FELLOW-FEELINGS AND SLIPPERS
"If I'd as much money as I could tell
I never would cry 'old clothes to sell'!"
_London Cries._
MAMMA hesitated a moment. Then she began.
"You know, Peggy, my pet," she said, "for a good while now I haven't
been as strong and well as I used to be----"
"Stop, mamma, stop," said Peggy, with a sort of cry, and as she spoke
she threw up her hands and pressed them hard against her ears; "I know
what you're going to say, but I can't bear it, no, I can't. Oh mamma,
you're not to say you're going to die."
For all answer mamma caught Peggy into her arms and kissed her again and
again. For a minute or two it seemed as if she could not speak, but at
last she got her voice. And then, rather to Peggy's surprise, she saw
that although there were tears in mamma's eyes, and even one or two
trickling down her face, she was smiling too.
"My darling Peggy," she said, "did I frighten you? I am so, so sorry. Oh
no, darling, it is nothing like that. Please God I shall live to see my
Peggy as old as I am now, and older, I hope. No, no, dear, it is nothing
so very sad I was going to tell you. It is only that the doctor says the
best way for me to get quite well and strong again is to go away for a
while to have change of air as it is called, in some nice country
place."
"In the country," said Peggy, her eyes brightening with pleasure. "Oh,
how nice! will it perhaps be that country where my cottage is? Oh, dear
mamma, how lovely! And when are we to go? May we begin packing to-day?
And how could you think it would make me unhappy----" she went on,
suddenly remembering what her mother had said at first.
Mamma's face did not brighten up at all.
"Peggy dear, it is very hard for me to tell you," she said. "Of course,
if we had all been going together it would have been only happy. But
that's just the thing. I can't take you with me, my sweet. Baby must go,
because nurse must, and Hallie too. But the friend I am going to stay
with can't have more of us than the two little ones, and nurse, and
me--it is very, very good of her to take so many."
"Couldn't I sleep with you, mamma dear?" said Peggy in a queer little
voice, the tone of which went to mamma's heart.
"My pet, Hallie must sleep with me, as it is. My friend's house isn't
very big. And there's another reason why I can't take you--I'm not sure
if you could understand----"
"Tell it me, please, mamma."
"The lady I am going to had a little girl just like you--I mean just the
same age, and rather like you altogether, I think. And the poor little
girl died two years ago, Peggy. Since then it is a pain to her mother to
see other little girls. When you are bigger and not so like what her
little girl was, I daresay she won't mind."
Peggy had been listening, her whole soul in her eyes.
"I understand," she said. "I wouldn't like to go if it would make that
lady cry--if it hadn't been for that--oh mamma, I could have squeezed
myself up so very tight in the bed! You and Hallie wouldn't have knowed
I were there. But I wouldn't like to make her cry. I am so sorry about
that little girl. Mamma, how is it that dying is so nice, about going to
heaven, you know, and _still_ it is so sorry?"
"There is the parting," said mamma.
"Yes--that must be it. And, mamma, I hope it isn't naughty, but if you
were to die I'd be _very_ sorry not to see you again just the same--even
if you were to be a very pretty angel, with shiny clothes and all that,
I'd want you to be my own old mamma."
"I would be your own old mamma, dear. I am sure you would feel I was the
same."
"I'm so glad," said Peggy. "Still it is sad to die," and she sighed.
"Mamma dear, you won't be very long away, will you? It'll only be a
little short parting, won't it?"
"Only a few weeks, dear. And I hope you won't be unhappy even though you
must be a little lonely."
"If only I had a sister," said Peggy.
But mamma went on to tell her all she had planned. Miss Earnshaw, a
dressmaker who used sometimes to come and sew, was to be with Peggy as
much as she could. She was a gentle nice girl, and Peggy liked her.
"She has several things to make for me just now," said mamma, "and as
she lives near, she will try to come every day, so that she will be with
you at dinner and tea. And Fanny will help you to dress and undress, and
either she or Miss Earnshaw will take you a walk every day that it is
fine enough. And then in the evenings, of course, the boys will be at
home, and papa will see you every morning before he goes."
"And I daresay he'll come up to see me in bed at night too," said Peggy.
Then she was silent for a minute or two; the truth was, I think, that
she was trying hard to swallow down a lump in her throat that _would_
come, and to blink away two or three tiresome tears that kept creeping
up to her eyes.
