last day of her life she had only to shut her eyes and the scene rose up
before her, clear and vivid as in a picture. The stretch of empty room,
with its fragrant banks of flowers; the graceful figure flitting across
the floor, its outline swathed in folds of misty white; the glimpse of a
lovely, laughing face as Rosalind stretched out her arm to reach the
silver candelabra, the sudden flare of light which caught the robe of
gauze, and swept it into flame. It all happened within the space of a
minute, but it was one of those minutes the memory of which no years can
destroy. She had hardly time to realise the terror of the situation
before Rosalind was rushing towards her with outstretched hands, calling
aloud in accents of frenzied appeal--
"Peggy! Peggy! Oh, save me, Peggy! I'm burning! Save me! Save me!"
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
A NIGHT OF TERROR.
While the young folks had been enjoying themselves in the ballroom,
their elders had found the time hang somewhat heavily on their hands.
The evening had not been so interesting to them as to their juniors.
Lady Darcy was tired with the preparations of the day, and the countess
with her journey from town. Both were fain to yawn behind their fans
from time to time, and were longing for the moment to come when they
could retire to bed. If only those indefatigable children would say
good-night and take themselves off! But the echo of the piano still
sounded from the room, and seemed to go on and on, in endless
repetition.
Everything comes to those who wait, however--even the conclusion of a
ball to the weary chaperon. At long past midnight the strains died
away, and in the hope of an early release the ladies roused themselves
to fresh conversational effort. What they said was unimportant, and
could never be remembered; but at one moment, as it seemed, they were
smiling and exchanging their little commonplace amenities, two languid,
fine ladies whose aim in life might have been to disguise their own
feelings and hide the hearts that God had given them; the next the
artificial smiles were wiped away, and they were clinging together, two
terrified, cowering women, with a mother's soul in their faces--a
mother's love and fear and dread! A piercing cry had sounded through
the stillness, and another, and another, and, while they sat paralysed
with fear, footsteps came tearing along the passage, the door was burst
open, and a wild, dishevelled-looking figure rushed into the room. A
curtain was wound round face and figure, but beneath its folds a long
white arm gripped convulsively at the air, and two little feet staggered
about in pink silk slippers.
Lady Darcy gave a cry of anguish; but her terror seemed to hold her
rooted to the spot, and it was her husband who darted forward and caught
the swaying figure in his arms. The heavy wrappings came loose in his
grasp, and as they did so an unmistakable smell pervaded the room--the
smell of singed and burning clothing. A cloud of blackened rags
fluttered to the ground as the last fold of the curtain was unloosed,
and among them--most pitiful sight of all--were stray gleams of gold
where a severed lock of hair lay on the carpet, its end still turned in
glistening curl.
"Rosalind! Rosalind!" gasped the poor mother, clutching the arms of her
chair, and looking as if she were about to faint herself, as she gazed
upon the pitiful figure of her child. The lower portion of Rosalind's
dress was practically uninjured, but the gauze skirt and all the frills
and puffing round the neck hung in tatters, her hair was singed and
roughened, and as the air touched her skin she screamed with pain, and
held her hands up to her neck and face.
"Oh! Oh! Oh! I am burning! Cover me up! Cover me up! I shall die!
Oh, mother, mother! The pain--the pain!"
She reeled as if about to faint, yet if anyone attempted to approach she
beat them off with frantic hands, as if in terror of being touched.
One of the ladies ran forward with a shawl, and wrapped it forcibly
round the poor scarred shoulders, while the gentlemen hurried out of the
room to send for a doctor and make necessary arrangements. One of the
number came back almost immediately, with the news that he had failed to
discover the cause of the accident. There was no sign of fire upstairs,
the ballroom was dark and deserted, the servants engaged in setting the
entertaining rooms in order. For the present, at least, the cause of
the accident remained a mystery, and the distracted father and mother
occupied themselves in trying to pacify their child.
"I'll carry you upstairs, my darling. We will put something on your
skin which will take away the pain. Try to be quiet, and tell us how it
happened. What were you doing to set yourself on fire?"
"Peggy! Peggy!" gasped Rosalind faintly. Her strength was failing by
this time, and she could hardly speak; but Lady Darcy's face stiffened
into an awful anger at the sound of that name. She turned like a
tigress to her husband, her face quivering with anger.
