DAY BY DAY.
"Oh! what a mystery
The study is of history!"
For some time things continued to go smoothly and pleasantly at Fernley.
The days slipped away, with nothing special to mark any one, but all
bright with flowers and gay with laughter. The three girls were
excellent friends, and grew to understand each other better and better.
The morning belonged rather to Margaret and Peggy; Rita was always late,
and often preferred to have her breakfast brought to her room, a
practice of which the other girls disapproved highly. They were always
out in the garden by half past eight, with breakfast a thing of the
past, and the day before them. The stocking-basket generally came with
them, and waited patiently in a corner of the green summer-house while
they took their "constitutional," which often consisted of a run through
the waving fields, or a walk along the top of the broad stone wall that
ran around the garden; or again, a tree-top excursion, as they called
it, in the great swing under the chestnut-trees. Then, while they mended
their stockings, Margaret would give Peggy a "talk-lesson," the only
kind that she was willing to receive, on English history, with an
occasional digression to the Trojan war, or the Norse mythology, as the
case might be. Peggy detested history, and knew next to nothing of it,
and this was a grievous thing to Margaret.
"First William the Norman,
Then William his son;
Henry, Stephen and Henry,
Then Richard and John,"
had been one of her own nursery rhymes, and she could not understand any
one's not thrilling responsive when the great names were spoken that
filled her with awe and joy, or with burning resentment.
"But, my dear," she would cry, when Peggy yawned at Canute, and said he
was an old stupid, "my dear, think of the place he holds! think of the
things he did!"
"Well, he's dead!" Peggy would reply; "I don't see what good it does to
bother about him now. Who cares what he did, all that time ago?"
"But," Margaret explained patiently, "if he had not done the things,
Peggy, don't you see, everything would have been different. We must
know, mustn't we, how it all came about that our life is what it is now?
We must see what we came from, and who the men were that made the
changes, and brought us on and up."
"I don't see why!" said Peggy; "I don't see what difference it makes to
me that Alfred played the harp. I don't want to play the harp, and I
never saw any one who did. It is rather fun about the cakes, but he was
awfully stupid to let them burn, seems to me."
Not a thrill could Margaret awaken by any recital of the sorrows and
sufferings of the Boy Kings, or even of her favourite Prince Arthur.
When her voice broke in the recital of his piteous tale, Peggy would
look up at her coolly and say, "How horrid of them! But he would have
been dead by this time anyway, Margaret; why do you care so much?"
Still Margaret persevered, never losing hope, simply because she could
not believe that the subject itself could fail to interest any one in
his senses. It was her own fault a good deal, she tried to think; she
did not tell the story right, or her voice was too monotonous,--Papa was
always telling her to put more colour into her reading,--or something.
The history itself could not be at fault.
"And, Peggy dear; don't think I want to be lecturing you all the time,
but--these are things that one _has_ to know something about, or one
will appear uneducated, and you don't want to do that."
"I don't care. I don't see the use of this kind of education, Margaret,
and that is just the truth. Ma never had any of what you call
education,--she was a farmer's daughter, you know, and had always lived
on the prairie,--and she has always got on well enough. Hugh talks just
like you do--"
"Please, dear, _as_ you do, not _like_."
"Well, _as_ you do, then. He talks William the Conqueror and all those
old fuddy-duddies by the yard, but he can't make me see the use of
them, and you can't. Now if you would give me some mathematics; _that_
is what I want. If you would give me some solid geometry, Margaret!"
But here poor Margaret hung her head and blushed, and confessed that she
had no solid geometry to give. Her geometry had been fluid, or rather,
vapourous, and had floated away, unthought of and unregretted.
"I am sorry and ashamed," she said. "Of course I ought to be able to
teach it, and if I go into a school, of course I shall have to study
again and make it up, so that I can. But it never can be possible that
triangles should be as interesting as human beings, Peggy."
"A great deal more interesting," Peggy maintained, "when the human
beings are dead and buried hundreds of years."
"One word more, and I have done," said poor Margaret. "You used an
expression, dear,--old fuddy-duddies, was it? I never heard it before.
Do you think it is an elegant expression, Peggy dear?"
