About Peggy Saville Part 11

"It would not cheer me up to see a cawicature of myself! I don't think I shall sit to you for my portrait, if that is the sort of thing you do, but you shall show me all your failures. It will amuse me. You will have to come up and see me vewwy often this winter, for I shall be so dull. We have been abroad for the last four years, and England seems so dark and dweawy. Last winter we were at Cairo. We lived in a big hotel, and there was something going on almost every night. I was not out, of course, but I was allowed to go into the room for an hour after dinner, and to dance with the gentlemen in mother's set. And we went up the Nile in a steamer, and dwove about every afternoon, paying calls, and shopping in the bazaars. It never rains in Cairo, and the sun is always shining. It seems so wonderful! Just like a place in a fairy tale." She looked at Peggy as she spoke, and that young person smiled with an air of elegant condescension.

"It would do so to you. Naturally it would. When one has been born in the East, and lived there the greater part of one's life, it seems natural enough, but the trippers from England who just come out for a few months' visit are always astonished. It used to amuse us so much to hear their remarks!"

Rosalind stared, and flushed with displeasure. She was accustomed to have her remarks treated with respect, and the tone of superiority was a new and unpleasing experience.

"You were born in the East?"

"Certainly I was!"

"Where, may I ask?"

"In India--in Calcutta, where my father's regiment was stationed."

"You lived there till you were quite big? You can remember all about it?"

"All I want to remember. There was a great deal that I choose to forget. I don't care for India. England is more congenial to my feelings."

"And can you speak the language? Did you learn Hindostanee while you were there?"

"Naturally. Of course I did."

A gasp of amazement came from the two girls in the window, for a knowledge of Hindostanee had never been included in the list of Peggy's accomplishments, and she was not accustomed to hide her light under a bushel. They gazed at her with widened eyes, and Rosalind scented scepticism in the air, and cried quickly--

"Say something, then. If you can speak, say something now, and let us hear you."

"Pardon me!" said Peggy, simpering. "As a matter of fact, I was sent home because I was learning to speak too well. The language of the natives is not considered suitable for English children of tender age.

I must ask you to be so kind as to excuse me. I should be sorry to shock your sensibilities."

Rosalind drew her brows together and stared steadily in the speaker's face. Like many beautiful people, she was not over-gifted with a sense of humour, and therefore Peggy's grandiose manner and high-sounding words failed to amuse her as they did most strangers. She felt only annoyed and puzzled, dimly conscious that she was being laughed at, and that this girl with the small face and the peaked eyebrows was trying to patronise her--Rosalind Darcy--instead of following the vicar's daughters in adoring her from a respectful distance, as of course it was her duty to do. She had been anxious to meet the Peggy Saville of whom her brother had spoken so enthusiastically, for it was a new thing to hear Rob praise a girl, but it was evident that Peggy on her side was by no means eager to make her acquaintance. It was an extraordinary discovery, and most disconcerting to the feelings of one who was accustomed to be treated as a person of supreme importance. Rosalind could hardly speak for mortification, and it was an immense relief when the door opened, and Max and Oswald hurried forward to greet her. Then indeed she was in her element, beaming with smiles, and indulging a dozen pretty little tricks of manner for the benefit of their admiring eyes. Max took possession of the chair by her side, his face lighted up with pleasure and admiration. He was too thoroughly natural and healthy a lad to be much troubled with sentiment, but ever since one winter morning five years before, when Rosalind had first appeared in the little country church, she had been his ideal of all that was womanly and beautiful. At every meeting he discovered fresh charms, and to-day was no exception to the rule. She was taller, fairer, more elegant. In _some_ mysterious manner she seemed to have grown older than he, so that, though he was in reality three years her senior, he was still a boy, while she was almost a young lady.

Mrs Asplin looked across the room, and a little anxious furrow showed in her forehead. Maxwell's admiration for Rosalind was already an old story, and as she saw his eager face and sparkling eyes, a pang of fear came into his mother's heart. If the Darcys were constantly coming down to the Larches, it was only natural to suppose that this admiration would increase, and it would never do for Max to fall in love with Rosalind! The vicar's son would be no match for Lord Darcy's daughter; it would only mean a heartache for the poor lad, a clouded horizon just when life should be the brightest. For a moment a prevision of trouble filled her heart, then she waved it away in her cheery, hopeful fashion--

"Why, what a goose I am! They are only children. Time enough to worry my head about love affairs in half a dozen years to come. The lad would be a Stoic if he didn't admire her. I don't see how he could help it!"

