The days that followed were never-to-be-forgotten ones for Peg. Her nature was in continual revolt. The teaching of her whole lifetime she was told to correct. Everything she SAID, everything she LOOKED, everything she DID was wrong.
Tutors were engaged to prepare her for the position she might one day enjoy through her dead uncle's will. They did not remain long. She showed either marked incapacity to acquire the slightest veneer of culture—else it was pure wilfulness.
The only gleams of relief she had were on the occasions when Jerry visited the family. Whenever they could avoid Mrs. Chichester's watchful eyes they would chat and laugh and play like children. She could not understand him—he was always discovering new traits in her. They became great friends.
Her letters to her father were, at first, very bitter, regarding her treatment by the family. Indeed so resentful did they become that her father wrote to her in reply urging her, if she was so unhappy, to at once return to him on the next steamer. But she did NOT. Little by little the letters softened. Occasionally, toward the end of that first month they seemed almost contented. Her father marvelled at the cause.
The month she had promised to stay was drawing to an end. But one more day remained. It was to be a memorable one for Peg.
Jerry had endeavoured at various times to encourage her to study. He would question her, and chide her and try to stimulate her. One day he gave her a large, handsomely-bound volume and asked her to read it at odd times and he would examine her in it when she had mastered its contents. She opened it wonderingly and found it to be "Love Stories of the World."
It became Peg's treasure. She kept it hidden from every one in the house. She made a cover for it out of a piece of cloth so that no one could see the ornate binding. She would read it at night in her room, by day out in the fields or by the sea. But her favourite time and place was in the living-room, every evening after dinner. She would surround herself with books—a geography, a history of England, a huge atlas, a treatise on simple arithmetic and put the great book in the centre; making of it an island—the fount of knowledge. Then she would devour it intently until some one disturbed her. The moment she heard anyone coming she would cover it up quickly with the other books and pretend to be studying.
The book was a revelation to her. It gave all her imagination full play. Through its pages treaded a stately procession of Kings and Queens—Wagnerian heroes and heroines: Shakespearian creations, melodious in verse; and countless others. It was indeed a treasure-house. It took her back to the lives and loves of the illustrious and passionate dead, and it brought her for the first time to the great fount of poetry and genius.
Life began to take on a different aspect to her.
All her rebellious spirit would soften under the spell of her imagination; and again all her dauntless spirit would assert itself under the petty humiliations the Chichester family frequently inflicted upon her.
Next to Mrs. Chichester she saw Alaric the most.
Although she could not actively dislike the little man her first feeling of amusement wore off. He simply bored her now. He was no longer funny. He seemed of so little account in the world.
She saw but little of Ethel. They hardly spoke when they met.
All through the month Christian Brent was a frequent visitor.
If Peg only despised the Chichesters she positively loathed Brent, and with a loathing she took no pains to conceal.
On his part, Brent would openly and covertly show his admiration for her. Peg was waiting for a really good chance to find out Mr. Brent's real character. The opportunity came.
On the night of the last day of the trial-month, Peg was in her favourite position, lying face downward on a sofa, reading her treasure, when she became conscious of dome one being in the room watching her. She started up in a panic instinctively hiding the book behind her. She found Brent staring down at her in open admiration. Something in the intentness of his gaze caused her to spring to her feet. He smiled a sickly smile.
"The book must be absorbing. What is it?" he asked.
Peg faced him, the book clasped in both of her hands behind her back; her eyes flashing and her heart throbbing. Brent looked at her with marked appreciation. "You mustn't be angry, child. What is it? Eh? Something forbidden?" and he leered knowingly at her. Then he made a quick snatch at the book, saying:
"Show it me!"
Peg ran across the room and turning up a corner of the carpet, put the book under it, turned back the carpet, put her foot determinedly on it and turned again to face her tormentor.
Brent went rapidly across to her. The instinct of the chase was quick in his blood.
"A hiding-place, eh? NOW you make me really curious. Let me see." He again made a movement toward the hidden book.
Peg clenched both of her hands into little fists and glared at Brent, while her breath came in quick, sharp gasps. She was prepared to defend the identity of the book at any cost.
"I love spirit!" cried Brent.
Then he looked at her charming dress; at her stylish coiffure; at the simple spray of flowers at her breast. He gave an ejaculation of pleasure.
"What a wonderful change in a month. You most certainly would not be sent to the kitchen now. Do you know you have grown into a most attractive young lady? You are really delightful angry. And you are angry, aren't you? And with me, eh? I'm so sorry if I've offended you. Let us kiss and be friends." He made an impulsive movement toward her and tried to take her in his arms. Peg gave him a resounding box on the ear. With a muffled ejaculation of anger and of pain he attempted to seize her by the wrists, when the door opened and Ethel came into the room.
Peg, panting with fury, glared at them both for a moment and then hurried out through the windows.
