A NEW TYPE.
"My child, I thought you were never coming again!" said Mrs. Peyton. "Do
you know that it is a week since I have seen you? I have been
destroyed,--positively destroyed, with solitude."
"I am so sorry," said Margaret. "I could not come before; truly I could
not, Mrs. Peyton. And how have you been?"
Mrs. Peyton leaned back on her pillows, with a little laugh. "Who cares
how I have been?" she said, lightly. "What does it matter how I have
been? Tell me some news, Margaret. I must have news. You are alive, you
move, and have your being; tell me something that will make me feel
alive, too."
Margaret looked at the lady, and thought she looked very much alive. She
was a vision of rose colour, from the silk jacket fluttering with
ribbons, to the pink satin that shimmered through the lace bed-spread.
The rosy colour almost tinted her cheeks, which were generally the hue
of warm ivory. Her hair, like crisped threads of gold, was brought down
low on her forehead, hiding any lines that might have been seen there;
it was crowned by a bit of cobweb lace, that seemed too slight to
support the pink ribbon that held it together. The lady's hands were
small, and exquisitely formed, and she wore several rings of great
value; her eyes were blue and limpid, her features delicate and regular.
Evidently, this had been a great beauty. To Margaret, gazing at her in
honest admiration, she was still one of the most beautiful creatures
that could be seen.
Mrs. Peyton laughed under the girl's simple look of pleasure. "You like
my new jacket?" she said. "The doctor never so much as noticed it this
morning. I think I shall send him away, and get another, who has eyes in
his head. You are the only person who really cares for my clothes,
Margaret, and they are the only interest I have in the world."
"I wish you wouldn't talk so!" said Margaret, colouring. "You don't mean
it, and why will you say it?"
"I do mean it!" said the beautiful lady. "I mean every word of it.
There's nothing else to care for, except you, you dear little
old-fashioned thing. I like you, because you are quaint and truthful.
Have you seen my pink pearl? You are not half observant, that's the
trouble with you, Margaret Montfort."
She held out her slender hand; Margaret took it, and bent over it
affectionately. "Oh, what a beautiful ring!" she cried. "I never saw a
pink pearl like this before, Mrs. Peyton, so brilliant, and such a deep
rose colour. Isn't it very wonderful?"
"The jeweller thought so," said Mrs. Peyton. "He asked enough for it; it
might have been the companion to Cleopatra's. The opal setting is
pretty, too, don't you think? And I have some new stones. You will like
to see those."
She took up a small bag of chamois leather, that lay on the bed beside
her, opened it, and a handful of precious stones rolled out on the lace
spread. Margaret caught after one and another in alarm. "Oh! Oh, Mrs.
Peyton, they frighten me! Why, this diamond--I never saw such a diamond.
It's as big as a pea."
"Imperfect!" said the lady. "A flaw in it, you see; but the colour is
good, and it does just as well for a plaything, though I don't like
flawed things, as a rule. This sapphire is a good one,--deep, you see; I
like a deep sapphire."
"This light one is nearer your eyes," said Margaret, taking up a lovely
clear blue stone.
"Flatterer! People used to say that once; a long time ago. Heigh ho,
Margaret, don't ever grow old! Take poison, or throw yourself out of the
window, but don't grow old. It's a shocking thing to do."
Margaret looked at her friend with troubled, affectionate eyes, and laid
her hand on the jewelled fingers.
"Oh, I mean it!" said the lady, with a pretty little grimace. "I mean
it, Miss Puritan. See! Here's a pretty emerald. But you haven't told me
the news. Mr. Montfort is well always?"
"Always!" said Margaret. "We--we have a visitor just now, Mrs.
Peyton,--some one you know."
"Some one I know?" cried Mrs. Peyton. "I thought every one I knew was
dead and buried. Who is it, child? Don't keep me in suspense. Can't you
see that I am palpitating?"
She laughed, and looked so pretty, and so malicious, that Margaret
wanted to kiss and to shake her at the same moment.
"It is a cousin of Uncle John's and of mine," she said; "Miss Sophronia
Montfort."