Two days later and they were gone. Mamma, nurse, Hal, and Baby, with
papa to see them off, and two boxes outside the cab, and of course a
whole lot of smaller packages inside.
Peggy stood at the front-door, nodding and kissing her hand and making a
smile, as broad a one as she possibly could, to show that she was not
crying.
When they were gone, really gone, and Fanny had shut the door, she
turned kindly to Peggy.
"Now, Miss Peggy, love, what will you do? Miss Earnshaw won't be here
till to-morrow. I'll try to be ready so as to take you out this
afternoon if it's fine, for it's not a half-holiday. It'd be very dull
for you all day alone--to-morrow the young gentlemen will be at home as
it's Saturday."
A bright idea struck Peggy.
"Fanny," she said, "did mamma or nurse say anything about soap-bubbles?"
Fanny shook her head.
"No, miss. But I'm sure there'd be no objection to your playing at them
if you liked. I can easy get a little basin and some soap and water for
you. But have you a pipe?"
Peggy shook her head.
"It isn't for me, Fanny, thank you," she said. "It's for my brothers
most. I'd like to make a surprise for them while mamma's away."
"Yes, that would be very nice," said Fanny, who had been charged at all
costs to make Peggy happy. "We'll talk about it. But I'd better get on
with my work, so as to get out a bit this afternoon."
"Very well. I'll go up to the nursery," said the little girl.
The nursery seemed very strange. Peggy had never seen it look quite so
empty. Not only were nurse and the little ones gone, but it seemed as
if everything belonging to them had gone too, for nurse had sat up late
the night before and got up very early this same morning to put
everything into perfect order before leaving. The tidiness was quite
unnatural. Peggy sat down in a corner and gave a deep sigh. Just then
she did not even care to turn to the window, where the sunshine was
pouring in brightly, sparkling on the two little scarlet shoes, standing
side by side on the sill, where Peggy placed them every fine morning,
that they might enjoy the sight of the white cottage on the hill!
"I almost wish it was raining," she half whispered to herself, till she
remembered how very disagreeable a wet day would have been for mamma and
the others to travel on. "I hope it will be a sunny day when they come
back," she added, as a sort of make-up for her forgetfulness.
And then she got up and wandered into the other room. Here one of Hal's
old shoes, which had fallen out of a bundle of things to be given away
which nurse had taken downstairs just before going, was lying on the
floor. Peggy stooped and picked it up. How well she knew the look of
Hal's shoes; there was the round bump of his big toe, and the hole at
the corner where a bit of his red sock used to peep out! It gave her a
strange dreamy feeling as she looked at it. It seemed as if it could not
be true that Hallie was far away--"far, far away" by this time, thought
Peggy, for she always felt as if the moment people were in the railway
they were whizzed off hundreds of miles in an instant. She stroked the
poor old shoe lovingly and kissed it. I don't think just then she would
have parted with it for anything; it would have cost her less to give
away the lovely little scarlet ones.
The thought of the old clothes turned her mind to the children at the
back.
"I wonder if nurse gave them any of Hal's and Baby's old things," she
said to herself.
And she went to the window with a vague idea of looking to see. She had
not watched the Smileys or their relations much for some days; she had
been busy helping mamma and nurse in various little ways, and her mind
had been very full of the going away. She almost felt as if she had
neglected her opposite neighbours, though, of course, they knew nothing
about it, and she was quite pleased to see them all there as usual, or
even more than usual. For it was so fine a day that Reddy and her
mother were evidently having a grand turn-out--a sort of spring
cleaning, I suppose.
Small pieces of carpet, and one or two mats, much the worse for wear,
were hanging out at the open windows. Reddy's head, tied up in a cloth
to keep the dust out of her hair, was to be seen every minute or two, as
she thumped about with a long broom, and Mary-Hann presently appeared
with a pail of soapy water which she emptied at a grid in the gutter.
Mary-Hann looked rather depressed, but Reddy's spirits were fully equal
to the occasion. Had the window been open, Peggy felt sure she would
have been able to hear her shouting to her sister to "look sharp," or to
"mind what she was about," even more vigorously than usual.
The rest of the family, excepting, of course, the boys, were assembled
on the pavement in front of Mr. Crick the cobbler's shop. He too had
opened his window to enjoy the fine day, and in the background he could
be dimly seen working, as dingy and leathery as ever. Mrs. Whelan's
frilled cap and pipe looked out for a moment and then disappeared again.
