Peter can quite well remember the events which led up to that strange happening; not that the events or the happening seemed strange at the time—they grew into his life so naturally. He thought, if he thought at all, that to all little boys came the same experience; he would not have believed you had you told him otherwise.

He had recently achieved his fourth birthday and the garden, which was his out-door nursery, was a-flutter with tremulous spring-flowers. That night his mother sent away the nurse, and undressed and bathed him herself. She wanted to be foolish to her heart’s content, laughing and singing and crying over him. Only the slender laburnum, with the kind old mulberry-tree peering over its shoulder, watched them through the window. The laburnum was a young girl, his mother told him, with shaky golden curls; the mulberry, whose arms were propped with crutches, was her grandfather.

As Peter’s mother squeezed the sponge down his back, she stooped her pretty head, kissing some new part of his wet little body as though she were making a discovery. And she called him love-words, Peterkins, Precious Lamb, Ownest; and she pushed him away from her, saying he did not belong to her, that so she might feel the eager arms clasped more fiercely about her neck.

When he had been rolled in the towel, his big father entered and took him, rubbing his prickly chin against Peter’s neck; nor would he give him up. It was a long time before he was popped into his pink, woolly nightgown. Even then, when he was safe in bed, they stayed by him—his mother humming softly, while his father knelt to be able to kiss her without bending. Shadows came out from the cupboard and crept toward the window, pushing back the daylight; the daylight dodged across the ceiling, hid in the mulberry where it slept till morning, came back and peeped in at him tenderly, and vanished. His eyes grew heavy; the next thing he remembers is an early breakfast, a cab at the door and being told to be the goodest little boy in the world. He was hugged till he was breathless; then he saw the face of his beautiful mother, her eyes red with weeping, leaning out of the cab-window throwing kisses, growing distant and yet more distant down the terrace.

In later years he knew where they went—to Switzerland to re-live their honeymoon. At the time he thought they were gone forever.

Grace, his nurse, did her best to comfort him, blowing his nose so severely that he looked to see if it had come off in the handkerchief. For Grace he had a great respect. She was a good-natured lump of a girl, who beat a drum for the Salvation Army under gas-lamps and fought a never ending battle with herself to pronounce her name correctly. Mr. Barrington had threatened that the penalty for failing was dismissal. Now the violence of her emotion and the absence of her employers made her reckless. “There, little Round Tummy, Grice’ll taik care of you, don’t you blow bubbles like that. You’ll cry yourself dry, that you will, and drown us.”

An awful suggestion! He pictured the dining-room flooded with his tears, the furniture floating and Grace swimming for her life. He turned off the tap to just the littlest dribble. If he’d stopped at once, Grace would have ceased to be sorry.

She did not keep her promise to take care of him. On the contrary, she conducted him through London on the tops of buses and left him at a strange house. It belonged to the “smacking lady,” a name which he had given to Jehane since an unfortunate occurrence previously mentioned. He had been taught to call her Auntie to her face, but she went by the other name inside his head.

On many points his memories of this period are muddled. When he was not in disgrace, he was allowed to play with Glory; if he had been specially good, he was privileged to splash in the same bath with her before being put to bed. But this was not often; it appeared that quite suddenly, since coming to the smacking lady’s house, he had developed an extraordinary faculty for being bad. She said that he was spoilt, and shut him up in rooms to make him better. He did his best to improve, for he believed that his naughtiness was the cause of his mother’s absence; she would never come back, unless he became “the goodest little boy in the world.” To judge by the smacking lady’s countenance, he did his best to no purpose.

Her man was the one bright spot in his tragedy; and even he seemed a little afraid of her. He did not champion Peter in her presence, but he would take him out of rooms—oh, so stealthily—and carry him to the end of the garden where a river ran, along the floor of which fishes flashed, pursued by their shadows. There he would tell him funny stories—stories of Peter’s world and within the compass of Peter’s understanding; and he would laugh first to warn Peter when he was going to be really funny——

Peter had again been bad, shut up in a room and rescued by the smacking lady’s husband. They were sitting on the river-bank, screened from the windows of the house by bushes, when they heard the sound of running. It was the servant; she spoke loudly with excitement and seemed out of breath. The funny man’s face became grave; he rose and left Peter without a word.

After that, all kinds of people came hurrying; they banged on the door and went swiftly up the stairs—swiftly and softly. No one paid him any heed and, strange to say, they were equally careless of Glory. He was glad of that, for he loved Glory; it made him happy to have her to himself. All that day they played among the flowers, he following the shining of her little golden head. When she fell asleep tired, he sat solemnly beside her, holding her crumpled hand.

