UP FERNLEY ROAD
"But the way is long and toilsome,
And the road is drear and hard;
Little heads and hearts are aching,
Little feet with thorns are scarred."
_The Children's Journey._
LIGHT SMILEY kept looking round the room with great satisfaction.
"It is nice in 'ere and no mistake," she said at last. "Your 'ats and
coats and frocks all in a row, as neat as neat, and these little white
beds a sight to be seen. I should love for Rebecca and Matilda-Jane to
see it."
"They will," said Peggy, "when I avite you all to a tea-party, you
know."
Sarah drew a deep breath. A tea-party in these beautiful nurseries
seemed almost too good ever to come true.
"Is there a many nusseries as nice as this 'un, do you think, missy? I
do 'ope as I'll get into a nice one when I'm big enough. One 'ud take a
pride in keeping it clean and tidy."
"I don't think this is at all a _grand_ one," Peggy replied. "Mamma's
was much grander when she was little, I know. But, of course, she's very
pertickler, and so's nurse, about it being very tidy."
And then, Peggy being ready, the quaint pair of friends took each
other's hands and set off to the top of the kitchen stairs.
"Should we take the humberellar?" said Sarah, suddenly stopping at the
foot of the first little flight of stairs. "I don't think it looks any
ways like rain, still one never knows, and I can carry it easy."
In her heart she hoped Peggy would say yes. For to Sarah's eyes the
clumsy umbrella was a very "genteel" one indeed, and she felt as if it
would add distinction to their appearance.
Peggy, not looking at it from this point of view, hesitated.
"P'raps it would do to keep the sun off us," she said. "My parasol's
wored out, so I can't take it. Mamma's going to get me a new one."
Sarah ran back and fetched the umbrella.
When they got to the door at the top of the kitchen stairs, Peggy opened
it and called down softly, "Fanny, are you there? Can you hear me?" for
she was not allowed to go down to the kitchen by herself.
But no one answered. Fanny was busy washing in the back kitchen with
both doors shut to keep in the steam, and the cook had gone out to the
butcher's.
"Fanny," called Peggy again.
Then a voice came at last in return.
"Is it anything I can tell the cook when she comes in, please, miss?"
and a boy came forward out of the kitchen and stood at the foot of the
steep stone stairs. "I'm the baker's boy, and I met cook and she told me
to wait; she'd be back with change to pay the book in a minute. There's
no one here."
Peggy turned to Sarah in distress.
"Fanny must be out too," she said.
"Well, it'll be all right if the boy 'ull tell her, won't it, missy?
'Tisn't the cook," she went on, speaking to the boy herself, "'tis
t'other one. Jest you tell her when she comes in that miss has gone out
a little walk with me--Sarah Simpkins--she'll know. I'll take good care
of missy."
"All right," said the boy, with no doubt that so it was, and thinking,
if he thought at all, that Sarah Simpkins must be a little nurse-girl,
or something of the kind about the house, though certainly a small
specimen to be in service! He whistled as he turned away, and something
in the cheerful sound of his whistle helped to satisfy Peggy that all
_was_ right!
"He's a nice boy," she said to Sarah. "He won't forget, will he?"
"Not he," Sarah replied. "He'll tell 'em fast enough. And as like as not
we'll meet 'em along the street as we go. Is Webb's your butcher,
missy--'tis just at the corner of Fernley Road?"
Peggy shook her head.
"I don't know," she said, feeling rather ashamed of her ignorance; "but
I'd like to meet Fanny, so, pelease, let us go that way."
And off the two set, by the front door this time, quite easy in their
minds though, as far as they knew, the baker's boy was the only guardian
of the house.
They trotted down the street in the sunshine; it was very bright and
fine--the air, even there in the smoky town, felt this morning
deliciously fresh and spring-like.
"How nice it is," said Peggy, drawing a deep breath; "it's just like
summer. I'd like to go a quite long walk, wouldn't you, Sarah?"
Light Smiley looked about her approvingly.
"Yes," she said, "I does enjoy a real fine day. And in the country it
must be right-down fust-rate."
