IN THE TWILIGHT
"How strange it seems without the boys!" said Jean.
"And Uncle John!" said Margaret.
"And Hugh!" said Peggy. "I wish they hadn't gone."
"Oh, no, you don't, Peggy!" said Margaret. "It was such a great chance,
to have the day on that wonderful yacht. Just think what a good time
they are having! I only wish you could have gone too, but it is a
bachelor party, you see."
"Of course! Oh, I want them to have the fun, and it was very good of
Captain Storm to let Uncle John take them all. Yes, they will have a
glorious time; only--well, we miss them so horribly. Dear me, Margaret,
isn't it strange that you should get to know people so well in such a
short time? Why, I seem to know Gerald and Phil as well--better, in
some ways, than I know Hugh. But then, I never feel as if I understood
Hugh, he is so--he knows so much. Margaret, dear, it makes me happy all
through to have you and Hugh know each other, and be such friends."
"Indeed, it cannot make you so happy as it does me, Peggy," said
Margaret, smiling. "He is a wonderful person, that brother of yours.
Yes, he does know a most amazing amount, but he never makes one
uncomfortable with his knowledge, as some clever people do. He is like a
delightful book, that you can read when you want to, and when you don't
it stays quiet on its shelf. When I want to know about anything, and
Uncle John is somewhere else, or is busy, I just turn over a page of
Hugh, and there I have it. Oh, by the bye, Grace, what was that stanza
he was quoting to you this morning, just before he went away? Don't you
remember? we were coming through the orchard, he and I, and we met you,
and he said this. I have been trying all day to recall it."
"Keats!" said Grace, briefly.
"Yes, I know that; it was from 'La Belle Dame sans Merci,' but I cannot
get the whole stanza. Won't you repeat it? I know you have almost the
whole of Keats by heart."
Grace hesitated, and murmured something about "a time for everything,"
but finally, half-reluctantly, she repeated the stanza:
"'I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful, a fairy's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.'"
"Yes," said Margaret. "Well--thank you, Grace! I just wanted to hear it
in your voice; what I was thinking of was, that Hugh always knows just
what to say about everything and everybody. He has the whole Golden
Treasury in his head, and he always turns the right page. Do you
remember the other day, when Michael was so stupid!"
"Michael is always stupid!" said Jean.
"Poor Michael! He is not very clever." (Michael was the stable-boy at
Fernley, a new importation from Ireland, with a good deal of peat-bog
still sticking to his brains.) "Well, the other day he was more stupid
than usual, for he was sent in town to get some rolled oats that
Frances wanted. Well, he brought back just plain oats; and when Frances
wanted to know what he meant by that, he said, 'Sure, it's meself can
rowl 'em about for yez, as well as that feller in the white jacket.'
Frances explained the situation to him with more force than amiability.
She was in a perfect storm, and poor Michael stood meekly, feeling of
his ear as if she had actually boxed it, though really she only
threatened to, and wondering what it was all about. Well, Hugh and I
came along, and Hugh just looked at him, and said:
"'The ass upon the pivot of his skull
Turned round a long left ear!'
There is no other quotation in the English language that would have
fitted the case so perfectly."
"You and Grace seem to know Hugh about a hundred times as well as Peggy
and I do," said Jean, pouting a little.
"Because they are clever, my dear, and we are not," said Peggy,
cheerfully. "If you would learn things, Jean, English literature and
all that, you might be able to talk to Hugh. As it is--"
"Well, I think Phil and Gerald are ever so much more fun, anyhow!" said
Jean, saucily. "Hugh is poky!"
Seeing an elder-sisterly cloud gathering on Peggy's brow, Margaret
hastened to interfere. "Girls," she said, "I have a confession to make.
I was just going to make it, when the quotations turned me off the
track. You know what Peggy was saying, about our all getting to know
each other so well from staying in the house together. That reminded me
of something, something I am very much ashamed of; and I think it would
be good for my soul to confess it. But you must promise never to tell."
"We promise! We promise!" cried all the girls.
"Margaret," said Grace, "I have been looking for your sins ever since I
came, but you were too clever for me; now I shall learn."
"Not my fault," said Margaret, merrily, "if you are a bat as well as a
dozen other animals, my dear. Well, girls--oh, I am ashamed, and it
really is most astonishingly virtuous of me to tell you about it.
Peggy, just before you came, I was very blue; deeply, darkly, most
unbeautifully blue!"
"Margaret! you, blue?"
"Hear Peggy making rhymes! Yes, I, blue. You see, the children were
gone, and I did miss them so, I hardly knew how to bear it. It is
impossible for any one to have any idea, girls, how children, children
that are little enough to need one's care, you know, and--and watching,
and thinking about, and all--how they get inside your heart and just
live there, all curled up in it, bless them! and these particular
children are the very dearest ones that ever lived, I do believe. Well,
so they were gone, and my heart seemed empty; wickedly and abominably
empty, for there was my own dearest uncle, and there were you, my own
Peggy, coming to spend the whole summer with me, and as if that were not
joy enough for three people, let alone one, I made all kinds of plans,
about studying, and teaching you housekeeping, and embroidery, and all
kinds of things. We were going to read so many hours a day, and work so
many hours,--my poor Peggy! you would have had an unmerciful kind of
time!--and everything was going to be quiet and regular and cheerful; I
never got beyond cheerfulness in my brightest dreams of the summer. But
even the cheerfulness was far ahead, and just then--before you came--I
really had difficulty sometimes in keeping a cheerful face for Uncle
John when he came in. Why--must I tell the whole?"
