Peg looked up wonderingly from the chair.
"Me cab's at the door!" she said, warningly to Jerry.
"I am sorry to insist, but you must give me a few, moments," said the Chief Executor.
"MUST?" cried Peg.
"It is urgent," replied Jerry quietly.
"Well, then—hurry;" and Peg sat on the edge of the chair, nervously watching "Jerry."
"Have you ever wondered at the real reason you were brought here to this house and the extraordinary interest taken in you by relations who, until a month ago, had never even bothered about your existence?"
"I have, indeed," Peg answered. "But whenever I've asked any one, I've always been told it was me uncle's wish."
"And it was. Indeed, his keenest desire, just before his death, was to atone in some way for his unkindness to your mother."
"Nothin' could do that," and Peg's lips tightened.
"That was why he sent for you."
"Sendin' for me won't bring me poor mother back to life, will it?"
"At least we must respect his intentions. He desired that you should be given the advantages your mother had when she was a girl."
"'Ye've made yer bed; lie in it'! That was the message he sent me mother when she was starvin'. And why? Because she loved me father. Well, I love me father an' if he thought his money could separate us he might just as well have let me alone. No one will ever separate us."
"In justice to yourself," proceeded Jerry, "you must know that he set aside the sum of one thousand pounds a year to be paid to the lady who would undertake your training."
Mrs. Chichester covered her eyes to hide the tears of mortification that sprang readily into them.
Alaric looked at Jerry in absolute disgust.
Hawkes frowned his disapproval.
Peg sprang up and walked across to her aunt and looked down at her.
"A thousand pounds a year!" She turned to Jerry and asked: "Does she get a thousand a year for abusin' me?"
"For taking care of you," corrected Jerry.
"Well, what do ye think of that?" cried Peg, gazing curiously at Mrs. Chichester. "A thousand pounds a year for makin' me miserable, an' the poor dead man thinkin' he was doin' me a favour!"
"I tell you this," went on Jerry, "because I don't want you to feel that you have been living on charity. You have not."
Peg suddenly blazed up:
"Well, I've been made to feel it," and she glared passionately at her aunt. "Why wasn't I told this before? If I'd known it I'd never have stayed with ye a minnit Who are YOU, I'd like to know, to bring me up any betther than me father? He's just as much a gentleman as any of yez. He never hurt a poor girl's feelin's just because she was poor. Suppose he hasn't any money? Nor ME? What of it? Is it a crime? What has yer money an' yer breedin' done for you? It's dried up the very blood in yer veins, that's what it has! Yer frightened to show one real, human, kindly impulse. Ye don't know what happiness an' freedom mean. An' if that is what money does, I don't want it. Give me what I've been used to—POVERTY. At least I can laugh sometimes from me heart, an' get some pleasure out o' life without disgracin' people!"
Peg's anger gave place to just as sudden a twinge of regret as she caught sight of Ethel, white-faced, and staring at her compassionately. She went across to Ethel and buried her face on her shoulder and wept as she wailed.
"Why WASN'T I told! I'd never have stayed! Why wasn't I told?"
And Ethel comforted her:
"Don't cry, dear," she whispered. "Don't. The day you came here we were beggars. You have literally, fed and housed us for the last month."
Peg looked up at Ethel in astonishment.
She forgot her own sorrow.
"Ye were beggars?"
"Yes. We have nothing but the provision made for your training."
Poor Mrs. Chichester looked at her daughter reproachfully.
Alaric had never seen his sister even INTERESTED much less EXCITED before. He turned to his mother, shrugged his shoulders and said:
"I give it up! That's all I can say! I simply give it up!"
Peg grasped the full meaning of Ethel's words:
"And will ye have nothin' if I go away?"
Peg paused: Ethel did not speak.
Peg persisted: "Tell me—are ye ralely dependin' on ME? Spake to me. Because if ye are, I won't go. I'll stay with ye. I wouldn't see ye beggars for the wurrld. I've been brought up amongst them, an' I know what it is."
Suddenly she took Ethel by the shoulders and asked in a voice so low that none of the others heard her:
"Was that the reason ye were goin' last night?"
Ethel tried to stop her.
The truth illumined Ethel's face and Peg saw it and knew.
