A fortnight later Peggy Saville arrived at the vicarage. Her mother brought her, stayed for a couple of hours, and then left for the time being; but as she was to pay some visits in the neighbourhood it was understood that this was not the final parting, and that she would spend several afternoons with her daughter before sailing for India. On this occasion, however, none of the young people saw her, for they were out during the afternoon, and were just settling down to tea in the schoolroom when the wheels of the departing carriage crunched down the drive.
“Now for it!” cried Maxwell, and they looked at one another in silence, knowing full well what would happen. Mrs Asplin would think an introduction to her young friends the best distraction for the strange girl after her mother’s departure, and the next item in the programme would be the appearance of Miss Peggy herself. Esther rearranged the scattered tea-things; Oswald felt to see if his necktie was in position, and Robert hunched his shoulders and rolled his eyes at Mellicent in distracting fashion. Each one sat with head cocked on one side, in an attitude of eager attention. The front door banged, footsteps approached, and Mrs Asplin’s high, cheerful tones were heard drawing nearer and nearer.
“This way, dear,” she was saying. “They are longing to see you!”
The listeners gave a simultaneous gulp of excitement, the door opened, and—Peggy entered!
She was not in the least what they had expected! This was neither the blonde beauty of Maxwell’s foretelling, nor the black-haired elf described by Mellicent. The first glance was unmitigated disappointment.
“She is not a bit pretty,” was the mental comment of the two girls. “What a funny little soul!” that of the three big boys, who had risen on Mrs Asplin’s entrance, and now stood staring at the new-comer with curious eyes.
Peggy was slight and pale, and at the first sight her face gave a comical impression of being made up of a succession of peaks. Her hair hung in a pigtail down her back, and grew in a deep point on her forehead; her finely-marked eyebrows were shaped like eaves, and her chin was for all the world like that of a playful kitten. Even the velvet trimming on her dress accentuated this peculiarity, as it zigzagged round the sleeves and neck. The hazel eyes were light and bright, and flitted from one figure to another with a suspicious twinkling; but nothing could have been more composed, more demure, or patronisingly grown-up than the manner in which this strange girl bore the scrutiny which was bent upon her.
“Here are your new friends, Peggy,” cried Mrs Asplin cheerily. “They always have tea by themselves in the schoolroom, and do what they please from four to five o’clock. Now just sit down, dear, and take your place among them at once. Esther will make room for you by her side, and introduce you to the others. I will leave you to make friends. I know young people get on better when they are left alone.”
She whisked out of the room in her impetuous fashion, and Peggy Saville seated herself in the midst of a ghastly silence. The young people had been prepared to cheer and encourage a bashful stranger, but the self-possession of this thin, pale-faced girl took them by surprise, so that they sat round the table playing uncomfortably with teaspoons and knives, and irritably conscious that they, and not the new-comer, were the ones to be overcome with confusion. The silence lasted for a good two minutes, and was broken at last by Miss Peggy herself.
“Cream and sugar!” she said, in a tone of sweet insinuation. “Two lumps, if you please. Not very strong, and as hot as possible. Thank you! So sorry to be a trouble.”
Esther fairly jumped with surprise, and seizing the teapot, filled the empty cup in haste. Then she remembered the dreaded airs of the boarding-school miss, and her own vows of independence, and made a gallant effort to regain composure.
“No trouble at all. I hope that will be right. Please help yourself. Bread—and—butter—scones—cake! I must introduce you to the rest, and then you will feel more at home! I am Esther, the eldest, a year older than you, I think. This is Mellicent, my younger sister, fourteen last February. I think you are about the same age.” She paused a moment, and Peggy looked across the table and said, “How do you do, dear?” in an affable, grandmotherly fashion, which left poor Mellicent speechless, and filled the others with delighted amusement. But their own turn was coming. Esther pulled herself together, and went on steadily with her introductions. “This is Maxwell, my brother, and these are father’s two pupils—Oswald Elliston, and Robert—the Honourable Robert Darcy.” She was not without hope that the imposing sound of the latter name would shake the self-possession of the stranger, but Peggy inclined her head with the air of a queen, drawled out a languid, “Pleased to see you!” and dropped her eyes with an air of indifference, which seemed to imply that an “Honourable” was an object of no interest whatever, and that she was really bored by the number of her titled acquaintances. The boys looked at each other with furtive glances of astonishment. Mellicent spread jam all over her plate, and Esther unconsciously turned on the handle of the urn and deluged the tray with water, but no one ventured a second remark, and once again it was Peggy’s voice that opened the conversation.
“And is this the room in which you pursue your avocations? It has a warm and cheerful exposure.”
