“She has washed her hair in cough-mixture! Oh, oh, oh! She has mixed paregoric and treacle with the water! Oh, what will I do! what will I do! This child will be the death of me!” Mrs Asplin put her hand to her side, and laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks, while Mellicent rolled about on the floor, and Esther’s quiet “He, he, he!” filled up the intervals between the bursts of merriment.
Peggy was marched off to have her hair re-washed and rinsed, and came back ten minutes later, proudly complacent, to seat herself in the most comfortable stool and eat roast apple with elegant enjoyment. She was evidently quite ready to enlarge upon her latest feat, but the sisters had exhausted the subject during her absence, and had, moreover, a piece of news to communicate which was of even greater interest.
“Oh, Peggy, what y’think?” cried Mellicent, running her words into each other in breathless fashion, as her habit was when excited; “I’ve got something beautiful to tell you. S’afternoon Bob got a letter from his mother to say that they were all coming down next week to stay at the Larches for the winter. They come almost every year, and have shooting-parties, and come to church and sit in the big square pew, where you can just see their heads over the side. They look so funny, sitting in a row without their bodies. Last year there was a young lady with them who wore a big grey hat—the loveliest hat you ever saw—with roses under the brim, and stick-up things all glittering with jewels, and she got married at Christmas. I saw her photograph in a magazine, and knew her again in a moment. I used to stare at her, and once she smiled back at me. She looked sweet when she smiled. Lady Darcy always comes to call on mother, and she and father go there to dinner ever so many times, and we are asked to play with Rosalind—the Honourable Rosalind. I expect they will ask you to go too. Isn’t it exciting?”
“I can bear it,” said Peggy coldly. “If I try very hard, I think I can support the strain.”
The Larches, the country house of Lord Darcy, had already been pointed out to her notice; but the information that the family was coming down for the yearly visit was unwelcome to her, for a double reason. She feared, in the first place, lest it should mean a separation from Bob, who was her faithful companion, and fulfilled his promise of friendship in a silent, undemonstrative fashion, much to her fancy. In the second place, she was conscious of a rankling feeling of jealousy towards the young lady who was distinguished by the name of the Honourable Rosalind, and who seemed to occupy an exalted position in the estimation of the vicar’s daughters. Her name was frequently introduced into conversation, and always in the most laudatory fashion. When a heroine was of a superlatively fascinating description, she was “Just like Rosalind”; when an article of dress was unusually fine and dainty, it would “do for Rosalind.” Rosalind was spoken of with bated breath, as if she were a princess in a fairy tale, rather than an ordinary flesh-and-blood damsel. And Peggy did not like it; she did not like it at all, for, in her own quiet way, she was accustomed to queen it among her associates, and could ill brook the idea of a rival. She had not been happy at school, but she had been complacently conscious that of all the thirty girls she was the most discussed, the most observed, and also, among the pupils themselves, the most beloved. At the vicarage she was an easy first. When the three girls went out walking, she was always in the middle, with Esther and Mellicent hanging on an arm at either side. Robert was her sworn vassal, and Max and Oswald her respectful and, on the whole, obedient servants. Altogether, the prospect of playing second fiddle to this strange girl was by no means pleasant. Peggy tilted her chin, and spoke in a cool, cynical tone.
“What is she like, this wonderful Rosalind? Bob does not seem to think her extraordinary. I cannot imagine a ‘Miss Robert’ being very beautiful, and as she is his sister, I suppose they are alike.”
Instantly there arose a duet of protests.
“Not in the least. Not a single bit. Rosalind is lovely! Blue eyes, golden hair—”
“Down past her waist—”
“The sweetest little hands—”