Brent, gaining complete control of himself, turned to Ethel and, advancing with outstretched hands, murmured:
"My dear!"
Ethel looked coldly at him, ignored the extended hands and asked:
"Why did she run away?" Brent smiled easily and confidently:
"I'd surprised one of her secrets and she flew into a temper. Did you see her strike me?" He waited anxiously for her reply.
"Secrets?" was all Ethel said.
"Yes. See." He walked across to the corner and turned back the carpet and kneeling down searched for the book, found it and held it up triumphantly:
"Here!" He stood up, and opened the book and read the title-page:
"'Love Stories o f the World.' 'To Peg from Jerry.' Oho!" cried Mr. Brent. "Jerry! Eh? No wonder she didn't want me to see it."
He put the book back into its hiding-place and advanced to Ethel:
"Jerry! So that's how the land lies. Romantic little child!"
Ethel looked steadily at him as he came toward her. Something in her look stopped him within a few feet of her.
"Why don't you go after her?" and she nodded in the direction. Peg had gone.
"Ethel!" he cried, aghast.
"She is new and has all the virtues."
"I assure you" he began—
"You needn't. If there is one thing I am convinced of, it's your assurance."
"Really—Ethel—"
"Were you 'carried away' again?" she sneered.
"Do you think for one moment—" he stopped.
"Yes, I do," answered Ethel positively.
Brent hunted through his mind for an explanation. Finally he said helplessly:
"I—I—don't know what to say."
"Then you'd better say nothing."
"Surely you're not jealous—of a—a—child?"
"No. I don't think it's JEALOUSY," said Ethel slowly.
"Then what is it?" he asked eagerly.
She looked scornfully at him:
"Disgust!" She shrugged her shoulders contemptuously as he tried in vain to find something to say. Then she went on:
"Now I understand why the SCULLERY is sometimes the rival of the DRAWING-ROOM. The love of change!"
He turned away from her. He was hurt. Cut to the quick.
"This is not worthy of you!" was all he said.
"That is what rankles," replied Ethel. "It isn't. YOU'RE not."
"Ethel!" he cried desperately.
"If that ever happened again I should have to AMPUTATE YOU."
Brent walked over to the window-seat where he had left his automobile coat and cap and picked them up.
Ethel watched him quietly.
"Chris! Come here!"
He turned to her.
"There! It's over! I suppose I HAVE been a little hard on you. All forgotten?" She held out her hand. He bent over it.
"My nerves have been rather severely tried this past month," Ethel went on. "Put a mongrel into a kennel of thoroughbreds, and they will either destroy the intruder or be in a continual condition of unsettled, irritated intolerance. That is exactly MY condition. I'm unsettled, irritable and intolerant."
Brent sat beside her and said softly:
"Then I've come in time?"
Ethel smiled as she looked right through him:
"So did I, didn't I?" and she indicated the window through which Peg ran after assaulting Brent.
The young man sprang up reproachfully:
"Don't! Please don't!" he pleaded.
"Very well," replied Ethel complacently, "I won't."
Brent was standing, head down, his manner was crestfallen. He looked the realisation of misery and self-pity.
"I'm sorry, Chris," remarked Ethel finally, after some moments had passed. "A month ago it wouldn't have mattered so much. Just now—it does. I'd rather looked forward to seeing you. It's been horrible here."
"A month of misery for me, too," replied Brent, passionately.
"I'm going away—out of it. To-morrow!" he added.
"Are you?" she asked languidly. "Where?"
"Petersburg—Moscow—Siberia—"
"Oh! The COLD places" She paused, then asked "Going alone?" He knelt on the sofa she was sitting on and whispered almost into her ear:
"Unless someone—goes with me!"
"Naturally," replied Ethel, quite unmoved.
"Will—you—go?" And he waited breathlessly.
She thought a moment, looked at him again, and said quietly: "Chris! I wish I'd been here when you called—instead of that—BRAT."
He turned away up again to the window-seat crying:
"Oh! This is unbearable."
Ethel said quite calmly: "Is it? Your wife all over again, eh?"
He came back to her: "No. I place you far above her, far above all petty suspicions and carping narrownesses. I value you as a woman of understanding."
"I am," she said frankly. "From what you've told me of your wife, SHE must be too."
"Don't treat me like this!" he pleaded distractedly. "What shall I do?" asked Ethel with wide open eyes, "apologise? That's odd. I've been waiting for YOU to."
Brent turned away again with an impatient ejaculation. As he moved up toward the windows Alaric came in behind him through the door. "Hello, Brent," he called out heartily. "H'are ye?"
"Very well, thank you, Alaric," he said, controlling his surprise.
"Good. The dear wife well too?"
"Very."
"And the sweet child?"
"Yes."
