As Peggy sat writing in the study one afternoon, a shaggy head came
peering round the door, and Robert's voice said eagerly:
"Mariquita! A word in your ear! Could you come out and take a turn
round the garden for half an hour before tea, or are you too busy?"
"Not at all. I am entirely at your disposal," said Peggy elegantly, and
the young people made their way to the cloak-room, swung on coats and
sailor-hats, and sallied out into the fresh autumn air.
"Mariquita," said Robert; then, using once more the name by which he
chose to address Peggy in their confidential confabs, "Mariquita, I
am in difficulties. There is a microscope advertised in _Science_
this week that is the very thing I have been pining for for the last
six years. I must get it, or die, but the question is--_how?_ You see
before you a penniless man." He looked at Peggy as he spoke, and met
her small, demure smile.
"My dear and honourable sir----"
"Yes, yes, I know; drop that, Mariquita! Don't take for granted, like
Mellicent, that because a man has a title he must necessarily be a
millionaire. Everything is comparative! My father is rich compared to
the Vicar, but he is really hard up for a man in his position. He gets
almost no rent for his land nowadays, and I am the third son. I haven't
as much pocket-money in a month as Oswald gets through in a week. Now
that microscope is twenty pounds, and if I were to ask the governor
for it, he wouldn't give it to me, but he would sigh and look wretched
at being obliged to refuse. He's a kind-hearted fellow, you know,
who doesn't like to say 'No,' and I hate to worry him. Still--that
microscope! I must have it. By hook or by crook, I must have it. I've
set my mind on that."
"I'm sure I hope you will, though for my part you must not expect me
to look through it. I like things to be pretty, and when you see them
through a microscope they generally look hideous. I saw my own hand
once--ugh!" Peggy shuddered. "Twenty pounds! Well, I can only say that
my whole worldly wealth is at your disposal. Draw on me for anything
you like--up to seven and six! That's all the money I have till the
beginning of the month."
"Thanks!--I didn't intend to borrow, I have a better idea than that.
I was reading a magazine the other day, and came upon a list of prize
competitions. The first prize offered was thirty pounds, and I'm going
to win that prize. The microscope costs only twenty pounds, but the
extra ten would come in usefully for--I'll tell you about that later
on! The _Piccadilly Magazine_ is very respectable and all that sort of
thing, but the governor is one of the good old-fashioned, conservative
fellows, who would be horrified if he saw my name figuring in it. I'm
bound to consider his feelings, but all the same I'm going to win that
prize. It says in the rules--I've read them through carefully--that you
can ask your friends to help you, so that there would be nothing unfair
about going into partnership with someone else. What I was going to
suggest was that you and I should collaborate. I'd rather work with you
than with any of the others, and I think we could manage it rather well
between us. Our contribution should be sent in in your name, that is to
say, if you wouldn't object to seeing yourself in print."
"I should love it. I'm proud of my name, and it would be a new
sensation." But Peggy spoke in absent-minded fashion, as if her
thoughts were running on another subject. Rob had used a word which
was unfamiliar in her ears, a big word, a word with a delightful,
intellectual roll, and she had not the remotest idea of its meaning.
Collaborate! Beautiful! Not for worlds would she confess her ignorance,
yet the opportunity could not be thrown away. She must secure the
treasure and add it to her mental store. She put her head on one side,
and said pensively:
"I shall be most happy to er--er----In what other words can I exactly
express 'collaborate,' Rob? I do so object to repetition!"
"Go shags!" returned Robert briefly. "I would do the biggest part of
the work, of course, that's only fair, because I want two-thirds of the
money, but you could do what you liked, and have ten pounds for your
share. Ten pounds would come in very usefully for Christmas."
"Rather! I'd get mother and father lovely presents, and Mrs.
Asplin too; and buy books for Esther, and a little gold ring for
Mellicent--it's her idea of happiness to have a gold ring. I'll help
you with pleasure, Rob, and I'm sure we shall get the prize. What have
we to do? Make up some poetry?"
"Goodness, no! Fancy me making up poetry! It's to make up a calendar.
There are subjects given for each month--sorrow, love, obedience,
resignation--that sort of thing, and you have to give a quotation for
each day. It will take some time, but we ought to stand a good chance.
You are fond of reading, and know no end of poetry, and where I have
a pull is in knowing French and German so well. I can give them some
fine translations from the Latin and Greek too, for the matter of that,
and it will look kind of swagger to put the authors' names underneath.
That will impress the judges, and make 'em decide in our favour. I've
been working at it only three days, and I've got over fifty quotations
already. We must keep note-books in our pockets, and jot down any ideas
that occur to us during the day, and go over them together at night.
