MARY WELSH TO THE RESCUE.
The Welsh family lived about twelve miles away from the Wyndhams. Mr.
Welsh was a clergyman, with a very large country parish, and Mary was
his eldest daughter. He was an Irishman by birth, and Mary had lived in
Ireland, in the County Kerry, until she was seventeen years of age. She,
therefore, adored Irish people; and when, after the death of an aunt,
she was obliged to return to England, she loved to tell her brothers and
sisters stories of the life she led in the old country, and fired their
hearts with accounts of the kindly hearted peasants, of the bogs, of the
flowers, the mosses, the ferns—the marvellous things that grew in
Ireland and Ireland alone.
“Sure,” cried Irish Mary—or Irish Molly, as the other children chose to
call her—“it’s just the Star of the Ocean, the Pearl of the Sea!” The
others, all brought up in England, could not share Mary’s enthusiasm,
but they could adore Mary for herself.
Mary was one of eight children, there were two girls younger than Mary,
then there came two boys, then another girl, and then two baby boys. The
elder boys were at a preparatory school, Mary was now her father’s right
hand in the parish, and her sisters Marcia and Angela were both at the
same school as the Wyndhams. Marcia and Angela were very particular
friends of Molly and Jessie.
When “Irish Molly,” as they used to call the eldest daughter of the Rev.
Mr. Welsh, however, received a letter, on a certain sunny morning, from
Mr. Wyndham of Preston Manor, she read it in some amazement, and then
turned to her mother.
Mrs. Welsh was a gentle, sweet-looking woman, very young-looking for her
age. She had always been the darling of her children, devoting her life
to their care, living for them, adoring them as only the best mother
can. Mr. Welsh was an earnest and hard-working clergyman. Mary was a
sort of curate to her father, looking after the poor people; she was
their nurse in times of sickness and their playmate in times of
rejoicing. It was Mary who organised the village feasts, the
bean-treats, all the different amusements which took place in the
summer. “Miss Mary” was adored by young and old, by rich and poor. She
was “Miss Mary” with some, “Miss Molly” with others, “Miss Polly” with
others again; but by all she was loved, and there was no one who had not
a good word for Mary Welsh.
Now there was something particularly pleasing about this young girl’s
appearance; without being pretty she had a certain charm of face and
manner which could not but arrest attention. Her face was oval. She had
soft brown hair, a delicate sort of mouse-brown in colour; it was very
thick and was divided simply on her broad, white brow, and rolled up in
a great coil at the back of her head without any attempt at fuzz or curl
or ornament of any sort. Mary’s hair, when let down, fell far below her
knees, and was very much admired by her brothers and sisters; her one
object, however, was to coil it up as tightly as possible, hairpin it,
and have, as she expressed it, done with it for the day at least. The
broad, rather low forehead had a pair of delicately curved eyebrows, and
beneath the brows were two wonderfully soft, velvety brown eyes, the
colour of delicate brown velvet or of a hazel-nut. The eyes were large,
well opened, and very clear, and they were surrounded by thick and curly
black lashes. Her little features were neat and small, her mouth had a
dimple at one corner, and her teeth were white as milk. This little
face, which was altogether charming and yet not in the least beautiful,
added greatly to the effect which Mary produced on all who came in
contact with her. She was a well-grown, well-developed girl, she had a
neat waist and a firm column of a throat, her head was nobly set upon
the throat, and she walked like a young princess. The other girls and
boys were all good-looking; but Mary was, as her Irish mother was fond
of saying, “the cream of the crock and the flower of the flock.”
“Well, we shall have a busy day,” said Angela on this special morning.
“Why, Polly Molly Mary, what on earth’s the matter?”
“Oh, this, this—do listen, girls. I’ve had a letter from Uncle Paul.”
Now, Mr. Wyndham was not “Uncle Paul” in any sense of the word to the
Welsh family, but he was such a kind-hearted, good, affectionate man
that Mary had long ago christened him uncle, and insisted on his
speaking of her as “his affectionate niece.”
“Uncle Paul’s in a bit of a bother, and wants me to go over there at
once.—Daddy, can I have the pony trap? I ought to go as soon as
possible.”
“But, my darling child, you really can’t go to-day,” said her father.
“You know we’re having the infant school feast in the hayfield. How can
we manage without you?”
“Oh daddy, I really think I must go. Just listen to what he says.”
There were no secrets in the Welsh family, and what one knew all knew.
They not only knew the little things, but they knew the big things; they
knew, for instance, when Mr. and Mrs. Welsh were short of money, and
when money came in. They knew the people who were uncongenial to their
gentle mother, and the people whom she loved to meet; they were open as
the day to each other. But do not let it be supposed for a single moment
that they were demonstrative to outsiders, that the Welsh family secrets
went any farther. No, close as wax were all these young people with
regard to home affairs except to one another.