“Er—yes! This is the schoolroom. Mellicent and I have lessons here in the morning from our German governess, while the boys are in the study with father. In the afternoon, from two to four, they use it for preparation, and we go out to classes. We have music lessons on Monday, painting on Tuesday, calisthenics and wood-carving on Thursday and Friday. Wednesday and Saturday are half-holidays. Then from four to six the room is common property, and we have tea together and amuse ourselves as we choose.”
“A most desirable arrangement. Thank you! Yes,—I will take a scone, as you are so kind!” said Peggy blandly; a remark which covered the five young people with confusion, since none of them had noticed that her plate was empty. Each one made a grab in the direction of the plate of scones; the girls failed to reach it, while Oswald, twitching it from Robert’s hands, jerked half the contents on the table, and had to pick them up, while Miss Saville looked on with a smile of indulgent superiority.
“Accidents will happen, will they not?” she said sweetly, as she lifted a scone from the plate, with her little finger cocked well in the air, and nibbled it daintily between her small white teeth. “A most delicious cake! Home-made, I presume? Perhaps of your own concoction?”
Esther muttered an inarticulate assent, and once more the conversation languished. She looked appealingly at Maxwell. As the son of the house, the eldest of the boys, it was his place to take the lead, but Maxwell looked the picture of embarrassment. He did not suffer from bashfulness as a rule, but since Peggy Saville had come into the room he had been seized with an appalling self-consciousness. His feet felt in the way, his arms seemed too long for practical purposes, his elbows had a way of invading other people’s precincts, and his hands looked red and clammy. It occurred to him dimly that he was not a man after all, but only a big overgrown schoolboy, and that little Miss Saville knew as much, and was mildly pitiful of his shortcomings. He was not at all anxious to attract the attention of the sharp little tongue, so he passed on the signal to Mellicent, kicking her foot under the table, and frowning vigorously in the direction of the stranger.
“Er,”—began Mellicent, anxious to respond to the signal, but lamentably short of ideas,—“Er,—Peggy! Are you fond of sums? I’m in decimals. Do you like fractions? I think they are hateful. I could do vulgars pretty well, but decimals are fearful. They never come right. So awfully difficult.”
“Patience and perseverance overcome difficulties. Keep up your courage. I’ll help you with them, dear,” said Peggy encouragingly, closing her eyes the while, and coughing in a faint and ladylike manner.
She could not really be only fourteen, Mellicent reflected. She talked as if she were quite grown-up,—older than Esther, seventeen or eighteen at the very least. What a little white face she had! what a great thick plait of hair! How erect she held herself! Fr?ulein would never have to rebuke her new pupil for stooping shoulders. It was kind of her to promise help with those troublesome decimals! Quite too good an offer to refuse.
“Thank you very much,” she said heartily, “I’ll show you some after tea. Perhaps you may be able to make me understand better than Fr?ulein. It’s very good of you, P—” A quick change of expression warned her that something was wrong, and she checked herself to add hastily, “You want to be called ‘Peggy,’ don’t you? No? Then what must we call you? What is your real name?”
“Mariquita!” sighed the damsel pensively, “after my grandmother—Spanish. A beautiful and unscrupulous woman at the court of Philip the Second.” She said “unscrupulous” with an air of pride, as though it had been “virtuous,” or some other word of a similar meaning, and pronounced the name of the king with a confidence that made Robert gasp.
“Philip the Second? Surely not? He was the husband of our Mary in 1572. That would make it just a trifle too far back for your grandmother, wouldn’t it?” he inquired sceptically; but Mariquita remained absolutely unperturbed.
“It must have been someone else, then, I suppose. How clever of you to remember! I see you know something about history,” she said suavely; a remark which caused an amused glance to pass between the young people, for Robert had a craze for history of all description, and had serious thought of becoming a second Carlyle so soon as his college course was over.
Maxwell put his handkerchief to his mouth to stifle a laugh, and kicked out vigorously beneath the table, with the intention of sharing his amusement with his friend Oswald. It seemed, however, that he had aimed amiss, for Mariquita fell back in her chair, and laid her hand on her heart.
“I think there must be some slight misunderstanding. That’s my foot that you are kicking! I cut it very badly on the ice last winter, and the least touch causes acute suffering. Please don’t apologise; it doesn’t matter in the least,” and she rolled her eyes to the ceiling, like one in mortal agony.
It was the last straw. Maxwell’s embarrassment had reached such a pitch that he could bear no more. He murmured some unintelligible words, and bolted from the room, and the other two boys lost no time in following his example.
In subsequent conversations, Mellicent always referred to this occasion as “the night when Robert had one cup,” it being, in truth, the only occasion since this young gentleman entered the vicarage when he had neglected to patronise the teapot three or four times in succession.