'But I had
always known it would have to be. And they will
come home again for good some day; perhaps before<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>
very long. And I have always been quite happy till
lately. Gran is very good to me, and I'm used to
being a good deal alone, you see, except for big people.
I've always had lots of story books, and not <i>very</i>
many lessons. So, after a bit, it didn't seem so very
different from India. Only <i>now</i> it's quite different.
It's like being shut up in a tower, and it's very queer
altogether, and I <i>believe</i> she's a sort of a witch,' and
Margaret nodded her head mysteriously.</p>
<p>'<i>Who?</i>' we asked eagerly.</p>
<p>'The person I'm living with—Miss Bogle—isn't
her name witchy?' and she smiled a little. 'No,
no, not nurse,' for I had begun to say the word.
'<i>She</i> is only rather a goose. No, this house belongs
to Miss Bogle, and she's quite old—oh, as old as old!
And she's got rheumatism, so she very seldom goes
up and down stairs. And nurse does just exactly
what Miss Bogle tells her. It was this way. Gran
had to go away—a good way, though not so far as
India, and he is always dreadfully afraid of anything
happening to me, I suppose. So he sent me here
with nurse, and he told me I would be very happy.
He knew Miss Bogle long ago—I think she had a
school for little boys once; perhaps that was before
she got to be a witch. But I've been dreadfully unhappy,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>
and I don't know what's going to happen to
me if I go on like this much longer.'</p>
<p>She stopped, out of breath almost.</p>
<p>'Do you think she's going to enchanter you?'
asked Peterkin, in a whisper. 'Do you think she
wasn't asked to your christening, or anything like
that?'</p>
<p>Margaret shook her head again.</p>
<p>'<i>Something</i> like that, I suppose,' she replied.
'She looks at me through her spectacles so queerly,
you can't think. You see, I was ill at Gran's before
I came here: not very badly, though he fussed a
good deal about it. And he thought the sea-air
would do me good. But I've often had colds, and I
never was treated like this before—never. For ever
so long, <i>she</i>,' and Margaret nodded towards somewhere
unknown, 'wouldn't let me come downstairs
at all. And then I cried—sometimes I <i>roared</i>, and
luckily the parrot heard, and began to talk about it
in his way. And you see it's through him that <i>you</i>
got to know about me, so I'm sure he's on the other
side, and knows she's a witch, but——'</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2>
<h3>THE GREAT PLAN</h3>
<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">At</span> that moment the clock—a clock somewhere
near—struck. Margaret started, and listened,—'One,
two, three.' She looked pleased.</div>
<p>'It's only a quarter to one,' she said. 'Half-an-hour
still to my dinner. What time do you need to
get home by?'</p>
<p>'A quarter-past will do for us,' I said.</p>
<p>'Oh, then it's all right,' she replied. 'But I must
be quick. I want to know all that the parrot told
you.'</p>
<p>'It was more what he had said to Mrs. Wylie,' I
explained, 'copying you, you know. And, at first,
she called you "that poor child," and told us she was
so sorry for you.'</p>
<p>'But now she won't say anything. She pinched<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>
up her lips about you the other day,' added
Peterkin.</p>
<p>Margaret seemed very interested, but not very
surprised.</p>
<p>'Oh, then, Miss Bogle is beginning to bewitch her
too,' she said. 'Nurse is a goose, as I told you.
She just does everything Miss Bogle wants. And if
it wasn't for the parrot and you,' she went on
solemnly, 'I daresay when Gran comes home he'd
find me turned into a pussy-cat.'</p>
<p>'Or a mouse, or even a frog,' said Peterkin, his
eyes gleaming; 'only then he wouldn't know it was
you, unless your nurse told him.'</p>
<p>'She wouldn't,' said Margaret, 'the witch would
take care to stop her, or to turn her into a big cat
herself, or something. There'd be only the parrot,
and Gran mightn't understand him. It's better not
to risk it. And that's what I'm planning about.
But it will take a great deal of planning, though I've
been thinking about it ever since you came, and I
felt sure the good fairies had sent you to rescue me.
When can you come again?'</p>
<p>'Any day, almost,' said Pete.</p>
<p>'Well, then, I'll tell you what. I'll be on the
look-out for you passing every fine day about this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>
time, and the first day I'm sure of nurse going to
London again—and I know she has to go once more
at least—I'll manage to tell you, and <i>then</i> we'll fix
for a long talk here.'</p>
<p>'All right,' I said, 'but we'd better go now.'</p>
<p>There was a sound of footsteps approaching, so
with only a hurried 'good-bye' we ran off.</p>
<p>We did not need to stroll up and down the
terrace to-day, as we knew Margaret's nurse was
away; luckily so, for we only just got home in time
by the skin of our teeth, running all the way, and
not talking.</p>
<p>I wish I could quite explain about myself, here,
but it is rather difficult. I went on thinking about
Margaret a lot, all that day; all the more that Pete
and I didn't talk much about her. We both seemed
to be waiting till we saw her again and heard her
'plans.'</p>
<p>And I cannot now feel sure if I really was in
earnest at all, as she and Peterkin certainly were,
about the enchantment and the witch. I remember
I laughed at it to myself sometimes, and called it
'bosh' in my own mind. And yet I did not quite
think it only that. After all, I was only a little boy
myself, and Margaret had such a common-sensical<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>
way, even in talking of fanciful things, that somehow
you couldn't laugh at her, and Pete, of course, was
quite and entirely in earnest.</p>
<p>I think I really had a strong belief that <i>some</i> risk
or danger was hanging over her, and I think this
was natural, considering the queer way our getting
to know her had been brought about. And any boy
would have been 'taken' by the idea of 'coming to
the rescue,' as she called it.</p>
<p>There was a good deal of rather hard work at
lessons just then for me. Papa and mamma wanted
me to get into a higher class after Christmas, and I
daresay I had been pretty idle, or at least taking
things easy, for I was not as well up as I should
have been, I know. So Peterkin and I had not as
much time for private talking as usual. I had often
lessons to look over first thing in the morning, and
as mamma would not allow us to have candles in
bed, and there was no gas or electric light in our
room, I had to get up a bit earlier, when I had work
to look over or finish. And nurse was very good
about that sort of thing: there was always a jolly
bright fire for me in the nursery, however early I
was.</p>
<p>Our best time for talking was when Peterkin<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>
came to meet me. But we had two or three wet
days about then. And Margaret did not expect us
on rainy days, even if Pete had been allowed to come,
which he wasn't.</p>
<p>It was, as far as I remember, not till the Monday
after that Wednesday that we were able to pass
along Rock Terrace. And almost before we came in
real sight of her, I felt certain that the little figure
was standing there on the look-out.</p>
<p>And so she was—red shawl and white pinafore,
and small dark head, as usual.</p>
<p>We made a sort of pretence of strolling past her
house at first, but we found we didn't need to. She
beckoned to us at once, and just at that moment the
parrot, who was out in <i>his</i> balcony, most luckily—or
cleverly, Peterkin always declares he did it on
purpose—screeched out in quite a good-humoured
tone—</p>
<p>'Good morning! good morning! Pretty Poll!
Fine day, boys! Good morning!'</p>
<p>'Good morning, Poll,' we called out as we ran
across the tiny plot of garden to Margaret.</p>
<p>'I'm so glad you've come,' she said, 'but you
mustn't stop a minute. I've been out in a bath-chair
this morning—I've just come in; and now I'm<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>
to go every day. It's horrid, and it's all nonsense,
when I can walk and run quite well. It's all that
old witch. I'm going again to-morrow and Wednesday;
but I'm going to manage to make it later on
Wednesday, so that you can talk to me on the
Parade. Nurse is going to London all day on
Wednesday, but I'm to go out just the same, for the
bath-chair man is somebody that Miss Bogle knows
quite well. So if you watch for me on the Parade,
between the street close to here,' and she nodded
towards the nearest side of Lindsay Square, 'and
farther on <i>that</i> way,' and now she pointed in the
direction of our own house, 'I'll look out for you,
and we can have a good talk.'</p>
<p>'All right,' we replied. 'On Wednesday—day
after to-morrow, if it's fine, of course.'</p>
<p>'Yes,' she said; 'though I'll <i>try</i> to go, even if it's
not <i>very</i> fine, and you must try to come. I know
now why nurse has to go to London. It's to see her
sister, who's in an hospital, and Wednesday's the
only day, and she's a dressmaker—that's why I
thought nurse had to go to a dressmaker's. I'm
going on making up my plans. It's getting worse
and worse. After I've been out in the bath-chair,
Miss Bogle says I'm to lie down most of the afternoon!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span>
Just fancy—it's so <i>dreadfully</i> dull, for she
won't let me read. She says it's bad for your eyes,
when you're lying down. Unless I do something
quick, I believe she'll turn me into a—oh! I don't
know what,' and she stopped, quite out of
breath.</p>
<p>'A frog,' said Peterkin. He had enchanted frogs
on the brain just then, I believe.</p>
<p>'No,' said Margaret, 'that wouldn't be so bad, for
I'd be able to jump about, and there's nothing I love
as much as jumping about, especially in water,' and
her eyes sparkled with a sort of mischief which I
had seen in them once or twice before. 'No, it
would be something much horrider—a dormouse,
perhaps. I should hate to be a dormouse.</p>
<p>'You shan't be changed into a dormouse or—or
<i>anything</i>,' said Peterkin, with a burst of indignation.</p>
<p>'Thank you, Perkins,' Margaret replied; 'but
please go now and remember—Wednesday.'</p>
<p>We ran off, and though we thought we had only
been a minute or two at Rock Terrace, after all we
were not home much too early.</p>
<p>'We must be careful on Wednesday,' I said.
'I'm afraid my watch is rather slow.'</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 278px;">
<img src="images/i128.png" width="278" height="500" alt="WE HAD NO DIFFICULTY IN FINDING HER BATH-CHAIR.—p. 108." title="WE HAD NO DIFFICULTY IN FINDING HER BATH-CHAIR.—p. 108." />
<span class="caption">WE HAD NO DIFFICULTY IN FINDING HER BATH-CHAIR.—p. 108.</span>
</div>
<p>'Dinner isn't always quite so pumptual on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>
Wednesdays,' said Pete, 'with its being a half-holiday,
you know.'</p>
<p>It turned out right enough on Wednesday.</p>
<p>Considering what a little girl she was then—only
eight and a bit—Margaret was very clever with her
plans and settlings, as we have often told her since.
I daresay it was with her having lived so much
alone, and read so many story-books, and made up
stories for herself too, as she often did, though we
didn't know that then.</p>
<p>We had no difficulty in finding her bath-chair,
and the man took it quite naturally that she should
have some friends, and, of course, made no objection
to our walking beside her and talking to her. He
was a very nice kind sort of a man, though he
scarcely ever spoke. Perhaps he had children of
his own, and was glad for Margaret to be amused.
He took great care of the chair, over the crossing the
road and the turnings, and no doubt he had been
told to be extra careful, but as Miss Bogle had no
idea that Margaret knew a creature in the place I
don't suppose 'the witch' had ever thought of telling
him that he was not to let any one speak to her.</p>
<p>It was a very fine day—a sort of November
summer, and when you were in the full sunshine it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>
really felt quite hot. There were bath-chairs standing
still, for the people in them to enjoy the warmth
and to stare out at the sea.</p>
<p>Margaret did not want to stare at it, and no more
did we. But it was more comfortable to talk with
the chair standing still; for though to look at one
going it seems to crawl along like a snail, I can tell
you to keep up with it you have to step out pretty
fast, faster than Peterkin could manage without a
bit of running every minute or so, which is certainly
<i>not</i> comfortable, and faster than I myself could
manage as well as talking, without getting short of
breath.</p>
<p>So we were very glad to pull up for a few minutes,
though we had already got through a good deal of
business, as I will tell you.</p>
<p>Margaret had made up her mind to run away!
Fancy that—a little girl of eight!</p>
<p>Pete and I were awfully startled when she burst
out with it. She could stand Miss Bogle and the
dreadful dulness and loneliness of Rock Terrace no
longer, she declared, not to speak of what might
happen to her in the way of being turned into a
kitten or a mouse or <i>something</i>, if the witch got
really too spiteful.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span></p>
<p>'And where will you go to?' we asked.</p>
<p>'Home,' she said, 'at least to my nursey's, and
that is close to home.'</p>
<p>We were so puzzled at this that we could scarcely
speak.</p>
<p>'To your <i>nurse's!</i>' we said at last.</p>
<p>'Yes, to my own nurse—my old nurse!' said
Margaret, quite surprised that we didn't understand.
