Little Miss Peggy Part 23

This did not much clear up matters. Indeed Peggy's papa was afraid for a minute or two that his little girl was going to have a fever, and that her mind was wandering. But all such fears were soon set at rest, and when the lady went off with Sarah, she left Peggy setting to work very happily at her dinner or tea, she was not sure which to call it.

"And you will let her come to spend the day with me to-morrow?" said the lady, as she shook hands with Peggy's father. "I shall be driving this way, and I can call for her. I should not be happy not to know that she was none the worse for her adventures to-day."

Then the lady took Sarah by the hand and went round with her to her home in the back street, telling the groom to wait for her at the corner.

It was well she went herself, for otherwise I am afraid poor Light Smiley would not have escaped the scolding she dreaded. Her mother and sisters had been very unhappy and frightened about her, and when people--especially poor mothers like Mrs. Simpkins, with "so many children that they don't know what to do"--are anxious and frightened, I have often noticed that it makes them very cross.

As it was, however, the lady managed to smoothe it all down, and before she left she got not only Sarah's mother, but Rebecca and Mary-Hann and all of them to promise to say no more about it.

"'Tisn't only for myself I was feelin' so put about, you see, ma'am,"

said Mrs. Simpkins, "but when I sent over the way and found the little missy was not to be found it flashed upon me like a lightenin'

streak--it did that, ma'am--that the two was off together. And if any 'arm had come to the little lady through one of mine, so to say, it would 'ave gone nigh to break my 'art. For their mar is a sweet lady--a real feelin' lady is their mar."

"And a kind friend to you, I daresay," said the stranger.

"Couldn't be a kinder as far as friendly words and old clotheses goes,"

said Mrs. Simpkins. "But she's a large little fam'ly of her own, and not so very strong in 'ealth, and plenty to do with their money. And so to speak strangers in the place, though she 'ave said she'd do her best to get a place in a nice fam'ly for one of my girls."

The lady glanced at the group of sisters.

"Yes," she said, "I should think you could spare one or two. How would you like to be in a kitchen?" she added, turning to Rebecca.

The girl blushed so that her face matched her arms, and she looked more "reddy" than ever. But she shook her head.

"I'm afraid----" she began.

"No, ma'am, thank you kindly, but I couldn't spare Rebecca," the mother interrupted. "If it were for Mary-Hann now--Matilda-Jane's coming on and could take her place. Only, for I couldn't deceive you, ma'am, she's rather deaf."

"I shouldn't mind that," said the lady, who was pleased by Mary-Ann's bright eyes and pleasant face. "I think deaf people sometimes work better than quick-hearing ones, besides, it may perhaps be cured. I will speak about her to my housekeeper and let you know. And you, Sarah, you are to be in the nursery some day."

Sarah grinned with delight.

"Not just yet," said Mrs. Simpkins; "she 'ave a deal to learn, 'ave Sarah. Schooling and stiddiness to begin with. She don't mean no 'arm, I'll allow."

"No; I'm sure she wants to be a very good girl," said the lady. "She was very kind and gentle to little Miss Peggy. So I won't forget you either, Sarah, when the time comes."

And then the lady said good-bye to them all, and Mrs. Simpkins's heart felt lighter than for long, for she was sure that through this new friend she might get the start in life she had been hoping for, for her many daughters.

Peggy slept off her fatigue, and by the next morning she was quite bright again and able to listen to and understand papa's explanation of how, though without meaning to be disobedient, she had done wrong the day before in setting off with Sarah Simpkins as she had done. Two or three tears rolled slowly down her cheeks as she heard what he said.

"I meant to be so good while mamma was away," she whispered. "But I'll never do it again, papa. I'll stay quiet in the nursery all alone, even if Miss Earnshaw doesn't come back at all."

For a message had come from the dressmaker that her mother was very ill, as f.a.n.n.y had feared, and that she was afraid she would not be able to leave her for several days.

"It won't be so bad as that, dear," said her father. "Mamma will be back in five days now, and I don't think you are likely to be left alone in the nursery--certainly not to-day;" and then he told her about the lady having asked her to spend the day out in the country with her, and that Peggy must be ready by twelve o'clock, not to keep her new friend waiting.

Peggy's eyes gleamed with delight.

"Out into the country?" she said. "Oh, how lovely! And oh, papa, do you think _p'raps_ she lives in a white cottage?"

Papa shook his head.

"I'm afraid it's not a cottage at all where she lives," he said. "But I'm sure it is a very pretty house, and let us hope it is a white one."

"No," said Peggy, "you don't understand, papa--not as well as mamma does. I don't care what colour it is if it's only an 'ouse."

And she couldn't understand why papa laughed so that he really couldn't correct her. "I'm afraid, Peggy," he said, "you've been taking lessons from little Miss Simpkins. It's time mamma came home again to look after you."

"Yes, I wish mamma was come home again," said Peggy. "We can't do without her, can we, papa?"

But when the dear little pony carriage came up to the door, and Peggy got in and drove off with her kind friend, she was so happy that she had not even time to wish for mamma.

And what a delightful day she had! The lady's house was very pretty, and the gardens and woods in which it stood even prettier in Peggy's opinion. And though it was not a cottage, there were all the country things to see which Peggy was so fond of--c.o.c.ks and hens, and cows, and in one field lots of sheep and sweet little lambkins. There were pigs too, which Peggy would not look at, but ran away to the other end of the yard as soon as she heard them "grumphing," which amused the lady very much. And in the afternoon she went a walk with her friend through the village, where there were several pretty cottages, but none that quite fitted Peggy's fancy. When they came in again Peggy stood at the drawing-room window, which looked out towards Brackens.h.i.+re, without speaking.

"You like that view, don't you, dear?" said the lady. "You can see the hills?"

"Yes," said Peggy, "I can see the mountings, but not the white cottage.

It's got turned wrong somehow, from here. I can only see _it_ from the nursery window at home," and she gave a very little sigh.

"Some day," said the lady, "some day in the summer when the afternoons are very long, I will drive you right out a long way among the hills, and perhaps we'll find the cottage then. For I hope your mamma will often let you come to see me, my little Peggy."

"Yes," said Peggy, "that would be lovely. I _wonder_ if we'd find the white cottage."

No, they never did! The sweet long summer days came, and many a bright and happy one Peggy spent with her kind friend, but they never found the white cottage on the hill. Peggy knew it so well in her mind, she felt she could not mistake it, but though she saw many white cottages which any one else _might_ have thought was it, she knew better. And each time, though she sighed a little, she hoped again.

But before another summer came round Peggy and her father and mother, and Thor, and Terry, and Hal, and Baldwin, and Baby had all gone away--far away to the south, many hours' journey from the dingy town and the Fernley Road, and the queer old house in the back street where lived the cobbler and old Mother Whelan and Brown Smiley and Light Smiley and all the rest of them. Far away too from the hills and the strange white speck in the distance which Peggy called her cottage.

So it never was more than a dream to her after all, and perhaps--perhaps it was best so? For nothing has ever spoilt the sweetness and the mystery of the childish fancy--she can see it with her mind's eye still--the soft white speck on the far-away, blue hills--she can see it and think of it and make fancies about it even now--now that she has climbed a long, long way up the mountain of life, and will soon be creeping slowly down the other side, where the sun still s.h.i.+nes, however, and there are even more beautiful things to hope for than the sweetest dreams of childhood.

THE END