"You must bring 'em along sometime. The mater would love to see them and so would Ethel. Ethel loves babies, don't you, dear?" Without waiting for Ethel to reply he hurried on: "And talkin' of BABIES, have you seen MARGARET anywhere?"
Ethel nodded in the direction of the garden: "Out there!"
"Splendid. The mater wants her. We've got to have a family meetin' about her and at once. Mater'll be here in a minute. Don't run away, Brent," and Alaric hurried out through the windows into the garden.
Brent hurried over to Ethel:
"I'm at the hotel. I'll be there until morning. Send me a message, will you? I'll wait up all night for one." He paused: "Will you?"
"Perhaps," replied Ethel. "I'm sorry if anything I've said or done has hurt you. Believe me it is absolutely and entirely unnecessary."
"Don't say any more."
"Oh, if only—" he made an impulsive movement toward her. She checked him just as her mother appeared at the top of the stairs. At the same moment Bennett, the maid, came in through the door.
Mrs. Chichester greeted Brent courteously:
"How do you do, Mr. Brent? You will excuse me?" She turned to the maid:
"When did you see my niece last?"
"Not this hour, madam."
"Tell Jarvis to search the gardens—the stables—to look up and down the road."
"Yes, madam," and the maid hurried away in search of Jarvis.
Mrs. Chichester turned again to her guest:
"Pardon me—Mr. Brent."
"I'm just leaving, Mrs. Chichester."
"Oh, but you needn't—" expostulated that lady.
"I'm going abroad to-morrow. I just called to say good-bye."
"Indeed?" said Mrs. Chichester. "Well, I hope you and Mrs. Brent have a very pleasant trip. You must both call the moment you return."
"Thank you," replied Brent. "Good-bye, Mrs. Chichester—and—Ethel—" He looked meaningly and significantly at Ethel as he stood in the doorway. The next moment he was gone.
Ethel was facing the problem of her future with no one to turn to and ask for guidance. Her mother least of all. Mrs. Chichester had never encouraged confidence between her children and herself, consequently, any crisis they reached they had to either decide for themselves or appeal to others. Ethel had to decide for herself between now and to-morrow morning. Next day it would be too late. What was she to do? Always loath to make up her mind until forced to, she decided to wait until night.
It might be that the something she was always expecting to snap in her nature would do so that evening and save her the supreme effort of taking the final step on her own initiative, and consequently having to bear the full responsibility. Whilst these thoughts were passing rapidly through her mind, Alaric hurried in through the windows from the garden.
"Not a sign of Margaret anywhere," he said furiously, throwing himself into a chair and fanning himself vigorously.
"This cannot go on," cried Mrs. Chichester.
"I should think not indeed. Running about all over, the place."
Mrs. Chichester held up an open telegram:
"Mr. Hawkes telegraphs he will call to-morrow for his first report. What can I tell him?"
"What WILL you?" asked Alaric.
"Am I to tell him that every tutor I've engaged for her resigned? Not one stays more than a week. Can I tell him THAT?"
"You could, mater dear: but would it be wise?"
Mrs. Chichester went on:
"Am I to tell him that no maid will stay with her? That she shows no desire to improve? That she mimics and angers her teachers, refuses to study and plays impish tricks like some mischievous little elf? Am I to tell him THAT?"
"Serve her jolly well right if you did. Eh, Ethel?" said Alaric. "It would," replied Ethel.
At that moment the footman and the maid both entered from the garden very much out of breath. "I've searched everywhere, madam. Not a sign of her," said Bennett.
"Not in the stables, nor up or down the road. And the DOG'S missin', madam," added Jarvis.
Ethel sprang up. "'PET'?"
"No, miss. SHE'S gnawin' a bone on the lawn. The OTHER."
"That will do," and Mrs. Chichester dismissed them.
As they disappeared through the door, the old lady said appealingly to her children:
"Where IS she?"
"Heaven knows," said Alaric.
"Oh, if I could only throw the whole business up."
"Wish to goodness we COULD. But the monthly cheque will be useful to-morrow, mater."
"That's it! That's it!" cried the unhappy woman.
"No one seems particularly anxious to snatch at MY services as yet," said Alaric. "Course it's a dull time, Jerry tells me. But there we are. Not tuppence comin' in and the butcher's to be paid—likewise the other mouth-fillers. See where I'm comin'?"
"Have I not lain awake at night struggling with it?" replied the poor lady, almost on the verge of tears.
"Well, I'll tell you what," said the hope of the family; "I'll tell you what we'll do. Let's give the little beggar another month of it. Let her off lightly THIS time, and the moment the lawyer-bird's gone, read her the riot-act. Pull her up with a jerk. Ride her on the curb and NO ROT!"
"We could try," and Mrs. Chichester wiped her eyes: "Of course she HAS improved in her manner. For THAT we have to thank Ethel." She looked affectionately at her daughter and choked back a sob. "Who could live near dear Ethel and NOT improve?"
