MARGARET
THERE'S an old proverb that mamma has often quoted to us, for she's
awfully keen on our all being 'plucky,' and, on the whole, I think we
are--
'Fortune favours the brave.'
I have sometimes thought it would suit Peterkin to turn it into 'Fortune
favours the determined.' Not that he's _not_ 'plucky,' but there's
nothing like him for sticking to a thing, once he has got it into his
head. And certainly fortune favoured him at the time I am writing about.
Nothing could have suited us better than the parrot's screeching out to
us 'naughty boy, naughty boy.'
I suppose he had been taught to say it to errand-boys and boys like that
who mocked at him. But we did not want to set up a row, so I replied
gently--
'No, no, Polly, good boys. Polly shall have his dinner soon.'
'Good Polly, good Polly,' he repeated with satisfaction.
And then--what _do_ you think happened? The door-window of the
drawing-room of the next house, _the_ house, was pushed open a little
bit, and out peeped a child's head, a small head with smooth short dark
hair, but a little girl's head. We could tell that at once by the way it
was combed, or brushed, even if we had not seen, as we did, a white
muslin pinafore, with lace ruffly things that only a girl would wear. My
heart really began to beat quite loudly, as if I'd been running fast--we
had been so excited about her, you see, and afterwards Pete told me his
did too.
The only pity was, that she was up on the drawing-room floor. We could
have seen her so much better downstairs. But we had scarcely time to
feel disappointed.
When she saw us, and saw, I suppose, that we were not errand-boys or
street-boys, she came out a little farther. I felt sure by her manner
that she was alone in the room. She looked down at us, looked us well
over for a moment or two, and then she said--
'Are you talking to the parrot?'
She did not call out or speak loudly at all, but her voice was very
clear.
'Yes,' Peterkin replied. As he had started the whole business I thought
it fair to let him speak before me. 'Yes, but he called out to us first.
He called us "naughty boys."'
'I heard him,' said the little girl, 'and I thought perhaps you _were_
naughty boys, teasing him, you know, and I was going to call to you to
run away. But--' and she glanced at us again. I could see that she
wanted to go on talking, but she did not quite know how to set about it.
So I thought I might help things on a bit.
'Thank you,' I said, taking off my cap. 'My little brother is very
interested in the parrot. He seems so clever.'
At another time Pete would have been very offended at my calling him
'little,' but just now he was too eager to mind, or even, I daresay, to
notice.
'So he is,' said the little girl. 'I could tell you lots about him, but
it's rather tiresome talking down to you from up here. Wait a minute,'
she added, 'and I'll come down to the dining-room. I may go downstairs
now, and nurse is out, and I'm very dull.'
We were so pleased that we scarcely dared look at each other, for fear
that somehow it should go wrong after all. We did glance along the
terrace, but nobody was coming. If only her nurse would stay out for ten
minutes longer, or even less.
We stood there, almost holding our breath. But it was not really--it
could not have been--more than half a minute, before the dark head and
white pinafore appeared again, this time, of course, on the ground
floor; the window there was a little bit open already, to air the room
perhaps.
We would have liked to go close up to the small balcony where she stood,
but we dared not, for fear of the nurse coming. And the garden was very
tiny, we were only two or three yards from the little girl, even outside
on the pavement.
She looked at us first, looked us well over, before she began to speak
again. Then she said--
'Have you been to see the parrot already?'
'Oh yes,' said Peterkin, in his very politest tone, 'oh yes, thank you.'
I did not quite see why he said 'thank you.' I suppose he meant it in
return for her coming downstairs. 'I've been here two, no, three times,
and Giles,' he gave a sort of nod towards me, 'has been here two.'
'Is your name Giles?' she asked me. She had a funny, little, rather
condescending manner of speaking to us, but I didn't mind it somehow.
'Yes,' I replied, 'and his,' and I touched Pete, 'is "Peterkin."'
'They are queer names; don't you think so? At least,' she added quickly,
as if she was afraid she had said something rude, 'they are very
uncommon. "Giles" and "Perkin."'
'Not "Perkin,"' I said, "Peterkin."'
'Oh, I thought it was like a man in my history,' she said, 'Perkin
War--something.'
'No,' said Peterkin, 'it isn't in history, but it's in poetry. About a
battle. I've got it in a book.'