And then she explained what she thought she had
told us.</p>
<p>'That stupid thing who is my nurse now,' she said,
'isn't my <i>real</i> nurse. I mean she has only been with
me since I came here. She belongs to Miss Bogle—I
mean Miss Bogle got her. My own darling nursey
had to leave me. She stayed and stayed because of
that bad cold I got, you know, but as soon as I was
better she <i>had</i> to go, because her mother was so old
and ill, and hasn't <i>nobody</i> but nursey to take care of
her. And then when Gran had to go away he
settled it all with that witchy Miss Bogle, and she
got this goosey nurse, and my own nursey brought
me here. And she cried and cried when she went
away, and she said she'd come some day to see if I
was happy, but the witch said no, she mustn't, it
would upset me; and so she's never dared to; and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>
now you can fancy what my life has been,' Margaret
finished up, in quite a triumphant tone.</p>
<p>Peterkin was nearly crying by this time. But I
knew I must be very sensible. It all seemed so very
serious.</p>
<p>'But what will your grandfather say when he
knows you've run away?' I asked, while Peterkin
stood listening, with his mouth wide open.</p>
<p>'He'd be very glad to know where I was, <i>I</i> should
say,' Margaret replied. 'My own nursey will write
to him, and I will myself. It'll be a good deal better
than if I stayed to be turned into something he'd
never know was me. Then, what would Dads and
Mummy say to <i>him</i> for having lost me?'</p>
<p>'The parrot'd tell, p'raps,' said Pete.</p>
<p>'As if anybody would believe him!' exclaimed
Margaret, 'except people who understand about
fairies and witches and things like that, that you
two and I know about.'</p>
<p>She was giving <i>me</i> credit for more believing in
'things like that' than I was feeling just then, to
tell the truth. But what I did feel rather disagreeably
sure of, was this queer little girl's determination.
She sometimes spoke as if she was twenty. Putting
it all together, I had a sort of instinct that it was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span>
best not to laugh at her ideas at all, as the next thing
would be that she and her devoted 'Perkins' would
be making plans without me, and really getting lost,
or into dreadful troubles of some kind. So I contented
myself with just saying—</p>
<p>'Why should Miss Bogle want to turn you into
anything?'</p>
<p>'Because witches are like that,' said Peterkin,
answering for his princess.</p>
<p>'And because she hates the bother of having me,'
added Margaret. 'She has written to Gran that I am
very troublesome—nurse told me so; nurse can't hold
her tongue—and I daresay I am,' she added truly.
'And so, if I seemed to be lost, she'd say it wasn't
her fault. And as I suppose I'd never be found,
there'd be an end of it.'</p>
<p>'You couldn't but be found <i>now</i>,' said Peterkin,
'as, you see, <i>we'd</i> know.'</p>
<p>'If she didn't turn <i>you</i> into something too,' said
Margaret, with the sparkle of mischief in her eyes
again.</p>
<p>Pete looked rather startled at this new idea.</p>
<p>'The best thing to do is for me to go away to a
safe place while I'm still myself,' she added.</p>
<p>'But have you got the exact address? Do you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>
know what station to go to, and all that sort of
thing?' I asked. 'And have you got money
enough?'</p>
<p>'Plenty,' she said, nodding her head; 'plenty for
all I've planned. Of course I know the station—it's
the same as for my own home, and nursey lives
in the village where the railway comes. Much
nearer than <i>our</i> house, which is two miles off. And
I know nursey will have me, even if she had to
sleep on the floor herself. The only bother is that
I'll have to change out of the train from <i>here</i>, and
get into another at a place that's called a Junction.
Nursey and I had to do that when we came here,
and I heard Gran explain it all to her, and I know
it's the same going back, for the nurse I have <i>now</i>
told me so. When she goes to London she stays in
the same railway; but if you're <i>not</i> going to London,
you have to get into another one. And nursey
and I had to wait nearly half-an-hour, I should
think, and that's the part I mind,' and, for the first
time, her eager little face looked anxious. 'The
railway people would ask me who I was, and where
I was going, as, you see, I look so much littler than
I am; so I've planned for you two kind boys to come
with me to that changing station, and wait till I've<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>
got into the train that goes to Hill Horton; that's
<i>our</i> station. I've plenty of money,' she went on
hurriedly, for, I suppose, she saw that I was looking
very grave, and Peterkin's face was pink with
excitement.</p>
<p>'It isn't that,' I said; 'it's—it's the whole thing.
Supposing you got lost after all, it would be——'</p>
<p>'No, no! I won't get lost,' she said, speaking again
in her very grown-up voice. 'And remember, you're
on your word of honour as <i>gentlemen!</i>—<i>gentlemen!</i>'
she repeated, 'not to tell any one without my leave.
If you do, I'll just run away by myself, and very
likely get lost or stolen, or something. And how
would you feel then?'</p>
<p>'We are not going to break our promise,' I said.
'You needn't be afraid.'</p>
<p>'I'm not,' she said, and her face grew rather red.
'I always keep <i>my</i> word, and I expect any one I
trust to keep theirs.'</p>
<p>And though she was such a little girl, not much
older than Elvira, whom we often called a 'baby,' I
felt sure she <i>would</i> 'keep hers.' It certainly wouldn't
mend matters to risk her starting off by herself,
as I believe she would have done if we had failed
her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p>
<p>It has taken longer to write down all our talking
than the talking itself did, even though it was a little
interrupted by the bath-chair man every now and
then taking a turn up and down, 'just to keep Missy
moving a bit,' he said.</p>
<p>Margaret's plans were already so very clear in her
head that she had no difficulty in getting us to
understand them thoroughly, and I don't think I
need go on about what she said, and what we
said. I will tell what we fixed to do, and what
we did do.</p>
<p>Next Wednesday—a full week on—was the day
she had settled for her escape from Rock Terrace.
It was a long time to wait, but it was the day her
nurse was pretty sure—really quite sure, Margaret
thought—to go to London again, for she had said so.
She went by a morning train, and did not come back
till after dark in the evening, so there was no fear of
our running up against her at the railway station.
There was a train that would do for Hill Horton,
after waiting a little at the Junction, at about three
o'clock in the afternoon; and as it was my half-holiday,
Peterkin and I could easily get leave to go
out together if it was fine, and if it wasn't, we would
have to come without! We trusted it would be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>
fine; and I settled in my own mind that if we <i>had</i>
to come without asking, I'd leave a message with
James the footman, that they weren't to be frightened
about us at home, for I didn't want mamma and all
the others to be in a fuss again, like the evening
Peterkin was lost.</p>
<p>Margaret said we needn't be away more than
about an hour and a half. I don't quite remember
how she'd got all she knew about the times of the
trains. I think it was from the cook or housemaid
at Miss Bogle's, for I know she said one of them came
from near Hill Horton, and that she was very good-natured,
and liked talking about Margaret's home and
her own.</p>
<p>So it was settled.</p>
<p>Just to make it even more fixed, we promised to
go round by Rock Terrace on Monday at the usual
time, and Margaret was either to speak to us from
the dining-room window, or, if she couldn't, she would
hang out a white handkerchief somewhere that we
should be sure to see, which would mean that it was
all right.</p>
<p>We were to meet her at the corner of her row of
houses nearest Lindsay Square, at half-past two on
Wednesday. How she meant to do about her bath-chair<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>
drive, and all the rest of it, she didn't tell us,
and, really, there wasn't time.</p>
<p>But I felt sure she would manage it, and Peterkin
was even surer than I.</p>
<p>The last thing she said was—</p>
<p>'Of course, I shall have very little luggage; not
more than you two boys can easily carry between
you.'</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2>
<h3>A TERRIBLE IDEA</h3>
<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">That</span> was on a Wednesday, and the same day the
next week was to be <i>the</i> day. On the Monday, as we
had planned, we strolled along Rock Terrace. Luckily,
it was a fine day, and we could look well about us
without appearing to have any particular reason for
doing so. It would have seemed rather funny if we
had been holding up umbrellas, or, I should say, if <i>I</i>
had been, for when it rained Peterkin wasn't allowed
to come to meet me.</div>
<p>We stood still in front of the parrot's house. He
was out on the balcony. I wondered if he would
notice us, or if he did, if he would condescend to
speak to us.</p>
<p>Yes, I felt that his ugly round eyes—don't you
think all parrots' eyes are ugly, however pretty their<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>
feathers are?—were fixed on us, and in a moment or
two came his squeaky, croaky voice—</p>
<p>'Good morning, boys! Good morning! Pretty
Poll!'</p>
<p>'He didn't say "naughty boys,"' I remarked.</p>
<p>'No, of course not,' replied Peterkin; 'because
he knows all about it now, you see.'</p>
<p>'We mustn't stand here long, however,' I said. 'I
wond——'</p>
<p>'I wonder why Margaret hasn't hung out a handkerchief
if she couldn't get to speak to us,' I was
going to have said, but just at that moment we heard
a voice on the upstairs balcony—</p>
<p>'Good Polly,' it said, 'good, good Polly.'</p>
<p>And the parrot repeated with great pride—</p>
<p>'Good, good Polly.'</p>
<p>But when we looked up there was no one to be
seen, only I thought one of the glass doors of Margaret's
dining-room clicked a little. And I was right.
In another moment there she was herself, on the
dining-room balcony—half on it, that's to say, and
half just inside.</p>
<p>'Isn't he good?' she said, when we came as near
as we dared to hear her. 'I told him to let me know
as soon as he saw you, for I couldn't manage the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>
handkerchief, and I was afraid you might have gone
before I could catch you. Nurse has been after me
so this morning, for the witch was angry with me
yesterday for standing at the window without my
shawl. But you mustn't stay,' and she nodded in her
queenly little way. 'It's keeping all right—Wednesday
at half-past two, at the corner next the Square—wet
or fine. Good-bye.'</p>
<p>'Good-bye, all right,' we whispered, but she heard
us.</p>
<p>So did the parrot.</p>
<p>'Good-bye, boys; good Polly! good, good Polly!'
and something else which Peterkin declared meant,
'Wednesday at half-past two.'</p>
<p>I felt pretty nervous, I can tell you, that day and
the next. At least I suppose it's what people call
feeling very nervous. I seemed half in a dream, and,
as if I couldn't settle to anything, all queer and
fidgety. A little, just a very little perhaps, like what
you feel when you know you are going to the
dentist's, especially if you <i>haven't</i> got toothache; for
when you have it badly, you don't mind the thought
of having a tooth out, even a thumping double one.</p>
<p>Yet I should have felt disappointed if the whole
thing had been given up, and, worse than that,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>
horribly frightened if it had ended in Margaret's
saying she'd run away by herself without us helping
her, as I know—I have said so two or three times
already, I'm afraid: it's difficult to keep from repeating
if you're not accustomed to writing and feel
very anxious to explain things clearly—as I know
she really would have done.</p>
<p>And then there was the smaller worry of wondering
what sort of weather there was going to be on
Wednesday, which did matter a good deal.</p>
<p>I shall never forget how thankful I felt in <ins title="Transcriber's Note: this word is italicized in the original">the</ins>
morning when it came, and I awoke, and opened my
eyes, without any snorting for once, to hear Peterkin's
first words—</p>
<p>'It's a very fine day, Gilley—couldn't be better.'</p>
<p>'Thank goodness,' I said.</p>
<p>He was sitting up, as usual; but I don't think he
had stared me awake this morning, for he was gazing
out in the direction of the window, where up above
the short blind a nice show of pale-blue sky was to
be seen; a wintry sort of blue, with the early mist
over it a little, but still quite cheering and 'lasting'
looking.</p>
<p>'All the same,' I went on, speaking more to myself,
perhaps, than to him, 'I wish we were well<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>
through it, and your princess safe with her old
nurse.'</p>
<p>For I could not have felt comfortable about her, as
I have several times said, even if <i>we</i> had not promised
to help her. More than that—I do believe she was
so determined, that supposing mamma or Mrs. Wylie
or any grown-up person had somehow come to know
about it, Margaret would have kept to her plan, and
perhaps even hurried it on and got into worse
trouble.</p>
<p>She needed a lesson; though I still do think, and
always shall think, that old Miss Bogle and her new
nurse and everybody were not a bit right in the way
they tried to manage her.</p>
<p>I hurried home from school double-quick that
morning, you may be sure. And Peterkin and I
were ready for dinner—hands washed, hair brushed,
and all the rest of it—long before the gong sounded.</p>
<p>Mamma looked at us approvingly, I remember,
when she came into the dining-room, where we were
waiting before the girls and Clement had made their
appearance.</p>
<p>'Good boys,' she said, smiling, 'that's how I like
to see you. How neat you both look, and down first,
too!'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></p>
<p>I felt rather a humbug, but I don't believe Peterkin
did; he was so completely taken up with the
thought of Margaret's escape, and so down-to-the-ground
sure that he was doing a most necessary piece
of business if she was to be saved from the witch's
'enchantering,' as he would call it.</p>
<p>But as I was older, of course, the mixture of feelings
in my mind <i>was</i> a mixture, and I couldn't stand
being altogether a humbug.</p>
<p>So I said to mamma—</p>
<p>'It's mostly that we want to go out as soon as
ever we've had our dinner; you know you gave us
leave to go?'</p>
<p>'Oh yes,' said she. 'Well, it's a very nice day, and
you will take good care of Peterkin, won't you, Giles?
Don't tire him. Are any of your schoolfel——'</p>
<p>But at that moment a note was brought to her,
which she had to send an answer to, and when she
sat down at the table again, she was evidently still
thinking of it, and forgot she had not finished her
question, which I was very glad of.</p>
<p>So we got off all right, though I had a feeling that
Clement looked at us <i>rather</i> curiously, as we left the
dining-room.</p>
<p>At the <i>very</i> last moment, I did give the message<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>
I had thought about in my own mind, with James.