"That girl again! That wicked girl! It is the second time to-night!
She has killed the child; but she shall be punished! I'll have her
punished! She shall not kill my child, and go free! I'll--I'll--"
"Hush, hush, Beatrice! Take care! You frighten Rosalind. We must get
her to bed. There is not a moment to lose."
Lord Darcy beckoned to one of the servants, who by this time were
crowding in at the door, and between them they lifted poor, groaning
Rosalind in their arms, and carried her up the staircase, down which she
had tripped so gaily a few hours before. Tenderly as they held her, she
moaned with every movement, and, when she was laid on her bed, it seemed
for a moment as if consciousness were about to forsake her. Then
suddenly a light sprung into her eyes. She lifted her hand and gasped
out one word--just one word--repeated over and over again in a tone of
agonised entreaty.
"Peggy! Peggy! Peggy!"
"Yes, darling, yes! I'll go to her. Be quiet--only be quiet!"
Lady Darcy turned away with a shudder as the maid and an old family
servant began the task of removing the clothes from Rosalind's writhing
limbs, and, seizing her husband by the arm, drew him out on the landing.
Her face was white, but her eyes gleamed, and the words hissed as they
fell from her lips.
"Find that girl, and turn her out of this house! I will not have her
here another hour! Do you hear--not a minute! Send her away at once
before I see her! Don't let me see her! I can't be responsible for
what I would do!"
"Yes, yes, dear, I'll send her away! Try to calm yourself. Remember
you have work to do Rosalind will need you."
The poor old lord went stooping away, his tired face looking aged and
haggard with anxiety. His beautiful young daughter was scarcely less
dear to him than to her mother, and the sound of her cries cut to his
heart; yet in the midst of his anguish he had a pang of compassion for
the poor child who, as he believed, was the thoughtless cause of the
accident. What agony of remorse must be hers! What torture she would
now be suffering!
The guests and servants were standing huddled together on the landing
upstairs, or running to and fro to procure what was needed. Every
thought was concentrated on Rosalind, and Rosalind alone, and the part
of the house where the dance had been held was absolutely deserted.
He took his way along the gaily decorated hall, noted with absent eye
the disordered condition of the "harem," which had been pointed out so
proudly at the beginning of the evening, and entered the empty room.
The lights were out, except for a few candles scattered here and there
among the flowers. He walked slowly forward, saw the silver candlestick
on the floor before the fireplace, and stood gazing at it with a quick
appreciation of what had happened. For some reason or other Rosalind
had tried to reach the candle, and the light had caught her gauzy skirt,
which had burst into flames. It was easy--terribly easy to imagine; but
in what way had Peggy Saville been responsible for the accident, so that
her name should sound so persistently on Rosalind's lips,--and who had
been the Good Samaritan who had come to the rescue with that thick
curtain which had killed the flames before they had time to finish the
work of destruction?
Lord Darcy peered curiously round. The oak floor stretched before him
dark and still, save where its polished surface reflected the light
overhead; but surely in the corner opposite to where he stood there was
a darker mass--a shadow deeper than the rest?
He walked towards it, bending forward with straining eyes. Another
curtain of the same pattern as that which had enveloped Rosalind--a
curtain of rich Oriental hues with an unaccountable patch of white in
the centre. What was it? It must be part of the fabric itself. Lord
Darcy told himself that he had no doubt on the subject, yet the way
across the room seemed unaccountably long, and his heart beat fast with
apprehension. In another moment he stood in the corner, and knew too
well the meaning of that patch of white, for Peggy Saville lay stretched
upon the curtain, motionless, unconscious--to all appearance, dead!
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.
It was one o'clock in the morning when a carriage drove up to the door
of the Larches, and Mrs Asplin alighted, all pale, tear-stained, and
tremulous. She had been nodding over the fire in her bedroom when the
young people had returned with the news of the tragic ending to the
night's festivity, and no persuasion or argument could induce her to
wait until the next day before flying to Peggy's side.