You will know a lot, I'm sure."
"'Sorrow and silence are strong,
and patient endurance is godlike,
Therefore accomplish thy labour of love,
till the heart is made godlike,'"
quoted Peggy with an air, and Rob nodded approval.
"That's it! That's the style! Something with a bit of a sermon in it
to keep 'em up to the mark for the day. Bravo, Mariquita! you'll do it
splendidly. That's settled then. We shall have to work hard, for there
is only a month before the thing must be sent off, and we must finish
in good time. When you leave things to the last, something is bound to
come in the way. It will take an age to write out three hundred and
sixty-five extracts."
"It will indeed, for they must be very nicely done," said Peggy
fastidiously. "Of course it is most important that the extracts
themselves should be good, but it matters almost as much that they
should look neat and attractive. Appearances go such a long way." And
when Robert demurred and stated his opinion that the judges would not
trouble their heads about looks, she stuck firmly to her point.
"Oh, won't they though. Just imagine how you would feel if you were
in their position, and had to look over scores of ugly uninteresting
manuscripts. You would be bored to death, and after plodding
conscientiously through a few dozen, you would get so mixed up that
you would hardly be able to distinguish one from another. Then
suddenly--suddenly"--Peggy clasped her hands with one of her favourite
dramatic gestures--"you would see before you a dainty little volume
prettily written, easy to read, easy to hold, nice to look at, and
do you mean to say that your heart wouldn't give a jump, and that
you would not take a fancy to the writer from that very moment? Of
course you would, and so, if you please, I am going to look after the
decorative department and see what can be done. I must give my mind
to it----Oh! I'll tell you what would be just the thing. When I was
in the library one day lately I saw some sweet little note-books with
pale green leaves and gilt edges. I'll count the pages, and buy enough
to make up three hundred and sixty-five, and twelve extra, so as to
put one plain sheet between each month. Then we must have a cover.
Two pieces of cardboard would do, with gilt edges, and a motto in old
English letters, 'The months in circling orbit fly.' Have I read that
somewhere, or did I make it up? It sounds very well. Well, what next?"
Peggy was growing quite excited, and the restless hands were waving
about at a great rate. "Oh, the pages! We shall have to put the date at
the top of each. I could do that in gold ink, and make a pretty little
skriggle--er--'_arabesque_,' I should say, underneath to give it a
finish. Then I'd hand them on to you to write the extracts in your tiny
little writing. Rob, it will be splendid! Do you really think we shall
get the prize?"
"I _mean_ to get it! We have a good library here, and plenty of time if
we like to use it. I'm going to get up at six every morning. I sha'n't
fail for want of trying, and if I miss this I'll win something else. My
mind is made up! I'm going to buy that microscope!" Robert tossed his
head and looked ferocious, while Peggy peered in his rugged face, and
womanlike admired him the more for his determination.
They lingered in the garden discussing details, planning out the work,
and arranging as to the different books to be overlooked until the tea
hour was passed, and Mrs. Asplin came to the door and called to them to
come in.
"And nothing on your feet but your thin slippers? Oh, you Peggy!"
she exclaimed in despair. "Now you will have a cold, and ten to one
it will fly to your throat. I shall have to fine you a penny every
time you cross the doorstep without changing your shoes. Summer is
over, remember. You can't be too careful in these raw, damp days. Run
upstairs this minute and change your stockings."
Peggy looked meek, and went to her room at once to obey orders; but the
mischief was done, she shivered and could not get warm, her head ached,
and her eyes felt heavy. Mrs. Asplin looked anxiously at her in the
drawing-room after dinner, and finally called her to her side.
"Peggy, come here! Aren't you well? Let me feel your hand. Child, it's
like a coal! You are in a fever. Why didn't you tell me at once?"
"Because I--really, it's nothing, Mrs. Asplin! Don't be worried. I
don't know why I feel so hot. I was shivering only a minute ago."
"Go straight upstairs and take a dose of ammoniated quinine. Turn on
the fire in your room. Max! Robert! Oswald! Esther! Mellicent! will
everyone please look after Peggy in the future, and see that she does
not run out in her slippers!" cried Mrs. Asplin in a despairing voice,
and Peggy bolted out of the door in haste, to escape before more
reproaches could be hurled at her head.
