For the next week conversation was more strictly centred on Rosalind
than ever, and the gloomy expression deepened on Peggy's face. She was,
in truth, working too hard for her strength, for, as each day passed,
the necessity of hurrying on with the calendar became more apparent;
and as Robert was no longer master of his own time she was obliged to
come to his aid in writing out the selected quotations.
At every spare moment of the day she was locked in her room scribbling
away for dear life or searching for appropriate extracts, and, as a
consequence, her brain refused to rest when she wished it to do so. She
tossed wakefully on her pillow, and was often most inclined for sleep
when six o'clock struck, and she dragged herself up, a white-cheeked
weary little mortal to sit blinking over the fire, wishing feebly that
it was time to go to bed again instead of getting up to face the long,
long day.
Robert was not more observant than most boys of his age, and Peggy
would have worked herself to death before she had complained to him.
She was proud to feel that he depended on her more than ever, that
without her help he could not possibly have finished his task, while
his words of gratitude helped to comfort a heart which was feeling sore
and empty.
In truth, these last few weeks had been harder for Peggy than those
immediately following her mother's departure. Then, each one in the
house had vied with the other in trying to comfort her, whereas now,
without any intention of unkindness, her companions often appeared to
be neglectful.
When Rosalind was present Esther hung on one arm and Mellicent on
the other, without so much as a glance over the shoulder to see if
Peggy were following. Instead of a constant “Peggy, what would you
like?” “What does Peggy say?” her opinion was never even asked, while
Rosalind's lightest word was treated as law.
It would have been hard for any girl under the circumstances, but it
was doubly hard when that girl was so dependent on her friends, and
so sensitive and reserved in disposition as Peggy Saville. She would
not deign to complain or to ask for signs of affection which were not
voluntarily given, but her merry ways disappeared, and she became so
silent and subdued that she was hardly recognisable as the audacious
Peggy of a few weeks earlier.
“Peggy is so grumpy!” Mellicent complained to her mother. “She never
laughs now, nor makes jokes, nor flies about as she used to do! She's
just as glum and mum as can be, and she never sits with us! She is
always in her bedroom with the door locked, so that we can't get in!
She's there now! I think she might stay with us sometimes! It's mean,
always running away!”
Mrs. Asplin drew her brows together and looked worried. She had not
been satisfied about Peggy lately, and this news did not tend to
reassure her. Her kind heart could not endure that anyone beneath her
roof should be ill or unhappy, and the girl had looked both during the
last few days. She went upstairs at once and tapped at the door, when
Peggy's voice was raised in impatient answer.
“I can't come! Go away! I'm engaged!”
“But I want to speak to you, dear! Please let me in!” she replied in
her clear, pleasant tones, whereupon there was a hasty scamper inside,
and the door was thrown open.
“Oh-h! I didn't know it was you; I thought it was one of the girls. I'm
sorry I kept you waiting.”
Mrs. Asplin gave a glance around. The gas fire was lit, but the chair
beside it stood stiffly in the corner, and the cushion was uncrushed.
Evidently the girl had not been sitting there. The work-basket was
in its accustomed place, and there were no cottons or silks lying
about--Peggy had not been sewing at Christmas presents, as she had
half hoped to find her. A towel was thrown over the writing-table, and
a piece of blotting-paper lay on the floor. A chair was pushed to one
side as if it had been lately used. That looked as if she had been
writing letters.
“Peggy, dear, what are you doing all by yourself in this chilly room?”
“I'm busy, Mrs. Asplin. I lit the fire as soon as I came in.”
“But a room does not get warm in five minutes. I don't want you to
catch cold and be laid up with a sore throat. Can't you bring your
writing downstairs and do it beside the others?”
“I would rather not. I can get on so much better by myself.”
“Are you writing to India--to your mother?”
“N--no, not just now.”
“Then really, dear, you must come downstairs! This won't do! Your
mother wished you to have a fire in your room so that you might be
able to sit here when you wanted to be alone, but she never meant you
to make it a habit, or to spend all your spare time alone. It isn't
healthy to use a room night and day, and to burn so much gas, and it
isn't sociable, Peggy dear. Mellicent has just been complaining that
you are hardly ever with them nowadays. Come along, like a good girl;
put the writing away and amuse yourself downstairs. You have done
enough work for one day. You don't do me credit at all with those white
cheeks.”
Peggy stood with her eyes fixed on the carpet without uttering a word.
