CHAPTER VII

A FELLOW-GIRL

MALLOW FARM was reached at length, and Peggy's delight was great when she found a gate that did not lead into the farmyard. The door was opened by a bright, rosy-cheeked girl about Peggy's age, who said that everybody had gone to market and she was alone in charge.

Peggy looked dismayed.

"Who are you?" she asked bluntly.

"I'm the servant."

"Reely? Well, I'd best leave the letter for your missus, and she'll send an answer. Is this your first place?"

"Yes. Be you in a place?"

"My place is with the Miss Churchhills. They lives at Ivy Cottage. Real ladies born they are. I comes from London."

"You don't say so!"

The girl stared at her as if she were some foreign product.

"Yes," Peggy went on, tilting her chin in the air, "I've seen a deal o' London, too much by a long way, so I set my mind to get a place in the country, and here I am. Don't you wear no caps?"

"No," said the girl, "us don't do with them in the farms. I've a sister in proper service, and she do."

"Ah, well," said Peggy grandly, "they take a lot o' care and keepin'. My name be Margaret Perkins. What be yours?"

"Ellen Tate. My home is in the village. I only come here four months gone."

"Don't you like it?"

"No, I wants to go to a town. Tell about London. There are miles o' shops, ain't there?"

"Miles and miles; but the country is a deal nicer."

"I'm sure it ain't."

"You has to pay for everything in London," Peggy said, slowly thinking it out, "and the country gives it to you free. I picks up sticks for the fires, and in London you'd pay a mint o' money for 'em. Look at my primroses! I didn't pay nothin' for 'em. In London they'd cost a shilling quite, and Miss Joyce brought some watercreases in the t'other day from the stream. She got 'em free. In London you pays."

"Yes," assented Ellen; "you wants money if you goes to Lunnon. I knows that."

"Have you got many friends?" demanded Peggy, looking at her with great interest.

"Why, I haven't one."

"Would you like me as a friend? I think I'd like you. You see we be both in service, and pretty near of an age. I'd like a friend in these parts, and I believe we'd get on fine."

Ellen looked delighted.

"I'd like you first-rate, 'cause you'd tell about Lunnon. But what day do you get out? I'd meet you on a Wednesday."

"Oh, I'll ask my missus, and let you know. I must be off now, for I have my tea a-comin' on."

Peggy returned home safely, and in very good spirits.

"Please 'm," she said to Helen, as soon as she could get a chance, "I've made two acquaintances this arternoon—an old man and a fellow-girl, who is a servant. And, please 'm, I should like to see 'em both agen, and my fellow-girl and myself intends to be friends. I h'aint got a friend here, for no one keeps servants in the village, 'cept the Rectory, and they do seem so grand up there. I hope you don't h'object and I thought I'd ask you if I could have Ellen to tea once in my kitching. I wouldn't ask you 'm to give her tea, but I'll manage and half mine with her. I'll eat extry at dinner to make up, and she won't take no notice if I don't seem to have the appetite for my food!"

Peggy paused for breath.

"I shall be glad for you to have a friend," Helen replied, "if she is a good, steady girl, but I should like to know about her first. She is Mrs. Webster's servant, I suppose?"

"Yes 'm. She seems a very nice girl 'm; o' course I dessay I could learn her a few things. She don't wear no caps, but then she ain't with real ladies. But if she ain't what I like 'm, when I gets to know her, I'll learn her to be different, and if she won't be, well, I'll give her up!"

Helen smiled, as she generally did when Peggy held forth.

But the friendship was formed, and Peggy and Ellen exchanged visits, and walked out occasionally together.

"I would give a good deal to hear their conversation," said Joyce one afternoon to her sister when Ellen had come to tea in the kitchen. "Peggy's tongue never ceases; what does she find to talk about?"

If she could have heard them, this was what Peggy was saying—

"So you see, Ellen, I made up my mind then and there when the gentleman spoke that I would be a missionary when I was growed-up."