That night they were hastily undressed by a stranger and tumbled into the same bed. She was so strange that she did not know that she ought to hear them say their prayers. It was Peter who reminded her.

Lying awake in the darkness, he was sensitive that something unusual was happening. Up and down the creaking stairs many footsteps came and went; dresses rustled; voices muttered in whispered consultation. In intervals between doors opening and shutting, there were long periods of silence. During one of these he heard a sound so curious that he sat up in bed—a weak, thin wailing which was new to him and, had he known it, new to the world. He gathered the bed-clothes to his mouth and listened. Voices on the stairs grew bolder—almost glad. Peter was conscious of relief from suspense; night itself grew less black.

Again a door opened on the lower landing; there were footsteps. A man spoke cheerfully. “It’s all over and successfully. Thank God for that.”

And the smacking lady’s husband roared, “A little nipper all my own, by Gad!”

Peter didn’t understand, but they let him see next morning—a puckered thing, wrapt in blue flannel, with the tiniest of hands, lying very close to Aunt Jehane’s breast. It was the funny man who showed him, lifting him up so he could look down on it. The funny man was happy.

Did he start asking questions at once, or does he only imagine it? Perhaps someone tried to explain things to him—it may have been his friend, the funny man. It may have been that he overheard conversations and misconstrued them. At all events, he knew that the baby was a girl and that she had come several weeks before she was expected. Someone said that Master Peter would never have been there had they known that this was going to happen.—So babies came from somewhere suddenly—somebody sent them! This was the beginning of his longing to have a baby all to himself—but how?

One fine morning the treacherous Grace arrived, not one little bit abashed. She told him that his mother was coming back to Topbury.

“Then am I the goodest little boy in the world?”

She thumped her great arms round him; he might have been her drum she was playing. “You can be when you like; and, my word, I believe you are now.”

He learnt before he left that the new baby was to be called “Riska”; and he noticed this much, that its hair and eyes were black.

His mother had lost her whiteness. Her face and hands were brown; only her hair was the old sweet color. He had not been long with her when he made his request. “Mummy, get Peterkins a baby.”

She was sitting sewing by the window. She looked up from the little garment she was making, holding the needle in her hand.

“What a funny present! Why does little Peter ask for that?”

“Mummy, where does babies come from?”

She laid aside her work and took him into her lap. “From God, dearie.”

“Who brings them, mummikins?”

“Angels.”

“How does they know to bring them?”

She laughed nervously; then checked herself, seeing how serious was the child’s expression. “People ask God, darling; he tells the angels. They bring the babies all wrapt up warmly in their softy wings and feathers.”

“Could a little boy ask him?”

“Anyone could ask him.”

“Would he send me one for my very ownest?”

“Some day—perhaps.”

“And you asked God to send me, muvver?”

“I and your Daddy together.”

He lay so quietly in her arms that she thought his questions were at an end. She did not take up her work, but sat smiling with dreamy eyes, humming and resting her chin on his curly head. He clambered down from her knee, satisfied and laughing, “Ask him again—you and Daddy together.”

Just then Barrington entered. “What’s Daddy to ask for now?” Then, “Why Nancy, tears in your eyes! What’s Peter been doing?”

She held her husband very closely, looking shy and happy. “He’s been asking for the thing we’ve prayed for.”

“Eh! What’s that?”

“A baby.”

“A baby? Funny little beggar! Extraordinary!”

“And sweet!” whispered Nan.

“Come here, young fellow.” His father was solemn, but his eyes were laughing. He held Peter between his knees, so their faces nearly met. “If your mother asks God for a baby sister, will you always be good to her—the truliest, goodest little brother in the world?”

And Peter nodded emphatically. His father shook his chubby hand, sealing the bargain.

Peter watched hourly for her coming—he never doubted it would be a her. He would inquire several times daily, “Will it be soon?” There was always the same answer, “Peterkins, Peterkins presently.”

One night he heard the same sounds that had amazed him at the smacking lady’s house—whispers, running on the stairs, doors opening and shutting. He waited for the weak, thin wailing; but that did not follow. Nevertheless, he was sure it had happened: wrapt up warmly, in softy angel-feathers, God had sent him a sister for himself.

It was very late when Grace came to bed. Peter pretended to be asleep; he feared she would be angry. Slowly he raised himself on the pillow, his eyes clear and undrowsy.

“Why, Master Peter!”

She turned from the mirror so startled that, as she spoke, the hair-pins fell from her mouth.

53

“What a fright you give me! I thought your peepers ‘ad been glued tight for hours h’and hours.”

“Has she come? Has she come? Did a lady-angel bring her?”

