A BUN TO THE GOOD
"The little gift from out our store."
THE yard door was still open; so was the house door. Peggy met no one as
she ran in.
"Fanny's upstairs, p'raps," she said to herself. But no, she saw nothing
of Fanny either on the way up or in the nursery. She did not feel dull
or lonely now, however. She went to the back window and stood there for
a minute looking at Crippley and Light Smiley, who were still there with
the two babies. How funny it seemed that just a moment or two ago she
had been down there actually talking to them! She could scarcely believe
they were the very same children whom for so long she had known by
sight.
"I am so glad I found the shoe," thought Peggy. "I wish, oh I do wish I
could have a tea-party, and 'avite them all to tea. I daresay the
father could carry Crippley upstairs--he's a very big man."
The thought of the father carried her thoughts to Brackenshire and the
cottage on the hill, and she went into the day-nursery to look if the
white spot was still to be seen. Yes, it was very bright and clear in
the sunshine. Peggy gazed at it while a smile broke over her grave
little face.
"How I do wish I could go there," she thought. "I wonder if the Smileys'
father 'amembers about when he was a little boy, quite well. If he
wasn't such a 'nugly man we might ask him to tell us stories about it."
Then she caught sight of the little scarlet shoes patiently standing on
the window-sill.
"Dear little shoes," she said. "Peggy was neely forgetting you," and she
took them up and kissed them. "Next time I go to see the Smileys," she
thought, "I'll take the red shoes with me to show them. They _will_ be
pleased."
Then she got out her work and sat down to do it, placing her chair where
she could see the hills from, the little shoes in her lap, feeling quite
happy and contented. It seemed but a little while till Fanny came up to
lay the cloth for Peggy's dinner. She had been working extra hard that
morning, so as to be ready for the afternoon, and perhaps her head was a
little confused. And so when Peggy began telling her her adventures she
did not listen attentively, and answered "yes" and "no" without really
knowing what she was saying.
"And so when I couldn't find you, Fanny, I just runned over with the
'nother shoe myself. And the poor little boy what was playing with
the--the _not_ the 'nother one, you know, did so cry, but I think he
soon left off. And some day I'm going to ask mamma to let me 'avite them
all to tea, for them to see the hills, and----" but here Peggy stopped,
"the hills, you know, out of the window."
"Yes, dear; very nice," said Fanny. "You've been a good little girl to
amuse yourself so quietly all the morning and give no trouble. I do
wonder if the washerwoman knows to come for the nursery things, or if I
must send," she went on, speaking, though aloud, to herself.
So Peggy felt perfectly happy about all she had done, not indeed that
she had had the slightest misgiving.
The afternoon passed very pleasantly. It was quite a treat to Peggy to
go a walk in a grown-up sort of way with Fanny, trotting by her side
and talking comfortably, instead of having to take Hal's hand and
lugging him along to keep well in front of the perambulator. They went
up the Ferndale Road--a good way, farther than Peggy had ever been--so
far indeed that she could scarcely understand how it was the hills did
not seem much nearer than from the nursery window, but when she asked
Fanny, Fanny said it was often so with hills--"nothing is more
undependable." Peggy did not quite understand her, but put it away in
her head to think about afterwards.
And when they came home it was nearly tea-time. Peggy felt quite
comfortably tired when she had taken off her things and began to help
Fanny to get tea ready for the boys, and when they arrived, all three
very hungry and rather low-spirited at the thought of mamma and nurse
being away, it was very nice for them to find the nursery quite as tidy
as usual--indeed, perhaps, rather tidier--and Peggy, with a bright face,
waiting with great pride to pour out tea for them.
"I think you're a very good housekeeper, Peg," said Terence, who was
always the first to say something pleasant.
"Not so bad," agreed Thorold, patronisingly.
Baldwin sat still, looking before him solemnly, and considering his
words, as was his way before _he_ said anything.
"I think," he began at last, "I think that when I'm a big man I'll live
in a cottage all alone with Peggy, and not no one else."
Peggy turned to him with sparkling eyes.
"A _white_ cottage, Baldwin dear; do say a white cottage," she
entreated.