It would have been the easiest thing in the world to say, “Oh, do let
me stay upstairs as much as I like for a day or two longer. I have a
piece of work on hand which I am anxious to finish. It is a secret,
but I hope to tell you all about it soon, and I am sure you will be
pleased.” If she had done so she knew perfectly well how hearty and
pleasant would have been Mrs. Asplin's consent; but there are some
states of mind in which it is a positive pleasure to be a martyr, and
to feel oneself misunderstood, and this was just the mood in which
Peggy found herself at present. She heard Mrs. Asplin sigh, as if with
anxiety and disappointment, as she left the room, and shrugged her
shoulders in wilful indifference.
“She thinks I like sitting shivering here! I slave, and slave, from
morning till night, and then people think I am sulky! I am not working
for myself. I don't want the wretched old ten pounds; I could have ten
pounds to-morrow if I needed it. Mother said I could. I am working to
help Rob, and now I shall have to sit up later, and get up earlier than
ever, as I mayn't work during the day, Mellicent said I was never with
them, did she! I don't see that it matters whether I am there or not!
They don't want me; nobody wants me now that Rosalind has come! I hate
Rosalind--nasty, smirking, conceited thing!” and Peggy jerked the towel
off the writing-table and flicked it violently to and fro in the air,
just as a little relief to her over-charged feelings.
She was crossing the hall with unwilling steps when the postman's
knock sounded at the door, and three letters in long, narrow envelopes
fell to the ground. Each envelope was of a pale pink tint with a crest
and monogram in white relief; one was addressed to the Misses Asplin,
another to Oswald Elliston, and a third to Miss Mariquita Saville.
“Invitations!” cried Peggy, with a caper of delight. “Invitations!
How scrumptious!” Her face clouded for a moment as the sight of the
letters, “R.D.,” suggested the sender of the letters, but the natural
girlish delight in an unexpected festivity was stronger even than her
prejudices, and it was the old, bright Peggy who bounced into the
schoolroom holding up the three letters, and crying gleefully, “Quis,
Quis, something nice for somebody! An invitation!”
“Ego, Ego!” came the eager replies, and the envelopes were seized and
torn open in breathless haste.
“From Rosalind! Oh, how very funny! ‘Requests the
pleasure--company--to a pink luncheon.’ What in the world is a ‘pink
luncheon?’--‘on Tuesday next, the 20th inst....’”
“A p-p-pink luncheon? How wewwy stwange!” echoed Mellicent, who had
been suddenly affected with an incapacity to pronounce the letter “r”
since the arrival of Rosalind Darcy on the scene, a peculiarity which
happened regularly every autumn, and passed off again with the advent
of spring. “How can a luncheon possibly be pink?”
“That's more than I can tell you, my dear! Ask Rob. What does it mean,
Rob!” asked Peggy curiously, and Robert scowled, and shook back his
shock of hair.
“Some American fad, I believe. The idea is to have everything of one
colour--flowers, drapery, and food, china--everything that is on the
table. It's a fag and an awful handicap, for you can't have half
the things you want. But let us be modern or die, that's the motto
nowadays. Mother is always trying to get hold of new-fangled notions.”
“‘Peggy Saville requests the pleasure of Jane Smith's company to a
magenta supper.’--‘Peggy Saville requests the pleasure of Mr. Jones's
company to a purple tea.’ It's a splendid idea! I like it immensely,”
said Peggy, pursing her lips, and staring in the fire in meditative
fashion. “Pink--pink--what can we eat that is pink? P-prawns,
p-pickles, p-p-pomegranates, P-aysandu tongues (you would call those
pink, wouldn't you--pinky red?). Humph! I don't think it sounds very
nice. Perhaps they dye the things with cochineal. I think I shall have
a sensible brown and green meal before I go, and then I can nibble
elegantly at the pinkies. Would it be considered a delicate mark of
attention if I wore a pink frock?”
“Certainly it would. Wear that nice one that you put on in the
evenings. Rosalind will be in pink from head to foot, you may depend
on it,” said Robert confidently, whereupon Mellicent rushed headlong
from the room to find her mother, and plead eagerly that summer
crepon dresses of the desired tint should be brought forth from their
hiding-place and freshened up for the occasion. To accede to this
request meant an extra call upon time already fully occupied, but
mothers have a way of not grudging trouble where their children are
concerned. Mrs. Asplin said, “Yes, darling, of course I will!” and set
to work with such good will that all three girls sported pink dresses
beneath their ulsters when they set off to partake of the mysterious
luncheon a few days later.
