Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
About Peggy Saville, by Mrs George de Horne Vaizey.
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I have used part of the same introduction for this book, as I did for
one of the books about Pixie O'Shaughnessy, not because the books are
anything like the same, but because the observations are equally valid.
This is another excellent book by Mrs de Horne Vaizey, dating from the
end of the nineteenth century. While of course it is dated in its
references to the world around its actors, yet nevertheless their
emotions are well-described, and no doubt are timeless.
Some older children are being educated at a Vicarage near Brighton,
along with the vicar's own three. Peggy Saville is a "new girl", having
previously lived in India, where her parents still are. She has great
talent in some directions, but still has to add up by counting on her
fingers! She certainly gets up to some tricks, though.
There is a fire at a dance given by the titled family of one of the
pupils, from which Peggy rescues the daughter of the house. Both girls
are injured, Peggy the more severely, but eventually they are both on
the way to recovery.
In some ways the world around the people in the book is recognisable
today, in a way which a book written thirty or forty years before would
not have been. They have electricity, telephones, trains, buses, and
many other things that we still use regularly today. Of course one
major difference is that few people today have servants, while
middle-class and upper-class families of the eighteen nineties would
certainly have had them.
So it is not so very dated after all. But I do think there is a real
value in reading the book. Oddly enough, I think that a boy would
benefit from reading any of the author's books, more than a girl would,
because it would give him an insight into the girlish mind which he
could not so easily otherwise obtain.
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ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE, BY MRS GEORGE DE HORNE VAIZEY.
CHAPTER ONE.
A NEW INMATE.
The afternoon post had come in, and the Vicar of Renton stood in the bay
window of his library reading his budget of letters. He was a tall,
thin man, with a close-shaven face, which had no beauty of feature, but
which was wonderfully attractive all the same. It was not an old face,
but it was deeply lined, and those who knew and loved him best could
tell the meaning of each of those eloquent tracings. The deep vertical
mark running up the forehead meant sorrow. It had been stamped there
for ever on the night when Hubert, his first-born, had been brought
back, cold and lifeless, from the river to which he had hurried forth
but an hour before, a picture of happy boyhood. The vicar's brow had
been smooth enough before that day. The furrow was graven to the memory
of Teddy, the golden-haired lad who had first taught him the joys of
fatherhood. The network of lines about the eyes were caused by the
hundred and one little worries of everyday life, and the strain of
working a delicate body to its fullest pitch; and the two long, deep
streaks down the cheeks bore testimony to that happy sense of humour
which showed the bright side of a question, and helped him out of many a
slough of despair. This afternoon, as he stood reading his letters one
by one, the different lines deepened, or smoothed out, according to the
nature of the missive. Now he smiled, now he sighed, anon he crumpled
up his face in puzzled thought, until the last letter of all was
reached, when he did all three in succession, ending up with a low
whistle of surprise--
"Edith! This is from Mrs Saville. Just look at this!"
Instantly there came a sound of hurried rising from the other end of the
room; a work-basket swayed to and fro on a rickety gipsy-table, and the
vicar's wife walked towards him, rolling half a dozen reels of thread in
her wake with an air of fine indifference.
"Mrs Saville!" she exclaimed eagerly. "How is my boy?" and without
waiting for an answer she seized the letter, and began to devour its
contents, while her husband went stooping about over the floor picking
up the contents of the scattered basket and putting them carefully back
in their places. He smiled to himself as he did so, and kept turning
amused, tender glances at his wife as she stood in the uncarpeted space
in the window, with the sunshine pouring in on her eager face. Mrs
Asplin had been married for twenty years, and was the mother of three
big children; but such was the buoyancy of her Irish nature and the
irrepressible cheeriness of her heart, that she was in good truth the
youngest person in the house, so that her own daughters were sometimes
quite shocked at her levity of behaviour, and treated her with gentle,
motherly restraint. She was tall and thin, like her husband, and he, at
least, considered her every whit as beautiful as she had been a score of
years before. Her hair was dark and curly; she had deep-set grey eyes,
and a pretty fresh complexion. When she was well, and rushing about in
her usual breathless fashion, she looked like the sister of her own tall
girls; and when she was ill, and the dark lines showed under her eyes,
she looked like a tired, wearied girl, but never for a moment as if she
deserved such a title as an old, or elderly, woman. Now, as she read,
her eyes glowed, and she uttered ecstatic little exclamations of triumph
from time to time; for Arthur Saville, the son of the lady who was the
writer of the letter, had been the first pupil whom her husband had
taken into his house to coach, and as such had a special claim on her
affection. For the first dozen years of their marriage all had gone
smoothly with Mr and Mrs Asplin, and the vicar had had more work than
he could manage in his busy city parish; then, alas, lung trouble had
threatened; he had been obliged to take a year's rest, and to exchange
his living for a sleepy little parish, where he could breathe fresh air,
and take life at a slower pace. Illness, the doctor's bills, the year's
holiday, ran away with a large sum of money; the stipend of the country
church was by no means generous, and the vicar was lamenting the fact
that he was shortest of money just when his children were growing up and
he needed it most, when an old college friend requested, as a favour,
that he would undertake the education of his only son, for a year at
least, so that the boy might be well grounded in his studies before
going on to the military tutor who was to prepare him for Sandhurst.