"No, no!" she cried. "You must not hinder me. If I can't drive, I will
walk! I would go to the child to-night, if I had to crawl on my hands
and knees! I promised her mother to look after her. How could I stay
at home and think of her lying there? Oh, children, children, pray for
Peggy! Pray that she may be spared, and that her poor parents may be
spared this awful--awful news!"
Then she kissed her own girls, clasped them to her in a passionate
embrace, and drove off to the Larches in the carriage which had brought
the young people home.
Lady Darcy came out to meet her, and gripped her hand in welcome.
"You have come! I knew you would. I am so thankful to see you. The
doctor has come, and will stay all night. He has sent for a nurse--"
"And--my Peggy?"
Lady Darcy's lips quivered.
"Very, very ill--much worse than Rosalind! Her poor little arms! I was
so wicked, I thought it was her fault, and I had no pity, and now it
seems that she has saved my darling's life. They can't tell us about it
yet, but it was she who wrapped the curtain round Rosalind, and burned
herself in pressing out the flames. Rosalind kept crying, `Peggy!
Peggy!' and we thought she meant that it was Peggy's fault. We had
heard so much of her mischievous tricks. My husband found her lying on
the floor. She was unconscious; but she came round when they were
dressing her arms. I think she will know you--"
"Take me to her, please!" Mrs Asplin said quickly. She had to wait
several moments before she could control her voice sufficiently to add,
"And Rosalind, how is she?"
"There is no danger. Her neck is scarred, and her hair singed and
burned. She is suffering from the shock, but the doctor says it is not
serious. Peggy--"
She paused, and the other walked on resolutely, not daring to ask for
the termination of that sentence. She crept into the little room, bent
over the bed, and looked down on Peggy's face through a mist of tears.
It was drawn and haggard with pain, and the eyes met hers without a ray
of light in their hollow depths. That she recognised was evident, but
the pain which she was suffering was too intense to leave room for any
other feeling. She lay motionless, with her bandaged arms stretched
before her, and her face looked so small and white against the pillow
that Mrs Asplin trembled to think how little strength was there to
fight against the terrible shock and strain. Only once in all that long
night did Peggy show any consciousness of her surroundings, but then her
eyes lit up with a gleam of remembrance, her lips moved, and Mrs Asplin
bent down to catch the faintly whispered words--
"The twenty-sixth--next Monday! Don't tell Arthur!"
"`The twenty-sixth!' What is that, darling? Ah, I remember--Arthur's
examination! You mean if he knew you were ill, it would upset him for
his work?"
An infinitesimal movement of the head answered "Yes," and she gave the
promise in trembling tones--
"No, my precious, we won't tell him. He could not help, and it would
only distress you to feel that he was upset. Don't trouble about it,
darling. It will be all right."
Then Peggy shut her eyes and wandered away into a strange world, in
which accustomed things disappeared, and time was not, and nothing
remained but pain and weariness and mystery. Those of us who have come
near to death have visited this world too, and know the blackness of it,
and the weary waking.
Peggy lay in her little white bed, and heard voices speaking in her ear,
and saw strange shapes flit to and fro. Quite suddenly, as it appeared,
a face would be bending over her own, and as she watched it with languid
curiosity, wondering what manner of thing it could be, it would melt
away and vanish in the distance. At other times again it would grow
larger and larger, until it assumed gigantic proportions, and she cried
out in fear of the huge, saucer-like eyes. There was a weary puzzle in
her brain, an effort to understand, but everything seemed mixed up and
incomprehensible. She would look round the room and see the sunshine
peeping in through the chinks of the blinds, and when she closed her
eyes for a moment--just a single fleeting moment--lo! the gas was lit,
and someone was nodding in a chair by her side. And it was by no means
always the same room. She was tired, and wanted badly to rest, yet she
was always rushing about here, there, and everywhere, striving vainly to
dress herself in clothes which fell off as soon as they were fastened,
hurrying to catch a train to reach a certain destination; but in each
instance the end was the same--she was falling, falling, falling--always
falling--from the crag of an Alpine precipice, from the pinnacle of a
tower, from the top of a flight of stairs. The slip and the terror
pursued her wherever she went; she would shriek aloud, and feel soft
hands pressed on her cheeks, soft voices murmuring in her ear.
