AN INVITATION
I SLEPT on rather later than usual next morning. I suppose I really was
tired. And when I began to awake, and gradually remembered all that had
happened the night before, I heartily wished I hadn't promised Peterkin
to snort at all.
I took care not to open my eyes for a good bit, but I couldn't carry on
humbugging that I was still asleep for very long. Something made me open
my eyes, and as soon as I did so I knew what it was. There was
Pete--bolt upright--as wide awake as if he had never been asleep,
staring at me with all his might, his eyes as round and blue as could
be. You know the feeling that some one is looking at you, even when you
don't see them. I had not given one snort, and I could not help feeling
rather cross with Peterkin, even when he exclaimed--
'Oh, I am so glad you're awake!'
'You've been staring me awake,' I said, very grumpily. 'I'd like to know
who could go on sleeping with you wishing them awake?'
'I'm very sorry if you wanted to go on sleeping,' he replied meekly. He
did not seem at all surprised at my saying he had wakened me. He used to
understand rather queer things like that so quickly, though we counted
him stupid in some ways.
'But as I am awake you can start talking,' I said, closing my eyes
again, and preparing to listen.
Pete was quite ready to obey.
'Well,' he began, 'it was this way. Mamma didn't want me to be late for
tea, so she stopped at the end of that big street--a little farther away
than Lindsay Square, you know----'
'Yes, Meredith Place,' I grunted.
'And,' Pete went on, 'told me to run home. It's quite straight, if you
keep to the front, of course.'
'And you did run straight home, didn't you?' I said teasingly.
'No,' he replied seriously, but not at all offended. 'When I got to the
corner of the square I looked up it, and I remembered that it led to
the funny little houses where Clem and I had seen the parrot. So, almost
without settling it in my mind, I ran along that side of the square till
I came to Rock Terrace. I ran _very_ fast----'
'I wish I'd been there to see you,' I grunted again.
'And I thought if I kept round by the back, I'd get out again to the
front nearly as soon--running all the way, you see, to make up. And I'd
scarcely got to the little houses when I heard the parrot. His cage was
out on the balcony, you know. And it is very quiet there--scarcely any
carts or carriages passing--and it was getting dark, and I think you
hear things plainer in the dark; don't you think so, Gilley?'
I did not answer, so he went on.
'I heard the parrot some way off. His voice is so queer, you know. And
when I got nearer I could tell every word he said. He kept on every now
and then talking for himself--real talking--"Getting cold. Polly wants
to go to bed. Quick, quick." And then he'd stop for a minute, as if he
was listening and heard something I couldn't. _That_ was the strange
part that makes me think perhaps he isn't really a parrot at all,
Giles,' and here Pete dropped his voice and looked very mysterious. I
had opened my eyes for good now; it was getting exciting.
'What did he say?' I asked.
'What you and Clement heard, and a lot more,' Peterkin replied. 'Over
and over again the same--"I'm so tired, Nana, I won't be good, no I
won't."'
'Yes, that's what we heard,' I said, 'but what was the lot more?'
'Oh, perhaps there wasn't so _very_ much more,' said he, consideringly.
'There was something about "I won't be locked up," and "I'll write a
letter," and then again and again, "I won't be good, I'm so tired." That
was what you and Clement heard, wasn't it?'
'Yes,' I said.
'And one funny thing about it was that his voice, the parrot's, sounded
quite different when he was talking his own talking, do you see?--like
"Pretty Poll is cold, wants to go to bed"--from when he was copying the
little girl's. It was always croaky, of course, but _squeakier_,
somehow, when he was copying her.'
Peterkin sat up still straighter and looked at me, evidently waiting for
my opinion about it all. I was really very interested, but I wanted
first to hear all he had in his head, so I did not at once answer.
'Isn't it very queer?' he said at last.
'What do you think about it?' I asked.
He drew a little nearer me and spoke in a lower voice, though there was
no possibility of any one ever hearing what he said.