Just for him to say that mamma and nobody was
to be frightened if we <i>were</i> rather late of coming
back—<i>even</i> if it should be after dark; that we should
be all right.</p>
<p>And then we ran off without giving James time
to say anything, though he did open his mouth and
begin to stutter out some objection. He was rather
a donkey, but I knew that he was to be trusted, so
I just laughed in his face.</p>
<p>We were a little before the time at the corner of
the square, but that was a good thing. It would
never have done to keep <i>her</i> waiting, Peterkin said.
He always spoke of her as if she was a kind of queen.
And he was right enough. All the same, my heart
did beat in rather a funny way, thinking to myself
what could or should we do if she didn't come?</p>
<p>But we were not kept waiting long. In another
minute or so, a little figure appeared round the
corner, hastening towards us as fast as it could, but
evidently a good deal bothered by a large parcel,
which at the first glance looked nearly as big as
itself.</p>
<p>Of course it was Margaret.</p>
<p>'Oh,' she exclaimed, 'I am so glad you are here<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>
already. It's this package. I had no idea it would
seem so heavy.'</p>
<p>'It's nothing,' said Peterkin, valiantly, taking it
from her as he spoke.</p>
<p>And it really wasn't very much—what had made
it seem so conspicuous was that the contents were
all wrapped up in her red shawl, and naturally it
looked a queer bundle for a little girl like her to be
carrying. She was not at all strong either, even for
a little girl, and afterwards I was not surprised at
this, for the illness she had spoken of as a bad cold
had really been much worse than that.</p>
<p>'Let's hurry on,' she said, 'I shan't feel safe till
we've got to the station,' for which I certainly thought
she had good reason.</p>
<p>I had meant to go by the front way, which was
actually the shortest, but the scarlet bundle staggered
me. Luckily I knew my way about the streets
pretty well, so I chose rather less public ones. And
before long, even though the package was not very
heavy, Peterkin began to flag, so I had to help him
a bit with it.</p>
<p>But for that, there would have been nothing about
us at all noticeable. Margaret was quite nicely and
quietly dressed in dark-blue serge, something like<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>
Blanche and Elvira, and we just looked as if we were
a little sister and two schoolboy brothers.</p>
<p>'Couldn't you have got something less stary to
tie up your things in?' I asked her when we had
got to some little distance from Rock Terrace, and
were in a quiet street.</p>
<p>She shook her head.</p>
<p>'No,' she said, 'it was the only thing. I have a
nice black bag, as well as my trunks, of course, but
the witch or nurse has hidden it away. I <i>couldn't</i>
find it. It's just as if they had thought I might be
planning to run away. I <i>nearly</i> took nurse's waterproof
cape; she didn't take it to London to-day,
because it is so fine and bright. But I didn't like to,
after all. It won't matter once we are in the train,
and at Hill Horton it will be a good thing, as my
own nursey will see it some way off.'</p>
<p>We were almost at the station by now, and I told
Margaret so.</p>
<p>'All right,' she said. 'I have the money all ready.
One for me to Hill Horton, and two for you to the
Junction station,' and she began to pull out her
purse.</p>
<p>'You needn't get it out just yet,' I said. 'We
shall have quite a quarter of an hour to wait. If<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span>
you give me your purse once we're inside, I will tell
you exactly what I take out. How much is there
in it?'</p>
<p>'A gold half-sovereign,' she replied, 'and a half-crown,
and five sixpences, and seven pennies.'</p>
<p>'There won't be very much over,' I said, 'though
we are all three under twelve; so halves will do, and
returns for Pete and me. Second-class, I suppose?'</p>
<p>'Second-class!' repeated Margaret, with great
scorn; 'of course not. I've never travelled anything
but first in my life. I don't know what Gran would
say, or nursey even, if she saw me getting out of a
<i>second</i>-class carriage.'</p>
<p>She made me feel a little cross, though she didn't
mean it. <i>We</i> often travelled second, and even third,
if there were a lot of us and we could get a carriage
to ourselves. But, after all, it was Margaret's own
affair, and as she was to be alone from the Junction
to Hill Horton, perhaps it was best.</p>
<p>'<i>I</i> don't want you to travel second, I'm sure,' I
said, 'if only there's enough. I'd have brought some
of my own, but unluckily I'm very short just now.'</p>
<p>'I've—'began Peterkin, but Margaret interrupted
him.</p>
<p>'As if I'd let you pay anything!' she said indignantly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span>
'I'd rather travel third than <i>that</i>. You are
only coming out of kindness to me.'</p>
<p>After all, there was enough, even for first-class,
leaving a shilling or so over. Hill Horton was not
very far away.</p>
<p>A train was standing ready to start, for the station
was a terminus. I asked a guard standing about if
it was the one for Hill Horton, and he answered yes,
but we must change at the Junction, which I knew
already.</p>
<p>So we all got into a first-class carriage, and settled
ourselves comfortably, feeling safe at last.</p>
<p>'I wish we were going all the way with you,' said
Peterkin, with a sigh made up of satisfaction, as he
wriggled his substantial little person into the arm-chair
first-class seat, and of regret.</p>
<p>'I'll be all right,' said Margaret, 'once I am in
the Hill Horton railway.'</p>
<p>For some things I wished too that we were going
all the way with her, but for others I couldn't help
feeling that I should be very glad to be safe home
again and the adventure well over.</p>
<p>'By the day after to-morrow,' I thought, 'there
will be no more reason for worrying, if Margaret
keeps her promise of writing to us.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p>
<p>I had made her promise this, and given her an
envelope with our address on. For otherwise, you
see, we should not have heard how she had got on,
as no one but the parrot knew that she had ever
seen us or spoken to us.</p>
<p>Then the train moved slowly out of the station,
and Margaret's eyes sparkled with triumph. And
we felt the infection of her high spirits. After all,
we were only children, and we laughed and joked
about the witch, and the fright her new nurse would
be in, and how the parrot would enjoy it all, of
which we felt quite sure.</p>
<p>We were very merry all the way to the Junction.
It was only about a quarter-of-an-hour off, and just
before we got there the guard looked at our tickets.</p>
<p>'Change at the Junction,' he said, when he caught
sight of the 'Hill Horton,' on Margaret's.</p>
<p>'Of course, we know that, thank you,' she said,
rather pertly perhaps, but it sounded so funny that
Pete and I burst out laughing again. I suppose we
were all really very excited, but the guard laughed too.</p>
<p>'How long will there be to wait for the Hill
Horton train?' I had the sense to ask.</p>
<p>'Ten minutes, at least,' he replied, glancing at his
watch, the way guards nearly always do.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span></p>
<p>I was glad he did not say longer, for the sooner
Peterkin and I caught a train home again, after seeing
Margaret off, the better. And I knew there were
sure to be several in the course of the afternoon.</p>
<p>As soon as we stopped we got out—red bundle
and all. I did not see our guard again, he was
somewhere at the other end; but I got hold of
another, not so good-natured, however, and rather in
a hurry.</p>
<p>'Which is the train for Hill Horton? Is it in
yet?' I asked.</p>
<p>He must have thought, so I explained it to myself
afterwards, that we had just come in to the
station, and were at the beginning of our journey.</p>
<p>'Hill Horton,' I <i>thought</i> he said, but, as you will
see, my ears must have deceived me, 'all right. Any
carriage to the front—further back are for——.' I
did not clearly hear—I think it must have been
'Charing Cross,' but I did not care. All that
concerned <i>us</i> was 'Hill Horton.'</p>
<p>'Come along,' I called to the two others, who had
got a little behind me, lugging the bundle between
them, and I led the way, as the man had pointed
out.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span></p>
<p>It seemed a very long train, and as he had said
'to the front,' I thought it best to go pretty close up
to the engine. There were two or three first-class
carriages next to the guard's van, but they were all
empty, and I had meant to look out for one with
nice-looking people in it for Margaret to travel
with. Farther back there were some ladies and
children in some first-class, but I was afraid of
putting her into a wrong carriage.</p>
<p>'I expect you will be alone all the way,' I said to
her. 'I suppose there are not very many people
going to Hill Horton.'</p>
<p>'Not first-class,' said Margaret. 'There are often
lots of farmers and village people, I daresay. Nursey
said it was very crowded on market days, but I don't
know when it is market days. But it is rather
funny, Giles, to be getting into the same train
again!'</p>
<p>'No,' I replied, 'these carriages will be going to
split off from the others that go on to London. The
man said it would be all right for Hill Horton at the
front. They often separate trains like that. I daresay
we shall go a little way out of the station and
come back again. You'll see. And he said—the
<i>first</i> man, I mean—that we should have at least ten<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>
minutes to wait, and we've scarcely been two, so
we may as well get in with you for a few
minutes.'</p>
<p>'Yes, do,' said Margaret, 'but don't put my
package up in the netted place, for fear I couldn't
get it down again myself. The trains never stop
long at our station.'</p>
<p>So we contented ourselves with leaving the red
bundle on the seat beside her. It was lucky, I told
her, that the carriage <i>wasn't</i> full, otherwise it would
have had to go up in the rack, where it wouldn't
have been very firm.</p>
<p>'It is so fat,' said Peterkin, solemnly.</p>
<p>'Something like you,' I said, at which we all
laughed again, as if it was something very witty.
We were still feeling rather excited, I think, and
rather proud—at least I was—of having, so far, got
on so well.</p>
<p>But before we had finished laughing, there came
a startling surprise. The train suddenly began to
move! We stared at each other. Then I remembered
my own words a minute or two ago.</p>
<p>'It's all right,' I said, 'we'll back into the station
again in a moment.'</p>
<p>Margaret and Peterkin laughed again, but rather<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>
nervously. At least, Margaret's laugh was not quite
hearty; though, as for Peterkin, I think he was
secretly delighted.</p>
<p>On we went—faster and faster, instead of slower.
There was certainly no sign of 'backing.' I put my
head out of the window. We were quite clear of
the Junction by now, getting every instant more
and more into the open country. At last I had to
give in.</p>
<p>'We're off, I do believe,' I said. 'There's been
some mistake about our waiting ten minutes. We're
clear on the way to Hill Horton.'</p>
<p>'<i>I'm</i> very glad,' said Pete. 'I always wanted to
come all the way.'</p>
<p>'But perhaps it needn't be all the way,' I said.
'Do you remember, Margaret, how many stations
there are between the Junction and yours?'</p>
<p>'Three or four, I think,' she replied.</p>
<p>'Oh well, then,' I said, 'it won't matter. We can
get out the first time we stop, and I daresay we shall
soon get a train back again, and not be late home
after all.'</p>
<p>Margaret's face cleared. She was thoughtful
enough not to want us to get into trouble through
helping her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span></p>
<p>'We shall be stopping soon, I think,' she said,
'for this seems a fast train.'</p>
<p>But to me her words brought no satisfaction.
For it did indeed seem a fast train, and a much more
horrible idea than the one of our going all the way
to Hill Horton suddenly sprang into my mind—</p>
<p>Were we in the Hill Horton train at all?</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2>
<h3>IN A FOG</h3>
<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">I waited</span> a minute or two before I said anything to
the others. They went on laughing and joking, and
I kept looking out of the window. At last I turned
round, and then Margaret started a little.</div>
<p>'What's the matter, Giles?' she said. 'You're
quite white and funny looking.'</p>
<p>And Peterkin stared at me too.</p>
<p>'It's—'I began, and then I felt as if I really
couldn't go on; but I had to. 'It's that I am dreadfully
afraid,' I said, 'almost quite sure now, that we
are in the wrong train. I've seen the names of two
stations that we've passed without stopping already.