"But," said Ellen, with round eyes, "you want to be eddicated, don't yer? And how are you to get over the seas? And what will yer do when yer gets there?"

"Oh, that 'll all come very easy," said Peggy loftily. "You has to make up yer mind that you is goin', first thing; same as I did about goin' into service. Then yer has to set to work to get yer clo's, same's I did too. But my Miss Helen told me, 'tis very hot where the heathen live, and they don't wear much clo's, not to speak of. So I dessay I shall do fine. P'raps three cotton dresses, and a hat would last quite a long time—and no jacket, you see—that 'ud save wonderful."

"But what would you do when you got there?" persisted Ellen.

"I'd have my Bible under my arm," said Peggy solemnly, "and I'd tell 'em all to come round me, very quiet like. I wouldn't have no pushin' or fightin'. And then I'd read 'em about Jesus."

"And nothin' else?"

"Well," said Peggy, considering, "I think I'd tell 'em very distinckly that Jesus died to let 'em go to heaven. I'd tell 'em He loved 'em, and they must be good, and He'd help 'em if they arsked Him, same as He does me."

"And then what?"

"Oh," said Peggy, still thoughtfully, "I s'pose they'd ask a few questions, and then p'raps we'd 'ave a hymn, same as the street preachers do in London, and then I'd have done till the next day. I don't expec' it would be very differcult, Ellen—not if you set yer mind to it."

"But I heard tell," said Ellen, "that people over the sea don't speak English like us do, and can't understand it. Like a Frenchman who came to our village inn once."

Peggy's face fell.

"I never heard that the heathen talked French. I hopes as how they don't. I don't think they could be clever enough, Ellen. They be poor ignorant critters, that be what they be, and wouldn't never have the sense to speak in foreign langwidges—it be only eddicated ladies and gents that do that."

With this reasoning she recovered her cheerfulness, until she remembered sundry beggars she had seen in London who were not at all educated, but talked in strange tongues.

"Anyhow," she said, after a pause, "if they does speak French, I'll have to learn to speak it too. 'Tis wonderful what you does when you grows up, Ellen. Most things come easy then. And I'll ask God to help me, like He mostly does."

Ellen shook her little rough head doubtfully. "It don't sound as if you'll do it, Peggy. It don't sound real. I h'ain't heard much of heathen, but they live with lions and tigers, don't they? And I have 'eard tell that they eat one another up alive."

"I h'ain't heard that," said Peggy firmly, refusing to be deterred from her purpose. "I believe that's a make-believe in story-books. The gentleman the other evening called 'em 'poor critters sitting in darkness, callin' out for light.' And he said we must take it to them."

"Then when you be growed-up, you won't be a servant any more?"

"I don't know quite, Ellen. You see, I ain't quite sure about missionaries. Some on 'em p'raps goes to the heathen for a bit, and then comes 'ome agen. And if my missuses ain't dead, I don't know as how ever I shall leave 'em. But it isn't till I be quite growed-up, you see, Ellen, and my missuses will be very old then—and p'raps they will die—though I don't like to think of it."

Ellen subsided.

"You be a wonderful girl," she said. "I never have see'd any 'un quite so queer as you be!"

One day Ellen was able to give Peggy a piece of news.

"My missus is goin' to have a lodger—a lady what's ill. She be comin' to live with us for a month, and I'll have to wait on her!"

"Oh," said Peggy, with a long-drawn breath. "What a pity 'tis she's not a sick capting!"

"Why?" asked Ellen.

"Is she comin' by herself? She ain't got no sick husban'?"

"No, that she ain't. I shouldn't like to wait on two sick folks—one be bad enough. And how I be goin' to get through my work is the wonder!"

"Oh, but," said Peggy reprovingly, "this sick lady is who you must do good to. Why, Ellen, 'tis splendid! You can be like the little Bible maid—she had to wait on a lady, and she got her master healed, and 'twas talked of everywhere. You can guess how much her was thought of to be put in the Bible! I wish I was you! Just for a bit, you know, to see what I could do."