Handsome terms were quoted, the vicar looked upon the offer as a leading
of Providence, and Arthur Saville's stay at the vicarage proved a
success in every sense of the word. He was a clever boy who was not
afraid of work, and the vicar discovered in himself an unsuspected
genius for teaching. Arthur's progress not only filled him with
delight, but brought the offer of other pupils, so that he was but the
forerunner of a succession of bright, handsome boys, who came from far
and wide to be prepared for college, and to make their home at the
vicarage. They were honest, healthy-minded lads, and Mrs Asplin loved
them all, but no one had ever taken Arthur Saville's place. During the
year which he had spent under her roof he had broken his collar-bone,
sprained his ankle, nearly chopped off the top of one of his fingers,
scalded his foot, and fallen crash through a plate-glass window. There
had never been one moment's peace or quietness; she had gone about from
morning to night in chronic fear of a disaster; and, as a matter of
course, it followed that Arthur was her darling, ensconced in a little
niche of his own, from which subsequent pupils tried in vain to oust
him.
Mrs Saville dwelt upon the latest successes of her clever son with a
mother's pride, and his second mother beamed, and smiled, and cried, "I
told you so!"
"Dear boy!"
"Of course he did!" in delighted echo. But when she came to the second
half of the letter her face changed, and she grew grave and anxious.
"And now, dear Mr Asplin," Mrs Saville wrote, "I come to the real
burden of my letter. I return to India in autumn, and am most anxious
to see Peggy happily settled before I leave. She has been at this
Brighton school for four years, and has done well with her lessons, but
the poor child seems so unhappy at the thought of returning, that I am
sorely troubled about her. Like most Indian children, she has had very
little home life, and after being with me for the last six months she
dreads the prospect of school, and I cannot bear the thought of sending
her back against her will. I was puzzling over the question yesterday,
when it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps you, dear Mr Asplin, could
help me out of my difficulty. Could you--would you, take her in hand
for the next three years, letting her share the lessons of your own two
girls? I cannot tell you what a relief and joy it would be to feel that
she was under your care. Arthur always looks back on the year spent
with you as one of the brightest of his life; and I am sure Peggy would
be equally happy. I write to you from force of habit, but really I
think this letter should have been addressed to Mrs Asplin, for it is
she who would be most concerned. I know her heart is large enough to
mother my dear girl during my absence; and if strength and time will
allow her to undertake this fresh charge, I think she will be glad to
help another mother by doing so. Peggy is bright and clever, like her
brother, and strong on the whole, though her throat needs care. She is
nearly fifteen--the age, I think, of your youngest girl--and we should
be pleased to pay the same terms as we did for Arthur. Now, please,
dear Mr Asplin, talk the matter over with your wife, and let me know
your decision as soon as possible."
Mrs Asplin dropped the letter on the floor, and turned to confront her
husband.
"Well!"
"Well?"
"It is your affair, dear, not mine. You would have the trouble. Could
you do with an extra child in the house?"
"Yes, yes, so far as that goes. The more the merrier. I should like to
help Arthur's mother, but,"--Mrs Asplin leant her head on one side, and
put on what her children described as her "Ways and Means" expression.
She was saying to herself,--"Clear out the box-room over the study.
Spare chest-of-drawers from dressing-room--cover a box with one of the
old chintz curtains for an ottoman--enamel the old blue furniture--new
carpet and bedstead, say five or six pounds outlay--yes! I think I
could make it pretty for five pounds!..." The calculations lasted for
about two minutes, at the end of which time her brow cleared, she nodded
brightly, and said in a crisp, decisive tone, "Yes, we will take her!
Arthur's throat was delicate too. She must use my gargle."
The vicar laughed softly.
"Ah! I thought that would decide it. I knew your soft heart would not
be able to resist the thought of the delicate throat! Well, dear, if
you are willing, so am I. I am glad to make hay while the sun shines,
and lay by a little provision for the children. How will they take it,
do you think? They are accustomed to strange boys, but a girl will be a
new experience. She will come at once, I suppose, and settle down to
work for the autumn. Dear me! dear me! It is the unexpected that
happens. I hope she is a nice child."
"Of course she is. She is Arthur's sister. Come! the young folks are
in the study. Let us go and tell them the news. I have always said it
was my ambition to have half a dozen children, and now, at last, it is
going to be gratified."
Mrs Asplin thrust her hand through her husband's arm, and led him down
the wide, flagged hall, towards the room whence the sound of merry young
voices fell pleasantly upon the ear.
CHAPTER TWO.
MELLICENT'S PROPHECY.
The schoolroom was a long, bare apartment running along one side of the
house, and boasting three tall windows, through which the sun poured in
on a shabby carpet and ink-stained tables. Everything looked well worn
and, to a certain extent, dilapidated, yet there was an air of cheerful
comfort about the whole which is not often found in rooms of the kind.