'P'raps,' he began, 'it isn't _only_ a parrot, or p'raps some fairy
makes it say these things. The little girl might be shut up, you see,
like the princess in the tower, by some _bad_ fairy, and there might be
a _good_ one who wanted to help her to get out. I wonder if they ever do
invite fairies to christenings now, and forget some of them,' he went
on, knitting his brows, 'or not ask them, because they are bad fairies?
I can't remember about Elf's christening feast; can you, Gilley?'
'I can remember hers, and yours too, for that matter,' I replied. 'You
forget how much older I am. But of course it's not like that now. There
are no fairies to invite, as I've often told you, Pete. At least,' for,
in spite of my love of teasing, I never liked to see the look of
distress that came over his chubby face when any one talked that sort of
common sense to him, 'at least, people have got out of the way of seeing
them or getting into fairy-land.'
'But we _might_ find it again,' said Peterkin, brightening up.
And I didn't like to disappoint him by saying I could not see much
chance of it.
Then another idea struck me.
'How about Mrs. Wylie?' I said. 'Didn't she explain it at all? You told
her what you had heard, didn't you? Yes, of course, she heard some of it
herself, when we were all three standing at the door of her house.'
'Well,' said Peterkin, 'I was going to tell you the rest. I was
listening to the parrot, and it was much plainer than _you_ heard,
Gilley, for when you were there you only heard him from down below, and
I was up near him--well, I was just standing there listening to him,
when that old lady came up.'
'I know all about that,' I interrupted.
'No, you don't, not nearly all,' Peterkin persisted. He could be as
obstinate as a little pig sometimes, so I said nothing. 'I was just
standing there when she came up. She looked at me, and then she went in
at her own gate, next door to the parrot's, you know, and then she
looked at me again, and spoke over the railings. She said, "Are you
talking to the parrot, my dear?" and I said, "No, I'm only listening to
him, thank you"; and then she looked at me again, and she said, "You
don't live in this terrace, I think?" And I said, "No, I live on the
Esplanade, number 59." Then she pulled out her spectacles--long things,
you know, at the end of a turtle-shell stick.'
'Tortoise-shell,' I corrected.
'Tortoise-shell,' he repeated, 'and then she looked at me again. "If you
live at 59," she said, "I think you must be one of dear Mrs. Lesley's
little sons," and I said, "That's just what I am, thank you." And then
she said, "Won't you come in for a few minutes? You can see the Polly
from my balcony, and it is getting cold for standing about. Are you on
your way home from school?" So I thought it wouldn't be polite not to go
in. She was so kind, you see,' and here his voice grew 'cryey' again, 'I
never thought about mamma being flightened, and I only meant to stay a
min----'
'Shut up about all that,' I interrupted. 'We've had it often enough, and
I want to hear what happened.'
'Well,' he said, quite briskly again, 'she took me in, and up to her
drawing-room. The window was a tiny bit open, and she made me stand just
on the ledge between it and the balcony, so that I could see the parrot
without his seeing me, for she said if he saw me he'd set up screeching
and not talk sense any more. He knows when people are strangers. The
cage was close to the old lady's end of the balcony, so that I could
almost have touched it, and then I heard him say all those queer things.
I didn't speak for a good while, for fear of stopping him talking. But
after a bit he got fidgety; I daresay he knew there was somebody there,
and then he flopped about and went back to his own talking, and said he
was cold and wanted to go to bed, and all that. And somebody inside
heard him and took him in. And then--' Pete stopped to rest his voice, I
suppose. He was always rather fond of resting, whatever he was doing.
'Hurry up,' I said. 'What happened after that?'
'The old lady said I'd better come in, and she shut up the window--I
suppose she felt cold, like the parrot--and she made me sit down; and
then I asked her what made him say such queer things in his squeakiest
voice; and she said he was copying what he heard, for there was a little
girl in the _next_ house--not in his own house--who cried sometimes and
seemed very cross and unhappy, so that Mrs. Wylie often is very sorry
for her, though she has never really seen her. And I said, did she think
anybody was unkind to the little girl, and she said she hoped not, but
she didn't know. And then she seemed as if she didn't want to talk about
the little girl very much, and she began to ask me about if I went to
school and things like that, and then I said I'd better go home, and she
came downstairs with me and--I think that's all, till you and Clement
came and we all heard the parrot again.'