Apparently just then there was nobody or nothing she _could_ scold.
For the poor children on the pavement were behaving very quietly. The
Smileys had stayed at home from school to mind the babies, with a view
to smoothing the way for the spring cleaning, no doubt, and were
sitting, each with a child on her lap, in two little old chairs they had
carried down. Crippley was rocking herself gently in her chair beside
them, and the last baby but two, as Peggy then thought, was on his knees
on the ground, amusing himself with two or three oyster shells and a few
marbles. All these particulars Peggy, from her high-up nursery window,
could not, of course, see clearly, but she saw enough to make her sigh
deeply as she thought that after all, the Smileys were much to be
envied.
"I daresay they're telling theirselves stories," she said to herself.
"They look so comfable."
Just then the big baby happened to come more in sight, and she saw that
one of the things he was playing with was a little shoe--an odd one
apparently. He had filled it with marbles, and was pulling it across the
stones. Up jumped Peggy from her seat on the window-sill.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, though there was no one to hear, "it must be the
nother shoe of this. What a pity! They'd do for Tip, and p'raps they've
thought there wasn't a nother. How I would like to take it them! I'll
call Fanny and see if she'll run across with it."
Downstairs she went, calling Fanny from time to time as she journeyed.
But no Fanny replied; she was down in the kitchen, and to the kitchen
Peggy knew mamma would not like her to go. She stood at last in the
passage wondering what to do, when, glancing round, she noticed that the
back-door opening into the yard was temptingly open. Peggy peeped
out--there was no one there, but, still more tempting, the door leading
into the small back street--the door just opposite the Smiley
mansion--stood open, wide open too, and even from where she was the
little girl could catch sight of the group on the other side of the
narrow street.
She trotted across the yard, and stood for a minute, the shoe in her
hand, gazing at the six children. The sound of their voices reached her.
"Halfred is quite took up with his shoe," said Brown Smiley. "I told
mother she moight as well give it he--a hodd shoe's no good to nobody."
"'Tis a pity there wasn't the two of 'em," said Crippley, in a thin,
rather squeaky voice. "They'd a done bee-yutiful for----"
[Illustration: '"For Tip--yes, that's what _I_ were thinking," cried an
eager little voice. "Here's the other shoe; I've just founded it."
And little Peggy, with her neat hair and clean pinafore, stood in the
middle of the children holding out Hal's slipper, and smiling at them
like an old friend.'
P. 92]
"For Tip--yes, that's what _I_ were thinking," cried an eager little
voice. "Here's the other shoe; I've just founded it."
And little Peggy, with her neat hair and clean pinafore, stood in the
middle of the children holding out Hal's slipper, and smiling at them,
like an old friend.
For a moment or two they were all too astonished to speak; they could
scarcely have stared more had they caught sight of a pair of wings on
her shoulders, by means of which she had flown down from the sky.
Then Light Smiley nudged Crippley, and murmured something which Peggy
could not clearly hear, about "th' young lady hopposite."
"Thank you, miss," then said Crippley, not quite knowing what to say.
"Here, Halfred, you'll have to find summat else to make a carridge of;
give us the shoe--there's a good boy."
Halfred stopped playing, and still on his knees on the pavement stared
up suspiciously at his sister. Brown Smiley, by way of taking part in
what was going on, swooped down over him and caught up the shoe before
he saw what she was doing, cleverly managing to hold her baby on her
knee all the same.
"'Ere it be," she said. "Sarah, put Florence on Lizzie's lap for a
minute, and run you upstairs with them two shoes to mother. They'll do
splendid for Tommy, they will. And thank the young lady."
Sarah, otherwise Light Smiley, got up obediently, deposited _her_ baby
on Crippley's lap and held out her hand to Peggy for the other shoe,
bobbing as she did so, with a "Thank you, miss."
Peggy left off smiling and looked rather puzzled.
"For Tommy," she repeated. "Who is Tommy? I thought they'd do for Tip.
I----"
It was now the sisters' turn to stare, but they had not much time to do
so, for Halfred, who had taken all this time to arrive at the knowledge
that his new plaything had been taken from him, suddenly burst into a
loud howl--so loud, so deliberate and determined, that Peggy stopped
short, and all the group seemed for a moment struck dumb.
