Hugh Montfort was having a delightful morning. He had been at Fernley three days now, and already knew every nook and corner on the place. With his uncle's consent he had appropriated for his own use the little summer-house, covered with clematis and York and Lancaster roses, that looked out over the south wall of the garden, and away toward the sea. Here he had brought his desk (an old one belonging to his father, that Margaret had found in the garret), and had tacked up a shelf for a few favorite books; and here he was sitting, on the fairest of June days, with a volume of Greek plays open before him, considering the landscape, and enjoying himself thoroughly.
Hugh was no less delighted with his uncle and cousin than they with him. Always and necessarily a student and observer rather than aman of action, he felt an instant sympathy with the man and woman of books and thought. He loved dearly his own family, active, strenuous people, overflowing with strength and energy; but he often felt himself out of place among them, and reproached himself with the frequent languor and headache that so often kept him from sharing in their full-throated, whole-hearted mirth. He had graduated from a Western university, and was now going to study for a post-graduate degree at Harvard; he was tired, and the quiet at Fernley, the sense of perfect congeniality with his uncle, and Margaret's serene face and musical, even-toned voice, were like balm to his over-strung nerves.
This morning his head ached, and he did not feel like study. The book open before him gave him a kind of moral support, but he did hardly more than glance at it from time to time. His eyes roved far and wide over the lovely prospect that lay outside, broad stretches of sunny, rolling meadows, dotted with clumps of trees, and framed in the arched opening of the summer-house. This summer-house had been a favorite playhouse of his father and uncles in their boyhood.He knew a dozen stories about it; and now his eyes turned to the lattice walls, carved everywhere with the familiar initials, and the devices of the four brothers Montfort: John's egg and Jim's oyster, Roger's book and Dick's ship. What glorious boys they must have been! This was where they used to play Curtius, and Monte Cristo, and all manner of games; leaping over the wall into the meadow below, deep in fern and daisies, or swinging themselves down by the hanging branches of the old willow that peeped round one side of the arch. Glorious boys! And then Hugh thought of his own brothers, and said "Good old Jim!" under his breath.
Thus musing, he was aware of a voice under his latticed bower, as of some one in the meadow below; a woman's voice, calm and melodious as Margaret's own, but with a deeper and graver note in it.
"What did he want then, a Lovely Person? Did he want her to love him? Well, she did, ardently; so that is all right."
A rustling followed, and the voice spoke again:
"No, he mustn't kiss her; that is not permitted. He may lie at her feet, and gaze at her with his large, brown eyes, Philip her King, but no kissing. She is surprised at his suggesting such a thing."
Hugh sat mute, in great perplexity. What interview was this, at which he was unwillingly assisting? Were two rustic lovers below, taking their ease under the old willow, whose twisted roots made an admirable seat, as he knew? And, if so, should he be guilty of the greater offence by keeping still, or by going away? He knew every board in the summer-house floor, and there was not one that would not betray him with a loud creak; on the whole, it seemed best to sit still; after all, they need never know that any one was there. Hark! the young woman—the voice was certainly young—was speaking again:
"He was perfectly beautiful, that was what he was. Yes! he had the loveliest eyes in the world, without any exception; and his ears were a dream of perfection, and, as for his coat and waistcoat, words fail her to describe them. Now if he will sit still, she will tell himsomething; no, not on her dress; a little farther off, a precious Poppet!"
A curious sound followed; something between a loud sneeze and an equally loud yawn, accompanied with lively and prolonged rustling of the willow branches; but no articulate word from her companion. She seemed satisfied, however, for she went on,—a delightful quality of voice; Hugh felt it creeping in his ears like music:
"That is right. Yes, she understands perfectly; she knows all about it, and she loves him to distraction. Well, Lovely One, that Lady is a Cat; that is what she is."
Another sneeze and yawn, louder than before.
"Precisely; you think so, too. A cat! 'cat, puss, tit, grimalkin, tabby, brindle; whoosh!' was he fond of Dickens, a Pink-nosed Pearl? She is no more sick than you are, Beloved. She has been, no doubt, and now she has forgotten how to be anything else, but she is liable to find out. Your Aunt, beloved, proposes to put this lady through a Course of Sprouts. Tu-whit! your Aunt has spoken. We may also remark, in this connection only, tu-whoo!"
Her companion's only reply to this speech was a loud breathing, which might be caused by emotion, or by heat and fatigue; at all events, he did not seem inclined to speak. A thought flashed through Hugh's mind,—the man might be a deaf-mute. What a terrible affliction! It was bad enough to be lame; but to be deaf, and in company with a girl with a voice like that! Hark! she was speaking again, slowly and meditatively, rather as if talking to herself than to some one else:
"Your Aunt has not got her plan entirely laid out yet. She knows what must finally happen: the patient must be got out of that house, and away on a sea-voyage; but there will have to be various occurrences first. Your Aunt's ingenuity, Adonis, will be put to a severe strain. At present your Aunt is alone, and in difficulties. Many oxen come about her, fat bulls of Bashan compass her on every side, as the Scripture hath it; you are not acquainted with the Scripture, Adonis, so there is no earthly use in your putting on that look of keen intelligence. But there may be balm in Gilead; I think Gilead may be in this very place aboveour head, my Popolorum Tibby. Now, what is the matter with him?"