"_What!_" cried Mrs. Peyton, sitting up in bed. "Sophronia Montfort? You
are joking, Margaret."
Assured that Margaret was not joking, she fell back again on her
pillows. "Sophronia Montfort!" she said, laughing softly. "I have not
heard of her since the flood. How does John--how does Mr. Montfort
endure it, Pussy? He was not always a patient man."
Margaret thought her uncle one of the most patient men she had ever
seen.
"And how many men have you seen, little girl? Never mind! I will allow
him all the qualities of the Patient Patriarch. He will need them all,
if he is to have Sophronia long. I am sorry for you, Pussy! Come over as
often as you can to see me. I am dull, but there are worse things than
dullness."
This was not very encouraging.
"She--Cousin Sophronia--sent you a great many messages," Margaret said,
timidly. "She--is very anxious to see you, Mrs. Peyton. She would like
to come over some morning, and spend an hour with you."
"If she does, I'll poison her!" said Mrs. Peyton, promptly. "Don't look
shocked, Margaret Montfort; I shall certainly do as I say. Sophronia
comes here at peril of her life, and you may tell her so with my
compliments."
Margaret sat silent and distressed, not knowing what to say. She had
known very few people in her quiet life, and this beautiful lady, whom
she admired greatly, also puzzled her sadly.
"I cannot tell her that, can I, dear Mrs. Peyton?" she said, at last. "I
shall tell her that you are not well,--that is true, most
certainly,--and that you do not feel able to see her."
"Tell her what you please," said Emily Peyton, laughing again. "If she
comes, I shall poison her,--that is my first and last word. Tell her?
Tell her that Emily Peyton is a wreck; that she lies here like a log,
week after week, month after month, caring for nothing, no one caring
for her, except a kind little girl, who is frightened at her wild talk.
I might try the poison on myself first, Margaret; what do you think of
that?" Then, seeing Margaret's white, shocked face, she laughed again,
and fell to tossing the gems into the air, and catching them as they
fell. "It would be a pity, though, just when I have got all these new
playthings. Did you bring a book to read to me, little girl? I can't
abide reading, but I like to hear your voice. You have something, I see
it in your guilty face. Poetry, I'll be bound. Out with it, witch! You
hope to bring me to a sense of the error of my ways. Why, I used to read
poetry, Margaret, by the dozen yards. Byron,--does any one read Byron
nowadays?"
"My father was fond of Byron," said Margaret. "He used to read me bits
of 'Childe Harold' and the 'Corsair;' I liked them, and I always loved
the 'Assyrian.' But--I thought you might like something bright and
cheerful to-day, Mrs. Peyton, so I brought Austin Dobson. Are you fond
of Dobson?"
"Never heard of him!" said the lady, carelessly. "Read whatever you
like, child; your voice always soothes me. Will you come and be my
companion, Margaret? Your uncle has Sophronia now; he cannot need you.
Come to me! You shall have a thousand, two thousand dollars a year, and
all the jewels you want. I'll have these set for you, if you like."
[Illustration: "'DID YOU BRING A BOOK TO READ TO ME, LITTLE GIRL?'"]
She seemed only half in earnest, and Margaret laughed. "You sent your
last companion away, you know, Mrs. Peyton," she said. "I'm afraid I
should not suit you, either."
"My dear, that woman ate apples! No one could endure that, you know.
Ate--champed apples in my ears, and threw the cores into my grate.
Positively, she smelt of apples all day long. I had to have the room
fumigated when she left. A dreadful person! One of her front teeth was
movable, too, and set me distracted every time she opened her mouth. Are
you ever going to begin?"
Margaret read two or three of her favourite poems, but with little heart
in her reading, for she felt that her listener was not listening. Now
and then would come an impatient sigh, or a fretful movement of the
jewelled hands; once a sapphire was tossed up in the air, and fell on
the floor by Margaret's feet. Only when she began the lovely "Good
Night, Babette!" did Mrs. Peyton's attention seem to fix. She listened
quietly, and, at the end, drew a deep breath.
"You call that bright and cheerful, do you?" Mrs. Peyton murmured.