"I don't mind--a white cottage, but quite a tiny one," he replied.
"Hum!" said Thor, "that's very good-natured, I must say. There'll be no
room for visitors, do you hear, Terry?"
"Oh yes; p'raps there will sometimes," said Peggy.
"You'll let your poor old Terry come, won't you, Peg-top?" said Terence,
coaxingly.
"Dear Terry," said Peggy.
"Haven't you been very dull all day alone, by the bye?" Terence went on.
"Not very," Peggy replied. "Fanny took me a nice walk, and this
morning----" But she stopped short before telling more. She was afraid
that Thorold would laugh at her if she said how much she liked the
children at the back, and then she had another reason. She wanted to
"surprise" her brothers with a present of pipes for soap-bubbles, and
very likely if she began talking about the back street at all it would
make them think of Mrs. Whelan's, and then they might think of the pipes
for themselves, which Peggy did not wish at all. She felt quite big and
managing since she had paid a visit to the Smileys, and had a plan for
going to buy the pipes "all by my own self."
"To-morrow," said Thorold, "there's to be a party at our school. We're
all three to go."
Peggy's face fell.
"It's Saturday," she said. "I thought you'd have stayed with me."
Terence and Baldwin looked sorry.
"_I'll_ stay at home," said Terry.
"No," said Thor, "I really don't think you can. They're counting on you
for some of the games. Peg won't mind much for once, will you? I'm sorry
too."
But before Peggy had time to reply, Baldwin broke in.
"I'll stay at home with Peg-top," he said, in his slow, distinct way.
"It won't matter for me not going. I'm one of the little ones."
"And we'll go a nice walk, won't we, Baldwin?" said Peggy, quite happy
again. "And I daresay we may have something nice for tea. I'll ask
papa," she added to herself. "I'm sure he'll give me some pennies when
he hears how good Baldwin is."
Miss Earnshaw came the next morning, and in the interest of being
measured for her new spring frock, and watching it being cut out, and
considering what she herself could make with the scraps which the young
dressmaker gave her, the time passed very pleasantly for Peggy.
Miss Earnshaw admired the red shoes very much, and was interested to
hear the story of the unknown lady who had given them to Peggy, and told
a story of a similar adventure of her own when she was a little girl.
And after dinner she, for Fanny was very busy, took Peggy and Baldwin
out for a walk, and on their way home they went to the confectioner's
and bought six halfpenny buns with the three pennies papa had given
Peggy that morning. At least the children thought there were only six,
but greatly to their surprise, when they undid the parcel on the nursery
table, out rolled seven!
"Oh dear!" said Peggy, "she's gave us one too many. Must we go back to
the shop with it, do you think, Miss Earnshaw? It's such a long way."
"I'll go," said Baldwin, beginning to fasten his boots again.
But Miss Earnshaw assured them it was all right.
"You always get thirteen of any penny buns or cakes for a shilling," she
said; "and some shops will give you seven halfpenny ones for threepence.
That's how it is. Did you never hear speak of a baker's dozen?"
Still Peggy did not feel satisfied.
"It isn't comfable," she said, giving herself a little wriggle--a trick
of hers when she was put out. "Six would have been much nicer--just two
for each," for Miss Earnshaw was to have tea with her and Baldwin.
The young dressmaker smiled.
"You _are_ funny, Miss Peggy," she said. "Well, run off now and get
ready for tea. We'll have Fanny bringing it up in a minute."
Peggy, the seventh bun still much on her mind, went slowly into the
night nursery. Before beginning to take off her hat she strolled to the
window and looked out. She had seen none of the children to-day. Now,
Brown Smiley was standing just in front of the house, a basket on her
arm, staring up and down the street. She had been "of an errant" for
Mrs. Whelan, but Mrs. Whelan's door was locked; she was either asleep or
counting her money, and the little girl knew that if she went on
knocking the old woman would get into a rage, so she was "waitin' a
bit." She liked better to do her waiting in the street, for she had been
busy indoors all the morning, and it was a change to stand there looking
about her.