At this moment a sound was heard,—a bark, distant at first, but coming momently nearer; a loud, joyous, inquiring bark. It was answered from below by a sound combining bark, sneeze, and snort; there was a violent shaking of the branches, and, next moment, a brown and white setter sprang out from under the wall, and stood at gaze. Another instant, and a second dog, his exact image, appeared on the brow of the slope, careering toward him. There was a rapturous duet of barking and sneezing, and then the two swept away over the brow, and were gone.
"That is the most heartless puppy I ever saw," the voice said, slowly. "A woodchuck, I suppose. 'Twas ever thus. The moral is, don't make love to strange puppies, however beautiful; but he was lovely, and he understood me. No more of him! The question is, what should I find at the top of this beanstalk—I should say, willow-tree? There is an—answer to—every question—if—you only ask it—quick enough!"
The last words were spoken so low that Hugh did not catch their import. Alarmed, however, by the continued rustling of the willow branches, he rose hurriedly to his feet, and was about to steal away as quietly as might be; but at that moment a hand was laid on the coping of the wall,—a brown hand, slender but muscular; the next moment an arm followed, and a young woman swung herself across the opening, and, leaning on the wall, looked full in his face.
It was the vision of an instant only; the lithe figure, the face full of careless power, the deep-set blue eyes, startling into black as they met his, while the slender brows met above them in angry amazement; then one hand reached back to the willow branch, the girl dropped from sight, and he heard her rustle from branch to branch, and then heard the light, swift sound of running feet through the fern, and dying away in the distance.
"Is this a pleasant neighborhood, Margaret?" asked Hugh, as they sat on the verandah after dinner. "Have you any pleasant—a—friends, of your own age?"
"None of my own age," said Margaret. "Indeed, our only near neighbor is Mrs. Peyton, an invalid lady, whom I go to see quite often. She is very charming, but—no, there is no one else; the places are large and scattered, you see, all about here. The next one on the other side belongs to Miss Desmond, and she is always abroad, and has not been here at all since I have."
"You don't think she may have returned lately, without your knowing it?"
"No, I am sure she cannot; I heard of her only a few days ago, in Egypt; Uncle John had a letter from her. Why do you ask, Hugh?"
"Oh—idle curiosity; or curiosity, whether idle or not. And—there are no other young girls?"
"None; that is why I missed Peggy and Rita so terribly, as I was telling you last night. Then the dear children came, and they were my comfort and joy; I shall have them again when the summer is over; happy day it will be when they come back. But, you see, having first the girls and then the children has rather spoiled Uncle John and me, and that is why itwas so very particularly nice of you to come, Cousin Hugh."
"Suppose we drop the 'cousin,' and be just Hugh and Margaret?" suggested her cousin. "I am used to having sisters about me, you know, and don't know how to get along without them; some day it may be 'Sister Margaret.' Should you mind?"
Margaret colored high with pleasure, and again the foolish tears came into her eyes. "I have wanted a brother all my life!" she said, simply; and again Hugh's smile told her that he understood all about it. He was certainly a most wonderful person.
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes; then—"I did not tell the exact truth," said Margaret, "when I said there were no young people here. Just now it happens there is one, a newcomer, a girl of my own age."
She paused. "Yes?" said Hugh, suggestively. "Some one you know?"
"Yes—and no! I have met her once. She is a Miss Wolfe, who has come to be a sort of companion to Mrs. Peyton. A singular-lookinggirl, with a most interesting face. I want to see her again; and yet,—somehow,—I am rather afraid of her."
"Is she formidable, this she-wolf?"
"Not formidable, but—well, I don't know how to describe her. She impresses me as different from anybody I have ever seen. Wild is not the word; Rita was wild, but it was something totally different."
"Peggy is wild, too," said Hugh, "wild as a mountain goat, or was, before you took her in hand, Margaret. Is this young lady like Peggy?"
"Oh, not in the very least. She is not shy, not a bit; not shy, and yet not bold. She seems simply absolutely without self-consciousness; it is as if she said and did exactly what she felt like doing, with no thought as to whether it was—well, customary or not. I am afraid I am rather conventional, Cousin—I mean Hugh; not in thought, I hope, but—in temperament, perhaps. This girl strikes me very strangely; that is the only way I can describe her. Yet she attracted me strongly, the only time I saw her, which was the veryday you came, by the way. I ought to have gone over to see her before this. I think I will go this evening, while you and Uncle John are having your after-supper smoke."
"I think I would," said Hugh Montfort.
