On the night of Peggy's arrival in London, Eunice voluntarily made
several remarks at the dinner-table; at breakfast next morning she took
a distinct part in the conversation, and at lunch, meeting the roll of
Peggy's eyes, she laughed aloud, nor seemed the least alarmed at the
unexpected sound. Some one else was startled, however, and that was no
less a person than her father himself, who stared over his spectacles
with an expression which Peggy found it difficult to understand, for it
was both grave and glad, troubled and gratified. She wondered if he
approved of this unusual liveliness on the part of his quiet daughter,
but her doubts were put to rest before many hours were over. She had
dressed early for the garden-party to which she was invited in the
afternoon, and was wandering up and down the drawing-room, coaxing on
her gloves, and examining the different pictures and photographs on the
walls, when Mr Rollo entered the room, and stood regarding her
earnestly.
"I want to thank you, Miss Saville," he began at once, "for the good you
have done my daughter. You have been with us only a few hours, but
already I can trace a most happy effect. I have not seen her so bright
and happy for many a long day. It has often pressed on my mind that the
child suffered for the want of a companion of her own age, but it was
difficult to find a remedy. Now, if by chance you were one of half-a-
dozen daughters, we might have borrowed you from your parents, and kept
you with us most of the year, but as it is, you are a ewe lamb, and I
suppose no possible bribe--"
"Oh no! my price is above rubies!" cried Peggy, laughing; "but, Mr
Rollo, I shall be delighted to visit Eunice from time to time, and I
want her to come to me in return. I think we are going to be friends; I
hope so, at least, for I have taken a desperate fancy to her, and I am
rarely attracted by strangers!"
"She is a dear child, a good, unselfish child; but, alas, she has never
been young! She needs rousing, and I think," said Mr Rollo, smiling,
"I think you are the person to rouse her! I hope that you will see a
great deal of each other in the future, in which case I shall owe a
still larger debt of gratitude to your family than I do at present. I
realise my good fortune every day in having your brother's services at
my command, for he is worth all the secretaries I have had before rolled
into one."
"Ah-h!" cried Peggy, glowing with delight. "Of course! I knew he would
be. Whatever Arthur does, he does better than anybody else. He will be
a great man yet, won't he? Oh, do say he will! It was such a terrible
disappointment for me when he had to give up the Army, and my only
consolation has been the belief that he would distinguish himself in
some other sphere. You do really believe that Arthur will be great
before he dies, don't you, Mr Rollo?"
The grave man smiled down very kindly into the eager, young face.
"It is not always the best men who make the greatest mark in the world,
and `greatest,' as you mean it, has many drawbacks, my dear. I should
like to advise you not to set your heart on worldly distinctions, but I
suppose if I did, you would put me down as a prosy old fellow, who did
not practise what he preached, so I'll make you happy instead, by
telling you that I also expect great things of your brother. He is one
of the most brilliant young men of his day, and some time soon we will
send him into the House, and give him a chance there. I don't wonder
you are proud of him. I should have been proud indeed, if Providence
had seen fit to grant me such a son!"
The sigh with which the sentence ended gave a clue to the bitterest
disappointment of this man's life. It was an abiding regret that he had
no son to follow in his footsteps, and to carry on the good old name;
but he never suspected that his quiet little daughter had divined his
disappointment at her sex, and that the consciousness thereof had been
one powerful factor in damping her spirits. To know that we are a
disappointment to our friends has a paralysing effect on our energies,
and there are many people in the world who have failed simply from want
of encouragement and appreciation. A word of honest praise is as good
as a tonic, and it is too rarely spoken. We feel it our duty to find
fault where blame is merited, but are not nearly so careful to
acknowledge work well done, or to show our gratitude for services
willingly performed.
