BERYL
YES, the fog _was_ a fog, and no mistake. I don't think I have ever seen
so bad a one since we came to live in London, or else it seemed to me
terribly bad that day because I was not used to it, and because I was so
anxious.
I felt half provoked and yet in a way glad that Margaret and Peterkin
were not at all frightened, but rather pleased. They followed me along
the platform after we got out of the carriage, lugging the bundle
between them. It was not really heavy, and I had to go first, as the
station was pretty full in that part, in spite of the fog. The lamps
were all lighted, but till you got within a few yards of one you
scarcely saw it.
I went on, staring about me for some one to ask advice from. At last,
close to a book-stall, where several lights together made it a little
clearer, I saw a railway man of some kind, standing, as if he was not in
a hurry.
'Can you tell me where Enderby Street is, if you please?' I asked as
civilly as I knew how.
'Enderby Street,' he repeated, in surprise. 'Of course; it's no distance
off.'
Wasn't I thankful?
'How far?' I said.
'Well--it depends upon which part of it you want. It's a long street.
But if you're a stranger you'll never find your way in this fog. Better
take a hansom.'
'Thank you,' I said. 'It's only a shilling, I suppose?'
He glanced at me again; he had been turning away. By this time the two
children were close beside me. He saw that we belonged to each other.
'A shilling for two--one-and-six for three,' he replied. 'Hansom or
four-wheeler,' and then he moved off.
Just then Margaret began to cough, and a new fear struck me. She looked
very delicate, and she had had a bad cold. Supposing the fog made her
very ill? I was glad the man had spoken of a four-wheeler.
'Stuff your handkerchief or something into your mouth,' I said, 'so as
not to get the fog down your throat. I'm going to call a four-wheeler.'
In some ways that dreadful day was not as bad as it might have been.
There were scarcely any cabs about, but just then one stopped close to
the end of the platform.
'Jump in,' I said, and before the driver had time to make any objection,
for I know they do sometimes make a great favour of taking you anywhere
in a fog, we were all inside.
I heard him growling a little, but when I put my head out of the window
again, and said '19 Enderby Street,' he smoothed down.
We drove off, slowly enough, but that was to be expected. I pulled up
both windows, for Margaret kept on coughing, in spite of having her
handkerchief, and Peterkin's too, for all I knew, stuffed over her mouth
and throat. They were both very quiet, but I _think_ they were rather
enjoying themselves. I suppose my taking the lead, as I had had to,
since our troubles began, and managing things, made them feel 'safe,' as
children like to do, at the bottom of their hearts, however they start
by talking big.
It _was_ a horrid fog, but the lights made it not quite so bad outside,
for the shops had got all their lamps on, and we could see them now and
then. There was a lot of shouting going on, and yet every sound was
muffled. There were not many carts or omnibuses or anything on wheels
passing, and what there were, were moving slowly like ourselves.
After a few minutes it got darker again; it must have been when we got
into Enderby Street, I suppose, for there are no shops, or scarcely any,
there. I've often and often passed along it since, but I never do
without thinking of that evening, or afternoon, for it was really not
yet four o'clock.
And then we stopped.
'Nineteen, didn't you say?' asked the driver as I jumped out.
'Yes, nineteen,' I said. 'Stop here for a moment or two, till I see if
we go in.'
For it suddenly struck me that _if_ we had the awful bad luck not to
find Mrs. Wylie, we had better keep the cab, to take us to some hotel,
otherwise it might be almost impossible to get another. And then we
should be out in the street, with Margaret and her bundle, and worse
still, her cough.
I made my way, more by feeling than seeing, up the steps, and fumbled
till I found the bell. I had not actually told the others to stay in
the cab, though I had taken care to keep the window shut when I got out,
and I never dreamt but what they'd stay where they were till I had found
out if Mrs. Wylie was there.
But just as the door opened--the servant came in double-quick time
luckily, the reason for which was explained--I heard a rustling behind
me, and lo and behold, there they both were, and the terrible red bundle
too, looking huger and queerer than ever, as the light from inside fell
on it.
We must have looked a funny lot, as the servant opened the door. She--it
was a parlour-maid--did start a little, but I didn't give her time to
speak, though I daresay she thought we were beggars, thanks to those
silly children.
'Mrs. Wylie is staying here,' I said. I thought it best to speak
decidedly. 'Is she at home?'
I suppose my way of speaking made her see we were not beggars, and
perhaps she caught sight of the four-wheeler, looming faintly through
the fog, for she answered quite civilly.
'She is not exactly staying here. She is in rooms a little way from
here, but she comes round most afternoons. I thought it was her when you
rang, but I don't think she'll be coming now--not in this fog.'
My heart had gone down like lead at the first words--'she is not,' but
as the servant went on I got more hopeful again.
'Can you--' I began--I was going to have asked for Mrs. Wylie's address,
but just then Margaret coughed; the worst cough I had heard yet from
her. 'Why couldn't you have stayed in the cab?' I said sharply, and
perhaps it was a good thing, to show that we _had_ a cab waiting for us.