Mrs Asplin revelled in beautiful colours, and would tolerate no drab
and saffron papers in her house; so the walls were covered with a rich
soft blue; the cushions on the wicker chairs rang the changes from rose
to yellow; a brilliant Japanese screen stood in one corner, and a wire
stand before the open grate held a number of flowering plants. A young
fellow of seventeen or eighteen was seated at one end of the table
employed in arranging a selection of foreign stamps. This was Maxwell,
the vicar's eldest surviving son, who was to go up to Oxford at the
beginning of the year, and was at present reading under his father's
supervision. His sister Mellicent was perched on the table itself,
watching his movements, and vouchsafing scraps of advice. Her
suggestions were received with sniffs of scornful superiority, but
Mellicent prattled on unperturbed, being a plump, placid person, with
flaxen hair, blue eyes, and somewhat obtuse sensibilities. The elder
girl was sitting reading by the window, leaning her head on her hand,
and showing a long, thin face, comically like her father's, with the
same deep lines running down her cheeks. She was neither so pretty nor
so even-tempered as her sister, but she had twice the character, and was
a young person who made her individuality felt in the house; while
Maxwell was the beauty of the family, with his mother's crisp, dark
locks, grey eyes, and brunette colouring.
These three young people were the vicar's only surviving children; but
there were two more occupants of the room--the two lads who were being
coached to enter the University at the same time as his own son. Number
one was a fair, dandified-looking youth, who sat astride a deck-chair,
with his trousers hitched up so as to display long, narrow feet, shod in
scarlet silk socks and patent-leather slippers. He had fair hair,
curling over his forehead; bold blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and an air
of being very well satisfied with the world in general and himself in
particular. This was Oswald Elliston, the son of a country squire, who
had heard of the successes of Mr Asplin's pupils, and was storing up
disappointment for himself in expecting similar exploits from his own
handsome, but by no means over-brilliant, son. The second pupil had a
small microscope in his hand, and was poring over a collection of
"specimens," with his shoulders hitched up to his ears, in a position
the reverse of elegant. Every now and then he would bend his head to
write down a few notes on the paper beside him, showing a square-chinned
face, with heavy eyebrows and strong roughly-marked features. His
clothes were worn, his cuffs invisible, and his hair ruffled into wild
confusion by the unconscious rubbings of his hands; and this was the
Honourable Robert Darcy, third son of Lord Darcy, a member of the
Cabinet, and a politician of world-wide reputation.
The servants at the vicarage were fond of remarking, apropos of the
Honourable Robert, that he "didn't look it"; which remark would have
been a subject of sincere gratification to the lad himself, had it been
overheard; for there was no surer way of annoying him than by referring
to his position, or giving him the prefix to which he was entitled.
The young folks looked up inquiringly as Mr and Mrs Asplin entered the
room, for the hour after tea was set apart for recreation, and the
elders were usually only too glad to remain in their own quiet little
sanctum. Oswald, the gallant, sprang to his feet and brought forward a
chair for Mrs Asplin, but she waved him aside, and broke impetuously
into words.
"Children! we have news for you. You are going to have a new companion.
Father has had a letter this afternoon about another pupil--"
Mellicent yawned, and Esther looked calmly uninterested, but the three
lads were full of interest. Their faces turned towards the vicar with
expressions of eager curiosity.
"A new fellow! This term! From what school, sir?"
"A ladies' boarding-school at Brighton!" Mrs Asplin spoke rapidly, so
as to be beforehand with her husband, and her eyes danced with
mischievous enjoyment, as she saw the dismay depicted on the three
watching faces. A ladies' school! Maxwell, Oswald, and Robert, had a
vision of a pampered pet in curls, and round jacket, and their backs
stiffened in horrified indignation at the idea that grown men of
seventeen and eighteen should be expected to associate with a "kid" from
a ladies' school!
The vicar could not restrain a smile, but he hastened to correct the
mistake. "It's not a `fellow' at all, this time. It's a girl! We have
had a letter from Arthur Saville's mother, asking us to look after her
daughter while she is in India. She will come to us very soon, and
stay, I suppose, for three or four years, sharing your lessons, my
dears, and studying with you--"
"A girl! Good gracious! Where will she sleep?" cried Mellicent, with
characteristic matter-of-fact curiosity, while Esther chimed in with
further inquiries.
"What is her name? How old is she? What is she like? When will she
come? Why is she leaving school?"
"Not very happy. Peggy. In the little box-room over the study. About
fifteen, I believe. Haven't the least idea. In a few weeks from now,"
said Mrs Asplin, answering all the questions at once in her impulsive
fashion, the while she walked round the table, stroked Maxwell's curls,
bent an interested glance at Robert's collection, and laid a hand on
Esther's back, to straighten bowed shoulders. "She is Arthur's sister,
so she is sure to be nice, and both her parents will be in India, so you
must all be kind to the poor little soul, and give her a hearty
welcome."
Silence! Nobody had a word to say in response to this remark; but the
eyes of the young people met furtively across the table, and Mr Asplin
felt that they were only waiting until their seniors should withdraw
before bursting into eager conversation.
"Better leave them to have it out by themselves," he whispered
significantly to his wife; then added aloud, "Well, we won't interrupt
you any longer. Don't turn the play-hour into work, Rob! You will
study all the better for a little relaxation. You have proved the truth
of that axiom, Oswald--eh?" and he went laughing out of the room, while
Oswald held the door open for his wife, smiling assent in lazy fashion.
