“Ye—es, or brown-auburn, Ithink.”
“Bare your right arm, Peggy.”
The child did so, and the doctor started as if he had seen a ghost.
“Why—God have mercy on us, Mr. Fitzroy, this is Maggie Wycliffe back from the grave!”
“Now,” said Fitzroy, “will you listen patiently to my story and hers?”
And he told the doctor all.
The doctor, after hearing it, took several strides up and down the floor.
“We must be cautious,” he said at last, “how we break the news to—to Maggie’s mother. A shock might kill her. Even a shock of joy.”
“All this I leave to you, my dear sir. But you are convinced yourself now, that here stands Maggie Wycliffe, and convinced, too, of the terrible wrong that has been done her.”
“I see it all very, very clearly now.”
“Then I have nothing further to say at present, doctor, and shall take my leave. I have my part to play; you have yours. Good-night, sir.”
“Good-night, Mr. Fitzroy. Good-night, little Maggie.”
The meeting between Peggy, for I must continue to call her by this sweet name, and her mother, the gentle-faced old lady with the snow-white hair, whom the child had met in the park, was a very tender one.
There were tears in Mrs. Wycliffe’s eyes as she pressed the child to her heart, and tears in Peggy’s too.
“I’m going to live for your sake. I am going to try to make you happy, child.”
“And I will make you happy, mother.”
The word “mother” was a new one to Peggy, but it seemed a very, very fond one.
Fitzroy was so pleased when asked to take up his residence at the Park till things were settled. He lost no time about this settlement, notwithstanding, but placed the matter at once in his lawyer’s hands.
There was like to be some little trouble at first. The evil brother had held the estates of Creve for eight long years now, and he felt it hard to give them up. But so terrible was the evidence of his guilt that even his own solicitor advised him not to fight the case.
On the very next day after this advice had been vouchsafed, the unhappy man was found dead in his bed. It matters butlittle now what the verdict of the coroner was. He is gone, and we must hope that he is forgiven.
* * * * *
The estates of Creve in Devonshire, under the guardianship of her mother, are worth many thousands annually, and Peggy Wycliffe is the beautiful little mistress thereof, but somehow neither she nor her mother care to reside there, and so they are let.
* * * * *
My story is told—my “ower true” tale. And so the curtain drops.
Yet it seems but right that we should raise it again for a few moments to have one last look at our heroes and heroines.
Little Peggy McQueen or Wycliffe is very happy in her new home, and her mother is really renewing her youth. Sad it is that she is almost blind. She and her daughter are never parted. They may often be seen walking together in the beautiful park when the weather is fine, and always followed by that noble blood-hound, Ralph.
And there is one seat among the trees on which they very often rest. It is the rustic daïs on which Peggy was sitting with her dog that day, when quietly up behind hercame the gentle lady with the snow-white hair.
Willie Randolph, Peggy’s old favourite, she is going to see frequently, also poor little Gourmie.
As for Molly. Oh, bless my soul, my dear young reader, I wouldn’t forget her for the world. She is a resident at Wycliffe now, and looks after the plate and the linen, and is just as happy as the twenty-first of June is long.
Molly says she is getting old. “Getting” you know, and Peggy smiles kindly on her when she says so. “And my poor back, Miss Peggy,” she says, “it do ache unkimmon sometimes, with that plaguey rheumatiz. But what can I expect, dear Missie. I be’s six-and-forty years o’ age. Ay, be I.”
I think myself that if Molly had said sixty-four instead of forty-six she would have been nearer the mark. The same figures, four and six, but the dear old lady had put the cart before the horse.
What matters it? Old Molly is happy.
Both Fitzroy and Johnnie are frequently down at Wycliffe enjoying a few days’ sport, for game abounds on the estate.
And right happy days these are. Johnnieis going into the Army. I am curious to know what sort of a soldier he will make. I shall keep my weather eye lifting, but I feel sure that if Johnnie doesn’t win the Victoria Cross it will be through no fault of Johnnie’s.
But the dear old life in wayside camp and caravan is not going to be altogether given up. No, because with her mother’s sanction Peggy is preparing for a grand tour right away from the beautiful New Forest in Hampshire to the wild grandeur of the Sutherland Highlands, far beyond the Caledonian Alps. Peggy’s caravan will be no longer the little one over the half-door of which she was leaning when we first made her acquaintance. It is to be the most spacious and the handsomest travelling car on the road, saloon-cabin and after-cabin. But Peggy’s mother will go also, and old Molly and Ralph as well.
Peggy has told me that she does not mean to do things by halves, and that not only shall Gourmie be one of the crew, but little Willie the violinist, and Fitzroy himself.
Will Johnnie be there? Was that what you asked? What a question, to be sure!If you asked Peggy herself, she would look at you in sweet surprise and say, “Why, of course. Caravan life would not be caravan life, nor a camp a camp, without Johnnie!”
I end by wishing them a happy cruise.
And you, my young reader, boy or girl, a happy Christmas, with a right merry and jolly New Year to follow!
Ta, ta!
LONDON AND GLASGOW, COLLINS’ CLEAR-TYPE PRESS
The “Forward” Series.
The Original Series, with Coloured Pictures.New Attractive Bindings, in Art Colours.
This Series of Books for Boys and Girls has been Edited by Herbert Hayens, author of “Under the Lone Star” and numerous other Books for Boys; and care has been taken to publish only what can be confidently placed in the hands of youth.
Each Book is printed from a new font of Clear Type.
Additional Titles in Preparation.
London and Glasgow: Collins’ Clear-Type Press.