CHAPTER II

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WILLY could speak and think of nothing but Pea Blossom. He was always drawing pictures of little fairy Pea Blossom dancing on tip-toe; Pea Blossom fanning Titania, flying about in the moonlight; Pea Blossom at home, in a palace of jewels; Pea Blossom! Pea Blossom! always Pea Blossom!

"Willy is quite unsettled since he went to the theatre," said his teacher. "He does not care for his lessons any more."

"Now, my boy," said his father one morning at breakfast, as Willy showed him a picture of Pea Blossom in her palace, "Suppose you were to draw her as a little hard-working girl, living in a shabby home in London?"

"I could not. It would not be true," said Willy.

"It is exactly what it would be. That is what the Pea Blossom you saw is—a poor, plucky little girl. Would you like to see her close and speak to her?"

"Oh, no! she is too beautiful," said Willy, terrified at the idea. He thought of her golden hair, of her blue and silver dress, of her bright eyes. He remembered how she had looked up once, and he had felt foolish.

"Ah well, if you're afraid of a little girl," said his father, shrugging his shoulders. As Willy did not answer, he continued: "I know the manager of that theatre. Ha! ha! he is a most important personage. At a nod of his head all those little fairies begin to tremble, at a frown they cower before him. I will ask him to admit you into Pea Blossom's presence. I want you to talk to her and see her as she is, then perhaps you will be cured, and once more attend to your lessons."

Willy's mind did not dwell upon the effect on his lessons of an interview with Pea Blossom. That he was going to see her and speak with her filled him with dread and expectation. He was inclined to be a dandy, and he consulted his cousins as to what he should wear and what he should do to make himself more attractive on this occasion.

Mabel advised him to put pomatum on his hair; George thought a red tie would be effective.

He determined to sprinkle lavender water on his handkerchief. He also thought over what he would say. He would ask if Bully Bottom was a real ass; where that wonderful flower was from which they all came out.

On the evening that he was to go to the theatre he was in such a hurry to get ready that he could scarcely get along.

"More haste, worse speed!" said his old nurse, shaking her head, as he first dropped the comb and brush, tore a button from his glove, and broke his shoe-lace.

When he was sitting in his place in the theatre, the dream—that was the beautiful play, with Pea Blossom as the central figure—soon laid its enchantment upon him.

The third act was over, but the play was not finished, when his father got up, and taking him by the hand, said, "Now for Pea Blossom."

As Willy went down some stairs his heart beat fast. Where was he going? Into what world of light was he about to enter?

Before he knew where he was, he was in the midst of a whirl. There was shuffling of feet and people coming and going about him. His father shook hands with a tall gentleman; they both laughed, as the stranger looked at him pleasantly.

At a little distance the fairies in their sparkling dresses clustered together. Their bright, wild eyes were like those of a covey of birds looking at him. He recognized Pea Blossom at a glance.

Before he knew anything more, the stranger to whom his father was talking beckoned to her and she came running up, and no one was near them.

Willy was overcome with shyness, but Pea Blossom was quite at her ease.

"You like my dancing?" she said, with a little nod.

"Yes," said Willy, hanging his head.

He was disappointed with her dress now that he saw it close. The glitter of moonlight was spangles, that looked like the silver paper on crackers.

"Would you like to dance like me?" she asked.

"I never could," he answered.

"You could if you practised," she said cheeringly. "You don't know how I practise. I make a chalk mark on the wall, ever so high—higher than your head—and I don't stop till I hit it with my toe, while I spin on with the other—that's what I do."

Pea Blossom's voice was pleasant, but there was something in its accent that jarred upon Willy. It was not delicate, as the voice of a creature so fair and lovely should be. She had also an inclination to drop her "h's."

"What pretty hair you have," he said, to change the subject of conversation.

"This! You mean my wig," answered Pea Blossom, whisking it off and revealing a cropped head.

"Oh!" said Willy, greatly shocked.

"Why, of course," cried Pea Blossom, bursting into a loud laugh. "Do you mean you thought it was my real hair? You must be a silly."

Willy remained too dumbfounded to reply.

"Everything is false about my face," continued Pea Blossom unconcernedly; "my complexion is not real; not a bit of it—it's paint and powder. When that's washed off I'm just like you, as sallow as sallow!"

"Oh!" replied Willy again. "But your eyes?" he added hesitatingly.

Pea Blossom's eyes closed up with laughter, and brimmed over with merry light.

"Why, of course my eyes are my own; but there's nothing real except my eyes and my nose, that is real, too."

"Where is your home?" asked Willy timidly.

"I live close by, at the top of a house—ever such a high house—in Thistle Street, No. 14, that's my home. We've got two rooms. Uncle Sam sleeps in one room—I call him Uncle Sam, but he's not my uncle; he's a fiddler; he fiddles here. He took baby and me when mother died. Have you got a mother?"

"No," answered Willy, "she is dead."