“Lor’ bless the boy, he’s dreamin’! Now lie down, little Round Tummy. Grice won’t be long; then she’ll hold you in ‘er arms all comfy.”

“But Grace, she’s downstairs, a teeny weeny one—just big enough for Peter to carry.”

“Now, look ‘ere, you just stop it, Master Peter. It’s no time for talkin’; you’ll ‘ear soon enough. You and your teeny weeny ones!”

Peter lay down, his little heart choking. Why wouldn’t Grace tell him?

“But, Grace———”

“Shut up. I’m a-sayin’ of me prayers.”

In the morning the hushed suspense still hung about the house. When he raised his piping voice, Grace shook him roughly. At breakfast his father’s brows were puckered—he wasn’t a bit happy like the funny man. When the table had been cleared, he laid aside his paper and sat Peter on his knee before him. “Something happened last night, sonny. You’ve got a little brother.”

“Not a sister, Daddy?”

Peter cried at that; no wonder they were all so sad. “But we asked God for a sister partickerlarly.”

All day as he played in a whisper by himself, he tried to think things out. God had become confused at the last moment, or the angel had: the wrong baby had been brought to their house. But where was the right one?

That evening the angel remembered his error and took the baby back.

Peter was being undressed for bed and Grace was crying terribly. She had just slipped him into his long, pink nightgown when his father came in hurriedly. He caught him up, wrapping a blanket round him and ran with him downstairs. The door of the room which he had watched all day was opened by a man in black. The room was in darkness, save for a shaded lamp. There were several people present; all of them whispered and walked on tiptoe. He raised himself up in his father’s arms. On the bed his mother lay weak and listless; her eyes were blue and vacant. She seemed to have shrunk and tears stole down her cheeks unheeded. Her hair seemed heavy for her head and lay across the pillow in two broad plaits. In her arms was a little bundle. The man in black commenced to talk huskily. No one answered; everyone listened to what he said. Suddenly he stooped to take the bundle from his mother, but her arms tightened. “I’ll keep him as long as God lets me.”

So the man drew aside the wrappings; Peter saw the face of a tiny stranger already tired of the world. The man in black spoke some words more loudly and touched the stranger’s face with water. Peter shuddered; it was cruel to wet his face like that. They all stood silent in the shadows—all except Peter, who cuddled against his father’s shoulder. Someone said, “He’s gone,” and the sobbing commenced.

That night Peter slept in his mother’s bedroom—she would have it. She seemed frightened that an angel so careless might carry him away as well. So they set up his cot by the side of her bed; as she lay on her pillows she could watch him.

Mummikins got happy slowly; she seemed disappointed in God. Gradually Peter learnt that, although the baby had been left at the wrong house, they had given him a name and had called him Philip. But the old question worried Peter—the one which no one seemed able to answer: where was the sister God had meant to send and which his father had promised? Since everyone treated him with reticence, he took the matter up with God himself. Often, when his mother bent above him and thought him sleeping, he was talking with God inside his head. As a result the strange thing happened.

In his room, to the left of his bed, was a large powder-cupboard, even in the day-time full of shadows. One night he had been praying out loud to himself, but his voice was growing weary and his eyelids kept falling. As he lay there, coming from the cupboard, very softly, very distant, he heard a sound of whistling. It was a little air, happy and haunting, trilled over and over. He sat up and listened, not at all frightened. He thrust himself up with his elbows, his head bent forward, in listening ecstasy. His father could whistle, but not like that. A man’s whistling was shrill and strong. This was gentle and glad, like a violin played high up—ah yes, like his mother’s whistling. Then, somehow, he knew that a girl’s lips formed that sound.

He slipped out of bed in the darkness and tiptoed to the cupboard. He opened the door; it stopped.

When he was safe in bed it again commenced, as though it were saying, “I’m coming. I’m coming, little Peterkins. Don’t be impatient.”

It was trying to say more than that, and he racked his brains to understand. When he lay quiet and was almost asleep, the picture formed. He saw a girl-angel, standing in a garden, watching God at his work. And what was God doing? He was making a little sister for Peter, stitching her together. And every time the angel stopped whistling, God’s needle dropped. And every time she recommenced, God laughed and plucked feathers from her softy wings to make garments for the little sister. Peter named her the Whistling Angel. One day, when she and God were ready, she would bring his little sister to him.

The last thing he heard, as his sleepy eyes closed on the pillow, was that happy haunting little air, like a tune played high up on a violin, faintly, faintly.

“I’m coming. I’m coming, little Peterkins. Don’t be impatient.”

It was like the rustle of wind in an angel’s wings who had already set out on the journey.