One vision stood out plainly from those nightmare dreams--the vision of
a face which suddenly appeared in the midst of the big grey cloud which
enveloped her on every side--a beautiful face which was strangely like,
and yet unlike, something she had seen long, long ago in a world which
she had well-nigh forgotten. It was pale and thin, and the golden hair
fell in a short curly crop on the blue garment which was swathed over
the shoulders. It was like one of the heads of celestial choir-boys
which she had seen on Christmas cards and in books of engravings, yet
something about the eyes and mouth seemed familiar. She stared at it
curiously, and then suddenly a strange, weak little voice faltered out a
well-known name.
"Rosalind!" it cried, and a quick exclamation of joy sounded from the
side of the bed. Who had spoken? The first voice had been strangely
like her own, but at an immeasurable distance. She shut her eyes to
think about it, and the fair-haired vision disappeared, and was seen no
more.
There was a big, bearded man also who came in from time to time, and
Peggy grew to dread his appearance, for with it came terrible stabbing
pain, as if her whole body were on the rack. He was one of the Spanish
Inquisitors, of whom she had read, and she was an English prisoner whom
he was torturing! Well, he might do his worst! She would die before
she would turn traitor and betray her flag and country. The Savilles
were a fighting race, and would a thousand times rather face death than
dishonour.
One day, when she felt rather stronger than usual, she told him so to
his face, and he laughed--she was quite sure he laughed, the
hard-hearted wretch! And someone else said, "Poor little love!" which
was surely an extraordinary expression for a Spanish Inquisitor. That
was one of the annoying things in this new life--people were so
exceedingly stupid in their conversation! Now and again she herself had
something which she was especially anxious to say, and when she set it
forth with infinite difficulty and pains the only answer which she
received was a soothing, "Yes, dear, yes!"
"No, dear, no!" or a still more maddening, "Yes, darling, I quite
understand!"--which she knew perfectly well to be an untruth. Really,
these good people seemed to think that she was demented, and did not
know what she was saying. As a matter of fact, it was exactly the other
way about; but she was too tired to argue. And then one day came a
sleep when she neither dreamt nor slipped nor fell, but opened her eyes
refreshed and cheerful, and beheld Mrs Asplin sitting by a table
drinking tea and eating what appeared to be a particularly tempting
slice of cake.
"I want some cake!" she said clearly; and Mrs Asplin jumped as if a
cannon had been fired off at her ear, and rushed breathlessly to the
bedside, stuttering and stammering in amazement--
"Wh-wh-wh-what?"
"Cake!" repeated Peggy shrilly. "I want some! And tea! I want my
tea!"
Surely it was a very natural request! What else could you expect from a
girl who had been asleep and wakened up feeling hungry? What on earth
was there in those commonplace words to make a grown-up woman cry like a
baby, and why need everyone in the house rush in and stare at her as if
she were a figure in a waxwork? Lord Darcy, Lady Darcy, Rosalind, the
old French maid--they were all there--and, as sure as her name was Peggy
Saville, they were all four, handkerchief in hand, mopping their eyes
like so many marionettes!
Nobody gave her the cake for which she had asked. Peggy considered it
exceedingly rude and ill-bred; but while she was thinking of it she grew
tired again, and, rolling round into a soft little bundle among the
blankets, fell afresh into sweet refreshing slumbers.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
CONVALESCENCE.
"Convalescence," remarked Peggy elegantly, a week later on,
"convalescence is a period not devoid of attraction!" She was lying on
a sofa in her bedroom at the Larches, wrapped in her white
dressing-gown, and leaning against a nest of pink silk cushions, and,
what with a table drawn up by her side laden with grapes and jelly, a
pile of Christmas numbers lying close at hand, and the presence of an
audience consisting of Rosalind, Lady Darcy, and Mrs Asplin, ready to
listen admiringly to her conversation, and to agree enthusiastically
with every word she uttered, it did indeed seem as if the position was
one which might be endured with fortitude! Many were the questions
which had been showered upon her since her return to consciousness, and
the listeners never grew tired of listening to her account of the
accident. How Rosalind had clutched too carelessly at the slender
candlestick, so that it had fallen forward, setting the gauze dress in
flames, how she herself had flown out of the room, torn down the
curtains which draped the "harem," and had flung them round the frantic,
struggling figure. With every day that passed, however, Peggy gained
more strength, and was petted to her heart's content by everyone in the
house. The old lord kissed her fondly on the cheek, and murmured, "God
reward you, my brave girl, for I never can." Lady Darcy shed tears
every morning when the burns were dressed, and said, "Oh, Peggy dear,
forgive me for being cross, and do, do be sure to use the lotion for
your arms regularly every day when you get better!" And the big doctor
chucked her under the chin, and cried--
"Well, `Fighting Saville,' and how are we to-day? You are the pluckiest
little patient I've had for a long time. I'll say that for you! Let's
have another taste of the rack!" It was all most agreeable and soothing
to one's feelings!
