FOUND
THE carriage was standing waiting at our own house when we got there.
And there was some bustle going on, for the front door was not shut, and
we could see into the hall, which of course was brightly lighted up.
Papa was there, speaking to some one; he had his hat on, as if he was
just coming out again. And--yes--it was Drew he was speaking to, and
James too, I think--but behind them was poor mamma, looking so
dreadfully unhappy. It did make me want to shake Peterkin again.
They did not see us as quickly as we saw them, for it was dark outside
and they were all talking: papa giving directions, I fancy.
So they did jump when Clem--hurrying for once--rushed up the steps,
dragging Peterkin after him.
'We've found him--we've found him!' he shouted. 'In with you, Pete: show
yourself, quick.'
For mamma had got quite white, and looked as if she were going to faint
or tumble down in some kind of a fit; but luckily before she had time
for anything, there was that fat boy hugging and squeezing her so tight
that she'd have been clever to move at all, though if she _had_ tumbled
down he would have made a good buffer.
'Oh, mamma, mamma--oh, mummy,' he said, and by this time he was howling,
of course, 'I never meant to flighten you. I never did. I thought I'd
been only five minutes, and I thought it was nearly as quick home that
way.'
And of course mamma didn't scold him! She hugged him as if he'd been
lost for a year, and as if he was the prodigal son and the good brother
mixed up together.
But papa looked rather stern, and I was not altogether sorry to see it.
'Where have you been, Peterkin?' he said. And then he glanced up at us
two--Clem and me--as Peterkin seemed too busy crying to speak. 'Where
has he been?' papa repeated. 'It was very clever of you to find him, I
must say.'
And mamma's curiosity began to awaken, now that she had got old Pete
safe in her arms again. She looked up with the same question in her
face.
'Where--' she began.
And I couldn't help answering.
'It was all Clem's idea,' I said, for it really was only fair for Clem
to get some praise. 'He thought of the parrot.'
'The _parrot_', mamma repeated, growing more puzzled instead of less.
'Yes,' said Clement. 'The parrot next door to Mrs. Wylie's. Perhaps you
don't remember, mamma. It was the day Peterkin and I were out with
you--Giles wasn't there--and you went in to Mrs. Wylie's and we waited
outside, and the parrot was in a cage on the balcony, and we heard it
talk.'
'Yes,' said Peterkin, 'he _talked_,' as if that was an explanation of
everything.
Mamma's face cleared.
'I think I do remember something about it,' she said. 'But I have never
heard you mention it since, Peterkin?'
'No,' said Peterkin, getting rather red.
'He has spoken of it a little to me,' said Clement; 'that's how I knew
it was in his mind. But Peterkin often doesn't say much about what he's
thinking a lot about. It's his way.'
'Yes,' said Peterkin, 'it's my way.'
'And have you been planning all these days to run off to see the parrot
again?' asked mamma. I wasn't quite sure if she was vexed or not, but
_I_ was; it seemed so queer, queer as Pete often was, for him not to
have confided in somebody.
But we were mistaken.
'No, no, truly, mamma,' he said, speaking in a much more determined way
now, and shaking his curly head. 'I didn't ever think of it till after
I'd got out of the calliage and I saw it was the corner of the big
square where the little houses are at one end, and then I only meant to
go for one minute. I thought it was nearly as quick that way, and I ran
fast. I never meant to flighten you, mamma,' he repeated again, his
voice growing plaintive. 'I wasn't planning it a bit all these days. I
only kept thinking it _were_ like the blue-bird.'
The last sentence was almost in a whisper; it was only a sort of honesty
that forced him to say it. As far as Clement and I were concerned, he
needn't have said it.
'I knew he'd got some fairy-story rubbish in his head,' I muttered, but
I don't think Peterkin heard me, though papa and mamma did; for I saw
them glance at each other, and papa said something under his breath, of
which I only caught the words 'getting too fanciful,' and 'schoolboy,'
which made mamma look rather unhappy again.
'I don't yet understand how old Mrs. Wylie got mixed up in it all,' said
papa.
'She lives next door to the parrot,' said Clem, and we couldn't help
smiling at the funny way he said it.
'And she saw me when she was coming back from the post, and she was very
kind,' Peterkin went on, taking up the story again, as the smile had
encouraged him. 'She 'avited me to go in, up to her drawing-room, so
that I could hear him talking better. And he said lots of things.'
'Oh yes, by the bye,' I exclaimed, 'there was something about a little
girl, Mrs. Wylie said. What was it, Pete?'
But Peterkin shut up at this.
'I'll tell you the next time I go there. Mummy, you will let me go to
see that old lady again, won't you?' he begged. 'She was so kind, and I
only thought I'd been there five minutes. Mayn't I go again to see
her?'
'_And_ the parrot,' said mamma, smiling. She was sharp enough to take in
that it was a quarter for Mrs. Wylie and three quarters for the parrot
that he wanted so to go back to Rock Terrace. 'Well, you must promise
never to pay visits on your own account again, Peterkin, and then we
shall see. Now run upstairs to the nursery as fast as you can and get
some tea. And I'm sure Clem and Giles will be glad of some more. I hope
poor nurse and Blanche and Elfie know he is all right,' she added,
glancing round.