'I wonder what started him copying the little girl again, after he'd
left off,' I said.
'P'raps he hears her through the wall,' said Pete. 'P'raps he hears
quicker than people do. Yes,' he went on thoughtfully, 'I think he must,
for the old lady has never heard exactly what the little girl said. She
only heard her crying and grumbling. She told me so.'
'I daresay she's just a cross little thing,' I said. 'And I think it was
rather silly of Mrs. Wylie to let you hear the parrot copying her. It's
a very bad example. And you said Mrs. Wylie seemed as if she didn't want
to talk much about her.'
'I think she's got some plan in her head,' said Peterkin, eagerly, 'for
she said--oh, I forgot that--she said she was going to come to see
mamma some day very soon, to ask her to let me go to have tea with her.
And I daresay she'll ask you too, Gilley, if we both go down to the
drawing-room when she comes.'
'I hope it'll be a half-holiday, then,' I said, 'or, anyway, that she
will come when I'm here. It is very funny about the crying little girl.
Has she been there a long time? Did your old lady tell you that?'
Peterkin shook his head.
'Oh no, she's only been there since Mrs. Wylie came back from the
country. She told me so.'
'And when was that?' I asked, but Pete did not know. He was sometimes
very stupid, in spite of his quickness and fancies. 'It's been long
enough for the parrot to learn to copy her grumbling,' I added.
'That wouldn't take him long,' said Peterkin, in his whispering voice
again, '_if_ he's some sort of a fairy, you know, Gilley.'
This time, perhaps, it was a good thing he spoke in a low voice, for at
that moment nurse came in to wake us, or rather to make us get up, as we
were nearly always awake already, and if she had heard the word
'fairy,' she would have begun about Peterkin's 'fancies' again.
Some days passed without our hearing anything of the parrot or the old
lady or Rock Terrace. We did not exactly forget about it; indeed, it was
what we talked about every morning when we awoke. But I did not think
much about it during the day, although I daresay Pete did.
So it was quite a surprise to me one afternoon, about a week after the
evening of all the fuss, when, the very moment I had rung the front
bell, the door was opened by Pete himself, looking very important.
'She's come,' he said. 'I've been watching for you. She's in the
drawing-room with mamma, and mamma told me to fetch you as soon as you
came back from school. Is Clem there?'
'No,' I said, 'it's one of the days he stays later than me, you know.'
Peterkin did not seem very sorry.
'Then she's come just to invite you and me,' he said. 'Clement _is_ too
big, but she might have asked him too, out of polititude, you know.'
He was always fussing about being polite, but I don't think I answered
her in that way.
'Bother,' I said, for I was cross; my books were heavier than usual,
and I banged them down; 'bother your politeness. Can't you tell me what
you're talking about? Who is "she" that's in the drawing-room? I don't
want to go up to see her, whoever she is.'
'Giles!' said Peterkin, in a very disappointed tone. 'You can't have
forgotten. It's the old lady next door to the parrot's house, of course.
I told you she meant to come. And she's going to invite us, I'm sure.'
In my heart I was very anxious to go to Rock Terrace again, to see the
parrot, and perhaps hear more of the mysterious little girl, but I was
feeling rather tired and cross.
'I must brush my hair and wash my hands first,' I said, 'and I daresay
mamma won't want me without Clement. She didn't say me alone, did she?'
'She said "your brothers,"' replied Peterkin, 'but of course you must
come. And she said she hoped "they" wouldn't be long. So you must come
as you are. I don't think your hands are very dirty.'
It is one of the queer things about Peterkin that he can nearly always
make you do what he wants if he's really in earnest. So I had to give
in, and he went puffing upstairs, with me after him, to the
drawing-room, when, sure enough, the old lady was sitting talking to
mamma.