Do you remember the names of any between the
Junction and Hill Horton, Margaret?'</p>
<p>She shook her head.</p>
<p>'No,' she said, 'but I know we never pass any<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>
without stopping; at least I think so. They are
quite little stations, and I've never known the train
go as fast as this till after the Junction, when we
were in the London train. I've been to London
several times with Gran, you see.'</p>
<p>Then it suddenly struck her what I meant.</p>
<p>'Oh!' she exclaimed, with a little scream, 'is it
<i>that</i> you are afraid of, Giles? Do you think we are
in the <i>London</i> train? I did think it was funny that
we were getting back into the same one, but you said
that the man said that the carriages at the front were
for Hill Horton?'</p>
<p>'Well, I <i>thought</i> he did,' I replied, 'but—' one's
mind works quickly when you are frightened sometimes—'he
<i>might</i> have said "Victoria," for the
"tor" in "Victoria" and "Horton" sound rather
alike.'</p>
<p>'But wouldn't he have said "London"?' asked
Peterkin.</p>
<p>'No, I think they generally say the name of the
station in London,' I explained. 'There are so many,
you see.'</p>
<p>Then we all, for a minute or two, gazed at each
other without speaking. Margaret had got still
paler than usual, and I fancied, or feared, I heard<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>
her choke down something in her throat. Peterkin,
on the contrary, was as red as a turkey-cock, and his
eyes were gleaming. I think it was all a part of
the fairy-tale to him.</p>
<p>'What shall we do?' said Margaret, at last, and
I was forced to answer, 'I don't know.'</p>
<p>Bit by bit things began to take shape in my
mind, and it was no good keeping them to myself.</p>
<p>'There'll be the extra money to pay for our
tickets to London,' I said at last.</p>
<p>'How much will it be? Isn't there enough over?'
asked Margaret quietly, and I could not help admiring
her for it, as she took out her purse and gave it to
me to count over what was left.</p>
<p>There were only four or five shillings. I shook
my head.</p>
<p>'I don't know how much it will be, but I'm quite
sure there's not enough. You see, though we're only
halves, it's first-class.'</p>
<p>'And what will they do to us if we can't pay,' she
went on, growing still whiter. 'Could we—could we
possibly be sent to prison?'</p>
<p>'Oh no, no. I don't think so,' I answered, though
I was really not at all sure about it; I had so often<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
seen notices stuck up on boards at railway stations
about the punishments of passengers not paying
properly, or trying to travel without tickets. 'But—I'm
afraid they would be very horrid to us somehow—perhaps
telegraph to papa or mamma.'</p>
<p>'Oh!' cried Margaret, growing now as red as she
had been white, 'and that would mean my being shut
up again at Rock Terrace—worse than before. I
don't know <i>what</i> the witch wouldn't do to me,' and
she clasped her poor little hands in a sort of despair.</p>
<p>Then Peterkin burst out—</p>
<p>'I've got my gold half-pound with me,' he said, in
rather a queer voice, as if he was proud of being able
to help and yet half inclined to cry.</p>
<p>'Goodness!' I exclaimed, 'why on earth didn't
you say so before?'</p>
<p>'I—I—wanted it for something else,' said he. 'I
don't quite know why I brought it.'</p>
<p>He dived into his pocket, and dug out a very grimy
little purse, out of which, sure enough, he produced a
half-sovereign.</p>
<p>The relief of knowing that we should not get into
trouble as far as our journey <i>to</i> London was concerned,
was such a blessing, that just for the moment
I forgot all the rest of it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span></p>
<p>'Anyway we can't be put in prison now,' said
Margaret, and a little colour came into her face.
'Oh, Perkins, you <i>are</i> a nice boy!'</p>
<p>I did think her praising him was rather rough
on <i>me</i>, for I had had bother enough, goodness knows,
about the whole affair, even though I had made a
stupid mistake.</p>
<p>We whizzed on, for it was an express train, and for
a little while we didn't speak. Peterkin was still
looking rather upset about his money. He told me
afterwards that he had been keeping it for his
Christmas presents, especially one for Margaret, as
we had never had a chance of getting her any flowers.
But all that was put right in the end.</p>
<p>After a bit Margaret said to me, in a half-frightened
voice—</p>
<p>'What shall we do when we get to London, Giles?
Do you think perhaps the guard would help us to go
back again to the Junction, when he sees it was a
mistake? As we've got money to pay to London, he'd
see we hadn't meant to cheat.'</p>
<p>'No,' I said, 'he wouldn't have time, and besides I
don't think it'll be the same one. And if we said
anything, he'd most likely make us give our names,
or take us to some station-master or somebody, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>
then there'd be no chance of our keeping out of a lot
of bother.'</p>
<p>'You mean,' said she, in a shaky voice, 'we
should have to go all the way back, and I'd be
sent to the witch again?'</p>
<p>'Something like it, I'm afraid,' I said. 'If I just
explain that we got into the wrong train and pay up,
they'll have no business to meddle with us.'</p>
<p>'But what are we to do, then?' she asked
again.</p>
<p>'I don't know,' I replied. I'm afraid I was rather
cross. I was so sick of it all, you see, and so fearfully
bothered.</p>
<p>Margaret at last began to cry. She tried to choke
it down, but it was no use.</p>
<p>I felt awfully sorry for her, but somehow the very
feeling so bad made me crosser, and I did not try to
comfort her up.</p>
<p>Pete, on the contrary, tugged out his pocket-handkerchief,
which was quite a decently clean one, and
began wiping her eyes. This made her try again to
stop crying. She pulled out her own handkerchief
and said—</p>
<p>'Dear little Perkins, you are so kind.'</p>
<p>I glanced at them, not very amiably, I daresay.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>
And I was on the point of saying that, instead of crying
and petting each other, they'd better try to think
what we should do, for I knew we must be getting
near London by this time, when I saw something
white on the floor of the carriage.</p>
<p>I stooped to pick it up. It had dropped out of
Margaret's pocket when she pulled out her handkerchief.
It was an envelope, or what had been one,
and for a moment I thought it was the one I had
given her with our address on, to use when she wrote
to us from Hill Horton, but <i>that</i> one couldn't have
got so dirty and torn-looking in the time. And when
I looked at it more closely, I saw that it was jagged
and nibbled in a queer way, and <i>then</i> I saw that it
had the name 'Wylie' on it, and an address in
London. And when I looked still more closely, I
saw that it had never been through the post or had a
stamp on, and that it had a large blot in one corner.
Evidently the person who had written on it had not
liked to use it because of the blot, and the name on it
was <i>Miss</i>, not <i>Mrs</i>. Wylie, </p>
<div class='sig'><span style="margin-right: 2em;">'19 Enderby Street</span><br />
<span class="smcap">London</span>, S.W.'<br />
</div>
<p>I turned it round and round without speaking for
a moment or two. I couldn't make it out. Then I
said<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>—</p>
<p>'What's this, Margaret? It must have dropped
out of your pocket.'</p>
<p>She stopped crying—well, really, I think she had
stopped already, for whatever her faults were she
wasn't a babyish child—to look at it. She seemed
puzzled, and felt in her pocket again.</p>
<p>'No, of course it's not the envelope you gave me,'
she said. 'I've got it safe, and—oh, I believe I know
how this old one got into my pocket. I remember a
day or two ago when I was trying if it would do to
tie my handkerchief on to Polly's cage, he was
nibbling some paper. He's very fond of nibbling
paper, and it doesn't hurt him, for he doesn't eat it.
But he would keep pecking at me when I was tying
the handkerchief, and I was vexed with him, and so
when he dropped this I picked it up and shook it at
him, and told him he shouldn't have it again, and then
I put it into my pocket. He was very tiresome that
day, not a bit a fairy; he is like that sometimes.'</p>
<p>'But how did he come to have an envelope with
"Miss Wylie" on?' I said. 'He doesn't live in Mrs.
Wylie's house, but in the one between yours and hers,
and this must have come from <i>her</i>.'</p>
<p>'I daresay she gave it him to play with, or her
servant may have given it him,' said Margaret, 'You<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>
see he's sometimes at the end of the balcony nearest
her, and sometimes at our end. I think his servants
have put him more at our end since she's been away;
perhaps they've heard me talking to him. Anyway,
I'm sure this old envelope must have come out of his
cage.'</p>
<p>I did not speak for a moment. I was gazing at
the address.</p>
<p>'Margaret,' I exclaimed, 'look at it.'</p>
<p>She did so, and then stared up at me, with a
puzzled expression in her eyes, still red with crying.</p>
<p>'I believe,' I went on, 'I believe this is going to
help us.'</p>
<p>Peterkin, who had been listening with all his ears,
could contain himself no longer.</p>
<p>'And the parrot <i>must</i> be a fairy after all,' he said,
'and he must have done it on purpose.'</p>
<p>But Margaret did not seem to hear what he said,
she was still gazing at me and wondering what I
was going to say.</p>
<p>'Don't you see,' I went on, touching the envelope,
'this must be the house of some of Mrs. Wylie's
relations? Very likely she's staying with them there,
and anyway they'd tell us where she is, as we know
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>she's still in London. She told us she was going to
be there for a fortnight. And she's very kind. We
would ask her to lend us money enough to go back
to the Junction, and then we'd be all right. You
have got your ticket for Hill Horton, and we have
our returns for home.'</p>
<p>'Oh,' cried Margaret, 'how clever you are to have
thought of it, Giles! But,' and the bright look went
out of her face, 'you don't think she'd make me go
back to the witch, do you? Are you sure she
wouldn't?'</p>
<p>'I really don't think she would,' I said. 'I know
she has often been sorry for you, for she knew you
weren't at all happy. And we'd tell her more about
it. She is awfully kind.'</p>
<p>I meant what I said. Perhaps I saw it rather too
favourably; the idea of finding a friend in London
was such a comfort just then, that I felt as if everything
else might be left for the time. I never
thought about catching trains at the Junction or
about its getting late and dark for Margaret to be
travelling alone from there to Hill Horton, or anything,
except just the hope—the tremendous hope—that
we might find our kind old lady.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 321px;">
<img src="images/i167.png" width="321" height="500" alt="HE LOOKED AT THE TICKETS . . . 'HOW'S THIS?' HE SAID.—p. 145." title="HE LOOKED AT THE TICKETS . . . 'HOW'S THIS?' HE SAID.—p. 145." />
<span class="caption">HE LOOKED AT THE TICKETS . . . 'HOW'S THIS?' HE SAID.—p. 145.</span>
</div>
<p>The train slackened, and very soon we pulled up.
It wasn't the station yet, however, but the place where<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span>
they stop to take tickets, just outside. I know it so
well now, for we pass it ever so often on our way
from and to school several times a year. But whenever
we pass it, or stop at it, I think of that miserable
day and all my fears.</p>
<p>The man put his head in at the window. He was
a stranger.</p>
<p>'Tickets, please,' he said.</p>
<p>I was ready for him—tickets, Peterkin's half-sovereign,
and all. I held out the tickets.</p>
<p>'There's been a mistake,' I began. 'I shall have
to pay up,' and when he heard that, he opened the
door and came in.</p>
<p>He looked at the tickets.</p>
<p>'Returns—half-returns to the Junction,' he said,
'and a half to Hill Horton. How's this?'</p>
<p>'We got into the wrong train at the Junction,' I
replied. 'In fact, we got back into the same one we
had just got out of. I expect the guard thought I
said "Victoria" when I said "Hill Horton," for he
told us to go to the front.'</p>
<p>'And didn't he tell you, you were wrong when he
looked at the tickets before you started?' the man
asked, still holding our tickets in his hand and
examining us rather queerly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span></p>
<p>I began to feel angry, but I didn't want to have
any fuss, so instead of telling him to mind his own
business, as I was ready to pay the difference, I
answered again quite coolly—</p>
<p>'No one looked at the tickets at the Junction.
There were two or three empty carriages at
the front: perhaps no one noticed us getting
in.'</p>
<p>I thought I heard the man murmur to himself
something about 'rum go. Three kids by themselves,
and first-class.'</p>
<p>So, though I was getting angrier every moment, I
just said—</p>
<p>'I don't see that it matters. Here we are, anyway,
and I'll pay if you'll tell me how much.'</p>
<p>He counted up.</p>
<p>'Eight-and-six—no, eight-and-tenpence.'</p>
<p>I held out the half-sovereign. He felt in his
pocket and gave me back the change—a shilling and
twopence, and walked off with the halves of Pete's
and my return tickets and the half-sovereign.</p>
<p>We all began to breathe more freely; but, as the
train slowly moved again at last—we had been
standing quite a quarter-of-an-hour—a new trouble
started.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span></p>
<p>'It's very dark,' said Margaret, 'and it can't be
late yet.'</p>
<p>I looked out of the window. Yes, it was very
dark. I put my head out. It felt awfully chilly too—a
horrid sort of chilly feeling. But that wasn't
the worst of it.</p>
<p>'It's a fog,' I said. 'The horridest kind—I can't
see the lights almost close to us. It's getting worse
every minute. I believe it'll be as dark as midnight
when we get into the station. What luck, to be
sure!'</p>
<p>The other two seemed more excited than frightened.</p>
<p>'I've never seen a really bad fog,' said Margaret,
as if she was rather pleased to have the chance.</p>
<p>Pete said nothing. I expect he'd have had a
fairy-tale all ready about a prince lost in a mist, if
I'd given him an opening. But I was again rather
taken aback. How were we to find our way to
Enderby Street?</p>
<p>I had meant to walk, you see, in spite of the red
bundle! For I was afraid of being cheated by the
cabman; and I was afraid too of running quite short
of money, in case we <i>didn't</i> find Mrs. Wylie, or that
she had left, and that, if the worst came to the worst,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span>
I might have to go to a hotel with the two children,
and telegraph to mamma to say where we were.
Papa, unluckily, was not in London just then. He
had gone away on business somewhere—I forget
where—for a day or two, and besides, I was not at all
sure of the exact address of his chambers, otherwise
I might have telegraphed <i>there</i>. I only knew it was
a long way from Victoria.</p>
<p>Indeed, I don't think I thought about that at all
at the time, though afterwards mamma said to me I
might have done so, <i>had</i> the worst come to the worst.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER X</h2>
<h3>BERYL</h3>
<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">Yes</span>, the fog <i>was</i> a fog, and no mistake. I don't
think I have ever seen so bad a one since we came to
live in London, or else it seemed to me terribly bad
that day because I was not used to it, and because I
was so anxious.</div>
<p>I felt half provoked and yet in a way glad that
Margaret and Peterkin were not at all frightened, but
rather pleased. They followed me along the platform
after we got out of the carriage, lugging the
bundle between them. It was not really heavy, and
I had to go first, as the station was pretty full in
that part, in spite of the fog. The lamps were all
lighted, but till you got within a few yards of one
you scarcely saw it.</p>
<p>I went on, staring about me for some one to ask
advice from. At last, close to a book-stall, where<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
several lights together made it a little clearer, I saw
a railway man of some kind, standing, as if he was
not in a hurry.</p>
<p>'Can you tell me where Enderby Street is, if you
please?' I asked as civilly as I knew how.</p>
<p>'Enderby Street,' he repeated, in surprise. 'Of
course; it's no distance off.'</p>
<p>Wasn't I thankful?</p>
<p>'How far?' I said.</p>
<p>'Well—it depends upon which part of it you
want. It's a long street. But if you're a stranger
you'll never find your way in this fog. Better take
a hansom.'</p>
<p>'Thank you,' I said. 'It's only a shilling, I suppose?'</p>
<p>He glanced at me again; he had been turning away.