"Another girl!" he exclaimed, as he reseated himself on his chair, and
looked with satisfaction at his well-shod feet. "This is an unexpected
blow! A sister of the redoubtable Saville! From all I have heard of
him, I should imagine a female edition would be rather a terror in a
quiet household. I never saw Saville,--what sort of a fellow was he to
look at, don't you know?"
Mellicent reflected.
"He had a nose!" she said solemnly. Then, as the others burst into
hilarious laughter, "Oh, it's no use shrieking at me; I mean what I
say," she insisted. "A big nose--like Wellington's! When people are
very clever, they always have big noses. I imagine Peggy small, with a
little thin face, because she was born in India, and lived there until
she was six years old, and a great big nose in the middle--"
"Sounds appetising," said Maxwell shortly. "I don't! I imagine Peggy
like her mother, with blue eyes and brown hair. Mrs Saville is awfully
pretty. I have seen her often, and if her daughter is like her--"
"I don't care in the least how she looks," said Esther severely. "It's
her character that matters. Indian children are generally spoiled, and
if she has been to a boarding-school she may give herself airs. Then we
shall quarrel. I am not going to be patronised by a girl of fourteen.
I expect she will be Mellicent's friend, not mine."
"I wonder what sums she is in!" said Mellicent dreamily. "Rob! what do
you think about it? Are you glad or sorry? You haven't said anything
yet."
Robert raised his eyes from his microscope, and looked her up and down,
very much as a big Newfoundland dog looks at the terrier which disturbs
its slumber.
"It's nothing to me," he said loftily. "She may come if she likes."
Then, with sudden recollection, "Does she learn the violin? Because we
have already _one_ girl in this house who is learning the violin, and
life won't be worth living if there is a second."
He tucked his big notebook under his chin as he spoke, and began sawing
across it with a pencil, wagging his head and rolling his eyes, in
imitation of Mellicent's own manner of practising, producing at the same
time such long-drawn, catlike wails from between his closed lips as made
the listeners shriek with laughter. Mellicent, however, felt bound to
expostulate.
"It's not the tune at all," she cried loudly. "Not like any of my
pieces; and if I _do_ roll my eyes, I don't rumple up my hair and pull
faces at the ceiling, as _some_ people do, and I know who they are, but
I am too polite to say so! I hope Peggy will be my friend, because then
there will be two of us, and you won't dare to tease me any more. When
Arthur was here, a boy pulled my hair, and he carried him upstairs and
held his head underneath the shower-bath."
"I'll pull it again, and see if Peggy will do the same," said Rob
pleasantly; and poor Mellicent stared from one smiling face to another,
conscious that she was being laughed at, but unable to see the point of
the joke.
"When Peggy comes," she said, in an injured tone, "I hope she will be
sympathetic. I'm the youngest, and I think you ought all to do what I
want; instead of which you make fun, and laugh among yourselves, and
send me messages. For instance, when Max wanted his stamps brought
down--"
Maxwell passed his big hand over her hair and face, then, reversing the
direction, rubbed up the point of the little snub nose.
"Never mind, chubby, your day is over! We will make Peggy the
message-boy now. Peggy will be a nice, meek little girl, who will like
to run messages for her betters! She shall be my fag, and attend to me.
I'll give her my stamps to sort."
"I rather thought of having her for fag myself; we can't admit a girl to
our study unless she makes herself useful," said Oswald languidly;
whereupon Rob banged the notebook on the table with clanging decision.
"Peggy belongs to me," he announced firmly. "It's no use you two
fellows quarrelling. That matter is settled once for all. Peggy will
be my fag; I've barleyed her for myself, and you have nothing to say in
the matter."
But Esther tossed her head with an air of superior wisdom.
"Wait till she comes," she said sagely. "If Peggy is anything like her
brother, you may spare yourself the trouble of planning as to what she
must or must not do. It is waste of time. Peggy will be mistress over
us all!"
CHAPTER THREE.
ENTER MISS SAVILLE!
A fortnight later Peggy Saville arrived at the vicarage. Her mother
brought her, stayed for a couple of hours, and then left for the time
being; but as she was to pay some visits in the neighbourhood it was
understood that this was not the final parting, and that she would spend
several afternoons with her daughter before sailing for India. On this
occasion, however, none of the young people saw her, for they were out
during the afternoon, and were just settling down to tea in the
schoolroom when the wheels of the departing carriage crunched down the
drive.
"Now for it!" cried Maxwell, and they looked at one another in silence,
knowing full well what would happen. Mrs Asplin would think an
introduction to her young friends the best distraction for the strange
girl after her mother's departure, and the next item in the programme
would be the appearance of Miss Peggy herself. Esther rearranged the
scattered tea-things; Oswald felt to see if his necktie was in position,
and Robert hunched his shoulders and rolled his eyes at Mellicent in
distracting fashion. Each one sat with head cocked on one side, in an
attitude of eager attention. The front door banged, footsteps
approached, and Mrs Asplin's high, cheerful tones were heard drawing
nearer and nearer.