'Please,' I went on, 'let this little girl come inside for a minute. The
fog makes her cough so.'
The parlour-maid stepped back, opening the door a little wider, but
there was something doubtful in her manner, as if she was not quite sure
if she was not running a risk in letting us in. I pushed Margaret
forward, and not Margaret only! She was holding fast to her precious
bundle, and Peterkin was holding fast to _his_ side of it, so they
tumbled in together in a way that was enough to make the servant stare,
and I stayed half on the steps, half inside, but from where I was I
could see into the hall quite well. It looked so nice and comfortable,
compared with the horribleness outside. It was a square sort of hall.
The house was not a big one, not nearly as big as ours at home, but lots
bigger than the Rock Terrace ones, of course.
'Can you give me Mrs. Wylie's address?' I said. 'I think the best thing
we can do is to--' but I was interrupted again.
A girl--a grown-up girl, a lady, I mean--came forward from the inner
part of the hall.
'Browner,' she said, 'do shut the door. You are letting the fog get all
over the house, and it is bitterly cold.'
She was blinking her eyes a little as she spoke: either the light or the
fog, or both, hurt them. Perhaps she had been sitting over the fire in a
darkish room. 'Blinking her eyes' doesn't sound very pretty, but it was,
I found afterwards, a sort of trick of hers, and somehow it suited her.
_She_ was very pretty. I didn't often notice girls' looks, but I
couldn't help noticing hers. Everything about her was pretty; her voice
too, though she spoke a little crossly. She was rather tall, and her
hair was wavy, almost as wavy as Elf's, and the colour of her dress,
which was pinky-red, and everything about her, seemed to suit, and I
just stood--we all did--staring at her.
And as soon as she caught sight of us--I daresay we seemed quite a
little crowd at the door--she stared too!
Then she came forward quickly, her voice growing anxious, and almost
frightened.
'What is the matter?' she exclaimed. 'Has there been an accident? Who
are these--children?'
Browner moved towards her.
'Indeed, Miss,' she began, but the girl stopped her.
'Shut the door first,' she said decidedly. 'No, no, come in, please,'
this was to me; I suppose I seemed to hesitate, 'and tell me what you
want, and who you are?'
Her voice grew more hesitating as she went on, and it must have been
very difficult to make out what sort of beings we were. Margaret's
colourless face and dark eyes and hair, and the bright red of the
bundle, at the first hasty glance, might almost have made you think of a
little Italian wandering musician; but the moment I spoke I think the
girl saw we were not that class.
'We are friends of Mrs. Wylie's--Mrs. Wylie who lives at Rock Terrace,'
I said, 'and--and we've come to her because--oh! because we've got into
a lot of trouble, and the fog's made it worse, and we don't know
anybody else in London.'
Then, all of a sudden--I'm almost ashamed to tell it, even though it's a
good while ago now, and I really was scarcely more than a little boy
myself--something seemed to get into my throat, and I felt as if in
another moment it would turn into a sob.
Margaret is awfully quick in some ways. She heard the choke in my voice
and darted to me, leaving the bundle to Pete's tender mercies; so half
of it dropped on to the floor and half stuck to him, as he stood there
staring with his round blue eyes.
Margaret stretched up and flung her arms round my neck.
'Giles, Giles,' she cried, 'don't, oh don't!' Then she burst out--
'It's all my fault; at least it's all for me, and Giles and Perkins have
been so good to me. Oh dear, oh dear, what shall I do?' and she began
coughing again in a miserable way. I think it was partly that she was
trying not to cry.
Seeing her so unhappy, made me pull myself together. I was just going to
explain things a little to the girl, when she spoke first. She looked
very kind and sorry.
'I'll tell you what's the first thing to do,' she said, 'and that's to
get this child out of the cold,' and she opened a door a little farther
back in the hall, and got us all in, the maid following.
It was a very nice, rather small dining-room; a bright fire was burning,
and the girl turned on an electric lamp over the table. There were
pretty ferns and things on it, ready for dinner, just like mamma has
them at home.
'Now,' she began again, but there seemed nothing but interruptions, for
just at that moment another door was heard to open, and as the one of
the room where we were was not shut, we could hear some one calling--
'Beryl, Beryl, is there anything the matter? Has your aunt come?'
It was a man's voice--quite a kind one, but rather fussy.
'Wait a moment or two, I'll be back directly,' said the girl, and as she
ran out of the room we heard her calling, 'I'm coming, daddy.'
The parlour-maid drew back nearer the door, not seeming sure if she
should leave us alone or not, and _we_ drew a little nearer the fire. So
that we could talk without her hearing us.
[Illustration: 'NOW,' SHE BEGAN . . . DRAWING MARGARET TO HER, 'TELL ME
ALL ABOUT IT.'--p. 159.]
'Isn't she a kind lady?' said Margaret, glancing up at me. 'I think she
looks very kind. You don't think she'll send me back to the witch, do
you, Giles?'
'Bother the witch,' I was on the point of saying, for I would have given
anything by this time to be back in our homes again, witch or no witch.
