"SOAP-BUBBLING"
"And every colour see I there."
_The Rainbow_, CHARLES LAMB.
THERE was no one upstairs. Miss Earnshaw had gone down to the kitchen to
iron the seams of her work, without giving special thought to Peggy. If
any one had asked her where the child was she would have probably
answered that she was counting over her money in the night nursery. So
she was rather surprised when coming upstairs again in a few minutes she
was met by Peggy flying to meet her with the pipes in her hand.
"I've got them, Miss Earnshaw; aren't they beauties?" she cried. "And I
don't think my frock's reely spoilt? It only just looks a _little_ funny
where the mud was."
"Bless me!" exclaimed the young dressmaker, "wherever have you been,
Miss Peggy? No, your frock'll brush all right; but you don't mean to say
you've been out in the rain? You should have asked me, my dear."
She spoke rather reproachfully; she was a little vexed with herself for
not having looked after the child better, but Peggy was one of those
quiet "old-fashioned" children, who never seem to need looking after.
"I did ask you," said Peggy, opening wide her eyes, "and you said, 'Very
well, my dear.'"
Miss Earnshaw couldn't help smiling.
"I must have been thinking more of your new frock than of yourself," she
said. "However, I hope it's done you no harm. Your stockings aren't
wet?"
"Oh no," said Peggy; "my slippers were a weeny bit wet, so I've changed
them. My frock wouldn't have been dirtied, only I felled in the wet,
Miss Earnshaw, but Brown--one of the little girls, you know, that lives
in the house where the shop is--picked me up, and there's no harm done,
is there? And I've got the pipes, and won't my brothers be peleased,"
she chirruped on in her soft, cheery way.
Miss Earnshaw could not blame her, though she determined to be more on
the look-out for the future. And soon after came twelve o'clock, and
then the young dressmaker was obliged to go, bidding Peggy "Good-bye
till Monday morning."
The boys came home wet and hungry, and grumbling a good deal at the
rainy half-holiday. Peggy had hidden the six pipes in her little bed,
but after dinner she made the three boys shut their eyes while she
fetched them out and laid them in a row on the table. Then, "You may
look now," she said; "it's my apprise," and she stood at one side to
enjoy the sight of their pleasure.
"Hurrah," cried Terry, "pipes for soap-bubbles! Isn't it jolly? Isn't
Peggy a brick?"
"Dear Peggy," said Baldwin, holding up his plump face for a kiss.
"Poor old Peg-top," said Thor, patronisingly. "They seem very good
pipes; and as there's six of them, you and I can break one a-piece if we
like, Terry, without its mattering."
Peggy looked rather anxious at this.
"Don't try to break them, Thor, pelease," she said; "for if you beginned
breaking it might go on, and then it would be all spoilt like the last
time, for there's no fun in soap-bubbling by turns."
"No, that's quite true," said Terry. "You remember the last time how
stupid it was. But of course we won't break any, 'specially as they're
yours, Peggy. We'll try and keep them good for another time."
"Did you spend all your pennies for them?" asked Baldwin,
sympathisingly.
"Not quite all," said Peggy. "I choosed them myself," she went on,
importantly. "There was a lot in a box."
"Why, where did you get them? You didn't go yourself to old Whelan's,
surely?" asked Thor, sharply.
"Yes, I runned across the road," said Peggy. "You always get them there,
Thor."
"But it's quite different. I can tell you mamma won't be very pleased
when she comes home to hear you've been so disobedient."
Poor Peggy's face, so bright and happy, clouded over, and she seemed on
the point of bursting into tears.
"I weren't disobedient," she began. "Miss Earnshaw said, 'Very well,
dear,' and so I thought----"
[Illustration: "They were soon all four very happy at the pretty play.
The prettiness of it was what Peggy most enjoyed the most; the boys,
boy-like, thought little but of who could blow the biggest bubbles,
which, as everybody knows, are seldom as rich in colour as smaller
ones."
P. 149]
"Of course," interrupted Terry; "Peggy's never disobedient, Thor. We'll
ask mamma when she comes home; but she won't be vexed with you,
darling. You won't need to go again before then."
"No," said Peggy, comforted, "I don't want to go again, Terry dear. It
doesn't smell very nice in the shop. But the _children's_ house is very
clean, Terry. I'm sure mamma would let us go _there_."