"Everything looks cheerful in the morning. Good night,--"I grow so
old,"--how dare you read me such a thing as that, Margaret Montfort? It
is an impertinence."
"Indeed," said Margaret, colouring, and now really wounded. "I do not
understand you at all to-day, Mrs. Peyton. I don't seem to be able to
please you, and it is time for me to go."
She rose, and the lady, her mood changing again in an instant, took her
two hands, and drew her close to her side.
"You are my only comfort," she said. "Do you hear that? You are the only
person in this whole dreadful place that I would give the half of a
burnt straw to see. Remember that, when I behave too abominably. Yes, go
now, for I am going to have a bad turn. Send Antonia; and come again
soon--soon, do you hear, Margaret? But remember--remember that the
poison-bowl waits for Sophronia!"
"What--shall I give her any message?" said poor Margaret, as she bent
to kiss the white forehead between the glittering waves of hair.
"Give her my malediction," said Mrs. Peyton. "Tell her it is almost a
consolation for lying here, to think I need not see her. Tell her
anything you like. Go now! Good-bye, child! Dear little quaint, funny,
prim child, good-bye!"
* * * * *
Margaret walked home sadly enough. She loved and admired her beautiful
friend, but she did not understand her, and there was much that she
could not approve. It seemed absurd, she often said to herself, for a
girl of her age to criticise, to venture to disapprove, of a woman old
enough to be her mother, one who had travelled the world over, and knew
plenty of human nature, if little of books. Yet, the thought would come
again, there was no age to right and wrong; and there were things that
it could not be right to think, or kind to say, at eighteen or at
eighty. And her uncle did not like Mrs. Peyton. Margaret felt that,
without his having ever put it into words. Still, she was so beautiful,
so fascinating,--and so kind to her! Perhaps, unconsciously, Margaret
did miss a good deal the two young cousins who had been with her during
her first year at Fernley; surely, and every hour, she missed her Aunt
Faith, whose tenderness had been that of the mother she had never known.
She was in no haste to go home; there was still an hour before Uncle
John would come. There was little peace at home in these days, but a
prying eye, and a tongue that was seldom still save in sleep. She had
left Elizabeth in tears to-day, her precious linen having been pulled
over, and all the creases changed because they ran the wrong way. In
vain Margaret had reminded her of the heroine of the story she had liked
so much, the angelic Elizabeth of Hungary. "It don't make much
difference, Miss Margaret!" Elizabeth said. "I am no saint, miss, and
all the roses in the world wouldn't make my table-cloths look fit to go
on, now."
Frances was "neither to hold or to bind;" even the two young girls whom
the elder women had in training were tossing their heads and muttering
over their brasses and their saucepans. The apple of discord seemed to
be rolling all about the once peaceful rooms of Fernley House. "I'll go
home through the woods," said Margaret, "and see if they have begun work
on the bog yet."
It was lovely in the woods. Margaret thought there could be no such
woods in the world as these of Fernley. The pines were straight and
tall, and there was little or no undergrowth; just clear, fragrant
stretches of brown needles, where one could lie at length and look up
into the whispering green, and watch the birds and squirrels. There was
moss here and there; here and there, too, a bed of pale green ferns,
delicate and plumy; but most of it was the soft red-brown carpet that
Margaret loved better even than ferns. She walked slowly along, drinking
in beauty and rest at every step. If she could only bring the sick lady
out here, she thought, to breathe this life-giving air! Surely she would
be better! She did not look ill enough to stay always in bed. They must
try to bring it about.
She stopped at the little brook, and sat down on a mossy stone. The
water was clear and brown, breaking into white over the pebbles here and
there. How delightful it would be to take off her shoes and stockings,
and paddle about a little! Peggy, her cousin, would have been in the
water in an instant, very likely shoes and all; but Margaret was timid,
and it required some resolution to pull off her shoes and stockings, and
a good deal of glancing over her shoulder, to make sure that no one was
in sight. Indeed, who could be? The water was cool; oh, so cool and
fresh! She waded a little way; almost lost her balance on a slippery
stone, and fled back to the bank, laughing and out of breath. A frog
came up to look at her, and goggled in amazement; she flipped water at
him with her hand, and he vanished indignant. It would be very pleasant
to walk along the bed of the stream, as far as the entrance to the bog
meadow. Could she venture so far? No, for after all, it was possible
that some of the workmen might have arrived and might be in the
neighbourhood, though they were not to begin work till the next day.
