DEAR MAMMA
BERYL must have been away longer than she had expected, for when we
heard the front bell ring and a minute later she hurried in, her first
words were--
'Did you think I was never coming back? I will explain to you what I
have been doing.'
When her eyes fell on us, however, her expression changed. She looked
pleased, but a little surprised, as she took in that we had not been, by
any means, sitting worrying ourselves, but quite the contrary. Margaret
was actually in the middle of a laugh, which did not seem as if she was
feeling very bad, even though it turned into a cough. Peterkin was
placidly content, and I was--well, feeling considerably the better for
the jolly good tea we had had.
'We've been awfully comfortable, thank you,' I said, getting up,
'and--will you please tell us what you think we'd better do?
And--please--how much was the cab?'
'Never mind about that,' she said. 'Here is my aunt,' and then I heard a
little rustle at the door, and in came Mrs. Wylie, who had been taking
off her wraps in the hall, looking as neat and white-lacy and like
herself as if she had never come within a hundred miles of a fog in her
life.
'She _would_ come,' Beryl went on, smiling at the old lady as if she
loved her very much. 'Auntie is always so kind.'
I began to feel very ashamed of all the trouble we were giving, and I'm
sure my face got very red.
'I'm so sorry,' I said, as Mrs. Wylie shook hands with us, 'I never
thought of you coming out in the fog.'
'It will not hurt me,' she replied; 'but I feel rather anxious about
this little person,' and she laid her hand on Margaret's shoulder, for
just then Margaret coughed again.
'Oh,' I exclaimed, 'you don't think it will make her cough worse, do
you?' and I felt horribly frightened. 'We'll wrap her up much more, and
once we are clear of London, there won't be any fog. I daresay it's
quite light still, in the country. It can't be late. But hadn't we
better go at once? Will you be so very good as to lend us money to go
back to the Junction? I know mamma will send it you at once.'
All my fears seemed to awaken again as I hurried on, and the children's
faces grew grave and anxious.
Mrs. Wylie sat down quietly.
'My dear boy,' she said, 'there can be no question of any of you,
Margaret especially, going back to-night. The fog is very bad, and it is
very cold besides. My niece has told me the whole story, and----'
'I suppose you think we've all been dreadfully naughty,' I interrupted.
'I did not mean to be, and _they_ didn't,' glancing at the others. 'But
of course I'm older, only----'
Mrs. Wylie laid her hand on my arm.
'There will be a good deal to talk over,' she said, speaking still very
quietly, but rather gravely. 'And I feel that your dear mamma is the
right person to--to explain things--your mistakes, and all about it. I
believe certainly you did not _mean_ to do wrong.'
Her mention of mamma startled me into remembering at last how
frightened she and all of them would be at home.
'Oh!' I exclaimed, 'if we stay away all night, what _will_ mamma do?'
'I was just going to tell you what we have done,' said Mrs. Wylie. 'That
was what kept us--Beryl and me. We have telegraphed to your mamma. She
will not be frightened now. Indeed, I hope she may have got the telegram
in time to prevent her beginning to be anxious. And we also--' but here
she stopped, for a glance at Margaret, as she told me afterwards,
reminded her of Margaret's fears lest she should be sent back to Rock
Terrace and Miss Bogle. And what she had been on the point of saying
was, that they had also telegraphed to 'the witch.'
'It was awfully good of you,' I said, feeling more and more ashamed of
the trouble we were causing.
I would have given anything to go home that night, even if it had been
to find papa and mamma more displeased with me than they had ever been
in their life, and, as I was beginning to see, as they had a right to
be. But in the face of all Mrs. Wylie and Beryl were doing, I could not
possibly have gone against what they thought best.
'I shall also write to your mamma to-night,' Mrs. Wylie went on. 'There
is plenty of time. It is not really as late as the fog makes it seem.
And the first thing we now have to do,' for just then Margaret had
another bad fit of coughing, 'is to put this child to bed. If you are
not better in the morning, or rather if you are any worse, we must send
for the doctor.'