"Ah! There we have it!" agreed Alaric.
"But I don't know how much of the improvement is genuine and how much pretended," gasped his mother.
"There we go again. She's got us fairly gravelled," said Alaric despondently.
"Of course I can truthfully tell him that, at times, she is very tractable and obedient."
"AT TIMES! About two minutes a week! When Jerry's around. How on earth he puts up with her I can't understand. She follows him about like a little dog. Listens to him. Behaves herself. But the moment he's gone—Poof! back she goes to her old tricks. I tell you she's a freak!" and Alaric dismissed the matter, and sat back fanning himself.
"Can I tell Mr. Hawkes that?" asked Mrs. Chichester.
"No," replied Alaric. "But I WOULD say that the thousand a year is very hardly earned. Nat ought to have made it ten thousand. Dirt cheap at THAT. Tell him that out of respect for the dead man's wishes, we shall continue the job and that on the whole we have HOPES. SLIGHT—BUT—HOPES!"
In through the open windows came the sound of dogs barking furiously. Ethel sprang up crying:
"'Pet!'" and hurried out into the garden.
Mrs. Chichester and Alaric went to the windows and looked out.
"Margaret!" cried Mrs. Chichester.
"And the mongrel! She's urgin' him on. The terrier's got 'Pet' now." Alaric called out to the little poodle: "Fight him, old girl! Maul him! Woa there! 'Pet's' down. There is Ethel on the scene," he cried as Ethel ran across the lawn and picked up the badly treated poodle.
"Go and separate them," urged Mrs. Chichester.
"Not me," replied Alaric. "Ethel can handle 'em. I hate the little brutes. All hair and teeth. I cannot understand women coddling those little messes of snarling, smelly wool."
Ethel came indignantly into the room soothing the excited and ruffled "Pet." She was flushed and very angry. How dare that brat let her mongrel touch the aristocratic poodle?
A moment later Peg entered with the victorious "Michael" cradled in her arms. She had a roguish look of triumph in her eyes. Down the front of her charming new dress were the marks of "Michael's" muddy paws. Peg was also breathing quickly, and evidently more than a little excited.
"Take that animal out of the room!" cried Mrs. Chichester indignantly the moment Peg appeared.
Peg turned and walked straight out into the garden and began playing with "Michael" on the grass.
Mrs. Chichester waited for a few moments, then called out to her:
"Margaret!" Then more sharply: "Margaret! Come here! Do you hear me?"
Peg went on playing with "Michael" and just answered: "I hear ye."
"Come here at once!"
"Can 'Michael' come in too?" came from the garden.
"You come in and leave that brute outside."
"If 'Michael' can't come in, I don't want to," obstinately insisted Peg.
"Do as I tell you. Come here," commanded her aunt. Peg tied "Michael" to one of the French windows and then went slowly into the room and stood facing her aunt.
"Where have you been?" asked that lady.
"Down to the say-shore," replied Peg indifferently.
"Haven't I told you NEVER to go out ALONE?"
"Ye have."
"How dare you disobey me?"
"Sure I had to."
"You HAD to?"
"I did."
"And WHY?"
"'Michael' needed a bath, so I took him down to the say-shore an' gave him one. He loves the wather, he does."
"Are there no SERVANTS?"
"There ARE sure."
"Isn't that THEIR province?"
"Mebbe. But they hate 'Michael' and I hate THEM. I wouldn't let them touch him."
"In other words you WILFULLY disobeyed me?"
"I did."
"Is this the way MY NIECE should behave?"
"Mebbe not. It's the way I behave though."
"So my wishes count for nothing?"
The old lady looked so hurt as well as so angry that Peg softened and hastened to try and make it up with her aunt:
"Sure yer wishes DO count with me, aunt. Indade they do."
"Don't say INDADE. There is no such word. Indeed!" corrected Mrs. Chichester.
"I beg your pardon, aunt. INDEED they do."
"Look at your dress!" suddenly cried Mrs. Chichester as she caught sight of the marks of "MICHAEL'S" playfulness.
Peg looked at the stains demurely and said cheerfully "'MICHAEL' did that. Sure they'll come off."
Mrs. Chichester looked at the flushed face of the young girl, at the mass of curly hair that had been carefully dressed by Bennett for dinner and was now hovering around her eyes untidily. The old lady straightened it:
"Can you not keep your hair out of your eyes? What do you think will become of you?"
"I hope to go to Heaven, like all good Catholics," said Peg.
Mrs. Chichester turned away with a gesture of despair.
"I give it up! I give it up!" she said, half-crying.
"I should say so," agreed Alaric. "Such rubbish!"
Peg shook her head the moment Mrs. Chichester turned her back, and the little red curls once more danced in front of her eyes.
"I do everything I can, everything," complained Mrs. Chichester, "but you—you—" she broke off. "I don't understand you! I don't understand you!"