Very slowly Margaret drew her feet out of the clear stream where they
twinkled and looked so white,--Margaret had pretty feet,--but she could
not make up her mind to put on the shoes and stockings just yet. She
must dry her feet; and this moss was delightful to walk on. So on she
went, treading lightly and carefully, finding every step a pure
pleasure, till she saw sunlight breaking through the green, and knew
that she was coming to the edge of the peat bog. Ah, what memories this
place brought to Margaret's mind! She could see her cousin Rita,
springing out in merry defiance over the treacherous green meadow; could
hear her scream, and see her sinking deep, deep, into the dreadful
blackness below. Then, like a flash, came Peggy from the wood, this very
wood she was walking in now, and ran, and crept, and reached out, and by
sheer strength and cleverness saved Rita from a dreadful death, while
she, Margaret, stood helpless by. Dear, brave Peggy! Ah, dear girls
both! How she would like to see them this moment. Why! Why, what was
that?
Some one was whistling out there in the open. Whistling a lively,
rollicking air, with a note as clear and strong as a bird's. Horror! The
workmen must have come! Margaret was down on the grass in an instant,
pulling desperately at her shoes and stockings. From the panic she was
in, one might have thought that the woods were full of whistling
brigands, all rushing in her direction, with murder in their hearts. She
could hardly see; there was a knot in her shoe-string; why did she ever
have shoes that tied? Her heart was beating, the blood throbbing in her
ears,--and all the time the whistling went on, not coming nearer, but
trilling away in perfect cheerfulness, though broken now and then, and
coming in fits and starts. At last! At last the shoes were tied, and
Margaret stood up, still panting and crimson, but feeling that she could
face a robber, or even an innocent workman, without being disgraced for
life. Cautiously she stole to the edge of the wood, and peeped between
the pine-boles. The sun lay full on the peat bog, and it shone like a
great, sunny emerald, friendly and smiling, with no hint of the black
treachery at its heart. No hint? But look! Out in the very middle of the
bog a figure was standing, balanced on a tussock of firm earth. A light,
active figure, in blue jean jumper and overalls. One of the workmen, who
did not know of the peril, and was plunging to his destruction? Margaret
opened her lips to cry aloud, but kept silence, for the next moment she
comprehended that the young man (he was evidently young, though his back
was turned to her) knew well enough what he was about. He had a long
pole in his hand, and with this he was poking and prodding about in the
black depths beneath him. Now he sounded carefully a little way ahead of
him, and then, placing his pole carefully on another firm spot, leaped
to it lightly. The black bog water gurgled up about his feet, but he did
not sink, only planted his feet more firmly, and went on with his
sounding. Now he was singing. What was he singing? What a quaint, funny
air!
"A wealthy young farmer of Plymouth, we hear,
He courted a nobleman's daughter, so dear;
And for to be married it was their intent,--
Hi! muskrat!--come out of there!" He almost lost his balance, and
Margaret screamed a very small scream, that could not be heard a dozen
yards. Recovering himself, the young man began to make his way towards
the shore, at a point nearly opposite to where Margaret stood. Springing
lightly to the firm ground, he took off his cap, and made a low bow to
the bog, saying at the same time something, Margaret could not hear
what. Then, looking carefully about him, the young workman appeared to
be selecting a spot of earth that was to his mind; having done so, he
sat down, took out a note-book, and wrote with ardour for several
minutes. Then he took off his cap, and ran his fingers through his
hair--which was very curly, and bright red--till it stood up in every
direction; then he turned three elaborate somersaults; and then, with
another salute to the bog, and a prolonged whistle, he went off, leaping
on his pole, and singing, as he went:
"And for to be mar-ri-ed it was their intent;
All friends and relations had given their consent."