"Oh, the country!" said Peggy; "oh dear, how I do wish we could go as
far as the country!"
"Well," said Sarah, "if we walk fast we might come within sight of it.
There's nice trees and gardings up Fernley Road, and that's a sort of
country, isn't it, missy?"
They were at the corner of the road by this time, but there was no sign
of Fanny or cook. "Webb's" shop stood a little way down the other side,
but as far as they could see it was empty.
"P'raps your folk don't deal there," said Sarah, to which Peggy had
nothing to say, and they stood looking about them in an uncertain kind
of way.
"We may as well go on a bit," said Sarah at last, "that there boy's sure
to tell."
Peggy had no objection, and they set off along Fernley Road at a pretty
brisk pace.
They had not very far to go before, as Sarah said, the road grew less
town-like; the houses had little gardens round them, some of which were
prettily kept, and after a while they came to a field or two, not yet
built upon, though great placards stuck up on posts told that they were
waiting to be sold for that purpose. They were very towny sort of fields
certainly, still the bright spring sunshine made the best of them as of
everything else this morning, and the two children looked at them with
pleasure.
"There's nicer fields still, a bit farther on," said Sarah. "I've been
along this 'ere road several times. It goes on and on right into the
country."
"I know," said Peggy, "it goes on into the country of the mountings.
But, Sarah," she said, stopping short, and looking rather distressed, "I
don't think we see them any plainer than from the nursery window, and
the white cottage doesn't look even as plain. Are you sure we're going
the right way?"
"We couldn't go wrong," answered Sarah, "there's no other way. But we've
come no distance yet, missy, and you see there's ups and downs in the
road that comes between us and the 'ills somehow. I suppose at the
window we could see straight-forward-like, and then we was 'igher up."
"Yes, that must be it," said Peggy; "but I would like to go far enough
to see a _little_ plainer, Sarah, wouldn't you? I've got the red shoes
in my pocket, you know, and when we come to a place where we can see
very nice and clear I'll take them out and let them see too."
"Lor'," said Sarah, "you _are_ funny, missy."
But she smiled so good-naturedly that Peggy did not mind.
After a bit they came to a place where another road crossed the one they
were on. This other road was planted with trees along one side, and the
shade they cast looked cool and tempting.
"I wish we could go along that way," said Peggy, "but it would be the
wrong way. It doesn't go on to the mountings."
Sarah did not answer for a minute. She was trying to spell out some
letters that were painted up on the corner of a wall, which enclosed the
garden of a house standing in the road they were looking down.
"'B, R, A,'" she began, "'B, R, A, C, K:' it's it, just look, missy.
Bain't that Brackenshire as large as life? 'Brackenshire Road.' It must
be this way," and she looked quite delighted.
"But how can it be?" objected Peggy. "This road _doesn't_ go to the
hills, Sarah. They're straight in front."
"But maybe it slopes round again after a bit," said Sarah. "Lots of
roads does that way, and runs the same way really, though you wouldn't
think so at the start. It stands to reason, when it's got the name
painted up, it must lead Brackenshire way;" and then suddenly, as a man
with a basket on his arm appeared coming out of one of the houses, she
darted up to him.
"Please, mister, does this road lead to Brackenshire?" she asked.
The man did not look very good-natured.
"Lead to where?" he said, gruffly.
"To Brackenshire--it's painted up on the wall, but we want to be sure."
"If it's painted up on the wall, what's the sense of askin' me?" he
said. "If you go far enough no doubt you'll get there. There's more'n
one road to Brackenshire."
Sarah was quite satisfied.
"You see," she said to Peggy, running back to her, "it's all right. If
we go along this 'ere road a bit, I 'specs it'll turn again and then
we'll see the 'ills straight in front."
Peggy had no objection. Fernley Road was bare and glaring just about
there, and the trees were very tempting.
"It's really getting like the country," said Peggy, as they passed
several pretty gardens, larger and much prettier than the small ones in
Fernley Road.