"It's as good as I am girl!" said Peggy; and Margaret shut her eyes, and
felt despair in her heart. But soon she felt a warm kiss on her
forehead, and Peggy was promising to be good, and to try harder, and
even to do her best to learn the difference between the two
Harolds,--Hardrada and Godwinsson.
And if she would promise to do that, might she just climb up now and see
what that nest was, out on the fork there?
Perhaps Rita would come down soon, with her guitar or her
embroidery-frame; and they would sing and chatter till the early dinner.
Rita's songs were all of love and war, boleros and bull-fights. She sang
them with flashing ardour, and the other girls heard with breathless
delight, watching the play of colour and feeling, that made her face a
living transcript of what she sang. But when she was tired, she would
hand the guitar to Margaret, and beg her to sing "something cool,
peaceful, sea-green, like yourself, Marguerite!"
"Am I sea-green?" asked Margaret.
"Ah! cherub! you understand me! My blood is in a fever with these songs
of Cuba. I want coolness, icy caves, pine-trees in the wind!"
So Margaret would take the guitar, and sing in her calm, smooth
contralto the songs her father used to love: songs of the North, that
had indeed the sound of the sea and the wind in them.
"It was all for our rightful king
That we left fair Scotland's strand.
It was all for our rightful king,
We ever saw Irish land,
My dear,
We ever saw Irish land!"
The plaintive melody rose and fell like the waves on the shore; and Rita
would curl herself like a panther in the sun, and murmur with pleasure,
and call for more. Then, perhaps, Margaret would sing that lovely ballad
of Hogg's, which begins,
"Far down by yon hills of the heather sae green,
And down by the corrie that sings to the sea,
The bonnie young Flora sat sighing her lane,
The dew on her plaid and the tear in her e'e.
"She looked on a boat with the breezes that swung
Afar on the wave, like a bird on the main,
And aye as it lessened, she sighed and she sung,
'Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!'"
But Rita had no patience with Flora McDonald.
"Why did she not go with him?" she asked, when Margaret, after the song
was over, told the brave story of Prince Charlie's escape after
Culloden, and of how the noble girl, at the risk of her own life, led
the prince, disguised as her waiting-woman, through many weary ways,
till they reached the seashore where the vessel was waiting to take him
to France.
"He could not speak!" said Margaret. "He just took her hand, and stood
looking at her; but she could hardly see him for her tears. Then he took
off his cap, and stooped down and kissed her twice on the forehead; and
so he went. But after he was in the boat, he turned again, and said to
her:
"'After all that has happened, I still hope, madam, we shall meet in St.
James's yet!' But of course they never did."
"But why did she not go with him?" demanded Rita. "She had spirit, it
appears. Why did she let him go without her?"
Margaret gazed at her wide-eyed.
"He was going into exile," she said. "She had done all she could, she
had saved his life; there was nothing more to be done."
"But--that she should leave him! Did she not love him? was he
faithless?"
Margaret blushed, and drew herself up unconsciously. "You do not
understand, Rita," she said gravely. "This was her prince, the son of
her sovereign; she was a simple Scottish gentlewoman. When he was flying
for his life, she was able to befriend him, and to save his life at
peril of her own; but when that was over, there was no more need of her,
and she went back to her home. What should she have done in France, at
the king's court?"
"Even if so," muttered Rita, with the well-known shrug of her shoulders,
"I would have gone, if it had been I. He should not have thrown me off
like that."
Margaret raised her eyes, full of angry light, and opened her lips to
speak; but instead kept silence for a moment. Then, "You do not
understand," she said again, but gently; "my mother was a Scotchwoman,
so I feel differently, of course. It is no matter, but I will tell you
this about Miss McDonald: that when she died, years after, an old woman
of seventy, she was buried in the sheet that had covered Prince Charles
Stuart, that night after Culloden."
"My!" said Peggy, "it must have been awfully yellow!"
