SUMMER was done; autumn itself was far spent, and once more near the suburbs of a pretty and fashionable seaside town the Wandering Minstrels had pitched their camp.
The dear old life by the dear old sea had commenced again, and Peggy and Johnnie were very happy; so, too, was white-faced wee Willie, while as for the giant—well, nothing ever put him out.
Father Fitzroy was jolly enough also, because he was drawing good houses with his new play, and selling many flutes. What more could heart of wanderers wish? Ah! well, nobody ever is altogether content in this world, and there were times when Fitzroy thought his life had been almost thrown away, and that he might be better off than he now found himself—lessee of the “Lyceum,” for instance. But better days might even be in store for Fitzroy. So he lit another huge cigar, and took up a new flute to see if he could improve it.
* * * * *
There were woods all round this seaside town, more romantic even than the forests about Bootle-super-Mare, because there were hills and rocks in them, and a rushing river and a waterfall. Although there were but few leaves now on the trees, and winds tossed the branches to and fro, it was pleasant to walk on the silent turf beneath, or to climb the cliffs and gather the last wild-flowers of the year.
Peggy was more often alone than with Johnnie Fitzroy during these rambles. She never asked him to come, and he was a strange and wayward boy, who never made up his mind to do anything until the last moment.
The sea was usually more sullen in temper now, yet Peggy loved it in its every mood, and liked to lie on the shingle and watch its waves chasing each other shorewards, erecting their white manes and spending their wild-beast fury on the beach. They sang a song that was eternal, and it was that eternal song she liked to lie and listen to.
Was Peggy becoming a dreamer of dreams as she lay by the seashore, the blood-hound by her side ever watchful, the chameleon on her wrist or shoulder? I could not say for certain, but I know she sometimes wondered what her future life might be. There were people who lived in great mansions like that of the snowy-haired lady she had met that day in the park, and who, simply because they have money, must be happy, because they can go where they like, and do what they like—theirs surely must be life in a sort of fairyland—the fairyland of wealth and greatness! Was she herself longing for an existence like this, and if ever it came to her, would she not look back to the days that had been so happy, in woods and wilds, with Kammie, with Ralph, and—well, and with Johnnie?
She used to return in the autumn twilight, coming back to camp through the town itself, with its clean and beautiful streets, and with everywhere around her signs of a life in which she mingled not, and about which she knew little or nothing.
The evenings were colder now, for it was the month of September, and while stars were becoming visible in the blue-green of the east, and struggling with the dying glow of the twilight, lights sprang up in the houses and villas she passed by, and as people at this seaside resort seldom drew their blinds down, Peggy, though by no means inquisitive, could not help having a peep inside, and a glimpse of the happiness and cosiness of many a family circle. The crimson or blue hall-lights looked very pretty, she thought. How big and rich-like even the great hall-mats, and the clean, shining linoleum! Here was a pretty cottage, and its snug drawing-room, and white-haired gentleman quietly reading in an easy-chair, his wife knitting by the fire, a cat and dog on the hearth-rug. A peaceful scene! And Peggy sighed, she knew not why. She would have liked just such a father and mother as that to tuck her up in bed of a winter’s night, in a room with a real fire in a real pretty grate, and pictures on the walls—to tuck her nicely up, and then, perhaps, sing soft, sweet lullabies to her till she glided away into the land of dreams.