"Me father always said that," cried Peg eagerly; "and if HE couldn't sure how could any one else?"
"Never mind your father," said Mrs. Chichester severely. Peg turned away.
"What IS it?" continued the old lady. "I say WHAT IS IT?"
"What is WHAT?" asked Peg.
"Is it that you don't wish to improve? Is it THAT?"
"I'll tell ye what I think it is," began Peg helpfully, as if anxious to reach some satisfactory explanation: "I think there's a little divil in me lyin' there and every now and again he jumps out."
"A devil?" cried Mrs. Chichester, horrified.
"Yes, aunt," said Peg demurely.
"How dare you use such a word to ME?"
"I didn't. I used it about MESELF. I don't know whether you have a divil in ye or not. I think I have."
Mrs. Chichester silenced her with a gesture:
"To-morrow I am to give Mr. Hawkes my first report on you."
Peg laughed suddenly and then checked herself quickly.
"And why did you do that?" asked her aunt severely.
"I had a picture of what ye're goin' to tell him."
"Your manners are abominable."
"Yes, aunt."
"What am I to tell Mr. Hawkes?"
"Tell him the truth, aunt, and shame the divil."
"Margaret!" and the old lady glared at her in horror.
"I beg yer pardon," said Peg meekly.
"Don't you wish to remain here?" continued Mrs. Chichester.
"Sometimes I do, an' sometimes I don't."
"Don't I do everything that is possible for you?"
"Yes, ye do everything possible TO me—"
"What?"
"I mean—FOR ME. I should have said FOR me, aunt!" and Peg's blue eyes twinkled mischievously.
"Then why do you constantly disobey me?" pursued the old lady.
"I suppose it is the original sin in me," replied Peg thoughtfully.
"WHAT?" cried Mrs. Chichester again taken completely aback.
"Oh, I say, you know! that's good! Ha!" and Alaric laughed heartily. Peg joined in and laughed heartily with him. Alaric immediately stopped.
Ethel took absolutely no notice of any one.
Peg sat down beside her aunt and explained to her:
"Whenever I did anythin' wilful or disturbin' as a child me father always said it was the 'original sin' in me an' that I wasn't to be punished for it because I couldn't help it. Then he used to punish himself for MY fault. An' when I saw it hurt him I usen't to do it again—for a while—at least. I think that was a grand way to bring up a daughter. I've been wonderin' since I've been here if an aunt could bring a niece up the same way." And she looked quizzically at Mrs. Chichester.
"Supposin', for instance, YOU were to punish yerself for everythin' wrong that I'd do, I might be so sorry I'd never do it again—but of course I might NOT. I am not sure about meself. I think me father knows me betther than I do meself."
"Your father must have been a very bad influence on you," said Mrs. Chichester sternly.
"No, he wasn't," contradicted Peg, hotly. "Me father's the best man—"
Mrs. Chichester interrupted her: "Margaret!"
Peg looked down sullenly and said: "Well, he was."
"Haven't I TOLD you never to CONTRADICT me?"
"Well, YOU contradict ME all the time."
"Stop!"
"Well, there's nothin' fair about your conthradictin' ME and ME not being able to—"
"Will you stop?"
"Well, now, aunt, ye will do me a favour if you will stop spakin' about me father the way you do. It hurts me, it does. I love my father and—I—I—"
"WILL—YOU—STOP?"
"I have stopped." And Peg sank back in her chair, breathing hard and her little fists punching against each other.
Her aunt then made the following proposition: "If I consent to take charge of you for a further period, will you promise me you will do your best to show some advancement during the next month?"
"Yes, aunt," said Peg readily.
"And if I get fresh tutors for you, will you try to keep them?"
"Yes, aunt."
Mrs. Chichester questioned Alaric. "What do you think?"
"We might risk it," replied Alaric, turning to his sister: "Eh, Ethel?"
"Don't ask me," was Ethel's reply.
"Very well," said Mrs. Chichester determinedly, "Begin to-night."
"Begin what" queried Peg, full of curiosity.
"To show that you mean to keep your promise. Work for a while."
"What at?" asked Peg, all eagerness to begin something.
"Get your books," said her aunt.
"Sure an' I will." And Peg turned to different parts of the room, finding an atlas here, a book of literature on the piano, an English history under the table. Finally she got them complete and sat down at the big table and prepared to study.
Jarvis came in with a letter on a salver.
"Well?" asked the old lady.
"For Miss Chichester, madam," and he handed Ethel the letter. "By hand, miss."
Ethel took the letter quite unconsciously and opened it. Whilst she was reading it, Peg called the footman over to her.
"Jarvis," she said, "me dog 'MICHAEL' is outside there, tied up to the door. He's had a fight an' he's tired. Will ye put him to bed for me like a good boy?"
Jarvis went out disgustedly, untied the dog and put him in the kennel that had been specially made for him.