“It would be the meanest thing on earth to tell anything with regard to
our family affairs,” Mary Welsh had once pronounced; and Sam, the eldest
boy, immediately illuminated the speech in the most flowery style, with
a quantity of blue and gold and crimson paint, and stuck it up above the
schoolroom mantelpiece, so that every member of the Welsh family could
thus proclaim the sentiments of Mary to the others.
“This is the letter,” said Mary, standing up now and reading it aloud:
“MY DEAR POLLY,—I am in an awful fix. Dear Peter Desmond is dead,
and I went a few days ago to fetch his little girl from an Irish
cabin in County Kerry. She is a most difficult subject, my dear
Polly, and I don’t think any one on earth can help her if you don’t
come to the rescue; so, will you come to-day? Come the very minute
you get this, for I really don’t know what we shall do with the
child. You will understand me when I tell you that this morning she
lost herself and had exercise on the back of Farmer Anderson’s bull,
Nimrod! You will perceive that she is what is termed an
‘impossibility.’ You, being Irish yourself, can doubtless touch her
heart. For goodness’ sake, Polly, come and save us all, and in
particular poor little Peggy Desmond.”
“There, now, daddy and mum,” said Mary, after she had read the letter,
“this is a call which cannot possibly be neglected. I put it to the
family.”
“And the family say that you are right,” was her father’s response.
“I’ll go and get the pony put to the cart,” said Sam.
“And I’ll pack your things. You’ll want your best evening dresses,” said
Angela.
And so Mary started off on her visit to Preston Manor.
The children ran with her a good bit of the way, shouting to her and
giving her directions. She was on no account to be bullied or oppressed
by the grandeur of Preston Manor, and she was on no account either to
allow the heart of the poor little Irish colleen to be broken; she was
to keep herself to herself, as all self-respecting Irish maidens did,
and at the same time she was to be a comfort and consolation to every
single individual in the house. “And, above all things, Mary Molly
Polly,” cried Sam, “you are to come back to your loving family as soon
as possible, for we’ll be in a rare fix without you.”
“That we will,” said Angela.
But at this moment Mary pulled up the pony which she was driving. “I
think you had better all go back now,” she said to her adoring brothers
and sisters; “you have given me invaluable advice, and you may be quite
certain I will carry it out to the letter. And now I want to give you a
trifle of advice. It is this: I want you to see that the mums doesn’t
overtire herself, and that daddy has a good strong cup of tea, and
doesn’t sit in a draught, and doesn’t get too hot, pretending to be a
young man, which you know he often does when we are having our
school-feasts. In short, Angela and Marcia and Sam, you are to take the
burden of the infant school feast on your own shoulders; and you know
well what that means—cutting bread and butter and serving out buns, and
laying the cloths upon the long tables, and afterwards seeing that the
children have their games to their hearts’ content.”
“We’ll manage; we’ll manage,” cried Angela. “And now, good-bye, and God
bless you, Mary Molly Polly!”
So Mary went on her way, thinking a good deal of the loved ones she had
left behind, and a good deal also of the loved ones she was going to,
for Mary had such a very big and such a very warm Irish heart! All those
people she loved she cared for with a great zest, a rush of wholesome
affection. This was what made her so beloved and so looked-up-to by rich
and poor alike, for she never, never thought of herself, her one object
from the time she rose in the morning until she laid her tired head on
the pillow at night was what she could do for the benefit of other
people. She was not at all proud with regard to the fact that Uncle Paul
Wyndham had written to her in his distress. It was the last thing
possible for Mary to be proud; but she was exceedingly glad, and she
determined to do her utmost for the sad little Irish child who was to be
entrusted to her care.
It was, of course, known at Preston Manor that Mary Welsh was expected
at a fairly early hour that day. In consequence, the room which was
known as the “forget-me-not” room was got ready for her. There were
several lovely bedrooms in the beautiful house, but there was no room
quite so sweet as the “forget-me-not” room. The paint was all of a
delicate shade of forget-me-not blue, and the paper was of soft, very
soft, white, the hangings of the bed were blue forget-me-not in tone,
and so also were the curtains looped back from the charming French
windows. There were, of course, books in the room, and a very nice,
comfortable sofa, and a couple of easy-chairs; also, a small table,
where a girl could write letters or do needlework, just as she pleased.
In short, the forget-me-not room was essentially a girl’s room, and
essentially also a cheerful and pleasant room.
The room having been ordered to be in a perfect state of readiness for
Miss Welsh, the two young Wyndhams walked up the avenue to watch for
Mary’s arrival. They did not take Peggy with them.