Mr and Mrs Rollo loved their daughter dearly, but were too much
engrossed in their different pursuits to pay her much attention, and
believed that, being of a naturally reserved disposition, she would not
value outward demonstrations; wherein they erred, for it is the dumb,
silent folk who most appreciate warm-hearted words and actions. What a
much brighter world it would be if we were more generous in this
respect; how happy we might make our friends, if we gave them the
benefit of our loving thoughts, instead of locking them tightly in our
own breasts!
Eunice opened like a flower beneath the sunny influence of Peggy's
presence, and drove off to the garden-party with an animation most
unusual under the circumstances. Garden-parties were, as a rule,
unmitigated bores, but this one would be an exception! Peggy would be
there, and where Peggy moved fun and brightness followed in her
footsteps; and Arthur had been despatched by Mr Rollo to take his place
in escorting the ladies. Eunice was persuaded that no man in the world
was nobler than her father, but, socially speaking, he had his defects!
It was a little trying to go about with a man who spent his time
discussing politics with other old gentlemen, forgetting all about the
poor, shy little daughter, who languished in a corner, shivering with
cold, or grilling with heat, as the case might be, and striving, oh, so
vainly I to look as if she were enjoying herself. Nor was Mrs Rollo a
great improvement on her husband, for she also was weighed down with the
responsibilities of Guilds, Causes, and Charities, and invariably found
a fellow-member of committee with whom to discuss knotty problems. This
afternoon, as Eunice sat facing her mother in the carriage, she could
see the nervous fingers pull at the ends of the gloves, and the lips
move in mechanical rehearsal of her next address, but the sight gave her
none of the usual forebodings, for this afternoon, at least, she need
not dread desertion. Arthur and Peggy would be her companions, and
never a word of politics or guilds need they speak, from the time they
arrived until the time they came away! Eunice rambled about the
beautiful grounds with the glee of a child escaped from school, and
played the part of appreciative audience with an enthusiasm which could
not fail to be inspiring to her companions.
Arthur looked into the smiling face, and listened to the low sweet
laughter with the incredulous amazement of one who has suddenly received
his sight after a spell of blindness. "Bat," indeed, Peggy had rightly
named him, since he had lived for months in the same house as this
delightful creature, and never realised her charm. When they were
resting together on a garden bench under the shade of a tree, Arthur
cast surreptitious glances at Eunice, and formed a new estimate of her
attractions to take the place of the old. He understood little about
dress, but he instinctively felt that the white frock was remarkably
simple for the only child of such distinguished parents, and the
simplicity was in accord with the pale, well-cut face whose chief
characteristics were modesty and sweetness. A little white-gloved hand
lay on her lap, and, as Arthur looked at it, a swift remembrance arose
of the afternoon a few weeks back when he had seen that hand stretched
out to comfort a companion in distress. His lip twitched beneath his
moustache and his smile faded.
"Ah, well," he said to himself sadly, "we cannot all be alike; but it
does one good to see her--dear, little, gentle thing! She'll make some
one very happy some day, and he will think her beautiful, for he will
see his home in her eyes."
He went off into a day-dream of his own, a troubled day-dream, poor
fellow, as his day-dreams were apt to be at this time of his life; but
his companions did not notice his adsorption, for one was listening
rapturously, while the other entertained her with imaginary
conversations supposed to take place between different members of the
crowd by which they were surrounded. That she could hear no word of
what was being said, was but an added stimulus to Miss Peggy's inventive
genius, and so aptly did her dialogues follow the expressions and
gestures of the strangers that Eunice shook from head to foot in
irrepressible enjoyment.
"Goodness, Clementina, here's that impossible Mrs Jones! I thought we
had avoided her so successfully. _Must_ speak now, I suppose. There's
no way of dodging her. `_Dear_ Mrs Jones, how _do_ you do? Such
_ages_ since we met. Is this your daughter? Grown out of knowledge!
It seems but the othah day she was a little girl in short frocks. Quite
impossible, don't you know, to associate _you_ with a grown-up daughter!