"Yes, Margaret, every word!"
"I used to go up to Susan D.'s room and cry over her little pinafores
and things. As for my pincushion, I fairly soaked it with tears when I
first found it. I told you about the pincushion, didn't I? Why, that
little lamb, for days before she went, was working away at something,
she would not let me see what. After she was gone, I went up to my room
for a quiet cry, and there was a gorgeous new pincushion, and 'I love
you,' on it in pins. My dear little girl! Well, girls, so--that was the
way I felt, and the way I acted, most absurdly; and then--all this
happened. First Hugh dropped from the skies; and then Uncle proposed the
house party, and you came, Jean, and the Merryweathers; and then you,
Peggy; and we discovered our dear Grace; and so, instead of a quiet,
rather humdrum summer, I am having the most enchanting, Arabian-nights
kind of time that ever was. And how do you think I feel?"
"Phil would say 'like thirty cents!'" said Jean, who was certainly a
little inclined to be pert.
"If I hear you say anything of the kind, young one, I'll swat--"
"Peggy, dearest!" murmured Margaret, softly.
"I'll speak to you very severely. I am ashamed of you, Kidderminster!"
"Look here, Peggy, I won't stand that!" said Jean. "You promised me,
when I first came, that you wouldn't call me that."
"Then don't behave like a kid!" retorted Peggy. "There, that's enough.
Yes, Margaret, it has all been perfectly delightful and fairy-like; and
then the Mysteries, too, and the hunting, and the Silver Closet, and
all. Oh, I am so glad we didn't find out everything that first summer. I
suppose Uncle John thought we were too young and silly then; not that
you were ever silly, you dear darling thing. But, Margaret, there is one
thing wanting to it all, and only you and I know what that is."
Margaret nodded. "Yes," she said, with a little sigh. "We want our
Princess, Peggy. Oh, Grace, if you only knew our Rita! How you and she
would love each other! Peggy, you said that just at the right moment,
for I have her last letter in my pocket, on purpose to read to you, and
I am sure the others would like to hear it, too. Would you, girls?"
There seemed no possible doubt on the subject. All the girls gathered
about Margaret, sitting on the floor, as they liked best to do. Margaret
herself took possession of her favorite low chair, and drawing the
letter from her pocket, began to read:
"BELOVED MARGUERITE:--I am of return only
yesterday from an expedition to the hills, and
I find your precious letter waiting for me. No
need to tell you that I pressed it to my heart,
covered it with kisses. Jack says your letters
are the sole thing of which he is jealous. I
grieve to hear that you must lose those little
ones whom you love so well, even for a short
time; but courage, _Margarita mia_; there are
other flowers besides roses, and summer is a
pleasant time. You will have Peggy with you,
dear Peggy! She sends me a photograph, which
shows her little changed in the face; still the
dimples, still the soft roundness of cheek and
chin. Best of Peggys; if I had her here, what
great joy! But I must tell you of our ride. We
went, Jack and I, up to the hill camp, where we
went last year, after the terrible ride you
know of. There we spent three happy days,
camping in the green hollow among the hills,
with only Juan to cook for us and care for the
horses. Ah, Marguerite, what a time was that!
We visited every spot made sacred to us by our
love. The hiding-place, near poor Don
Annunzio's house, where I first saw my hero,
swinging in his hammock. Have I told you that I
thought him a skulker, a coward hiding to
escape warfare? How often we have laughed over
that! Then we passed along the road, so
peaceful now, so wild and horrent then (how is
this word, 'horrent,' Marguerite? I find it in
a poem, it seems to me noble; I tell Jack, he
laughs, and says something like 'high falu--' I
cannot tell what!). We paused to weep over the
gray heap where once smiled the _residencia_,
where that kind old woman and her good vast
husband sheltered the wandering maiden,
protected her at the risk of their own lives,
and--one of them, as you know--died to save her
and others. Then farther, to Carlos's old camp,
where Manuela and I lived, and where I first
learned to be of a little use in the world. Ah,
the memories, how they came crowding back! I
have told you that Manuela is married to Pepe?
Yes; two months ago. The wedding was charming!
I gave her her wedding-gown, of finest muslin,
suitable to her condition, with plenty of
lace and ribbons, which the poor child values
highly, and I dressed her hair (poor Manuela!
