UNDER THE BIG UMBRELLA
"As I was going up Pippin Hill,
Pippin Hill was dirty,
There I met a pretty miss,
And she dropped me a curtsey."
_Old Nursery Rhyme._
NOTHING particular happened during the next few days. Peggy's little
life went on regularly and peacefully. Miss Earnshaw came every morning,
and either she or Fanny took Peggy a walk every afternoon, except twice
when it rained, to the little girl's great disappointment.
The second of these wet days happened to be Friday. Peggy stood at the
front nursery window that morning looking out rather sadly. There were
no hills--no white spot to be seen, of course.
"I wonder what the Smileys do when it rains all day," she said to
herself. "I think I'll go to the back window and look if I can see any
of them."
She had scarcely caught sight of her neighbours for some days. Only now
and then she had seen the little ones tumbling about on the pavement,
and once or twice the elder girls had brought their chairs down and sat
there sewing. Lizzie had never come out. Peggy feared she must be still
ill, and perhaps that made the others extra busy. It was not likely any
of them would come out to-day, as it was raining so; but _sometimes_ she
was able to see their faces at the window. And on a rainy day some of
the little ones at least would perhaps be looking out.
She turned to go to the other nursery when Miss Earnshaw spoke to her.
"I wouldn't be so vexed at its being wet to-day, Miss Peggy, if I was
you," she said. "It'll be much worse if it's wet to-morrow, for it's
your brothers' half-holiday."
"Is to-morrow Saturday?" asked Peggy.
"To be sure it is. And I'm afraid I can't possibly stay here in the
afternoon. I've got to go to see a lady some way off about some work. I
wish she hadn't fixed for Saturday. If it's fine it won't matter so
much. Fanny and I were saying you could all go a nice walk--the young
gentlemen and you, with her. But if it's wet I don't know however she'll
manage you all in the house."
Suddenly Peggy's eyes began to sparkle.
"Miss Earnshaw," she said, "I've thought of something. If you'll ask
Fanny, I'm sure she'll say we can; we've not had them for such a long
time, and I've got my four pennies and a halfpenny--that'll get six, you
know, in case any's brokened."
Miss Earnshaw looked at her and then began to laugh.
"Miss Peggy dear, you must tell me first what you mean," she said. "Your
thoughts come so fast that they run ahead of your words. What is it you
mean to get six of--not buns?"
"Buns!" repeated Peggy. "You can't blow bubbles with buns. No, of course
I meant pipes. Nice white pipes to blow soap-bubbles."
"Oh, to be sure," said Miss Earnshaw. "That's a very good idea, Miss
Peggy, in case to-morrow afternoon's wet, and I shouldn't wonder if it
was."
"And you'll ask Fanny?"
"Of course; you can ask her yourself for that matter. I'm sure she's the
last to grudge you anything that'd please you and the young gentlemen.
And even if soap-bubbles are rather messy sometimes, it's easy to wipe
up. It's not like anything dirty."
"Soap must be clean, mustn't it?" said Peggy, laughing. "But don't tell
the boys, pelease, dear Miss Earnshaw. I do so want to 'apprise them. I
can get the pipes to-morrow morning. I know where to get them," and
quite happy, Peggy trotted off to take out her money-box and look to be
quite sure that the three pennies and three halfpennies were there in
safety, where for some weeks they had been waiting.
"Bless her heart," said the young dressmaker. "She is the sweetest
little innocent darling that ever lived."
After looking over her pennies Peggy turned to the window. No, none of
the Smileys were to be seen.
"Never mind," said Peggy to herself. "I'll p'raps see them to-morrow
when I go for the pipes. I almost hope it'll be a wet day. It will be so
nice to blow soap-bubbles. Only," and she sighed a little, "it does seem
such a very long time since I sawed the white cottage."
To-morrow _was_ rainy, very rainy, with no look of "going to clear up"
about it. The boys grumbled a good deal at breakfast at the doleful
prospect of a dull half-holiday in the house.
"And papa's going away to-day till Monday," said Thorold; "so there'll
be no going down to the dining-room to sit beside him while he's at
dinner for a change."
"Poor papa," said Peggy, "he'll get very wet going such a long way."
"Nonsense, you little goose," said Thor, crossly. "People don't get wet
in cabs and railway carriages."
"I forgot," said Peggy, meekly.