Peggy was much quieter than usual that morning; she had been fairly good
the night before—that is, she had with a violent effort refrained from
using her fingers instead of a knife and fork, and, when she was about
to say “faix,” or “wurra,” or “wisha,” she clapped her hand to her mouth
and said, “Beg pardon, sure,” and then stopped talking altogether. The
girls tried to encourage her to talk as they did, but she only nodded
her head and was silent. She went to bed early, and, as far as they
could tell, she slept soundly. As a matter of fact, unknown to them, she
rose at her usual early hour in the morning, got out by way of the roof,
climbed down again by the yew-tree, and went straight round to the
poultry-yard. There she dazzled and amazed “Mary” and “Pat,” as she
insisted on calling these two good people, by announcing her intention
of coming every morning to see the poultry, in order to keep herself
alive.
“For, if I don’t, sure as I’m a breathing girl, I’ll burst!” said Peggy.
“Oh, indeed you won’t, darling; you won’t be so silly,” said Mrs. Johns.
“Yerra, thin,” said Peggy, “that’s all ye know about it. If I can’t let
out me feelin’s when I’m here, I’ll burst, as sure as me name’s Peggy
Desmond. Why, thin, now, didn’t hisself spake to me last night, an’ tell
me that I wasn’t niver to say ‘yerra,’ nor ‘whisht,’ nor ‘wurra,’ nor
‘faix,’ nor ‘oh glory!’ I can’t remember them all. Yes, though there was
more—nor ‘sure thin,’ ‘your mightiness,’ nor ‘yer honour’—in fact, there
was scarcely a word left in the language that I was to spake, an’,
however was I to let out me voice if I was to be pulled up with niver a
‘yerra,’ nor a ‘wurra,’ nor a ‘whisht’ passing me lips? I ask you that,
Mary, and, in the name of Almighty God, tell me how it’s to be done?”
“You must learn fresh words, honey,” said Ann Johns. “In our part of
England we don’t say the words you use.”
“Oh, thin, faix, to be sure, I expect ye don’t. Ye haven’t got what I
call a cosy, cossetty, nice, consolin’ sort ov word amongst ye; never
was there a colder place, an’ me heart’s broke intirely!” The poor child
burst into tears. “It’s Mary Welsh they’re going to put on me to-day,”
she said, after a pause; and, as she uttered these words, both Johns and
his wife approached the child and each took possession of an arm.
“What are you trying to say, missy?” asked Mrs. Johns.
“Oh, thin, wurra, nothing at all, only it’s Mary Welsh they’re putting
on me to-day. Whoever be she, bedad?”
“You’re in luck if _she’s_ coming! Why, she’s as Irish as yourself, only
she knows just how to manage. She’ll teach you beautiful. Oh, you’ll
love her!”
“Mary, for the love of heaven, don’t say another word about her, for, if
ye do, as sure as me name’s Peggy Desmond, I’ll hate her! Don’t ye
praise her, woman, for, if ye do, hate her I will! Now, thin, I’ll be
off. I suppose ye haven’t a nice little hin that ’u’d like a bit of
breakfast that I could give to the crature, it would ease me heart
like.”
Mrs. Johns rushed into one of the stables, filled a dish full of corn,
took it out to Peggy, and said, “There, dear, feed the little hens round
the corner, and then go back to your bed, because if the family see you
they’ll be really angry.”
So Peggy did go back to her bed, crept into it, and, what is more, fell
asleep, wondering as she sank into the land of dreams who this
extraordinary Mary Welsh was who would help her, and whom everybody
seemed to love.
“But I’ll hate her,” thought Peggy; “it’s the way with me. I hate thim
whom other folks praise; it’s a sort of twist I have in me nature,
bedad.”
A servant came in to call Peggy, and also offered to help her to dress,
and Peggy submitted, and was, on the whole, apparently quite a good
little girl this morning. The nice maid brushed out the child’s soft,
beautiful hair, and took her hand and led her to the schoolroom.
There Jessie and Molly were waiting for her. They all sat down to
breakfast, Peggy with her hands hidden in her lap; the other two were
seated one at the foot and the other at the head of the table. Molly was
pouring out the coffee, and Jessie turned to Peggy and asked her what
she would like to eat.
“Is it ate ye want me to? Have ye any stirabout?”
“What’s stirabout?” asked Jessie.
“Oh, wurra! I beg yer pardon. Don’t ye know stirabout in this poor sort
of a country?”
“No, I never heard of it,” said Jessie.
“It’s made of Indian male, bedad—I beg your pardon. I don’t think I’ll
ate anything, if ye don’t mind.”
“Oh yes, you really must, dear,” said Molly; “and you know when Mary
Welsh comes——”
“For the love of goodness, don’t!” said Peggy.
“Don’t what?” exclaimed Molly.