One of the first questions Peggy asked after her return to consciousness
was as to how much her father and mother had been told of her accident,
and whether the news had been sent by letter or cable.
"By letter, dear," Mrs Asplin replied. "We talked it over carefully,
and concluded that that would be best. You know, dearie, we were very,
very anxious about you for a few days, but the doctor said that it would
be useless cabling to your mother, because if all went well you would be
up again before she could arrive, and if--if it had gone the other way,
Peggy, she could not have been in time. I sent her a long letter, and I
have written every mail since, and now we are going to calculate the
time when the first letter will arrive, and send a cable to say that you
are quite out of danger, and sitting up, and getting hungrier and more
mischievous with every day as it passes!"
"Thank you," said Peggy warmly. "That's very kind. I am glad you
thought of that; but will you please promise not to be economical about
the cable? They won't care about the money. Spend pounds over it if it
is necessary, but do, do manage to make them believe that I am quite
perky. Put at the end, `Peggy says she is perky!' They will know that
is genuine, and it will convince them more than anything else." And so
those five expressive words went flashing across the world at the end of
a long message, and brought comfort to two hearts that had been near to
breaking.
So soon as Peggy was pronounced to be out of danger, Mrs Asplin went
back to the vicarage, leaving her in the charge of the kind hospital
nurse, though for that matter every member of the household took it in
turns to wait upon her. A dozen times a day the master and mistress of
the house would come into the sick-room to inquire how things were
going, or to bring some little gift for the invalid; and as she grew
stronger it became the custom for father, mother, and daughter to join
her at her early tea. Peggy watched them from her sofa, too weak to
speak much, but keenly alive to all that was going on, among other
things, to the change which had come over these three persons since she
had known them first. Lord Darcy had always been kind and considerate,
but his manner seemed gentler and more courteous than ever, while
Rosalind's amiability was an hourly surprise, and Lady Darcy's manner
had lost much of its snappish discontent. On one occasion, when her
husband made some little request, she replied in a tone so sweet and
loving that the listener started with surprise. What could it be that
had worked this transformation? She did not realise that when the Angel
of Death has hovered over a household, and has at last flown away with
empty arms, leaving the home untouched, they would be hard hearts that
were not touched, ungrateful natures that did not take thought of
themselves, and face life with a higher outlook! Lady Darcy's social
disappointments seemed light compared with the awful "might have been";
while Rosalind's lamentations over her disfigurement had died away at
the sight of Peggy's unconscious form. Perhaps, when Lord Darcy thanked
Peggy for all she had done for him and his, he had other thoughts in his
mind than the mere physical deliverance of which she had been the
instrument!
Arthur had been kept well informed of his sister's recovery, and proved
himself the kindest of brothers, sending letters by the dozen, full of
such nonsensical jokes, anecdotes, and illustrations, as would have
cheered the gloomiest invalid in the world. But the happiest day of all
was when the great news arrived that his name was placed first of all in
the list of successful candidates. This was indeed tidings of comfort
and joy! Peggy clapped her bandaged hands together, and laughed aloud
with tears of pain streaming down her face. "Arthur Saville, V.C.,
Arthur Saville, V.C.!" she cried, and then fell to groaning because some
days must still elapse before the medical examination was over, and her
hero was set free to hasten to her side.
"And I shall be back at the vicarage then, and we shall all be together!
Oh, let us be joyful! How happy I am! What a nice old world it is,
after all!" she continued hilariously, while Rosalind gazed at her with
reproachful eyes.