Peggy gazed at her for a moment or two. Then an idea struck her. She ran
back into the nursery and seized a bun--the odd bun.
"They're all mine, you know," she called out to Baldwin; "but we'll have
two each still."
Baldwin looked up in surprise. "What are you going to do with it?" he
began to say, but Peggy was out of sight.
She was soon downstairs, and easily opened the back door. But the yard
door was fastened; she found some difficulty in turning the big key. She
managed it at last, however, and saw to her delight that Brown Smiley
was still there.
"Brown," began Peggy, but suddenly recollecting that the Smileys had
real names, she stopped short, and ran across the street. "I can't
'amember your name," she exclaimed, breathlessly, "but I've brought you
this," and she held out the bun.
Brown Smiley's face smiled all over.
"Lor', miss," she exclaimed. "You are kind, to be sure. Mayn't I give it
to Lizzie? She's been very bad to-day, and she's eat next to nought.
This 'ere'll be tasty-like."
"Lizzie," repeated Peggy, "which is Lizzie? Oh yes, I know, it's
Crippley."
Brown Smiley looked rather hurt.
"It's not her fault, miss," she said. "I'd not like her to hear herself
called like that."
Peggy's face showed extreme surprise.
"How do you mean?" she said. "I've made names for you all. I didn't know
your real ones."
Brown Smiley looked at her and saw in a moment that there was nothing to
be vexed about.
"To be sure, miss. Beg your pardon. Well, she that's lame's Lizzie, and
me, I'm Matilda-Jane."
"Oh yes," interrupted Peggy. "Well, you may give her the bun if you
like. It's very kind of you, for I meant it for you. I'd like----" she
went on, "I'd like to give you more, but you see papa gaved me the
pennies for us, and p'raps he'd be vexed."
"To be sure, to be sure, that'd never do," replied Matilda, quickly.
"But oh, miss, we've been asking father about Brackenshire, and the
cottages. 'Tis Brackenshire 'ills, sure enough, that's seen from your
front."
"I knew that," said Peggy, in a superior way.
But Brown Smiley was too eager to feel herself snubbed.
"And oh, but he says it is bee-yutiful there--over on the 'ills. The
air's that fresh, and there's flowers and big-leaved things as they
calls ferns and brackens."
"And white cottages?" asked Peggy, anxiously.
"There's cottages--I didn't think for to ask if they was all white. My!
If we could but go there some fine day. Father says it's not so far;
many's the time he's walked over there and back again the next morning
when he first comed to work here, you see, miss, and his 'ome was still
over there like."
"Yes, in the white cottage," said Peggy. She had made up her mind that
it was unkind not to "let it be" that the Smileys' father had lived in
that very cottage, for he did seem to be a nice man in spite of his
bigness and his dingy workman's clothes. If he wasn't nice and kind she
didn't think the children would talk of him as they did.
[Illustration: "I can't 'amember your name," she exclaimed breathlessly,
"but I've brought you this," and she held out the bun.
Brown Smiley's face smiled all over.
"Lor', miss," she exclaimed. "You are kind to be sure. Mayn't I give it
to Lizzie? She's been very bad to-day, and she's eat next to nought.
This 'ere'll be tasty-like."
* * * * *
But suddenly a window above opened, and Mother Whelan's befrilled face
was thrust out.
"What are ye about there then, and me fire burning itself away, and me
tea ready, waiting for the bread? What's the young lady chatterin' to
the like o' you for? Go home, missy, darlin', go home."
P.P. 107-9]
But she spoke absently; Matilda-Jane's words had put thoughts in her
head which seemed to make her almost giddy. Brown Smiley stared at her
for a minute.
"How she do cling to them cottages being white," she thought to herself,
"but there--if it pleases her! She's but a little one." "White if you
please, miss," she replied, "though I can't say as I had it from
father."
But suddenly a window above opened, and Mother Whelan's befrilled face
was thrust out.
"What are ye about there then, and me fire burning itself away, and me
tea ready, waiting for the bread? What's the young lady chatterin' to
the likes o' you for? Go home, missy, darlin', go home."