"Holy Mary!" she cried, "and it was I was drivin' ye to it. Ye felt the insult of it every time ye met me—as ye said last night. Sure, if I'd known, dear, I'd never have hurt ye, I wouldn't! Indade, I wouldn't!"
She turned to the others:
"There! It's all settled. I'll stay with ye, aunt, an' ye can tache me anythin' ye like. Will some one ask Jarvis to bring back me bundles an' 'Michael.' I'm goin' to stay!"
Jerry smiled approvingly at her. Then he said:
"That is just what I would have expected you to do. But, my dear Peg, there's no need for such a sacrifice."
"Sure, why not?" cried Peg, excitedly. "Let me, sacrifice meself. I feel like it this minnit."
"There is no occasion."
He walked over to Mrs. Chichester and addressed her:
"I came here this morning with some very good news for you. I happen to be one of the directors of Gifford's bank and I am happy to say that it will shortly reopen its doors and all the depositors' money will be available for them in a little while."
Mrs. Chichester gave a cry of joy as she looked proudly at her two children:
"Oh, Alaric!" she exclaimed: "My darling Ethel!"
"REOPEN its doors?" Alaric commented contemptuously. "So it jolly well ought to. What right had it to CLOSE 'em? That's what I want to know. What right?"
"A panic in American securities, in which we were heavily interested, caused the suspension of business," explained Jerry. "The panic is over. The securities are RISING every day. We'll soon be on easy street again."
"See here, mater," remarked Alaric firmly, "every ha'penny of ours goes out of Gifford's bank and into something that has a bottom to it. In future, I'LL manage the business of this family."
The Chichester family, reunited in prosperity, had apparently forgotten the forlorn little girl sitting on the chair, who a moment before had offered to take up the load of making things easier for them by making them harder for herself. All their backs were turned to her.
Jerry looked at her. She caught his eye and smiled, but it had a sad wistfulness behind it.
"Sure, they don't want me now. I'd better take me cab. Good day to yez." And she started quickly for the door.
Jerry stopped her.
"There is just one more condition of Mr. Kingsnorth's will that you must know. Should you go through your course of training satisfactorily to the age of twenty-one, you will inherit the sum of five thousand pounds a year."
"When I'm twenty-one, I get five thousand pounds year?" gasped Peg.
"If you carry out certain conditions."
"An' what are they?"
"Satisfy the executors that you are worthy of the legacy."
"Satisfy you?"
"And Mr. Hawkes."
Peg looked at the somewhat uncomfortable lawyer, who reddened and endeavoured to appear at ease.
"Mr. Hawkes! Oho! Indade!" She turned back to Jerry: "Did he know about the five thousand? When I'm twenty-one?"
"He drew the will at Mr. Kingsnorth's dictation," replied Jerry.
"Was that why ye wanted me to be engaged to ye until I was twenty-one?" she asked the unhappy lawyer.
Hawkes tried to laugh it off.
"Come, come, Miss O'Connell," he said, "what nonsense!"
"Did YOU propose to Miss Margaret?" queried Jerry.
"Well—" hesitated the embarrassed lawyer—"in a measure—yes."
"That's what it was," cried Peg, with a laugh. "It was very measured. No wondher the men were crazy to kape me here and to marry me."
She caught sight of Alaric and smiled at him. He creased his face into a sickly imitation of a smile and murmured:
"Well, of course, I mean to say!" with which clear and well-defined expression of opinion, he stopped.
"I could have forgiven you, Alaric," said Peg, "but Mr. Hawkes, I'm ashamed of ye."
"It was surely a little irregular, Hawkes," suggested Jerry.
"I hardly agree with you, Sir Gerald. There can be nothing irregular in a simple statement of affection."
"Affection is it?" cried Peg.
"Certainly. We are both alone in the world. Miss O'Connell seemed to be unhappy: the late Mr. Kingsnorth desired that she should be trained—it seemed to me be an admirable solution of the whole difficulty."
Peg laughed openly and turning to Jerry, said "He calls himself a 'solution.' Misther Hawkes—go on with ye—I am ashamed of ye."
"Well, there is no harm done," replied Mr. Hawkes, endeavouring to regain his lost dignity.
"No!" retorted Peg. "It didn't go through, did it?"
Hawkes smiled at that, and taking Peg's hand, protested:
"However—always your friend and well-wisher."