“Don’t praise her in the sight of me; ye’ll repent it if ye do.”
Molly looked in despair at Jessie.
Jessie shook her head; suddenly, however, she rose from her seat. “Now,
look here, Peggy,” she said. “Molly and I want to be kind to you.”
“Am I sayin’ that ye don’t?”
“Well, we can’t be kind while yon go on in this silly way. Here’s a nice
piece of toast which I am going to butter for you. Would you like some
salt butter on it, or would you prefer it plain?”
“It’s stirabout I’m wantin’.”
“You can’t have stirabout, there’s none in the house. If you have a
craving for it, perhaps there’ll be some ordered to-day. Now, here’s
some nice toast. Would you like an egg?”
“Is it an egg laid by a hin? No, I won’t touch it. Poor little doaty
things, to ate their eggs! Bedad, thin—I beg yer pardon.”
The girls thought it best to talk to one another, which they did, and
Peggy ate a very moderate breakfast, looking at them wistfully from time
to time. At last the meal was over, and the girls consulted together.
Jessie went out of the room and Molly was left alone with Peggy.
“Now, then, Peg, we’re going to have such a nice morning; and, first of
all, we must meet Mary Welsh. I’m not going to praise her, of course, if
you don’t wish me to; but we are very fond of her. Will you come with
us? We thought of walking up to the gate to see her come along; she’ll
drive over in the pony cart.”
“I won’t go with ye—no, thanks.”
“Very well, dear, you must please yourself.”
“Thank ye for that same, I will.”
“Peggy, you don’t know how anxious we are to make you happy!”
“Ah, thin, if I were you, I wouldn’t.”
“I don’t understand,” said Molly.
“I mane that I wouldn’t fret; for ye can’t make me happy if ye were to
try for ever and ever, amen.”
“But, why not, Peggy?”
“Because ye can’t, and I’ve no raison to give. But lave me; I’m much
more aisy in me mind when I’m let alone.”
“Very well, dear; I will let you alone; only, don’t you think I might
give you one little kiss?”
“Arrah, why should ye be kissin’ me? I’m not in yer class, at all, at
all.”
“Yes, you are, Peggy, you are quite in our class.”
“Ah, thin, I wouldn’t be tellin’ lies if I was ye.”
“Well, anyhow, whether you are in my class or not, I’m fond of you and I
mean to be fonder, and I mean to kiss you, whether you like it or not.
Come, Peggy, come; one warm kiss from an English girl to an Irish girl.
Come, Peggy, come!”
Peggy submitted to the embrace, and as Molly flung both arms round her
neck affectionately she suddenly felt a queer softening of the heart.
She did not respond to the kiss; but as Molly reached the door of the
schoolroom, on the way to her own room, the Irish girl rushed towards
the door and embraced her tightly, saying, “Here’s from an Irish girl to
an English girl!”
Peggy’s kiss was soft, her eyes were full of tears. Molly went soberly
to her own room. Oh, how earnestly she trusted that Mary Welsh would
come and tell her how she was to manage this wild young creature!
A few minutes later both girls walked slowly up the avenue. Peggy, from
her point of vantage on the roof—which she now liked best as an
exit—watched them. When they were out of sight, she climbed down by the
aid of the yew-tree; then she ran swiftly along the shrubbery, and a
good while before the girls reached the gates of Preston Manor Peggy had
got there, and, with the agility of a young squirrel, had climbed up
into a tall elm-tree. There she ensconced herself comfortably in the
branches, and looked down and watched what was going on.
“I’ll see what kind that Mary Welsh is, whativer I do,” she said to
herself. “Ah, thin, bedad, I can say the words comfortably while I’m
alone. The trees don’t mind, nor the sky, nor does God in His heaven;
but, thin, it’s moithered I am intirely!”
The girls, little knowing that Peggy was watching them, presently
reached the gates. There was a lodge just inside the big gates, and the
woman who lived at the lodge, Mrs. Jordan by name, came out and began to
talk to the young ladies.
Peggy, up in her tree, could hear most of the words which passed between
them. To her disgust, the words happened to be praises, extreme praises,
of Miss Welsh.
Mrs. Jordan said, “I’m right glad _she’s_ coming, miss; it’s good for
sair e’en to see her.” Then the woman began a long story about when Jack
scalded himself, and how wonderfully Mary Welsh managed, sitting up all
night to mind him, and dressing his wounds herself, and he never crying
at all when she touched him—that good he was—though a very torment when
Miss Welsh was out of the room. Presently, however, the woman began to
talk about Peggy. There was a little rustling sound in the elm-tree into
which Peggy had climbed; the time, however, was midsummer, and, as the
leaves were very thick on the tree, nobody noticed when the girl slipped
down to a branch a little nearer the ground.