'Oh, _please_ don't!' said Margaret, as soon as she could speak. 'It's
only the fog got into my throat. It doesn't hurt me at all, as it did
when I had that very bad cold at home. I don't like strange doctors,
_please_, Mrs. Wylie. And to-morrow nursey can send for our own doctor
at home at Hill Horton, if I'm not quite well. I may go home to my
nursey quite early, mayn't I? And you will tell their mamma not to be
vexed with them, won't you? They only wanted to help me.'
She looked such a shrimp of a creature, with her tiny face, so pale too,
that nobody could have found it in their heart to scold her. Mrs. Wylie
just patted her hand and said something about putting it all right, but
that she must go to bed now and have a good long sleep.
And just then Beryl, who had left us with Mrs. Wylie, came back to say
that everything was ready for Margaret upstairs, and then she walked
her and the red bundle off--to put her to bed.
I really think that by this time Margaret was so tired that she scarcely
knew where she was: she did not make the least objection, but was as
meek as a mouse. You would never have thought her the same child as the
determined little 'ordering-about' sort of child I knew she could be,
and I, rather suspected, generally _had_ been till she came under
stricter management.
When she was alone with us--with Peterkin and me--Mrs. Wylie spoke a
little more about the whole affair. But not very much. She had evidently
made up her mind to leave things in mamma's hands. And she did not at
all explain any of the sort of mystery there seemed about Margaret.
She rang the bell and told Browner to take us upstairs to the little
room that had been got ready for us, and where we were to sleep, saying,
that she herself was now going to write to mamma.
'_And_ to Miss Bogle,' she added, 'though I thought it better not to say
so to Margaret.'
She looked at us rather curiously as she spoke; I think she most likely
wanted to find out what we really believed about 'the witch.' Peterkin
started, and grew very red.
'You won't let her go back there?' he exclaimed. 'I'm sure she'll run
away again if you do.'
It sounded rather rude, but Mrs. Wylie knew that he did not mean it for
rudeness. She only looked at him gravely.
'I am very anxious to see how your little friend is to-morrow morning,'
she replied. 'I earnestly hope she has not caught any serious cold.'
The way she said it frightened me a little somehow, though we children
often caught cold and didn't think much about it. But then we were all
strong. None of us ever coughed the way Margaret used to about that
time, except when we had hooping-cough, and it wasn't that that she had
got, I knew.
'You don't think she is going to be badly ill?' I said, feeling as if it
would be all my fault if she was.
Mrs. Wylie only repeated that she hoped not.
We couldn't do much in the way of dressing or tidying ourselves up, as
we had nothing with us, not even a red bundle. We could only wash our
faces and hands, which were _black_ with the fog, so having them clean
was an improvement. And there was a very pretty brush and comb put out
for us--Beryl's own. I think it was awfully good of her to lend us her
nice things like that. I don't believe Blanchie would have done it,
though I daresay mamma would. So we made ourselves as decent-looking as
we could, and our collars didn't look as bad that evening as in the
daylight the next morning.
And then Beryl put her head in at the door and told us to come down to
the drawing-room, where her father was.
'He is not able to go up and down stairs just now,' she said. 'His
rheumatism is very bad. So he stays in the drawing-room, and we dine
earlier than usual for his sake--at seven.'
She went on talking, partly to make us more comfortable, for I knew we
were both looking very shy. And just outside the drawing-room door she
smiled and said, 'Don't be frightened of him, he is the kindest person
in the world.'
[Illustration: THE FRILLS HAD WORKED UP ALL ROUND HIS FACE.--p. 173.]
So he was, I am sure. He had white hair and a thin white face, and he
was sitting in a big arm-chair, and he shook hands kindly, and didn't
seem to mind our being there a bit. Of course, Beryl had explained it
all to him, and it was easy to see that he was most awfully fond of
her, and pleased with everything she did. All the same, I was very glad,
though it sounds horrid, that he couldn't come downstairs. It didn't
seem half so frightening with only Mrs. Wylie and Beryl.