'I should like to see it,' she said. 'There's lots of _my_ name in
history. My name is Margaret. There are queens and princesses called
Margaret.'
Pete opened his mouth as if he was going to speak, but shut it up again.
I know what he had been on the point of saying,--'Are you a princess?'
'a shut-up princess?' he would have added very likely, but I suppose he
was sensible enough to see that if she had been 'shut-up,' in the way he
had been fancying to himself, she would scarcely have been able to come
downstairs and talk to us as she was doing. And she was not dressed like
the princesses in his stories, who had always gold crowns on and long
shiny trains. Still, though she had only a pinafore on, I could see that
it was rather a grand one, lots of lace about it, like one of Elf's very
best, and though her hair was short and her face small and pale, there
was something about her--the way she stood and the way she spoke--which
was different from many little girls of her age.
Peterkin took advantage very cleverly of what she had said about his
name.
'I'll bring you my poetry-book, if you like,' he said. 'It's a quite old
one. I think it belonged to grandmamma, and she's as old as--as old
as--' he seemed at a loss to find anything to compare poor grandmamma
to, till suddenly a bright idea struck him--'nearly as old as Mrs.
Wylie, I should think,' he finished up.
'Oh,' said Margaret, 'do you know Mrs. Wylie? I've never seen her, but I
think I've heard her talk. Her house is next door to the parrot's.'
'Yes,' said I, 'but I wonder you've never seen her. She often goes out.'
'But--' began the little girl again, 'I've been--oh, I do believe that's
my dinner clattering in the kitchen, and nurse will be coming in, and
I've never told you about the parrot. I've lots to tell you. Will you
come again? Not to-morrow, but on Wednesday nurse is going out to the
dressmaker's. I heard her settling it. Please come on Wednesday, just
like this.'
'We could come a little earlier, perhaps,' I said.
Margaret nodded.
'Yes, do,' she replied, 'and I'll be on the look-out for you. I shall
think of lots of things to say. I want to tell you about the parrot,
and--about lots of things,' she repeated. 'Good-bye.'
We tugged at our caps, echoing 'good-bye,' and then we walked on towards
the farther-off end of the terrace, and when we got there we turned and
walked back again. And then we saw that we had not left the front of
Margaret's house any too soon, for a short, rather stout little woman
was coming along, evidently in a hurry. She just glanced at us as she
passed us, but I don't think she noticed us particularly.
'That's her nurse, I'm sure,' said Peterkin, in a low voice. 'I don't
think she looks unkind.'
'No, only rather fussy, I should say,' I replied.
We had scarcely spoken to each other before, since bidding Margaret
good-bye. Pete had been thinking deeply, and I was waiting to hear what
he had to say.
'I wonder,' he went on, after a moment or two's silence,--'I wonder how
much she knows?'
'Why?' I exclaimed. 'What do you think there is to know?'
'It's all very misterous, still,' he answered solemnly. 'She--the little
girl--said she had lots to tell us about the parrot and other things.
And she didn't want her nurse to see us talking to her. And she said she
could come downstairs _now_, but, I'm sure, they don't let her go out.
She wouldn't be so dull if they did.'
'Who's "they"?' I asked.
'I don't quite know,' he replied, shaking his head. 'Some kind of
fairies. P'raps it's bad ones, or p'raps it's good ones. No, it can't be
bad ones, for then they wouldn't have planned the parrot telling us
about her, so that we could help her to get free. The parrot is a sort
of messenger from the good fairies, I believe.'
He looked up, his eyes very bright and blue, as they always were when he
thought he had made a discovery, or was on the way to one. And I, half
in earnest, half in fun, like I'd been about it all the time, let my
own fancy go on with his.
'Perhaps,' I said. 'We shall find out on Wednesday, I suppose, when we
talk more to Margaret. We needn't call her the invisible princess any
more.'
'No, but she is a princess sort of little girl, isn't she?' he said,
'though her hair isn't as pretty as Blanche's and Elf's, and her face is
very little.'
'She's all right,' I said.
And then we had to hurry and leave off talking, for we had been walking
more slowly than we knew, and just then some big clock struck the
quarter.
