Peggy felt weak and shaken for some days after her fright, and was
thankful to stay quietly indoors and busy herself with her new task.
The gas fire could be turned on in her room whenever she desired, and
at every spare moment she ran upstairs, locked her door behind her, and
began to write. Robert insisted that the work should be kept secret,
and that not a word should be said about the competition downstairs,
for he was sensitive about the remarks of his companions, and anxious
to keep a possible failure to himself. All the work had to be done
upstairs therefore, and the frequent absence of the partners from the
schoolroom, though much regretted, did not seem at all inexplicable to
the others. It was understood that Peggy and Robert had some interest
in common, but as winter advanced this was no unusual occurrence in a
house where Christmas was a carnival, and surprises of an elaborate
nature were planned by every member of the household. It was taken for
granted that the work had some connection with Christmas, and inquiries
were discreetly avoided.
With an old calendar before her as a model for the lettering, Peggy did
her work neatly and well, and the gilt "arabesques" had an artistic
flourish which was quite professional. When Robert was shown the first
half-dozen sheets he whistled with surprise, and exclaimed, "Good old
Mariquita!" a burst of approval before which Peggy glowed with delight.
It had been agreed that, after printing the first ten days of January,
Peggy should go on to the first ten of February, and so on throughout
the year, so that Rob should be able to use what quotations had already
been found under each heading, and should not be detained until the
whole thirty or thirty-one had been chosen.
The partners were most fastidious in their selection at the beginning
of their work, but when half the time had passed and not one-third of
the necessary number of quotations had been found, alarm seized upon
the camp, and it was realised that a little more latitude must be shown.
"We shall have to use up all the old ones which we struck off the
list," said Rob disconsolately. "I'm sorry; but I never realised
before that three hundred and sixty-five was such an outrageously
large number. And we shall have to get books of extracts and read them
through from beginning to end. Nearly two hundred more to find; a
hundred and fifty, say, when we have used up those old ones! It will
take us all our time!"
"I'll get up at six every morning and read by my fire," said Peggy
firmly. "If it's necessary I'll get up at five, and if I can't find
bits to suit all the stupid old things, I'll--I'll write some myself!
There! Why shouldn't I? I often make up things in my head, and you
wouldn't believe how fine they are. I think of them days afterwards,
and ask myself, 'Now where did I read that?' and then it comes back to
me. 'Dear me; I made it up myself!' If we get very short, Rob, there
wouldn't be any harm in writing a few sentences and signing them
'Saville,' would there?"
"Not if they were good enough," said Rob, trying to suppress the laugh
which would have hurt Peggy's feelings, and looking with twinkling eyes
at the little figure by his side, so comically unprofessional, with her
lace collar, dainty little feet, and pigtail of dark brown hair. "You
mustn't get up too early in the morning and overtire yourself. I can't
allow that!" he added firmly. "You have looked like a little white
ghost the last few days, and your face is about the size of my hand.
You must get some colour into your cheeks before the holidays, or that
beloved Arthur will think we have been ill-treating you when he comes
down."
Peggy gave a sharp little sigh and relapsed into silence. It was the
rarest thing in the world to hear her allude to any of her own people.
When a letter arrived, and Mrs. Asplin asked questions concerning
father, mother, or brother, she answered readily enough, but she never
offered information, or voluntarily carried on the conversation.
Friends less sympathetic might have imagined that she was so happy in
her new home that she had no care beyond it, but no one in the Vicarage
made that mistake. When the square Indian letter was handed to her
across the breakfast table, the flush of delight on the pale cheeks
brought a reflected smile to every face, and more than one pair of eyes
watched her tenderly as she sat hugging the precious letter, waiting
until the moment should come when she could rush upstairs and devour
its contents in her own room. Once it had happened that mail day had
arrived and brought no letter, and that had been a melancholy occasion.
Mrs. Asplin had looked at one envelope after another, had read the
addresses twice, thrice, even four times over before she summoned
courage to tell of its absence.
"There is no letter for you to-day, Peggy!" Her voice was full
of commiseration as she spoke, but Peggy sat in silence, her
face stiffened, her head thrown back with an assumption of calm
indifference. "There must have been some delay in the mail. You will
have two letters next week, dearie, instead of one."
"Probably," said Peggy. Mellicent was staring at her with big, round
eyes; the Vicar peered over the rim of his spectacles; Esther passed
the marmalade with eager solicitude; her friends were all full of
sympathy, but there was a "Touch-me-if-you-dare!" atmosphere about
Peggy that day which silenced the words on their lip. It was evident
that she preferred to be left alone, and though her eyes were red
when she came down to lunch, she held her chin so high, and joined in
the conversation with such an elegant flow of language, that no one
dare comment on the fact. Two days later the letter arrived and all
was sunshine again; but in spite of her cheery spirits, her friends
realised that Peggy's heart was not in the vicarage, and that there
were moments when the loneliness of her position pressed on her, and
when she longed intensely for someone of her very own, whose place
could not be taken by even the kindest of friends.
Like most undemonstrative people, Peggy dearly loved to be appreciated,
and to receive marks of favour from those around. Half the zest with
which she entered into her new labour was owing to the fact that Robert
had chosen her from all the rest to be his partner. She was aglow with
satisfaction in this fact, and with pleasure in the work itself, and
the only cloud which darkened her horizon at the present moment was
caused by those incidental references to the fair Rosalind, which fell
so often from her companion's lips.
"Everything," said Peggy impatiently to herself, "everything ends
in Rosalind! Whatever we are talking about, that stupid girl's name
is bound to be introduced! I asked Mellicent if she would have a
scone at tea this afternoon, and she said something about Rosalind
in reply--Rosalind liked scones, or she didn't like scones, or some
ridiculous nonsense of the sort! Who wants to know what Rosalind likes?