Sorry to hurry on, but really--so _many_ friends!' Oh, there's Lord
Algernon Fitznobody coming down that path! Don't let him pass! Waggle
your parasol, Clementina! Cough! Sneeze! Do something to make him see
us! `Don't you remember me, Lord Algernon? How quite too naughty of
you! Mrs Ponsonby de Tomkins, whose purse you picked up in the railway
station in Lausanne. I have heard so much of you since then, for my
sister's aunt's cousin's husband is quite an intimate friend of dear
Lady Fitzroy--' Well, really, Clementina, he need not have rushed away
in such a hurry! He seemed very distrait. He was looking round for
somebody else all the time. Now, see, he is hurrying off to meet her.
_Ah-h_!"
The deep exclamation of understanding was uttered in the speaker's
natural voice, as, following the direction of the good lady's glance,
Peggy suddenly divined the reason of "Lord Algernon's" pre-occupation.
Rosalind Darcy was approaching, surrounded by the usual bevy of
admirers, her parasol tilted over her shoulder, and her lips curved into
a smile of artificial sweetness. It was easy to see that her
affectation of interest in what was being said was of the thinnest
possible description and Peggy wondered what could be the reason of her
ill-humour, but only for a moment, for presently Rosalind's eyes
wandered to the bench under the trees, and in a flash the sunshine came
back into her face.
"She was looking for Arthur! She thought he was not here!" Arthur's
sister said jealously to herself; and the next moment Rosalind was
hurrying towards them, leaving the discarded admirers to digest their
rebuff as best they might. Nothing could have been sweeter or more
winsome than her greeting of her friends, but Arthur responded to her
advances with a coldness which astonished his companions. They had not
been present the night before, when Miss Darcy had found it convenient
to ignore his presence, and to forget a promise given to him because a
more distinguished partner had appeared on the scene. Arthur's pride in
himself was by no means of the overweening description affected by his
small sister, but he had too much self-respect to accept a smile one day
at the expense of a snub the next, and Rosalind was given to playing
fast and loose with her friends. It was true, she invariably repented
herself of her rudeness, and endeavoured to make a gracious atonement,
but it was becoming more and more difficult to appease Arthur's wounded
dignity, and to-day she felt an unaccustomed thrill of nervousness at
the sight of his grave, stern face.
"Arthur, come and walk wound with me!" she commanded with an
unaccustomed note of timidity mingling with the imperious young voice.
"I want to talk to you. Those widiculous men have been boring me to
distwaction, and I want to hear about Yew Hedge. Take me into the wose
garden, and tell me all about Yew Hedge."
"Peggy can do that better than I, Rosalind. I have been down only for a
few hours. We will all walk round together, and Peggy can give you the
interesting details."
He stepped to Eunice Rollo's side as he spoke, and, addressing a remark
so pointedly to her that it could not be answered by another, led the
way forward in the direction indicated. Rosalind could have borne the
rebuff more complacently if he had followed in the rear, when she could
have played off her little airs and graces for his benefit, but to
choose another girl before herself, and then to walk on ahead, without
even troubling himself to see if she followed--this was too much for her
composure. Her face clouded over, and though she made a valiant effort
to preserve her composure, it was in vain, and she was glad to find an
outlet for her irritation in pettish complainings.
"How I do detest garden-parties! Of all the senseless, dead-alive
entertainments they are the worst. Evewy fwesh one is worse than the
last."
"Why don't you stay away, then? The remedy is in your own hands,"
retorted Peggy coolly; but at this Rosalind's ill-humour broke out in
another direction.
"Peggy Saville, I think it is vewy mean and unkind of you to wefuse to
visit me when I asked you, and then to wush up from the countwee to stay
with new fwiends who have not half the claim upon you that I have. If
you would go to the Wollos', why not to me?"
"Because you did not ask me at the same time. A month ago it was
impossible for me to get away, and even now I am here for three days
only. I don't wish to appear unfriendly, Rosalind, but--"
"But you feel it," replied Rosalind, her voice changing suddenly into a
note of honest pathos. "Oh yes, Mawiquita, you are no better at
pwetending than you used to be, and I know quite well that you don't
appwove of me. I hate myself too, and twy to be diffewent, but it is no
use, circumstances are too stwong for me. But it's not the way to make
me better, Peggy Saville, to toss your head at me, and tweat me as if I
were beyond all hope of reformation."