Rosalind came to the bedroom to receive them, and looked on from an
armchair, while Lady Darcy's maid helped the visitors to take off their
wraps. She herself looked like a rose in her dainty pink draperies, and
Peggy had an impression that she was not altogether pleased to see that
her guests were as appropriately dressed as herself. She eyed them up
and down, and made remarks to the maid in that fluent French of hers
which was so unintelligible to the schoolgirls' ears. The maid smirked
and pursed up her lips, and then meeting Peggy's steady gaze, dropped
her eyes in confusion. Peggy knew, as well as if she had understood
every word, that the remarks exchanged between mistress and maid had
been of a depreciatory nature, not as concerned her own attire--that
was as perfect in its way as Rosalind's own--but with reference to
the home-made dresses of the Vicar's daughters, which seemed to have
suddenly become clumsy and shapeless when viewed in the mirrors of this
elegant bedroom. She was in arms at once on her friends' behalf, and
when Peggy's dignity was hurt she was a formidable person to tackle.
In this instance she fixed her eyes first on the maid, and then on
Rosalind herself with a steady, disapproving stare which was not a
little disconcerting.
“I am sorry,” she said, “but we really don't know French well enough to
follow your conversation! You were talking about us, I think. Perhaps
you would be kind enough to repeat your remarks in English?”
“Oh-h, it doesn't matter! It was nothing at all important!” Rosalind
flushed, and had the grace to look a trifle ashamed of her own
ill-breeding, but she did not by any means appreciate the reproof.
The girls had not been ten minutes in the house, and already that
aggravating Peggy Saville had succeeded in making her feel humiliated
and uncomfortable. The same thing happened whenever they met. The
respect, and awe, and adoring admiration which she was accustomed to
receive from other girls of her own age, seemed altogether wanting in
Peggy's case, and yet, strange to say, the very fact that she refused
to fall down and worship invested Peggy with a peculiar importance in
Rosalind's eyes. She longed to overcome her prejudices and add her
name to the list of her adorers, and to this end she considered her
tastes in a way which would never have occurred to her in connection
with Mrs. Asplin's daughters. In planning the pink luncheon Peggy had
been continually in her mind, and it is doubtful whether she would have
taken the trouble to arrange so difficult an entertainment had not
the party from the vicarage included that important personage, Miss
Mariquita Saville.
From the bedroom the girls adjourned to the morning-room, where Lady
Darcy sat waiting, but almost as soon as they had exchanged greetings,
the gong sounded to announce luncheon, and they walked across the hall
aglow with expectation.
The table looked exquisite, and the guests stood still in the doorway
and gasped with admiration. The weather outside was grey and murky,
but tall standard lamps were placed here and there, and the light
which streamed from beneath the pink silk shades gave an air of warmth
and comfort to the room. Down the centre of the table lay a slip of
looking-glass on which graceful long-necked swans seemed to float
to and fro, while troughs filled with soft, pink blossoms formed a
bordering. Garlands of pink flowers fell from the chandelier and were
attached to the silver candelabra in which pink candles burned with
clear and steady flare. Glass, china, ornaments were all of the same
dainty colour, and beside each plate was a dainty little buttonhole
nosegay, with a coral-headed pin, all ready to be attached to the dress
or coat of the owner.
“It's--it's beautiful!” cried Mellicent ecstatically, while Peggy's
beauty-loving eye turned from one detail to another with delighted
approbation. “Really,” she said to herself in astonishment, “I couldn't
have done it better myself! It's quite admirable!” and as Rosalind's
face peered inquiringly at her beneath the canopy of flowers she nodded
her head, and smiled in generous approval.
“Beautiful! Charming! I congratulate you! Did you design it, and
arrange everything yourself!”
“Mother and I made it up between us. We didn't do the actual work, but
we told the servants what to do, and saw that it was all right. The
flowers and bon-bons are easy enough to manage; it's the things to eat
that are the greatest trouble.”
“It seems to be too horribly prosaic to eat anything at such a table,
except crumpled rose-leaves like the princess in the fairy tale,” said
Peggy gushingly, but at this Mellicent gave an exclamation of dismay,
and the three big lads turned their eyes simultaneously towards the
soup tureen as if anxious to assure themselves that they were not to be
put off with such ethereal rations.
The soup was pink. “Tomato!” murmured Peggy to herself, as she raised
the first creamy spoonful to her lips. The fish was covered with
thick pink sauce; tiny little cutlets lurked behind ruffles of pink
paper; pink baskets held chicken souffles; moulds of pink cream and
whipped-up syllabus were handed round in turns, and looked so tempting
that Mellicent helped herself at once, and nearly shed tears of
mortification on finding that they were followed by distracting pink
ices, which were carried away again before she could possibly finish
what was on her plate. Then came dessert-plates and finger-glasses,
in which crystallised rose-leaves floated in the scented water, as if
in fulfilment of Peggy's suggestion of an hour before, and the young
people sat in great contentment, eating rosy apples, bananas pared and
dipped in pink sugar, or helping themselves to the delicious bon-bons
which were strewed about the table.