But an alarm of a more serious nature than a threatened cold was to
take place before the evening was over. The young people answered
briefly, Mrs. Asplin turned back to her book, and silence settled down
upon the occupants of the drawing-room. It was half-past eight, the
servants had carried away the dinner things, and were enjoying their
evening's rest in the kitchen. The Vicar was nodding in his easy-chair,
the house was so quiet that the tick of the old grandfather clock in
the hall could be heard through the half-opened door. Then suddenly
came the sound of flying footsteps, the door burst open, and in
rushed Peggy once more, but such a Peggy, such an apparition of fear,
suffering, and terror as brought a cry of consternation from every
lip. Her eyes were starting from her head, her face was contorted in
spasmodic gaspings for breath, her arms sawed the air like the sails of
a windmill, and she flew round and round the room in a wild, unheeding
rush.
"Peggy, my child! my child! what is the matter? Oh, Austin--oh! What
shall we do?" cried Mrs. Asplin, trying to catch hold of the flying
arms, only to be waved off with frenzied energy. Mellicent dissolved
into tears and retreated behind the sofa, under the impression that
Peggy had suddenly taken leave of her senses, and practical Esther
rushed upstairs to search for a clue to the mystery among the medicine
bottles on Peggy's table. She was absent only for a few minutes; but
it seemed like an hour to the watchers, for Peggy's face grew more
and more agonised, she seemed on the verge of suffocation, and could
neither speak, nor endure anyone to approach within yards of her mad
career. Presently, however, she began to falter, to draw her breath in
longer gasps, and as she did so there emerged from her lips a series of
loud whooping sounds, like the crowing of a cock, or the noise made by
a child in the convulsions of whooping-cough. The air was making its
way to the lungs after the temporary stoppage, and the result would
have been comical if any of the hearers had been in a mood for jesting,
which, in good truth, they were not.
"Thank heaven! She will be better now. Open the window and leave her
alone. Don't try to make her speak. What in the world has the child
been doing?" cried the Vicar wonderingly; and at that moment Esther
entered, bearing in her hand the explanation of the mystery--a bottle
labelled "Spirits of Ammonia," and a tumbler about an eighth full of a
white milky-looking fluid.
"They were in the front of the table. The other things had not been
moved. I believe she has never looked at the labels, but seized the
first bottle that came to her hand--this dreadfully strong ammonia
which you gave her for the gnat bites when she just came."
A groan of assent came from the sofa on which Peggy lay, choking no
longer, but ghastly white, and drawing her breath in painful gasps.
Mrs. Asplin sniffed at the contents of the tumbler, only to jerk back
her head with watery eyes and reddened lids.
"No wonder that the child was nearly choked! The marvel is that she
had ever regained her breath after such a mistake. Her throat must
be raw!" She hurried out of the room to concoct a soothing draught,
at which Peggy supped at intervals during the evening, croaking out
a hoarse, "Better, thank you!" in reply to inquiries, and looking so
small and pathetic in her nest of cushions that the hearts of the
beholders softened at the sight. Before bedtime, however, she revived
considerably, and her elastic spirits coming to her aid, entertained
the listeners with a husky but dramatic account of her proceedings. How
she had not troubled to turn the gas full up, and had just seized the
bottle, tilted some of the contents into a tumbler in which there was a
small portion of water, without troubling to measure it out, and gulped
it down without delay. Her description of the feelings which ensued
was a really clever piece of word painting, but behind the pretence
of horror at her own carelessness, there rang a hardly-concealed note
of pride, as though, in thus risking her life, she had done something
quite clever and distinguished.
Mrs. Asplin exhausted herself in "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" of sympathy, and had
nothing harsher to say than--
"Well, now, dearie, you'll be more careful another time, won't you?"
But the Vicar's long face grew longer than ever as he listened, and
the lines deepened in his forehead. Peggy was inexperienced in danger
signals, but Esther and Mellicent recognised the well-known signs, and
were at no loss to understand the meaning of that quiet "A word with
you in the study, Mariquita, if you please!" with which he rose from
the breakfast-table next morning.
Peggy's throat was still sore, and she fondly imagined that anxiety
on its behalf was the cause of the summons, but she was speedily
undeceived, for the Vicar motioned towards a chair, and said, in short
grave sentences, as his manner was when annoyed--
"I wish to speak to you about the event of last night, my dear. I am
afraid that you hardly realise the matter in its true light. I was not
at all pleased with the manner in which you gave your explanation. You
appeared to imagine that you had done something clever and amusing. I
take a very different view. You showed a reprehensible carelessness
in trifling with medicines in the dark; it might have caused you your
life, or, at best, a serious injury. As it was, you brought pain upon
yourself, and gave us all a serious alarm. I see nothing amusing in
such behaviour, but consider it stupid, and careless to an almost
criminal extent."