"Those Simpkinses over old Whelan's," said Terry. "Oh yes, I know mother
goes there herself sometimes, though as for that she goes to old
Whelan's too. But we're wasting time; let's ask Fanny for a tin basin
and lots of soap."
They were soon all four very happy at the pretty play. The prettiness of
it was what Peggy enjoyed the most; the boys, boy-like, thought little
but of who could blow the biggest bubbles, which, as everybody knows,
are seldom as rich in colour as smaller ones.
"I like the rainbowiest ones best," said Peggy. "I don't care for those
'normous ones Thor makes. Do you, Baldwin?"
Baldwin stopped to consider.
"I suppose very big things aren't never so pretty as littler things," he
said at last, when a sort of grunt from Terry interrupted him. Terry
could not speak, his cheeks were all puffed out round the pipe, and he
dared not stop blowing. He could only grunt and nod his head sharply to
catch their attention to the wonderful triumph in soap-bubbles floating
before his nose. There was a big one, as big as any of Thorold's, and up
on the top of it a lovely every-coloured wee one, the most brilliant the
children had ever seen--a real rainbow ball.
They all clapped their hands, at least Peggy and Baldwin did so. Thorold
shouted, "Hurrah for Terry's new invention. It's like a monkey riding on
an elephant." But Peggy did not think that was a pretty idea.
"It's more like one of the very little stars sitting on the sun's knee,"
was her comparison, which Baldwin corrected to the moon--the sun was too
yellow, he said, to be like a no-colour bubble.
Then they all set to work to try to make double-bubbles, and Thor
actually managed to make three, one on the top of the other. And Terry
made a very big one run ever so far along the carpet without breaking,
bobbing and dancing along as he blew it ever so gently.
And as a finish-up they all four put their pipes into the basin and blew
together, making what they called "bubble-pudding," till the pudding
seemed to get angry and gurgled and wobbled itself up so high that it
ended by toppling over, and coming to an untimely end as a little spot
of soapy water on the table.
"Pride must have a fall, you see," said Thor.
"It's like the story of the frog that tried to be as big as an ox," said
Terence, at which they all laughed as a very good joke.
Altogether Peggy's pipes turned out a great success, and the rainy
afternoon passed very happily.
The Sunday that came after that Saturday was showery, sunny, and rainy
by turns, like a child who having had a great fit of crying and sobbing
can't get over it all at once, and keeps breaking into little bursts of
tears again, long after the sorrow is all over. But by Monday morning
the world--Peggy's world, that is to say--seemed to have quite recovered
its spirits. The sun came out smiling with pleasure, and even the town
birds, who know so little about trees, and grass, and flowers, and all
those delightful things, hopped about and chirruped as nicely as could
be. The boys set off to school in good spirits, and while Fanny was
taking down the breakfast-things Peggy got out the little red shoes, and
set them on the window-sill, where they had not been for several days.
"There, dear little red shoes," she said, softly, "you may look out
again at the pretty sun and the sky, and the fairy cottage up on the
mounting. You can see it quite plain to-day, dear little shoes. The
clouds is all gone away, and it's shinin' out all white and beautiful,
and I daresay the mamma's standin' at the door with the baby--or
p'raps," Peggy was never very partial to the baby, "it's asleep in its
cradle. Yes, I think that's it. And the hens and cocks and chickens is
all pecking about, and the cows moo'in. Oh, _how_ I do wish we could go
and see them all, don't you, dear little shoes?"
She stood gazing up at the tiny white speck, to other eyes almost
invisible, as if by much gazing it would grow nearer and clearer to her;
there was a smile on her little face, sweet visions floated before
Peggy's mind of a day, "some day," when mamma should take her out "to
the country," to see for herself the lovely and delightful sights that
same dear mamma had described.
Suddenly Fanny's voice brought her back to present things. Fanny was
looking rather troubled.
"Miss Peggy, love," she said, "cook and I can't think what's making Miss
Earnshaw so late this morning. She's always so sharp to her time. I
don't like leaving you alone, but I don't know what else to do. Monday's
the orkardest day, for we're always so busy downstairs, and your papa
was just saying this morning that I was to tell Miss Earnshaw to take
you a nice long walk towards the country, seeing as it's so fine a day.
It will be right down tiresome, it will, if she don't come."
"Never mind, Fanny," said Peggy. "I don't mind much being alone, and I
daresay Miss Earnshaw will come. I _should_ like to go a nice walk
to-day," she could not help adding, with a longing glance out at the
sunny sky.