"Rosalind--oh!" Peggy was breathless with consternation. It was a
horrible accusation, and the worst of it was that conscience told her
that it was true. She stared with penitent eyes into the accusing face,
nodded her head once or twice, and said with conviction:
"I'm a little wretch! Who am I, I should like to know, to judge another
girl? Dear old Rosalind, snub me all you can, and take no notice of my
airs. I'm not good enough to help you, I'm afraid, but I can't help
loving you, you dear, beautiful thing, and wishing to make you happy!"
"But, oh, Peggy, I'm misewable! I'm abjectly misewable!" sighed
Rosalind in return. She gave a glance around, to make sure no one was
within ear-shot, and then continued rapidly, "All my life long I've been
bwought up to look forward to this time, and to work and plan and
pwepare for it. Mother talked as if it would repay me for all my pains,
but I've been out thwee seasons now, and I'm tired to death of the
everlasting wound. I get so cross and irritated and weary of it all. I
don't think I have ever been so misewable in my life as duwing the last
year!"
Peggy looked at her thoughtfully. At the moment Rosalind looked dismal
enough, but recalling the occasions when she had seen her in society,
Peggy could not honestly say that "wretched" was the word which best
described her demeanour. On the contrary, a most well-satisfied and
complacent young woman had she appeared, and Miss Peggy shrewdly
suspected that the present distaste was but a transient emotion.
"If you are so tired of it, why don't you go down to the country, or
join your mother abroad?" she inquired with a stern directness which her
companion found somewhat embarrassing.
She shrugged her shoulders and gave a little impatient laugh.
"Because I should like that _worse_! I am bored to distwaction in the
countwy, and poor dear mother would worry herself to death if I left
town just now. She is as ambitious as ever, and will be tewwibly
disappointed if I don't make a bewilliant match before the end of the
season. She is expecting the news of my engagement by evewy letter, and
is working herself up to a fever of anxiety as the time goes by--"
"And is there--is there some one in particular whom she expects you to
marry?" queried Peggy calmly. Her heart had given a throb of
nervousness at the introduction of the subject, and she had
instinctively lifted her eyes to glance at the handsome figure a few
yards ahead, but her pride would not allow her to show her discomfiture.
No one would have suspected that a personal interest lay behind the
nonchalant question.
"Oh, of course there are sevewal!" admitted Rosalind naively, "but just
now there is a Special Somebody! Title, estate, family, diamonds, all
complete, just the vewy _parti_ mother had hoped for ever since I was
born. He has spoken to father alweady, and is going to pwopose to me
the first opportunity he gets. I know it quite well. Don't you always
know, Peggy, when they are twying to speak out?"
"Always!" repeated Peggy, with a little gasp of dismay. "That's too
wholesale a word for me, Rosalind! The only experience of the kind I
have had happened in India, and I was entirely unprepared, for, as a
matter of fact, I cherished a profound aversion for the victim! I
didn't dislike him afterwards, though! I was so grieved for the poor
fellow's distress, so grateful to him for liking me so much, that I felt
quite tenderly towards him. It was the most unpleasant experience I
have ever had, and I want only one more proposal--one to which I can
say, `Yes, please!' and settle down in peace and comfort. Do you care
enough for the _parti_ to be able to say, `Yes, please!' to him,
Rosalind?"
"I don't dislike him. He is good-looking, and not nearly so stupid as
many of the men one meets. Sometimes I think I could get on with him
reasonably well, but at other times I can't--I weally _can't_ face it!
Then I keep out of his way, and am cold and weserved, and twy to put it
off a little longer. But it will come, I know it will! I shall have to
face it soon, and I feel as I used to do when I was a child and had a
visit to the dentist before me. I twy to forget it, and be happy, but
evewy now and then the wemembwance comes back like a sudden pain, and
catches my bweath. Oh, Peggy, isn't it difficult--isn't it twying?