"Rosalind is lovelier than ever, Lady Darcy, if that is possible!" she said aloud, and her companion's face brightened with pleasure.

"Oh, do you think so?" she cried eagerly. "I am so glad to hear it, for this growing stage is so trying. I was afraid she might outgrow her strength and lose her complexion, but so far I don't think it has suffered. I am very careful of her diet, and my maid understands all the new skin treatments. So much depends on a girl's complexion. I notice your youngest daughter has a very good colour. May I ask what you use?"

"Soap and water, fresh air, good plain food,--those are the only cosmetics we use in this house," said Mrs Asplin, laughing outright at the idea of Mellicent's healthy bloom being the result of "skin treatment." "I am afraid I have too much to do looking after the necessities of life for my girls, Lady Darcy, to worry myself about their complexions."

"Oh yes. Well, I'm sure they both look charming; but Rosalind will go much into society, and of course,"--She checked herself before the sentence was finished; but Mrs Asplin was quick enough to understand the imputation that the complexions of a vicar's daughters were but of small account, but that it was a very different matter when the Honourable Rosalind Darcy was concerned. She understood, but she was neither hurt nor annoyed by the inferences, only a little sad and very, very pitiful. She knew the story of the speaker's life, and the reason why she looked forward to Rosalind's entrance into society with such ambition. Lady Darcy had been the daughter of poor but well-born parents, and had married the widower, Lord Darcy, not because she loved him or had any motherly feeling for his two orphan boys, but simply and solely for a t.i.tle and establishment, and a purse full of money. Given these, she had fondly imagined that she was going to be perfectly happy.

No more s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g and sc.r.a.ping to keep up appearances; no more living in dulness and obscurity; she would be Lady Darcy, the beautiful young wife of a famous man. So, with no thought in her heart but for her own worldly advancement, Beatrice Fairfax stood before G.o.d's altar and vowed to love, honour, and obey a man for whom she had no sc.r.a.p of affection, and whom she would have laughed to scorn if he had been poor and friendless. She married him, but the life which followed was not by any means all that she had expected. Lord Darcy had heavy money losses, which obliged him to curtail expenses almost immediately after his wedding; her own health broke down, and it was a knife in her heart to know that her boy was only the third son, and that the two big, handsome lads at Eton would inherit the lion's share of their father's property.

Hector, the Lifeguardsman, and Oscar, the Dragoon, were for ever running into debt and making fresh demands on her husband's purse. She and her children had to suffer for their extravagances; while Robert, her only son, was growing up a shy, awkward lad, who hated society, and asked nothing better than to be left in the country alone with his frogs and his beetles. Ambition after ambition had failed her, until now all her hopes were centred in Rosalind, the beautiful daughter, in whom she saw a reproduction of herself in the days of her girlhood. She had had a dull and obscure youth; Rosalind should be the belle of society. Her own marriage had been a disappointment; Rosalind should make a brilliant alliance. She had failed to gain the prize for which she had worked; she would live again in Rosalind's triumphs, and in them find fullest satisfaction.

So Lady Darcy gloated over every detail of her daughter's beauty, and thought day and night of her hair, her complexion, her figure, striving still to satisfy her poor tired soul with promises of future success, and never dreaming for a moment that the prize which seemed to elude her grasp had been gained long ago by the vicar's wife, with her old-fashioned dress and work-worn hands. But Mrs Asplin knew, and thanked G.o.d in her heart for the sweetness and peace of her dear, shabby home; for the husband who loved her, and the children whom they were training to be good servants for Him in the world Yes, and for that other child too, who had been taken away at the very dawn of his manhood, and who, they believed, was doing still better work in the unseen world.

Until Lady Darcy discovered that the only true happiness rose from something deeper than worldly success, there was nothing in store for her but fresh disappointments and heart-hunger; while as for Rosalind, the unfortunate child of such a mother--Mrs Asplin looked at the girl as she sat leaning back in her chair, craning her throat, and showing off all her little airs and graces for the benefit of the two admiring schoolboys, gratified vanity and self-love showing on every line of her face.

"It seems almost cruel to say so," she sighed to herself, "but it would be the best thing that could happen to the child if she were to lose some of her beauty before she grew up. Such a face as that is a terrible temptation to vanity." But Mrs Asplin did not guess how soon these unspoken words would come back to her memory, or what bitter cause she would have to regret their fulfilment.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A PINK LUNCHEON.