"To be sure you would," said Fanny, "and it stands to reason as you
won't be well if you don't get no fresh air. I hope to goodness the girl
will come, but I doubt it--her mother's ill maybe, and she's no one to
send. Well, dear, you'll try and amuse yourself, and I'll get on
downstairs as fast as I can."
Peggy went back to the window and stood there for a minute or two,
feeling rather sad. It did seem hard that things should go so very
"contrarily" sometimes.
"Just when it's such a fine day," she thought, "Miss Earnshaw doesn't
come. And on Saturday when we _couldn't_ have goned a walk she did
come. Only on Saturday it did rain very badly in the afternoon and she
didn't stay, so that wasn't a pity."
Then her thoughts went wandering off to what the dressmaker had told her
of having to go a long way out into the country on Saturday afternoon,
and of how wet and muddy the lanes would be. Peggy sighed; she
_couldn't_ believe country lanes could ever be anything but delightful.
"Oh how _very_ pretty they must be to-day," she said to herself, "with
all the little flowers coming peeping out, and the birds singing, and
the cocks and hens, and the cows, and--and----" she was becoming a
little confused. Indeed she wasn't _quite_ sure what a "lane" really
meant--she knew it was some kind of a way to walk along, but she had
heard the word "path" too,--were "lane" and "path" quite the same? she
wondered. And while she was wondering and gazing out of the window, she
was startled all of a sudden by a soft, faint tap at the door. So soft
and faint that if it had been at the window instead of at the door it
might have been taken for the flap of a sparrow's wing as it flew past.
Peggy stood quite still and listened; she heard nothing more, and was
beginning to think it must have been her fancy, when again it came, and
this time rather more loudly. "Tap, tap." Yes, "certingly," thought
Peggy, "there's somebody there."
She felt a little, a _very_ little frightened.
Should she go to the door and peep out, or should she call "Come in"?
she asked herself. And one or two of the "ogre" stories that Thorold and
Terry were so fond of in their "Grimm's Tales," _would_ keep coming into
her head--stories of little princesses shut up alone, or of giants
prowling about to find a nice tender child for supper. Peggy shivered.
But after all what was the use of standing there fancying things? It was
broad, sunny daylight--not at all the time for ogres or such-like to be
abroad. Peggy began to laugh at her own silliness.
"Very likely," she thought, "it's Miss Earnshaw playing me a trick to
'apprise me, 'cos she's so late this morning."
This idea quite took away her fear.
"It's you, Miss Earnshaw, I'm quite sure it's you," she called out;
"come in quick, you funny Miss Earnshaw. Come in."
But though the door slowly opened, no Miss Earnshaw appeared. Peggy
began to think this was carrying fun too far.
"Why don't you come in quick?" she said, her voice beginning to tremble
a little.
The door opened a little farther.
"Missy," said a low voice, a childish hesitating voice, quite different
from Miss Earnshaw's quick bright way of speaking, "Missy, please, it's
me, Sarah, please, miss."
And the door opened more widely, and in came, slowly and timidly still,
a small figure well known to Peggy. It was none other than Light Smiley.
Peggy could hardly speak. She was so very much astonished.
"Light Smiley--Sarah, I mean," she exclaimed, "how did you come? Did you
see Fanny? Did she tell you to come upstairs?"
Sarah shook her head.
"I don't know who Fanny is, missy. I just comed in of myself. The doors
was both open, and I didn't meet nobody. I didn't like for to ring or
knock. I thought mebbe your folk'd scold if I did--a gel like me. Mother
knows I've comed; she said as how I'd better bring it myself."
And she held up what Peggy had not noticed that she was carrying--the
big umbrella that had caused so much trouble two days before.
"The numbrella," cried Peggy. "Oh thank you, Sarah, for bringing it
back. I never thought of it! How stupid it was of me."
"Mother told me for to bring it to the door and give it in," Sarah went
on. "I didn't mean to come upstairs, but, the door was open, you see,
miss, and I knowed your nussery was at the top, and--I 'ope it's not a
liberty."
"No, no," said Peggy, her hospitable feelings awaking to see that her
little visitor was still standing timidly in the doorway, "I'm _very_
glad you've comed. You don't know how glad I am. It's so lonely all by
myself--Miss Earnshaw hasn't come this morning. Come in, Light Smiley,
do come in. Oh how nice! I can show you the mountings and the little
white cottage shining in the sun."