“I may as well _know_,” she said to herself. “I suppose it’s a bit mane
of me to listen, but I may as well know.”
“You’ve got a wonderful young lady staying with you now, miss,” said
Mrs. Jordan.
Peggy began to whistle exactly like a thrush.
Molly looked up into the tree. “How sweetly that bird sings!” she said.
She could not possibly see even a glimpse of Peggy, who was surrounded
by a curtain of green leaves.
“I hope the poor little lady won’t be lonesome,” continued Mrs. Jordan.
Peggy now thought that she would venture to imitate a nightingale, and
she did so with rare success.
“Oh, do listen! listen!” said Jessie. “I hadn’t the least idea that
nightingales were so close.”
“Nor had I,” said Mrs. Jordan. “I’m very glad if they’re going to pair
so near us; it will be nice.”
“I’ll tell father about them when he comes in,” said Jessie; “he will be
interested.”
“And so will Mary Welsh!” exclaimed Molly.
Just then a cuckoo, the sweetest note imaginable, sounded on the girls’
ears.
“I never knew the birds sing in such a lovely fashion as they are doing
to-day, and such a variety of them, too,” said Molly.
Peggy had hard work to keep back a violent fit of laughter; she,
however, restrained herself. She began a low, clear note, which might
have belonged to a blackbird or to a lark; she did not venture to do
many of the lark’s notes, fearing that she would be recognised, for
larks do not sing so near the ground. At last, however, the sound of
approaching wheels was heard; Peggy made a tiny opening for herself in
her screen of green leaves, and the next minute the little pony trap
appeared in view. A boy was seated at one side—he was evidently a groom,
as he was dressed like one—and a girl in a brown holland dress, with a
brown hat trimmed simply with a band of brown ribbon, was holding the
reins. She stopped abruptly when she saw the girls, sprang lightly from
the cart, and flung the reins to the boy.
“Joe, you had better take Sally up to the house; she will like a feed of
oats before she goes home again. Well, my dears, here I am. I’m so glad
to come!”
“And, oh, we are delighted! delighted to see you!” said Molly.
“And so am I delighted to see you.—Joe,” she called, aloud, “have my
little trunk sent up to my room, please; don’t take it back again in the
pony cart.”
The boy laughed and nodded. Soon the entire party were out of sight, and
there was perfect silence all around; but Peggy remained up in her tree.
At last, however, she slipped down towards the ground and ran as fast as
she could to the house. She had liked the Irish tone of “Mary Polly
Molly’s” voice, and was anxious to hear it again.
About half-an-hour before lunch the said Mary Polly Molly was in the
“forget-me-not” room. She had unpacked her few possessions, and was
standing by the open window. She had not yet seen Peggy, although she
had heard a vast lot about her. She had listened to the despairing tones
of her friends Jessie and Molly, but she had also heard Mrs. Wyndham
declare positively that if something was not done she could not endure
the child in the house.
“It comes to this, Mary,” Mrs. Wyndham said, “that if she doesn’t
improve I must ask you to get her into your father’s house for a bit.”
“Oh, but, mother, that’s not fair!” exclaimed Jessie.
“We would have her with a heart and a half,” said Mary, “except that we
haven’t got even a scrap of a corner to put her in.”
“Of course, you haven’t, dear,” said Mrs. Wyndham, flushing slightly,
“and it was very shabby of me even to suggest it. Well, Mary, if you can
stay with us for a few days you will tell us what we ought to do with
the child?”
“I don’t expect she will be a bit difficult,” said Mary; and now, as she
stood by her window, she thought about Peggy. Just then there came an
imperious knock at the door. She said, “Come in.” A slight pause
followed her words, then the door was very slowly opened and a small
head of bright hair peeped round it—peeped round the door somewhat in
the manner of a very ignorant lower-class servant in Ireland.
“Why, thin, it’s me,” said a sweet little voice; and the body which
belonged to the head now showed itself. The little head and the slender
figure made altogether an absolutely enchanting study, the sapphire-blue
eyes were so very, very bright, the ruddy chestnut hair was such a mass
of soft curls, the lips were curved like a true Cupid’s bow, and the
pearly teeth were small and absolutely even. Then the young figure was
by no means devoid of grace; and, although there was an ominous stain of
green on the white frock, otherwise the little maid was neatly and
suitably dressed. Her tan shoes and neat tan stockings were the best of
their kind, and the fact that the small hands were very brown and
sunburnt did not in the least detract from the other fact that this
Irish girl looked, at least, a perfect lady.
“Mary Polly Molly,” gazed at Peggy for a moment in undoubted
astonishment; but then, alas! the small girl began to speak, and the
crown of young ladyhood tumbled down from the stately head.
“Why thin, but might I come nigh to ye for a minute?” was the first
remark of Irish Peggy.
