VISITORS
PEGGY had other visitors besides Captain D'Arcy. Mrs. Dale, and Lucy,
and Mrs. Creak all came. Nesbitt said 'horsepitals give her the
shivers, and she'd never been inside one since her mother had died
there,' but Peggy was quite content with a message from her. Lucy was
the one she liked best, and Lucy was full of news.
"Yes, we're back in the house again, and 'tis only the library be quite
destroyed. I says that the water have done more damage than the fire.
You should just see the hall and staircase! The gilt pictures and
the carpets be properly ruined! Of course they put the fire out, so
we mustn't grumble, but 'twill cost a pretty penny to redecorate the
ceilings and walls. I'm a-goin' to be left to take care of the house,
for Mrs. Dale be going abroad very soon now, and Nesbitt, she goes with
her."
"And where shall I go when I come out?" asked Peggy, with a long face.
"Back to your own ladies, won't you? But you'll be with us before Mrs.
Dale goes, I expect, won't you?"
Peggy looked doubtful.
"'Tis my skin, Lucy. It seems to be so long in comin'. And 'tis awful
painful on my legs. I feel as if I shan't never be able to bend of 'em!"
"Mr. Bennett, he have gone off with the captain, and he thinks you an
awful plucky girl, Peggy. What did you do it for? A lot of old papers
be not worth burnin' yourself to death for!"
"I had to do it," said Peggy earnestly. "I b'lieve I'd do it to-mower,
Lucy, if it all happened over agen. I had to do somethin' for that
there capting, and he wanted 'em ever so bad!"
"You be a queer little creature! Mr. Bennett, he says, 'Of course I'd
a-gone and got a baby out,' he says, 'for a man feels that be worth
it,' he says, 'but not the captain's papers, for they be only ink and
paper, and not worth riskin' flesh and blood for. People,' he says,
'only laughs at you for doin' foolhardy things like that,' he says."
"I don't think much of Mr. Bennett," said Peggy, tilting up her chin
in her old fashion; "he speaks so shockin' of the missionaries and
heathen. I s'pose 'twere the way he was brought up, but 'tis awful to
hear him. He says he'd have gone into the fire to save a baby, but I
knows he wouldn't if it had been a heathen. And a heathen is just as
good as a baby, Lucy, every bit!"
"I don't know much about 'em," confessed Lucy, "but me and Nesbitt do
miss Mr. Bennett. He were such a cheerful young man!"
Mrs. Creak came and wept over Peggy.
"I feel as if you belongs to me, dearie, I do indeed; and I was that
proud of your gettin' into good service. And now you be all thrown
back, and I've worritted and worritted until it come to me what a
wicked old woman I was, for the Almighty cares for His own, and He were
not likely to forget you."
"Should think not," said Peggy, with shining eyes; "why, I arsks Him
about thousands of things, now I'm all day in bed. I'm afraid I bothers
Him awful, but I arsks Him to take no notice of the things He don't
approve of, and I tries and not arsks Him the same question twice over."
As Peggy got better, she began to take a lively interest in her
fellow-sufferers.
A young woman in the next bed to her had been brought in with a broken
leg. When she began to get better, she was very troubled about her home
and little ones; an older woman on the other side of Peggy carried on a
long conversation with her one afternoon, in which Peggy joined.
"Take the rest while you can get it, my girl, and be thankful for it.
Who's lookin' after the children?"
"My husban's sister. She come up from Kent, and she's a clean, decent
body, but I'm pinin' to ketch a sight o' my baby. He be only ten months
old."
"Then you've nought to worry over. Look at me. I'm thankin' my luck
ev'ry day for my tumble downstairs and my shoulder bein' put out! Why,
I'm close on forty, and I've reared and brought up fourteen children,
and worked hard at washin' for other folks, and never all those years
have I lain abed, and been waited on like this here! I'm a-enjoyin' the
rest of it wonderful.
"I've been to Margit on Bank 'Olidays, and to 'Ampstead 'Eath, but
you're on the go all day with children a-tuggin' at yer, and havin' to
watch yer man lest he got too fond o' his glasses. I never, all the
twenty years o' my married life, have laid still and done nothin'. Why,
'tis like a little bit of 'eaven!"
The speaker rested her head back on her pillow with a satisfied sigh.
Peggy looked at her and smiled.
"I s'pose God knewed you wanted a bit o' time to rest yerself, that's
why you be here!"