"I never does understand what you be at!" said Ellen. "What can I do for a lady, 'cept to do what her wants?"

"You wait and see."

Peggy nodded her head mysteriously. She went on: "My Miss Helen told me, there was people with sick souls as well as sick bodies, and my teacher in London says to me just the same, only she was talkin' of hearts instead. But I believe it means all the same. And you see, Ellen, we've got to tell people who can cure 'em and then they goes. That's all the Bible maid did, and that's all we've got to do. You find out what your sick lady be like, and you tell me. I'll show you what ter say to 'er!"

Ellen shook her head.

"I shan't do nothin' but wait on her," she said stubbornly.

They did not meet again till a fortnight elapsed, then Ellen was full of information.

"She be a widder lady in black; and be very white in the face; and has the headache, and lies on the sofy. And she has a stern face, and don't smile much, but she talks to missus. She never says nothin' to me, and I don't say nothin' to her."

"That do seem a pity," said Peggy slowly. "Can't you ask 'er if you can't do nothink for her 'eadaches. Do ask her, Ellen!"

"She be a great reader," Ellen continued; "for she have books and books, so her knows much more 'n I do about 'eadaches and everythin'!"

"You jest arsk her," urged Peggy.

Ellen would not promise, but one afternoon Peggy was sent to the farm on an errand. And to her great delight she found the invalid lodger sitting out in the garden. She had to pass her on the way to the house, so Peggy at once seized her opportunity.

"Good arternoon 'm."

The lady glanced up. She had a book in her lap and another lay at her feet. She seemed tired and unhappy. She looked at Peggy without speaking, and, of course, Peggy hastened to introduce herself.

"If you please 'm, I'm Margaret Perkins—I'm Ellen's friend. P'raps you've heerd her remark on me. I lives with my missuses at Ivy Cottage. And, please 'm, have you the 'eadache to-day? And have you heard 'm that puttin' yer hankychief in boilin' hot water and soppin' yer 'ead with it is first-rate for the 'eadache? My aunt used for to do it, when her were took bad with them. It's a thing I ain't troubled with myself is the 'eadache, but 'tis very tryin' to bear' m, and I be mortal sorry for yer!"

It was impossible to be angry with Peggy, as she stood there wagging her head to and fro with great solemnity.

Mrs. Dale found herself smiling at the odd little figure before her, and wondering at her eager interest in her welfare.

"I did not know myself and my headaches were topics of conversation with any one," she said. "But I am much obliged to you for your recommendation. I have tried hot water in times past. I do not always suffer from headache. If that were all the matter with me I should be a happy woman."

She murmured these last few words, but Peggy's quick ears caught them.

"Please 'm, I'm sorry. I be very happy myself, and would do anythink I could for yer."

Again the lady looked at her with a sad smile.

"As you go through life, little girl, you will find there are many things worse than a headache. May you never have the heartache that often causes them."

She took up her book again, and there was something in her manner that even awed Peggy.

She walked on to the farm door and delivered her message to Ellen.

"And, Ellen," she said, in an excited whisper, "I've see'd 'er, and a-spoken to 'er, and 'tis what I thought. 'Tis a sick heart she has, and you and me will see she gets it cured whiles she's here."

There was no opportunity for more conversation, for Mrs. Webster appeared. She was a smiling, good-natured woman, and had a great liking for Peggy.

"Miss Churchhill do be a kind lady," she said. "She have sent me this recipe of her grandmother's for curin' spasms, which take me on and off. Will you please take her back my respec' and thanks for it. 'Tisn't every lady will give a thought to other folks' aches and pains and try to cure 'em!"

Peggy returned home full of thought. Later that day, just before her bedtime, when she had washed up all her dishes and tidied up the kitchen, Joyce came in and found her engrossed in a cookery-book; her pen and ink, a sheet of paper, and her Bible also lay before her.

"What are you doing, Peggy?"