She would have done it far better herself; she
has a wonderful gift. My present maid is a poor
creature, but Manuela is to give her lessons),
and arranged the veil and wreath. She was a
vision of enchantment, and really thrown away
on poor Pepe, who never looked at either dress
or veil. Jack says 'neither did he.' My dear,
these men! To what purpose do we adorn
ourselves, exhaust the treasure of our souls,
in efforts to please them? But I wander from my
story. My child, this expedition, carrying back
heart as well as body to the scenes of before
our marriage, has told me over again the story
of my happiness. Marguerite, how to deserve it,
this wonderful bliss? I study, I try, the dear
Saint teaches me always many things--in vain! I
am debtor to the whole world, and how much more
to the gracious Power above worlds! But enough
of this, my Pearl! Your time will come; till
then you know nothing of it. I pant for your
awakening, I burn, Marguerite, but I am
powerless. If I had you here, there is a friend
of ours, a paladin, a Roland, second only to my
Jack--no! This makes you laugh, I feel it, I
see your cool, pearly smile. I am angry with
you for laughing, yet I laugh, too. So! now of
other things. I think of you always; Jack also;
I have told him so much, he assassinates
himself with desire to see you all. The time
will come! Marguerite--no matter! One word
only! Our beloved Uncle's birthday; I remember
the day, the Fourteenth. You will honor it, I
know, as such a day should be honored, the day
which blessed the earth with the best
man--except one--that breathes mortal breath.
Marguerite, if on that day a trifle should come
from the far-away cousins, you will receive it
kindly? Ah, how well I know the answer! Bless
you, my treasure! I must go to my housekeeping.
Dear Donito Miguelito is staying with us now;
you can fancy the joy of tending this saintly
old man in his feebleness. I prepare myself the
little dishes that please him; it is a sacred
task; it is like feeding a holy butterfly.
"Adios, my Marguerite!
"Ever and ever your devoted
"RITA.
"You ask of Concepcion. She is married to Diego
Moreno, and, as I hear, is very unhappy. Poor
woman, I compassionate her!"
After the reading of the letter, Grace slipped away to return to her
patient, and the three cousins sat together, talking in low tones of
Rita, and of Grace herself. Jean maintained stoutly that Rita could not
be so fascinating as Grace. Peggy and Margaret insisted that, though
totally different in quality, neither could outdo the other in amount of
charm.
"They are both the kind of girls you would do anything for!" said Peggy;
"just anything in the world, no matter how foolish, just because they
wanted you to. It isn't a thing you can describe; it just _is_, and
nobody can help it."
"Well, I should think the difference would be in the kind of thing they
would ask you to do," said Jean, with wisdom beyond her years. "Grace
wouldn't ask you anything foolish, and I should think Cousin Rita
might."
"Grace!" exclaimed Peggy; and then checked herself loyally. "Grace
wasn't always so wise as she is now, young one!" she said, simply.
"Well, she's a dear, anyhow; I think Mrs. Peyton might have let her stay
all night. It's horribly poky, with Uncle John and the boys and
everybody away. Why, Margaret, there isn't a single man about the place,
is there? Bannan drove them over, and then he was going to the
cattle-show, and so was Michael. Suppose there should be robbers, or
anything!"
"Suppose there should!" said Peggy, coolly. "If Frances and I and the
dogs could not arrange matters with a robber, it would be a pity.
Margaret--what is this queer light? Has everything turned red, all of a
sudden?"
[Illustration: "A TALL, SLENDER FIGURE HALF RAN, HALF TOTTERED INTO THE
ROOM."]
"The moon rises late to-night," said Margaret. "I have no idea what
time it is now. It seems an hour since Grace went."
"The moon isn't red, anyhow!" said Peggy. "I believe--"
As she spoke, she rose and went to the window. "Girls!" she cried.
"There is a fire somewhere near. Come and look!"
Margaret and Jean pressed hastily forward to the window. It was a
strange scene on which they looked. All of a sudden, the world seemed
turned to red and black. A crimson light suffused the sky; against it
the trees stood black as ebony. Even as they looked, a crest of flame
sprang up above the tree-tops, wavered, and broke into a shower of
sparks; at the same instant their nostrils were filled with the acrid,
pungent smell of wood smoke.
"Oh, what is it? Where can it be?" cried Margaret.
"Maybe it's only a bonfire!" said Jean.
Peggy shook her head. "Too big for a bonfire!" she said. "I'll go out
and see, Margaret. What a pity the boys should miss it! I'll come back
and let you know--mercy! what's this?"
The door opened, and a tall, slender figure half ran, half tottered
into the room. "Margaret!" cried a wild voice of terror. "Margaret
Montfort, save me!"
"Good heavens! Mrs. Peyton!"
"Yes, Emily Peyton. My house is burning. I ran all the way here. I--"
Margaret and Peggy caught her as she fell forward, and laid her on the
sofa, and while Jean ran for water and Elizabeth, chafed her hands and
her temples, looking the while anxiously at each other.
"Can you tell us what happened?" asked Margaret, trying to keep her
voice quiet and even, for Mrs. Peyton was in the wildest agitation. "You
escaped, thank Heaven! but--is the fire serious? Who is there now? Where
is Grace Wolfe?"
"Don't leave me!" said the sick woman, with a ghastly look. "Margaret,
if you leave me I shall die. She--she went back for the jewels. She is
in the house now."