Peterkin got very sleepy before dinner was really over. I think he
nodded once or twice at dessert, though he was very offended when I said
so afterwards. I began to feel jolly tired too, and we were both very
glad to go to bed. There was a fire in our room. 'Miss Wylie had ordered
it because of the fog,' the servant said. Wasn't it kind of her?
We couldn't help laughing at the things they had tried to find for us
instead of proper night things--jackety sort of affairs, with lots of
frills and fuss. I don't know if they belonged to mother Wylie or to
Beryl. But we were too sleepy to mind, though next morning Pete was
awfully offended when I said he looked like Red-Riding Hood's
grandmother, as the frills had worked up all round his face, and he
looked still queerer when he got out of bed, as his robe trailed on the
floor, with his being so short.
He did not wake as early as usual, but I did. And for a minute or two I
_couldn't_ think where I was. And I didn't feel very happy when I did
remember.
The fog had gone, but it still looked gloomy, compared with home. Still
I was glad it was clear, both because I wanted so to go home, and also
because of Margaret's cold. I think that was what I first thought of. If
only she didn't get ill, I thought I wouldn't mind how angry they were
with me. As to Peterkin, I would stand up for him, if he needed it,
though I didn't think he would. They'd be sure to remind me how much
older I was, and pleasant things like that. And yet when I went over and
over it in my own mind, I couldn't get it clear what else I could have
done. There _are_ puzzles like that sometimes, and anyway it was better
than if Margaret had run away alone, and perhaps got really lost.
And, after all, as you will hear, I hadn't much blame to bear. The name
of this chapter will show thanks to whom _that_ was.
When we were dressed--and oh, how we longed for clean collars!--we made
our way down to the dining-room. Beryl was there already, and I saw that
she looked even prettier by daylight, such as it was than the evening
before. She smiled kindly, and said she hoped we had managed to sleep
well.
'Oh yes, thank you,' we said, 'but--' and we both looked round the room.
'How is Margaret?'
'None the worse, I am glad to say,' Beryl answered, and then I thought
to myself I might have guessed it, by Beryl's bright face. 'I really
think it was only the fog that made her cough so last night. She looks a
very delicate little girl, however, and she speaks of having had a very
bad cold not long ago, which may have been something worse than a cold.
So I made her stay in bed for breakfast, till----'
At that moment the parlour-maid brought in a telegram. Beryl opened it,
and then handed it to me. It was from mamma.
'A thousand thanks for telegram and letter. Coming myself by earliest
train possible.'
'It's very good of mamma,' I said, and in my heart I was glad she was
coming before we--or I--saw papa. For though he is very kind too, he is
not quite so 'understanding,' and a good deal sharper, especially with
us boys. I suppose fathers need to be, and I suppose boys need it more
than girls.
'Yes,' said Beryl, and though she had been so awfully jolly about the
whole affair, I could tell by her tone that she was glad that some one
belonging to us was coming to look after us all. 'It is very
satisfactory. My aunt said she would come round early too. I think it
will be quite safe for Margaret to get up now, so I will go and tell her
she may. You will find some magazines and picture-papers in my little
sitting-room, behind this room, if you can amuse yourselves there till
auntie comes.'
I stopped her a moment as she was leaving the room, to ask what I knew
Peterkin was longing to hear.
'Mamma will take us home, of course,' I said, 'but what do you think
will be done about Margaret?'
'They--' whom he meant by 'they' I don't know, and I don't think he knew
himself--'they won't send her back to the witch, you don't think, do
you?' he burst out, growing very red.
Beryl hesitated. Then she said quietly--
'No, I _don't_ think so,' and Peterkin gave a great sigh of relief. If
she had answered that she _did_ think so, I believe he would have broken
into a howl. I really do.
It seemed rather a long time that we had to wait in Beryl's room before
anything else happened. Peterkin said it felt a good deal like waiting
at the dentist's, and I agreed with him. It was the looking at the
picture-papers that put it into his head, I think.
