The morning after the incident following Peg's disobedience in going to the dance, and her subsequent rebellion and declaration of independence, found all the inmates of Regal Villa in a most unsettled condition. Peg had, as was indicated in a preceding chapter remained by Ethel's side until morning, when, seeing that her cousin was sleeping peacefully, she had gone to her own room to prepare for her leaving.
One thing she was positive about—she would take nothing out of that house she did not bring into it—even to a heartache.
She entered the family a month before Gore at heart—well, she was leaving it in a like condition.
Whilst she was making her few little preparations, Mrs. Chichester was reviewing the whole situation in her room. She was compelled to admit, however outraged her feelings may have been the previous night, that should Peg carry out her intention to desert them, the family would be in a parlous condition. The income from Mr. Kingsnorth's will was indeed the one note of relief to the distressed household. She had passed a wretched night, and after a cup of tea in her room, and a good long period of reflection, she decided to seek the aid of the head of the family—her son.
She found him in the morning-room lying full length on a lounge reading the "Post." He jumped up directly he saw her, led her over to the lounge, kissed her, put her down gently beside him and asked her how she was feeling.
"I didn't close my eyes all night," answered the unhappy old lady.
"Isn't that rotten?" said Alaric sympathetically. "I was a bit plungy myself—first one side and then the other." And he yawned and stretched languidly. "Hate to have one's night's rest broken," he concluded. Mrs. Chichester looked at him sadly.
"What is to be done?" she asked, despair in every note.
"We must get in forty winks during the day some time," he replied, encouragingly.
"No, no, Alaric. I mean about Margaret?"
"Oh! The imp? Nothin' that I can see. She's got it into her stubborn little head that she's had enough of us, and that's the end of it!"
"And the end of our income," summed up Mrs. Chichester, pathetically.
"Well, you were a bit rough on her, mater. Now, I come to think of it we've all been a bit rough on her—except ME. I've made her laugh once or twice—poor little soul. After all, suppose she did want to dance? What's the use of fussing? LET her, I say. LET her. Better SHE should dance and STAY, than for US to starve if she GOES."
"Don't reproach me, dear. I did my duty. How could I consent to her going? A girl of her age!"
"Girl! Why, they're grown women with families in America at her age."
"Thank God they're not in England."
"They will be some day, mater. They're kickin' over the traces more and more every day. Watch 'em in a year or two, I say, watch 'em. One time women kept on the pavement. Now they're out in the middle of the road—and in thousands! Mark me! What ho!"
"They are not women!" ejaculated Mrs. Chichester severely.
"Oh, bless me, yes. They're women all right. I've met 'em. Listened to 'em talk. Some of 'em were rippers. Why, there was one girl I really have rather a fash on. Great big girl she is with a deep voice. She had me all quivery for a while." And his mind ran back over his "Militant" past and present.
"Just when I had begun to have some hope of her!" Alaric started.
"I didn't know you met her. Do you know Marjory Fairbanks?"
"No," replied Mrs. Chichester, almost sharply: "I mean Margaret."
"Oh! The little devil? Did ye? I never did. Not a hope! I've always felt she ought to have the inscription on dear old Shakespeare's grave waving in front of her all the time 'Good friend, for Heaven's sake forbear.' There's no hope for her, mater. Believe ME."
"I thought that perhaps under our influence—in time—"
"Don't you think it. She will always be a Peter Pan. Never grow up. She'd play elfish tricks if she had a nursery full of infants."
"But," persisted the old lady, "some GOOD man—one day might change that."
"Ah! But where is he? Good men who'd take a girl like that in hand are very scarce, mater—very scarce indeed. Oh, no. Back she goes to America to-day, and off I go to-morrow to work. Must hold the roof up, mater, and pacify the tradesmen. I've given up the doctor idea—takes too long to make anything. And it's not altogether a nice way to earn your living. No; on the whole, I think—Canada. . ."
Mrs. Chichester rose in alarm
"Canada! my boy!"
"Nice big place—plenty of room. We're all so crowded together here in England. All the professions are chock-full with people waitin' to squeeze in somewhere. Give me the new big countries! England is too old and small. A fellow with my temperament can hardly turn round and take a full breath in an island our size. Out there, with millions of acres to choose from, I'll just squat down on a thousand or so, raise cattle, and in a year or two I'll be quite independent. Then back I'll come here and invest it. See?"
"Don't go away, from me, Alaric. I couldn't bear that."
"All right—if you say so, mater. But it does seem a shame to let all that good land go to waste when it can be had for the asking."
"Well, I'll wander round the fields for a bit, and thrash it all out. 'Stonishing how clear a fellow's head gets in the open air. Don't you worry, mater—I'll beat the whole thing out by myself."
He patted the old lady gently on the shoulder, and humming a music-hall ballad cheerfully, started off into the garden. He had only gone a few steps when his mother called to him. He stopped. She joined him excitedly.
"Oh, Alaric! There is a way—one way that would save us." And she trembled as she paused, as if afraid to tell him what the alternative was.
"Is there, mater? What is it?"
"It rests with you, dear."
"Does it? Very good. I'll do it."
"Will you?"
"Honour bright, I will."
"Whatever it is?"
"To save you and Ethel and the roof, 'course I will. Now you've got me all strung up. Let me hear it."
She drew him into a little arbour in the rose-garden out of sight and hearing of the open windows.
"Alaric?" she asked, in a tone that suggested their fate hung on his answer: "Alaric! Do you LIKE her?"
"Like whom?"
"Margaret! Do you?"
"Here and there. She amuses me like anything at times. She drew a map of Europe once that I think was the most fearful and wonderful thing I have ever seen. She said it was the way her father would like to see Europe. She had England, Scotland and Wales in GERMANY, and the rest of the map was IRELAND. Made me laugh like anything." And he chuckled at the remembrance.