"You shouldn't call her a goose, Thor," said Terence. "It's very
disagreeable to travel on a very rainy day. I've often heard people say
so."
"I wish I was going to travel, rainy or not, I know that," grumbled
Thorold. "Here we shall be mewed up in this stupid nursery all the
afternoon with nothing to do."
"There's lots of things to do," said Baldwin. "I think I'll write a
letter to mamma for one thing. And I want to tidy my treasure-box
and----"
"You're a stupid," said Thorold. "You're too fat and slow to have any
spirit in you."
"Now, Thorold, I say that's not fair," said Terry.
"Would it show spirit to grumble? You'd be down upon him if he did.
There's no pleasing you."
"_I_ know something that would please him," said Peggy, who was
trembling between eagerness to tell and determination _not_ to tell her
"surprise."
"What?" said Thor, rather grumpily still.
"I'm not going to tell you till you come home. And it'll only be if it's
a rainy afternoon," said Peggy.
Terence and Baldwin pricked up their ears.
"Oh, do tell us, Peg-top," they said.
But the little girl shook her head.
"No, no," she replied. "I've promised myself--_quite_ promised not."
"There's a reason for you," said Thor. But his tone was more
good-natured now. He felt ashamed of being so cross when the little ones
were so kind and bright.
"I'll really, _truly_ tell you when you come back from school," said
Peggy, and with this assurance the boys had to content themselves.
Miss Earnshaw arrived as usual, or rather not as usual, for she was
dripping, poor thing, and had to leave her waterproof downstairs in the
kitchen.
"What weather, Miss Peggy," she said, as she came in. "I thought it
would be a wet day, but not such a pour. It is unfortunate that I have
to go so far to-day, isn't it? And I'm sorry to leave you children alone
too."
"Never mind," said Peggy, cheerily; "we'll be quite happy with the soap
bubbles. I've got my money quite ready. Mayn't I go and get the pipes
now?"
"Out, my dear? In such weather!" exclaimed Miss Earnshaw.
"Oh, but it's _quite_ near," said Peggy. "Just hop out of the door and
you're there. The boys always buy their pipes there, and mamma goes
there herself sometimes to see the old woman."
"Well, wait a bit, any way. It can't go on raining as fast as this all
the morning surely. It's real cats and dogs."
Peggy looked up in surprise.
"Cats and dogs, Miss Earnshaw?" she repeated.
"Oh, bless you, my dear, it's only a way of speaking," said the
dressmaker, a little impatiently, for she was not very much accustomed
to children. "It just means raining _very_ hard."
Peggy went to the window to look out for herself. Yes indeed it was
raining very hard. The little girl could not help sighing a little as
she gazed at the thick even gray of the clouds, hiding like a curtain
every trace of the distant hills she was so fond of.
"I won't put out the little red shoes to-day," she said to herself,
"there's nothing for them to see."
Then other thoughts crept into her mind.
"I wonder if it's raining at the white cottage too," she said to
herself. And aloud she asked a question.
"Miss Earnshaw, pelease, does it ever rain in the country?" she said.
"Rain in the country! I should rather think it did. Worse than in town,
you might say--that's to say, where there's less shelter, you'll get
wetter and dirtier in the country, only of course it's not the same kind
of really black sooty rain. But as for mud in country lanes! I shall see
something of it this afternoon, I expect."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Peggy. "I thought it never rained in the
country. I thought it was always quite pretty and lovely," and she
sighed deeply. "I wonder what people who live in little cottages in the
country do all day when it rains," she said.
"Why, my dear, much the same as other folk, I should say. They have
their rooms to clean, and their dinner to cook, and their children to
look after. Still I daresay it'd be a bit drearier in the country of a
right-down wet day like this, even than in town. I've never lived there
myself, except for a week at a time at most, but mother was all her
young days in the country."
"Everybody's fathers and mothers lived there," said Peggy, rather
petulantly. "Why don't peoples let their children live there now?"
Miss Earnshaw laughed a little. Peggy did not like her to laugh in that
way, and she gave herself a little wriggle, though poor Miss Earnshaw
certainly did not mean to vex her.
"There are plenty of children in the country too, Miss Peggy," she said.
"Mother's youngest sister has twelve."
"Twelve," repeated Peggy, "_how_ nice! at least if there's lots of
sisters among them, and no very little babies. Do they live over in that
country?" she went on, pointing in the direction of the invisible hills,
"that country called Brack---- You know the name."