"But nivver me husband!" insisted Peg.
"Good-bye."
"Where are ye goin' without me?"
"You surely are not returning to America now?" said Hawkes, in surprise.
"Why, of course, I'm goin' to me father now. Where else would I go?"
Hawkes hastened to explain:
"If you return to America to your father, you will violate one of the most important clauses in the will."
"If I go back to me father?"
"Or if he visits you—until you are twenty-one," added Jerry.
"Is that so?" And the blood rushed up to Peg's temples. "Well, then, that settles it. No man is goin' to dictate to me about me father. No dead man—nor no livin' one nayther."
"It will make you a rich young lady in three years, remember. You will be secure from any possibility of poverty."
"I don't care. I wouldn't stay over here for three years with" she caught Mrs. Chichester's eyes fastened on her and she checked herself.
"I wouldn't stay away from me father for three years for all the money in the wurrld," she concluded, with marked finality.
"Very well," agreed Jerry. Then he spoke to the others: "Now, may I have a few moments alone with my ward?"
The family expressed surprise.
Hawkes suggested a feeling of strong displeasure.
"I shall wait to escort you down to the boat, Miss O'Connell."
Bowing to every one, the man of law left the room.
Peg stared at Jerry incredulously.
"WARD? Is that ME?"
"Yes, Peg. I am your legal guardian—appointed by Mr. Kingsnorth!"
"You're the director of a bank, the executor of an estate, an' now ye're me guardian. What do ye do with yer spare time?"
Jerry smiled and appealed to the others:
"Just a few seconds—alone."
Mrs. Chichester went to Peg and said coldly "Good-bye, Margaret. It is unlikely we'll meet again. I hope you have a safe and pleasant journey."
"I thank ye, Aunt Monica." Poor Peg longed for at least one little sign of affection from her aunt. She leaned forward to kiss her. The old lady either did not see the advance or did not reciprocate what it implied. She went on upstairs out of sight.
Mingled with her feeling of relief that she would never again be slighted and belittled by Mrs. Chichester, she was hurt to the heart by the attitude of cold indifference with which her aunt treated her.
She was indeed overjoyed to think now it was the last she would ever see of the old lady.
Alaric held out his hand frankly:
"Jolly decent of ye to offer to stay here—just to keep us goin'—awfully decent. You are certainly a little wonder. I'll miss you terribly—really I will."
Peg whispered:
"Did ye know about that five thousand pounds when I'm twenty-one?"
"'Course I did. That was why I proposed. To save the roof." Alaric was nothing if not honest.
"Ye'd have sacrificed yeself by marryin' ME?" quizzed Peg.
"Like a shot."
"There's somethin' of the hero about you, Alaric!"
"Oh, I mustn't boast," he replied modestly. "It's all in the family."
"Well, I'm glad ye didn't have to do it," Peg remarked positively.
"So am I. Jolly good of you to say 'No.' All the luck in the world to you. Drop me a line or a picture-card from New York. Look you up on my way to Canada—if I ever really go. 'Bye!" The young man walked over to the door calling over his shoulder to Jerry: "See ye lurchin' about somewhere, old dear!" and he too went out of Peg's life.
She looked at Ethel and half entreated, half commanded Jerry:
"Plaze look out of the window for a minnit. I want to spake to me cousin." Jerry sauntered over to the window and stood looking at the gathering storm.
"Is that all over?" whispered Peg.
"Yes," replied Ethel, in a low tone.
"Ye'll never see him again?"
"Never. I'll write him that. What must you think of me?"
"I thought of you all last night," said Peg eagerly. "Ye seem like some one who's been lookin' for happiness in the dark with yer eyes shut. Open them wide, dear, and look at the beautiful things in the daylight and then you'll be happy."
Ethel shook her head sadly:
"I feel to-day that I'll never know happiness again."
"Sure, I've felt like that many a time since I've been here. Ye know three meals a day, a soft bed to slape in an' everythin' ye want besides, makes ye mighty discontented. If ye'd go down among the poor once in a while an' see what they have to live on, an' thry and help them, ye might find comfort and peace in doin' it."
Ethel put both of her hands affectionately on Peg's shoulders.
"Last night you saved me from myself—and then; you shielded me from my family."