Aren't you sowwy for me?"
"No!" said Peggy Saville stoutly. "Not a mite!" She lifted her head
and looked the other squarely in the face. Her eyes were astonishingly
bright, and there was a patch of colour on each cheek. "Pray, why
_should_ I be sorry? If you look upon the question as a pure matter of
business, I cannot see that you deserve any sympathy. I am sorry for
_him_! He seems to be an extremely good bargain, and it is hard on him
to be regarded in the light of a disagreeable necessity. I suppose he
is devoted to you, and hopes, poor wretch! that you are going to accept
him for himself. For you _will_ accept him, Rosalind! That's certain.
You may imagine that you have not made up your mind, but you have! You
could never have the courage to give up all those good things. Why
should you, indeed? They mean more to you than anything else. You
would never feel any temptation to love a man who was not rich!"
Peggy spoke in crisp, stinging little sentences, her distress on her
brother's account goading her into unusual bitterness; but she was
entirely unprepared for the result of her words, stricken dumb by the
sight of Rosalind's pale glance of reproach, the sudden rush of tears to
the eyes. Broken words struggled for utterance, but she could only
distinguish, "Unjust! Untwue!" before, as Fate would have it, the
couple in front wheeled round, and came back to join them.
"I wanted to know which way you would prefer to take--" began Arthur,
and then stopped short, horrified at what he beheld. Something that
Peggy had said had touched Rosalind on a tender point, for having once
broken down, she found it impossible to control her distress, and though
she had lowered her parasol so as to form a shield between herself and
the passers-by, she made no attempt to hide from Arthur, but stood
gazing at him like a lovely, distressed child, with lips a-quiver, and
eyes all drowned in tears. He seized her hand with an impulsive
gesture, and questioned her rapidly as to the cause of her distress.
His voice vibrated with tenderness, and Rosalind clutched his arm with
nervous fingers, and stammered pitiful explanations.
"Peggy--oh, so cruel! So unkind! I asked her advice, and she said--she
said--such cruel things!"
Arthur cast one glance at his sister, and then appeared unconscious of
her presence. A group of visitors was approaching, and his great desire
was to take Rosalind into some quiet corner of the grounds, where she
could have an opportunity of recovering her self-possession without
being observed by curious eyes.
"Come with me!" he said gently. "Come down this path to the end of the
shrubbery. If you are in trouble, can't I help you, Rosie? Won't you
let me try?"
They disappeared from sight, and Peggy walked on in the opposite
direction, her face white and set. The iron had entered into her soul,
for oh, that glance--that glance of cold anger and reproach! Could it
indeed have come from Arthur--Arthur, who never looked at her in anger
before--Arthur, between whom and herself there had never hovered a
shadow of a cloud in all their happy, loving lives? A stranger had
complained of her, and he had accepted the complaint without giving her
an opportunity of justifying herself! Another girl in Peggy's position
might have blamed Arthur in return, and regarded herself as a martyr,
but that was not Peggy's way. Far harder to bear than her own smart
would have been the necessity of admitting a flaw in her idol. Her one
desire was to justify Arthur, and place him beyond the reach of blame.
Before she had taken twenty steps forward, she was saying brokenly to
herself:
"Yes, I deserved it! It is easy to be sharp, and say cutting things at
another person's expense. I had the chance of speaking kindly, and of
helping her to a better decision, but I let it go, and gave her a sneer
instead. I deserved it, Arthur dear! I _did_ deserve it, but oh! you
must forgive me soon. It's like red-hot knives sticking into my heart
to think that you are angry with me!"
But Arthur was not thinking about Peggy. He was standing beside
Rosalind at the end of the shrubbery, his eyes shining, his face
beautified by a great tenderness.
"Now, Rosie!" he cried, "now! Tell me all about it!"