"Who's that?" asked Pea Blossom, too curious to pause to show sympathy, nodding in the direction of Willy's father.

"My father!" said Willy.

Pea Blossom resumed her cross-questioning.

"What does he do?"

"He is a doctor."

"Where do you live?"

Willy gave his address somewhat stiffly.

Pea Blossom nodded again. "Big houses round a square. I know the sweep who cleans the chimneys there."

"Oh!" gasped Willy.

Pea Blossom's curiosity being apparently satisfied, she took Willy's hand. Her hand was no fairy's hand; it had a horny palm, and fingers that carried the marks of work.

"I like you. If you come to see me I'll show you baby. She's my little sister. She's a beauty! She has such round eyes, and two little curls on her forehead. I never let anyone feed her but myself. When I'm at the theatre I let Fatty—that's our landlady—mind her a bit. I put away a shilling every week for Fatty, for everything must be paid for. I never let Uncle Sam touch her—" Pea Blossom went on, breathlessly confidential, taking no heed of Willy's uninterested expression—"never! He don't understand babies. He'd take her up by the leg, as if she were a fiddle, and she would scream. She sometimes takes a fit of passion, and beats me with her little fat hands. Oh, she can scream! bless her little heart."

"I hate babies!" said Willy.

"You would love her!" answered Pea Blossom, with unabashed confidence. "I have put theatre spangles on her dress. Oh! I should like to show her on the stage; all the audience would fall in love with her. You come and see her. Don't forget, No. 14—that's my house. You ask for Janie Sprig."

"Janie Sprig! Who's that?" asked Willy.

"Who? Why that's me!"

"You! I thought you were Pea Blossom!"

Jane Sprig threw her head back and laughed out loud.

"Pea Blossom!" she repeated. "Pea—ea—Blos—som! That's what I play; that's not me. Pea—Blos—som!" she repeated, going off into another peal of laughter. "Well, you 'are' a silly."

Willy felt utterly extinguished.

"Because I'm Pea Blossom I earn money," resumed Janie, in a business-like tone. "Nine shillings a week! Some earn more, ever so much more, and some earn only six shillings."

Willy nodded his head. "At what time do you go to bed?"

"You're tucked up in bed at eight o'clock, I suppose? I go to bed at midnight!" she answered, in a tone of immense superiority.

After an effective pause, she resumed: "Did you ever have ten sovereigns in gold?"

"No," replied Willy.

"I had once, nearly—not quite, you know, but nearly."

"What do you mean?" asked Willy, curtly.

"I found a purse," said Jane in a whisper, drawing nearer. "I found it in the theatre; I hid it; I never told; Uncle Sam is so awful honest; I knew he'd make me give it up; I wanted the money for baby. I hid it, and when no one was by I used to take it out and show the gold to baby, and put the money in her little fat hands and tell her it was for her. And one day Uncle Sam comes in, and he gets angry, and he asks how I got the money, and says I must give it up, a'l of it."

"He was right. You ought to give it up," cried Willy.

"I found it. It was my luck," replied Janie, with a dramatic gesture of her little hand.

"Luck is nothing!" said Willy.

"Luck is everything!" cried Janie. "But Uncle Sam takes me to the theatre—there is a lost property office—and he makes me give it up there; and tell the day I found it, and all; and every day I go and see if some one has asked for it, for if a year goes and it's not claimed it would belong to the one who found it. And a month goes, and six weeks, and I begin to think nobody will come for it. One day they call me, and there's a dreadful old woman like a parrot, with a bonnet on, and she says the purse is hers, and describes everything that's in it—even a little bit of snuffy paper with a bill on it for tea and whiskey; and then, my dear," Janie went on, in the excitement of the story forgetting to whom she was speaking, "when the purse is given to her she begins to handle the money; and she slowly takes out one of the gold pieces, and I think she is going to give it to me, but she puts it back slowly again, and tells me what a good little girl I am; she gives me sixpence. I had a mind to throw the money at her—the old cat! Then I thought I had better keep it and buy whelks for supper. That's what I loves, whelks for supper! don't you?"

"I don't know what they are, but I'm sure they are horrid."

"They're better than cockles, any day. I pick them out with a pin."

"Oh!" cried Willy, greatly disgusted.

"Good-bye," said Janie, nodding, "There's the prompter's boy calling, and I won't see you after, when the play's over. Fatty is coming to fetch me, for Uncle Sam is ill and can't come to-day. I call her Fatty because she's so plump. Her husband is fat also. He says, when we go off together, it's like a Cochin China hen with a little duck."

"I don't want to see the end of the play," said Willy.

"Why?" asked his father. "Don't you care for Pea Blossom any more?"

"She's horrid!" said Willy. "She eats whelks, picking them out with a pin."

"She is a good, plucky little girl, but she is not a fairy! Don't think of her any more, but stick to your lessons," said his father.

[Illustration]

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