Peggy looked up with her usual pleased smile. "Please 'm, I'm tryin' to write a recipe for the sick lady at Mallow Farm. I want to do it proper like. 'Twas missus a-sendin' Mrs. Webster a recipe made me think on it. Ellen seems as if she can't say nothin'! I do believe 'tis 'cause she never were born nor brought up in London!"

"And what is this wonderful recipe, Peggy? How did this lady come to ask you for one? Did you see her this afternoon?"

"Yes 'm. She were sittin' in the garding, and me and her had a few words of talk together. I thought 'twas the 'eadache was makin' her ill, but she told me 'twasn't, and when she told me, I was tooken aback like, and didn't think of the right words, and so 'm I be sendin it to her by Ellen."

"Sending her what?"

"The cure for a sick heart 'm. The cookery-book and the Bible is helpin' me to do it."

Joyce retreated.

"Helen," she said, coming into the little drawing room where her sister was seated working, "I think you had better look after Peggy. I don't pretend to understand her theology, but she is going to treat Mrs. Webster's lodger to some of it, and it is being done up in a very unorthodox way!"

Helen looked up.

"You are always laughing at my little Peggy, Joyce, but I tell you she sometimes shames me with her earnestness."

"Well, go and see what she's doing, for her originality may do mischief sometimes."

Helen went off to the kitchen. She came back some minutes after, with a crumpled piece of paper in her hand.

"I don't like to be always prying into her concerns," she said. "It is no business of ours, and really I don't think her purposes are ever harmful ones. So I did not ask her any questions, but she showed me this, and asked me if it was spelt right, and I told her it was very nice and came away. This is the rough copy."

Joyce bent over it and read—

"An excellent recipe for a sick heart to be made well.

"INGREDIENTS.

"You keeps quiet, and you puts your mind to it. First you kneels down and arsks Jesus Christ to cure it, and make it well. Then you gives it to Him to keep, for the Bible says, 'My Son give Me thine heart.' Then He washes it 'whiter than snow,' same as Psalm says, and then when He has cleaned it proper He comes and lives in it, same as He says, 'Behold I stand at the door and knock. If any man open unto Me, I will come in.' Then the sick heart begins to sing, because it's happy.

"This recipe has never been known to fail.

"Time in making: about half an hour."

Joyce looked at her sister, and Helen looked back at her in silence.

"I call it irreverent."

"She does not mean it to be so. She has been pondering every sentence. She asked me about the time with the greatest solemnity. I could not speak."

"It is almost clever," said Joyce. "What will she develop into, Helen?"

Helen shook her head.

"She is one of Christ's 'little ones,' Joyce—of that I am sure."

"If she sends it, make her strike out the time," said Joyce; "it seems almost blasphemous. I will tell her so myself."

She went into the kitchen. Peggy was just going to bed.

"Peggy, you mustn't play at such a solemn thing as a heart being changed by our Lord Himself."

Peggy's horror-stricken face was raised at once.

"Please 'm I never did!"

"But you've written that it can be done in half an hour. Do you know some people spend a lifetime in seeking peace for their souls. It is a tremendous transaction."

Peggy was silent for a minute; then tears began to gather slowly in her big blue eyes. "Please 'm I thought Jesus Christ was ready always. Teacher told me he wouldn't keep us waitin'. And, please 'm, I thought p'raps she might think she'd be too busy to see to it. I didn't go for to mean to play at it, please 'm, I really didn't!"

"You can't tie those kind of things down to time. It is irreverent," persisted Joyce, ignoring the tears.

"I warn't more nor harf an hour with teacher," sobbed Peggy. "She kep' me back one Sunday 'cause I spoke to her. But I won't say nothin' about time, please 'm. Only mayn't I put 'It won't take long if you put your mind to it?'"

"You're a very little girl to be sending these messages to grown-up people," said Joyce, eyeing her gravely.

But Peggy in an instant smiled so radiantly that Joyce felt quite nonplussed.

"Yes 'm, like the little maid in the Bible sent the leper capting to be cured. That's why, please 'm!"

Joyce left her.

"Peggy," she informed her sister, "is above and beyond me altogether!"