'Yes, ma'am. I took the liberty of going up to tell the young ladies and
Mrs. Brough, when Master Peterkin first returned,' said James in his
very politest and primmest tone.
'That was very thoughtful of you,' said mamma, approvingly, which made
James get very red.
We three boys skurried upstairs after that. At least I did. Clement came
more slowly, but as his legs were long enough to take two steps at a
time, he got to the top nearly as soon as I did, and Peterkin came
puffing after us. I was rather surprised that Blanche and Elf had been
content to stay quietly in the nursery, considering all the excitement
that had been going on downstairs, and I think it was very good of
Blanche, for she told me afterwards that she had only done it to keep
Elvira from getting into one of her endless crying fits. They always say
Elf is such a nervous child that she can't help it, but _I_ think it's a
good bit of it cross temper too.
Still she is rather growing out of it, and, after all, that night there
was something to cry about, and there might have been worse, as nurse
said. She had been telling the girls stories of people who got lost,
though she was sensible enough to make them turn up all right at the
end. She can tell very interesting stories sometimes, but she keeps the
_best_ ones to amuse us when we are ill, or when mamma's gone away on a
visit, or something horrid like that has happened.
They all three flew at Peterkin, of course, and hugged him as if he'd
been shipwrecked, or putting out a fire, or something grand like that.
And he took it as coolly as anything, and asked for his tea, as if he
deserved all the petting and fussing.
That was another of his little 'ways,' I suppose.
Then, as we were waiting for the kettle to boil up again to make fresh
tea, if you please, for his lordship--though Clem and I were to have
some too, of course, and we did deserve it--all the story had to be
told over for the third or fourth time, of the parrot, and old Mrs.
Wylie meeting Pete as she came in, and his thinking he'd only been there
about five minutes, and all the rest of it.
'And what did the Polly parrot talk about?' asked Elf. She had a picture
of a parrot in one of her books, and some rhymes about it.
'Oh,' answered Peterkin,' he said, "How d'ye do?" and "Pretty Poll," and
things like that.'
'He said queerer things than that; you know he--' I began. I saw Pete
didn't want to tell about the parrot copying the mysterious child that
Mrs. Wylie had spoken of, so I thought I'd tease him a bit by reminding
him of it. I felt sure he had got some of his funny ideas out of his
fairy stories in his head; that the little girl--for Mrs. Wylie had
spoken of a 'her'--was an enchanted princess or something like that, and
I wasn't far wrong, as you will see. But I didn't finish my sentence,
for Peterkin, who was sitting next me, gave me a sort of little kick,
not to hurt, of course, and whispered, 'I'll tell you afterwards.' So I
felt it would be ill-natured to tease him, and I didn't say any more,
and luckily the others hadn't noticed what I had begun. Blanchie was on
her knees in front of the fire toasting for us, and Elf was putting
lumps of sugar into the cups, to be ready.
Pete was as hungry as a hunter, and our sharp walk had given Clem and me
a fresh appetite, so we ate all the toast and a lot of plum-cake as
well, and felt none the worse for it.
And soon after that, it was time to be tidied up to go down to the
drawing-room to mamma. Peterkin and Elvira only stayed half-an-hour or
so, but after they had gone to bed we three big ones went into the
library to finish our lessons while papa and mamma were at dinner.
Sometimes we went into the dining-room to dessert, and sometimes we
worked on till mamma called us into the drawing-room: it all depended on
how many lessons we'd got to do, or how fast we had got on with them.
Clement and Blanche were awfully good about that sort of thing, and went
at it steadily, much better than I, I'm afraid, though I could learn
pretty quickly if I chose. But I did not like lessons, especially the
ones we had to do at home, for in these days Clem and I only went to a
day-school and had to bring books and things back with us every
afternoon. And besides these lessons we had to do at home for school, we
had a little extra once or twice a week, as we had French conversation
and reading on half-holidays with Blanche's teachers, and they sometimes
gave us poetry to learn by heart or to translate. We were not exactly
_obliged_ to do it, but of course we didn't want Blanche, who was only a
girl, to get ahead of us, as she would very likely have done, for she
did grind at her lessons awfully. I think most girls do.
It sounds as if we were rather hard-worked, but I really don't think we
were, though I must allow that we worked better in those days, and
learnt more in comparison, than we do now at--I won't give the name of
the big school we are at. Clement says it is better not--people who
write books never do give the real names, he says, and I fancy he's
right. It is an awfully jolly school, and we are as happy as sand-boys,
whatever that means, but I can't say that we work as Blanche does,
though she does it all at home with governesses.
That part of the evening--when we went back to the drawing-room to
mamma, I mean--was one of the times I shall always like to remember
about. It is very jolly now, of course, to be at home for the holidays,
but there was then the sort of 'treat' feeling of having got our lessons
done, and the little ones comfortably off to bed, and the
grown-up-ness.