By this time the two children were close beside me.
He saw that we belonged to each other.</p>
<p>'A shilling for two—one-and-six for three,' he
replied. 'Hansom or four-wheeler,' and then he
moved off.</p>
<p>Just then Margaret began to cough, and a new
fear struck me. She looked very delicate, and she
had had a bad cold. Supposing the fog made her
very ill? I was glad the man had spoken of a four-wheeler.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p>
<p>'Stuff your handkerchief or something into your
mouth,' I said, 'so as not to get the fog down your
throat. I'm going to call a four-wheeler.'</p>
<p>In some ways that dreadful day was not as bad
as it might have been. There were scarcely any cabs
about, but just then one stopped close to the end of
the platform.</p>
<p>'Jump in,' I said, and before the driver had time
to make any objection, for I know they do sometimes
make a great favour of taking you anywhere in a fog,
we were all inside.</p>
<p>I heard him growling a little, but when I put my
head out of the window again, and said '19 Enderby
Street,' he smoothed down.</p>
<p>We drove off, slowly enough, but that was to be
expected. I pulled up both windows, for Margaret
kept on coughing, in spite of having her handkerchief,
and Peterkin's too, for all I knew, stuffed over
her mouth and throat. They were both very quiet,
but I <i>think</i> they were rather enjoying themselves.
I suppose my taking the lead, as I had had to, since
our troubles began, and managing things, made them
feel 'safe,' as children like to do, at the bottom of their
hearts, however they start by talking big.</p>
<p>It <i>was</i> a horrid fog, but the lights made it not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>
quite so bad outside, for the shops had got all their
lamps on, and we could see them now and then.
There was a lot of shouting going on, and yet every
sound was muffled. There were not many carts or
omnibuses or anything on wheels passing, and what
there were, were moving slowly like ourselves.</p>
<p>After a few minutes it got darker again; it must
have been when we got into Enderby Street, I suppose,
for there are no shops, or scarcely any, there.
I've often and often passed along it since, but I never
do without thinking of that evening, or afternoon, for
it was really not yet four o'clock.</p>
<p>And then we stopped.</p>
<p>'Nineteen, didn't you say?' asked the driver as I
jumped out.</p>
<p>'Yes, nineteen,' I said. 'Stop here for a moment
or two, till I see if we go in.'</p>
<p>For it suddenly struck me that <i>if</i> we had the awful
bad luck not to find Mrs. Wylie, we had better keep
the cab, to take us to some hotel, otherwise it might
be almost impossible to get another. And then we
should be out in the street, with Margaret and her
bundle, and worse still, her cough.</p>
<p>I made my way, more by feeling than seeing, up
the steps, and fumbled till I found the bell. I had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>
not actually told the others to stay in the cab, though
I had taken care to keep the window shut when I got
out, and I never dreamt but what they'd stay where
they were till I had found out if Mrs. Wylie was
there.</p>
<p>But just as the door opened—the servant came in
double-quick time luckily, the reason for which was
explained—I heard a rustling behind me, and lo and
behold, there they both were, and the terrible red
bundle too, looking huger and queerer than ever, as
the light from inside fell on it.</p>
<p>We must have looked a funny lot, as the servant
opened the door. She—it was a parlour-maid—did
start a little, but I didn't give her time to speak,
though I daresay she thought we were beggars,
thanks to those silly children.</p>
<p>'Mrs. Wylie is staying here,' I said. I thought it
best to speak decidedly. 'Is she at home?'</p>
<p>I suppose my way of speaking made her see we
were not beggars, and perhaps she caught sight of the
four-wheeler, looming faintly through the fog, for she
answered quite civilly.</p>
<p>'She is not exactly staying here. She is in rooms
a little way from here, but she comes round most
afternoons. I thought it was her when you rang,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>
but I don't think she'll be coming now—not in this
fog.'</p>
<p>My heart had gone down like lead at the first
words—'she is not,' but as the servant went on I got
more hopeful again.</p>
<p>'Can you—' I began—I was going to have asked
for Mrs. Wylie's address, but just then Margaret
coughed; the worst cough I had heard yet from her.
'Why couldn't you have stayed in the cab?' I said
sharply, and perhaps it was a good thing, to show
that we <i>had</i> a cab waiting for us. 'Please,' I went
on, 'let this little girl come inside for a minute. The
fog makes her cough so.'</p>
<p>The parlour-maid stepped back, opening the door
a little wider, but there was something doubtful in
her manner, as if she was not quite sure if she was
not running a risk in letting us in. I pushed Margaret
forward, and not Margaret only! She was
holding fast to her precious bundle, and Peterkin was
holding fast to <i>his</i> side of it, so they tumbled in together
in a way that was enough to make the servant
stare, and I stayed half on the steps, half inside, but
from where I was I could see into the hall quite well.
It looked so nice and comfortable, compared with the
horribleness outside. It was a square sort of hall.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>
The house was not a big one, not nearly as big as
ours at home, but lots bigger than the Rock Terrace
ones, of course.</p>
<p>'Can you give me Mrs. Wylie's address?' I said.
'I think the best thing we can do is to—' but I was
interrupted again.</p>
<p>A girl—a grown-up girl, a lady, I mean—came
forward from the inner part of the hall.</p>
<p>'Browner,' she said, 'do shut the door. You are
letting the fog get all over the house, and it is
bitterly cold.'</p>
<p>She was blinking her eyes a little as she spoke:
either the light or the fog, or both, hurt them. Perhaps
she had been sitting over the fire in a darkish
room. 'Blinking her eyes' doesn't sound very pretty,
but it was, I found afterwards, a sort of trick of hers,
and somehow it suited her. <i>She</i> was very pretty. I
didn't often notice girls' looks, but I couldn't help
noticing hers. Everything about her was pretty; her
voice too, though she spoke a little crossly. She was
rather tall, and her hair was wavy, almost as wavy
as Elf's, and the colour of her dress, which was pinky-red,
and everything about her, seemed to suit, and I
just stood—we all did—staring at her.</p>
<p>And as soon as she caught sight of us—I daresay<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>
we seemed quite a little crowd at the door—she
stared too!</p>
<p>Then she came forward quickly, her voice growing
anxious, and almost frightened.</p>
<p>'What is the matter?' she exclaimed. 'Has
there been an accident? Who are these—children?'</p>
<p>Browner moved towards her.</p>
<p>'Indeed, Miss,' she began, but the girl stopped
her.</p>
<p>'Shut the door first,' she said decidedly. 'No,
no, come in, please,' this was to me; I suppose I
seemed to hesitate, 'and tell me what you want, and
who you are?'</p>
<p>Her voice grew more hesitating as she went on,
and it must have been very difficult to make out
what sort of beings we were. Margaret's colourless
face and dark eyes and hair, and the bright red of the
bundle, at the first hasty glance, might almost have
made you think of a little Italian wandering
musician; but the moment I spoke I think the girl
saw we were not that class.</p>
<p>'We are friends of Mrs. Wylie's—Mrs. Wylie who
lives at Rock Terrace,' I said, 'and—and we've come
to her because—oh! because we've got into a lot of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>
trouble, and the fog's made it worse, and we don't
know anybody else in London.'</p>
<p>Then, all of a sudden—I'm almost ashamed to tell
it, even though it's a good while ago now, and I
really was scarcely more than a little boy myself—something
seemed to get into my throat, and I felt as
if in another moment it would turn into a sob.</p>
<p>Margaret is awfully quick in some ways. She
heard the choke in my voice and darted to me, leaving
the bundle to Pete's tender mercies; so half of it
dropped on to the floor and half stuck to him, as he
stood there staring with his round blue eyes.</p>
<p>Margaret stretched up and flung her arms round
my neck.</p>
<p>'Giles, Giles,' she cried, 'don't, oh don't!' Then
she burst out—</p>
<p>'It's all my fault; at least it's all for me, and
Giles and Perkins have been so good to me. Oh
dear, oh dear, what shall I do?' and she began
coughing again in a miserable way. I think it was
partly that she was trying not to cry.</p>
<p>Seeing her so unhappy, made me pull myself together.
I was just going to explain things a little
to the girl, when she spoke first. She looked very
kind and sorry.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span></p>
<p>'I'll tell you what's the first thing to do,' she said,
'and that's to get this child out of the cold,' and she
opened a door a little farther back in the hall, and
got us all in, the maid following.</p>
<p>It was a very nice, rather small dining-room; a
bright fire was burning, and the girl turned on an
electric lamp over the table. There were pretty
ferns and things on it, ready for dinner, just like
mamma has them at home.</p>
<p>'Now,' she began again, but there seemed nothing
but interruptions, for just at that moment another
door was heard to open, and as the one of the room
where we were was not shut, we could hear some one
calling—</p>
<p>'Beryl, Beryl, is there anything the matter? Has
your aunt come?'</p>
<p>It was a man's voice—quite a kind one, but rather
fussy.</p>
<p>'Wait a moment or two, I'll be back directly,'
said the girl, and as she ran out of the room we heard
her calling, 'I'm coming, daddy.'</p>
<p>The parlour-maid drew back nearer the door, not
seeming sure if she should leave us alone or not, and
<i>we</i> drew a little nearer the fire. So that we could
talk without her hearing us.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span></p><div class="figright" style="width: 347px;">
<img src="images/i183.png" width="347" height="500" alt="'NOW,' SHE BEGAN . . . DRAWING MARGARET TO HER, 'TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT.'—p. 159." title="'NOW,' SHE BEGAN . . . DRAWING MARGARET TO HER, 'TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT.'—p. 159." />
<span class="caption">'NOW,' SHE BEGAN . . . DRAWING MARGARET TO HER, 'TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT.'—p. 159.</span>
</div>
<p>'Isn't she a kind lady?' said Margaret, glancing
up at me. 'I think she looks very kind. You don't
think she'll send me back to the witch, do you,
Giles?'</p>
<p>'Bother the witch,' I was on the point of saying,
for I would have given anything by this time to be
back in our homes again, witch or no witch. But I
thought better of it. It wouldn't have been kind,
with Margaret looking up at me, with tears in her big
dark eyes, so white and anxious.</p>
<p>'I shouldn't think so,' I replied. 'She must be
Mrs. Wylie's niece, and we'll go on to Mrs. Wylie, and
she will tell us what to do.'</p>
<p>The girl—perhaps I'd better call her 'Beryl'
now. We always do, though she is no longer Beryl
Wylie. Beryl was back almost at once.</p>
<p>'Now,' she began again, sitting down in an arm-chair
by the fire, and drawing Margaret to her, 'tell
me all about it. In the first place, who are you?
What are your names?'</p>
<p>'Lesley,' I said. 'At least <i>ours</i> is,' and I touched
Peterkin. 'I'm Giles and he's Peterkin. We know
Mrs. Wylie, and we live on the Marine Parade.'</p>
<p>Beryl nodded.</p>
<p>'Yes,' she said, 'I've heard of you. And,' she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>
touched Margaret gently, 'this small maiden? What
is her name—she is not your sister?'</p>
<p>'No,' I replied. 'She is Margaret——' I stopped
short. For the first time it struck me that I had
never heard her last name!</p>
<p>'Margaret Fothergill,' she said quickly. 'I live
next door but one to Mrs. Wylie, and next door to
the parrot. Do you know the parrot in Rock
Terrace?'</p>
<p>Beryl nodded again.</p>
<p>'I have heard of him too,' she said.</p>
<p>But suddenly a new idea—I should rather say
the old one—struck Margaret again. Her voice
changed, and she clasped her hands piteously.</p>
<p>'You won't, oh, you won't send me back to the
witch? Say you won't.'</p>
<p>'What does she mean?' asked Beryl, turning to
me, as if she thought Margaret was half out of her
mind, though, all the same, she drew her still
closer.</p>
<p>'She—we—' I began, and Peterkin opened his
mouth too. But I suppose I must have glanced at
the servant, for Beryl turned towards her, as if to
tell her not to wait. Then she changed and said
instead<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span>—</p>
<p>'Bring tea in here, Browner, as quickly as you
can. You can put it on the side table.'</p>
<p>Browner went off at once; she seemed a very
good-natured girl. And then, as quickly as I could,
helped here and there by Margaret and by Peterkin
(though to any one less 'understanding' than Beryl,
his funny way of muddling up real and fancy would
certainly not have 'helped'), I told our story. It
was really wonderful how Beryl took it all in.
