Mrs. Chichester went up to the Mauve-Room a little later and found Peg in the same attitude, looking out of the window—thinking.
"Good morning, Margaret," she began, and her tone was most conciliatory, not to say almost kindly.
"Good mornin'," replied Peg dully.
"I am afraid I was a little harsh with you last night," the old lady added. It was the nearest suggestion of an apology Mrs. Chichester had ever made.
"Ye'll never be again," flashed back Peg sharply.
"That is exactly what I was saying to Alaric. I shall never be harsh with you again. Never!"
If Mrs. Chichester thought the extraordinary unbending would produce an equally, Christian-like spirit in Peg, she was unhappily mistaken. Peg did not vary her tone or hear attitude. Both were absolutely uncompromising.
"Ye'll have to go to New York if ye ever want to be harsh with me again. That is where ye'll have to go. To New York."
"You are surely not going to leave us just on account of a few words of correction?" reasoned Mrs. Chichester.
"I am," replied Peg, obstinately. "An' ye've done all the correctin' ye'll ever do with me."
"Have you thought of all you are giving up?"
"I thought all through the night of what I am going back to. And I am going back to it as soon as Mr. Hawkes comes. And now, if ye don't mind, I'd rather be left alone. I have a whole lot to think about, an' they're not very happy thoughts, ayther—an' I'd rather be by meself—if ye plaze."
There was a final air of dismissal about Peg that astonished and grieved the old lady. How their places had changed in a few hours! Yesterday it was Mrs. Chichester who commanded and Peg who obeyed—SOMETIMES.
Now, she was being sent out of a room in her own house, and by her poor little niece.
As she left the room Mrs. Chichester thought sadly of the condition misfortune had placed her in. She brightened as she realised that they had still one chance—through Alaric—of recouping, even slightly, the family fortunes. The thought flashed through Mrs. Chichester's mind of how little Margaret guessed what an honour was about to be conferred upon her through the nobility of her son in sacrificing himself on the altar of duty. The family were indeed repaying good for evil—extending the olive branch—in tendering their idol as a peace-offering at the feet of the victorious Peg.
Meanwhile, that young lady had suddenly remembered two things—firstly—that she must not return to her father in anything Mrs. Chichester had given her. Out of one of the drawers she took the little old black jacket and skirt and the flat low shoes and the red-flowered hat. Secondly, it darted through her mind that she had left Jerry's present to her in its familiar hiding-place beneath a corner of the carpet. Not waiting to change into the shabby little dress, she hurried downstairs into the empty living-room, ran across, and there, sure enough, was her treasure undisturbed. She took it up and a pang went through her heart as it beat in on her that never again would its donor discuss its contents with her. This gentleman of title, masquerading as a farmer, who had led her on to talk of herself, of her country and of her father, just to amuse himself. The blood surged up to her temples as she thought how he must have laughed at her when he was away from her: though always when with her he showed her the gravest attention, and consideration, and courtesy. It was with mingled feelings she walked across the room, the book open in her hand, her eyes scanning some of the familiar and well-remembered lines.
As she reached the foot of the stairs, Alaric came in quickly through the windows.
"Hello! Margaret!" he cried cheerfully, though his heart was beating nervously at the thought of what he was about to do—and across his features there was a sickly pallor.
Peg turned and looked at him, at the same moment hiding the book behind her back.
"What have you got there, all tucked away?" he ventured as the opening question that was to lead to the all-important one.
Peg held it up for him to see: "The only thing I'm takin' away that I didn't bring with me."
"A book, eh?"
"That's what it is—a book;" and she began to go upstairs.
"Taking it AWAY?" he called up to her.
"That's what I'm doin'," and she still went on up two more steps.
Alaric made a supreme effort and followed her.
"You're not really goin' away—cousin?" he gasped.
"I am," replied Peg. "An' ye can forget the relationship the minnit the cab drives me away from yer door!"
"Oh, I say, you know," faltered Alaric. "Don't be cruel!"
"Cruel, is it?" queried Peg in amazement. "Sure, what's there cruel in THAT, will ye tell me?"
She looked at him curiously.
For once all Alaric's confidence left him. His tongue was dry and clove to the roof of his mouth. Instead of conferring a distinction on the poor little creature he felt almost as if he were about to ask her a favour.
He tried to throw a world of tenderness into his voice as he spoke insinuatingly:
"I thought we were goin' to be such good little friends," and he looked almost languishingly at her.
For the first time Peg began to feel some interest. Her eyes winked as she said:
"DID ye? Look at that, now. I didn't."
"I say, you know," and he went up on the same step with her: "I say—really ye mustn't let what the mater said last night upset ye! Really, ye mustn't!"
"Mustn't I, now? Well, let me tell ye it did upset me—an' I'm still upset—an' I'm goin' to kape on bein' upset until I get into the cab that dhrives me from yer door."
"Oh, come, now—what nonsense! Of course the mater was a teeny bit disappointed—that's all. Just a teeny bit. But now it's all over."
