There are subjects given for each month--sorrow, love, obedience,
resignation--that sort of thing, and you have to give a quotation for
each day. It will take some time, but we ought to stand a good chance.
You are fond of reading, and know no end of poetry, and where I have a
pull is in knowing French and German _so_ well. I can give them some
fine translations from the Latin and Greek too, for the matter of that,
and put the authors' names underneath. That will impress the judges,
and make 'em decide in our favour. I've been working at it only three
days, and I've got over fifty quotations already. We must keep
note-books in our pockets, and jot down any ideas that occur to us
during the day, and go over them together at night. You will know a
lot, I'm sure."
"`Sorrow and silence are strong,
and patient endurance is godlike,
Therefore accomplish thy labour of love,
till the heart is made godlike.'"
quoted Peggy with an air; and Rob nodded approval.
"That's it! That's the style! Something with a bit of a sermon in it
to keep 'em up to the mark for the day. Bravo, Mariquita! you'll do it
splendidly. That's settled, then. We shall have to work hard, for
there is only a month before it must be sent off, and we must finish in
good time. When you leave things to the last, something is bound to
come in the way. It will take an age to write out three hundred and
sixty-five extracts."
"It will indeed, for they must be very nicely done," said Peggy
fastidiously. "Of course it is most important that the extracts
themselves should be good, but it matters almost as much that they
should look neat and attractive. Appearances go such a long way." And
when Robert demurred, and stated his opinion that the judges would not
trouble their heads about looks, she stuck firmly to her point.
"Oh, won't they, though! Just imagine how you would feel if you were in
their position, and had to look over scores of ugly, uninteresting
manuscripts. You would be bored to death, and, after plodding
conscientiously through a few dozen, you would get so mixed up that you
would hardly be able to distinguish one from another. Then suddenly--
suddenly,"--Peggy clasped her hands with one of her favourite dramatic
gestures--"you would see before you a dainty little volume, prettily
written, easy to read, easy to hold, nice to look at, and do you mean to
say that your heart wouldn't give a jump, and that you would not take a
fancy to the writer from that very moment? Of course you would; and so,
if you please, I am going to look after the decorative department, and
see what can be done. I must give my mind to it--Oh! I'll tell you
what would be just the thing. When I was in the library one day lately
I saw some sweet little note-books with pale green leaves and gilt
edges. I'll count the pages, and buy enough to make up three hundred
and sixty-five, and twelve extra, so as to put one plain sheet between
each month. Then we must have a cover. Two pieces of cardboard would
do, with gilt edges, and a motto in Old English letters--`_The months in
circling-orbit fly_.' Have I read that somewhere, or did I make it up?
It sounds very well. Well, what next?" Peggy was growing quite
excited, and the restless hands were waving about at a great rate. "Oh,
the pages! We shall have to put the date at the top of each. I could
do that in gold ink, and make a pretty little skriggle--
er--`_arabesque_' I should say, underneath, to give it a finish. Then
I'd hand them on to you to write the extracts in your tiny little
writing. Rob, it will be splendid! Do you really think we shall get
the prize?"
"I _mean_ to get it! We have a good library here, and plenty of time,
if we like to use it. I'm going to get up at six every morning. I
shan't fail for want of trying, and if I miss this I'll win something
else. My mind is made up! I'm going to buy that microscope!" Robert
tossed his head and looked ferocious, while Peggy peered in his rugged
face, and, womanlike, admired him the more for his determination.
They lingered in the garden discussing details, planning out the work,
and arranging as to the different books to be overlooked until the tea
hour was passed, and Mrs Asplin came to the door and called to them to
come in.
"And nothing on your feet but your thin slippers? Oh, you Peggy!" she
exclaimed in despair. "Now you will have a cold, and ten to one it will
fly to your throat. I shall have to line you a penny every time you
cross the doorstep without changing your shoes. Summer is over,
remember. You can't be too careful in these raw, damp days. Run
upstairs this minute and change your stockings."
Peggy looked meek, and went to her room at once to obey orders; but the
mischief was done--she shivered, and could not get warm, her head ached,
and her eyes felt heavy. Mrs Asplin looked anxiously at her in the
drawing-room after dinner, and finally called her to her side.