"I don't want no rest," moaned the young wife; "I wants my Jack and my
little 'uns! There be Martha a-rummagin' in my boxes and drawers, and
puttin' things tidy, as she calls it, and I shan't know a corner when I
goes back."
"Don't you fret," said Peggy, with an encouraging nod at her. "'Tis
better to tidy a place than to untidy it, and maybe she'll have the
place dressed up fine to welcome yer. Don't you go for to make the
worst o' things. You jest think o' the nice bits, and leave the nasty
ones alone. I means to set my mind to think the very best always. And
it do come true.
"I used to dream when I was a girl, afore I ever went to service, or
wored caps, that I'd be a servant to real ladies one day, and live in
a house with picturs and carpets, and have as much coal on the fire
as ever I wanted, and it all comed to pass. And if you makes up to
yourself about the day you goes home, it'll cheer you wonderful. May I
make it up?"
Without waiting for assent, Peggy went on eagerly, "'Twill be like
this. You'll go home in a cab, a-ridin' through the streets like a
dook, and your street neighbours will put their heads out o' window to
see who it is ridin' up so fine, and then your husban' will lift you
out ever so tender, and carry you in, and there 'll be all yer little
'uns with clean faces and shiny hair and best frocks, and Martha will
be smilin' too, and the room will be as clean as on a Sunday, and there
'll be a grand tea, watercreases and s'rimps, and maybe a currant cake,
and you'll be sat in an easy-chair, and they'll all be waitin' on yer,
and yer husband 'll say, 'My girl, we're awful glad to get you back!'
He 'll say, 'We never knowed your vally till you were away from us!'"
The poor young woman began to sob, but she was comforted.
"You do put things egsackly as they be!" she said admiringly, drying
her tears. "Yes, it will be beautiful to be 'ome agen! I'll try and
think of it."
Peggy had also a word for the doctors.
One of them stood over her one morning, and complimented her on her
recovery.
"You have a splendid constitution," he said. "I've known some less
badly burnt than you succumb to the shock."
"Please, sir, does that mean die? I never should a thought o' doin'
that, for I means to be a missionary when I grows up, and I knows that
God likes me to be it, so He'll take care on me, and not let me die
till I've been and done it."
The doctor looked at her with an amused smile.
Peggy continued, looking at him earnestly—"I s'pose you are very
disappointed, sir, ain't you, when you can't make people well?"
"Well, yes, I think we are."
"It must be tryin' to you," said Peggy; "I does feel for you gentlemen,
when you come round in the mornin's and finds your physic ain't doin'
no good. There ain't a doctor in London, sir, is there, that be quite
certain of curin' folks?"
"Not if the disease is too far gone," said the doctor, "or is
incurable."
"Yes," said Peggy, the dreamy look taking possession of her blue eyes;
"and I s'pose some leaves their souls till they be too far gone; that
be why I does want to hurry off to the heathen."
"And what are you going to do to them?"
"Only tell 'em who can cure their souls, sir. It do seem so dreadful
for some on 'em to have to wait till I gets out at 'em."
"So you mean to be a preacher? Are you a Salvation lass?"
"Please, sir, I'm a servant-maid."
Up went Peggy's chin at once. If she had been a duchess, she could not
have owned it with greater pride.
"And I'm in a real good place," she went on, with a little nod at him,
"and I'm partickly anxious to get back as quick as ever as I can."
"Well, we'll make a good job of you," said the doctor, "but I think if
I were you, I'd stick to your place and leave the heathen alone."
"'Tis what I looks forward to—the heathen," said Peggy; then she
rapidly changed the subject.
"I s'pose, sir, none of you gentlemen doctors is ever sick yourselves?"
"Sometimes we are," said the doctor, laughing.
"I never heerd tell of a sick doctor in the Bible," pursued Peggy
meditatively; "sick captings, and kings, and women, and lots o' common
folk, but no doctors that I remembers, but I daresay, sir, your souls
is like other folk. And you can't doctor 'em yourselves, can you, sir?"
"We think we can," the doctor said, with a laugh.
"Ah," said Peggy, shaking her head; "but you can't, sir. 'Tisn't to be
done by no one but Jesus Christ; the Bible says so. He be lookin' after
souls, ain't He? And He don't want no one else to meddle with His work.
I thinks sometimes that it be very gran' to be a doctor, for you and
the Lord gets curin' together, and He gives you the bodies to see what
you can do with 'em, and He takes the souls. But, please sir, I really
thinks you're mistook to think you can cure your own soul."
"Ah, well," said the doctor, moving off, "perhaps I am mistaken. I must
think about it."