"Well, I was a WHOLE LOT disappointed—an' it's all over with me, too." She started again to get away from him, but he stepped in front of her.
"Don't go for a minute. Why not forget the whole thing and let's all settle down into nice, cosy, jolly little pals, eh?"
He was really beginning to warm to his work the more she made difficulties. It was for Alaric to overcome them. The family roof was at stake. He had gone chivalrously to the rescue. He was feeling a gleam of real enthusiasm. Peg's reply threw a damper again on his progress.
"Forget it, is it? No—I'll not forget it. My memory is not so convaynient. You're not goin' to be disgraced again through me!" She passed him and went on to the landing. He followed her eagerly.
"Just a moment," he cried, stopping her just by an a oriel window. She paused in the centre of the glow that radiated from its panes.
"What is it, now?" she asked impatiently. She wanted to go back to her room and make her final preparations.
Alaric looked at her with what he meant to be adoration in his eyes.
"Do you know, I've grown really awfully fond of you?" His voice quivered and broke. He had reached one of the crises of his life.
Peg looked at him and a smile broadened across her face.
"No, I didn't know it. When did ye find it out?"
"Just now—down in that room—when the thought flashed through me that perhaps you really meant to leave us. It went all through me. 'Pon my honour, it did. The idea positively hurt me. Really HURT me."
"Did it, now?" laughed Peg. "Sure, an' I'm glad of it."
"Glad! GLAD?" he asked in astonishment.
"I am. I didn't think anythin' could hurt ye unless it disturbed yer comfort. An' I don't see how my goin' will do that."
"Oh, but it will," persisted Alaric. "Really, it will."
"Sure, now?" Peg was growing really curious. What was this odd little fellow trying to tell her? He looked so tremendously in earnest about something What in the world was it?
Alaric answered her without daring to look at her.
He fixed his eye on his pointed shoe and said quaveringly:
"You know, meetin' a girl round the house for a whole month, as I've met you, has an awful effect on a fellow. AWFUL Really!"
"AWFUL?" cried Peg.
"Yes, indeed it has. It grows part of one's life, as it were. Not to see you running up and down those stairs: sittin' about all over the place: studyin' all your jolly books and everything—you know the thought bruises me—really it BRUISES."
Peg laughed heartily. Her good humour was coming back to her.
"Sure, ye'll get over it, Alaric," she said encouragingly.
"That's just it," he protested anxiously. "I'm afraid I WON'T get over it. Do you know, I'm quite ACHE-Y NOW. Indeed I am."
"Ache-y?" repeated Peg, growing more and more amused.
Alaric touched his heart tenderly:
"Yes, really. All round HERE!"
"Perhaps it's because I disturbed yer night's rest, Alaric?"
"You've disturbed ALL my rest. If you GO I'll never have ANY rest." Once again he spurred on his flagging spirits and threw all his ardour into the appeal. "I've really begun to care for you very much. Oh, very, very much. It all came to me in a flash—down in the room." And—for the moment—he really meant it. He began to see qualities in his little cousin which he had never noticed before. And the fact that she was not apparently a willing victim, added zest to the attack.
Peg looked at him with unfeigned interest:
"Sure, that does ye a great dale of credit. I've been thinkin' all the time I've known ye that ye only cared for YERSELF—like all Englishmen."
"Oh, no," protested Alaric. "Oh, DEAR, no. We care a great deal at times—oh, a GREAT deal—and never say a word about it—not a single word. You know we hate to wear our hearts on our sleeves."
"I don't blame ye. Ye'd wear them out too soon, maybe."
Alaric felt that the moment had now really come.
"Cousin," he said, and his voice dropped to the caressing note of a wooer: "Cousin! Do you know I am going to do something now I've never done before?"
He paused to let the full force of what was to come have its real value.
"What is it, Alaric?" Peg asked, all unconscious of the drama that was taking place in her cousin's heart! "Sure, what is it? Ye're not goin' to do somethin' USEFUL, are ye?"
He braced himself and went on: "I am going to ask a very charming young lady to marry me. Eh?"
"ARE ye?"
"I am."
"What do ye think o' that, now!"
"And—WHO—DO—YOU—THINK—IT—IS?"
He waited, wondering if she would guess correctly. It would be so helpful if only she could.
But she was so unexpected.
"I couldn't guess it in a hundred years, Alaric. Ralely, I couldn't."
"Oh, TRY! Do. TRY!" he urged. "I couldn't think who'd marry YOU—indade I couldn't. Mebbe the poor girl's BLIND. Is THAT it?"
"Can't you guess? No? Really?"
"NO, I'm tellin' ye. Who is it?"
"YOU!"
The moment had come. The die was cast. His life was in the hands of Fate—and of Peg. He waited breathlessly for the effect.
Peg looked at him in blank astonishment.
All expression had left her face.
Then she leaned back against the balustrade and laughed long and unrestrainedly. She laughed until the tears came coursing down her cheeks.
Alaric was at first nonplussed. Then he grasped the situation in its full significance. It was just a touch of hysteria. He joined her and laughed heartily as well.