Poor Jarvis's life this last month had been most unhappy. The smooth and peaceful order of things in the house had departed. The coming of the "niece" had disturbed everything. Many were the comments below stairs on the intruder. The following is an example of the manner in which Peg was regarded by the footman and Mrs. Chichester's own maid, Bennett.
"A NIECE!" cried Bennett, sarcastically, just after Peg's arrival.
"So they SAY!" retorted Jarvis, mysteriously.
"What do you make of her?"
"Well, every family I've served and my mother before me, had a family skeleton. SHE is OURS."
"Why, she hadn't a rag to her back when she came here. I'd be ashamed to be dressed as she was. You should have seen the one she goes to Mass in!"
"I did," said Jarvis indignantly. "All wrapped up in the 'Irish Times.' Then I got ragged for putting her in the kitchen. Looked too good for her. And that dog! Can't go near it without it trying to bite me. I don't approve of either of 'em comin' into a quiet family like ours."
Just then the bell called him to the drawing-room and further discussion of Peg and "MICHAEL" was deferred to a more suitable opportunity.
To return—Ethel read her letter and went to the writing-desk to reply to it. "Who is it from?" asked Mrs. Chichester.
"Mr. Brent," replied Ethel, indifferently.
"Brent?" cried Alaric. "What on earth does he write to YOU for?"
"He wants me to do something for him," and she tore the letter up into the smallest pieces and placed them in a receptacle on the desk.
"Do something?" questioned Alaric.
"Yes. Nothing very much. I'll answer it here," and she proceeded quite imperturbably to write an answer.
Mrs. Chichester had seen that Peg had commenced to study—which meant—with Peg—roaming through her books until she found something that interested her. Then she would read it over and over again until she thought she knew it.
"Come, Alaric," and Mrs. Chichester left the room after admonishing Peg that an hour would be sufficient to sit up. Alaric watched his mother go out of the room and then he slouched over to Peg and grinned chaffingly down at her.
"ORIGINAL-SIN, eh? That's a good 'un."
Peg looked up at him and a dangerous gleam came into her eyes. Alaric was not going to mock at her and get away unscathed. All unconscious of his danger, Alaric went on:
"Study all the pretty maps and things."
Peg closed the book with a slam and took it up and held it in a threatening manner as she glared at Alaric.
"Little devil!" and Alaric laughed at her.
"He's tuggin' at me now!" replied Peg. "The devil must hate knowledge. He always tries to keep ME from gettin' any."
Alaric laughed again maliciously. "Watch your cousin! Model yourself on Ethel! Eh? What?"
Peg hurled the book at him; he dodged it and it just escaped hitting Ethel, who turned at the disturbance.
Alaric hurried out to avoid any further conflict—calling back over his shoulder:
"Little devil."
Peg picked up the book, looked at Ethel, who had finished the letter and had put it into an unaddressed envelope. She took a cigarette out of her case and lit it neatly.
Peg took one out of the box on the table and lit it clumsily, though in exact imitation of Ethel.
When Ethel had addressed the envelope she turned and saw Peg smoking, sitting on the edge of the table, watching Ethel with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
Ethel impatiently threw her cigarette on to the ash tray on the desk.
Peg did the same action identically into a tray on the table.
Ethel rose indignantly and faced Peg.
"Why do you watch me?"
"Aunt told me to. Aren't ye me model? I'm to mould meself on you, sure!"
Ethel turned away furiously and began to ascend the stairs.
Peg followed her and called up to her:
"May I talk to ye?"
"You were told to study," replied Ethel, angrily.
"Won't ye let me talk to ye? Please, do!" urged Peg. Then she went on: "Ye haven't said a kind wurrd to me since I've been here." She stopped a moment. Ethel said nothing. Peg continued: "Sure, we're both girls, in the same house, of the same family, an' pretty much the same age, and yet ye never look at me except as if ye hated me. Why, ye like yer dog betther than you do ME, don't ye?"
Ethel looked down at "Pet" and fondled her and kissed her.
"I'm sorry 'Michael' hurt him. It was a cowardly thing of 'Michael' to do to snap at a little bit of a thing like that is. But it wasn't 'Michael's' fault. I set him on to it, an' he always obeys me. He'd bite a lion or THAT"—and she pointed to the poor little poodle—"if I set him onto it."
"You made him attack 'Pet'?" cried Ethel.
"I did. I hate it. It's so sleek and fat and well-bred. I hate fat, well-bred things. I like them thin and common, like 'Michael' and meself. A dog should be made to look like a dog if it is a dog. No one could mistake 'Michael' for anything else BUT a dog, but THAT thing—"
Ethel gave an indignant ejaculation and again started to go upstairs.
Peg entreated her:
"Don't go for a minnit. Won't ye make friends with me?"
"We've nothing in common," replied Ethel.
