Peterkin Part 22

I had sat there some time, a quarter-of-an-hour or so, I daresay, when I heard the front-door bell ring. Then I heard James opening and the door shutting, and, a moment after, the door of the room where I was opened, and some one came in, and banged something down on to the table. By that I knew who it was. It was Clement, with his school-books.

It was nearly dark by this time, and the room was not lighted up at all.

So he did not see me at first, till I moved a little, which made him start.

'Good gracious!' he exclaimed, 'is that you, Gilley? What are you doing all alone in the dark? James told me you had all come--the kid from Rock Terrace too. By jove--' and he began to laugh a little to himself.

It seemed a sort of last straw. I was tired and ashamed, and all wrong somehow. I did not speak till I was at the door, for I got up to leave the room at once. Then I said--

'You needn't go at me like that. You might let me sit here if I want to.

You don't suppose I've been enjoying myself these two days, do you?'

He seemed to understand all about it at once. He caught hold of my arm and pulled me back again.

'Poor old Gilley!' he said.

Then he took up the poker and gave a good banging to the coals. There was plenty on the fire, but it had got black for want of stirring up. In a moment or two there was a cheery blaze. Clement pushed me into a seat and sat down near me on the table, his legs dangling.

I have not said very much about Clem in this story--if it's worth calling a story--except just at the beginning, for it has really been meant to be about Peterkin and his princess. But I can't finish it without a little more about him--Clem, I mean. Some day, possibly, I may write about him especially, about our real school-life and all he has been to me, and how tremendously lucky I always think it has been for me to have such a brother. He is just as good as gold, without any pretence about it, and jolly too. And I can never forget how kind he was that afternoon.

'Poor old Gilley!' he repeated. 'It must have been rather horrid for you--much worse than for those two young imps. Mamma told me all about it, as soon as she got the letter--she told me a good deal last night about what Miss Bogie, or whatever the old thing's name is, had told her.'

I looked up at this.

'Yes?' I said. 'I don't understand it at all, yet. But, Clem, what shall I do about school to-morrow? I've no lessons ready or anything.'

'Is it that that you are worrying about?' he said.

'Partly, and----'

'Well, you can put _that_ out of your head. It's all right. Mamma told me what to say--that there'd been a mistake about the trains, and you'd had to stay the night in London. It wasn't necessary to say more, and you'll find it all right, I promise you.'

I was very glad of this, and I said so, and thanked Clem.

He sat still for a minute or two as if he was expecting me to speak.

'Well?' he said at last.

'Mamma's been very good, _very_ good about it altogether,' I said at last, 'and so has papa, by what she says. But still--' and then I hesitated.

'Well?' said Clement again. 'What? I don't see that there's much to be down in the mouth about.'

'It's just that--I feel rather a fool,' I said. 'Anybody would laugh so at the whole affair if they heard it. I daresay Blanche will think I've no more sense than Pete. She has a horrid superior way sometimes, you know.'

'You needn't bother about that, either,' said he. 'She and Elf have got their heads perfectly full of Margaret. I don't suppose Blanche will ever speak of your part of it, or think of it even. As long as papa and mamma are all right--and I'm sure they are--you may count it a case of all's well that ends well.'

I did begin to feel rather cheered up.

'You're sure I'm not going to get a talking to, after all?' I said, still doubtfully. 'I saw mamma looking at me rather funnily in the train.'

'Did you, my boy?' said another voice, and glancing round, I saw mamma, who had come into the room so quietly that neither of us had heard her.

She sat down beside us. And then it was that she explained to me what I had done wrong, and been foolish about. I have already told what she said, and I felt that it was all true and sensible. And she was so kind--not laughing at me a bit, even for having a little believed about the witch and all that--that I lost the horrid, mortified, ashamed feelings I had been having.

Just then the nursery tea-bell rang. I got up--slowly--I still felt a little funny and uncomfortable about Blanche, and even nurse. You see nurse made such a pet of Peterkin that she never scarcely could see that he should be found fault with, and of course he was a very good little chap, though not exactly an angel without wings--and certainly rather a queer child, with all his fairy-tale fancies.

But mamma put her hand on my arm.

'No,' she said. 'Clem and you are going to have tea in the drawing-room with me. The nursery party will be better left to itself to-day, and little Margaret is not accustomed to so many.'

'I don't believe anything would make her feel shy, though,' I said. 'She is just as funny in her way as Peterkin in his. And, mamma, there are some things I don't understand still. Is there any sort of mystery? Why did Mrs. Wylie leave off talking about Margaret, and you too, I think, all of a sudden? I'm sure it was Mrs. Wylie's way of pinching up her lips about her, that made Pete surer than ever about the enchantment and the parrot and the witch and everything.'

Mamma smiled.

'No,' she said, 'there is no mystery at all. I will explain about it while we are having tea. It must be ready for us.'

And she went into the drawing-room, Clement and I following her. It looked so nice and comfortable--I was jolly glad, I know, to be at home again!

Then mamma told us--or me; I think Clem had heard it already--about Margaret.

Her father and mother were in India, as I have said, have I not? And her grandfather was taking care of her. He was not a very old man, though he was a General. He had vineyards or something--yes, I am sure it was vineyards, in the south of France, and he had had to go, suddenly, to look after some business to do with them. And just when he was starting, Margaret got ill. It was the illness she had spoken of several times, which she called a very bad cold. But it was much worse than that, though she didn't know.

Her grandfather put off going till she was getting better, and the doctors said she must have change of air. He couldn't take her with him, and he had to go, so the only thing he could think of was to ask old Miss Bogle, who had been Margaret's father's governess once--or General Fothergill's own governess when he was a little boy; I am not sure which--to take charge of her. He had forgotten how old, Miss Bogle was, and I think she must have forgotten it herself! She wasn't fit to look after a child, especially as Margaret's nurse had to leave just then.

So you can pretty well understand how dull and lonely Margaret was. And General Fothergill was in such a fuss about her, and so terrified of her getting any other illness, that he forbade her making friends with any one out of Miss Bogle's house, unless he was asked about it, and wrote to give leave.

And when Mrs. Wylie found out about her, she--or Miss Bogle--_did_ write to ask leave for her to know _us_, explaining how good and sensible mamma was about children every way. But till the leave came Mrs. Wylie and mamma settled that it was better to say nothing about it to us. And in this, _I_ think, they made a mistake.

That was all. The leave _did_ come, while Margaret was with us. Of course, all that had happened was written to her grandfather, but she wasn't a bit scolded!

Neither was her 'Perkins'; the big people only said that they must not be given so many fairy-stories to read.

_I_ wasn't scolded either, though, so I should not complain. And several nice things came of it: the knowing Beryl Wylie, and the going to stay at General Fothergill's country house, and the having Margaret with us sometimes.

I don't know what the parrot thought of it all. I believe he is still there, as clever and 'uncanny' as ever; at least so Mrs. Wylie said, the last time she came to see us.

THE END