When I stopped at last, almost out of breath, she
nodded her head quietly.</p>
<p>'We won't talk it over just yet,' she said. 'The
first thing to do is to see my auntie. You three
stay here while I run round to her, and try to
enjoy your tea. I shall not be long. It is very
near.'</p>
<p>The idea of tea did seem awfully tempting, but
a new thought struck me.</p>
<p>'The cab!' I exclaimed, 'the four-wheeler! It's
waiting all this time, and if we send it away, most
likely we shan't be able to get another in the fog.
There'll be such a lot to pay, too. Don't you think
we'd better go with you in it to Mrs. Wylie, and perhaps
she'd lend us money to go to the Junction by
the first train? I don't think we should stay to have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>
tea, thank you,' though, as I said it, a glance at Margaret's
poor little white face made me wish I needn't
say it. She was clinging to Beryl so by this time as
if she felt safe.</p>
<p>And Peterkin looked almost as piteous as she did.</p>
<p>Beryl gently loosened Margaret's hold of her, and
got up from the big leather arm-chair where she had
been sitting.</p>
<p>'Never mind about the cab,' she said. 'I will go
round in it to my aunt, and perhaps bring her back
in it. I will settle with the man. I may be a
quarter-of-an-hour or twenty minutes away. So all
you three have got to do in the meantime is to have
a good tea, and trust me. And don't think about
witches, or bad fairies, or anything disagreeable till
you see me again,' she added, nodding to the two
children. 'Browner, you will see that they have
everything they want.'</p>
<p>Browner smiled, and Beryl ran off, and in a
minute or two we heard her come downstairs again,
with her cloak and hat on, no doubt, and the front
door shut, and I heard the cab drive away.</p>
<p>Talking of fairies, I can't imagine anything more
like the best of good ones than Beryl Wylie seemed
to us that afternoon.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p>
<p>Browner was very kind and sensible. For after
she had poured out our tea, and handed us a plateful
of bread-and-butter and another of little cakes, she
left the room, showing us the bell, in case we wanted
more milk or anything.</p>
<p>And then—perhaps it may seem very thoughtless
of us, but, as I have said before, even I, the eldest,
wasn't very old—we really enjoyed ourselves! It
was so jolly to feel warm and to have a good tea,
and, above all, to know that we had found kind
friends, who would tell us what to do.</p>
<p>Margaret seemed perfectly happy, and to have got
rid of all her fears of being sent back to the witch.
And Peterkin, in those days, was never very surprised
at anything, for nothing that could happen
was as wonderful as the wonders of the fairy-land he
lived in. So he was quite able to enjoy himself
without any trying to do so.</p>
<p>I do feel, however, rather ashamed of one bit of
it all. You'd scarcely believe that it never came
into my head to think that mamma might be
frightened about us, even though the afternoon was
getting on into evening, and the darkness outside
made it seem later than it really was!</p>
<p>I can't understand it of myself, considering that I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>
had seen with my own eyes how frightened she
had been the evening Peterkin got lost. I suppose
my head had got tired and confused with all the
fears and things it had been full of, but it is rather
horrid to remember, all the same.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2>
<h3>DEAR MAMMA</h3>
<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">Beryl</span> must have been away longer than she had
expected, for when we heard the front bell ring and a
minute later she hurried in, her first words were—</div>
<p>'Did you think I was never coming back? I
will explain to you what I have been doing.'</p>
<p>When her eyes fell on us, however, her expression
changed. She looked pleased, but a little surprised,
as she took in that we had not been, by any means,
sitting worrying ourselves, but quite the contrary.
Margaret was actually in the middle of a laugh,
which did not seem as if she was feeling very bad,
even though it turned into a cough. Peterkin was
placidly content, and I was—well, feeling considerably
the better for the jolly good tea we had had.</p>
<p>'We've been awfully comfortable, thank you,' I
said, getting up, 'and—will you please tell us what<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>
you think we'd better do? And—please—how much
was the cab?'</p>
<p>'Never mind about that,' she said. 'Here is my
aunt,' and then I heard a little rustle at the door, and
in came Mrs. Wylie, who had been taking off her
wraps in the hall, looking as neat and white-lacy
and like herself as if she had never come within a
hundred miles of a fog in her life.</p>
<p>'She <i>would</i> come,' Beryl went on, smiling at the
old lady as if she loved her very much. 'Auntie is
always so kind.'</p>
<p>I began to feel very ashamed of all the trouble we
were giving, and I'm sure my face got very red.</p>
<p>'I'm so sorry,' I said, as Mrs. Wylie shook hands
with us, 'I never thought of you coming out in the
fog.'</p>
<p>'It will not hurt me,' she replied; 'but I feel
rather anxious about this little person,' and she laid
her hand on Margaret's shoulder, for just then Margaret
coughed again.</p>
<p>'Oh,' I exclaimed, 'you don't think it will make
her cough worse, do you?' and I felt horribly frightened.
'We'll wrap her up much more, and once we
are clear of London, there won't be any fog. I daresay
it's quite light still, in the country. It can't be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>
late. But hadn't we better go at once? Will you
be so very good as to lend us money to go back to
the Junction? I know mamma will send it you at
once.'</p>
<p>All my fears seemed to awaken again as I
hurried on, and the children's faces grew grave and
anxious.</p>
<p>Mrs. Wylie sat down quietly.</p>
<p>'My dear boy,' she said, 'there can be no question
of any of you, Margaret especially, going back to-night.
The fog is very bad, and it is very cold
besides. My niece has told me the whole story,
and——'</p>
<p>'I suppose you think we've all been dreadfully
naughty,' I interrupted. 'I did not mean to be, and
<i>they</i> didn't,' glancing at the others. 'But of course
I'm older, only——'</p>
<p>Mrs. Wylie laid her hand on my arm.</p>
<p>'There will be a good deal to talk over,' she said,
speaking still very quietly, but rather gravely.
'And I feel that your dear mamma is the right
person to—to explain things—your mistakes, and
all about it. I believe certainly you did not <i>mean</i>
to do wrong.'</p>
<p>Her mention of mamma startled me into remembering<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>
at last how frightened she and all of
them would be at home.</p>
<p>'Oh!' I exclaimed, 'if we stay away all night,
what <i>will</i> mamma do?'</p>
<p>'I was just going to tell you what we have done,'
said Mrs. Wylie. 'That was what kept us—Beryl
and me. We have telegraphed to your mamma.
She will not be frightened now. Indeed, I hope she
may have got the telegram in time to prevent her
beginning to be anxious. And we also—' but here
she stopped, for a glance at Margaret, as she told me
afterwards, reminded her of Margaret's fears lest she
should be sent back to Rock Terrace and Miss Bogle.
And what she had been on the point of saying was,
that they had also telegraphed to 'the witch.'</p>
<p>'It was awfully good of you,' I said, feeling more
and more ashamed of the trouble we were causing.</p>
<p>I would have given anything to go home that
night, even if it had been to find papa and mamma
more displeased with me than they had ever been in
their life, and, as I was beginning to see, as they had
a right to be. But in the face of all Mrs. Wylie and
Beryl were doing, I could not possibly have gone
against what they thought best.</p>
<p>'I shall also write to your mamma to-night,' Mrs.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span>
Wylie went on. 'There is plenty of time. It is
not really as late as the fog makes it seem. And
the first thing we now have to do,' for just then
Margaret had another bad fit of coughing, 'is to put
this child to bed. If you are not better in the
morning, or rather if you are any worse, we must
send for the doctor.'</p>
<p>'Oh, <i>please</i> don't!' said Margaret, as soon as she
could speak. 'It's only the fog got into my throat.
It doesn't hurt me at all, as it did when I had that
very bad cold at home. I don't like strange doctors,
<i>please</i>, Mrs. Wylie. And to-morrow nursey can send
for our own doctor at home at Hill Horton, if I'm
not quite well. I may go home to my nursey quite
early, mayn't I? And you will tell their mamma
not to be vexed with them, won't you? They only
wanted to help me.'</p>
<p>She looked such a shrimp of a creature, with her
tiny face, so pale too, that nobody could have found
it in their heart to scold her. Mrs. Wylie just patted
her hand and said something about putting it all
right, but that she must go to bed now and have a
good long sleep.</p>
<p>And just then Beryl, who had left us with Mrs.
Wylie, came back to say that everything was ready<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span>
for Margaret upstairs, and then she walked her and
the red bundle off—to put her to bed.</p>
<p>I really think that by this time Margaret was so
tired that she scarcely knew where she was: she
did not make the least objection, but was as meek as
a mouse. You would never have thought her the
same child as the determined little 'ordering-about'
sort of child I knew she could be, and I, rather
suspected, generally <i>had</i> been till she came under
stricter management.</p>
<p>When she was alone with us—with Peterkin and
me—Mrs. Wylie spoke a little more about the whole
affair. But not very much. She had evidently made
up her mind to leave things in mamma's hands.
And she did not at all explain any of the sort of
mystery there seemed about Margaret.</p>
<p>She rang the bell and told Browner to take
us upstairs to the little room that had been got
ready for us, and where we were to sleep, saying,
that she herself was now going to write to
mamma.</p>
<p>'<i>And</i> to Miss Bogle,' she added, 'though I thought
it better not to say so to Margaret.'</p>
<p>She looked at us rather curiously as she spoke; I
think she most likely wanted to find out what we<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>
really believed about 'the witch.' Peterkin started,
and grew very red.</p>
<p>'You won't let her go back there?' he exclaimed.
'I'm sure she'll run away again if you do.'</p>
<p>It sounded rather rude, but Mrs. Wylie knew
that he did not mean it for rudeness. She only
looked at him gravely.</p>
<p>'I am very anxious to see how your little friend
is to-morrow morning,' she replied. 'I earnestly
hope she has not caught any serious cold.'</p>
<p>The way she said it frightened me a little somehow,
though we children often caught cold and
didn't think much about it. But then we were all
strong. None of us ever coughed the way Margaret
used to about that time, except when we had
hooping-cough, and it wasn't that that she had got,
I knew.</p>
<p>'You don't think she is going to be badly ill?' I
said, feeling as if it would be all my fault if she
was.</p>
<p>Mrs. Wylie only repeated that she hoped not.</p>
<p>We couldn't do much in the way of dressing or
tidying ourselves up, as we had nothing with us, not
even a red bundle. We could only wash our faces
and hands, which were <i>black</i> with the fog, so having<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>
them clean was an improvement. And there was a
very pretty brush and comb put out for us—Beryl's
own. I think it was awfully good of her to lend us
her nice things like that. I don't believe Blanchie
would have done it, though I daresay mamma would.
So we made ourselves as decent-looking as we could,
and our collars didn't look as bad that evening as in
the daylight the next morning.</p>
<p>And then Beryl put her head in at the door and
told us to come down to the drawing-room, where
her father was.</p>
<p>'He is not able to go up and down stairs just now,'
she said. 'His rheumatism is very bad. So he
stays in the drawing-room, and we dine earlier than
usual for his sake—at seven.'</p>
<p>She went on talking, partly to make us more
comfortable, for I knew we were both looking very
shy. And just outside the drawing-room door she
smiled and said, 'Don't be frightened of him, he is
the kindest person in the world.'</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 285px;">
<img src="images/i199.png" width="285" height="500" alt="THE FRILLS HAD WORKED UP ALL ROUND HIS FACE.—p. 173." title="THE FRILLS HAD WORKED UP ALL ROUND HIS FACE.—p. 173." />
<span class="caption">THE FRILLS HAD WORKED UP ALL ROUND HIS FACE.—p. 173.</span>
</div>
<p>So he was, I am sure. He had white hair and a
thin white face, and he was sitting in a big arm-chair,
and he shook hands kindly, and didn't seem
to mind our being there a bit. Of course, Beryl had
explained it all to him, and it was easy to see that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>
he was most awfully fond of her, and pleased with
everything she did. All the same, I was very glad,
though it sounds horrid, that he couldn't come downstairs.
It didn't seem half so frightening with only
Mrs. Wylie and Beryl.</p>
<p>Peterkin got very sleepy before dinner was really
over. I think he nodded once or twice at dessert,
though he was very offended when I said so afterwards.
I began to feel jolly tired too, and we were
both very glad to go to bed. There was a fire in our
room. 'Miss Wylie had ordered it because of the
fog,' the servant said. Wasn't it kind of her?</p>
<p>We couldn't help laughing at the things they had
tried to find for us instead of proper night things—jackety
sort of affairs, with lots of frills and fuss. I
don't know if they belonged to mother Wylie or to
Beryl. But we were too sleepy to mind, though
next morning Pete was awfully offended when I said
he looked like Red-Riding Hood's grandmother, as
the frills had worked up all round his face, and he
looked still queerer when he got out of bed, as
his robe trailed on the floor, with his being so
short.</p>
<p>He did not wake as early as usual, but I did.