"Sure, that doesn't prevent us bein' dacent to each other, does it?"
"DECENT?" cried Ethel in disgust.
"I'll meet ye three quarthers o' the way if ye'll show just one little generous feelin' toward me." She paused as she looked pleadingly at Ethel: "Ye would if ye knew what was in me mind."
Ethel came down to the last step of the stairs and stood there looking down searchingly at Peg. Finally she said:
"You're a strange creature."
"Not at all. It's you people here who are strange—I'm just what I am. I don't pretend or want to be anythin' else. But you—all of you—seem to be trying to be somethin' different to what ye are."
"What do you mean?" asked Ethel suspiciously.
"Oh, I watch ye and listen to ye," went on Peg eagerly. "Ye turn yer face to the wurrld as much as to say, 'Look at me! aren't I the beautiful, quiet, well-bred, aisy-goin', sweet-tempered young lady?' An' yer nothin' o' the kind, are ye?"
Ethel went slowly over to Peg and looked into her eyes:
"What am I?"
"Sure ye've got the breedin' all right, an' the nice-looks, an' the beautiful manners—but down in yer heart an' up in yer brain ye're worryin' yer little soul all the time, aren't ye?" And Peg paused. Ethel looked down. Peg after a moment continued: "An' ye've got a temper just as bad as mine. It's a beautiful temper ye have, Ethel. It's a shame not to let a temper like that out in the daylight now and again. But ye kape it out o' sight because it isn't good form to show it. An' with all yer fine advantages ye're not a bit happy, are ye? Are ye, Ethel?"
Ethel, moved in spite of herself, admitted involuntarily: "No. I'm not!"
Peg went on quietly: "Nor am I—in this house. Couldn't we try and comfort each other?" There was a look of genuine sympathy with Ethel in Peg's big blue eyes and a note of tender entreaty in her tone.
"Comfort? YOU—comfort ME?" cried Ethel, in disdain.
"Yes, Ethel dear, ME comfort YOU, They say 'a beautiful thought makes a beautiful face'; an' by the same token, sure a kind action gives ye a warm feelin' around the heart. An' ye might have that if ye'd only be a little kind to me—sometime."
Peg's honest sincerity and depth of feeling had suddenly a marked effect on the, apparently, callous Ethel. She turned to Peg and there was a different expression entirely in her look and tone as she said:
"I'm afraid I have been a little inconsiderate."
"Ye have, sure," said Peg.
"What would you like me to do?"
"I'd like ye to spake to me sometimes as though I were a human bein' an' not a clod o' earth."
"Very well, Margaret, I will. Good night." And feeling the matter was closed, Ethel again turned away to leave the room.
"Will ye give me another minnit—NOW—PLEASE," called Peg, after her, excitedly.
Ethel looked at the letter in her hand, hesitated, then re-entered the room and went down to Peg and said gently:
"All right"
"Only just a minnit," repeated Peg, breathlessly.
"What do you want, Margaret?"
"I want ye to tell me somethin'."
"What is it?"
Peg paused—looked at Ethel bashfully—dropped her eyes to the ground—took a deep breath—then said as fast as she could speak:
"Do ye know anything about—about LOVE?"
"Love?" echoed Ethel, very much astonished.
"Yes," said Peg. "Have ye ever been in love?" and she wanted expectantly for Ethel's answer.
Ethel put the letter she had just written to Mr. Brent slowly behind her back and answered coldly:
"No. I have not."
"Have ye ever THOUGHT about it?"
"Yes."
"WHAT do ye think about it?" questioned Peg eagerly.
"Rot!" replied Ethel, decidedly.
"ROT? ROT?" cried Peg, unable to believe her ears.
"Sentimental nonsense that only exists in novels."
"Ye're wrong!" insisted the anxious Peg; "ye're wrong. It's the most wondherful thing in the wurrld!"
Ethel brought the letter up to her eyes and read the superscription. "Think so?" she asked calmly.
"I do," cried Peg hotly. "I do. It's the most wondherful thing in the whole wurrld. To love a good man, who loves you. A man that made ye hot and cold by turns: burnin' like fire one minnit an' freezin' like ice the next. Who made yer heart leap with happiness when he came near ye, an' ache with sorrow when he went away from ye. Haven't ye ever felt like that, Ethel?"
"Never!" replied Ethel, positively.
Peg went on: "Oh! it's mighty disturbin', I'm tellin' ye. Sometimes ye walk on air, an' at others yer feet are like lead. An' at one time the wurrld's all beautiful flowers and sweet music and grand poetry—an' at another it's all coffins, an' corpses, an' shrouds." She shook her head seriously: "Oh! I tell ye it's mighty disturbin'."
Ethel looked at her inquiringly:
"How do you know this?"
Peg grew confused, then answered hurriedly:
"I've been readin' about it—in a book. It's wondherful—that's what it is."