The two children jumped as if they had been shot.
"Will she beat you?" whispered Peggy, looking very frightened. But Brown
Smiley shook her little round head and laughed.
"She won't have a chance, and she dursn't not to say beat us--father'd
be down on her--but she doesn't think nought of a good shakin'. But I'll
push the basket in and run off if she's in a real wax."
"Good-bye, then. You must tell me lots more about the hills. Ask your
father all you can," and so saying, Peggy flew home again.
"Where've you been, what did you do with the bun?" asked Baldwin, as
soon as she came in to the nursery.
"I runned down with it, and gaved it to a little girl I saw in the
street," said Peggy.
"Very kind and nice, I'm sure," said Miss Earnshaw. "Was it a beggar,
Miss Peggy? You're sure your mamma and nurse wouldn't mind?" she added,
rather anxiously.
"Oh no," said Peggy. "It's not a _beggar_. It's a proper little poor
girl what nurse gives our nold clothes to."
"Oh," said Baldwin, "one of the children over the cobbler's, I suppose.
But, Peggy," he was going on to say he didn't think his sister had ever
been allowed to run down to the back street to speak to them, only he
was so slow and so long of making up his mind that, as Fanny just then
came in with the tea, which made a little bustle, nobody attended to
him, and Miss Earnshaw remained quite satisfied that all was right.
The buns tasted very good--all the better to Peggy from the feeling
that poor lame Lizzie was perhaps eating hers at that same moment, and
finding it "tasty."
"Does lame people ever get quite better?" she asked the young
dressmaker.
"That depends," Miss Earnshaw replied. "If it's through a fall or
something that way, outside of them so to say, there's many as gets
better. But if it's _in_ them, in the constitution, there's many as
stays lame all their lives through."
Peggy wriggled a little. She didn't like to think about it much. It
sounded so mysterious.
"What part's that?" she asked; "that big word."
"Constitootion," said Baldwin, as if he was trying to spell
"Constantinople."
Miss Earnshaw laughed. She lived alone with her mother, and was not much
used to children. But she was so pleasant-tempered and gentle that she
easily got into their ways.
"I shouldn't use such long words," she said. "Our constitution just
means ourselves--the way we're made. A strong, healthy person is said to
have a good constitution, and a weakly person has a poor one."
Baldwin and Peggy both sat silent for a minute, thinking over what she
said.
"I don't see how that's to do with crippling," said Peggy at last. "Does
you mean," she went on, "that p'raps lame people's legs is made
wrong--by mistake, you know. _In course_ God wouldn't do it of purpose,
would he?"
Baldwin looked rather startled.
"Peggy," he said, "I don't think you should speak that way."
Peggy turned her gray eyes full upon him.
"I don't mean to say anything naughty," she said. "_Is_ it naughty, Miss
Earnshaw?"
The young dressmaker had herself been rather taken aback by Peggy's
queer speech, and for a moment or two scarcely knew what to say. But
then her face cleared again.
"God can't make mistakes, Miss Peggy," she said, "and He is always kind.
All the same there's many things that seem like one or the other, I
know. It must be that there's reasons for them that we can't see--like
when a doctor hurts anybody, it seems unkind, but it's _really_ to do
them good."
"Like when our doctor cutted poor Baby's tooths to make them come
through," said Peggy, eagerly. "They was all _bleeding_, bleeding ever
so, Miss Earnshaw. Baby didn't understand, and he was _very_ angry. He
always sc'eams at the doctor now. I almost think he'd like to kill him."
Baldwin opened his mouth wide at these bloodthirsty sentiments of
Baby's. He was too shocked to speak.
"But it is only 'cos he doesn't understand," Peggy went on, placidly.
"_I_ don't sc'eam at the doctor. I speak to him quite goodly, 'cos, you
see, _I_ understand."
Baldwin closed his mouth again. He looked at Peggy with admiring
respect.
"Yes," agreed Miss Earnshaw, greatly relieved at the turn their talk had
taken, "that's just it, Miss Peggy. You couldn't have put it better."
"Peggy," said Baldwin, "when you're big you should be a clergymunt."