"Aha!" he cried, between laughs: "That's a splendid sign. Splendid! I've always been told that girls CRY when they're proposed to."
"Sure, that's what I'm doin'," gasped Peg. "I'm cryin'—laughin'."
Alaric suddenly checked his mirth and said seriously:
"'Course ye must know, cousin, that I've nothin' to offer you except a life-long devotion: a decent old name—and—my career—when once I get it goin'. I only need an incentive to make no end of a splash in the world. YOU would be my incentive." Peg could hardly believe her ears. She looked at Alaric while her eyes danced mischievously.
"Go on!" she said. "Go on. Sure, ye're doin' fine!"
"Then it's all right?" he asked fervently.
"Faith! I think it's wondherful."
"Good. Excellent. But—there are one or two little things to be settled first."
Even as the victorious general, with the capitulated citadel, it was time to dictate terms. Delays in such matters, Alaric had often been told, were unwise. A clear understanding at the beginning saved endless complications afterwards.
"Just a few little things," he went on, "such as a little OBEDIENCE—that's most essential. A modicum of care about ORDINARY things,—for instance, about dress, speech, hair, et ectera—and NO 'Michael.'"
"Oh!" cried Peg dejectedly, while her eyes beamed playfully:
"Sure, couldn't I have 'Michael'?"
"No," he said firmly. It was well she should understand that once and for all. He had never in a long experience, seen a dog he disliked more.
"Oh!" ejaculated Peg, plaintively.
Prepared to, at any rate, compromise, rather than have an open rupture, he hastened to modify his attitude:
"At least NOT in the HOUSE."
"In the STABLES?" queried Peg.
"We'd give him a jolly little kennel somewhere, if you really wanted him, and you could see him—say TWICE a day."
He felt a thrill of generosity as he thus unbent from his former rigid attitude.
"Then it wouldn't be 'love me love my dog'?" quizzed Peg.
"Well, really, you know, one cannot regulate one's life by proverbs, cousin. Can one?" he reasoned.
"But 'Michael' is all I have in the wurrld, except me father. Now, what could ye give me instead of him?"
Here was where a little humour would save the whole situation. Things were becoming strained—and over a dog.
Alaric would use his SUBTLER humour—keen as bright steel—and turn the edge of the discussion.
"What can I give you instead of 'Michael'?"
He paused, laughed cheerfully and bent tenderly aver her and whispered:
"MYSELF, dear cousin! MYSELF!" and he leaned back and watched the effect. A quick joke at the right moment had so often saved the day. It would again, he was sure. After a moment he whispered softly:
"What do you say—dear cousin?"
Peg looked up at him, innocently, and answered:
"Sure, I think I'd rather have 'Michael'—if ye don't mind."
He started forward: "Oh, come, I say! You don't MEAN that?"
"I do," she answered decidedly.
"But think—just for one moment—of the ADVANTAGES?"
"For you, or for me?" asked Peg.
"For YOU—of course," replied the disappointed Alaric.
"I'm thryin' to—but I can only think of 'Michael. Sure, I get more affection out of his bark of greetin' than I've ever got from a human bein' in England. But then he's IRISH. No, thank ye, all the same. If it makes no difference to ye, I'd rather have 'Michael.'"
"You don't mean to say that you REFUSE me?" he asked blankly.
"If ye don't mind," replied Peg meekly.
"You actually decline my HAND and—er—HEART?"
"That's what I do."
"Really?" He was still unable to believe it. He wanted to hear her refusal distinctly.
"Ralely," replied Peg, gravely.
"Is that FINAL?"
"It's the most final thing there is in the wurrld," replied Peg, on the brink of an outburst of laughter.
Alaric looked so anxious and crestfallen now—in sharp contrast to his attitude of triumph a few moments before.
To her amazement the gloom lifted from her cousin's countenance. He took a deep breath, looked at her in genuine relief, and cried out heartily:
"I say! You're a BRICK!"
"Am I?" asked Peg.
"It's really awfully good of you. Some girls in your position would have jumped at me. Positively JUMPED!"
"WOULD they—poor things!"
"But YOU—why, you're a genuine, little, hall-marked 'A number one brick'! I'm extremely obliged to you."
He took her little hand and shook it warmly.
"You're a plucky little girl, that's what you are—a PLUCKY—LITTLE—GIRL. I'll never forget it—NEVER. If there is anythin' I can do—at any time—anywhere—call on me. I'll be there—right on the spot."
He heard his mother's voice, speaking to Jarvis, in the room below. At the same moment he saw Ethel walking toward them along the corridor.
He said hurriedly and fervently to Peg:
"Bless you, cousin. You've taken an awful load off my mind. I was really worried. I HAD to ask you. Promised to. See you before you go! Hello! Ethel! All right? Good!" Without waiting for an answer, the impulsive young gentleman went on up to his own room to rejoice over his escape.
Peg walked over and took Ethel by both hands and looked into the tired, anxious eyes.
"Come into my room," she whispered.
Without a word, Ethel followed her into the Mauve Room.
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