About Peggy Saville Part 20

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 pa.s.sionate 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 a.s.sumed 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 c.h.i.n.ks 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!

n.o.body 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 fort.i.tude! 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 pa.s.sed, 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, "G.o.d 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 pa.s.ses!"

"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 p.r.o.nounced 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 ill.u.s.trations, 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.

"Are you so glad to go away? I shall be vewy, vewy sowwy--I'll miss you awfully. I shall feel that there is nothing to do when you have gone away, Peggy!"--Rosalind hesitated, and looked at her companion in uncertain bashful fashion. "I--I think you like me a little bit now, and I'm vewy fond of you, but you couldn't bear me before we were ill.

You might tell me why?"

"I was jealous of you," said Peggy promptly; whereat Rosalind's eyes filled with tears.

"You won't be jealous now!" she said dismally, and raised her head to stare at her own reflection in the mirror. The hair which had once streamed below her waist was now cut short round her head, her face had lost its delicate bloom, and an ugly scar disfigured her throat and the lower portion of one cheek. Beautiful she must always be, with her faultless features and wonderful eyes, but the bloom and radiance of colour which had been her chief charm had disappeared for the time being as completely as though they had never existed.

"I'll love you more," said Peggy rea.s.suringly. "You are ever so much nicer, and you will be as pretty as ever when your hair grows and the marks fade away. I like you better when you are not _quite_ so pretty, for you really were disgustingly conceited; weren't you now? You can't deny it."

"Oh, Peggy Saville, and so were you! I saw that the first moment you came into the woom. You flared up like a Turkey c.o.c.k if anyone dared to offend your dignity, and you were always widing about on your high horse, tossing your head, and using gweat long words."

"That's pride, it's not conceit. It's quite a different thing."

"It's about the same to other people," said Rosalind shrewdly. "We both gave ourselves airs, and the wesult was the same, whatever caused it. I was pwoud of my face, and you were pwoud of your--your--er--family--and your cleverness, and--the twicks you played; so if I confess, you ought to confess too. I'm sorry I aggwavated you, Mawiquita, and took all the pwaise for the decowations. It was howwibly mean, and I don't wonder you were angwy. I'm sorry that I was selfish!"

"I exceedingly regret that I formed a false estimate of your character!

Let's be chums!" said Peggy sweetly; and the two girls eyed one another uncertainly for a moment, then bent forward and exchanged a kiss of conciliation, after which unusual display of emotion they were seized with instant embarra.s.sment.

"Hem!" said Peggy. "It's very cold! Fire rather low, I think. Looks as if it were going to snow."