Mamma looked so pretty, as she was always nicely dressed, though I liked
some of her dresses much better than others--I don't like her in black
ones at all; and the drawing-room was pretty, and then there was mamma's
music. Her playing was nice, but her singing was still better, and she
used to let us choose our favourite songs, each in turn. Blanche plays
the violin now, very well, they say, and mamma declares she is really
far cleverer at music than she herself ever was; but for all that, I
shall never care for her fiddle anything like mamma's singing; if I live
to be a hundred, I shall never forget it.
It is a great thing to have really jolly times like those evenings to
think of when you begin to get older, and are a lot away from home, and
likely to be still less and less there.
But I must not forget that this story is supposed to be principally
about Peterkin and his adventures, so I'll go on again about the night
after he'd been lost.
He and I had a room together, and he was nearly always fast asleep, like
a fat dormouse, when I went up to bed. He had a way of curling himself
round, like a ball, that really did remind you of a dormouse. I believe
it kept him from growing; I really do, though I did my best to pull him
out straight. He didn't like that, ungrateful chap, and used to growl at
me for it, and I believe he often pretended to be asleep when he wasn't,
just to stop me doing it; for one night, nurse had come in to know what
the row was about, and though she agreed with me that it was much better
for him to lie properly stretched at his full length, she said I wasn't
to wake him up because of it.
But if he was generally fast asleep at night when I came to bed, he
certainly made up for it by waking in the morning. I never knew anything
like him for that. I believe he woke long before the birds, winter as
well as summer, and then was his time for talking and telling me his
stories and fancies. Once I myself was well awake I didn't mind, as it
was generally rather interesting; but I couldn't stand the being
awakened ages before the time. So we made an agreement, that if I didn't
wake him up at night, he'd not bother me in the morning till I gave a
sign that I was on the way to waking of myself. The sign was a sort of
snort that's easy to make, even while you're still pretty drowsy, and it
did very well, as I could lie quiet in a dreamy way listening to him.
He didn't want me to speak, only to snort a little now and then till I
got quite lively, as I generally did in a few minutes, as his stories
grew more exciting, and there came something that I wanted him to alter
in them.
That night, however, when I went up to bed there was no need to think of
our bargain, for Peterkin was as wide awake as I was.
'Haven't you been to sleep yet?' I asked him.
'Not exactly,' he said. 'Just a sort of half. I'm glad you've come,
Gilley, for I've got a lot of things in my head.'
'You generally have,' I said, 'but _I'm_ sleepy, if you're not. That
scamper in the cold after you, my good boy, was rather tiring, I can
tell you.'
'I'm very sorry,' said he, in a penitent tone of voice, 'but you know,
Giles, I never meant to----'
'Oh, stop that!' I exclaimed; 'you've said it twenty times too often
already. Better tell me a bit of the things in your head. Then you can
go to sleep, and dream them out, and have an interesting story ready for
me in the morning.'
'Oh, but--' objected Pete, sitting up in bed and clasping his hands
round his knees, his face very red, and his eyes very blue and bright,
'they're not dreamy kind of things at all. There's really something
very misterist--what is the proper word, Gilley?'
'"Mysterious," I suppose you mean,' I said.
'Yes, misterous,' repeated he, 'about what the parrot said, and I'm
pretty sure that old lady thinks so too.'
'Didn't she explain about it, at all?' I asked him. I began to think
there _was_ something queer, perhaps, for Peterkin's manner impressed
me.
'Well, she did a little,' he replied. 'But I'd better tell you all,
Gilley; just what I first heard, before she came up and spoke to me, you
know, and----'
Just then, however, there came an interruption.
Mamma put her head in at the door.
'Boys,' she said, 'not asleep yet? At least _you_ should be, Peterkin.
You didn't wake him, I hope, Giles?'
I had no time for an indignant 'No; of course, not,' before Pete came to
my defence.
'No, no, mummy! I was awake all of myself. I wanted him to come very
much, to talk a little.'
'Well, you must both be rather tired with all the excitement there has
been,' mamma said. 'So go to sleep, now, and do your talking in the
morning. Promise,--both of you--eh?'
'Yes,' we answered; 'word of honour, mamma,' and she went away, quite
sure that we would keep our promise, which was sealed by a kiss from
her.
Dear little mother! She did not often come up to see us in bed, for fear
of rousing us out of our 'beauty' sleep, but to-night she had felt as if
she must make sure we were all right after the fuss of Peterkin's being
lost, you see.
And of course we were as good as our word, and only just said
'Good-night!' to each other; Pete adding, 'I'll begin at the beginning,
and tell you everything, as soon as I hear your first snort in the
morning, Giles.'
'You'd better wait for my second or third,' I replied. 'I'm never very
clear-headed at the first, and I want to give my attention, as it's
something real, and not one of your make-ups,' I said. 'So, good-night!'
It is awfully jolly to know that you are trusted, isn't it?