"This way, dear," she was saying. "They are longing to see you!"
The listeners gave a simultaneous gulp of excitement, the door opened,
and--Peggy entered!
She was not in the least what they had expected! This was neither the
blonde beauty of Maxwell's foretelling, nor the black-haired elf
described by Mellicent. The first glance was unmitigated
disappointment.
"She is not a bit pretty," was the mental comment of the two girls.
"What a funny little soul!" that of the three big boys, who had risen on
Mrs Asplin's entrance, and now stood staring at the new-comer with
curious eyes.
Peggy was slight and pale, and at the first sight her face gave a
comical impression of being made up of a succession of peaks. Her hair
hung in a pigtail down her back, and grew in a deep point on her
forehead; her finely-marked eyebrows were shaped like eaves, and her
chin was for all the world like that of a playful kitten. Even the
velvet trimming on her dress accentuated this peculiarity, as it
zigzagged round the sleeves and neck. The hazel eyes were light and
bright, and flitted from one figure to another with a suspicious
twinkling; but nothing could have been more composed, more demure, or
patronisingly grown-up than the manner in which this strange girl bore
the scrutiny which was bent upon her.
"Here are your new friends, Peggy," cried Mrs Asplin cheerily. "They
always have tea by themselves in the schoolroom, and do what they please
from four to five o'clock. Now just sit down, dear, and take your place
among them at once. Esther will make room for you by her side, and
introduce you to the others. I will leave you to make friends. I know
young people get on better when they are left alone."
She whisked out of the room in her impetuous fashion, and Peggy Saville
seated herself in the midst of a ghastly silence. The young people had
been prepared to cheer and encourage a bashful stranger, but the
self-possession of this thin, pale-faced girl took them by surprise, so
that they sat round the table playing uncomfortably with teaspoons and
knives, and irritably conscious that they, and not the new-comer, were
the ones to be overcome with confusion. The silence lasted for a good
two minutes, and was broken at last by Miss Peggy herself.
"Cream _and_ sugar!" she said, in a tone of sweet insinuation. "Two
lumps, if you please. Not very strong, and as hot as possible. Thank
you! So sorry to be a trouble."
Esther fairly jumped with surprise, and seizing the teapot, filled the
empty cup in haste. Then she remembered the dreaded airs of the
boarding-school miss, and her own vows of independence, and made a
gallant effort to regain composure.
"No trouble at all. I hope that will be right. Please help yourself.
Bread--and--butter--scones--cake! I must introduce you to the rest, and
then you will feel more at home! I am Esther, the eldest, a year older
than you, I think. This is Mellicent, my younger sister, fourteen last
February. I think you are about the same age." She paused a moment,
and Peggy looked across the table and said, "How do you do, dear?" in an
affable, grandmotherly fashion, which left poor Mellicent speechless,
and filled the others with delighted amusement. But their own turn was
coming. Esther pulled herself together, and went on steadily with her
introductions. "This is Maxwell, my brother, and these are father's two
pupils--Oswald Elliston, and Robert--the Honourable Robert Darcy." She
was not without hope that the imposing sound of the latter name would
shake the self-possession of the stranger, but Peggy inclined her head
with the air of a queen, drawled out a languid, "Pleased to see you!"
and dropped her eyes with an air of indifference, which seemed to imply
that an "Honourable" was an object of no interest whatever, and that she
was really bored by the number of her titled acquaintances. The boys
looked at each other with furtive glances of astonishment. Mellicent
spread jam all over her plate, and Esther unconsciously turned on the
handle of the urn and deluged the tray with water, but no one ventured a
second remark, and once again it was Peggy's voice that opened the
conversation.
"And is this the room in which you pursue your avocations? It has a
warm and cheerful exposure."
"Er--yes! This is the schoolroom. Mellicent and I have lessons here in
the morning from our German governess, while the boys are in the study
with father. In the afternoon, from two to four, they use it for
preparation, and we go out to classes. We have music lessons on Monday,
painting on Tuesday, calisthenics and wood-carving on Thursday and
Friday. Wednesday and Saturday are half-holidays. Then from four to
six the room is common property, and we have tea together and amuse
ourselves as we choose."
"A most desirable arrangement. Thank you! Yes,--I _will_ take a scone,
as you are so kind!" said Peggy blandly; a remark which covered the five
young people with confusion, since none of them had noticed that her
plate was empty. Each one made a grab in the direction of the plate of
scones; the girls failed to reach it, while Oswald, twitching it from
Robert's hands, jerked half the contents on the table, and had to pick
them up, while Miss Saville looked on with a smile of indulgent
superiority.
"Accidents will happen, will they not?" she said sweetly, as she lifted
a scone from the plate, with her little finger cocked well in the air,
and nibbled it daintily between her small white teeth. "A most
delicious cake! Home-made, I presume? Perhaps of your own concoction?"
