About Peggy Saville by Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey

About Peggy Saville by Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey 1857-1917


CHAPTER ONE.

A NEW INMATE.

The afternoon post had come in, and the Vicar of Renton stood in the bay
window of his library reading his budget of letters. He was a tall,
thin man, with a close-shaven face, which had no beauty of feature, but
which was wonderfully attractive all the same. It was not an old face,
but it was deeply lined, and those who knew and loved him best could
tell the meaning of each of those eloquent tracings. The deep vertical
mark running up the forehead meant sorrow. It had been stamped there
for ever on the night when Hubert, his first-born, had been brought
back, cold and lifeless, from the river to which he had hurried forth
but an hour before, a picture of happy boyhood. The vicar's brow had
been smooth enough before that day. The furrow was graven to the memory
of Teddy, the golden-haired lad who had first taught him the joys of
fatherhood. The network of lines about the eyes were caused by the
hundred and one little worries of everyday life, and the strain of
working a delicate body to its fullest pitch; and the two long, deep
streaks down the cheeks bore testimony to that happy sense of humour
which showed the bright side of a question, and helped him out of many a
slough of despair. This afternoon, as he stood reading his letters one
by one, the different lines deepened, or smoothed out, according to the
nature of the missive. Now he smiled, now he sighed, anon he crumpled
up his face in puzzled thought, until the last letter of all was
reached, when he did all three in succession, ending up with a low
whistle of surprise--

"Edith! This is from Mrs Saville. Just look at this!"

Instantly there came a sound of hurried rising from the other end of the
room; a work-basket swayed to and fro on a rickety gipsy-table, and the
vicar's wife walked towards him, rolling half a dozen reels of thread in
her wake with an air of fine indifference.

"Mrs Saville!" she exclaimed eagerly. "How is my boy?" and without
waiting for an answer she seized the letter, and began to devour its
contents, while her husband went stooping about over the floor picking
up the contents of the scattered basket and putting them carefully back
in their places. He smiled to himself as he did so, and kept turning
amused, tender glances at his wife as she stood in the uncarpeted space
in the window, with the sunshine pouring in on her eager face. Mrs
Asplin had been married for twenty years, and was the mother of three
big children; but such was the buoyancy of her Irish nature and the
irrepressible cheeriness of her heart, that she was in good truth the
youngest person in the house, so that her own daughters were sometimes
quite shocked at her levity of behaviour, and treated her with gentle,
motherly restraint. She was tall and thin, like her husband, and he, at
least, considered her every whit as beautiful as she had been a score of
years before. Her hair was dark and curly; she had deep-set grey eyes,
and a pretty fresh complexion. When she was well, and rushing about in
her usual breathless fashion, she looked like the sister of her own tall
girls; and when she was ill, and the dark lines showed under her eyes,
she looked like a tired, wearied girl, but never for a moment as if she
deserved such a title as an old, or elderly, woman. Now, as she read,
her eyes glowed, and she uttered ecstatic little exclamations of triumph
from time to time; for Arthur Saville, the son of the lady who was the
writer of the letter, had been the first pupil whom her husband had
taken into his house to coach, and as such had a special claim on her
affection. For the first dozen years of their marriage all had gone
smoothly with Mr and Mrs Asplin, and the vicar had had more work than
he could manage in his busy city parish; then, alas, lung trouble had
threatened; he had been obliged to take a year's rest, and to exchange
his living for a sleepy little parish, where he could breathe fresh air,
and take life at a slower pace. Illness, the doctor's bills, the year's
holiday, ran away with a large sum of money; the stipend of the country
church was by no means generous, and the vicar was lamenting the fact
that he was shortest of money just when his children were growing up and
he needed it most, when an old college friend requested, as a favour,
that he would undertake the education of his only son, for a year at
least, so that the boy might be well grounded in his studies before
going on to the military tutor who was to prepare him for Sandhurst.
Handsome terms were quoted, the vicar looked upon the offer as a leading
of Providence, and Arthur Saville's stay at the vicarage proved a
success in every sense of the word. He was a clever boy who was not
afraid of work, and the vicar discovered in himself an unsuspected
genius for teaching. Arthur's progress not only filled him with
delight, but brought the offer of other pupils, so that he was but the
forerunner of a succession of bright, handsome boys, who came from far
and wide to be prepared for college, and to make their home at the
vicarage. They were honest, healthy-minded lads, and Mrs Asplin loved
them all, but no one had ever taken Arthur Saville's place. During the
year which he had spent under her roof he had broken his collar-bone,
sprained his ankle, nearly chopped off the top of one of his fingers,
scalded his foot, and fallen crash through a plate-glass window. There
had never been one moment's peace or quietness; she had gone about from
morning to night in chronic fear of a disaster; and, as a matter of
course, it followed that Arthur was her darling, ensconced in a little
niche of his own, from which subsequent pupils tried in vain to oust
him.

Mrs Saville dwelt upon the latest successes of her clever son with a
mother's pride, and his second mother beamed, and smiled, and cried, "I
told you so!"

"Dear boy!"

"Of course he did!" in delighted echo. But when she came to the second
half of the letter her face changed, and she grew grave and anxious.
"And now, dear Mr Asplin," Mrs Saville wrote, "I come to the real
burden of my letter. I return to India in autumn, and am most anxious
to see Peggy happily settled before I leave. She has been at this
Brighton school for four years, and has done well with her lessons, but
the poor child seems so unhappy at the thought of returning, that I am
sorely troubled about her. Like most Indian children, she has had very
little home life, and after being with me for the last six months she
dreads the prospect of school, and I cannot bear the thought of sending
her back against her will. I was puzzling over the question yesterday,
when it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps you, dear Mr Asplin, could
help me out of my difficulty. Could you--would you, take her in hand
for the next three years, letting her share the lessons of your own two
girls? I cannot tell you what a relief and joy it would be to feel that
she was under your care. Arthur always looks back on the year spent
with you as one of the brightest of his life; and I am sure Peggy would
be equally happy. I write to you from force of habit, but really I
think this letter should have been addressed to Mrs Asplin, for it is
she who would be most concerned. I know her heart is large enough to
mother my dear girl during my absence; and if strength and time will
allow her to undertake this fresh charge, I think she will be glad to
help another mother by doing so. Peggy is bright and clever, like her
brother, and strong on the whole, though her throat needs care. She is
nearly fifteen--the age, I think, of your youngest girl--and we should
be pleased to pay the same terms as we did for Arthur. Now, please,
dear Mr Asplin, talk the matter over with your wife, and let me know
your decision as soon as possible."

Mrs Asplin dropped the letter on the floor, and turned to confront her
husband.

"Well!"

"Well?"

"It is your affair, dear, not mine. You would have the trouble. Could
you do with an extra child in the house?"

"Yes, yes, so far as that goes. The more the merrier. I should like to
help Arthur's mother, but,"--Mrs Asplin leant her head on one side, and
put on what her children described as her "Ways and Means" expression.
She was saying to herself,--"Clear out the box-room over the study.
Spare chest-of-drawers from dressing-room--cover a box with one of the
old chintz curtains for an ottoman--enamel the old blue furniture--new
carpet and bedstead, say five or six pounds outlay--yes! I think I
could make it pretty for five pounds!..." The calculations lasted for
about two minutes, at the end of which time her brow cleared, she nodded
brightly, and said in a crisp, decisive tone, "Yes, we will take her!
Arthur's throat was delicate too. She must use my gargle."

The vicar laughed softly.

"Ah! I thought that would decide it. I knew your soft heart would not
be able to resist the thought of the delicate throat! Well, dear, if
you are willing, so am I. I am glad to make hay while the sun shines,
and lay by a little provision for the children. How will they take it,
do you think? They are accustomed to strange boys, but a girl will be a
new experience. She will come at once, I suppose, and settle down to
work for the autumn. Dear me! dear me! It is the unexpected that
happens. I hope she is a nice child."

"Of course she is. She is Arthur's sister. Come! the young folks are
in the study. Let us go and tell them the news. I have always said it
was my ambition to have half a dozen children, and now, at last, it is
going to be gratified."

Mrs Asplin thrust her hand through her husband's arm, and led him down
the wide, flagged hall, towards the room whence the sound of merry young
voices fell pleasantly upon the ear.

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