I don't! I'm sick of the name! And Mrs. Asplin is as silly as the rest!
The girls must have new dresses because Rosalind is coming, and they
will be asked to tea at the Larches! If their green dresses are good
enough for us, why won't they do for Rosalind, I should like to know?
Rob is the only sensible one. I asked him if she were really such a
marvellous creature, and he said she was an affected goose! He ought
to know better than anyone else! Curls indeed! One would think it was
something extraordinary to have curls! My hair would curl too, if I
chose to make it, but I don't; I prefer to have it straight! If she is
the 'Honourable Rosalind,' I am Mariquita Saville, and I'm not going to
be patronised by anybody, so there!" and Peggy tossed her head, and
glared at the reflection in the glass in a lofty and scornful manner,
as though it were the offending party who had had the audacity to
assume superiority.
Robert was one with Peggy in hoping that his people would not leave
town until such time as the calendar should be despatched on its
travels, for when they were installed at the Larches he was expected to
be at home each week from Saturday until Monday, and the loss of that
long holiday afternoon would interfere seriously with the work on hand.
He had seen so little of his people for the last few years, that he
would be expected to be sociable during the short time that he was with
them, and could hardly shut himself up in his room for hours at a time.
Despair then settled down upon both partners when a letter arrived to
say that the Darcy family were coming down even earlier than had been
expected, and summoning Robert to join them at the earliest possible
moment.
"This is awful!" cried the lad, ruffling his hair with a big, restless
hand. "I know what it means--not only Saturdays off, but two or three
nights during the week into the bargain! Between you and me, Mariquita,
the governor is coming down here to economise and intends to stay much
longer than usual. Hector has been getting into debt again; he's the
eldest, you know--the one in the Life Guards. It's a lot too bad, for
he has had it all his own way so far, and when he runs up bills like
this, everyone has to suffer for it. Mother hates the country for more
than a few weeks at a time, and will be wretched if she is kept here
all through the winter. I know how it will be, she will keep asking
people down, and getting up all sorts of entertainments to relieve the
dulness. It's all very well in its way, but just now when I need every
minute----"
"Shall you give up trying for the prize?" asked Peggy faintly, and Rob
threw back his head with emphatic disclaimer.
"I never give up a thing when I have made up my mind to do it! There
are ten days still, and a great deal can be done in ten days. I'll take
a couple of books upstairs with me every night and see if I can find
something fresh. There is one good thing about it, I shall have a fresh
stock of books to choose from at the Larches. It is the last step that
costs in this case. It was easy enough to fix off the first hundred,
but the last is a teaser!"
On Saturday morning a dog-cart came over to convey Robert to the
Larches, and the atmosphere of the vicarage seemed charged with
expectation and excitement. The Darcys had arrived; to-morrow they
would appear at church; on Monday they would probably drive over with
Rob and pay a call. These were all important facts in a quiet country
life, and seemed to afford unlimited satisfaction to every member
of the household. Peggy grew so tired of the name of Darcy that she
retired to her room at eight o'clock, and was busy at work over the
September batch of cards, when a knock came to the door, and she had
to cover them over with the blotting paper to admit Mellicent in her
dressing-gown, with her hair arranged for the night in an extraordinary
number of little plaited pig-tails.
"Will you fasten the ends for me, Peggy, please?" she requested. "When
I do it, the threads fall off, and the ends come loose. I want it to be
specially nice for to-morrow!"
"But it will look simply awful, Mellicent, if you leave it like this.
It will be frizzed out almost on a level with your head. Let me do it
up in just two tight plaits, it will be far, far nicer," urged Peggy,
lifting one little tail after another, and counting their number in
dismay. But no, Mellicent would not be persuaded. The extra plaits were
a tribute to Rosalind, a mark of attention to her on her arrival with
which she would suffer no interference, and as a consequence of her
stubbornness, she marched to church next morning disfigured by a mop of
untidy, tangled hair instead of the usual glossy locks.
Peggy preserved a demeanour of stately calm, as she waited for the
arrival of the Darcy family, but even she felt a tremor of excitement
when the verger hobbled up to the square pew and stood holding the door
open in his hand. The heads of the villagers turned with one consent
to the doorway; only one person in the church disdained to move her
position, but she heard the clatter of horses' hoofs from without, and
presently the little procession passed the vicarage pew, and she could
indulge her curiosity without sacrifice to pride. First of all came
Lord Darcy, a thin, oldish man, with a face that looked tired and kind,
and faintly amused by the amount of attention which his entrance had
attracted. Then his wife, a tall, fair woman, with a beautiful profile,
and an air of languid discontent who floated past with rustling silken
skirts, leaving an impression of elegance and luxury, which made Mrs.
Asplin sigh and Mellicent draw in her breath with a gasp of rapture.
Then followed Robert with his shaggy head, scowling more fiercely than
ever in his disgust at finding himself an object of attention, and last
of all a girlish figure in a grey dress, with a collar of soft, fluffy
chinchilla, and a velvet hat with drooping brim, beneath which could be
seen a glimpse of a face pink and white as the blossoms of spring, and
a mass of shining, golden hair. Peggy shut her lips with a snap, and
the iron entered into her soul. It was no use pretending any longer!
This was Rosalind, and she was fairer, sweeter, a hundred times more
beautiful than she had ever imagined!
(_To be continued._)
GIRLS AS I HAVE KNOWN THEM.
BY ELSA D'ESTERRE-KEELING, Author of "Old Maids and Young."