"Yes," Light Smiley agreed, "but though gardings is nice, I don't hold
with gardings anything like as much as fields. Fields _is_ splendid
where you can race about and jump and do just as you like, and no fears
of breakin' flowers or nothink."
"Do you think we shall come to fields like that soon?" said Peggy. "If
there was a very nice one we might go into it p'raps and rest a little,
and look at the mountings. I wish we could begin to see the mountings
again, Sarah, it seems quite strange without them, and I'm getting
rather tired of looking at gardens when we can't go inside them, aren't
you?"
Sarah was feeling very contented and happy. She was, though a little
body for her age, much stronger than Peggy, as well as two years older,
and she looked at her companion with surprise when she began already to
talk of "resting."
"Lor', missy, you bain't tired already," she was beginning, when she
suddenly caught sight of something which made her interrupt herself.
This was another road crossing the one they were on at right angles, and
running therefore in the same direction as Fernley Road again. "'Ere's
our way," she cried, "now didn't I tell you so? And this way goes
slopin' up a bit, you see. When we get to the top we'll see the 'ills
straight 'afore us, and 'ave a beeyutiful view."
Peggy's rather flagging steps grew brisker at this, and the two ran
gaily along the new road for a little way. But running uphill is tiring,
and it seemed to take them a long time to get to the top of the slope,
and when they did so, it was only to be disappointed. Neither mountains
nor hills nor white cottage were to be seen, only before them a rather
narrow sort of lane, sloping downwards now and seeming to lead into some
rather rough waste ground, where it ended. Peggy's face grew rather
doleful, but Sarah was quite equal to the occasion. A little down the
hill she spied a stile, over which she persuaded Peggy to climb. They
found themselves in a potato field, but a potato field with a path down
the middle; it was a large field and at the other end of the path was a
gate, opening on to a cart track scarcely worthy the name of a lane.
The children followed it, however, till another stile tempted them
again, this time into a little wood, where they got rather torn and
scratched by brambles and nettles as they could not easily find a path,
and Sarah fancied by forcing their way through the bushes they would be
sure to come out on to the road again.
It was not, however, till they had wandered backwards among the trees
and brambles for some time that they got on to a real path, and they had
to walk a good way along this till they at last came on another gate,
this time sure enough opening into the high road.
Sarah's spirits recovered at once.
"'Ere we are," she said cheerfully, "all right. 'Ere's Fernley Road
again. Nothink to do but to turn round and go 'ome if you're tired,
missy. _I'm_ not tired, but if you'd rayther go no farther----"
Peggy did not answer for a moment; she was staring about her on all
sides. The prospect was not a very inviting one; the road was bare and
ugly, dreadfully dusty, and there was no shade anywhere, and at a little
distance some great tall chimneys were to be seen, the chimneys of some
iron-works, from which smoke poured forth. There were a good many
little houses near the tall chimneys, they were the houses of the people
who worked there, but they were not sweet little cottages such as Peggy
dreamed of. Indeed they looked more like a very small ugly town, than
like rows of cottages on a country road.
"This isn't a pretty road at all," said Peggy at last, rather crossly I
am afraid, "it is very nugly, and you shouldn't have brought me here,
Sarah. I can't see the mountings; they is quite goned away, more goned
away than when it rains, for then they're only behind the clouds. This
isn't Fernley Road, Light Smiley. I do believe you've losted us, and
Peggy's so tired, and very, very un'appy."
It was Peggy's way when she grew low-spirited to speak more babyishly
than usual; at such times it was too much trouble to think about being a
big girl. Poor Sarah looked dreadfully distressed.
"Oh, missy dear, don't cry," she said. "If it bain't Fernley Road, it's
_a_ road any way, and there's no call to be frightened. We can ax our
way, but I'd rayther not ax it at the cottages, for they might think I
was a tramp that'd stoled you away."
"And what would they do then?" asked Peggy, leaving off crying for a
minute.
"They'd 'av me up mebbe, and put us in the lock-ups."
"What's that?"
"The place where the pl'ice leaves folk as they isn't sure about."
"Prison, do you mean?" said Peggy, growing very pale.