For the next week conversation was more strictly centred on Rosalind than ever, and the gloomy expression deepened on Peggy's face. She was, in truth, working too hard for her strength, for, as each day pa.s.sed, the necessity of hurrying on with the calendar became more apparent; and as Robert was no longer master of his own time, she was obliged to come to his aid in writing out the selected quotations.

At every spare moment of the day she was locked in her room, scribbling away for dear life or searching for appropriate extracts, and, as a consequence, her brain refused to rest when she wished it to do so. She tossed wakefully on her pillow, and was often most inclined for sleep when six o'clock struck, and she dragged herself up, a white-cheeked, weary little mortal, to sit blinking over the fire, wishing feebly that it was time to go to bed again, instead of getting up to face the long, long day.

Robert was not more observant than most boys of his age, and Peggy would have worked herself to death before she had complained to him. She was proud to feel that he depended on her more than ever, that without her help he could not possibly have finished his task, while his words of grat.i.tude helped to comfort a heart which was feeling sore and empty.

In truth, these last few weeks had been harder for Peggy than those immediately following her mother's departure. Then each one in the house had vied with the other in trying to comfort her, whereas now, without any intention of unkindness, her companions often appeared to be neglectful.

When Rosalind was present Esther hung on one arm and Mellicent on the other, without so much as a glance over the shoulder to see if Peggy were following. Instead of a constant "Peggy, what would you like?"

"What does Peggy say?" her opinion was never even asked, while Rosalind's lightest word was treated as law.

It would have been hard for any girl under the circ.u.mstances, but it was doubly hard when that girl was so dependent on her friends, and so sensitive and reserved in disposition as Peggy Saville. She would not deign to complain or to ask for signs of affection which were not voluntarily given, but her merry ways disappeared, and she became so silent and subdued that she was hardly recognisable as the audacious Peggy of a few weeks earlier.

"Peggy's so grumpy," Mellicent complained to her mother. "She never laughs now, nor makes jokes, nor flies about as she used to do! She's just as glum and mum as can be, and she never sits with us! She is always in her bedroom with the door locked, so that we can't get in!

She's there now! I think she might stay with us sometimes! It's mean, always running away!"

Mrs Asplin drew her brows together and looked worried. She had not been satisfied about Peggy lately, and this news did not tend to rea.s.sure her. Her kind heart could not endure that anyone beneath her roof should be ill or unhappy, and the girl had looked both during the last few days. She went upstairs at once and tapped at the door, when Peggy's voice was raised in impatient answer.

"I can't come! Go away! I'm engaged!"

"But I want to speak to you, dear! Please let me in!" she replied in her clear, pleasant tones; whereupon there was a hasty scamper inside, and the door was thrown open.

"Oh-h! I didn't know it was you; I thought it was one of the girls.

I'm sorry I kept you waiting."

Mrs Asplin gave a glance around. The gas-fire was lit, but the chair beside it stood stiffly in the corner, and the cushion was uncrushed.

Evidently, the girl had not been sitting there. The work-basket was in its accustomed place, and there were no cottons or silks lying about-- Peggy had not been sewing at Christmas presents, as she had half hoped to find her. A towel was thrown over the writing-table, and a piece of blotting-paper lay on the floor. A chair was pushed to one side, as if it had been lately used. That looked as if she had been writing letters.

"Peggy dear, what are you doing all by yourself in this chilly room?"

"I'm busy, Mrs Asplin. I lit the fire as soon as I came in."

"But a room does not get warm in five minutes. I don't want you to catch cold and be laid up with a sore throat. Can't you bring your writing downstairs and do it beside the others?"

"I would rather not. I can get on so much better by myself."

"Are you writing to India--to your mother?"

"N-no, not just now."

"Then really, dear, you must come downstairs! This won't do! Your mother wished you to have a fire in your room, so that you might be able to sit here when you wanted to be alone, but she never meant you to make it a habit, or to spend all your spare time alone. It isn't healthy to use a room night and day, and to burn so much gas, and it isn't sociable, Peggy dear. Mellicent has just been complaining that you are hardly ever with them nowadays. Come along, like a good girl; put the writing away and amuse yourself downstairs. You have done enough work for one day. You don't do me credit with those white cheeks."