After dinner it was Rita's custom to take a siesta. She declared that
she required more sleep than most people, and that without eleven hours'
repose she should perish. So while she slept, Margaret and Peggy
arranged flowers, or Peggy would write home, with many sighs of
weariness and distress, while Margaret, sitting near her, snatched a
half-hour for some enchanting book. It sometimes seemed to her more than
she could bear, to be among so many fine books, and to have almost no
time to read. At home, several hours were spent in reading, as a matter
of course; often and often, the long, happy evening would pass without a
word exchanged between her father and herself. Only, when either looked
up from the book, there was always the meeting glance of love and
sympathy, which made the printed page shine golden when the eyes
returned to it. Here, reading was considered a singular waste of time.
Rita read herself to sleep with a novel, but Peggy was entirely frank in
her confession that she should not care if she never saw a book again.
Even the home letters were a grievous task to her, for she never could
think of anything to say. Margaret, deep in the precious pages of
Froissart, it might be, would be roused by a portentous sigh, and
looking up, would find Peggy champing the penhandle, and gazing at her
with lack-lustre eyes.
"What's the matter now, Peg of Limavaddy?"
"I can't--think--of a single thing to say."
"Child! I thought you had so much to tell them this time. Think of that
lovely drive we took yesterday; I thought you were going to tell about
that. Don't you remember the sunset from the top of the long hill, and
how we made believe the clouds were our fairy castles, and each said
what she would do when she got there? Rita was going to organise a
Sunset Dance, with ten thousand fairies in crimson and gold, and you
were going to be met by a hundred thoroughbred horses, all white as
snow, and were going to drive them abreast in a golden chariot; don't
you remember all that? Tell them about the drive!"
"I have told them," said Peggy gloomily. "I couldn't put in all that,
Margaret; it would take all day, and besides, Ma would think I was
crazy."
"Do you mind my seeing what you wrote?--oh, Peggy!"
For Peggy had written this: "We had an elagant ride yesterday."
"What's the matter?" asked Peggy. "Isn't it spelled right?"
"Oh, that isn't it!" said Margaret. "At least, that is the smallest
part. 'Elegant' has two _e_'s, not two _a_'s. But,--Peggy dear, you
surely would not speak of a _drive_ as _elegant_!"
"Why not? I said ride, not drive, but I don't see any difference. It
_was_ elegant; you said so yourself. I don't understand what you mean,
Margaret." And Peggy looked injured, and began to hunch her shoulders
and put out her under lip; but for once Margaret, wounded in a tender
part, took no heed of the signs of coming trouble.
[Illustration: PEGGY WRITES HOME.]
"_I_ say so? Never!" she cried indignantly. "I hope I--that is, I--I
don't think the word can be used in that way, Peggy; I do not, indeed.
You speak of an elegant dress, or an elegant woman, but _not_ of an
elegant drive or an elegant sunset. The word implies something refined,
something--"
"Oh, bother!" said Peggy rudely. "I didn't come here to school, Margaret
Montfort!"
"I sometimes wonder if you ever went anywhere to school!" said Margaret;
and she took her book and went away without another word, her heart
beating high with anger and impatience.
Such affairs were short-lived, however. Margaret had too much sense and
good feeling, Peggy too much affection, to let them last. The kiss and
the kind word were not long in following, and it was to be noticed that
Rita was never allowed to find out that her two Northern cousins ever
disagreed by so much as a word. There was some unspoken bond that bade
them both make common cause before the foreign cousin whom both loved
and admired. So when Rita made her appearance beautifully dressed for
the afternoon drive or walk (for they could not have the good white
horse every day,--a fact which made the senorita chafe and rage against
John Strong more than ever), she always found smiling faces to welcome
her, and the three would go off together in high spirits, to explore
some new and lovely part of the country.
Peggy was always the driver. On their first drive John Strong had gone
with them, to the intense disgust of Rita, and the indignation of Peggy,
who, though she was very fond of the grave factotum, resented the doubt
he implied of her skill. It was a silent drive, Margaret alone
responding to the remarks of their conductor, as he pointed out this or
that beautiful view. He never went with them again, but having first
tested Peggy's powers by a _tete-a-tete_ drive with her, cheerfully
resigned the reins, and used to watch their departure with calm
approval.
"The little one makes much the best figure on the box!" John Strong
would say to himself. "If life were all driving, now--but--
"Weel I ken my ain lassie;
Kind love is in her e'e!"