Margaret went over duly that evening, meaning to be very friendly to the strange young woman; but it happened to be one of Mrs. Peyton's bad times, and she sent down word that she needed Miss Wolfe, and could not possibly spare her. Margaret left a civil message, and went home disappointed, and yet the least bit relieved: she had rather dreaded a long tête-à-tête with her new neighbor.
"How absurd you are, Margaret Montfort," she said, severely, as she walked across the park. "Here you have been longing for a girl to talk to, and the moment one comes, you are seized with what Peggy calls 'the shyies,' just because she happens to be cut from a different pattern from your own."
Hugh was on the verandah, waiting for her, and seemed really disappointed when he heardthat she had not seen Miss Wolfe; that showed how wide and cordial his interest was, and how much thought he took for others, Margaret told herself. What could he care about the meeting of a cousin he had just begun to know with a girl whom he never had seen?
Next day, however, she forgot all about Miss Wolfe, for the time being. Gerald and Philip Merryweather had accepted Mr. Montfort's invitation with amazing alacrity, and Jean had telegraphed her rapture of anticipation from Ohio. Uncle John and Hugh were left to their own devices, while she plunged, with Elizabeth and Frances and Polly, into intricacies of hospitable preparation. Stores must be ordered, linen examined, silver and china looked out. In regard to the silver, Margaret had an experience that showed her that, even after two years, she did not know all the resources of Fernley House. Her uncle called her into his study after breakfast, and handed her a key of curious pattern. "This is the key of the iron cupboard, Margaret," he said. Seeing her look of surprise, he added, "You surely know about the iron cupboard, my dear?"
"No, Uncle John. I remember hearing Aunt Faith speak of something of the kind once, but I did not rightly understand, and, being shy then,—it was before I knew our Dear so well,—I did not like to ask."
"Oh, there is no mystery, my child. No secret staircase this time, no ghosts in velvet jackets. But in a house like Fernley, that has been inhabited for many generations, there is necessarily an accumulation of certain kinds of things, above all, silver. We keep out all that an ordinary family would be likely to use, and the rest is stored in this safe cupboard, in case of fire or robbery. Very stupid of me not to have told my careful little housekeeper of this before. To tell the truth, I forget all about this hoard most of the time, and might not have thought of it now, if Elizabeth had not come to me with an important face and asked me if I did not think Miss Margaret ought to have the opportunity of putting out The Silver if she wished to do so, being as the house was to be full of company. That meant that Elizabeth herself wanted to display to the astonished eyes of Hugh and the Merryweather boys theresources of the house that she and Frances rule (on the whole, wisely), through you and me, their deputies and servants. I see no reason why the good souls should not be gratified do you?"
"On the contrary, I see every reason why they, and I too, should be gratified. Uncle John, I am glad I did not know about it before. It is the most delightful thing about Fernley, that one never seems to come to the end of it. I thought I knew everything by this time, and here is another enchanting mystery; for say what you will, Uncle John, an iron cupboard full of old silver, that nobody knows about,—or hardly anybody,—isa mystery. Now I am sure there are others, too; I shall never feel again that I know all about the house. Some day, when I am old and gray, I shall come upon another secret staircase, or a trap-door, or a hidden jewel-casket, or a lost will."
"Why, as to jewel-caskets," said Mr. Montfort, smiling, "there is perhaps something that might be said; but as you say, it would never do to find out everything at once, May Margaret. Run away now, and examine your tea-kettles;there are about forty, if I remember rightly."
"Uncle John! is there really a jewel-casket? What do you mean? There cannot be any more than those Aunt Faith had, surely."
"Can't there?" said Mr. Montfort, with a provoking smile. "Doubtless you know best, my dear." And not another word would he say on the subject; but he told Margaret where to find the iron cupboard, and she ran off in such a flutter that Peggy would hardly have known her model and mentor. Old silver was one of Margaret's weak points; indeed, she had a strong feeling about heirlooms of every kind, and treasured carefully every scrap of paper even that had any association with past times.
Seeing Hugh in the library, she called to him. "Hugh! come with me and see the Treasure Chamber of the Montforts. Don't you want to see the ancestral silver?"
"Of course I do!" said Hugh, laying down his book and coming to join her. "Ancestral silver? My mother went to housekeeping with six teaspoons and a butter-knife, and thought herself rich. Uncle John wanted to send atrunkful of family silver, I have been told, but the Pater refused to be bothered with it. Poor Mother would have been glad enough of it, I fancy, but in those days he was masterful, and bent on roughing it, and would not hear of anything approaching luxury, or even convenience. Where is this wonderful treasury?"
"Come, and you shall see. Uncle John has told me how to find it. Come through this door; here we are in his own study, you see. Now—let me see! I will light this lamp—for the cupboard is dark—while you look and find Inigo Jones."
"Inigo Jones?"