Peggy stood motionless, eyes cast down, hands clasped before her, a
picture of injured innocence. She did not say a word in self-defence,
but her feelings were so plainly written on her face that the Vicar's
eyes flashed with impatience.
"Well, what have you to say?"
Peggy sighed in dolorous fashion.
"I am sorry; I know it was careless. I am always doing things like
that. So is Arthur. So was father when he was a boy. It's in the
family. It's unfortunate, but----"
"Mariquita," said the Vicar sternly, "you are _not_ sorry! If I had
seen that you were penitent, I should not have spoken, for you would
have been sufficiently punished by your own sufferings, but you are not
sorry; you are, on the whole, rather proud of the escapade! Look into
your own heart and see if it is not so?"
He paused, looking at her with grave, expectant eyes, but there was
no sign of conviction upon the set face. The eyes were still lowered,
the lips drooped with an expression of patient endurance. There was
silence in the room while Peggy studied the carpet, and the Vicar gazed
at her downcast face. A moment before he had been on the verge of
anger, but the sternness melted away in that silence, and gave place to
an anxious tenderness. Here was a little human soul committed to his
care--how could he help? how best guide and train? The long, grave face
grew beautiful in that moment with the expression which it wore every
Sunday as he gazed around the church at the beginning of the sermon,
noting this one and that, having a swift realisation of their needs and
failings, and breathing a prayer to God that He would give to his lips
the right word, to his heart the right thought to meet the needs of his
people. Evidently sternness and outspoken blame was not the best way to
touch the girl before him. He must try another mode.
"Peggy," he said quietly, "do you think you realise what a heavy
responsibility we laid upon ourselves when we undertook the care of
you for these three years? If any accident happened to you beneath
our roof, have you ever imagined what would be our misery and remorse
at sending the news to your parents? About their feelings I do not
speak; you can realise them for yourself. We safeguard you with every
precaution in our power; we pray morning and night that you may be
preserved in safety; is it too much to ask that you will do your part
by showing more forethought, and by exercising some little care in the
daily duties of life? I ask it for our sakes as well as your own."
A faint pink flush spread over Peggy's cheeks; she gulped nervously and
raised her eyes to the Vicar's face. Twice her lips opened as if to
speak, but the natural reserve, which made it agony to her to express
her deepest feelings, closed them again before a word had been spoken.
The question was not answered, but a little hand shot out and nestled
in Mr. Asplin's with a spasmodic grip which was full of eloquence.
"Yes, dear, I know you will! I know you will!" he said, answering the
unspoken promise, and looking down at her with one of his sweet, kindly
smiles. "It will be a comfort to my wife as well as myself. She is very
nervous about you. She was upstairs three times in the night to satisfy
herself that you were well after your fright, and is too tired herself
to come downstairs this morning. She is always bright and cheery, but
she is not very strong. You would be sorry to make her ill."
No answer, only another grip of the hand, and a sudden straightening
of the lips as if they were pressed together to avoid an involuntary
trembling. There is something especially touching in the sight of
restrained emotion, and as the Vicar thought of his own two daughters,
his heart was very tender over the girl whose parents were separated
from her by six thousand miles of land and sea.
"Well, now, dear, I have said my say and that is an end of it. I
don't like finding fault, but my dear wife has thrown that duty on my
shoulders by being too tender-hearted to say a word of blame even when
it is needed. Her method works very well, as a rule, but there are
occasions when it would be criminal to withhold a just reprimand." The
Vicar stopped short and a spasm of laughter crossed his face. Peggy's
fingers had twitched within his own as he spoke those last two words,
and her eyes had dilated with interest. He knew as well as if he had
been told that she was gloating over the new expression, and mentally
noting it for future use. Nothing, however, could have been sweeter
or more natural than the manner in which she sidled against him, and
murmured--
"Thank you so much. I am sorry! I will truly try," and he watched her
out of the room with a smile of tender amusement.
"A nice child--a good child--feels deeply. I can rely upon her to do
her best."
Robert was hanging about in the passage, ready, as usual, to fulfil his
vows of support, and Peggy slid her hand through his arm and sauntered
slowly with him towards the schoolroom. Like the two girls, he had been
at no loss to understand the reason of the call to the study, and would
fain have expressed his sympathy, but Peggy stopped him with uplifted
finger.
"No, no--he was perfectly right. You must not blame him. I have been
guilty of reprehensible carelessness, and merited a reprimand!"
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration]
SOCIAL INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF AN EAST END GIRL.