Mamma looked up as we came in, and I saw that her eyes went past me.
'Hasn't Clement come in?' she asked, and it made me wish I hadn't given
in about it to Pete.
'No, mamma,' I said. 'It's one of his late days, you know. And Peterkin
made me come up just as I was.'
I felt very ashamed of my hair and crushed collar and altogether. I
didn't mind so much about my hands; boys' hands _can't_ be like ladies'.
But Mrs. Wylie was so awfully neat--she might have been a fairy herself,
or a doll dressed to look like an old lady. I felt as clumsy and messy
as could be. But she was awfully jolly; she seemed to know exactly how
uncomfortable it was for me.
'Quite right, quite right,' she said. 'For I must be getting back. It
looks rather stormy, I'm afraid. It was very thoughtful of you both, my
dear boys, to hurry. I should have liked to see Mr. Clement again, but
that must be another time. And may we fix the day now, dear Mrs. Lesley?
Saturday next we were talking of. Will you come about four o'clock, or
even earlier, my dears? The parrot stays out till five, generally, and
indeed his mistress is very good-natured, and so is her maid. They were
quite pleased when I told them I had some young friends who were very
interested in the bird and wanted to see him again. So you shall make
better acquaintance with him on Saturday, and perhaps--' but here the
old lady stopped at last, without finishing her sentence.
Nevertheless, as each of us told the other afterwards, both Peterkin and
I finished it for her in our own minds. We glanced at each other, and
the same thought ran through us--had Mrs. Wylie got some plan in her
head about the little girl?
'It is very kind indeed of you, Mrs. Wylie,' said mamma. 'Giles and
Peterkin will be delighted to go to you on Saturday, won't you, boys?'
And we both said, 'Yes, thank you. It will be very jolly,' so heartily,
that the old lady trotted off, as pleased as pleased.
Of course, I ran downstairs to see her out, and Pete followed more
slowly, just behind her. She had a very nice, rather stately way about
her, though she was so small and thin, and it never suited Pete to hurry
in those days, either up or down stairs; his legs were so short.
We were very eager for Saturday to come, and we talked a lot about it. I
had a kind of idea that Mrs. Wylie had said something about the little
girl to mamma, though mamma said nothing at all to us, except that we
must behave very nicely and carefully at Rock Terrace, and not forget
that, though she was so kind, Mrs. Wylie was an old lady, and old ladies
were sometimes fussy.
We promised we would be all right, and Peterkin said to me that he
didn't believe Mrs. Wylie was at all 'fussy.'
'She is too fairyish,' he said, 'to be like that.'
That was a very 'Peterkin' speech, but I did not snub him for it, as I
sometimes did. I was really so interested in all about the parrot and
the invisible little girl that I was almost ready to join him in making
up fanciful stories--that there was an ogre who wouldn't let her out, or
that any one who tried to see her would be turned into a frog, or things
like that out of the old fairy-tales.
'But Mrs. Wylie _has_ seen her,' said Peterkin, 'and _she_ hasn't turned
into a frog!'
That was a rather tiresome 'way' of his--if I agreed about fairies and
began making up, myself, he would get quite common-sensical, and almost
make fun of my ones.
'How do you know that she doesn't turn into a frog half the day?' I
said. 'That's often the way in enchantments.'
And then we both went off laughing at the idea of a frog jumping down
from Mrs. Wylie's drawing-room sofa, and saying, 'How do you do, my
dears?' instead of the neat little old lady.
So our squabble didn't come to anything that time.
Blanchie and Elf were rather jealous of our invitation, I think, though
Blanche always said she didn't care to go anywhere without Clement. But
Elf made us promise that some day we would get leave to take her round
by the parrot's house for her to see him.
Of course we never said anything to any one but ourselves about the
shut-up little girl, and Clement had forgotten what he had heard that
evening. He was very busy just then working extra for some prize he
hoped to get at school--I forget what it was, but he did get it--and
Blanche was helping him.