"Yes. A tall blue morocco quarto, about the middle of the fourth shelf of the bookcase behind Uncle John's desk. Ah! I see him!"
Springing forward, Margaret drew the stately volume from its place. "Look!" she cried. "A keyhole. Hugh, isn't this exactly like the 'Mysteries of Udolpho?' 'Inigo Jones' is his joke, you see, or somebody's joke. Do you mind if I turn the key, Hugh?"
"Turn away!" said Hugh, much amused at the excitement of his staid little cousin.
With a trembling hand Margaret turned the key, and gave a pull, as she had been told. A section of the bookcase, with its load of books, swung slowly forward, revealing a dark opening. Margaret stepped in, and Hugh followed, holding the lamp aloft.
"Well, upon my word!" he said. "I never heard of anything like this, out of the 'Arabian Nights.'"
Margaret was looking about her, too much absorbed for words. The Iron Cupboard was a recess some ten feet deep and seven or eight wide, lined with shelves. These shelves were literally packed with silver, some in boxes, much in bags, glimmering in the half-light like dwarfish ghosts; but the greater part uncovered, glittering in tarnished splendor wherever the lamplight fell. Rows upon rows of teapots, tall and squat, round and oval, chased, hammered, and plain; behind them, coffee-pots looking down, in every possible device. There were silver pitchers and silver bowls; porringers and fruit-dishes, salvers and platters. Such an array as might dazzle the eyes of any silversmith of moderate ambition.
"Well, Margaret," said Hugh, somewhat impressed, but more amused, at sight of all this hoarded treasure, "what do you say? I shall leave the expression of emotion to you."
But Margaret was in no jesting mood. With clasped hands she turned to her cousin. "Oh, Hugh," she cried, "isn't it wonderful? to think of all those beautiful things living here alone,—I don't mean alone, but all by themselves—year after year, with no one to see them, or take them out and polish them. Oh, I never saw such things! Look at this perfect pitcher, will you? did you ever see anything so graceful? This must come in, if nothing else does. The milk shall be poured from it from this day forward, as long as I am the Mistress of Fernley. That is just a play-name, of course," she hastened to explain, blushing as she did so. "Uncle John gave it to me in sport, when I first began to try to keep house."
"It seems to me a most appropriate name," said Hugh. "There has never been another, has there? in this generation, I mean. Uncle John was never married, was he?"
"No; isn't it a pity? I have so often wonderedwhy. I asked Aunt Faith once,—well, Hugh, of course she was Mistress of Fernley as long as she lived, though she would always speak of herself as a visitor,—and she only sighed and shook her head, and said, 'Poor John! poor dear lad!' and then changed the subject. But—do you suppose any one can hear us here, Hugh?"
"I do not, Margaret. I should say that you might safely tell me anything, of however fearful a nature, in this iron-bound retreat."
"Oh, it really isn't anything—or perhaps it is not—but my own fancy. I have built up a kind of air-castle of the past, that is all. You know Uncle John's passion for roses? Well, and sometimes, when he is sitting quietly and has forgotten that any one is near, he will say to himself, 'Rose! Rose!' softly, just like that, and as if it were something he loved to say. I have wondered whether he once cared a great deal for some one whose name was Rose.—What do you think, Hugh? and she died, and that is why he has never married. There! I have never spoken of this before, not even to Peggy. Don't tell any one, will you?"
She looked anxiously in her cousin's face, and met the grave, sweet look that always made her feel safe and quiet; she did not know how else to express it.
"Tell any one? No indeed, my dear little cousin. It is a young girl's fancy, and a very sweet and graceful one."
"Then you don't think it may be true?" asked Margaret, disappointed.
"Certainly it may be true; I should think it highly probable that something of the sort had happened, to keep a man like Uncle John single all his days; but—well, I don't see that anything can be done about it now, do you?"
"Hugh, I am afraid you are practical, after all!" said Margaret. "And I was hoping you would turn out romantic."
Hugh only laughed, and asked her if she had chosen all the silver she wanted. This question put a stop at once to Margaret's romantic visions. Enough? but, she had only just begun, she said. Did he think she was going to take one pitcher and leave all the rest of these enchanting treasures?
"And we have not explored the boxes yet!"she cried. "See, they all have dear little ivory labels. Do reach me down that fat square box, please! 'Col. Montfort's Tankard, 1814.' Oh, that was our great-great-grandfather, Hugh! Do let us open this!"
The black leathern box, being opened, revealed a stately glass-bottomed tankard, with a dragon's curling tail for a handle. On the front was an inscription, "Presented to Col. Peter Montfort, in token of respect and affection, by the officers of his mess, July, 1814."
"His portrait is up in the long gallery," said Margaret. "Don't you remember, with the high ruffled stock? I don't see how he could speak, with his chin so very high in the air. Now I must have that oval green case; I am sure that is something interesting. 'General Washington's Gift.' Oh, Hugh!"