Suddenly Mrs. Chichester placed both of her hands on his shoulders and with tears in her eyes exclaimed:
"Oh! my boy! Alaric! My son!"
"Hello!" cried the astonished youth. "What is it? You're not goin' to cry, are ye?"
She was already weeping copiously as she gasped between her sobs:
"Oh! If you only COULD."
"COULD? WHAT?"
"Take that little wayward child into your life and mould her."
"Here, one moment, mater: let me get the full force of your idea. You want ME to MOULD Margaret?"
"Yes, dear."
"Ha!" he laughed uneasily. Then said decidedly: "No, mater, no. I can do most things, but as a moulder—oh, no. Let Ethel do it—if she'll stay, that is."
"Alaric, my dear—I mean to take her really into your life 'to have and to hold.'" And she looked pleadingly at him through her tear-dimmed eyes.
"But, I don't want to hold her, mater!" reasoned her son.
"It would be the saving of her," urged the old lady. "That's all very well, but what about me?"
"It would be the saving of us all!" she insisted significantly. But Alaric was still obtuse. "Now, how would my holding and moulding Margaret save us?" The old lady placed her cards deliberately, on the table as she said sententiously: "She would stay with us here—if you were—engaged to her!" The shock had cone. His mother's terrible alternative was now before him in all its naked horror. A shiver ran through him. The thought of a man, with a future as brilliant as his, being blighted at the outset by such a misalliance. He felt the colour leave his face. He knew he was ghastly pale. The little arbour seemed to close in on him and stifle him. He could scarcely breathe. He murmured, his eyes half closed, as if picturing some vivid nightmare: "Engaged! Don't, mother, please." He trembled again: "Good lord! Engaged to that tomboy!" The thought seemed to strike him to the very core of his being. He who might ally himself with anyone sacrificing his hopes of happiness and advancement with a child of the earth.
"Don't, mother!" he repeated in a cry of entreaty.
"She has the blood of the Kingsnorths!" reminded, Mrs. Chichester. "It is pretty well covered up in O'Connell Irish," replied Alaric bitterly. "Please don't say any more, mater. You have upset me for the day. Really, you have for the whole day." But his mother was not to be shaken so easily in her determination. She went on:
"She has the breeding of my sister Angela, dear."
"You wouldn't think it to watch her and listen to her. Now, once and for all" and he tried to pass his mother and go into the garden.
There was no escape. Mrs. Chichester held him firmly:
"She will have five thousand pounds a year when she is twenty-one!"
She looked the alarmed youth straight in the eyes. She was fighting for her own. She could not bear to think of parting with this home where she had lived so happily with her husband, and where her two children were born and reared. Even though Peg was not of the same caste, much could be done with her. Once accept her into the family and the rest would be easy.
As she looked piercingly into Alaric's eyes, he caught the full significance of the suggestion. His lips pursed to whistle—but no sound came through them. He muttered hoarsely, as though he were signing away his right to happiness.
"Five thousand pounds a year! Five thousand of the very best!" Mrs. Chichester took the slowly articulated words in token of acceptance. He would do it! She knew he would! Always ready to rise to a point of honour and to face a duty or confront a danger, he was indeed her son.
She took him in her arms and pressed his reluctant and shrinking body to her breast.
"Oh, my boy!" she wailed joyfully. "My dear, dear boy!"
Alaric disengaged himself alertly.
"Here, half a minute, mater. Half a minute, please: One can't burn all one's boats like that, without a cry for help."
"Think what it would mean, dear! Your family preserved, and a brand snatched from the burning!"
"That's just it. It's all right savin' the family. Any cove'll do that at a pinch. But I do not see myself as a 'brand-snatcher' Besides, I am not ALTOGETHER at liberty."
"What?" cried his mother.
"Oh, I've not COMMITTED myself to anything. But I've been three times to hear that wonderful woman speak—once on the PLATFORM! And people are beginning to talk. She thinks no end of me. Sent me a whole lot of stuff last week—'ADVANCED LITERATURE' she calls it. I've got 'em all upstairs. Wrote every word of 'em herself. Never saw a woman who can TALK and WRITE as she can. And OUTSIDE of all that I'm afraid I've more or less ENCOURAGED her. And there you are—the whole thing in a nutshell."
"It would unite our blood, Alaric," the fond mother insisted.
"Oh, hang our blood! I beg your pardon, mater, but really I can't make our blood the FIRST thing."
"It would settle you for life, dear," she suggested after a pause.
"I'd certainly be settled all right," in a despairing tone.
"Think what it would mean, Alaric."
"I am, mater. I'm thinking—and thinking awfully hard. Now, just a moment. Don't let either of us talk. Just let us think. I know how much is at stake for the family, and YOU realise how much is at stake for ME, don't you?"
"Indeed I do. And if I didn't think you would be happy I would not allow it—indeed I wouldn't."
Alaric thought for a few moments.
The result of this mental activity took form and substance as follows:
"She is not half-bad-lookin'—at times—when she's properly dressed."
"I've seen her look almost beautiful!" cried Mrs. Chichester.
Alaric suddenly grew depressed.
"Shockin' temper, mater!" and he shook his head despondently.
"That would soften under the restraining hand of affection!" reasoned his mother.
"She would have to dress her hair and drop DOGS. I will not have a dog all over the place, and I do like tidiness in women. Especially their hair. In that I would have to be obeyed."
"The woman who LOVES always OBEYS!" cried his mother.
"Ah! There we have it!" And Alaric sprang up and faced the old lady. "There we have it! DOES she LOVE me?"