While they were thus occupied the door opened and Lord Darcy came
into the room. He had not appeared before, and he shook hands with
the visitors in turn, and then stood at the head of the table looking
about him with a slow, kindly smile. Peggy watched him from her seat,
and thought what a nice face he had, and wondered at the indifferent
manner in which he was received by his wife and daughter. Lady Darcy
leant back in her chair and played with her fruit, the sleeves of
her pink silk tea-gown falling back from her white arms. Rosalind
whispered to Max, and neither of them troubled to cast so much as a
glance of welcome at the new-comer. Peggy thought of her own father,
the gallant soldier out in India, of the joy and pride with which his
comings and goings were watched; of Mr. Asplin in the vicarage with
his wife running to meet him, and Mellicent resting her curly head on
his shoulder, and the figure of the old lord standing unnoticed at the
head of his own table assumed a pathetic interest. It seemed, however,
as if Lord Darcy were accustomed to be overlooked, for he showed no
signs of annoyance; On the contrary, his face brightened, and he looked
at the pretty scene with sparkling eyes. The room was full of a soft
rosy glow, the shimmer of silver and crystal was reflected in the sheet
of mirror, and beneath the garlands of flowers the young faces of the
guests glowed with pleasure and excitement. He looked from one to the
other--handsome Max, dandy Oswald, Robert with his look of strength
and decision; then to the girls--Esther, gravely smiling, wide-eyed
Mellicent; Peggy, with her eloquent, sparkling eyes; Rosalind, a queen
of beauty among them all; finally to the head of the table where sat
his wife.
“I must congratulate you, dear,” he said heartily. “It is the prettiest
sight I have seen for a long time. You have arranged admirably, but
that's no new thing; you always do. I don't know where you get your
ideas. These wreaths--eh? I've never seen anything like them before.
What made you think of fastening them up there?”
“I have had them like that several times before, but you never notice
a thing until its novelty is over, and I am tired to death of seeing
it,” said his wife with a frown, and an impatient curve of the lip as
if she had received a rebuke instead of a compliment.
Peggy stared at her plate, felt Robert shuffle on his chair by her
side, and realised that he was as embarrassed and unhappy as herself.
The beautiful room with its luxurious appointments seemed to have
suddenly become oppressive and cheerless, for in it was the spirit
of discontent and discord between those who should have been most in
harmony. Esther was shocked, Mellicent frightened, the boys looked
awkward and uncomfortable. No one ventured to break the silence, and
there was quite a long pause before Lady Darcy spoke again in quick,
irritable tones.
“Have you arranged to get away with me on Thursday, as I asked you?”
“My dear, I cannot. I explained before. I am extremely sorry, but I
have made appointments which I cannot break. I could take you next week
if you would wait.”
“I can't wait. I told you I had to go to the dentist's. Do you wish
me to linger on in agony for another week? And I have written to Mrs.
Bouverie that I will be at her ‘At Home’ on Saturday. My appointments
are, at least, as binding as yours. It isn't often that I ask you to
take me anywhere, but when it is a matter of health, I do think you
might show a little consideration.”
Lord Darcy drew his brows together and bit his moustache. Peggy
recalled Robert's description of the “governor looking wretched” when
he found himself compelled to refuse a favour, and did not wonder that
the lad was ready to deny himself a pleasure rather than see that
expression on his father's face. The twinkling light had died out of
his eyes and he looked old, and sad, and haggard, far more in need
of physical remedies than his wife, whose “agony” had been so well
concealed during the last two hours as to give her the appearance of
a person in very comfortable health. Rosalind alone looked absolutely
unruffled, and lay back in her chair nibbling at her bon-bon as though
such scenes were of too frequent occurrence between her parents to be
deserving of attention.
“If you have made up your mind to go to-morrow, and cannot go alone,
you must take Robert with you, Beatrice, for I cannot leave. It is only
for four days, and Mr. Asplin will no doubt excuse him if you write and
explain the circumstances.”
Lord Darcy left the room and Robert and Peggy exchanged agonised
glances. Go away for nearly a week, when before two days were over the
calendar must be sent to London, and there still remained real hard
work before it was finished! Peggy sat dazed and miserable, seeing the
painful effort of the last month brought to naught, Robert's ambition
defeated, and her own help of no avail. That one glance had shown the
lad's face flushed with emotion, but when his mother spoke to him in
fretful tones, bidding him be ready next morning when she should call
in the carriage on her way to the station, he answered at once with
polite acquiescence.
“Very well, mater, I won't keep you waiting. I shall be ready by
half-past ten if you want me.”
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration]
THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.
BY FLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.