This time Hugh was as much interested as she, and both bent eagerly over the box as Margaret opened it. The case was of faded green morocco, lined with crimson satin. Within was an oval cup or bowl, of exquisite workmanship; it was what is called a loving-cup, and Margaret looked in vain for an inscription.
"There must be one!" said Hugh. "Papa Patriæwould not have been so unkind as to leave such a thing unmarked. Look on the bottom, Margaret!"
Margaret looked, and there, to be sure, was a tolerably long inscription, in minute script.
"Hold the light nearer, please; I can hardly read this, it is so fine. Oh, listen to this, Hugh! 'For my worthy Friend and Host, Roger Montfort Esquire, and his estimable Lady, in grateful Recollection of my agreeable Stay beneath their hospitable Roof. From their obliged Friend and Servant, G. Washington. 1776.'"
"Thatisa treasure!" said Hugh, handling the bowl with reverent care. "I knew that General Washington had spent some days at Fernley, but I never heard of this relic of his stay. Margaret, this is really extremely interesting. Go on, and open more of them. Perhaps we shall find tokens of all the Continental Congress. I shall look for at least a model of a kite in silver, with the compliments of B. Franklin. Suppose we try this next. It looks very inviting."
He took down an oblong box of curious pattern,and opened it. "What upon earth—Margaret, what are these? Grape-scissors? Asparagus-tongs? They don't look like either."
"I should think not!" said Margaret, taking the object from his hand. "Why, it is a pair of curling-tongs. What queer things! No inscription on these; there isn't room for one. Here is a piece of paper in the box, though."
She took up a yellowish scrap, and read: "'My niece Jemima's curling-tongs, with which she, being impatient to make a Show above her Sisters, did burn off one Side of her Hair. Preserved as a Warning to young Women by me, Tabitha Montfort. 1803.' Poor Jemima! She was punished enough, without being held up to posterity in this way."
"She was an extravagant young lady," said Hugh, "with her silver tongs; I think it may have been good for her soul, if not her hair, to suffer this infliction. Are you going to keep these out, Margaret, for use? I do hope you will be more careful than Aunt Jemima was. Your hair—excuse me!—looks as if you had not used the irons for some time."
Margaret laughed, and patted the smoothwaves of her hair. "Itissome time!" she said. "Yours, on the other hand, Hugh, has more curl than may be altogether natural. I may have suspected you of the tongs, but at least I have had the charity to keep my suspicions to myself."
"You are extremely good, Miss Montfort. What have you got hold of now?"
"'Dear Johnny's Rattle!'" said Margaret, reading the label on a small box. "I wonder if that was Uncle John. See! silver bells; what a sweet tone!"
She shook a merry peal from the tiny bells. Hugh, who had been rummaging at the other end of the cupboard, replied with a clear blast blown on a small silver trumpet, which he now held up in triumph. "Here we are!" he cried. "This is the instrument for me. This was presented to Captain Hugh Montfort of the navy. What on earth could the gallant commander do with this at sea?"
"Whistle for a wind, of course," said Margaret, merrily. "What else? Come here and look at Grandfather Montfort's gold-bowed spectacles; they are big enough for an ox."
So the talk went on merrily, and box after box, bag after bag, was opened, sometimes with astonishing results. The bygone Montforts seemed to have been fond of silver, and to have vied with one another in their ingenious applications of it to domestic uses.
Many of the objects had historic or personal interest, and the two cousins might have spent the day there, if Mr. Montfort had not suddenly appeared, asking whether he was to have any dinner or not. Margaret had her arms full by this time, while Hugh was trying his best to carry a splendid fruit-bowl, a salver, two pitchers, and three vases, all at once. Mr. Montfort burst out laughing at sight of the pair. "Cassim and Ali Baba!" he cried. "And I, the Robber Captain, with not a single one of all the Forty Thieves at my back. Margaret, for charity's sake! you are not going to bring all that rubbish into the house? Isn't there enough already? I'm sorry I told you anything about it."
Margaret looked up, guilty but happy, from her effort at capturing a fourth vase with her little finger, the only one left unencumbered."Dear Uncle, you never would be so cruel!" she said. "See! I have only taken one chocolate-pot, and there are five, such beauties! Yes, I know we don't drink chocolate, but some of our guests might, and you would not have me neglect the guests, would you, Uncle John?"
"Sooner than have a guest take his chocolate from a china pot," said Mr. Montfort, gravely, "I would go to the stake. At present, if you will pardon a very old joke, my dear Margaret, I should prefer to go to the beefsteak, which I have reason to think is on the table at this moment. Come out, both of you young thieves, and let Inigo Jones go in again!"
"SHE WAS A SLENDERER PEGGY, WITH THE SAME BLUE, HONEST EYES.""SHE WAS A SLENDERER PEGGY, WITH THE SAME BLUE, HONEST EYES."