And for a minute or two I <i>couldn't</i> think where I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>
was. And I didn't feel very happy when I did
remember.</p>
<p>The fog had gone, but it still looked gloomy, compared
with home. Still I was glad it was clear, both
because I wanted so to go home, and also because
of Margaret's cold. I think that was what I first
thought of. If only she didn't get ill, I thought I
wouldn't mind how angry they were with me. As
to Peterkin, I would stand up for him, if he needed
it, though I didn't think he would. They'd be sure
to remind me how much older I was, and pleasant
things like that. And yet when I went over and
over it in my own mind, I couldn't get it clear
what else I could have done. There <i>are</i> puzzles like
that sometimes, and anyway it was better than if
Margaret had run away alone, and perhaps got really
lost.</p>
<p>And, after all, as you will hear, I hadn't much
blame to bear. The name of this chapter will show
thanks to whom <i>that</i> was.</p>
<p>When we were dressed—and oh, how we longed
for clean collars!—we made our way down to the
dining-room. Beryl was there already, and I saw
that she looked even prettier by daylight, such as it
was than the evening before. She smiled kindly,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>
and said she hoped we had managed to sleep
well.</p>
<p>'Oh yes, thank you,' we said, 'but—' and we
both looked round the room. 'How is Margaret?'</p>
<p>'None the worse, I am glad to say,' Beryl
answered, and then I thought to myself I might
have guessed it, by Beryl's bright face. 'I really
think it was only the fog that made her cough so
last night. She looks a very delicate little girl, however,
and she speaks of having had a very bad cold
not long ago, which may have been something worse
than a cold. So I made her stay in bed for breakfast,
till——'</p>
<p>At that moment the parlour-maid brought in a
telegram. Beryl opened it, and then handed it to
me. It was from mamma.</p>
<p>'A thousand thanks for telegram and letter.
Coming myself by earliest train possible.'</p>
<p>'It's very good of mamma,' I said, and in my
heart I was glad she was coming before we—or I—saw
papa. For though he is very kind too, he is not
quite so 'understanding,' and a good deal sharper,
especially with us boys. I suppose fathers need
to be, and I suppose boys need it more than
girls.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span></p>
<p>'Yes,' said Beryl, and though she had been so
awfully jolly about the whole affair, I could tell by
her tone that she was glad that some one belonging
to us was coming to look after us all. 'It is very
satisfactory. My aunt said she would come round
early too. I think it will be quite safe for Margaret
to get up now, so I will go and tell her she may.
You will find some magazines and picture-papers in
my little sitting-room, behind this room, if you can
amuse yourselves there till auntie comes.'</p>
<p>I stopped her a moment as she was leaving the
room, to ask what I knew Peterkin was longing to
hear.</p>
<p>'Mamma will take us home, of course,' I said,
'but what do you think will be done about
Margaret?'</p>
<p>'They—' whom he meant by 'they' I don't know,
and I don't think he knew himself—'they won't
send her back to the witch, you don't think, do
you?' he burst out, growing very red.</p>
<p>Beryl hesitated. Then she said quietly—</p>
<p>'No, I <i>don't</i> think so,' and Peterkin gave a great
sigh of relief. If she had answered that she <i>did</i>
think so, I believe he would have broken into a
howl. I really do.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span></p>
<p>It seemed rather a long time that we had to wait
in Beryl's room before anything else happened.
Peterkin said it felt a good deal like waiting at the
dentist's, and I agreed with him. It was the looking
at the picture-papers that put it into his head, I
think.</p>
<p>We heard the front-door bell ring several times,
and once I was sure I caught Beryl's voice calling,
'Auntie, is it you?' but it must have been nearly
twelve o'clock—breakfast had been a good deal later
than at home—before the door of the room where we
were, opened, and some one came in. I was standing
staring out of the window, which looked into a very
small sort of fernery or conservatory, and wishing
Beryl had told me to water the plants, when I heard
a voice behind me.</p>
<p>'Boys!' it said; 'Giles?' and turning round, I
saw that it was mamma. I forgot all about being
found fault with and everything else, and just flew
to her, and so did poor old Pete, and then—I am
almost ashamed to tell it, though perhaps I should
not be—I broke out crying!</p>
<p>Mamma put her arms round me. I don't know
what she had been meaning to say to us, or to me,
perhaps, in the way of blame, but it ended in her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>
hugging me, and saying 'poor old Gilley.' She
hugged Peterkin too, though he wasn't crying, and
had no intention of it, <i>unless</i> his beloved Margaret
was to be sent back to Miss Bogle, and then, I have
no doubt, he would have howled loudly enough.
His whole mind was fixed on this point, and he had
hardly patience even to be hugged, before he burst
out with it.</p>
<p>'Mummy, mummy,' he said,'they're not going to
send her back to the witch, are they?'</p>
<p>Mamma understood. She knew Peterkin's little
ways so well,—how he got his head full of a thing,
and could take in nothing else,—and she saw that
it was best to satisfy him at once if we were to have
any peace.</p>
<p>'No,' she said. 'The little girl is not to go back
to Miss Bogle.'</p>
<p>Peterkin gave a great sigh of comfort. After all,
he <i>had</i> rescued his princess, I suppose he said to
himself. <i>I</i> thought it very extraordinary that
mamma should be able to speak so decidedly about
it, and I daresay she saw this, for she went on almost
at once—</p>
<p>'I have a good deal to explain. Some unexpected
things happened yesterday and this morning. But<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>
for this, I should have come by an earlier
train.'</p>
<p>Here, I think, before I go on to say what these
unexpected things were, is a good place for telling
what mamma said to me afterwards, when we were
by ourselves, about the whole affair, and my part in
it. She quite allowed that I had not meant to do
wrong or to be deceitful, or anything like that, and
that I had been rather in a hole. But she made me
see that, to start with, I should not have promised
Margaret to keep it a secret, and she said she was
sure that Margaret would have given in to our
telling <i>her</i>—mamma, I mean—of her troubles, if I
had spoken to her sensibly and seriously about it.
And now that I know Margaret so well, I think so
too. For she is particularly sensible for her age,
especially since she has got her head clearer of fairy-tales
and witches and enchantments and ogres and
all the rest of it; and even then, there was a good
deal of sense and reasonableness below her self-will
and impatience.</p>
<p>Now, I can go on with what mamma told us.
The first she heard of it all was the telegram from
Mrs. Wylie, for she had been out till rather late and
found it lying on the hall-table when she came in,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
before she had even heard that Pete and I had not
turned up at the nursery tea. That was what Beryl
had hoped—that the news of our being all right
would come before mamma had had a chance of
being anxious. At first she was completely puzzled,
but James, who was faithful to his promise, though
rather stupid, helped to throw a little light on it by
giving her my message.</p>
<p>And then, as she was still standing in the hall,
talking to him and trying to think what in the
world had made us dream of going to London to
Mrs. Wylie's, all by ourselves, there came a great ring
at the bell, and when James opened, a startled-looking
maid-servant's voice was heard asking for
Mrs. Lesley.</p>
<p>'I am Mrs. Wylie's parlour-maid,' she said, 'and I
offered to run round, for the old lady next door to us,
Miss Bogle, to ask if Mrs. Lesley would have the
charity—I was to say—to come to see her. The
little young lady, Miss Fothergill, who lives with
her, has been missing all the afternoon. Miss Bogle
did not know it till an hour or two ago, as she always
rests in her own room till four o'clock. But I was
to say she would explain it all to Mrs. Lesley, if she
could possibly come to see Miss Bogle at once.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span></p>
<p>Mamma had gone forward and heard this all
herself, though the maid had begun by giving the
message to James. And she said immediately that
she would come. She still had her going-out things
on, you see, so no time was lost.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2>
<h3>NO MYSTERY AFTER ALL</h3>
<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">We</span> listened with all our ears, you may be sure, to
what mamma told us; she did so, very quickly. It
takes me much longer to write it.</div>
<p>'And did you see Miss Bogle?' I asked. 'And
what <i>is</i> she like?'</p>
<p>'The witch herself,' said Peterkin, his eyes nearly
starting out of his head.</p>
<p>'No, Peterkin,' said mamma, 'you are not to call
her that any more. You must help me to explain
to little Margaret, that Miss Bogle is a good old
lady, who has meant nothing but kindness, though
she made a great mistake in undertaking the charge
of the child, for she is old and infirm and suffers
sadly. Yes, of course, I saw her. She was terribly
upset, the tears streaming down her poor face, though
she had scarcely had time to be actually terrified<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span>
about Margaret, thanks to Mrs. Wylie's telegram.
She was afraid of the child having got cold, and she
was altogether puzzled and miserable. And I was
not able to explain very much myself, till I got Mrs.
Wylie's <i>letter</i> this morning, fully telling all. Still, I
comforted her by saying I knew Mrs. Wylie was
goodness itself, and would take every care of all the
three of you for the night. Miss Bogle had not
missed Margaret, as she always rests in the afternoon,
till about four. And, strange to say, the
servants had not missed her either. The nurse was
away for the day, and I suppose that the others, not
being used to think about the child, had not given a
thought to her, though it seems strangely careless,
till it got near her tea-time, and then they ran to
Miss Bogle and startled her terribly. The first
thing she did was to send in to the next-door house'—('The
parrot's house?' interrupted Pete)—'and to
Mrs. Wylie's,' mamma went on, 'where the parlour-maid
knew that you boys and Margaret had made
friends, and she offered to speak to Miss Bogle,
thinking that perhaps you had all gone a walk
together, and would soon be coming in. And <i>while</i>
she was telling Miss Bogle this, came the telegram,
showing that indeed you had gone a walk, and more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span>
than a walk,'—here mamma turned away for a
moment, and I <i>think</i> it was to hide a smile that she
could not help. I suppose to grown-up people there
was a comical side to the story,—'together. And
then the poor old lady sent for me.'</p>
<p>'And was that all that happened?' I asked.</p>
<p>Mamma shook her head.</p>
<p>'No,' she said. 'While I was still talking to
Miss Bogle, came another telegram, from the little
girl's nurse, her present nurse, to say that her sister
was so ill that she could not leave her, and that she
was writing to explain. Poor Miss Bogle! Her
cup of troubles did seem full; I felt very sorry for
her, and I promised to go back to see her, first
thing this morning, which I did, before starting
to fetch you boys. The nurse's letter had come, saying
she did not know <i>when</i> she could return. And
so—' mamma stopped for a moment—'it all ended—papa
came back last night, so he was with me, and
it was his idea first of all—in a way which I don't
think you will be very sorry for,'—and again mamma
smiled,—'in our settling that Margaret is to come
home with <i>us</i>, and stay with us till there is time
to hear from her grandfather, General Fothergill,
what he wishes. How do you like the idea?'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span></p>
<p>'I'm awfully glad of it,' I said. And so I was.
Not so much for the sake of having Margaret as a
companion, as because it quite took away all responsibility
and fears about her. For I felt sure she
would never have settled down happily or contentedly
in Miss Bogle's house.</p>
<p>But as for Peterkin! You never saw anything
like his delight. He took all the credit of it to
himself, and was more certain than ever that the
parrot was a fairy, Miss Bogle a witch, and himself
a hero who had rescued a lovely princess. His
eyes sparkled like—I don't know what to compare
them to; and his cheeks got so red and fat that I
thought they'd burst.</p>
<p>And when I said quietly—I thought it a good
thing to sober him down a bit, but I really meant it
too—that I hoped Blanchie and Elf would like Margaret,
he really looked as if he wanted to knock me
down—ungrateful little donkey, after all I'd done
and gone through for him and his princess! But
mamma glanced at me, and I understood that she
meant that it was better to say nothing much to him.
He would grow out of his fancies by degrees. And
she just said, quietly too, that she was sure the little
girls would get on all right together, and that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>
Blanche and Elvira would do all they could to make
Margaret happy.</p>
<p>'And I am so thankful,' mamma went on, 'that
the poor child is none the worse for her adventures,
and able to travel back with us to-day. And I can
never, never be grateful enough to Mrs. Wylie and
her niece for their goodness to you. Miss Wylie is
perfectly sweet.'</p>
<p>Just as she said this the door opened and Beryl
came in, leading Margaret with her. Mamma, of
course, had already seen them upstairs, before she
saw us.</p>
<p>Margaret looked pale, naturally, paler than usual,
I thought, and she never was rosy in those days,
though she is now. But she seemed very happy and
smiling, and she was not coughing at all. And
another thing that pleased me, was that she came
round and stood by mamma's chair, as if she already
felt quite at home with her.</p>
<p>Beryl drew a chair close to them and sat down.</p>
<p>'I was just saying,' said mamma, 'that we shall
never be able to thank you enough, dear Miss Wylie,
for your goodness to these three.'</p>
<p>'I am so glad, so <i>very</i> glad,' said Beryl, in her
nice hearty sort of way, 'to have been of use. It<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>
was really quite a pleasant excitement last night—when
it all turned out well, and Margaret was clever
enough not to get ill. But please don't call me Miss
Wylie. You have known dear old auntie so long—and
she counts me almost like her own child. Do
call me "Beryl."'</p>
<p>And from that time she has always been 'Beryl'
to us all.</p>
<p>They, the Wylies, made us stay to luncheon. It
was just about time for it by this. We did not see
Mr. Wylie again, though he sent polite messages to
mamma, and was very kind about it all.</p>
<p>And Mrs. Wylie came in to luncheon, and petted
us all round, and said that we must <i>all</i>—Blanche and
Elvira, and Clement too, if he wasn't too big, come to
have tea with her, as soon as she got back to Rock
Terrace.</p>
<p>We thanked her, of course. At least Peterkin and
I did, but I noticed that Margaret got rather red and
did not say anything except 'thank you' very faintly.