“Of course, you may, dear,” replied Mary; “I am so glad to make your
acquaintance. I have been hearing about you and wondering when I should
see you. It is very, very kind of you to come to my room like this.”
“Yerra, not at all,” replied Peggy. “It’s in a bit of a hole I be, and I
thought, savin’ yer presence, yer ladyship, as ye’re Irish-bred yerself,
and I liked the looks of ye when I saw ye driving up to the gates in a
humble little gig, that perhaps ye’d help me.”
“Of course, I will help you, Peggy; but I’m puzzled to know when and how
you saw me.”
“Oh wisha, worn’t that aisy? Didn’t I just climb up into a tree belike,
close nigh to the big gates, and looked down on ye and the young ladies;
and afore ye come up, and when they two was chattering with a woman they
called Mrs. Jordan, didn’t I—to beguile the weary time—imitate the tunes
the bits of birds sing, the cratures! They was all in a moil with
wondering why so many birds set up singin’ in that wonderful tree, an’ I
was fit to choke with the laughter, for ye comprehend they couldn’t get
a sight of the smallest spalpeen of me through the branches.”
Mary laughed very heartily. “I think, Peggy, you are a very clever
girl,” she said.
“Me! Is it me clever? May Heaven forgive ye! Why, ever since I set me
fut in this bitter cowld country it’s nothing but a fool I do be makin’
o’ meself, an’ it’s on that account I ventured into yer ladyship’s
presence, for how I’m to spake at all, at all, beats me.”
“Whatever do you mean, Peggy dear?”
“Oh ‘Peggy dear’! ’Tisn’t that ye’ll be callin’ me for long; why, it’s
hatin’ me ye’ll be, like the rest of thim. Now listen. I can’t come
round yer tongue, at all, at all, and that’s the truth, an’ the words
that I mustn’t say—oh my, but I’m blethered!—I’m not to say ‘arrah,’ nor
‘musha,’ nor ‘wurra,’ nor ‘yer mightiness,’ nor ‘yer honour,’ nor ‘yer
ladyship,’ which, be the same token, I thought for sure would plase
herself, and she as proud as Lucifer; but there, Lord save us! I must be
dumb, for I don’t know no other way to express me feelings, an’ that’s
the bare truth!”
“Poor little Peggy! Sit down and let me talk to you; we have a few
minutes before lunch. I can understand so well what you feel, for you
see I am Irish myself. I think I can help you fine; but, first, before
all things, we must be friends.”
“Does ye mane it, Miss Mary Molly Polly? Oh for the Lord’s beautiful
sake, does ye mane it?”
“Most certainly I do.”
“Thin let me give ye a hug. There, now, thin; that’s consoling; I’m
better now, I am, truly. Me heart’s not so sore. Ye’ll tell me how to
spake yer tongue, for ’tain’t mine. How does the quality spake in
Ireland, Miss Mary Molly Polly? That’s what I’m wantin’ to get at.”
“Peggy, I’m afraid you will have a hard time before you. The ‘quality,’
as you call them, in Ireland, speak exactly as the quality speak in
England. Now listen, darling. All well-educated people speak somewhat
alike, whatever country they stay in.”
“Oh, thin, wherever’s the use o’ bothering about languages, when
iverybody spakes the same?”
“You must say ‘speak,’ not ‘spake.’”
“Speaks the same. Oh, me word, there seems no flavour in that!”
“Now listen to me, Peggy. I will write out a list of the words you must
say instead of the words you _do_ say; and I will ask Mrs. Wyndham to
let you sit next me at lunch, and whenever you say a word you oughtn’t
to say I’ll just give you a gentle little push with my hand. I won’t
correct you all the time, for you can’t possibly, my dear child, learn
our way of speaking all at once. But will you listen to me—you will try
and copy me, won’t you? For I love Old Ireland, and for that matter,
Peggy my dear, I love the very part of Ireland you love, for we both
have come from the County Kerry.”
“Oh, wusha, wurra, wurra, wurra! Let me dance up and down the room! An’
did ye see the mountains ov her, and the lakes ov her, an’ did ye see
the clouds come down, forming a nightcap on some ov the mountains; an’
did ye see the flowers all a-blowin’ and a-growin’, an’ the little
bastes in the fields, an’ the little hins? An’, oh my! wurra, wurra! to
think of it!”
“Now, Peggy, don’t you think you can express all these feelings without
saying, ‘my’ and ‘wurra, wurra’?”
“I can’t, Miss Mary Molly Polly, I can’t.”
“In the first place, dear, you mustn’t say ‘miss’; you are to say ‘Mary’
to me.”
“Mary! I wouldn’t take the liberty; not if you was to beat me black an’
blue.”
“But if I ask you?”