I think, perhaps, I had better explain here, that none of us--neither
Margaret, nor Peterkin, nor I--thought we were doing anything the least
wrong in keeping our making acquaintance a secret. What Margaret thought
about it, so far as she did think of that part of it, you will
understand as I go on; and Pete and I had our minds so filled with his
fairies that we simply didn't think of anything else.
It was growing more and more interesting, for Margaret had something
very jolly about her, though she wasn't exactly pretty.
I can't remember if it did come into my mind, a very little, perhaps,
that we should tell somebody--mamma, perhaps, or Clement--about our
visits to Rock Terrace even then. But if it did, I think I put it out
again, by knowing that Margaret meant it to be a secret, and that, till
we saw her again, and heard what she was going to tell us, it would not
be fair to mention anything about it.
We were both very glad that Wednesday was only the day after to-morrow.
It would have been a great nuisance to have had to wait a whole week,
perhaps. And we were very anxious when Wednesday morning came, to see
what sort of weather it was, for on Tuesday it rained. Not very badly,
but enough for nurse to tell Peterkin that it was too showery for him to
come to meet me, and it would not have been much good if he had, as we
couldn't have spoken to Margaret.
Nor could we have strolled up and down the terrace or stood looking at
the parrot, even if he'd been out on the terrace, which he wouldn't have
been on at all on a bad day--if it was rainy. It would have been sure to
make some of the people in the houses wonder at us; just what we didn't
want.
But Wednesday was fine, luckily, and this time I got off from school to
the minute without any one or anything stopping me.
I ran most of the way to the corner of Lindsay Square, all the same;
and I was not too early either, for before I got there I saw Master
Peterkin's sturdy figure steering along towards me, not far off. And
when he got up to me I saw that he had a small brown-paper parcel under
his arm, neatly tied up with red string.
He was awfully pleased to see me so early, for his round face was
grinning all over, and as a rule it was rather solemn.
'What's that you've got there?' I asked.
He looked surprised at my not knowing.
'Why, of course, the poetry-book,' he said. 'I promised it her,
and I've marked the poetry about "Peterkin." It's the Battle of
Blen--Blen-hime--mamma said, when I learnt it, that that's the
right way to say it; but Miss Tucker' ('Miss Tucker' was Blanche's
and the little ones' governess) 'called it Blen_nem_, and I always
have to think when I say it. I wish they didn't call him "_little_
Peterkin," though,' he went on, 'it sounds so babyish.'
'I don't see that it matters, as it isn't about you yourself,' I said.
'I'd forgotten all about it; I think it's rather sharp of you to have
remembered.'
'I couldn't never forget anything I'd promised _her_,' said Pete, and
you might really have thought by his tone that he believed he was the
prince going to visit the Sleeping Beauty--after she'd come awake, I
suppose.
We did not need to hurry; we were actually rather too early, so we went
on talking.
'How about the flowers we meant to get for her?' I said suddenly.
'_I_ didn't forget about them,' he answered, 'but we didn't promise
them, and I thought it would be better to ask her first. She might like
chocolates best, you know.'
'All right,' I said, and I thought perhaps it was better to ask her
first. You see, if she didn't want her nurse to know about our coming to
see her it would have been tiresome, as, of course, Margaret could not
have told a story.
There she was, peeping out of the downstairs window already when we got
there. And when she saw us she came farther out, a little bit on to the
balcony. It was a sunny day for winter, and besides, she had a red shawl
on, so she could not very well have caught cold. It was a very pretty
shawl, with goldy marks or patterns on it. It was like one grandmamma
had been sent a present of from India, and afterwards Margaret told me
hers had come from India too. And it suited her, somehow, even though
she was only a thin, pale little girl.
She smiled when she saw us, though she did not speak till we were near
enough to hear what she said without her calling out. And when we
stopped in front of her house, she said--
'I think you might come inside the garden. We could talk better.'
So we did, first glancing up at the next-door balcony, to see if the
parrot was there.
Yes, he was, but not as far out as usual, and there was a cloth, or
something, half-down round his cage, to keep him warmer, I suppose.
He was quite silent, but Margaret nodded her head up towards him.
'He told me you were coming,' she cried, 'though it wasn't in a very
polite way. He croaked out--"Naughty boys! naughty boys!"'
We all three laughed a little.
'And now,' Margaret went on, 'I daresay he won't talk at all, all the
time you are here.'
'But will he understand what we say?' asked Peterkin, rather anxiously.