She was still half afraid of finding herself again where
she had been so unhappy, and indeed it took a good
while, and a good deal of quiet talking too, to get it
<i>quite</i> out of her head about Miss Bogle being a witch
who was trying to 'enchanter' her, as her dear<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>
'Perkins' (she calls him 'Perkins' to this day)
would persist in saying.</p>
<p>Mrs. Wylie noticed her manner too, I fancy. For
she went on to say, with a funny sort of twinkle in
her eyes—</p>
<p>'There will be a great deal to tell the parrot.
And I don't expect that he will feel quite happy in
his mind about you, little Margaret, till he has
seen you again. He will miss you sadly, I am
afraid.'</p>
<p>And at this, Margaret brightened up.</p>
<p>'Yes,' she said, 'I <i>must</i> come to see dear Poll.
But I may talk to him from your side of the balcony,
mayn't I, Mrs. Wylie?'</p>
<p>'Certainly,' said the kind old lady, 'and you must
introduce your new friends to him. Mrs. Lesley's
little girls, I mean.'</p>
<p>Margaret liked the idea of this, I could see. She
is not at all shy, and she still is very fond of planning,
or managing things, and people too, for that matter,
though of course she is much more sensible now,
and not so impatient and self-willed as she used to
be. Still, on the whole, she gets on better with
Peterkin than with any of us, though she is fond of
us, I know, and so are we of her. But Peterkin is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>
just a sort of slave to her, and does everything she
asks, and I expect it will always be like that.</p>
<p>What a different journey it was that day to the
miserable one the day before! To <i>me</i>, at least; for
though I wasn't feeling particularly happy, as I will
explain, in some ways, the horrible responsibility
about the others had gone. <i>They</i> were as jolly as
could be, but then I knew they hadn't felt half as
bad as I had done. They sat in a corner, whispering,
and I overheard that they were making plans for
all sorts of things they would do while Margaret
stayed with us. And Pete was telling her all about
Blanche and Elf, especially about Elf, and about
the lots of fairy story-books he had got, and how
they three would act some of them together, till
Margaret got quite pink with pleasure.</p>
<p>I saw mamma looking at me now and then, as
if she was wondering what I was thinking about.
I <i>was</i> thinking a good deal. There were some things
I couldn't yet quite understand about it all—why
there should have been a sort of mystery, and why
Mrs. Wylie had pinched up her lips when we had
asked her about Margaret the day we went to tea
with her. And besides this, I was feeling, in a kind
of a way, rather ashamed of being taken home like<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>
a baby, even though mamma—and all of them, I
must say—had been so very good, not to make a
regular row and fuss, after the fright we had given
them, or had <i>nearly</i> given them.</p>
<p>But I didn't say anything more to mamma just
then. For one thing, I saw that she was looking
very tired, and no wonder, poor dear little mamma,
when you think what a day of it she had had, and
all the bother with the witch the night before, too.</p>
<p>I never saw Miss Bogle, and I've never wanted
to. I shall always consider that she was nearly as
bad as if she <i>had</i> been a witch, and it was no thanks
to her that poor little Margaret didn't get really lost,
or badly ill, or something of that kind.</p>
<p>They were expecting us when we got home.
Blanche and Elf were in the hall, looking rather
excited and very shy. But there was not much fear
of shyness with Margaret and Peterkin, as neither
of them was ever troubled with such a thing.</p>
<p>I left Pete to do the honours, so to say, helped by
mamma, of course. They all went off together upstairs
to show Margaret her room and the nursery,
and to introduce her to nurse and all the rest of it,
and I went into the schoolroom—a small sort of
study behind the dining-room, and sat down by myself,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>
feeling rather 'out of it' and 'flat,' and almost
a little ashamed of myself and the whole affair
somehow.</p>
<p>And the fire was low and the room looked dull
and chilly, and I began thinking how horrid it
would be to go to school the next morning without
having done my lessons properly, and not knowing
what to say about having missed a day, without the
excuse, or good reason, of having been ill.</p>
<p>I had sat there some time, a quarter-of-an-hour or
so, I daresay, when I heard the front-door bell ring.
Then I heard James opening and the door shutting,
and, a moment after, the door of the room where I
was opened, and some one came in, and banged something
down on to the table. By that I knew who
it was. It was Clement, with his school-books.</p>
<p>It was nearly dark by this time, and the room
was not lighted up at all. So he did not see me at
first, till I moved a little, which made him start.</p>
<p>'Good gracious!' he exclaimed, 'is that you,
Gilley? What are you doing all alone in the dark?
James told me you had all come—the kid from Rock
Terrace too. By jove—' and he began to laugh a
little to himself.</p>
<p>It seemed a sort of last straw. I was tired and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>
ashamed, and all wrong somehow. I did not speak
till I was at the door, for I got up to leave the
room at once. Then I said—</p>
<p>'You needn't go at me like that. You might let
me sit here if I want to. You don't suppose I've
been enjoying myself these two days, do you?'</p>
<p>He seemed to understand all about it at once.
He caught hold of my arm and pulled me back again.</p>
<p>'Poor old Gilley!' he said.</p>
<p>Then he took up the poker and gave a good
banging to the coals. There was plenty on the fire,
but it had got black for want of stirring up. In a
moment or two there was a cheery blaze. Clement
pushed me into a seat and sat down near me on
the table, his legs dangling.</p>
<p>I have not said very much about Clem in this
story—if it's worth calling a story—except just at
the beginning, for it has really been meant to be
about Peterkin and his princess. But I can't finish
it without a little more about him—Clem, I mean.
Some day, possibly, I may write about him especially,
about our real school-life and all he has been
to me, and how tremendously lucky I always think
it has been for me to have such a brother. He is
just as good as gold, without any pretence about it,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span>
and jolly too. And I can never forget how kind he
was that afternoon.</p>
<p>'Poor old Gilley!' he repeated. 'It must have
been rather horrid for you—much worse than for
those two young imps. Mamma told me all about
it, as soon as she got the letter—she told me a good
deal last night about what Miss Bogie, or whatever
the old thing's name is, had told her.'</p>
<p>I looked up at this.</p>
<p>'Yes?' I said. 'I don't understand it at all, yet.
But, Clem, what shall I do about school to-morrow?
I've no lessons ready or anything.'</p>
<p>'Is it that that you are worrying about?' he
said.</p>
<p>'Partly, and——'</p>
<p>'Well, you can put <i>that</i> out of your head. It's
all right. Mamma told me what to say—that there'd
been a mistake about the trains, and you'd had to
stay the night in London. It wasn't necessary to
say more, and you'll find it all right, I promise you.'</p>
<p>I was very glad of this, and I said so, and thanked
Clem.</p>
<p>He sat still for a minute or two as if he was
expecting me to speak.</p>
<p>'Well?' he said at last.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span></p>
<p>'Mamma's been very good, <i>very</i> good about it
altogether,' I said at last, 'and so has papa, by what
she says. But still—' and then I hesitated.</p>
<p>'Well?' said Clement again. 'What? I don't see
that there's much to be down in the mouth about.'</p>
<p>'It's just that—I feel rather a fool,' I said.
'Anybody would laugh so at the whole affair if they
heard it. I daresay Blanche will think I've no more
sense than Pete. She has a horrid superior way
sometimes, you know.'</p>
<p>'You needn't bother about that, either,' said he.
'She and Elf have got their heads perfectly full of
Margaret. I don't suppose Blanche will ever speak
of your part of it, or think of it even. As long as
papa and mamma are all right—and I'm sure they
are—you may count it a case of all's well that ends
well.'</p>
<p>I did begin to feel rather cheered up.</p>
<p>'You're sure I'm not going to get a talking to,
after all?' I said, still doubtfully. 'I saw mamma
looking at me rather funnily in the train.'</p>
<p>'Did you, my boy?' said another voice, and
glancing round, I saw mamma, who had come into
the room so quietly that neither of us had heard
her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span></p>
<p>She sat down beside us. And then it was that she
explained to me what I had done wrong, and been
foolish about. I have already told what she said,
and I felt that it was all true and sensible. And
she was so kind—not laughing at me a bit, even for
having a little believed about the witch and all that—that
I lost the horrid, mortified, ashamed feelings
I had been having.</p>
<p>Just then the nursery tea-bell rang. I got up—slowly—I
still felt a little funny and uncomfortable
about Blanche, and even nurse. You see nurse
made such a pet of Peterkin that she never scarcely
could see that he should be found fault with, and
of course he was a very good little chap, though not
exactly an angel without wings—and certainly rather
a queer child, with all his fairy-tale fancies.</p>
<p>But mamma put her hand on my arm.</p>
<p>'No,' she said. 'Clem and you are going to have
tea in the drawing-room with me. The nursery
party will be better left to itself to-day, and little
Margaret is not accustomed to so many.'</p>
<p>'I don't believe anything would make her feel
shy, though,' I said. 'She is just as funny in her
way as Peterkin in his. And, mamma, there are
some things I don't understand still. Is there any<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>
sort of mystery? Why did Mrs. Wylie leave off
talking about Margaret, and you too, I think, all of
a sudden? I'm sure it was Mrs. Wylie's way of
pinching up her lips about her, that made Pete surer
than ever about the enchantment and the parrot and
the witch and everything.'</p>
<p>Mamma smiled.</p>
<p>'No,' she said, 'there is no mystery at all. I will
explain about it while we are having tea. It must
be ready for us.'</p>
<p>And she went into the drawing-room, Clement
and I following her. It looked so nice and comfortable—I
was jolly glad, I know, to be at home
again!</p>
<p>Then mamma told us—or me; I think Clem had
heard it already—about Margaret.</p>
<p>Her father and mother were in India, as I have
said, have I not? And her grandfather was taking
care of her. He was not a very old man, though he
was a General. He had vineyards or something—yes,
I am sure it was vineyards, in the south of
France, and he had had to go, suddenly, to look after
some business to do with them. And just when he
was starting, Margaret got ill. It was the illness
she had spoken of several times, which she called a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>
very bad cold. But it was much worse than that,
though she didn't know.</p>
<p>Her grandfather put off going till she was getting
better, and the doctors said she must have change of
air. He couldn't take her with him, and he had to
go, so the only thing he could think of was to ask
old Miss Bogle, who had been Margaret's father's
governess once—or General Fothergill's own governess
when he was a little boy; I am not sure which—to
take charge of her. He had forgotten how old,
Miss Bogle was, and I think she must have forgotten
it herself! She wasn't fit to look after a child,
especially as Margaret's nurse had to leave just
then.</p>
<p>So you can pretty well understand how dull and
lonely Margaret was. And General Fothergill was
in such a fuss about her, and so terrified of her
getting any other illness, that he forbade her making
friends with any one out of Miss Bogle's house, unless
he was asked about it, and wrote to give leave.</p>
<p>And when Mrs. Wylie found out about her, she—or
Miss Bogle—<i>did</i> write to ask leave for her to
know <i>us</i>, explaining how good and sensible mamma
was about children every way. But till the leave
came Mrs. Wylie and mamma settled that it was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>
better to say nothing about it to us. And in this, <i>I</i>
think, they made a mistake.</p>
<p>That was all. The leave <i>did</i> come, while Margaret
was with us. Of course, all that had happened was
written to her grandfather, but she wasn't a bit
scolded!</p>
<p>Neither was her 'Perkins'; the big people only
said that they must not be given so many fairy-stories
to read.</p>
<p><i>I</i> wasn't scolded either, though, so I should not
complain. And several nice things came of it: the
knowing Beryl Wylie, and the going to stay at
General Fothergill's country house, and the having
Margaret with us sometimes.</p>
<p>I don't know what the parrot thought of it all.
I believe he is still there, as clever and 'uncanny'
as ever; at least so Mrs. Wylie said, the last time
she came to see us.</p>
<h3>THE END</h3>
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<tr><td align='left'><b>"CARROTS."</b></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><b>A CHRISTMAS CHILD.</b></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><b>GRANDMOTHER DEAR.</b></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><b>THE CUCKOO CLOCK.</b></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><b>THE TAPESTRY ROOM.</b></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><b>"US."</b></td></tr>
<tr><td align='left'><b>ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY.</b></td></tr>
</table></div>
<div class='center'><br />MACMILLAN AND CO., <span class="smcap">Ltd.</span>, LONDON.</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS.</h2>
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<div class="hang1"><b>LE AVVENTURE D'ALICE NEL PAESE DELLE MERAVIGLIE.</b>
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Vignette di <span class="smcap">Giovanni Tenniel</span>. Crown 8vo. 6s. net.<br /><br /></div>
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of the original MS. book afterwards developed into "Alice's Adventures in
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Crown 8vo. 4s. 6d. net.<br /><br /></div>
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Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d.<br /><br /></div>
<div class="hang1"><b>SYLVIE AND BRUNO</b>, Concluded. With Illustrations by
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Edition.</i> Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d.<br /><br /></div>
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<pre>
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