"Peggy, come here! Aren't you well? Let me feel your hand. Child,
it's like a coal! You are in a fever. Why didn't you tell me at once?"
"Because I--really, it's nothing, Mrs Asplin! Don't be worried. I
don't know why I feel so hot. I was shivering only a minute ago."
"Go straight upstairs and take a dose of ammoniated quinine. Turn on
the fire in your room. Max! Robert! Oswald! Esther! Mellicent! will
everyone please look after Peggy in the future, and see that she does
not run out in her slippers!" cried Mrs Asplin in a despairing voice;
and Peggy bolted out of the door, in haste to escape before more
reproaches could be hurled at her head.
But an alarm of a more serious nature than a threatened cold was to take
place before the evening was over. The young people answered briefly,
Mrs Asplin turned back to her book, and silence settled down upon the
occupants of the drawing-room. It was half-past eight, the servants had
carried away the dinner things, and were enjoying their evening's rest
in the kitchen. The vicar was nodding in his easy-chair, the house was
so quiet that the tick of the old grandfather clock in the hall could be
heard through the half-opened door. Then suddenly came the sound of
flying footsteps, the door burst open, and in rushed Peggy once more,--
but such a Peggy, such an apparition of fear, suffering, and terror as
brought a cry of consternation from every lip. Her eyes were starting
from her head, her face was contorted in spasmodic gaspings for breath,
her arms sawed the air like the sails of a windmill, and she flew round
and round the room in a wild, unheeding rush.
"Peggy, my child! my child! what is the matter? Oh, Austin--oh! What
shall we do?" cried Mrs Asplin, trying to catch hold of the flying
arms, only to be waved off with frenzied energy. Mellicent dissolved
into tears and retreated behind the sofa, under the impression that
Peggy had suddenly taken leave of her senses, and practical Esther
rushed upstairs to search for a clue to the mystery among the medicine
bellies on Peggy's table. She was absent only for a few minutes; but it
seemed like an hour to the watchers, for Peggy's face grew more and more
agonised, she seemed on the verge of suffocation, and could neither
speak nor endure anyone to approach within yards of her mad career.
Presently, however, she began to falter, to draw her breath in longer
gasps, and as she did so there emerged from her lips a series of loud
whooping sounds, like the crowing of a cock, or the noise made by a
child in the convulsions of whooping-cough. The air was making its way
to the lungs after the temporary stoppage, and the result would have
been comical if any of the hearers had been in a mood for jesting,
which, in good truth, they were not.
"Thank Heaven! She will be better now. Open the window and leave her
alone. Don't try to make her speak. What in the world has the child
been doing?" cried the vicar wonderingly; and at that moment Esther
entered, bearing in her hand the explanation of the mystery--a bottle
labelled "Spirits of Ammonia," and a tumbler about an eighth full of a
white milky-looking fluid.
"They were in the front of the table. The other things had not been
moved. I believe she has never looked at the labels, but seized the
first bottle that came to her hand--this dreadfully strong ammonia which
you gave her for the gnat bites when she first came."
A groan of assent came from the sofa on which Peggy lay, choking no
longer, but ghastly white, and drawing her breath in painful gasps.
Mrs Asplin sniffed at the contents of the tumbler, only to jerk back
her head with watery eyes and reddened lips.
"No wonder that the child was nearly choked! The marvel is that she had
ever regained her breath after such a mistake. Her throat must be raw!"
She hurried out of the room to concoct a soothing draught, at which
Peggy supped at intervals during the evening, croaking out a hoarse,
"Better, thank you!" in reply to inquiries, and looking so small and
pathetic in her nest of cushions that the hearts of the beholders
softened at the sight. Before bedtime, however, she revived
considerably, and, her elastic spirits coming to her aid, entertained
the listeners with a husky but dramatic account of her proceedings. How
she had not troubled to turn the gas full up, and had just seized the
bottle, tilted some of the contents into a tumbler in which there was a
small portion of water, without troubling to measure it out, and gulped
it down without delay. Her description of the feelings which ensued was
a really clever piece of word-painting, but behind the pretence of
horror at her own carelessness there rang a hardly concealed note of
pride, as though, in thus risking her life, she had done something quite
clever and distinguished.