Mrs. Chichester looked fondly at her only son and answered:
"How could she be NEAR you for the last month and NOT love you?"
Alaric nodded:
"Of course there is that. Now, let me see—just get a solid grip on the whole thing. IF she LOVES me—and taking all things into consideration—for YOUR sake and darling ETHEL'S and for my—that is—"
He suddenly broke off, took his mother's hand between both of his and pressed it encouragingly, and with the courage of hopefulness, he said:
"Anyway, mater, it's a go! I'll do it. It will take a bit of doin', but I'll do it."
"Bless you, my boy," said the overjoyed mother, "Bless you."
As they came out of the little arbour it seemed as if Fate had changed the whole horizon for the Chichester family.
Mrs. Chichester was happy in the consciousness that her home and her family would lie free from the biting grip of debt.
Alaric, on the other hand, seemed to have all the sunlight suddenly stricken out of his life. Still, it was his DUTY, and duty was in the Chichester motto.
As mother and son walked slowly toward the house, they looked up, and gazing through a tiny casement of the little Mauve-Room was Peg, her face white and drawn.
Alaric shivered again as he thought of his sacrifice.
Mrs. Chichester went up to the Mauve-Room a little later and found Peg in the same attitude, looking out of the window—thinking.
"Good morning, Margaret," she began, and her tone was most conciliatory, not to say almost kindly.
"Good mornin'," replied Peg dully.
"I am afraid I was a little harsh with you last night," the old lady added. It was the nearest suggestion of an apology Mrs. Chichester had ever made.
"Ye'll never be again," flashed back Peg sharply.
"That is exactly what I was saying to Alaric. I shall never be harsh with you again. Never!"
If Mrs. Chichester thought the extraordinary unbending would produce an equally, Christian-like spirit in Peg, she was unhappily mistaken. Peg did not vary her tone or hear attitude. Both were absolutely uncompromising.
"Ye'll have to go to New York if ye ever want to be harsh with me again. That is where ye'll have to go. To New York."
"You are surely not going to leave us just on account of a few words of correction?" reasoned Mrs. Chichester.
"I am," replied Peg, obstinately. "An' ye've done all the correctin' ye'll ever do with me."
"Have you thought of all you are giving up?"
"I thought all through the night of what I am going back to. And I am going back to it as soon as Mr. Hawkes comes. And now, if ye don't mind, I'd rather be left alone. I have a whole lot to think about, an' they're not very happy thoughts, ayther—an' I'd rather be by meself—if ye plaze."
There was a final air of dismissal about Peg that astonished and grieved the old lady. How their places had changed in a few hours! Yesterday it was Mrs. Chichester who commanded and Peg who obeyed—SOMETIMES.
Now, she was being sent out of a room in her own house, and by her poor little niece.
As she left the room Mrs. Chichester thought sadly of the condition misfortune had placed her in. She brightened as she realised that they had still one chance—through Alaric—of recouping, even slightly, the family fortunes. The thought flashed through Mrs. Chichester's mind of how little Margaret guessed what an honour was about to be conferred upon her through the nobility of her son in sacrificing himself on the altar of duty. The family were indeed repaying good for evil—extending the olive branch—in tendering their idol as a peace-offering at the feet of the victorious Peg.
Meanwhile, that young lady had suddenly remembered two things—firstly—that she must not return to her father in anything Mrs. Chichester had given her. Out of one of the drawers she took the little old black jacket and skirt and the flat low shoes and the red-flowered hat. Secondly, it darted through her mind that she had left Jerry's present to her in its familiar hiding-place beneath a corner of the carpet. Not waiting to change into the shabby little dress, she hurried downstairs into the empty living-room, ran across, and there, sure enough, was her treasure undisturbed. She took it up and a pang went through her heart as it beat in on her that never again would its donor discuss its contents with her. This gentleman of title, masquerading as a farmer, who had led her on to talk of herself, of her country and of her father, just to amuse himself. The blood surged up to her temples as she thought how he must have laughed at her when he was away from her: though always when with her he showed her the gravest attention, and consideration, and courtesy. It was with mingled feelings she walked across the room, the book open in her hand, her eyes scanning some of the familiar and well-remembered lines.
As she reached the foot of the stairs, Alaric came in quickly through the windows.
"Hello! Margaret!" he cried cheerfully, though his heart was beating nervously at the thought of what he was about to do—and across his features there was a sickly pallor.
Peg turned and looked at him, at the same moment hiding the book behind her back.
"What have you got there, all tucked away?" he ventured as the opening question that was to lead to the all-important one.
Peg held it up for him to see: "The only thing I'm takin' away that I didn't bring with me."
"A book, eh?"
"That's what it is—a book;" and she began to go upstairs.
"Taking it AWAY?" he called up to her.
"That's what I'm doin'," and she still went on up two more steps.
Alaric made a supreme effort and followed her.
"You're not really goin' away—cousin?" he gasped.
"I am," replied Peg. "An' ye can forget the relationship the minnit the cab drives me away from yer door!"
"Oh, I say, you know," faltered Alaric. "Don't be cruel!"
"Cruel, is it?" queried Peg in amazement. "Sure, what's there cruel in THAT, will ye tell me?"
She looked at him curiously.
For once all Alaric's confidence left him. His tongue was dry and clove to the roof of his mouth. Instead of conferring a distinction on the poor little creature he felt almost as if he were about to ask her a favour.
He tried to throw a world of tenderness into his voice as he spoke insinuatingly:
"I thought we were goin' to be such good little friends," and he looked almost languishingly at her.
For the first time Peg began to feel some interest. Her eyes winked as she said:
"DID ye? Look at that, now. I didn't."