We heard the front-door bell ring several times, and once I was sure I
caught Beryl's voice calling, 'Auntie, is it you?' but it must have been
nearly twelve o'clock--breakfast had been a good deal later than at
home--before the door of the room where we were, opened, and some one
came in. I was standing staring out of the window, which looked into a
very small sort of fernery or conservatory, and wishing Beryl had told
me to water the plants, when I heard a voice behind me.
'Boys!' it said; 'Giles?' and turning round, I saw that it was mamma. I
forgot all about being found fault with and everything else, and just
flew to her, and so did poor old Pete, and then--I am almost ashamed to
tell it, though perhaps I should not be--I broke out crying!
Mamma put her arms round me. I don't know what she had been meaning to
say to us, or to me, perhaps, in the way of blame, but it ended in her
hugging me, and saying 'poor old Gilley.' She hugged Peterkin too,
though he wasn't crying, and had no intention of it, _unless_ his
beloved Margaret was to be sent back to Miss Bogle, and then, I have no
doubt, he would have howled loudly enough. His whole mind was fixed on
this point, and he had hardly patience even to be hugged, before he
burst out with it.
'Mummy, mummy,' he said,'they're not going to send her back to the
witch, are they?'
Mamma understood. She knew Peterkin's little ways so well,--how he got
his head full of a thing, and could take in nothing else,--and she saw
that it was best to satisfy him at once if we were to have any peace.
'No,' she said. 'The little girl is not to go back to Miss Bogle.'
Peterkin gave a great sigh of comfort. After all, he _had_ rescued his
princess, I suppose he said to himself. _I_ thought it very
extraordinary that mamma should be able to speak so decidedly about it,
and I daresay she saw this, for she went on almost at once--
'I have a good deal to explain. Some unexpected things happened
yesterday and this morning. But for this, I should have come by an
earlier train.'
Here, I think, before I go on to say what these unexpected things were,
is a good place for telling what mamma said to me afterwards, when we
were by ourselves, about the whole affair, and my part in it. She quite
allowed that I had not meant to do wrong or to be deceitful, or anything
like that, and that I had been rather in a hole. But she made me see
that, to start with, I should not have promised Margaret to keep it a
secret, and she said she was sure that Margaret would have given in to
our telling _her_--mamma, I mean--of her troubles, if I had spoken to
her sensibly and seriously about it. And now that I know Margaret so
well, I think so too. For she is particularly sensible for her age,
especially since she has got her head clearer of fairy-tales and witches
and enchantments and ogres and all the rest of it; and even then, there
was a good deal of sense and reasonableness below her self-will and
impatience.
Now, I can go on with what mamma told us. The first she heard of it all
was the telegram from Mrs. Wylie, for she had been out till rather late
and found it lying on the hall-table when she came in, before she had
even heard that Pete and I had not turned up at the nursery tea. That
was what Beryl had hoped--that the news of our being all right would
come before mamma had had a chance of being anxious. At first she was
completely puzzled, but James, who was faithful to his promise, though
rather stupid, helped to throw a little light on it by giving her my
message.
And then, as she was still standing in the hall, talking to him and
trying to think what in the world had made us dream of going to London
to Mrs. Wylie's, all by ourselves, there came a great ring at the bell,
and when James opened, a startled-looking maid-servant's voice was heard
asking for Mrs. Lesley.
'I am Mrs. Wylie's parlour-maid,' she said, 'and I offered to run round,
for the old lady next door to us, Miss Bogle, to ask if Mrs. Lesley
would have the charity--I was to say--to come to see her. The little
young lady, Miss Fothergill, who lives with her, has been missing all
the afternoon. Miss Bogle did not know it till an hour or two ago, as
she always rests in her own room till four o'clock. But I was to say she
would explain it all to Mrs. Lesley, if she could possibly come to see
Miss Bogle at once.'
Mamma had gone forward and heard this all herself, though the maid had
begun by giving the message to James. And she said immediately that she
would come. She still had her going-out things on, you see, so no time
was lost.