"Brackenshire," said Miss Earnshaw, "no, my mother comes from much
farther off. A very pretty place it must be by what she says. Not but
what Brackenshire's a pretty country too. I've been there several times
with the Sunday school for a treat."
"And did you see the hills and the white cottages?" asked Peggy
breathlessly.
"Oh yes, the hills are beautiful, and there's lots of cottages of all
kinds. They look pretty among the trees, even though they're only poor
little places, most of them."
"The white ones is the prettiest," said Peggy, as if she knew all about
it.
"Yes, I daresay," said Miss Earnshaw, without paying much attention; she
had got to rather a difficult part of the sleeve she was making.
"Did you ever walk all the way there when you was a little girl?" Peggy
went on.
"Oh yes, of course," Miss Earnshaw replied, without the least idea of
what she was answering.
"Really!" said Peggy, "how nice!" Then seeing that the dressmaker was
absorbed in her work: "Miss Earnshaw," she said, "I'm going for the
pipes now. It isn't raining _quite_ so fast, and I'll not be long."
"Very well, my dear," Miss Earnshaw replied, and Peggy went off to fetch
her pennies from the drawer in the other nursery where she kept them.
She had a new idea in her head, an idea which Miss Earnshaw's careless
words had helped to put there, little as she knew it.
"If I see the Smileys," thought Peggy, "I'll tell them what she said."
She glanced out of the window, dear me, how lucky! There stood Brown
Smiley looking out at the door, as if she were hesitating before making
a plunge into the dripping wet street. It did seem at the back as if it
were raining faster than in front. Peggy opened the cupboard and took
out her little cloak which was hanging there.
"I won't put on my hat," she thought, "'cos nurse says the rain spoils
the feavers. I'll get a numbrella downstairs, and then I _can't_ get
wet, and here's my pennies all right in my pocket. I do hope Brown
Smiley will wait till I get down."
She made all the haste she could, and found, as she expected, an
umbrella in the stand downstairs. It was not very easy to open, but she
succeeded at last, then came, however, another difficulty, she could not
get herself and the umbrella through the back door together.
"Dear me," thought Peggy, "I wonder how people does with their
numbrellas. They _must_ open them in the house, else they'd get wet
standing outside while they're doing it. I never looked to see how nurse
does, but then we almost never go out when it's rainy. I 'appose it's
one of the hard things big peoples has to learn. Oh, dear! _won't_ it
come through?"
No, she couldn't manage it, at least not with herself under it. At last
a brilliant idea struck Peggy; anything was better than closing the
tiresome thing now she _had_ got it opened--she would send it first and
follow after herself. So the umbrella was passed through, and went
slipping down the two or three steps that led into the yard, where it
lay gaping up reproachfully at Peggy, who felt inclined to call out
"Never mind, poor thing, I'm coming d'reckly."
And as "d'reckly" as possible she did come, carefully closing the door
behind her, for fear the rain should get into the house, which, together
with the picking up of the umbrella, far too big and heavy a one for a
tiny girl, took so long that I am afraid a good many drops had time to
fall on the fair uncovered head before it got under shelter again.
But little cared Peggy. She felt as proud as a peacock, the umbrella
representing the tail, you understand, when she found herself outside
the yard door, which behaved very amiably, fairly under weigh for her
voyage across the street. She could see nothing before her; fortunately,
however, no carriages or carts ever came down the narrow back way.
Half-way over Peggy stopped short--she had forgotten to look if Brown
Smiley was still standing there. It was not easy to get a peep from
under the umbrella, without tilting it and herself backwards on to the
muddy road, but with great care Peggy managed it. Ah dear, what a
disappointment! There was no little girl in front of the cobbler's
window, but glancing to one side, Peggy caught sight of the small figure
with a shawl of "mother's" quaintly drawn over the head, trotting away
down the street. With a cry Peggy dashed after her.
"Oh, Brown Smiley," she called out, "do come back. I'm too frightened to
go to buy the pipes alone," for what with her struggles and her
excitement, the little damsel's nerves were rather upset. "Oh, Brown
Smiley--no--no, that's not her name, oh what _is_ your name, Brown
Smiley?" and on along the rough pavement behind the little messenger she
rushed, if indeed poor Peggy's toddling, flopping from one side to
another progress, could possibly be called "rushing."