"When you're a little older you will think differently," corrected Ethel, severely. "You will realise then that it is all very primitive."
"PRIMITIVE?" asked Peg, disappointedly.
"Of the earth—earthy," answered Ethel.
Peg thought a moment: "Sure I suppose I am then." She looked half-shyly at Ethel and asked her quietly: "Don't you like men?"
"Not much," answered Ethel, indifferently.
"Just dogs?" persisted Peg.
"You can trust THEM," and Ethel caressed "PET'S" little pink snout.
"That's thrue," agreed Peg. "I like dogs, too. But I like children betther. Wouldn't ye like to have a child of yer own, Ethel?"
That young lady looked at her horrifiedly: "MARGARET!"
"Well, I would," said Peg. "That's the rale woman in us. Ye know ye only fondle that animal because ye haven't got a child of yer own to take in yer arms. Sure that's the reason all the selfish women have pet dogs. They're afraid to have childhren. I've watched them! O' course a dog's all very well, but he can't talk to ye, an' comfort ye, an' cry to ye, an' laugh to ye like a child can."
Peg paused, then pointed to "PET" and launched the following wonderful statement:
"Sure THAT thing could never be President of the United States. But if ye had a baby he might grow up to it."
"That's very IRISH," sneered Ethel.
"Faith I think it's very human," answered Peg. "I wish ye had some more of it, Ethel, acushla." Ethel walked away as though to dismiss the whole subject. It was most distasteful to her:
"It is not customary for girls to talk about such things."
"I know it isn't," said Peg. "An' the more's the pity. Why shouldn't we discuss events of national importance? We THINK about them—very well! why shouldn't we TALK about them. Why shouldn't girls be taught to be honest with each other? I tell ye if there was more honesty in this wurrld there wouldn't be half the sin in it, that there wouldn't."
"Really—" began Ethel—
"Let US be honest with each other, Ethel," and Peg went right over to her and looked at her compassionately.
"What do ye mean?" said Ethel with a sudden contraction of her breath.
"You like Mr. Brent, don't ye?"
So! the moment had come. The little spy had been watching her. Well, she would fight this common little Irish nobody to the bitter end. All the anger in her nature surged uppermost as Ethel answered Peg—but she kept her voice under complete control and once more put the letter behind her back.
"Certainly I like Mr. Brent. He is a very old friend of the family!"
"He's got a wife?"
"He has!"
"An' a baby?"
"Yes—and a baby." Ethel was not going to betray herself. She would just wait and see what course this creature was going to take with her.
Peg went on:
"Of course I've never seen the wife or the baby because he never seems to have them with him when he calls here. But I've often heard Alaric ask afther them."
"Well?" asked Ethel coldly.
"Is it usual for English husbands with babies to kiss other women's hands?" and Peg looked swiftly at her cousin.
Ethel checked an outburst and said quite calmly:
"It is a very old and a very respected custom."
"The devil doubt it but it's OLD. I'm not so sure about the RESPECT. Why doesn't he kiss me AUNT'S hand as well?"
Ethel went quickly to the staircase. She could not control herself much longer. It was becoming unbearable. As she crossed the room she said with as little heat as possible:
"You don't understand."
"Well, but I'm thryin' to," persisted Peg. "That's why I watch YE all the time."
Ethel turned: she was now at bay:
"YOU WATCH ME?"
"Aren't ye me model?"
"It's contemptible!" cried Ethel.
"Sure I only saw the 'OLD and RESPECTED CUSTOM' by, accident—when I came in through THERE a month ago—an' once since when I came in again by accident—a few days aftherwards. I couldn't help seein' it both times. And as for bein' CONTEMPTIBLE I'm not so sure the CUSTOM doesn't deserve all the CONTEMPT."
Ethel was now thoroughly aroused:
"I suppose it is too much to expect that a child of the COMMON people should understand the customs of DECENT people."
"Mebbe it is," replied Peg. "But I don't see why the COMMON PEOPLE should have ALL the decency and the aristocracy NONE."
"It is impossible to talk to you. I was foolish to have stayed here. You don't understand: you never could understand—"
Peg interrupted:
"Why, I never saw ye excited before:—not a bit of colour in yer cheeks till now—except TWICE. Ye look just as ye did when Mr. Brent followed that OLD and RESPECTED custom on yer hand," cried Peg.
Ethel answered, this time, excitedly and indignantly, giving full and free vent to her just anger:
"Be good enough never to speak to me again as long as you're in this house. If I had MY way you'd leave it this moment. As it is—as it is—" her voice rose almost to a scream: her rage was unbridled.
What more she might have said was checked by the door opening and Jarvis showing in Jerry.
Jerry walked cheerfully and smilingly into the roam and was amazed to find the two young ladies glaring at each other and apparently in the midst of a conflict.
All power of speech left him as he stood looking in amazement at the combatants.
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