Esther muttered an inarticulate assent, and once more the conversation
languished. She looked appealingly at Maxwell. As the son of the
house, the eldest of the boys, it was his place to take the lead, but
Maxwell looked the picture of embarrassment. He did not suffer from
bashfulness as a rule, but since Peggy Saville had come into the room he
had been seized with an appalling self-consciousness. His feet felt in
the way, his arms seemed too long for practical purposes, his elbows had
a way of invading other people's precincts, and his hands looked red and
clammy. It occurred to him dimly that he was not a man after all, but
only a big overgrown schoolboy, and that little Miss Saville knew as
much, and was mildly pitiful of his shortcomings. He was not at all
anxious to attract the attention of the sharp little tongue, so he
passed on the signal to Mellicent, kicking her foot under the table, and
frowning vigorously in the direction of the stranger.
"Er,"--began Mellicent, anxious to respond to the signal, but lamentably
short of ideas,--"Er,--Peggy! Are you fond of sums? I'm in decimals.
Do you like fractions? I think they are hateful. I could do vulgars
pretty well, but decimals are fearful. They never come right. So
awfully difficult."
"Patience and perseverance overcome difficulties. Keep up your courage.
I'll help you with them, dear," said Peggy encouragingly, closing her
eyes the while, and coughing in a faint and ladylike manner.
She could not really be only fourteen, Mellicent reflected. She talked
as if she were quite grown-up,--older than Esther, seventeen or eighteen
at the very least. What a little white face she had! what a great thick
plait of hair! How erect she held herself! Fraulein would never have
to rebuke her new pupil for stooping shoulders. It was kind of her to
promise help with those troublesome decimals! Quite too good an offer
to refuse.
"Thank you very much," she said heartily, "I'll show you some after tea.
Perhaps you may be able to make me understand better than Fraulein.
It's very good of you, P--" A quick change of expression warned her that
something was wrong, and she checked herself to add hastily, "You want
to be called `Peggy,' don't you? No? Then what must we call you? What
is your real name?"
"Mariquita!" sighed the damsel pensively, "after my grandmother--
Spanish. A beautiful and unscrupulous woman at the court of Philip the
Second." She said "unscrupulous" with an air of pride, as though it had
been "virtuous," or some other word of a similar meaning, and pronounced
the name of the king with a confidence that made Robert gasp.
"Philip the Second? Surely not? He was the husband of our Mary in
1572. That would make it just a trifle too far back for your
grandmother, wouldn't it?" he inquired sceptically; but Mariquita
remained absolutely unperturbed.
"It must have been someone else, then, I suppose. How clever of you to
remember! I see you know something about history," she said suavely; a
remark which caused an amused glance to pass between the young people,
for Robert had a craze for history of all description, and had serious
thought of becoming a second Carlyle so soon as his college course was
over.
Maxwell put his handkerchief to his mouth to stifle a laugh, and kicked
out vigorously beneath the table, with the intention of sharing his
amusement with his friend Oswald. It seemed, however, that he had aimed
amiss, for Mariquita fell back in her chair, and laid her hand on her
heart.
"I think there must be some slight misunderstanding. That's my foot
that you are kicking! I cut it very badly on the ice last winter, and
the least touch causes acute suffering. Please don't apologise; it
doesn't matter in the least," and she rolled her eyes to the ceiling,
like one in mortal agony.
It was the last straw. Maxwell's embarrassment had reached such a pitch
that he could bear no more. He murmured some unintelligible words, and
bolted from the room, and the other two boys lost no time in following
his example.
In subsequent conversations, Mellicent always referred to this occasion
as "the night when Robert had _one cup_," it being, in truth, the only
occasion since this young gentleman entered the vicarage when he had
neglected to patronise the teapot three or four times in succession.
CHAPTER FOUR.
GOOD-BYE, MARIQUITA!
For four long days had Mariquita Saville dwelt beneath Mr Asplin's
roof, and her companions still gazed upon her with fear and trembling,
as a mysterious and extraordinary creature whom they altogether failed
to understand. She talked like a book; she behaved like a
well-conducted old lady of seventy, and she sat with folded hands gazing
around, with a curious, dancing light in her hazel eyes, which seemed to
imply that there was some tremendous joke on hand, the secret of which
was known only to herself. Esther and Mellicent had confided their
impressions to their mother; but in Mrs Asplin's presence Peggy was
just a quiet, modest girl, a trifle shy, as was natural under the
circumstances, but with no marked peculiarity of any kind. She answered
to the name of "Peggy," to which address she was at other times
persistently deaf, and sat with neat little feet crossed before her, the
picture of a demure, well-behaved young schoolgirl. The sisters assured
their mother that Mariquita was a very different person in the
schoolroom, but when she inquired as to the nature of the difference, it
was not easy to explain.
She talked so grandly, and used such great big words!--"A good thing,
too," Mrs Asplin averred. She wished the rest would follow her
example, and not use so much foolish, meaningless slang.--Her eyes
looked so bright and mocking, as if she were laughing at something all
the time.--Poor, dear child! could she not talk as she liked? It was a
great blessing she _could_ be bright, poor lamb, with such a parting
before her!--She was so grown-up, and patronising, and superior!--Tut!
tut! Nonsense! Peggy had come from a boarding-school, and her ways
were different from theirs--that was all. They must not take stupid
notions, but be kind and friendly, and make the poor girl feel at home.