But I thought better of it. It wouldn't have been kind, with Margaret
looking up at me, with tears in her big dark eyes, so white and anxious.
'I shouldn't think so,' I replied. 'She must be Mrs. Wylie's niece, and
we'll go on to Mrs. Wylie, and she will tell us what to do.'
The girl--perhaps I'd better call her 'Beryl' now. We always do, though
she is no longer Beryl Wylie. Beryl was back almost at once.
'Now,' she began again, sitting down in an arm-chair by the fire, and
drawing Margaret to her, 'tell me all about it. In the first place, who
are you? What are your names?'
'Lesley,' I said. 'At least _ours_ is,' and I touched Peterkin. 'I'm
Giles and he's Peterkin. We know Mrs. Wylie, and we live on the Marine
Parade.'
Beryl nodded.
'Yes,' she said, 'I've heard of you. And,' she touched Margaret gently,
'this small maiden? What is her name--she is not your sister?'
'No,' I replied. 'She is Margaret----' I stopped short. For the first
time it struck me that I had never heard her last name!
'Margaret Fothergill,' she said quickly. 'I live next door but one to
Mrs. Wylie, and next door to the parrot. Do you know the parrot in Rock
Terrace?'
Beryl nodded again.
'I have heard of him too,' she said.
But suddenly a new idea--I should rather say the old one--struck
Margaret again. Her voice changed, and she clasped her hands piteously.
'You won't, oh, you won't send me back to the witch? Say you won't.'
'What does she mean?' asked Beryl, turning to me, as if she thought
Margaret was half out of her mind, though, all the same, she drew her
still closer.
'She--we--' I began, and Peterkin opened his mouth too. But I suppose I
must have glanced at the servant, for Beryl turned towards her, as if to
tell her not to wait. Then she changed and said instead--
'Bring tea in here, Browner, as quickly as you can. You can put it on
the side table.'
Browner went off at once; she seemed a very good-natured girl. And then,
as quickly as I could, helped here and there by Margaret and by Peterkin
(though to any one less 'understanding' than Beryl, his funny way of
muddling up real and fancy would certainly not have 'helped'), I told
our story. It was really wonderful how Beryl took it all in. When I
stopped at last, almost out of breath, she nodded her head quietly.
'We won't talk it over just yet,' she said. 'The first thing to do is to
see my auntie. You three stay here while I run round to her, and try to
enjoy your tea. I shall not be long. It is very near.'
The idea of tea did seem awfully tempting, but a new thought struck me.
'The cab!' I exclaimed, 'the four-wheeler! It's waiting all this time,
and if we send it away, most likely we shan't be able to get another in
the fog. There'll be such a lot to pay, too. Don't you think we'd better
go with you in it to Mrs. Wylie, and perhaps she'd lend us money to go
to the Junction by the first train? I don't think we should stay to
have tea, thank you,' though, as I said it, a glance at Margaret's poor
little white face made me wish I needn't say it. She was clinging to
Beryl so by this time as if she felt safe.
And Peterkin looked almost as piteous as she did.
Beryl gently loosened Margaret's hold of her, and got up from the big
leather arm-chair where she had been sitting.
'Never mind about the cab,' she said. 'I will go round in it to my aunt,
and perhaps bring her back in it. I will settle with the man. I may be a
quarter-of-an-hour or twenty minutes away. So all you three have got to
do in the meantime is to have a good tea, and trust me. And don't think
about witches, or bad fairies, or anything disagreeable till you see me
again,' she added, nodding to the two children. 'Browner, you will see
that they have everything they want.'
Browner smiled, and Beryl ran off, and in a minute or two we heard her
come downstairs again, with her cloak and hat on, no doubt, and the
front door shut, and I heard the cab drive away.
Talking of fairies, I can't imagine anything more like the best of good
ones than Beryl Wylie seemed to us that afternoon.
Browner was very kind and sensible. For after she had poured out our
tea, and handed us a plateful of bread-and-butter and another of little
cakes, she left the room, showing us the bell, in case we wanted more
milk or anything.
And then--perhaps it may seem very thoughtless of us, but, as I have
said before, even I, the eldest, wasn't very old--we really enjoyed
ourselves! It was so jolly to feel warm and to have a good tea, and,
above all, to know that we had found kind friends, who would tell us
what to do.
Margaret seemed perfectly happy, and to have got rid of all her fears of
being sent back to the witch. And Peterkin, in those days, was never
very surprised at anything, for nothing that could happen was as
wonderful as the wonders of the fairy-land he lived in. So he was quite
able to enjoy himself without any trying to do so.
I do feel, however, rather ashamed of one bit of it all. You'd scarcely
believe that it never came into my head to think that mamma might be
frightened about us, even though the afternoon was getting on into
evening, and the darkness outside made it seem later than it really was!
I can't understand it of myself, considering that I had seen with my
own eyes how frightened she had been the evening Peterkin got lost. I
suppose my head had got tired and confused with all the fears and things
it had been full of, but it is rather horrid to remember, all the same.