“I couldn’t, Miss Mary—I beg your pardon—Mary, that is.”
“There, now, you’ve said it, you see, and it isn’t so difficult.”
“There’s no colour in it,” said Irish Peggy.
“Wouldn’t you like, Peggy, to be a little lady some day?”
“That’s the worst of me; I don’t want it at all. I’d a sight rayther be
wan of the common people. That’s what I’m afther wishin’ for.”
“You mustn’t say ‘afther wishin’ for;’ you must say, ‘that’s what I
wish.’”
“An’ what’s wrong in ‘afther,’ Miss—Mary, I mane.”
“It isn’t good English, dear.”
“Oh, bedad!”
“You mustn’t say ‘bedad.’ That’s quite wrong.”
“I’d best be dumb, hadn’t I, miss?”
“I think, Peggy, for a short time when you are downstairs, you had
better just say, ‘yes,’ or ‘no,’ or ‘please,’ or ‘thank you,’ and when
I’m up in my room with you, or walking with you, or telling you stories
about Ireland, I will gradually tell you the words you mustn’t say, and
you will see, darling, at the end of a week that you will have learnt to
drop a lot of the words that now seem to you so necessary and you will
have fresh ones to take their place.”
“Very well, Miss Mary.”
Just then the luncheon gong sounded.
“Now, dear, I’m not ‘Miss Mary,’ and remember that the girls are Jessie
and Molly, and when you speak to Mrs. Wyndham you are to say, ‘Mrs.
Wyndham,’ not ‘ma’am,’ and you are to sit close to me, and on no account
to eat your food with your fingers.”
“Why for not? It’s twice as fast.”
“But that is not the question, dear; it isn’t done.”
“I can’t manage a knife and fork nohow.”
“Well, watch me. Will you try and eat like me and speak like me? Now, I
know you’re very clever—you can imitate. If you can imitate a bird,
surely you can imitate a girl. Well, now, imitate me, won’t you?”
“But that would be laughin’ at ye like.”
“No, no, not at all; it won’t be laughing at me. Try and speak the way I
speak.”
“I’d a sight sooner imitate that Jessie; she’s so stiff an’ stuck-up. I
don’t like her, not a bit.”
“Oh, you mustn’t imitate in that way; that would be very rude.”
“Or,” said Peggy, her eyes dancing, “I’d like best of all to imitate
herself. Me word! wouldn’t I like to strut into a room like herself, me
head thrown back an’ me chest bulged out, an’ meself very nearly fallin’
backwards? Would it be right of me to do it, Miss Mary—I mane
Mary—because, if it would, it would tickle me fancy mightily.”
“No, it wouldn’t be right at all, Peggy, and you’re not to do it.”
Presently the two girls went downstairs. Mary undoubtedly felt that she
had got a “handful” in Peggy Desmond. Peggy was wondering and looking
about her; she had caught a little of Mary’s spirit, and wished to
please Mary, and Mary had put a new idea into her head—she was to
_imitate_. She did not think for a minute that it would be much fun
imitating Mary herself; besides, whatever Mary said, it _was_ rude to
imitate. Her grandfather and grandmother and the O’Flynns had told her
that she must not ever “make game of folks,” as they expressed it.
Surely, then, she would not make game of dear, dear Miss Mary; not she,
no, indeed, not for the world. But who could she imitate? She was told
she mustn’t imitate Jessie, and she mustn’t imitate Mrs. Wyndham, and it
would be rude to imitate dear little Molly, for she quite liked Molly;
but there were the servants; she might imitate one of them.
There were generally two men to serve at lunch-time at Preston Manor.
Mary came downstairs holding Peggy’s hand, and with a nod to Jessie it
was quickly arranged that the little girl was to sit next her new
friend. Occasionally Mary took the small hand and pressed it. Lunch
began. Peggy was strangely silent. When she was asked if she would take
such a thing, she said, “Yes, I thank you,” and when she was asked if
she would take another, she said, “No, I’m obliged”; and on the whole
her behaviour was fairly good, but all this time her small mind was
exceedingly busy.
There happened to be a new footman in the room that day, and this man,
it so happened, had a rather painful stammer in his speech. Now, nothing
makes one so nervous as a stammer, and Peggy observed that the footman
flushed very red indeed when he passed things round, and also that when
he was spoken to, he said, “Y-y-y-yes,” and could not very well go on.
Suddenly it occurred to Peggy that it would be a delightful thing if she
imitated Joseph, as this servant was called.
The first part of the luncheon went off without anything special
occurring; but by the time the puddings and other sweets were handed
round Peggy had quite learnt her lesson.
“Will you have some pudding, Peggy, or some of this stewed fruit?”
inquired Mrs. Wyndham. She spoke in a somewhat languid tone and looked
at the child as she did so.