The great day came, the day of the arrivals. Jean was the first to come, by an early train, having arrived in New York the night before, where Hugh met her and brought her in triumph to Fernley. Margaret was at the door to receive her, and Peggy's sister had no cause to complain of the warmth of her reception. She was a slenderer Peggy, with the same blue, honest eyes, the same flaxen hair and rosy cheeks. Her dress, however, was far more tasteful and neat than Peggy's had been on her first arrival. Margaret recalled the green flannel, all buttoned awry, and looked with approval on Jean's pretty gray travelling-dress.
"Dear Jean!" she said, kissing her cousin warmly. "Most welcome to Fernley, dear child! Oh, I am so glad to see you! I have been counting the days, Jean."
"Oh, so have I!" said Jean, looking up with a shy, sweet smile,—Peggy's very own smile. Margaret kissed her again for it. "The last day did seem awfully long, Cousin Margaret—well, Margaret, then! I'm sure I never call you anything but Peggy's Margaret when I think of you. Peggy hasn't come yet?"
"Not yet. She will be here this afternoon, on the three o'clock train. She knows nothing about your coming, Jean. In her very last letter, she was talking about being glad to come here, and so on, and she said the only thing wanting would be you."
"Oh, goody! I'm awfully glad—that she doesn't know, I mean. It will be just lovely to surprise her. Dear old Peg!" Jean relapsed into bashful silence when Margaret took her into the library to greet her uncle; but Mr. Montfort's smile and cordial greeting soon put her at her ease.
"Isn't he just lovely?" she whispered to Margaret, as they went up-stairs. "I was afraid he would be awful, somehow, but he isn't a bit; he's just lovely."
Margaret assented, making a mental noteof the fact that this child seemed to have but two adjectives in her vocabulary. "Peggy will see to that!" she said to herself. "Peggy has improved so wonderfully in her English this last year. She will be quicker than I to notice and take up the little mistakes."
This was not strictly true, though modest Margaret meant it so. Peggy certainly had learned much at school, but her teachers had no expectation of her becoming an eminent English scholar.
"I have put you with Peggy," said Margaret, leading the way into the pretty room, hung with red-poppy chintz, where Peggy had spent a few sad and many happy hours. "I thought you would rather be together."
"Oh, yes, indeed! You are awfully kind, Cous—Margaret. I haven't seen Peggy for a year, you know. We missed her awfully at Christmas, of course, but she had a lovely time here; and it would have been awful if she had come home and got the measles, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, we did have a very good time. The children were here,—Basil and Susan D.,—andthey and Peggy were fast friends. Oh, yes, it was a great holiday. Now, dear, you will want to rest a little, so I will leave you. Peggy will not be here till after lunch, so you will have time for a good rest, and to explore the garden, too, if you like. I am going now to arrange my flowers."
"Oh, might I help? I am not a bit tired, and I just love to arrange flowers. Do let me help, Margaret!"
"Very well," said Margaret, with a little inward sigh. She had her own ideas, and very definite ones, about the arrangement of flowers, in which she had exquisite taste; and her recollection of the way in which Peggy used to squeeze handfuls of blossoms tight into a vase, without regard to color or form, made her dread the assistance so heartily proffered; but Jean was quicker than Peggy had been at her age, and one glance at Margaret's first "effect," a rainbow combination of sweet-peas, showering over the side of a crystal bowl, filled her with ambition to emulate its beauty. The morning passed happily and busily, the more so that Hugh came in presently, with a chapter ofThoreau that Margaret "really must hear!" He read well, and his taste and Margaret's being much alike, they spent many pleasant hours together, he reading aloud, she with her flowers or her work. Jean, who had never heard of Thoreau, and was not bookish, tried to listen, but did not make much of it. She fell to meditating instead, and her bright eyes wandered curiously from one intent face to the other. Hugh never thought of reading aloud at home. To be sure, he was the only one who cared about reading, or had time for it. He and Margaret seemed to know each other very well, seeing what a short time he had been here. Jean, with all the eager romance of fifteen, straightway began the building of an air-castle, which seemed to her a fine structure indeed. Meantime, Hugh and Margaret, all unconscious of her scrutiny, were enjoying themselves extremely.
"'As polishing expresses the vein in marble and grain in wood, so music brings out what of heroic lurks anywhere. . . . When we are in health, all sounds fife and drum to us; we hear notes of music in the air, or catch its echoesdying away when we awake in the dawn. Marching is when the pulse of the hero beats in unison with the pulse of Nature, and he steps to the measure of the universe; then there is true courage and invincible strength.'"
"How beautiful that is!" said Margaret.
"Yes; that is the particular passage I wanted to read to you. Have you ever had that feeling, fancying that you wake to the sound of music? I often have, when I have been sleeping out in the open—never within doors."
"No," said Margaret, "I don't think I ever have, Hugh; but what a pleasant thing it must be! I have never slept in the open, but even if I should, I fear my waking would be plain prose, like myself."