"I say, you know," and he went up on the same step with her: "I say—really ye mustn't let what the mater said last night upset ye! Really, ye mustn't!"
"Mustn't I, now? Well, let me tell ye it did upset me—an' I'm still upset—an' I'm goin' to kape on bein' upset until I get into the cab that dhrives me from yer door."
"Oh, come, now—what nonsense! Of course the mater was a teeny bit disappointed—that's all. Just a teeny bit. But now it's all over."
"Well,Iwas a WHOLE LOT disappointed—an' it's all over with me, too." She started again to get away from him, but he stepped in front of her.
"Don't go for a minute. Why not forget the whole thing and let's all settle down into nice, cosy, jolly little pals, eh?"
He was really beginning to warm to his work the more she made difficulties. It was for Alaric to overcome them. The family roof was at stake. He had gone chivalrously to the rescue. He was feeling a gleam of real enthusiasm. Peg's reply threw a damper again on his progress.
"Forget it, is it? No—I'll not forget it. My memory is not so convaynient. You're not goin' to be disgraced again through me!" She passed him and went on to the landing. He followed her eagerly.
"Just a moment," he cried, stopping her just by an a oriel window. She paused in the centre of the glow that radiated from its panes.
"What is it, now?" she asked impatiently. She wanted to go back to her room and make her final preparations.
Alaric looked at her with what he meant to be adoration in his eyes.
"Do you know, I've grown really awfully fond of you?" His voice quivered and broke. He had reached one of the crises of his life.
Peg looked at him and a smile broadened across her face.
"No, I didn't know it. When did ye find it out?"
"Just now—down in that room—when the thought flashed through me that perhaps you really meant to leave us. It went all through me. 'Pon my honour, it did. The idea positively hurt me. Really HURT me."
"Did it, now?" laughed Peg. "Sure, an' I'm glad of it."
"Glad! GLAD?" he asked in astonishment.
"I am. I didn't think anythin' could hurt ye unless it disturbed yer comfort. An' I don't see how my goin' will do that."
"Oh, but it will," persisted Alaric. "Really, it will."
"Sure, now?" Peg was growing really curious. What was this odd little fellow trying to tell her? He looked so tremendously in earnest about something What in the world was it?
Alaric answered her without daring to look at her.
He fixed his eye on his pointed shoe and said quaveringly:
"You know, meetin' a girl round the house for a whole month, as I've met you, has an awful effect on a fellow. AWFUL Really!"
"AWFUL?" cried Peg.
"Yes, indeed it has. It grows part of one's life, as it were. Not to see you running up and down those stairs: sittin' about all over the place: studyin' all your jolly books and everything—you know the thought bruises me—really it BRUISES."
Peg laughed heartily. Her good humour was coming back to her.
"Sure, ye'll get over it, Alaric," she said encouragingly.
"That's just it," he protested anxiously. "I'm afraid I WON'T get over it. Do you know, I'm quite ACHE-Y NOW. Indeed I am."
"Ache-y?" repeated Peg, growing more and more amused.
Alaric touched his heart tenderly:
"Yes, really. All round HERE!"
"Perhaps it's because I disturbed yer night's rest, Alaric?"
"You've disturbed ALL my rest. If you GO I'll never have ANY rest." Once again he spurred on his flagging spirits and threw all his ardour into the appeal. "I've really begun to care for you very much. Oh, very, very much. It all came to me in a flash—down in the room." And—for the moment—he really meant it. He began to see qualities in his little cousin which he had never noticed before. And the fact that she was not apparently a willing victim, added zest to the attack.
Peg looked at him with unfeigned interest:
"Sure, that does ye a great dale of credit. I've been thinkin' all the time I've known ye that ye only cared for YERSELF—like all Englishmen."
"Oh, no," protested Alaric. "Oh, DEAR, no. We care a great deal at times—oh, a GREAT deal—and never say a word about it—not a single word. You know we hate to wear our hearts on our sleeves."
"I don't blame ye. Ye'd wear them out too soon, maybe."
Alaric felt that the moment had now really come.
"Cousin," he said, and his voice dropped to the caressing note of a wooer: "Cousin! Do you know I am going to do something now I've never done before?"
He paused to let the full force of what was to come have its real value.
"What is it, Alaric?" Peg asked, all unconscious of the drama that was taking place in her cousin's heart! "Sure, what is it? Ye're not goin' to do somethin' USEFUL, are ye?"
He braced himself and went on: "I am going to ask a very charming young lady to marry me. Eh?"
"ARE ye?"
"I am."
"What do ye think o' that, now!"
"And—WHO—DO—YOU—THINK—IT—IS?"
He waited, wondering if she would guess correctly. It would be so helpful if only she could.
But she was so unexpected.
"I couldn't guess it in a hundred years, Alaric. Ralely, I couldn't."
"Oh, TRY! Do. TRY!" he urged. "I couldn't think who'd marry YOU—indade I couldn't. Mebbe the poor girl's BLIND. Is THAT it?"
"Can't you guess? No? Really?"
"NO, I'm tellin' ye. Who is it?"
"YOU!"
The moment had come. The die was cast. His life was in the hands of Fate—and of Peg. He waited breathlessly for the effect.
Peg looked at him in blank astonishment.
All expression had left her face.
Then she leaned back against the balustrade and laughed long and unrestrainedly. She laughed until the tears came coursing down her cheeks.
Alaric was at first nonplussed. Then he grasped the situation in its full significance. It was just a touch of hysteria. He joined her and laughed heartily as well.
"Aha!" he cried, between laughs: "That's a splendid sign. Splendid! I've always been told that girls CRY when they're proposed to."