“I’ll have p-p-p-p-p—fr-u-it—’m,” said Peggy.
Mary turned and looked at the girl. The footman, Joseph, rushed out of
the room, and there was a sound of convulsive laughter in the hall.
Peggy looked up with her innocent eyes. “Did I frighten him?” she said.
“Ye told me I was to imitate.” She looked full at Mary.
“Oh my dear, I didn’t mean that. Forgive her, please, Mrs. Wyndham;
she—she’ll soon be all right.”
“No, I won’t; I’ll always be wrong,” said Peggy; “always and always and
always; there ain’t no use trying to bother about me at all, at all!”
And the excited child burst into tears.
But Mary, after all, had her way. Ever since she came into the world had
not Mary Polly Molly had her own way? She had it now with Peggy when she
took the girl up to her room, and got into an American rocking-chair and
rocked backwards and forwards with the angry child folded in her arms.
When the little girl’s passion was over, Mary began to talk to her in
gentle, sweet tones, telling her stories of Ireland—beautiful stories,
stories of its glens and vales, of its rivers and mountains, of its
meadows of emerald green, of its waterfalls, of its countless delights,
and the lonely Irish child listened, fascinated by the stories. Then
Mary, who saw her opportunity, brought in very delicately little fairies
and little brownies, and made up tales about them, and she suddenly
suggested to Peggy that nothing could be better for her than to have a
dear little fairy godmother who would remain with her day and night and
tell her what to do.
“We will call her the Fairy Princess Mona,” said Mary. “Where I lived
there was a dear little Irish girl called Mona, and I think the dear
little fairy of that name will be a sweet godmother for you, Peggy. She
will sleep in your bed at night, and she will make herself very
disagreeable when you are naughty, and she will make herself very
agreeable when you are good.”
“But is it nonsense ye’re talking, Miss Mary?”
“Not Miss Mary.”
“Is it nonsense ye’re talking, Mary, or is it sense?”
“It is sense, darling, and now I will explain it to you. The little
Fairy Princess Mona _really_ lives inside you. She has got another name;
her name is ‘Conscience,’ and she will tell you, with her dear little
clear voice, when you are doing wrong and hurting people; she will hurt
you a little bit herself then; and, of course, you being a sweet, true
Irish child, will stop immediately. Now, it was very unkind of you to
imitate poor Joseph to-day, and the little fairy, the Princess Mona,
must have been fearfully hurt when you did it. I’m dreadfully afraid
that poor Joseph, although he laughed then, did not laugh afterwards,
and he certainly ran out of the room in great confusion.”
“Whativer will I take him to make him happy again?” asked Peggy.
“Well, we’ll take him an ‘I beg your pardon,’ to-morrow,” said Mary,
“and I will be with you when you speak to him; and now, darling, try and
remember about the fairy princess, and don’t make her unhappy. You can’t
think how she will sing in your heart when you have done a kindness to
any one.”
“But I’m anxious to be always doin’ kindness. Sure, for glory’s sake——”
“Now, Peggy, that is not a right word. Say it without ‘sure’ and ‘for
glory’s sake.’”
“There’s no end to it without its beginning,” said Peggy, turning a
little sulky.
“Well, darling, I want you to try and speak like a dear little Irish
lady. You can’t forget all your pretty words at once, and some of them
you may say now and then—not quite all, but some—and then, dear, you
needn’t lose your sweet accent, for it is altogether charming, and you
needn’t lose your dear Irish blue eyes, for nobody who wasn’t an Irish
girl could have such sapphire-blue eyes as yours. My dear child, I am
certain you will be very happy if only you obey little Fairy Princess
Mona.”
By the evening of that day, Peggy had really made valiant efforts to
improve her language. Mary, however, allowed the girl to talk to her
pretty much as she liked.
In the evening Mary had a conversation about her with Mrs. Wyndham. “I
think,” she said, “that Peggy ought not to go to a regular school for at
least two months. During that time, if you are wise, you will let me
send her to my friend Nancy Grey. Nancy Grey lives with her father on
the borders of Wales; she is a dear, sweet girl, and has got two little
baby-brothers to take care of, and her father. Her dear mother is dead,
and Nancy would be glad to have Peggy to keep her company. At the end of
her visit she will be ready to come back, and, perhaps, go to school to
The Red Gables with the girls after Christmas.”
“My dear Mary, I think your plan is a splendid one! I never knew anybody
who had such patience. I only wish you could take the child yourself.”
“I wish with all my heart I could,” replied Mary; “but, as a matter of
fact, we have hardly standing-room in our crowded rectory. But I will
write to Nancy if Uncle Paul says I may.”
“Speak to him yourself, Mary; he is the most obstinate man in existence.
If he agrees, all will be well.”