“Patience and perseverance overcome difficulties. Keep up your courage. I’ll help you with them, dear,” said Peggy encouragingly, closing her eyes the while, and coughing in a faint and ladylike manner.
She could not really be only fourteen, Mellicent reflected. She talked as if she were quite grown-up,—older than Esther, seventeen or eighteen at the very least. What a little white face she had! what a great thick plait of hair! How erect she held herself! Fräulein would never have to rebuke her new pupil for stooping shoulders. It was kind of her to promise help with those troublesome decimals! Quite too good an offer to refuse.
“Thank you very much,” she said heartily, “I’ll show you some after tea. Perhaps you may be able to make me understand better than Fräulein. It’s very good of you, P—” A quick change of expression warned her that something was wrong, and she checked herself to add hastily, “You want to be called ‘Peggy,’ don’t you? No? Then what must we call you? What is your real name?”
“Mariquita!” sighed the damsel pensively, “after my grandmother—Spanish. A beautiful and unscrupulous woman at the court of Philip the Second.” She said “unscrupulous” with an air of pride, as though it had been “virtuous,” or some other word of a similar meaning, and pronounced the name of the king with a confidence that made Robert gasp.
“Philip the Second? Surely not? He was the husband of our Mary in 1572. That would make it just a trifle too far back for your grandmother, wouldn’t it?” he inquired sceptically; but Mariquita remained absolutely unperturbed.
“It must have been someone else, then, I suppose. How clever of you to remember! I see you know something about history,” she said suavely; a remark which caused an amused glance to pass between the young people, for Robert had a craze for history of all description, and had serious thought of becoming a second Carlyle so soon as his college course was over.
Maxwell put his handkerchief to his mouth to stifle a laugh, and kicked out vigorously beneath the table, with the intention of sharing his amusement with his friend Oswald. It seemed, however, that he had aimed amiss, for Mariquita fell back in her chair, and laid her hand on her heart.
“I think there must be some slight misunderstanding. That’s my foot that you are kicking! I cut it very badly on the ice last winter, and the least touch causes acute suffering. Please don’t apologise; it doesn’t matter in the least,” and she rolled her eyes to the ceiling, like one in mortal agony.
It was the last straw. Maxwell’s embarrassment had reached such a pitch that he could bear no more. He murmured some unintelligible words, and bolted from the room, and the other two boys lost no time in following his example.
In subsequent conversations, Mellicent always referred to this occasion as “the night when Robert had one cup,” it being, in truth, the only occasion since this young gentleman entered the vicarage when he had neglected to patronise the teapot three or four times in succession.