Mrs Asplin exhausted herself in "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" of sympathy, and had
nothing harsher to say than--
"Well now, dearie, you'll be more careful another time, won't you?" But
the vicar's long face grew longer than ever as he listened, and the
lines deepened in his forehead. Peggy was inexperienced in
danger-signals, but Esther and Mellicent recognised the well-known
signs, and were at no loss to understand the meaning of that quiet, "A
word with you in the study, Mariquita, if you please!" with which he
rose from the breakfast-table next morning.
Peggy's throat was still sore, and she fondly imagined that anxiety on
its behalf was the cause of the summons, but she was speedily
undeceived, for the vicar motioned towards a chair, and said, in short
grave sentences, as his manner was when annoyed--
"I wish to speak to you about the event of last night; I am afraid that
you hardly realise the matter in its true light. I was not at all
pleased with the manner in which you gave your explanation. You
appeared to imagine that you had done something clever and amusing. I
take a very different view. You showed a reprehensible carelessness in
trifling with medicines in the dark; it might have caused you your life,
or, at best, a serious injury. As it was, you brought pain upon
yourself, and gave us all a serious alarm. I see nothing amusing in
such behaviour, but consider it stupid, and careless to an almost
criminal extent."
Peggy stood motionless, eyes cast down, hands clasped before her--a
picture of injured innocence. She did not say a word in self-defence,
but her feelings were so plainly written on her face that the vicar's
eyes flashed with impatience.
"Well, what have you to say?"
Peggy sighed in dolorous fashion.
"I am sorry; I know it was careless. I am always doing things like
that. So is Arthur. So was father when he was a boy. It's in the
family. It's unfortunate, but--"
"Mariquita," said the vicar sternly, "you are _not_ sorry! If I had
seen that you were penitent, I should not have spoken, for you would
have been sufficiently punished by your own sufferings, but you are not
sorry; you are, on the whole, rather proud of the escapade! Look into
your own heart and see if it is not so?"
He paused, looking at her with grave, expectant eyes, but there was no
sign of conviction upon the set face. The eyes were still lowered, the
lips drooped with an expression of patient endurance. There was silence
in the room while Peggy studied the carpet, and the vicar gazed at her
downcast face. A moment before he had been on the verge of anger, but
the sternness melted away in that silence, and gave place to an anxious
tenderness. Here was a little human soul committed to his care--how
could he help? how best guide and train? The long, grave face grew
beautiful in that moment with the expression which it wore every Sunday
as he gazed around the church at the beginning of the sermon, noting
this one and that, having a swift realisation of their needs and
failings, and breathing a prayer to God that He would give to his lips
the right word, to his heart the right thought, to meet the needs of his
people. Evidently, sternness and outspoken blame was not the best way
to touch the girl before him. He must try another mode.
"Peggy," he said quietly, "do you think you realise what a heavy
responsibility we laid upon ourselves when we undertook the care of you
for these three years? If any accident happened to you beneath our
roof, have you ever imagined what would be our misery and remorse at
sending the news to your parents? About their feelings I do not speak;
you can realise them for yourself. We safeguard you with every
precaution in our power; we pray morning and night that you may be
preserved in safety; is it too much to ask that you will do your part by
showing more forethought, and by exercising some little care in the
daily duties of life? I ask it for our sakes as well as your own."
A pink flush spread over Peggy's cheeks; she gulped nervously and raised
her eyes to the vicar's face. Twice her lips opened as if to speak, but
the natural reserve, which made it agony to her to express her deepest
feelings, closed them again before a word had been spoken. The question
was not answered, but a little hand shot out and nestled in Mr Asplin's
with a spasmodic grip which was full of eloquence.
"Yes, dear, I know you will! I know you will!" he said, answering the
unspoken promise, and looking down at her with one of his sweet, kindly
smiles. "It will be a comfort to my wife as well as myself. She is
very nervous about you. She was upstairs three times in the night, to
satisfy herself that you were well after your fright, and is too tired
herself to come downstairs this morning. She is always bright and
cheery, but she is not very strong. You would be sorry to make her
ill."
