“I say, Peggy, you—you do look pretty! I never saw you look like that before—what have you been doing to yourself?”
“Doing!” Peggy straightened herself at that, in offended dignity. “Doing, indeed! What do you mean? Don’t you think I am pretty as a rule?”
“Never thought about it,” returned Robert carelessly. “You are Peggy—that’s enough for me. A nice state I should be in to-day if it were not for you! You are the jolliest little brick I ever met, and if I get this prize it will be far more your doing than my own.”
Well, that was good hearing! Peggy held her head high for the rest of that evening, and felt as if nothing would have power to depress her for the future. But, alas, when the pendulum is at its highest it begins to swing downwards. Peggy’s heart sank as she watched Robert drive away from the door the next morning, and it went on sinking more and more during the next twenty-four hours, as she realised the responsibility which weighed upon her shoulders. When she came down to breakfast on Friday morning the calendar was finished and ready to be made up for the post, but her head was splitting with pain as the result of the long hours’ work stolen from sleep, and a dead weight of depression had settled on her spirits. It seemed of a sudden that all this work and effort was waste of time; that the chances of being successful were infinitesimally small; that even if it were gained, the prize was of little value; that if Robert’s absence for four days made such a difference in the life at the vicarage, it would become altogether unbearable when he said good-bye at the beginning of the year and went up to Oxford; that she was a desperately unfortunate little unit, thrust into the midst of a family which was complete in itself, and had only a kindly toleration to offer to a stranger; that, in all probability, there would shortly be a war in India, when her father would be killed, her mother die of a broken heart, and Arthur be called out to join the ranks of the recruits. She conjured up a touching picture of herself, swathed in crape, bidding good-bye to her brother at the railway station, and watching the scarlet coat disappear in the distance, as the train steamed away. It was all most miserable and picturesque, and outside the fog gathered, and the rain poured down in a fine, persistent drizzle. It was one of those typical November days when it seems as if the earth itself is in the blues, and that it becomes everyone living on its surface to follow its example.
When afternoon came Peggy curled herself in an arm-chair in the corner of the study, and stared gloomily at the fire. It was four o’clock. In another hour the postman would call for the letters, and she would deliver the precious packet into his hands. She had made it up in the dinner-hour, with some faint idea of carrying it to the village; but she was tired, the rain poured, and Rob had said that the afternoon post would do. She had given up the idea of going out, and taken a nap instead on the top of her bed. And now it was four o’clock. Mellicent called out that she was dying for tea-time to come; it had seemed such a long, long day; they really ought to have tea earlier on these dreary, murky afternoons. “I want my tea!” she chanted, in shrill, penetrating tones, and instantly the refrain was taken up by the other voices, and repeated over and over again with ever-increasing volume, until the mistress of the house rushed in to discover the reason of the clamour.
“Bless your hearts, you shall have it at once!” she cried. “I’ll ring and have it brought in, and ransack my cupboards to see what treats I can give you. Poor dears, it is dull for you sitting indoors all day long. We must think of some bright, exciting games for this evening.” No sooner said than done; she did not wait until Mary appeared, but bustled off to meet her, to enlist the cook’s sympathy, and put out the promised delicacies, and when the table was set she returned to the room and seated herself, smilingly, in Esther’s place.
“I am going to stay with you this afternoon,” she said brightly. “Draw up your chairs, dears, and let us be jovial. There is no credit in being happy when the sun is shining, as dear old Mark Tapley would have said; but it will really be praiseworthy if we succeed in being festive this afternoon. Come, Peggy, dearie!”
Peggy turned her dreary little face and stared at the table. From outside came the sound of the opening and shutting of the door, of footsteps in the hall. She glanced at the clock, wondering if it could possibly be the postman already, found it was only ten minutes past four, and dismissed the supposition with a sigh. “I don’t—think—I want—” she was beginning slowly, when, of a sudden, there came a tremendous rat-tat-tat on the schoolroom door; the handle was not turned, but burst open; a blast of chilly air blew into the room, and in the doorway stood a tall, handsome youth, with square shoulders, a gracefully poised head, and Peggy Saville’s eave-like brows above his dancing eyes.
“Oh, what a surprise!” came the cry in loud laughing tones. “How do you do, everybody? Just thought I would step in as I was passing, and have a cup of tea, don’t you know.”
“My boy! My boy! Oh, how good to see you!” cried Mrs Asplin rapturously. Mellicent gurgled with surprise, and Peggy stood up by her chair and stretched out both arms like a child to its mother.