It was a happy day to Peggy when her right hand and arm was free of its
bandages. She straightway implored her nurse for ink and paper.
"I have so many friends, Nurse, that I must let 'em know about me. And
them in the country looks for letters, I can tell you. Why, when I
first went away from London, I arsked the postman every time I see'd
him if he'd got a letter for me, and I went on arskin' him till I got
it, and then, oh my! Wasn't I proud and pleased!"
Her first letter was to Ellen, and ran as follows:—
"MY DEAR FRIEND ELLEN,—I do hope you are quite well, for I can't say
I'm quite yet. I dessay you may have heerd tell of me. I had a accident
which was a running in of a burning room to get a box of papers, which
so caught me on fire, that I fell on the floor, and had to be carried
to hosspital. Fire is a crool thing to hurt, Ellen, and if it hadn't
been for the heathen I means to go to, I thinks I should have died
right off where I drops. But I'm getting on remarkable, and likes my
bed, and the doctors and nusses is nice, but my hare is cut off, which
makes me feel bad becorse of my caps, I thinks and thinks, Ellen how
I shall do, and I means to stick them on with gum in the bottles they
sells. And now Ellen I arsks you to rite to me quick, for I wants
to know how Mister Job is, and give him my love, and do you love me
faithful like a friend Ellen, and I never will have a friend but you.
"Mrs. Banner in next bed to me is going home to-morrer, and I hopes
for next week. I hopes to come back with my ladies soon. Has you been in
a hosspital, Ellen? It is a big white room with beds and nusses, and you
has cards above your bed a-tellin' everybody how ill you is, and a map
of your temper, which seems to go up and down they says, for they does
it with pencil, but I don't feel in a temper—nothing different to what
I always did. And the doctors walks in every day, and there is hunderds
of them. In London you has crowds of doctors if you're ill, and they
all tries to see you at once, but I likes them and I smiles and I
says nothing. Now I must say goodbye Ellen, I am your loving faithful
beloved friend—
"PEGGY.
"PS.—I hopes you has not forgotten the heathen."
The last visitor that Peggy saw before she came out of hospital was
Joyce.
It was a great surprise to her, and Joyce, looking down upon her thin
little face, which seemed to have got so white and transparent, felt
distinctly shocked at her appearance.
"Why there's nothing of you left, Peggy! I heard you were quite
convalescent. You are not fit for work yet."
"Please 'm, my last missus has gone abroad, and she said I might help
Lucy to take care of the house till you wanted me agen, and, please 'm,
will you be goin' back to the country soon?"
"Not just yet. Miss Helen is paying other visits, and I have been doing
the same. We did not hurry to go back, and it is just as well. We were
so sorry to hear about you Peggy, and yet we felt quite proud of you. I
have been staying in the same house as Captain D'Arcy, and he told us
all about it!"
"Do you know my capting?" asked Peggy breathlessly. "He come to see
me here one day. He's a nice gent, he is—much nicer than his man, Mr.
Bennett."
"How do you expect to work, you poor little creature?" said Joyce,
looking at her with pity. "Why, I am sure you have grown much smaller;
you look fit for nothing at all."
"Please 'm, 'tis my hair," Peggy explained anxiously. "And, please 'm,
my caps will make me look big agen. I'm a-longin to get 'em on my 'ead.
I do feel so undressed, please 'm, without 'em!"
Joyce laughed. "I think you ought to go to a convalescent home first,
before you think of wearing caps again. I shall talk to my sister about
it."
Peggy did not look overjoyed at such a prospect. "Please 'm, I ain't
got no likin' for 'omes and such-like. They has so many rules I've
heerd tell, and I can't abear rules, leastways not when they be printed
up in big letters. I shall be first-rate to work 'm when I gets out of
this. I likes it very fair 'm, but the vittles be very sloppy, 'tis
mostly in basins and cups. And I sometimes think a sausage or bit o'
tripe would fill me out wonderful!"
Then she began to ask about Helen.
"She be reely quite well agen 'm? I be very glad, for 'twas the
awfullest thing I ever see'd, her lyin on her 'ead! I shan't never
forget it. And I shall be very glad to get back to my country home 'm;
I'm quite one with Mrs. Creak, that it do beat London holler!"
"I'm glad you think so. And now I must go. We will write to you, Peggy,
when we want you to come back to us. We have settled with Mrs. Dale to
do that. Goodbye."
Joyce held out her hand, and Peggy took it with awe.
"I feels like a lady born when my missuses shake hands with me," she
assured the nurse afterwards.