"Faith I'd do THAT for any poor girl, much less me own cousin."
"Don't think too hardly of me, Margaret. Please!" she entreated.
"I don't, dear. It wasn't yer fault. It was yer mother's."
"My mother's?"
"That's what I said. It's all in the way, we're brought up what we become aftherwards. Yer mother, raised ye in a hot house instead of thrustin' ye out into the cold winds of the wurrld when ye were young and gettin' ye used them. She taught ye to like soft silks and shining satins an' to look down on the poor, an' the shabby. That's no way to bring up anybody. Another thing ye learnt from her—to be sacret about things that are near yer heart instead of encouragin' ye to be outspoken an' honest. Of course I don't think badly of ye. Why should I? I had the advantage of ye all the time. It isn't ivery girl has the bringin' up such as I got from me father. So let yer mind be aisy, dear. I think only good of ye. God bless ye!" She took Ethel gently in her arms and kissed her.
"I'll drive down with you," said Ethel, brokenly, and hurried out.
Peg stood looking after her for a moment, then she turned and looked at Jerry, who was still looking out of the window.
"She's gone," said Peg, quietly.
Jerry walked down to her.
"Are you still determined to go?" he asked.
"I am."
"And you'll leave here without a regret?"
"I didn't say that sure."
"We've been good friends, haven't we?"
"I thought we were," she answered gently. "But friendship must be honest. Why didn't ye tell me ye were a gentleman? Sure, how was I to know? 'Jerry' might mean anybody. Why didn't ye tell me ye had a title?"
"I did nothing to get it. Just inherited it," he said simply. Then he added: "I'd drop it altogether if I could."
"Would ye?" she asked curiously.
"I would. And as for being a gentleman, why one of the finest I ever met drove a cab in Piccadilly. He was a GENTLE MAN—that is—one who never willingly hurts another. Strange in a cabman, eh?"
"Why did ye let me treat ye all the time as an equal?"
"Because you ARE—superior in many things. Generosity, for instance."
"Oh, don't thry the comther on me. I know ye now. Nothin' seems the same."
"Nothing?"
"Nothin'!"
"Are we never to play like children again?" he pleaded.
"No," she said firmly. "Ye'll have to come out to New York to do it. An' then I mightn't."
"Will nothing make you stay?"
"Nothing. I'm just achin' for me home."
"Such as this could never be home to you?"
"This? Never," she replied positively.
"I'm sorry. Will you ever think of me?" He waited. She averted her eyes and said nothing.
"Will you write to me?" he urged.
"What for?"
"I'd like to hear of you and from you. Will you?"
"Just to laugh at me spellin'?"
"Peg!" He drew near to her.
"Sir Gerald!" she corrected him and drew a little away. "Peg, my dear!" He took both of her hands in his and bent over her.
Just for a moment was Peg tempted to yield to the embrace.
Had she done so, the two lives would have changed in that moment. But the old rebellious spirit came uppermost, and she looked at him defiantly and cried:
"Are you goin' to propose to me, too?"
That was the one mistake that separated those two hearts. Sir Gerald drew back from her—hurt.
She was right—they were not equals.
She could not understand him, since he could never quite say all he felt, and she could never divine what was left unsaid.
She was indeed right.
Such as this could never be a home for her.
Jarvis came quietly in:
"Mr. Hawkes says, Miss, if you are going to catch the train—"
"I'll catch it," said Peg impatiently; and Jarvis went out.
Peg looked at Jerry's back turned eloquently toward her, as though in rebuke.
"Why in the wurrld did I say that to him?" she muttered. "It's me Irish tongue." She went to the door, and opened it noisily, rattling the handle loudly—hoping he would look around.
But he never moved.
She accepted the attitude as one of dismissal.
Under her breath she murmured:
"Good-bye, Misther Jerry—an' God bless ye—an' thank ye for bein' so nice to me." And she passed out.
In the hall Peg found Ethel and Hawkes waiting for her.
They put her between them in the cab and with "Michael" in her arms, she drove through the gates of Regal Villa never to return.
The gathering storm broke as she reached the station. In storm Jerry came into her life, in storm she was leaving his.
The threads of what might have been a fitting addition to the "LOVE STORIES OF THE WORLD" were broken.
Could the break ever be healed?
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg