"What is WHAT?" asked Peg.
"Is it that you don't wish to improve? Is it THAT?"
"I'll tell ye what I think it is," began Peg helpfully, as if anxious to reach some satisfactory explanation: "I think there's a little divil in me lyin' there and every now and again he jumps out."
"A devil?" cried Mrs. Chichester, horrified.
"Yes, aunt," said Peg demurely.
"How dare you use such a word to ME?"
"I didn't. I used it about MESELF. I don't know whether you have a divil in ye or not. I think I have."
Mrs. Chichester silenced her with a gesture:
"To-morrow I am to give Mr. Hawkes my first report on you."
Peg laughed suddenly and then checked herself quickly.
"And why did you do that?" asked her aunt severely.
"I had a picture of what ye're goin' to tell him."
"Your manners are abominable."
"Yes, aunt."
"What am I to tell Mr. Hawkes?"
"Tell him the truth, aunt, and shame the divil."
"Margaret!" and the old lady glared at her in horror.
"I beg yer pardon," said Peg meekly.
"Don't you wish to remain here?" continued Mrs. Chichester.
"Sometimes I do, an' sometimes I don't."
"Don't I do everything that is possible for you?"
"Yes, ye do everything possible TO me—"
"What?"
"I mean—FOR ME. I should have said FOR me, aunt!" and Peg's blue eyes twinkled mischievously.
"Then why do you constantly disobey me?" pursued the old lady.
"I suppose it is the original sin in me," replied Peg thoughtfully.
"WHAT?" cried Mrs. Chichester again taken completely aback.
"Oh, I say, you know! that's good! Ha!" and Alaric laughed heartily. Peg joined in and laughed heartily with him. Alaric immediately stopped.
Ethel took absolutely no notice of any one.
Peg sat down beside her aunt and explained to her:
"Whenever I did anythin' wilful or disturbin' as a child me father always said it was the 'original sin' in me an' that I wasn't to be punished for it because I couldn't help it. Then he used to punish himself for MY fault. An' when I saw it hurt him I usen't to do it again—for a while—at least. I think that was a grand way to bring up a daughter. I've been wonderin' since I've been here if an aunt could bring a niece up the same way." And she looked quizzically at Mrs. Chichester.
"Supposin', for instance, YOU were to punish yerself for everythin' wrong that I'd do, I might be so sorry I'd never do it again—but of course I might NOT. I am not sure about meself. I think me father knows me betther than I do meself."
"Your father must have been a very bad influence on you," said Mrs. Chichester sternly.
"No, he wasn't," contradicted Peg, hotly. "Me father's the best man—"
Mrs. Chichester interrupted her: "Margaret!"
Peg looked down sullenly and said: "Well, he was."
"Haven't I TOLD you never to CONTRADICT me?"
"Well, YOU contradict ME all the time."
"Stop!"
"Well, there's nothin' fair about your conthradictin' ME and ME not being able to—"
"Will you stop?"
"Well, now, aunt, ye will do me a favour if you will stop spakin' about me father the way you do. It hurts me, it does. I love my father and—I—I—"
"WILL—YOU—STOP?"
"I have stopped." And Peg sank back in her chair, breathing hard and her little fists punching against each other.
Her aunt then made the following proposition: "If I consent to take charge of you for a further period, will you promise me you will do your best to show some advancement during the next month?"
"Yes, aunt," said Peg readily.
"And if I get fresh tutors for you, will you try to keep them?"
"Yes, aunt."
Mrs. Chichester questioned Alaric. "What do you think?"
"We might risk it," replied Alaric, turning to his sister: "Eh, Ethel?"
"Don't ask me," was Ethel's reply.
"Very well," said Mrs. Chichester determinedly, "Begin to-night."
"Begin what" queried Peg, full of curiosity.
"To show that you mean to keep your promise. Work for a while."
"What at?" asked Peg, all eagerness to begin something.
"Get your books," said her aunt.
"Sure an' I will." And Peg turned to different parts of the room, finding an atlas here, a book of literature on the piano, an English history under the table. Finally she got them complete and sat down at the big table and prepared to study.
Jarvis came in with a letter on a salver.
"Well?" asked the old lady.
"For Miss Chichester, madam," and he handed Ethel the letter. "By hand, miss."
Ethel took the letter quite unconsciously and opened it. Whilst she was reading it, Peg called the footman over to her.
"Jarvis," she said, "me dog 'MICHAEL' is outside there, tied up to the door. He's had a fight an' he's tired. Will ye put him to bed for me like a good boy?"
Jarvis went out disgustedly, untied the dog and put him in the kennel that had been specially made for him.
Poor Jarvis's life this last month had been most unhappy. The smooth and peaceful order of things in the house had departed. The coming of the "niece" had disturbed everything. Many were the comments below stairs on the intruder. The following is an example of the manner in which Peg was regarded by the footman and Mrs. Chichester's own maid, Bennett.
"A NIECE!" cried Bennett, sarcastically, just after Peg's arrival.
"So they SAY!" retorted Jarvis, mysteriously.
"What do you make of her?"
"Well, every family I've served and my mother before me, had a family skeleton. SHE is OURS."
"Why, she hadn't a rag to her back when she came here. I'd be ashamed to be dressed as she was. You should have seen the one she goes to Mass in!"
"I did," said Jarvis indignantly. "All wrapped up in the 'Irish Times.' Then I got ragged for putting her in the kitchen. Looked too good for her. And that dog! Can't go near it without it trying to bite me. I don't approve of either of 'em comin' into a quiet family like ours."
Just then the bell called him to the drawing-room and further discussion of Peg and "MICHAEL" was deferred to a more suitable opportunity.
To return—Ethel read her letter and went to the writing-desk to reply to it. "Who is it from?" asked Mrs. Chichester.
"Mr. Brent," replied Ethel, indifferently.
"Brent?" cried Alaric. "What on earth does he write to YOU for?"
"He wants me to do something for him," and she tore the letter up into the smallest pieces and placed them in a receptacle on the desk.
"Do something?" questioned Alaric.
"Yes. Nothing very much. I'll answer it here," and she proceeded quite imperturbably to write an answer.
Mrs. Chichester had seen that Peg had commenced to study—which meant—with Peg—roaming through her books until she found something that interested her. Then she would read it over and over again until she thought she knew it.
"Come, Alaric," and Mrs. Chichester left the room after admonishing Peg that an hour would be sufficient to sit up. Alaric watched his mother go out of the room and then he slouched over to Peg and grinned chaffingly down at her.
"ORIGINAL-SIN, eh? That's a good 'un."
Peg looked up at him and a dangerous gleam came into her eyes. Alaric was not going to mock at her and get away unscathed. All unconscious of his danger, Alaric went on:
"Study all the pretty maps and things."
Peg closed the book with a slam and took it up and held it in a threatening manner as she glared at Alaric.
"Little devil!" and Alaric laughed at her.
"He's tuggin' at me now!" replied Peg. "The devil must hate knowledge. He always tries to keep ME from gettin' any."
Alaric laughed again maliciously. "Watch your cousin! Model yourself on Ethel! Eh? What?"
Peg hurled the book at him; he dodged it and it just escaped hitting Ethel, who turned at the disturbance.
Alaric hurried out to avoid any further conflict—calling back over his shoulder:
"Little devil."
Peg picked up the book, looked at Ethel, who had finished the letter and had put it into an unaddressed envelope. She took a cigarette out of her case and lit it neatly.
Peg took one out of the box on the table and lit it clumsily, though in exact imitation of Ethel.
When Ethel had addressed the envelope she turned and saw Peg smoking, sitting on the edge of the table, watching Ethel with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
Ethel impatiently threw her cigarette on to the ash tray on the desk.
Peg did the same action identically into a tray on the table.
Ethel rose indignantly and faced Peg.
"Why do you watch me?"
"Aunt told me to. Aren't ye me model? I'm to mould meself on you, sure!"
Ethel turned away furiously and began to ascend the stairs.
Peg followed her and called up to her:
"May I talk to ye?"
"You were told to study," replied Ethel, angrily.
"Won't ye let me talk to ye? Please, do!" urged Peg. Then she went on: "Ye haven't said a kind wurrd to me since I've been here." She stopped a moment. Ethel said nothing. Peg continued: "Sure, we're both girls, in the same house, of the same family, an' pretty much the same age, and yet ye never look at me except as if ye hated me. Why, ye like yer dog betther than you do ME, don't ye?"
Ethel looked down at "Pet" and fondled her and kissed her.
"I'm sorry 'Michael' hurt him. It was a cowardly thing of 'Michael' to do to snap at a little bit of a thing like that is. But it wasn't 'Michael's' fault.Iset him on to it, an' he always obeys me. He'd bite a lion or THAT"—and she pointed to the poor little poodle—"if I set him onto it."
"You made him attack 'Pet'?" cried Ethel.
"I did. I hate it. It's so sleek and fat and well-bred. I hate fat, well-bred things. I like them thin and common, like 'Michael' and meself. A dog should be made to look like a dog if it is a dog. No one could mistake 'Michael' for anything else BUT a dog, but THAT thing—"
Ethel gave an indignant ejaculation and again started to go upstairs.
Peg entreated her:
"Don't go for a minnit. Won't ye make friends with me?"
"We've nothing in common," replied Ethel.
"Sure, that doesn't prevent us bein' dacent to each other, does it?"
"DECENT?" cried Ethel in disgust.
"I'll meet ye three quarthers o' the way if ye'll show just one little generous feelin' toward me." She paused as she looked pleadingly at Ethel: "Ye would if ye knew what was in me mind."
Ethel came down to the last step of the stairs and stood there looking down searchingly at Peg. Finally she said:
"You're a strange creature."
"Not at all. It's you people here who are strange—I'm just what I am. I don't pretend or want to be anythin' else. But you—all of you—seem to be trying to be somethin' different to what ye are."
"What do you mean?" asked Ethel suspiciously.
"Oh, I watch ye and listen to ye," went on Peg eagerly. "Ye turn yer face to the wurrld as much as to say, 'Look at me! aren't I the beautiful, quiet, well-bred, aisy-goin', sweet-tempered young lady?' An' yer nothin' o' the kind, are ye?"
Ethel went slowly over to Peg and looked into her eyes:
"What am I?"
"Sure ye've got the breedin' all right, an' the nice-looks, an' the beautiful manners—but down in yer heart an' up in yer brain ye're worryin' yer little soul all the time, aren't ye?" And Peg paused. Ethel looked down. Peg after a moment continued: "An' ye've got a temper just as bad as mine. It's a beautiful temper ye have, Ethel. It's a shame not to let a temper like that out in the daylight now and again. But ye kape it out o' sight because it isn't good form to show it. An' with all yer fine advantages ye're not a bit happy, are ye? Are ye, Ethel?"
Ethel, moved in spite of herself, admitted involuntarily: "No. I'm not!"
Peg went on quietly: "Nor am I—in this house. Couldn't we try and comfort each other?" There was a look of genuine sympathy with Ethel in Peg's big blue eyes and a note of tender entreaty in her tone.
"Comfort? YOU—comfort ME?" cried Ethel, in disdain.
"Yes, Ethel dear, ME comfort YOU, They say 'a beautiful thought makes a beautiful face'; an' by the same token, sure a kind action gives ye a warm feelin' around the heart. An' ye might have that if ye'd only be a little kind to me—sometime."
Peg's honest sincerity and depth of feeling had suddenly a marked effect on the, apparently, callous Ethel. She turned to Peg and there was a different expression entirely in her look and tone as she said:
"I'm afraid I have been a little inconsiderate."
"Ye have, sure," said Peg.
"What would you like me to do?"
"I'd like ye to spake to me sometimes as though I were a human bein' an' not a clod o' earth."
"Very well, Margaret, I will. Good night." And feeling the matter was closed, Ethel again turned away to leave the room.
"Will ye give me another minnit—NOW—PLEASE," called Peg, after her, excitedly.
Ethel looked at the letter in her hand, hesitated, then re-entered the room and went down to Peg and said gently:
"All right"
"Only just a minnit," repeated Peg, breathlessly.
"What do you want, Margaret?"
"I want ye to tell me somethin'."
"What is it?"
Peg paused—looked at Ethel bashfully—dropped her eyes to the ground—took a deep breath—then said as fast as she could speak:
"Do ye know anything about—about LOVE?"
"Love?" echoed Ethel, very much astonished.
"Yes," said Peg. "Have ye ever been in love?" and she wanted expectantly for Ethel's answer.
Ethel put the letter she had just written to Mr. Brent slowly behind her back and answered coldly:
"No. I have not."
"Have ye ever THOUGHT about it?"
"Yes."
"WHAT do ye think about it?" questioned Peg eagerly.
"Rot!" replied Ethel, decidedly.
"ROT? ROT?" cried Peg, unable to believe her ears.
"Sentimental nonsense that only exists in novels."
"Ye're wrong!" insisted the anxious Peg; "ye're wrong. It's the most wondherful thing in the wurrld!"
Ethel brought the letter up to her eyes and read the superscription. "Think so?" she asked calmly.
"I do," cried Peg hotly. "I do. It's the most wondherful thing in the whole wurrld. To love a good man, who loves you. A man that made ye hot and cold by turns: burnin' like fire one minnit an' freezin' like ice the next. Who made yer heart leap with happiness when he came near ye, an' ache with sorrow when he went away from ye. Haven't ye ever felt like that, Ethel?"
"Never!" replied Ethel, positively.
Peg went on: "Oh! it's mighty disturbin', I'm tellin' ye. Sometimes ye walk on air, an' at others yer feet are like lead. An' at one time the wurrld's all beautiful flowers and sweet music and grand poetry—an' at another it's all coffins, an' corpses, an' shrouds." She shook her head seriously: "Oh! I tell ye it's mighty disturbin'."
Ethel looked at her inquiringly:
"How do you know this?"
Peg grew confused, then answered hurriedly:
"I've been readin' about it—in a book. It's wondherful—that's what it is."
"When you're a little older you will think differently," corrected Ethel, severely. "You will realise then that it is all very primitive."
"PRIMITIVE?" asked Peg, disappointedly.
"Of the earth—earthy," answered Ethel.
Peg thought a moment: "Sure I supposeIam then." She looked half-shyly at Ethel and asked her quietly: "Don't you like men?"
"Not much," answered Ethel, indifferently.
"Just dogs?" persisted Peg.
"You can trust THEM," and Ethel caressed "PET'S" little pink snout.
"That's thrue," agreed Peg. "I like dogs, too. But I like children betther. Wouldn't ye like to have a child of yer own, Ethel?"
That young lady looked at her horrifiedly: "MARGARET!"
"Well,Iwould," said Peg. "That's the rale woman in us. Ye know ye only fondle that animal because ye haven't got a child of yer own to take in yer arms. Sure that's the reason all the selfish women have pet dogs. They're afraid to have childhren. I've watched them! O' course a dog's all very well, but he can't talk to ye, an' comfort ye, an' cry to ye, an' laugh to ye like a child can."
Peg paused, then pointed to "PET" and launched the following wonderful statement:
"Sure THAT thing could never be President of the United States. But if ye had a baby he might grow up to it."
"That's very IRISH," sneered Ethel.
"Faith I think it's very human," answered Peg. "I wish ye had some more of it, Ethel, acushla." Ethel walked away as though to dismiss the whole subject. It was most distasteful to her:
"It is not customary for girls to talk about such things."
"I know it isn't," said Peg. "An' the more's the pity. Why shouldn't we discuss events of national importance? We THINK about them—very well! why shouldn't we TALK about them. Why shouldn't girls be taught to be honest with each other? I tell ye if there was more honesty in this wurrld there wouldn't be half the sin in it, that there wouldn't."
"Really—" began Ethel—
"Let US be honest with each other, Ethel," and Peg went right over to her and looked at her compassionately.
"What do ye mean?" said Ethel with a sudden contraction of her breath.
"You like Mr. Brent, don't ye?"
So! the moment had come. The little spy had been watching her. Well, she would fight this common little Irish nobody to the bitter end. All the anger in her nature surged uppermost as Ethel answered Peg—but she kept her voice under complete control and once more put the letter behind her back.
"Certainly I like Mr. Brent. He is a very old friend of the family!"
"He's got a wife?"
"He has!"
"An' a baby?"
"Yes—and a baby." Ethel was not going to betray herself. She would just wait and see what course this creature was going to take with her.
Peg went on:
"Of course I've never seen the wife or the baby because he never seems to have them with him when he calls here. But I've often heard Alaric ask afther them."
"Well?" asked Ethel coldly.
"Is it usual for English husbands with babies to kiss other women's hands?" and Peg looked swiftly at her cousin.
Ethel checked an outburst and said quite calmly:
"It is a very old and a very respected custom."
"The devil doubt it but it's OLD. I'm not so sure about the RESPECT. Why doesn't he kiss me AUNT'S hand as well?"
Ethel went quickly to the staircase. She could not control herself much longer. It was becoming unbearable. As she crossed the room she said with as little heat as possible:
"You don't understand."
"Well, but I'm thryin' to," persisted Peg. "That's why I watch YE all the time."
Ethel turned: she was now at bay:
"YOU WATCH ME?"
"Aren't ye me model?"
"It's contemptible!" cried Ethel.
"Sure I only saw the 'OLD and RESPECTED CUSTOM' by, accident—when I came in through THERE a month ago—an' once since when I came in again by accident—a few days aftherwards. I couldn't help seein' it both times. And as for bein' CONTEMPTIBLE I'm not so sure the CUSTOM doesn't deserve all the CONTEMPT."
Ethel was now thoroughly aroused:
"I suppose it is too much to expect that a child of the COMMON people should understand the customs of DECENT people."
"Mebbe it is," replied Peg. "But I don't see why the COMMON PEOPLE should have ALL the decency and the aristocracy NONE."
"It is impossible to talk to you. I was foolish to have stayed here. You don't understand: you never could understand—"
Peg interrupted:
"Why, I never saw ye excited before:—not a bit of colour in yer cheeks till now—except TWICE. Ye look just as ye did when Mr. Brent followed that OLD and RESPECTED custom on yer hand," cried Peg.
Ethel answered, this time, excitedly and indignantly, giving full and free vent to her just anger:
"Be good enough never to speak to me again as long as you're in this house. If I had MY way you'd leave it this moment. As it is—as it is—" her voice rose almost to a scream: her rage was unbridled.
What more she might have said was checked by the door opening and Jarvis showing in Jerry.
Jerry walked cheerfully and smilingly into the roam and was amazed to find the two young ladies glaring at each other and apparently in the midst of a conflict.
All power of speech left him as he stood looking in amazement at the combatants.
Ethel was the first to recover her equanimity.
She came down the steps, greeted Jerry with a genial handshake, asked to be excused for a moment, and after halting the departing Jarvis she went over to the writing-desk, opened the envelope, added a postscript, addressed a new envelope, put the augmented epistle inside it, sealed it, handed it to Jarvis, saying:
"Send that at once. No answer."
As Jarvis left the room, Ethel turned to speak to Jerry. Meanwhile, that young gentleman had greeted Peg:
"And how is Miss Peg this evening?"
"I'm fine, Mr. Jerry, thank ye." She looked at him admiringly. He was in evening dress, a light overcoat was thrown across his arm and a Homburg hat in his hand.
"Let me take your hat and coat?" she suggested.
"No, thank you," said Jerry, "I'm not going to stay."
"Aren't ye?" she asked disappointedly.
"Is your aunt in?"
"Yes, she's in. Is it HER ye've come to see?"
"Yes," replied Jerry.
At that moment Ethel joined them.
"I came over to ask Mrs. Chichester's permission for you two young ladies to go to a dance to-night. It's just across from here at the assembly rooms."
Peg beamed joyfully. It was just what she wanted to do. Ethel viewed the suggestion differently: "It's very kind of you," she said; "but it's quite impossible."
"Oh!" ejaculated Peg.
"Impossible?" exclaimed Jerry.
"I'm sorry," and Ethel went to the door.
"So am I," replied Jerry regretfully. "I would have given you longer notice only it was made up on the spur of the moment. Don't you think you could?"
"I don't care for dancing. Besides,—my head aches."
"What a pity," exclaimed the disappointed young man. Then he said eagerly: "Do you suppose your mother would allow Miss Margaret to go?"
"I'll ask her," and Ethel left the room.
Peg ran across, stopped the door from closing and called after Ethel:
"I didn't mean to hurt ye—indade I didn't. I wanted to talk to ye, that was all—an' ye made me angry—" Ethel disappeared without even turning her head.
Peg came into the room ruefully, and sat down on the sofa. She was thoroughly unhappy.
Jerry looked at her a moment, walked over to her and asked her: "What's the matter?"
"One of us girls has been brought-up all wrong. I tried to make friends with her just now and only made her angry, as I do every one in this house whenever I open my mouth."
"Aren't you friends?"
"Indade—INDEED—INDEED—we're NOT. None of them are with me."
"What a shame!"
"Wait until ye hear what me aunt says when ye ask her about the dance!"
"Don't you think she'll let you go?"
"No. I do NOT." She looked at him quizzically for a moment. Then she burst out laughing. He was glad to see her spirits had returned and wondered as to the cause. She looked up at him, her eyes dancing with mischief:
"Misther Jerry, will ye take me all the same if me aunt doesn't consent?"
"Why, Peg—" he began, astonishedly.
"But I haven't got an evenin' dress. Does it matter?"
"Not in the least, but—"
"Will this one do?"
"It's very charming—still—"
"Stains and all?"
"My dear Peg—"
"Perhaps they'll rub out. It's the prettiest one me aunt gave me—an' I put it on to-night—because—I thought you—that is, SOMEONE might come here to-night. At least, I HOPED he would, an' ye've come!" Suddenly she broke out passionately: "Oh, ye must take me! Ye must! I haven't had a bit of pleasure since I've been here. It will be wondherful. Besides I wouldn't rest all night with you dancin' over there an' me a prisoner over here."
"Now, Peg—" he tried to begin—
"It's no use, I tell ye. Ye've GOT to take me. An' if it goes against yer conscience to do it, I'LL take YOU. Stop, now! Listen! The moment they're all in bed, an' the lights are all out I'll creep down here an' out through those windows an' you'll meet me at the foot o' the path. An' it's no use ye sayin' anythin' because I'm just goin' to that dance. So make up yer mind to it." Jerry laughed uncomfortably. She was quite capable of doing such a thing and getting herself into a great deal of unnecessary trouble. So he tried to dissuade her. He laughed cheerfully.
"There may not be any occasion to do such a wild, foolish thing. Why, your aunt may be delighted."
"ME aunt has never been DELIGHTED since she was born!"
"Have you been annoying her again?"
"Faith, I'm always doin' that."
He looked at the litter of books on the table and picked up one.
"How are your studies progressing?"
"Just the way they always have," replied Peg. "Not at all."
"Why not?"
"I don't like studying," answered Peg earnestly.
"And are you going through life doing only the things you LIKE?"
"Sure, that's all life's for."
"Oh, no, it isn't. As you grow older you'll find the only real happiness in life is in doing things for others."
"Oh!" she said quickly: "I like doin' them NOW for others." She looked up at him a moment, then down at a book and finished under, her breath: "When I LIKE the OTHERS."
He looked at her intently a moment and was just going to speak when she broke in quickly:
"What's the use of learnin' the heights of mountains whose names I can't pronounce and I'm never goin' to climb? And I'm very much surprised at me aunt allowin' me to read about the doin's of a lot of dead kings who did things we ought to thry and forget."
"They made history," said Jerry. "Well, they ought to have been ashamed of themselves. I don't care how high Mont Blanc is nor when William the Conqueror landed in England."
"Oh, nonsense!" reasoned Jerry—
"I tell ye I HATE English history. It makes all me Irish blood boil." Suddenly she burst into a reproduction of the far-off father, suiting action to word and climaxing at the end, as she had so often heard him finish:
"'What IS England? What is it, I say. I'll tell ye! A mane little bit of counthry thramplin' down a fine race like OURS!' That's what me father sez, and that's the way he sez it. An' when he brings his fist down like that—" and she showed Jerry exactly how her father did it—"when he brings his fist down like THAT, it doesn't matther how many people are listenin' to him, there isn't one dares to conthradict him. Me father feels very strongly about English History. An' I don't want to learn it."
"Is it fair to your aunt?" asked Jerry.
Peg grew sullen and gloomy. She liked to be praised, but all she ever got in that house was blame. And now he was following the way of the others. It was hard. No one understood her.
"Is it fair to your aunt?" he repeated.
"No. I don't suppose it is."
"Is it fair to yourself?"
"That's right—scold me, lecture me! You sound just like me aunt, ye do."
"But you'll be at such a disadvantage by-and-by with other young ladies without half your intelligence just because they know things you refuse to learn. Then you'll be ashamed."
She looked at him pleadingly. "Are YOU ashamed of me? Because I'm ignorant? Are ye?"
"Not a bit," replied Jerry heartily. "I was just the same at your age. I used to scamp at school and shirk at college until I found myself so far behind fellows I despised thatIwas ashamed. Then I went after them tooth and nail until I caught them up and passed them."
"Did ye?" cried Peg eagerly.
"I did."
"I will, too," she said.
"WILL you?"
She nodded vigorously:
"I will—INDEED I will. From now on I'll do everythin' they tell me an' learn everythin' they teach me, if it kills me!"
"I wish you would," he said seriously.
"An' when I pass everybody else, an' know more than anyone EVER knew—will ye be very proud of me?"
"Yes, Peg. Even more than I am now."
"Are ye NOW?"
"I am. Proud to think you are my friend."
"Ye'd ha' won yer wager. We ARE friends, aren't we?"
"I am YOURS."
"Sure, I'm YOURS ALL RIGHT."
She looked at him, laughed shyly and pressed her cheeks. He was watching her closely.
"What are you laughing at?" he asked.
"Do ye know what Tom Moore wrote about Friendship?"
"No."
"Shall I tell ye?" excitedly.
"Do."
"See if anywan's comin' first." As he looked around the room and outside the door to detect the advent of an intruder Peg sat at the piano and played very softly the prelude to an old Irish song.
As Jerry walked back he said surprisedly: "Oh! so you play?"
Peg nodded laughingly.
"Afther a fashion. Me father taught me. Me aunt can't bear it. An' the teacher in the house said it was DREADFUL and that I must play scales for two years more before I thry a tune. She said I had no ear."
Jerry laughed as he replied: "I think they're very pretty."
"DO ye? Well watch THEM an' mebbe ye won't mind me singin' so much. An' afther all ye're only a farmer, aren't ye?"
"Hardly that," and Jerry laughed again.
Her fingers played lightly over the keys for a moment.
"This is called 'A Temple to Friendship,'" she explained.
"Indeed?"
"And it's about a girl who built a shrine and she thought she wanted to put 'Friendship' into it. She THOUGHT she wanted 'Friendship.' Afther a while she found out her mistake. Listen:" And Peg sang, in a pure, tremulous little voice that vibrated with feeling the following:
"'A temple to Friendship,' said Laura enchanted,'I'll build in this garden: the thought is divine!'Her temple was built and she now only wantedAn Image of Friendship to place on the shrine.
She flew to a sculptor who set down before herA Friendship the fairest his art could invent!But so cold and so dull that the Youthful adorerSaw plainly this was not the idol she meant.
'Oh! never,' she cried, 'could I think of enshriningAn image whose looks are so joyless and dim—But yon little god (Cupid) upon roses reclining,We'll make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of him.'
So the bargain was struck; with the little god ladenShe joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove:'Farewell,' said the sculptor, 'you're not the first maidenWho came but for Friendship and took away—Love.'"
She played the refrain softly after she had finished the song. Gradually the last note died away.
Jerry looked at her in amazement.
"Where in the world did you learn that?"
"Me father taught it to me," replied Peg simply. "Tom Moore's one of me father's prayer-books."
Jerry repeated as though to himself:
"'Who came but for FRIENDSHIP and took away LOVE!'"
"Isn't that beautiful?" And Peg's face had a rapt expression as she looked up at Jerry.
"Do you believe it?" he asked.
"Didn't Tom Moore write it?" she answered.
"Is there anything BETTER than Friendship between man and woman?"
She nodded:
"Indeed there is. Me father felt it for me mother or I wouldn't be here now. Me father loved me mother with all his strength and all his soul."
"Could YOU ever feel it?" he asked, and there was an anxious look in his eyes as he waited for her to answer.
She nodded.
"HAVE you ever felt it?" he went on.
"All me life," answered Peg in a whisper.
"As a child, perhaps," remarked Jerry. "Some DAY it will come to you as a woman and then the whole world will change for you."
"I know," replied Peg softly. "I've felt it comin'."
"Since when?" and once again suspense was in his voice.
"Ever since—ever since—" suddenly she broke off breathlessly and throwing her arms above her head as though in appeal she cried:
"Oh, I do want to improve meself. NOW I wish I HAD been born a lady. I'd be more worthy of—"
"WHAT? WHOM?" asked Jerry urgently and waiting anxiously for her answer.
Peg regained control of herself, and cowering down again on to the piano-stool she went on hurriedly.
"I want knowledge now. I know what you mean by bein' at a disadvantage. I used to despise learnin'. I've laughed at it. I never will again. Why I can't even talk yer language. Every wurrd I use is wrong. This book ye gave me—the 'LOVE STORIES OF THE WORLD,' I've never seen anythin' like it. I never knew of such people. I didn't dhream what a wondherful power in the wurrld was the power of love. I used to think it somethin' to kape to yerself and never spake of out in the open. Now I know it's the one great big wondherful power in the wurrld. It's me love for me father has kept faith and hope alive in me heart. I was happy with him. I never wanted to lave him. Now I see there is another happiness, too an' it's beyond me. I'm no one's equal. I'm just a little Irish nothin'—"
"Don't say that," Jerry interrupted. "There's an obstinate bad something in me that holds me back every time I want to go forward. Sometimes the good little somethin' tries so hard to win, but the bad bates it. It just bates it, it does."
"What you call the bad is the cry of youth that resents being curbed: and the GOOD is the WOMAN in you struggling for an outlet," explained Jerry.
"Will you help me to give it an outlet, Mr. Jerry?"
"In any way in my power, Peg."
As they stood looking at each other the momentary something was trembling on both their lips and beating in both of their hearts. The something—old as time, yet new as birth—that great transmuter of affection into love, of hope into faith. It had come to them—yet neither dared speak.
Peg read his silence wrongly. She blushed to the roots of her hair and her heart beat fast with shame. She laughed a deliberately misleading laugh and, looking up roguishly at him, said, her eyes dancing with apparent mischief, though the tear lurked behind the lid:
"Thank ye for promisin' to help me, Misther Jerry. But would ye mind very much if the BAD little somethin' had one more SPURT before I killed it altogether? Would ye?"
"Why, how do you mean?"
"Take me to that dance tonight—even without me aunt's permission, will ye? I'll never forget ye for it if ye will. An' it'll be the last wrong thing I'll ever do. I'm just burnin' all over at the thought of it. My heart's burstin' for it." She suddenly hummed a waltz refrain and whirled around the room, the incarnation of childish abandonment.
Mrs. Chichester came slowly down the stairs, gazing in horror at the little bouncing figure. As Peg whirled past the newel post she caught sight of her aunt. She stopped dead.
"What does this mean?" asked Mrs. Chichester angrily.
Peg crept away and sank down into a chair:
Jerry came to the rescue. He shook hands with Mrs. Chichester and said:
"I want you to do something that will make the child very happy. Will you allow her to go to a dance at the Assembly Rooms tonight?"
"Certainly not," replied Mrs. Chichester severely. "I am surprised at you for asking such a thing."
"I could have told ye what she'd say wurrd for wurrd!" muttered Peg.
"I beg your pardon," said Jerry, straightening up, hurt at the old lady's tone. "The invitation was also extended to your daughter, but she declined. I thought you might be pleased to give your niece a little pleasure."
"Go to a dance—unchaperoned?"
"My mother and sisters will be there."
"A child of her age?" said Mrs. Chichester.
"CHILD is it?" cried Peg vehemently. "I'd have ye know my father lets me go anywhere—"
"MARGARET!" and the old lady attempted to silence Peg with a gesture. Peg changed her tone and pleaded:
"Plaze let me go. I'll study me head off tomorrow, if ye'll only let me dance me feet off a bit tonight. Plaze let me!"
The old lady raised her band commanding Peg to stop. Then turning to Jerry she said in a much softer tone:
"It was most kind of you to trouble to come over. You must pardon me if I seem ungracious—but it is quite out of the question."
Peg sprang up, eager to argue it out.
Jerry looked at her as if imploring her not to anger her aunt any further. He shook Mrs. Chichester's hand and said:
"I'm sorry. Good night." He picked up his hat and coat and went to the door.
"Kindly remember me to your mother and sisters," added Mrs. Chichester gently.
"With pleasure," and Jerry opened the door.
"Good night, Misther Jerry," called Peg.
He turned and saw Peg deliberately pointing to the pathway and indicating that he was to meet her there.
Mrs. Chichester happened to look around just in time to catch her. Peg reddened and stood trapped.
Jerry went out.
The old lady looked at her for several moments without speaking. Finally she asked:
"What did you mean by dancing in that disgraceful way? And what did you mean by those signs you were making?"
Peg said nothing.
"Are you always going to be a disgrace to us? Are you ever going to learn how to behave?"
"Yes, aunt," said Peg, and the words came out in a torrent. "I'm never goin' to do anythin' agen to annoy ye—AFTHER TONIGHT. I'm goin' to wurrk hard too—AFTHER TONIGHT. Don't ye see what a disadvantage I'd be at with girls without half me intelligence if I don't? Don't ye see it?Ido. I'd be ashamed—that's what I'd be. Well—I'm goin' afther them tooth and nail an' I'm goin' to catch them up an' pass them an' then he'll—YE'LL—YE'LL—be proud of me—that ye will."
"What is all this?" asked the amazed old lady.
"It's what I'm goin' to do—AFTHER TO-NIGHT."
"I'm very glad to hear it."
"I knew ye would be. An' I'll never be any more throuble to ye—afther to-night."
"I hope you will be of the same mind in the morning."
"So do I, aunt. D'ye mind if I stay up for another hour? I'd like to begin now."
"Begin what?"
"Tryin' to pass people—tooth an' nail. May I study for just one more hour?"
"Very well. Just an hour."
"Sure that'll be fine" She went to the table and began eagerly to arrange her books once again.
"Turn off the lights when you've finished," said Mrs. Chichester.
"Yes, aunt. Are you goin' to bed now?"
"I am"
"Everybody in the house goin' to bed—except me?"
"Everybody."
"That's good," said Peg, with a sigh of relief.
"Don't make any noise," admonished the old lady.
"Not a sound, aunt," agreed Peg.
"Good night," and Mrs. Chichester went to the stairs.
"Good night, aunt! Oh! there's somethin' else. I thought perhaps I would have to be gettin' back home to me father but I had a letther from him this mornin' an'. it was quite cheerful—so I think—if ye don't mind—I'd like to stay another month. Can I?"
"We'll talk it over with Mr. Hawkes in the morning," Mrs. Chichester said coldly and went on up the stairs.
Peg watched her out of sight then jumped up all excitement and danced around the room. She stopped by the table, locked at the open books in disgust—with a quick movement swept them off the table. Then she listened panic-stricken and hurriedly knelt down and picked them all up again. Then she hurried over to the windows and looked out into the night. The moonlight was streaming full down the path through the trees. In a few moments Peg went to the foot of the stairs and listened. Not hearing anything she crept upstairs into her own little Mauve-Room, found a cloak and some slippers and a hat and just as quietly crept down again into the living-room.
She just had time to hide the cloak and hat and slippers on the immense window-seat when the door opened and Ethel came into the room. She walked straight to the staircase without looking at Peg, and began to mount the stairs.
"Hello, Ethel!" called out Peg, all remembrance of the violent discussion gone in the excitement of the present. "I'm studyin' for an hour. Are yez still angry with me? Won't ye say I 'good night'? Well, then, I will. Good night, Ethel, an' God bless you."
Ethel disappeared in the bend of the stairs.
Peg listened again until all was still, then she crept across the room, turned back the carpet and picked up her treasure—her marvellous book of "Love-Stories."
She took it to the table, made an island of it as was her wont—and began to read—the precious book concealed by histories and atlases, et cetera.
Her little heart beat excitedly.
The one thought that beat through her quick brain was:
"Will Jerry come back for me?"