Hugh laughed, and glanced at her affectionately. "I haven't found much prose about you, Margaret," he said. "If I had, I should not have read you my secrets when Thoreau tells them for me. That reminds me, do you sing? I have not heard you, have I?"
"No; I wish I did, for I love music very much. Oh, I sing a very little, enough to join in a chorus—if there ever were a chorusat Fernley. I used to enjoy Rita's singing intensely; she has a very sweet voice."
"Some one was singing last night," Hugh went on; "I don't know why, but this passage reminds me—I heard a woman's voice singing,—a remarkable voice."
"Indeed? Where were you? Not in your room? I am sure there is no one in the house who sings."
"No; it was pretty warm, and the moon—well, you remember, it was all you could do to go to bed yourself, Margaret. After Virtue, in the shape of yourself and Uncle John, had gone to bed, Vice, in my shape, wandered about the garden, I don't know how long. It was wonderful there, with the trees, and the smell of the roses and box, and—and the whole thing, you know. Down at the foot of the garden, over in the meadow below, some one was singing; some one with a remarkable voice; rather deep-toned, not loud, and yet full, with an extraordinary degree of melody; or, so it seemed at a distance. I wondered who it was, that was all. You have no idea, I suppose?"
"No! I wonder too, very much. No onefrom this house, I am sure of that. Now that I think of it, though, Polly sings—Polly, the under housemaid; she has a pretty little bird-like voice, but nothing such as you describe. I'll make inquiries, though—"
"Oh, pray don't!" said Hugh, hastily, "I'd rather not! I—I mean, of course, it is not of the smallest consequence, Margaret. It is pleasant to hear singing at night, but perhaps all the pleasanter when the singer is unseen and unknown. Now let us go on with our Thoreau."
"Margaret! Margaret! Margaret!"
It was all Peggy could say at first. All the way up the avenue her heart had been beating high; at sight of the brown chimney-stacks of Fernley, it seemed to give a great jump up in her throat; and when the carriage swept round the curve, and she saw the whole front of the great house, and Margaret, her own Margaret, standing on the steps, with arms outstretched to welcome her, there was nothing for it but to cry out, with the full power of her healthy lungs. Almost before Bannan could stop thehorses, she had scrambled out, and was on her cousin's neck, strangling her with hugs, and smothering her with kisses at the same instant. "Margaret! Margaret! I am really here! Do you know that I am really here?"
Speech was impossible for Margaret, but a voice from behind broke in:
"Come, come! what is all this? My niece done to death on my own doorstep? Let go, Peggy, and come and kill me instead. I am older, and shall be less missed."
Peggy loosed her hold, somewhat abashed, but received an embrace from her uncle so warm that she brightened again instantly.
"Oh, Uncle John, how do you do? It was only that I was so glad to see my darling Margaret. Did I hurt you, dearest? I have pulled all your lovely hair down; Margaret, I am more clumsy than ever, I do believe."
"Dear Peggy! as if I cared whether you are clumsy or not! though it is convenient to have the use of my windpipe, I confess. Well, and here you are, indeed. Why, Peggy!"
"What is it, Margaret?"
"Why, Peggy!"
"Oh, dear! what is the matter? Is my hat wrong side before? I know my necktie is crooked, but I couldn't help that, truly I couldn't, Margaret; the strap is broken, and it will work round under my ear. I'll mend it—"
"I wasn't looking at your necktie, child. Peggy, you are taller than I am! How dare you, miss?"
"Oh, Margaret! I really thought I had done something—why, yes, so I am taller; but only just the least little bit, Margaret."
"And your shoulders—why, Peggy, you are a great big creature! How can any one grow so in six months? We shall have to call you Brynhild."
"What's that?" asked Peggy, simply. "I haven't grown enough to understand outlandish words, Margaret, so you need not try them on me. Oh,"—she looked around her with delighted eyes,—"how beautiful everything looks, Uncle John. Why, the yellow birch has grown as much as I have; it is quite a fat tree. And—you have put out more chestnuts, haven't you? And—oh, Uncle John, I haven'ttold you my great news! The most wonderful news! I wouldn't write about it, because I wanted to surprise you. Hugh, our Hugh, is coming East. He is—"
"What is he?" said another voice, and Hugh came forward laughing, and took his sister in his arms. "Well, little girl,—big, enormous, colossal little girl, how are you? Shut your eyes, Peg of Limavaddy, or they will drop out, and then what should we do?"
"Hugh! what does it mean? When—how did you get here? You weren't to start till next week."
"So I wasn't," said Hugh, composedly. "But you see I did. If you are not glad to see me, Margaret will let me stay in the back kitchen, I am sure, till you go away."
Peggy's only reply was a hug as powerful as the one she had given Margaret; it set her brother coughing and laughing till the tears came to his eye. "My dear sister," he said, "have you been studying grips with a grizzly bear? I felt one rib go, if not two."
