“That we will,” said Angela.
But at this moment Mary pulled up the pony which she was driving. “I think you had better all go back now,” she said to her adoring brothers and sisters; “you have given me invaluable advice, and you may be quite certain I will carry it out to the letter. And now I want to give you a trifle of advice. It is this: I want you to see that the mums doesn’t overtire herself, and that daddy has a good strong cup of tea, and doesn’t sit in a draught, and doesn’t get too hot, pretending to be a young man, which you know he often does when we are having our school-feasts. In short, Angela and Marcia and Sam, you are to take the burden of the infant school feast on your own shoulders; and you know well what that means—cutting bread and butter and serving out buns, and laying the cloths upon the long tables, and afterwards seeing that the children have their games to their hearts’ content.”
“We’ll manage; we’ll manage,” cried Angela. “And now, good-bye, and God bless you, Mary Molly Polly!”
So Mary went on her way, thinking a good deal of the loved ones she had left behind, and a good deal also of the loved ones she was going to, for Mary had such a very big and such a very warm Irish heart! All those people she loved she cared for with a great zest, a rush of wholesome affection. This was what made her so beloved and so looked-up-to by rich and poor alike, for she never, never thought of herself, her one object from the time she rose in the morning until she laid her tired head on the pillow at night was what she could do for the benefit of other people. She was not at all proud with regard to the fact that Uncle Paul Wyndham had written to her in his distress. It was the last thing possible for Mary to be proud; but she was exceedingly glad, and she determined to do her utmost for the sad little Irish child who was to be entrusted to her care.
It was, of course, known at Preston Manor that Mary Welsh was expected at a fairly early hour that day. In consequence, the room which was known as the “forget-me-not” room was got ready for her. There were several lovely bedrooms in the beautiful house, but there was no room quite so sweet as the “forget-me-not” room. The paint was all of a delicate shade of forget-me-not blue, and the paper was of soft, very soft, white, the hangings of the bed were blue forget-me-not in tone, and so also were the curtains looped back from the charming French windows. There were, of course, books in the room, and a very nice, comfortable sofa, and a couple of easy-chairs; also, a small table, where a girl could write letters or do needlework, just as she pleased. In short, the forget-me-not room was essentially a girl’s room, and essentially also a cheerful and pleasant room.
The room having been ordered to be in a perfect state of readiness for Miss Welsh, the two young Wyndhams walked up the avenue to watch for Mary’s arrival. They did not take Peggy with them.
Peggy was much quieter than usual that morning; she had been fairly good the night before—that is, she had with a violent effort refrained from using her fingers instead of a knife and fork, and, when she was about to say “faix,” or “wurra,” or “wisha,” she clapped her hand to her mouth and said, “Beg pardon, sure,” and then stopped talking altogether. The girls tried to encourage her to talk as they did, but she only nodded her head and was silent. She went to bed early, and, as far as they could tell, she slept soundly. As a matter of fact, unknown to them, she rose at her usual early hour in the morning, got out by way of the roof, climbed down again by the yew-tree, and went straight round to the poultry-yard. There she dazzled and amazed “Mary” and “Pat,” as she insisted on calling these two good people, by announcing her intention of coming every morning to see the poultry, in order to keep herself alive.
“For, if I don’t, sure as I’m a breathing girl, I’ll burst!” said Peggy.
“Oh, indeed you won’t, darling; you won’t be so silly,” said Mrs. Johns.
“Yerra, thin,” said Peggy, “that’s all ye know about it. If I can’t let out me feelin’s when I’m here, I’ll burst, as sure as me name’s Peggy Desmond. Why, thin, now, didn’t hisself spake to me last night, an’ tell me that I wasn’t niver to say ‘yerra,’ nor ‘whisht,’ nor ‘wurra,’ nor ‘faix,’ nor ‘oh glory!’ I can’t remember them all. Yes, though there was more—nor ‘sure thin,’ ‘your mightiness,’ nor ‘yer honour’—in fact, there was scarcely a word left in the language that I was to spake, an’, however was I to let out me voice if I was to be pulled up with niver a ‘yerra,’ nor a ‘wurra,’ nor a ‘whisht’ passing me lips? I ask you that, Mary, and, in the name of Almighty God, tell me how it’s to be done?”