No answer, only another grip of the hand, and a sudden straightening of
the lips, as if they were pressed together to avoid an involuntary
trembling. There is something especially touching in the sight of
restrained emotion; and as the vicar thought of his own two daughters,
his heart was very tender over the girl whose parents were separated
from her by six thousand miles of land and sea.
"Well now, dear, I have said my say, and that is an end of it. I don't
like finding fault, but my dear wife has thrown that duty on my
shoulders by being too tender-hearted to say a word of blame even when
it is needed. Her method works very well, as a rule, but there are
occasions when it would be criminal to withhold a just reprimand." The
vicar stopped short, and a spasm of laughter crossed his face. Peggy's
fingers had twitched within his own as he spoke those last two words,
and her eyes had dilated with interest. He knew as well as if he had
been told that she was gloating over the new expression, and mentally
noting it for future use. Nothing, however, could have been sweeter or
more natural than the manner in which she sidled against him, and
murmured--
"Thank you so much. I am sorry! I will truly try;" and he watched her
out of the room with a smile of tender amusement.
"A nice child--a good child--feels deeply. I can rely upon her to do
her best."
Robert was hanging about in the passage, ready, as usual, to fulfil his
vows of support, and Peggy slid her hand through his arm and sauntered
slowly with him towards the schoolroom. Like the two girls, he had been
at no loss to understand the reason of the call to the study, and would
fain have expressed his sympathy, but Peggy stopped him with uplifted
finger.
"No, no--he was perfectly right. You must not blame him. I have been
guilty of reprehensible carelessness, and merited a reprimand!"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
JEALOUS THOUGHTS.
Peggy felt weak and shaken for some days after her fright, and was
thankful to stay quietly indoors and busy herself with her new task.
The gas-fire could be turned on in her room whenever she desired, and at
every spare moment she ran upstairs, locked her door behind her, and
began to write. Robert insisted that the work should be kept secret,
and that not a word should be said about the competition downstairs, for
he was sensitive about the remarks of his companions, and anxious to
keep a possible failure to himself. All the work had to be done
upstairs, therefore, and the frequent absence of the partners from the
schoolroom, though much regretted, did not seem at all inexplicable to
the others. It was understood that Peggy and Robert had some interest
in common; but as winter advanced this was no unusual occurrence in a
house where Christmas was a carnival, and surprises of an elaborate
nature were planned by every member of the household. It was taken for
granted that the work had some connection with Christmas, and inquiries
were discreetly avoided.
With an old calendar before her as a model for the lettering, Peggy did
her work neatly and well, and the gilt "arabesques" had an artistic
flourish which was quite professional. When Robert was shown the first
half-dozen sheets he whistled with surprise, and exclaimed, "Good old
Mariquita!" a burst of approval before which Peggy glowed with delight.
It had been agreed that, after printing the first ten days of January,
Peggy should go on to the first ten of February, and so on throughout
the year, so that Rob should be able to use what quotations had already
been found under each heading, and should not be detained until the
whole thirty or thirty-one had been chosen.
The partners were most fastidious in their selection at the beginning of
their work; but when half the time had passed, and not one-third of the
necessary number of quotations had been found, alarm seized upon the
camp, and it was realised that a little more latitude must be shown.
"We shall have to use up all the old ones which we struck off the list,"
said Rob disconsolately. "I'm sorry; but I never realised before that
three hundred and sixty-five was such an outrageously large number. And
we shall have to get books of extracts, and read them through from
beginning to end. Nearly two hundred more to find; a hundred and fifty,
say, when we have used up those old ones! It will take us all our
time!"
"I'll get up at six every morning and read by my fire," said Peggy
firmly. "If it's necessary, I'll get up at five, and if I can't find
bits to suit all the stupid old things, I'll--I'll write some myself!
There! Why shouldn't I? I often make up things in my head, and you
wouldn't believe how fine they are. I think of them days afterwards,
and ask myself, `Now where did I read that?' and then it comes back to
me. `Dear me; I made it up myself!' If we get very short, Rob, there
wouldn't be any harm in writing a few sentences and signing them
`Saville,' would there?"
"Not if they were good enough," said Rob, trying to suppress the laugh
which would have hurt Peggy's feelings, and looking with twinkling eyes
at the little figure by his side, so comically unprofessional, with her
lace collar, dainty little feet, and pigtail of dark brown hair.
"You mustn't get up too early in the morning and overtire yourself. I
can't allow that!" he added firmly. "You have looked like a little
white ghost the last few days, and your face is about the size of my
hand. You must get some colour into your cheeks before the holidays, or
that beloved Arthur will think we have been ill-treating you when he
comes down."
Peggy gave a sharp sigh, and relapsed into silence. It was the rarest
thing in the world to hear her allude to any of her own people. When a
letter arrived, and Mrs Asplin asked questions concerning father,
mother, or brother, she answered readily enough, but she never offered
information, or voluntarily carried on the conversation. Friends less
sympathetic might have imagined that she was so happy in her new home
that she had no care beyond it, but no one in the vicarage made that
mistake. When the Indian letter was handed to her across the
breakfast-table, the flush of delight on the pale cheeks brought a
reflected smile to every face, and more than one pair of eyes watched
her tenderly as she sat hugging the precious letter, waiting until the
moment should come when she could rush upstairs and devour its contents
in her own room. Once it had happened that mail day had arrived and
brought no letter, and that had been a melancholy occasion. Mrs Asplin
had looked at one envelope after another, had read the addresses twice,
thrice, even four times over, before she summoned courage to tell of its
absence.
"There is no letter for you to-day, Peggy!" Her voice was full of
commiseration as she spoke, but Peggy sat in silence, her face
stiffened, her head thrown back with an assumption of calm indifference.
"There must have been some delay in the mail. You will have two
letters next week, dearie, instead of one."
"Probably," said Peggy. Mellicent was staring at her with big, round
eyes; the vicar peered over the rim of his spectacles; Esther passed the
marmalade with eager solicitude; her friends were all full of sympathy,
but there was a "Touch-me-if-you-dare!" atmosphere about Peggy that day
which silenced the words on their lips. It was evident that she
preferred to be left alone, and though her eyes were red when she came
down to lunch, she held her chin so high, and joined in the conversation
with such an elegant flow of language, that no one dare comment on the
fact. Two days later the letter arrived, and all was sunshine again;
but, in spite of her cheery spirits, her friends realised that Peggy's
heart was not in the vicarage, and that there were moments when the
loneliness of her position pressed on her, and when she longed intensely
for someone of her very own, whose place could not be taken by even the
kindest of friends.
Like most undemonstrative people, Peggy dearly loved to be appreciated,
and to receive marks of favour from those around. Half the zest with
which she entered into her new labour was owing to the fact that Robert
had chosen her from all the rest to be his partner. She was aglow with
satisfaction in this fact, and with pleasure in the work itself, and the
only cloud which darkened her horizon at the present moment was caused
by those incidental references to the fair Rosalind which fell so often
from her companions' lips.
"Everything," said Peggy impatiently to herself, "everything ends in
Rosalind! Whatever we are talking about, that stupid girl's name is
bound to be introduced! I asked Mellicent if she would have a scone at
tea this afternoon, and she said something about Rosalind in reply--
Rosalind liked scones, or she didn't like scones, or some ridiculous
nonsense of the sort! Who wants to know what Rosalind likes? I don't!
I'm sick of the name! And Mrs Asplin is as silly as the rest! The
girls must have new dresses because Rosalind is coming, and they will be
asked to tea at the Larches! If their green dresses are good enough for
us, why won't they do for Rosalind, I should like to know? Rob is the
only sensible one. I asked him if she were really such a marvellous
creature, and he said she was an affected goose! He ought to know
better than anyone else! Curls indeed! One would think it was
something extraordinary to have curls! My hair would curl too, if I
chose to make it, but I don't; I prefer to have it straight! If she is
the `Honourable Rosalind,' I am Mariquita Saville, and I'm not going to
be patronised by anybody--so there!" and Peggy tossed her head, and
glared at the reflection in the glass in a lofty and scornful manner, as
though it were the offending party who had had the audacity to assume
superiority.