She drew Sarah forwards. But before the child looked out of the window,
her eyes were caught by the tiny red slippers on the sill.
"Lor'," she said breathlessly, "what splendid shoes! Are they for--for
your dolly, missy? They're too small for a baby, bain't they?"
"Oh yes," said Peggy, "they're too small for our baby, a great deal. But
then he's very fat."
"They'd be too small for ours too, though she's not a hextra fine child
for her age. She were a very poor specimint for a good bit, mother says,
but she's pickin' up now she's got some teeth through. My--but them
shoes is neat, to be sure! They must be for a dolly."
"_I've_ no doll they'd do for," said Peggy, "but I like them just for
theirselves. _I_ always put them to stand there on a fine day; they like
to look out of the window."
Sarah stared at Peggy as if she thought she was rather out of her
mind!--indeed the children at the back had hinted to each other that
missy, for all she was a real little lady, was very funny-like
sometimes. But Peggy was quite unconscious of it.
"Lor'," said Sarah at last, "how can shoes see, they've no eyes, missy?"
"But you can _fancy_ they have. Don't you ever play in your mind at
fancying?" asked Peggy. "I think it's the nicest part of being alive,
and mamma says it's no harm if we keep remembering it's not real. But
never mind about that--do look at the hills, Sarah, and oh, _can_ you
see the white speck shining in the sun? _That's_ the cottage--I call it
my cottage, but _p'raps_," rather unwillingly, "it's the one your papa
lived in when he was little."
"D'ye really think so?" said Sarah, eagerly. "It's Brackenshire over
there to be sure, and father's 'ome was up an 'ill--deary me, to think
as it might be the very place. See it--to be sure I do, as plain as
plain. It do seem a good bit off, but father he says it's no more'n a
tidy walk. He's almost promised he'll take some on us there some fine
day when he's an 'oliday. I axed 'im all I could think of--missy--all
about the cocks and 'ens and cows and pigses."
"Not pigs," interrupted Peggy. "I don't like pigs, and I won't have them
in my cottage."
"I wasn't a-talking of your cottage," said Sarah, humbly. "'Twas what
father told us of all the things he seed in the country when he were a
boy there. There's lots of pigses in Brackenshire."
"Never mind. We won't have any," persisted Peggy. "But oh, Light Smiley,
do look how splendid the sky is--all blue and all so shiny. I never
sawed such a lovely day. I would so like to go a walk."
"And why shouldn't you?" asked Sarah.
"There's no one to take me," sighed Peggy. "It's Monday, and Fanny's
very busy on Mondays, and I told you that tiresome Miss Earnshaw's not
comed."
Sarah considered a little.
"Tell you what, missy," she said, "why shouldn't we--you and me--go a
walk? I'm sure mother'd let me. I've got my 'at, all 'andy, and I did
say to mother if so as missy seed me I might stop a bit, and she were
quite agreeable. I'm a deal older nor you, and I can take care of you
nicely. Mother's training me for the nussery."
Peggy started up in delight. She had been half sitting on the
window-sill, beside the shoes.
"Oh, Light Smiley," she said, "how lovely! Of course you could take care
of me. We'd go up Fernley Road, straight up--that's the way to
Brackenshire, you know, and p'raps we might go far enough to see the
white cottage plainer. If it's not a very long way to get there, we'd be
sure to see it much plainer if we walked a mile or two. A mile isn't
very far. Oh, do let's go--quick! quick!"
But Sarah stopped her.
"You'd best tell your folks first, missy," she said. "They'll let you go
and be glad of it, I should say, if they're so busy, and seein' as they
let you come over to our 'ouse, and your mar knowin' us and all."
"It was Miss Earnshaw that let me go," said Peggy, "and then she said
she didn't know I'd goned. And Thor said--oh no, he only said I
shouldn't have goned to the shop. But I'll ask Fanny--I'll tell you what
I'll do. I'll put on my boots and my hat and jacket--you shall help me,
Sarah, and then we'll go down and I'll call to Fanny from the top of the
kitchen stairs and ask her if I may go out with you, Sarah, dear. I'm
sure she'll say I may."
So the two little maidens went into the night nursery, where Light
Smiley was greatly interested in looking at her own dwelling-place from
other people's windows, and quite in her element too, seeing that she
was being trained for the nursery, in getting out Peggy's walking
things, buttoning her boots, and all the rest of it.