"Well, not ezackly, but somethin' like."
Peggy caught hold of Sarah in sudden terror.
"Oh come along, Light Smiley, quick, quick. Let's get back into the
fields and hide or anything. Oh come quick, for fear they should catch
us." And she tugged at Sarah, trying to drag her along the road.
"Stop, missy, don't take on so; there's no need. We'll just go along
quietly and no one'll notice us, only you stop crying, and then no
one'll think any 'arm. We'll not go back the way we came, it's so
drefful thorny, but we'll look out for another road or a path. I 'spects
you're right enough--this 'ere bain't Fernley Road."
Peggy swallowed down her sobs.
"I don't think you look quite big enough to have stolened me, Sarah,"
she said at last. "But I would like to get back into the fields quick.
If only we could see the mountings again, I wouldn't be quite so
frightened."
They had not gone far before they came upon a gateway and a path leading
through a field where there seemed no difficulties. Crossing it they
found themselves at the edge of the thorny wood, which they skirted for
some way. Peggy's energy, born of fear, began to fail.
"Sarah," she said at last, bursting into fresh tears, "Peggy can't go no
farther, and I'm so hungry too. I'm sure it's long past dinner-time. You
must sit down and rest; p'raps if I rested a little, I wouldn't feel so
very un'appy."
Sarah looked at her almost in despair. She herself was worried and
vexed, very afraid too of the scolding which certainly awaited her at
home, but she was not tired nor dispirited, though very sorry for Peggy,
and quite aware that it was she and not "missy" who was to blame for
this unlucky expedition.
"I'd like to get on," she said, "we're sure to get back into a road
as'll take us 'ome before long. Couldn't I carry you, missy?"
"No," said Peggy, "you're far too little. And I can't walk any more
without resting. You're very unkind, Light Smiley, and I wish I'd never
seen you."
Poor Sarah bore this bitter reproach in silence.
She looked about for a comfortable seat in the hedge, and settled
herself so that Peggy could rest against her. The sunshine, though it
had seemed hot and glaring on the bare dusty road was not really very
powerful, for it was only late April, though a very summerlike day.
Peggy left off crying and said no more, but leant contentedly enough
against Sarah.
"I'm comf'able now," she said, closing her eyes. "Thank you, Light
Smiley. I'll soon be rested, and then we'll go on."
But in a moment or two, by the way she breathed, Sarah saw that she had
fallen asleep.
[Illustration: "And at last, though she was really so anxious and
distressed, the quiet and the milder air, and the idleness perhaps, to
which none of the Simpkins family were much accustomed, all joined
together and by degrees hushed poor Light Smiley to sleep, her arms
clasped round Peggy as if to protect her from any possible danger."
P. 177]
"Bless us," thought the little guardian to herself, "she may sleep for
hours. Whatever 'ull I do? She's that tired--and when she wakes she'll
be that 'ungry, there'll be no getting her along. She'll be quite
faint-like. If I dared leave her, I'd run on till I found the road and
got somebody to 'elp carry her. But I dursn't. If she woked up and me
gone, she'd be runnin' who knows where, and mebbe never be found again.
Poor missy--it'll be lock-ups and no mistake, wusser I dessay for me,
and quite right too. Mother'll never say I'm fit for a nussery after
makin' sich a fool of myself."
And in spite of her courage, the tears began to trickle down Sarah's
face. Peggy looked so white and tiny, lying there almost in her arms,
that it made her heart ache to see her. So she shut her own eyes and
tried to think what to do. And the thinking grew gradually confused and
mixed up with all sorts of other thinkings. Sarah fancied she heard her
mother calling her, and she tried to answer, but somehow the words would
not come.
And at last, though she was really so anxious and distressed, the quiet
and the mild air, and the idleness perhaps, to which none of the
Simpkins family were much accustomed, all joined together and by degrees
hushed poor Light Smiley to sleep, her arms clasped round Peggy as if to
protect her from any possible danger.
It would have been a touching picture, had there been any one there to
see. Unluckily, not merely for the sake of the picture, but for that of
the children themselves, there was no one.