Brown Smiley was the first to speak.
"Come, now, Halfred," she said, "where's your manners? You'd never stop
Tommy having a nice pair o' shoes."
But Halfred continued to weep--he gazed up at Peggy, the tears streaming
down his smutty face, his mouth wide open, howling hopelessly.
"Poor little boy," said Peggy, looking ready to cry herself. "I wish I'd
a nother old shoe for him."
"Bless you, miss, he's always a-crying--there's no need to worry," said
Crippley, whose real name was Lizzie. "Take him in with you, Sarah, and
tell mother he's a naughty boy, that's what he is," and Light Smiley
picked him up and ran off with him in such a hurry that Peggy stood
still repeating "poor little boy" before she knew what had become of
him.
Quiet was restored, however. Peggy, having done what she came for,
should have gone home, but the attractions of society were too much for
her. She lingered--Crippley pushed Sarah's empty chair towards her.
"Take a seat, miss," she said. "You'll excuse me not gettin' up. Onst
I'm a-sittin' down, it's not so heasy."
Peggy looked at her with great interest.
"Does it hurt much?" she asked.
Lizzie smiled in a superior way.
"Bless you," she said again, "_hurt's_ no word for it. It's hall
over--but it's time I were used to it--never mind about me, missy. I'm
sure it was most obligin' of you to bring the shoe, but won't your mamma
and your nurse scold you?"
"My mamma's gone away, and so has my nurse," said Peggy. "I'm all
alone."
All the eyes looked up with sympathy.
"Deary me, who'd a thought it?" said Brown Smiley. "But there must be
somebody to do for you, miss."
"To what?" asked Peggy. "Of course there's cook, and Fanny, and my
brothers, and my papa when he comes home."
Brown Smiley looked relieved. She was only a very little girl, not more
than three years older than Peggy herself, though she seemed so much
more, and she had really thought that the little visitor meant to say
she was quite, quite by herself.
"Oh!" she said, "that's not being real alone."
"But it is," persisted Peggy. "It is very alone, I can tell you. I've
nobody to play with, and nothing to do 'cept to look out of the window
at you playing, and at the nother window at----"
"The winder to the front," said Lizzie, eagerly. "It must be splendid at
your front, miss. Father told me onst you could see the 'ills--ever so
far right away in Brackenshire. Some day if I could but get along a bit
better I'd like fine to go round to your front, miss. I've never seed a
'ill."
Lizzie was quite out of breath with excitement. Peggy answered eagerly,
"Oh I do wish you could come to our day nursery window. When it's fine
you can see the mountings--that's old, no, big hills, you know. And--on
one of them you can see a white cottage; it does so shine in the sun."
"Bless me," said Lizzie, and both the Smileys, for Sarah had come back
by now, stood listening with open mouths.
"Father's from Brackenshire," said Light Smiley, whose real name was
Sarah. She spoke rather timidly, for she was well kept in her place by
her four elder sisters. For a wonder they did not snub her.
"Yes, he be," added Matilda, "and he's told us it's bee-yutiful over
there. He lived in a cottage, he did, when he were a little lad."
"Mebbe 'tis father's cottage miss sees shining," ventured Sarah. But
this time she was not so lucky.
"Rubbish, Sarah," said Lizzie. "There's more'n one cottage in
Brackenshire."
"And there's a mamma and a baby--and a papa who goes to work, in my
cottage," said Peggy. "So I don't think it could be----" but here she
grew confused, remembering that all about the white cottage was only
fancy, and that besides the Smileys' father _might_ have lived there
long ago. She got rather red, feeling somehow as if it was not very kind
of her not to like the idea of its being his cottage. She had seen him
once or twice; he looked big and rough, and his clothes were old--she
could not fancy him ever having lived in her dainty white house.
Just then came a loud voice from the upper story, demanding Sarah.
"'Tis Mother Whelan," said Brown Smiley, starting up. "Rebecca said as
how I was to run of an errant for her. It's time I were off."
Peggy turned to go.
"I must go home," she said. "P'raps I'll come again some day. If mamma
was at home I'd ask her if you mightn't come to look out of the nursery
window," she added, turning to Lizzie.
"Bless you," said the poor girl, "I'd never get up the stairs; thank you
all the same."
And with a deep sigh of regret at having to leave such pleasant company,
Peggy ran across the street home.