"Not really, Hugh? I didn't really hurt you?" cried Peggy, anxiously.
"No, no! not really. See now, Margaret wants you. Run along, Samsonina."
Peggy ran into the house, casting delighted glances all about her.
"How beautiful the hall looks! Oh, Margaret, what flowers! why, it is a perfect flower show! Did you do them all yourself? for me? Oh, you darling!" and again Margaret's breath was extinguished by a powerful embrace. "And, oh, the surprise of seeing Hugh! You know I love a surprise. You planned it for me, didn't you, darling Margaret? You are the most angelic—"
"Peggy! Peggy! Peggy! no extravagance!"
"No, Margaret, I won't. Only how can I help it, when I am so happy, and you are so—"
But here Margaret fairly laid her hand over Peggy's mouth. "I did not plan Hugh's coming," she said. "I was as much surprised, and as pleasantly, as you, Peggy. He came earlier than he had expected, on account of some business for Uncle James. Only, we all agreed that we would not tell you, because we knew your fondness for surprises. Do you think youcould bear another, Peggy, or is this enough for to-day?"
"What do you mean, Margaret? There can't be anything more. Nothing could count after the joy of seeing Hugh. Oh, Margaret, isn't he dear? Don't you love him?"
"Indeed I do!" said Margaret, heartily. "You never said half enough about him, Peggy. Oh, we are such friends, Uncle John and Hugh and I. But is there no other thing you can think of that you would like, Peggy, dear? No one else you would like very, very much to see?"
They were now at the door of Peggy's room, and Margaret's hand was on the door. Peggy turned and looked at her in wonder. "What do you mean, Margaret? Why do you look like that?" At this moment a sound was heard on the other side of the door, something between a cry, a sniffle, and a sob.
"Who is in there?" cried Peggy, her eyes opening to their fullest and roundest extent.
"Go in and see," said Margaret, and she opened the door and pushed Peggy gently in, and shut it again.
She heard a great cry. "Jean! my Jean!" "Oh, Peggy! Peggy!" then kissing and hugging; and then sounds which made her open the door and come quickly into the room. Peggy and Jean were seated on the floor, side by side, their heads on each other's shoulder, crying as if their hearts would break.
"Well, Jean!"
"Well, Peggy!"
"What do you think of them?"
"Oh, I think they are just lovely. I like the tall one best, don't you? Though the red-haired one is awfully nice, too."
"Goose! I didn't mean them. I meant Uncle John and Margaret. Aren't they dear? Did I say half enough about them, Jean?"
"No, not half. Margaret is just too lovely for anything, and Uncle John—well, of course, I am awfully afraid of him, but he is just lovely, too."
"Look here, young one!" said Peggy the Venerable, gravely. "Can't you say anything except 'awful' and 'lovely?' I would enlarge my vocabulary, if I were you."
Jean opened her eyes to their roundest. "Vocabulary! What's that? Don't tell me that you are going to set up for a school-teacher, Peggy. Why, you used to say 'awful' yourself, all the time."
"Oh, no, Jean, not quite all the time."
"Well, awfully often, anyhow. I know you did."
"Oh, Jean, I know I did. But first Margaret told me about it, and then I began to notice for myself. I've been taking Special English this year, and I find I notice more and more. It's really a pity, as Margaret says, to have only two or three words and work them to death, when there are so many good ones that we never use at all. Grace used to call it 'Cruelty to Syllables.'"
"Well, what shall I say? I don't know anything else."
"Yes, you do; don't be absurd, child. Margaret made me a list of adjectives and adverbs once, I remember, the first time I was here; I was just your age then, Jean, and I have no doubt Ididsay 'awfully' most of the time; anyhow, I did it enough to trouble Margaretaw—very much indeed. Let me see: there is 'very,' of course; 'remarkably, extremely, uncommonly, exceedingly, and excessively;' then for adjectives, 'charming, delightful, pretty, exquisite, pleasant, agreeable, entertaining,'—well, there were a great many more, but that is all I can think of now; all these will do instead of 'awful' and 'lovely,' Jean."
"Oh, Peggy, dear, you are a regular school-ma'am. Please don't let us talk about all these horrid things, the first night I am here. I am perfectly dying to know what you think about the two Mr. Merryweathers, and about Hugh and Margaret."
"Why, I think the Merryweathers seem very nice boys indeed. I like the funny one best, I think; Gerald, is his name? But the other one is nice, too. He has such kind eyes, and such a pleasant voice. Somehow he looks more like Gertrude than Gerald does, even though Gerald has her hair. Oh, Jean, I wish you could see my Snowy Owl! She is so dear, and beautiful, and strong; next to you and Margaret, she is the very dearest girl in the world, except one."
"May I come in?" said Margaret's voice at the door. She was greeted by a duet of "Come in, do!" and entering, found her two cousins seated on the floor, hair-brush in hand, brushing out their long fair hair.