Margaret shook her head.
[Illustration: PETE HELD OUT HIS BROWN-PAPER PARCEL. 'THIS IS THE
POETRY-BOOK,' HE SAID.--p. 97.]
'I really don't know,' she replied. 'We had better talk in rather low
voices. I don't _think_,' she went on, almost in a whisper, 'that he is
fairy enough to hear if we speak very softly.'
Peterkin gave a sort of spring of delight.
'Oh!' he exclaimed, 'I am _so_ glad you think he is fairyish, too.'
'Of course I do,' said she; 'that's partly what I wanted to tell you.'
We came closer to the window. Margaret looked at us again in her
examining way, without speaking, for a minute, and before she said
anything, Pete held out his brown-paper parcel.
'This is the poetry-book,' he said, 'and I've put a mark in the place
where it's about my name.'
He pulled off his cap as he handed the packet to her, and stood with his
curly wig looking almost red in the sunlight, though it was not very
bright.
'Put it on again,' said Margaret, in her little queer way, meaning his
cap. 'And thank you very much, Perkin, for remembering to bring it. I
think I should like to call you "Perkin," if you don't mind. I like to
have names of my own for some people, and I really thought yours was
Perkin.'
I wished to myself she would have a name of her own for _me_, but I
suppose she thought I was too big.
'I think you are very nice boys,' she went on, 'not "naughty" ones at
all; and if you will promise not to tell any one what I am going to tell
_you_, I will explain all I can. I mean you mustn't tell any one till I
give you leave, and as it's only about my own affairs, of course you can
promise.'
Of course we did promise.
'Listen, then,' said Margaret, glancing up first of all at the parrot,
and drawing back a little into the inside of the room. 'You can hear
what I say, even though I don't speak very loudly, can't you?'
'Oh yes! quite well,' we replied.
'Well, then, listen,' she repeated. 'I have no brothers or sisters, and
Dads and Mummy are in India. I lived there till about three years ago,
and then they came here and left me with my grandfather. That's how
people always have to do who live in India.'
'Didn't you mind awfully?' I said. 'Your father and mother leaving you,
I mean?'
'Of course I minded,' she replied. 'But I had always known it would have
to be. And they will come home again for good some day; perhaps before
very long. And I have always been quite happy till lately. Gran is very
good to me, and I'm used to being a good deal alone, you see, except for
big people. I've always had lots of story books, and not _very_ many
lessons. So, after a bit, it didn't seem so very different from India.
Only _now_ it's quite different. It's like being shut up in a tower, and
it's very queer altogether, and I _believe_ she's a sort of a witch,'
and Margaret nodded her head mysteriously.
'_Who?_' we asked eagerly.
'The person I'm living with--Miss Bogle--isn't her name witchy?' and she
smiled a little. 'No, no, not nurse,' for I had begun to say the word.
'_She_ is only rather a goose. No, this house belongs to Miss Bogle, and
she's quite old--oh, as old as old! And she's got rheumatism, so she
very seldom goes up and down stairs. And nurse does just exactly what
Miss Bogle tells her. It was this way. Gran had to go away--a good way,
though not so far as India, and he is always dreadfully afraid of
anything happening to me, I suppose. So he sent me here with nurse, and
he told me I would be very happy. He knew Miss Bogle long ago--I think
she had a school for little boys once; perhaps that was before she got
to be a witch. But I've been dreadfully unhappy, and I don't know
what's going to happen to me if I go on like this much longer.'
She stopped, out of breath almost.
'Do you think she's going to enchanter you?' asked Peterkin, in a
whisper. 'Do you think she wasn't asked to your christening, or anything
like that?'
Margaret shook her head again.
'_Something_ like that, I suppose,' she replied. 'She looks at me
through her spectacles so queerly, you can't think. You see, I was ill
at Gran's before I came here: not very badly, though he fussed a good
deal about it. And he thought the sea-air would do me good. But I've
often had colds, and I never was treated like this before--never. For
ever so long, _she_,' and Margaret nodded towards somewhere unknown,
'wouldn't let me come downstairs at all. And then I cried--sometimes I
_roared_, and luckily the parrot heard, and began to talk about it in
his way. And you see it's through him that _you_ got to know about me,
so I'm sure he's on the other side, and knows she's a witch, but----'