Fraulein on her side reported that her new pupil was docile and
obedient, and anxious to get on with her studies, though not so far
advanced as might have been expected. Esther was far ahead of her in
most subjects, and Mellicent learned with pained surprise that she knew
nothing whatever about decimal fractions.
"Circumstances, dear," she explained, "circumstances over which I had no
control prevented an acquaintance, but no doubt I shall soon know all
about them, and then I shall be pleased to give you the promised help;"
and Mellicent found herself saying, "Thank you," in a meek and
submissive manner, instead of indulging in a well-merited rebuke.
No amount of ignorance seemed to daunt Mariquita, or to shake her belief
in herself. When Maxwell came to grief in a Latin essay, she looked up
and said, "Can I assist you?" and when Robert read aloud a passage from
Carlyle, she laid her head on one side and said, "Now, do you know, I am
not altogether sure that I am with him on that point!" with an assurance
which paralysed the hearers.
Esther and Mellicent discussed seriously together as to whether they
liked, or disliked, this extraordinary creature, and had great
difficulty in coming to a conclusion. She teased, puzzled, aggravated,
and provoked them; therefore, if they had any claim to be logical, they
should dislike her cordially, yet somehow or other they could not bring
themselves to say that they disliked Mariquita. There were moments when
they came perilously near loving the aggravating creature. Already it
gave them quite a shock to look back upon the time when there was no
Peggy Saville to occupy their thoughts, and life without the interest of
her presence would have seemed unspeakably flat and uninteresting. She
was a bundle of mystery. Even her looks seemed to exercise an uncanny
fascination. On the evening of her arrival the unanimous opinion had
been that she was decidedly plain, but there was something about the
pale little face which always seemed to invite a second glance, and the
more closely you gazed, the more complete was the feeling of
satisfaction.
"Her face is so _neat_," Mellicent said to herself; and the adjective
was not inappropriate, for Peggy's small features looked as though they
had been modelled by the hand of a fastidious artist, and the air of
dainty finish extended to her hands and feet and slight, graceful
figure.
The subject came up for discussion on the third evening after Peggy's
arrival, when she had been called out of the room to speak to Mrs
Asplin for a few minutes. Esther gazed after her as she walked across
the floor with her dignified tread, and when the door was closed she
said slowly--
"I don't think Mariquita is as plain now as I did at first; do you,
Oswald?"
"N-no! I don't think I do. I should not call her exactly plain. She
is a funny little thing, but there's something nice about her face."
"Very nice!"
"Last night in the pink dress she looked almost pretty."
"Y-es!"
"Quite pretty!"
"Y-es! really quite pretty."
"We shall think her lovely in another week," said Mellicent tragically.
"Those awful Savilles! They are all alike--there is something Indian
about them. Indian people have a lot of secrets that we know nothing
about; they use spells, and poisons, and incantations that no English
person can understand, and they can charm snakes. I've read about it in
books. Arthur and Peggy were born in India, and it's my opinion that
they are bewitched. Perhaps the ayahs did it when they were in their
cradles. I don't say it is their own fault, but they are not like other
people, and they use their charms on us, as there are no snakes in
England. Look at Arthur! He was the naughtiest boy--always hurting
himself, and spilling things, and getting into trouble, and yet everyone
in the house bowed down before him, and did what he wanted.--Now mark my
words, Peggy will be the same!"
Mellicent's companions were not in the habit of "marking her words," but
on this occasion they looked thoughtful, for there was no denying that
they were already more or less under the spell of the remorseless
stranger.
On the afternoon of the fourth day Miss Peggy came down to tea with her
pigtail smoother and more glossy than ever, and the light of war shining
in her eyes. She drew her chair to the table, and looked blandly at
each of her companions in turn.
"I have been thinking," she said sweetly, and the listeners quaked at
the thought of what was coming. "The thought has been weighing on my
mind that we neglect many valuable and precious opportunities. This
hour, which is given to us for our own use, might be turned to profit
and advantage, instead of being idly frittered away--
"`In work, in work, in work alway,
Let my young days be spent.'
"It was the estimable Dr Watts, I think, who wrote those immortal
lines! I think it would be a desirable thing to carry on all
conversation at this table in the French language for the future.
_Passez-moi le beurre, s'il vous plait_, Mellicent, _ma tres chere.
J'aime beaucoup le beurre, quand il est frais. Est-ce que vous aimez le
beurre plus de la_,--I forget at the moment how you translate _jam, il
fait tres beau, ce apres-midi, n'est pas_?"
She was so absolutely, imperturbably grave that no one dared to laugh.
Mellicent, who took everything in deadly earnest, summoned up courage to
give a mild little squeak of a reply. "_Wee_--_mais hier soir, il
pleut_;" and in the silence that followed Robert was visited with a
mischievous inspiration. He had had French nursery governesses in his
childhood, and had, moreover, spent two years abroad, so that French
came as naturally to him as his own mother-tongue. The temptation to
discompose Miss Peggy was too strong to be resisted. He raised his
dark, square-chinned face, looked straight into her eyes, and rattled
off a breathless sentence to the effect that there was nothing so
necessary as conversation, if one wished to master a foreign language;
that he had talked French in the nursery; and that the same Marie who
had nursed him as a baby was still in his father's service, acting as
maid to his sister. She was getting old now, but was a most faithful
creature, devoted to the family, though she had never overcome her
prejudices against England and English ways. He rattled on until he was
fairly out of breath, and Peggy leant her little chin on her hand, and
stared at him with an expression of absorbing attention. Esther felt
convinced that she did not understand a word of what was being said, but
the moment that Robert stopped, she threw back her head, clasped her
hands together, and exclaimed--
"_Mais certainement, avec_ pleasure!" with such vivacity and Frenchiness
of manner that she was forced into unwilling admiration.