"Sure, that's what I'm doin'," gasped Peg. "I'm cryin'—laughin'."
Alaric suddenly checked his mirth and said seriously:
"'Course ye must know, cousin, that I've nothin' to offer you except a life-long devotion: a decent old name—and—my career—when once I get it goin'. I only need an incentive to make no end of a splash in the world. YOU would be my incentive." Peg could hardly believe her ears. She looked at Alaric while her eyes danced mischievously.
"Go on!" she said. "Go on. Sure, ye're doin' fine!"
"Then it's all right?" he asked fervently.
"Faith! I think it's wondherful."
"Good. Excellent. But—there are one or two little things to be settled first."
Even as the victorious general, with the capitulated citadel, it was time to dictate terms. Delays in such matters, Alaric had often been told, were unwise. A clear understanding at the beginning saved endless complications afterwards.
"Just a few little things," he went on, "such as a little OBEDIENCE—that's most essential. A modicum of care about ORDINARY things,—for instance, about dress, speech, hair, et ectera—and NO 'Michael.'"
"Oh!" cried Peg dejectedly, while her eyes beamed playfully:
"Sure, couldn't I have 'Michael'?"
"No," he said firmly. It was well she should understand that once and for all. He had never in a long experience, seen a dog he disliked more.
"Oh!" ejaculated Peg, plaintively.
Prepared to, at any rate, compromise, rather than have an open rupture, he hastened to modify his attitude:
"At least NOT in the HOUSE."
"In the STABLES?" queried Peg.
"We'd give him a jolly little kennel somewhere, if you really wanted him, and you could see him—say TWICE a day."
He felt a thrill of generosity as he thus unbent from his former rigid attitude.
"Then it wouldn't be 'love me love my dog'?" quizzed Peg.
"Well, really, you know, one cannot regulate one's life by proverbs, cousin. Can one?" he reasoned.
"But 'Michael' is all I have in the wurrld, except me father. Now, what could ye give me instead of him?"
Here was where a little humour would save the whole situation. Things were becoming strained—and over a dog.
Alaric would use his SUBTLER humour—keen as bright steel—and turn the edge of the discussion.
"What can I give you instead of 'Michael'?"
He paused, laughed cheerfully and bent tenderly aver her and whispered:
"MYSELF, dear cousin! MYSELF!" and he leaned back and watched the effect. A quick joke at the right moment had so often saved the day. It would again, he was sure. After a moment he whispered softly:
"What do you say—dear cousin?"
Peg looked up at him, innocently, and answered:
"Sure, I think I'd rather have 'Michael'—if ye don't mind."
He started forward: "Oh, come, I say! You don't MEAN that?"
"I do," she answered decidedly.
"But think—just for one moment—of the ADVANTAGES?"
"For you, or for me?" asked Peg.
"For YOU—of course," replied the disappointed Alaric.
"I'm thryin' to—but I can only think of 'Michael. Sure, I get more affection out of his bark of greetin' than I've ever got from a human bein' in England. But then he's IRISH. No, thank ye, all the same. If it makes no difference to ye, I'd rather have 'Michael.'"
"You don't mean to say that you REFUSE me?" he asked blankly.
"If ye don't mind," replied Peg meekly.
"You actually decline my HAND and—er—HEART?"
"That's what I do."
"Really?" He was still unable to believe it. He wanted to hear her refusal distinctly.
"Ralely," replied Peg, gravely.
"Is that FINAL?"
"It's the most final thing there is in the wurrld," replied Peg, on the brink of an outburst of laughter.
Alaric looked so anxious and crestfallen now—in sharp contrast to his attitude of triumph a few moments before.
To her amazement the gloom lifted from her cousin's countenance. He took a deep breath, looked at her in genuine relief, and cried out heartily:
"I say! You're a BRICK!"
"Am I?" asked Peg.
"It's really awfully good of you. Some girls in your position would have jumped at me. Positively JUMPED!"
"WOULD they—poor things!"
"But YOU—why, you're a genuine, little, hall-marked 'A number one brick'! I'm extremely obliged to you."
He took her little hand and shook it warmly.
"You're a plucky little girl, that's what you are—a PLUCKY—LITTLE—GIRL. I'll never forget it—NEVER. If there is anythin' I can do—at any time—anywhere—call on me. I'll be there—right on the spot."
He heard his mother's voice, speaking to Jarvis, in the room below. At the same moment he saw Ethel walking toward them along the corridor.
He said hurriedly and fervently to Peg:
"Bless you, cousin. You've taken an awful load off my mind. I was really worried. I HAD to ask you. Promised to. See you before you go! Hello! Ethel! All right? Good!" Without waiting for an answer, the impulsive young gentleman went on up to his own room to rejoice over his escape.
Peg walked over and took Ethel by both hands and looked into the tired, anxious eyes.
"Come into my room," she whispered.
Without a word, Ethel followed her into the Mauve Room.
On the 30th day of June, Mr. Montgomery Hawkes glanced at his appointments for the following day and found the entry: "Mrs. Chichester, Scarboro—in re Margaret O'Connell."
He accordingly sent a telegram to Mrs. Chichester, acquainting her with the pleasant news that she might expect that distinguished lawyer on July 1, to render an account of her stewardship of the Irish agitator's child.
As he entered a first-class carriage on the Great Northern Railway at King's Cross station next day, bound for Scarboro, he found himself wondering how the experiment, dictated by Kingsnorth on his death-bed, had progressed. It was a most interesting case. He had handled several, during his career as a solicitor, in which bequests were made to the younger branches of a family that had been torn by dissension during the testator's lifetime, and were now remembered for the purpose of making tardy amends.
But in those cases the families were all practically of the same caste. It would be merely benefiting them by money or land. Their education had already been taken care of. Once the bequest was arranged all responsibility ended.
The O'Connell-Kingsnorth arrangement was an entirely different condition of things altogether. There were so many provisions each contingent on something in the character of the beneficiary. He did not regard the case with the same equanimity he had handled the others. It opened up so many possibilities of difficulty, and the object of Mr. Kingsnorth's bequest was such an amazing young lady to endeavour to do anything with. He had no preconceived methods to employ in the matter. It was an experiment where his experience was of no use. He had only to wait developments, and, should any real crisis arise, consult with the Chief Executor.
By the time he reached Scarboro he had arranged everything in his mind. It was to be a short and exceedingly satisfactory interview and he would be able to catch the afternoon express back to London.
He pictured Miss O'Connell as being marvellously improved by her gentle surroundings and eager to continue in them. He was sure he would have a most satisfactory report to make to the Chief Executor.
As he walked up the beach-walk he was humming gaily an air from "Girofle-Girofla." He was entirely free from care and annoyance. He was thinking what a fortunate young lady Miss O'Connell was to live amid such delightful surroundings. It would be many a long day before she would ever think of leaving her aunt.
All of which points to the obvious fact that even gentlemen with perfectly-balanced legal brains, occasionally mis-read the result of force of character over circumstances.
He was shown into the music-room and was admiring a genuine Greuze when Mrs. Chichester came in.
She greeted him tragically and motioned him to a seat beside her.
"Well?" he smiled cheerfully. "And how is our little protegee?"
"Sit down," replied Mrs. Chichester, sombrely.
"Thank you."
He sat beside her, waited a moment, then, with some sense of misgiving, asked: "Everything going well, I hope?"
"Far from it." And Mrs. Chichester shook her head sadly.
"Indeed?" His misgivings deepened.
"I want you to understand one thing, Mr. Hawkes," and tears welled up into the old lady's eyes: "I have done my best."
"I am sure of that, Mrs. Chichester," assured the lawyer, growing more and more apprehensive.
"But she wants to leave us to-day. She has ordered cab. She is packing now."
"Dear, dear!" ejaculated the bewildered solicitor. "Where is she going?"
"Back to her father."
"How perfectly ridiculous. WHY?"
"I had occasion to speak to her severely—last night. She grew very angry and indignant—and—now she has ordered a cab."
"Oh!" and Hawkes laughed easily. "A little childish temper. Leave her to me. I have a method with the young. Now—tell me—what is her character? How has she behaved?"
"At times ADMIRABLY. At others—" Mrs. Chichester raised her hands and her eyes in shocked disapproval.
"Not quite—?" suggested Mr. Hawkes.
"Not AT ALL!" concluded Mrs. Chichester.
"How are her studies?"
"Backward."
"Well, we must not expect too much," said the lawyer reassuringly. "Remember everything is foreign to her."
"Then you are not disappointed, Mr. Hawkes?"
"Not in the least. We can't expect to form a character in a month. Does she see many people?"
"Very few. We try to keep her entirely amongst ourselves."
"I wouldn't do that. Let her mix with people. The more the better. The value of contrast. Take her visiting with you. Let her talk to others—listen to them—exchange opinions with them. Nothing is better for sharp-minded, intelligent and IGNORANT people than to meet others cleverer than themselves. The moment they recognise their own inferiority, they feel the desire for improvement."
Mrs. Chichester listened indignantly to this, somewhat platitudinous, sermon on how to develop character. And indignation was in her tone when she replied:
"Surely, she has sufficient example here, sir?"
Hawkes was on one of his dearest hobbies—"Characters and Dispositions." He had once read a lecture on the subject. He smiled almost pityingly at Mrs. Chichester, as he shook his head and answered her.
"No, Mrs. Chichester, pardon me—but NO! She has NOT sufficient example here. Much as I appreciate a HOME atmosphere, it is only when the young get AWAY from it that they really develop. It is the contact with the world, and its huge and marvellous interests, that strengthens character and solidifies disposition. It is only—" he stopped.
Mrs. Chichester was evidently either not listening, or was entirely unimpressed. She was tapping her left hand with a lorgnette she held in her right, and was waiting for an opportunity to speak. Consequently, Mr. Hawkes stopped politely.
"If you can persuade her to remain with us, I will do anything you wish in regard to her character and its development."
"Don't be uneasy," he replied easily, "she will stay. May I see her?"
Mrs. Chichester, rose crossed over to the bell and rang it. She wanted to prepare the solicitor for the possibility of a match between her son and her niece. She would do it NOW and do it tactfully.
"There is one thing you must know, Mr. Hawkes. My son is in love with her," she said, as though in a burst of confidence.
Hawkes rose, visibly perturbed.
"What? Your son?"
"Yes," she sighed. "Of course she is hardly a suitable match for Alaric—as YET. But by the time she is of age—"
"Of age?"
"By that time, much may be done."
Jarvis came in noiselessly and was despatched by Mrs. Chichester to bring her niece to her.
Hawkes was moving restlessly about the room. He stopped in front of Mrs. Chichester as Jarvis disappeared.
"I am afraid, madam, that such a marriage would be out of the question."
"What do you mean?" demanded the old lady. "As one of the executors of the late Mr. Kingsnorth's will, in my opinion, it would be defeating the object of the dead man's legacy."
Mrs. Chichester retorted, heatedly: "He desires her to be TRAINED. What training is better than MARRIAGE?"
"Almost any," replied Mr. Hawkes. "Marriage should be the union of two formed characters. Marriage between the young is one of my pet objections. It is a condition of life essentially for those who have reached maturity in nature and in character. I am preparing a paper on it for the Croydon Ethical Society and—"
Whatever else Mr. Hawkes might have said in continuation of another of his pet subjects was cut abruptly short by the appearance of Peg. She was still dressed in one of Mrs. Chichester's gifts. She had not had an opportunity to change into her little travelling suit.
Hawkes looked at her in delighted surprise. She had completely changed. What a metamorphosis from the forlorn little creature of a month ago! He took her by the hand and pressed it warmly, at the same time saying heartily:
"Well, well! WHAT an improvement."
Peg gazed at him with real pleasure. She was genuinely glad to see him. She returned the pressure of his hand and welcomed him:
"I'm glad you've come, Mr. Hawkes."
"Why, you're a young lady!" cried the astonished solicitor.
"Am I? Ask me aunt about that!" replied Peg, somewhat bitterly.
"Mr. Hawkes wishes to talk to you, dear," broke in Mrs. Chichester, and there was a melancholy pathos in her voice and, in her eyes.
If neither Alaric nor Mr. Hawkes could deter her, what would become of them?
"And I want to talk to Mr. Hawkes, too," replied Peg. "But ye must hurry," she went on. "I've only, a few minutes."
Mrs. Chichester went pathetically to the door, and, telling Mr. Hawkes she would see him again when he had interviewed her niece, she left them.
"Now, my dear Miss Margaret O'Connell—" began the lawyer.
"Will ye let me have twenty pounds?" suddenly asked Peg.
"Certainly. NOW?" and he took out his pocket-book.
"This minnit," replied Peg positively.
"With pleasure," said Mr. Hawkes, as he began to count the bank-notes.
"And I want ye to get a passage on the first ship to America. This afternoon if there's one," cried Peg, earnestly.
"Oh, come, come—" remonstrated the lawyer.
"The twenty pounds I want to buy something for me father—just to remember England by. If ye think me uncle wouldn't like me to have it because I'm lavin', why then me father'll pay ye back. It may take him a long time, but he'll pay it."
"Now listen—" interrupted Mr. Hawkes.
"Mebbe it'll only be a few dollars a week, but father always pays his debts—in time. That's all he ever needs—TIME."
"What's all this nonsense about going away?"
"It isn't nonsense. I'm goin' to me father," answered Peg resolutely.
"Just when everything is opening out for you?" asked the lawyer.
"Everything has closed up on me," said Peg. "I'm goin' back."
"Why, you've improved out of all knowledge."
"Don't think that. Me clothes have changed—that's all. When I put me thravellin' suit back on agen, ye won't notice any IMPROVEMENT."
"But think what you're giving up."
"I'll have me father. I'm only sorry I gave HIM up—for a month."
"The upbringing of a young lady!"
"I don't want it. I want me father."
"The advantages of gentle surroundings."
"New York is good enough for me—with me father."
"Education!"
"I can get that in America—with me father."
"Position!"
"I don't want it. I want me father."
"Why this rebellion? This sudden craving for your father?"
"It isn't sudden," she turned on him fiercely. "I've wanted him all the time I've been here. I only promised to stay a month anyway. Well, I've stayed a month. Now, I've disgraced them all here an' I'm goin' back home."
"DISGRACED them?"
"Yes, disgraced them. Give me that twenty pounds, please," and she held out her hand for the notes.
"How have you disgraced them?" demanded the astonished lawyer.
"Ask me aunt. She knows. Give me the money, please."
Hawkes hunted through his mind for the cause of this upheaval in the Chichester home. He remembered Mrs. Chichester's statement about Alaric's affection for his young cousin. Could the trouble have arisen from THAT? It gave him a clue to work on. He grasped it.
"Answer me one question truthfully, Miss O'Connell."
"What is it? Hurry. I've a lot to do before I go."
"Is there an affair of the heart?"
"D'ye mean LOVE?"
"Yes."
"Why d'ye ask me that?"
"Answer me," insisted Mr. Hawkes.
Peg looked down on the ground mournfully and replied:
"Me heart is in New York—with me father."
"Has anyone made love to you since you have been here?"
Peg looked up at him sadly and shook her head. A moment later, a mischievous look came into her eyes, and she said, with a roguish laugh:
"Sure one man wanted to kiss me an' I boxed his ears. And another—ALMOST man—asked me to marry him."
"Oh!" ejaculated the lawyer.
"Me cousin Alaric."
"And what did you say?" questioned Hawkes.
"I towld him I'd rather have 'Michael.'"
He looked at her in open bewilderment and repeated:
"Michael?"
"Me dog," explained Peg, and her eyes danced with merriment.
Hawkes laughed heartily and relievedly.
"Then you refused him?"
"Of course I refused him. ME marry HIM! What for, I'd like to know?"
"Is he too young?"
"He's too selfish, an' too silly too, an' too everything I don't like in a man!" replied Peg.
"And what DO you like in a man?"
"Precious little from what I've seen of them in England."
As Hawkes looked at her, radiant in her spring-like beauty, her clear, healthy complexion, her dazzling teeth, her red-gold hair, he felt a sudden thrill go through him. His life had been so full, so concentrated on the development of his career, that he had never permitted the feminine note to obtrude itself on his life. His effort had been rewarded by an unusually large circle of influential clients who yielded him an exceedingly handsome revenue. He had heard whispers of a magistracy. His PUBLIC future was assured.
But his PRIVATE life was arid. The handsome villa in Pelham Crescent had no one to grace the head of the table, save on the occasional visits of his aged mother, or the still rarer ones of a married sister.
And here was he in the full prime of life.
It is remarkable how, at times, in one's passage through life, the throb in a voice, the breath of a perfume, the chord of an old song, will arouse some hidden note that had so far lain dormant in one's nature, and which, when awakened into life, has influences that reach through generations.
It was even so with Hawkes, as he looked at the little Irish girl, born of an aristocratic English mother, looking up at him, hand outstretched, expectant, in all her girlish pudicity.
Yielding to some uncontrollable impulse, he took the little hand in both of his own. He smiled nervously, and there was a suspicious tremor in his voice:
"You would like a man of position in life to give you what you most need. Of years to bring you dignity, and strength to protect you."
"I've got HIM," stated Peg unexpectedly, withdrawing her hand and eyeing the bank-notes that seemed as far from her as when she first asked for them.
"You've got him?" ejaculated the man-of-law, aghast.
"I have. Me father. Let ME count that money. The cab will be here an' I won't be ready—" Hawkes was not to be denied now. He went on in his softest and most persuasive accents:
"I know one who would give you all these—a man who has reached the years of discretion! one in whom the follies of youth have merged into the knowledge and reserve of early middle-age. A man of position and of means. A man who can protect you, care for you, admire you—and be proud to marry you."
He felt a real glow of eloquent pleasure, as he paused for her reply to so dignified and ardent an appeal.
If Peg had been listening, she certainly could not have understood the meaning of his fervid words, since she answered him by asking a question:
"Are ye goin' to let me have the money?"
"Do not speak of MONEY at a moment like this!" cried the mortified lawyer.
"But ye said ye would let me have it!" persisted Peg.
"Don't you wish to know who the man is, whom I have just described, my dear Miss O'Connell?"
"No, I don't. Why should I? With me father waitin' in New York for me—an' I'm waitin' for that—" and again she pointed to his pocket-book.
"Miss O'Connell—may I say—Margaret, I was your uncle's adviser—his warm personal friend. We spoke freely of you for many weeks before he died. It was his desire to do something for you that would change your whole life and make it full and happy and contented. Were your uncle alive, I know of nothing that would give him greater pleasure than for his old friend to take you, your young life—into his care. Miss O'Connell—I am the man!"
It was the first time this dignified gentleman had ever invited a lady to share his busy existence, and he felt the warm flush of youthful nervousness rush to his cheeks, as it might have done had he made just such a proposal, as a boy. It really seemed to him that he WAS a boy as he stood before Peg waiting for her reply.
Again she did not say exactly what he had thought and hoped she would have said.
"Stop it!" she cried. "What's the matther with you men this morning? Ye'd think I was some great lady, the way ye're all offerin' me yer hands an' yer names an' yer influences an' yer dignities. Stop it! Give me that money and let me go."
Hawkes did not despair. He paused.
"Don't give your answer too hastily. I know it must seem abrupt—one might almost say BRUTAL. ButIam alone in the world—YOU are alone. Neither of us have contracted a regard for anyone else. And in addition to that—there would be no occasion to marry until you are twenty-one. There!"
And he gazed at her with what he fondly hoped were eyes of sincere adoration.
"Not until I'm twenty-one! Look at that now!" replied Peg—it seemed to Mr. Hawkes, somewhat flippantly.
"Well! What do you say?" he asked vibrantly.
"What do I say, to WHAT?"
"Will you consent to an engagement?"
"With YOU?"
"Yes, Miss O'Connell, with me."
Peg suddenly burst into a paroxysm of laughter.
Hawkes' face clouded and hardened.
The gloomier he looked, the more hearty were Peg's ebullitions of merriment.
Finally, when the hysterical outburst had somewhat abated, he asked coldly:
"Am I to consider that a refusal?"
"Ye may. What wouldIbe doin', marryin' the likes of you? Answer me that?"
His passion began to dwindle, his ardour to lessen.
"That is final?" he queried.
"Absolutely, completely and entirely final."
Not only did all HOPE die in Mr. Hawkes, but seemingly all REGARD as well.
Ridicule is the certain death-blow to a great and disinterested affection.
Peg's laugh still rang in his ears and as he looked at her now, with a new intelligence, unblinded by illusion, he realised what a mistake it would have been for a man, of his temperament, leanings and achievements to have linked his life with hers. Even his first feeling of resentment passed. He felt now a warm tinge of gratitude. Her refusal—bitter though its method had been—was a sane and wise decision. It was better for both of them.
He looked at her gratefully and said:
"Very well. I think your determination to return to your father, a very wise one. I shall advise the Chief Executor to that effect. And I shall also see that a cabin is reserved for you on the first out-going steamer, and I'll personally take you on board."
"Thank ye very much, sir. An' may I have the twenty pounds?"
"Certainly. Here it is," and he handed her the money.
"I'm much obliged to ye. An' I'm sorry if I hurt ye by laughin' just now. But I thought ye were jokin', I did."
"Please never refer to it again."
"I won't—indade I won't. I am sure it was very nice of ye to want to marry me—"
"I beg you—" he interrupted, stopping her with a gesture.
"Are you goin' back to London to-day?"
"By the afternoon express."
"May I go with you?"
"Certainly."
"Thank ye," cried Peg. "I won't kape ye long. I've not much to take with me. Just what I brought here—that's all."
She hurried across the room to the staircase. When, she was halfway up the stairs, Jarvis entered and was immediately followed by Jerry.
Peg stopped when she saw him come into the room.
As Jarvis went out, Jerry turned and saw Peg looking down at him. The expression on her face was at once stern and wistful and angry and yearning.
He went forward eagerly.
"Peg!" he said gently, looking up at her.
"I'm goin' back to me father in half an hour!" and she went on up the stairs.
"In half an hour?" he called after her.
"In thirty minutes!" she replied and disappeared.
As Jerry moved slowly away from the staircase, he met Montgomery Hawkes.