[Illustration: "But an umbrella rolling itself about on the pavement, an
umbrella from which proceeds most piteous wails, an umbrella from
underneath which, when you get close to it, you see two little feet
sticking out, and by degrees two neat black legs, and then a muddle of
short skirts, which by rights should be draping the legs, but have
somehow got all turned upside down like a bird's feathers ruffled up the
wrong way--_such_ an umbrella, or perhaps I should say an umbrella in
such circumstances, may certainly be called a strange sight, may it
not?"
P. 127]
It came to an end quickly--the paving-stones were rough and uneven, the
small feet had only "my noldest house-shoes" to protect them, and the
"numbrella" was sadly in the way; there came suddenly a sharp cry, so
piercing and distressful that even Matilda-Jane, accustomed as she was
to childish sounds of woe of every kind and pitch, was startled enough
to turn round and look behind her.
"Can it be Halfred come a-runnin' after me?" she said to herself. But
the sight that met her eyes puzzled her so, that at the risk of Mother
Whelan's scoldings for being so long, she could not resist running back
to examine for herself the strange object. This was nothing more nor
less than an umbrella, and an umbrella in itself is not an uncommon
sight. But an umbrella rolling itself about on the pavement, an umbrella
from which proceeds most piteous wails, an umbrella from underneath
which, when you get close to it, you see two little feet sticking out
and by degrees two neat black legs, and then a muddle of short skirts,
which by rights should be draping the legs, but have somehow got all
turned upside down like a bird's feathers ruffled up the wrong
way--_such_ an umbrella, or perhaps I should say an umbrella in such
circumstances, certainly may be called a strange sight, may it not?
Matilda-Jane Simpkins, for that was Brown Smiley's whole long name,
thought so any way, for she stood stock still, staring, and the only
thing she could collect herself enough to say was, "Lor'!"
But her state of stupefaction only lasted half a moment. She was a
practical and business-like little person; before there was time for
another cry for help, she had disentangled the umbrella and its owner,
and set the latter on her feet again, sobbing piteously, and dreadfully
dirty and muddy, but otherwise not much the worse.
Then Matilda-Jane gave vent to another exclamation.
"Bless me, missy, it's _you_!" she cried. "Whatever are you a-doing of
to be out in the rain all alone, with no 'at and a humbrella four sizes
too big for the likes of you, and them paper-soled things on yer feet?
and, oh my! ain't yer frock muddy? What'll your folk say to you? Or is
they all away and left you and the cat to keep 'ouse?"
"I was running after you, Brown Smiley," sobbed Peggy. She could not
quite make out if Matilda-Jane was making fun of her or not, and,
indeed, to do Matilda justice, she had no such intention. "I was running
after _you_," Peggy repeated, "and you _wouldn't_ stop, and I couldn't
run fast 'cos of the numbrella, and so I felled down."
"Never mind, missy dear, you'll be none the worse, you'll see. Only,
will they give it you when you go home for dirtying of your frock?"
"Give it me?" repeated Peggy.
"Yes, give it you; will you get it--will you catch it?" said Matilda,
impatiently.
"I don't know what you mean," Peggy replied.
Matilda wasted no more words on her. She took her by the arm, umbrella
and all, and trotted her down the street again till they had reached the
Smiley mansion. Then she drew Peggy inside the doorway of the passage,
whence a stair led up to Mrs. Whelan's, and to the Simpkins's own rooms
above that again, and having shut up the umbrella with such perfect ease
that Peggy gazed at her in admiration, she tried to explain her meaning.
"Look 'ere now, miss;" she said, "which'll you do--go straight
over-the-way 'ome, just as you are, or come in along of _huz_ and get
yerself cleaned up a bit?"
"Oh, I'll go in with you, pelease," sobbed Peggy.
"P'raps Miss Earnshaw wouldn't scold me. She let me come, and I didn't
fell down on purpose. But I _know_ she wouldn't let me come out
again--I'm sure she wouldn't, and I do so want to get the pipes my own
self. You'll take me to Mrs. Whelan's, won't you, dear Brown Smiley?"
"I'll catch it when she sees I haven't done her errant," said Matilda.
"But never mind; she'll not be so bad with you there, maybe. Come up
with me, missy, and I'll get Rebecca to wipe you a bit," and she began
the ascent of the narrow staircase, followed by Peggy.