"Has no one else a remark to make?" continued this terrible girl,
collapsing suddenly into English, and looking inquiringly round the
table. "Perhaps there is some other language which you would prefer to
French. It is all the same to me. We ought to strive to become
proficient in foreign tongues. At the school where I was at Brighton
there was a little girl in the fourth form who could write, and even
speak, Greek with admirable fluency. It impressed me very much, for I
myself knew so little of the language. And she was only six--"
"Six!" The boys straightened themselves at that, roused into eager
protest. "Six years old! And spoke Greek! And wrote Greek!
Impossible!"
"I have heard her talking for half an hour at a time. I have known the
girls in the first form ask her to help them with their exercises. She
knew more than anyone in the school."
"Then she is a human prodigy. She ought to be exhibited. Six years
old! Oh, I say--that child ought to turn out something great when she
grows up. What did you say her name was, by the bye?"
Peggy lowered her eyelids, and pursed up her lips. "Andromeda
Michaelides," she said slowly. "She was six last Christmas. Her father
is Greek Consul in Manchester."
There was a pause of stunned surprise; and then, suddenly, an
extraordinary thing happened. Mariquita bounded from her seat, and
began flying wildly round and round the table. Her pigtail flew out
behind her; her arms waved like the sails of a windmill, and as she
raced along she seized upon every loose article which she could reach,
and tossed it upon the floor. Cushions from chairs and sofa went flying
into the window; books were knocked off the table with one rapid sweep
of the hand; magazines went tossing up in the air, and were kicked about
like so many footballs. Round and round she went, faster and faster,
while the five beholders gasped and stared, with visions of madhouses,
strait-jackets, and padded rooms, rushing through their bewildered
brains. Her pale cheeks glowed with colour; her eyes shone; she gave a
wild shriek of laughter, and threw herself, panting, into a chair by the
fireside.
"Three cheers for Mariquita! Ho! ho! he! Didn't I do it well? If you
could have _seen_ your faces!"
"P-P-P-eggy! Do you mean to say you have been pretending all this time?
What do you mean? Have you been putting on all those airs and graces
for a joke?" asked Esther severely; and Peggy gave a feeble splutter of
laughter.
"W-wanted to see what you were like! Oh, my heart! Ho! ho! ho! wasn't
it lovely? Can't keep it up any longer! Good-bye, Mariquita! I'm
Peggy now, my dears.--Give me some more tea!"
CHAPTER FIVE.
EXPLANATIONS.
In the explanations that followed, no one showed a livelier interest
than Peggy herself. She was in her element answering the questions
which were showered upon her, and took an artistic pleasure in the
success of her plot.
"You see," she explained, "I knew you would all be talking about me, and
wondering what I was like, just as I was thinking about you. As I was
Arthur's sister, I knew you would be sure to imagine me a mischievous
tom-boy, so I came to the conclusion that the best way to shock you
would be to be quite too awfully proper and well-behaved. I never
enjoyed anything so much in my life as that first tea-time, when you all
looked dumb with astonishment. I had made up my mind to go on for a
week, but mother is coming to-morrow, and I couldn't keep it up before
her, so I was obliged to explode to-night. Besides, I'm really quite
fatigued with being good--"
"And are you--are you--really not proper, after all?" gasped Mellicent
blankly; whereat Peggy clasped her hands in emphatic protest.
"Proper! Oh, my dear, I am the most awful person. I am always getting
into trouble. You know what Arthur was? Well, I tell you truly, he is
nothing to me. It's an extraordinary thing. I have excellent
intentions, but I seem bound to get into scrapes. There was a teacher
at Brighton, Miss Baker,--a dear old thing. I called her `Buns.'--She
vowed and declared that I shortened her life by bringing on palpitation
of the heart. I set the dressing-table on fire by spilling matches and
crunching them beneath my heels. It was not a proper dressing-table,
you know--just a wooden thing frilled round with muslin. We had two
blazes in the last term. And a dreadful thing occurred! Would you
believe that I was actually careless enough to sit down on the top of
her best Sunday hat, and squash it as flat as a pancake!"
Despite her protestations of remorse, Peggy's voice had an exultant ring
as she detailed the history of her escapades, and Esther shrewdly
suspected that she was by no means so penitent as she declared. She put
on her most severe expression, and said sternly--
"You must be dreadfully careless. It is to be hoped you will be more
careful here, for your room is far-away from ours, and you might be
burned to death before anyone discovered you. Mother never allows
anyone to read in bed in this house, and she is most particular about
matches. You wouldn't like to be burned to a cinder all by yourself
some fine night, I should say?"