Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
About Peggy Saville, by Mrs George de Horne Vaizey.
________________________________________________________________________I have used part of the same introduction for this book, as I did forone of the books about Pixie O'Shaughnessy, not because the books areanything like the same, but because the observations are equally valid.
This is another excellent book by Mrs de Horne Vaizey, dating from theend of the nineteenth century. While of course it is dated in itsreferences to the world around its actors, yet nevertheless theiremotions are well-described, and no doubt are timeless.
Some older children are being educated at a Vicarage near Brighton,along with the vicar's own three. Peggy Saville is a "new girl", havingpreviously lived in India, where her parents still are. She has greattalent in some directions, but still has to add up by counting on herfingers! She certainly gets up to some tricks, though.
There is a fire at a dance given by the titled family of one of thepupils, from which Peggy rescues the daughter of the house. Both girlsare injured, Peggy the more severely, but eventually they are both onthe way to recovery.
In some ways the world around the people in the book is recognisabletoday, in a way which a book written thirty or forty years before wouldnot have been. They have electricity, telephones, trains, buses, andmany other things that we still use regularly today. Of course onemajor difference is that few people today have servants, whilemiddle-class and upper-class families of the eighteen nineties wouldcertainly have had them.
So it is not so very dated after all. But I do think there is a realvalue in reading the book. Oddly enough, I think that a boy wouldbenefit from reading any of the author's books, more than a girl would,because it would give him an insight into the girlish mind which hecould not so easily otherwise obtain.
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ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE, BY MRS GEORGE DE HORNE VAIZEY.
CHAPTER ONE.
A NEW INMATE.
The afternoon post had come in, and the Vicar of Renton stood in the baywindow 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, butwhich 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 couldtell the meaning of each of those eloquent tracings. The deep verticalmark running up the forehead meant sorrow. It had been stamped therefor ever on the night when Hubert, his first-born, had been broughtback, cold and lifeless, from the river to which he had hurried forthbut an hour before, a picture of happy boyhood. The vicar's brow hadbeen smooth enough before that day. The furrow was graven to the memoryof Teddy, the golden-haired lad who had first taught him the joys offatherhood. The network of lines about the eyes were caused by thehundred and one little worries of everyday life, and the strain ofworking a delicate body to its fullest pitch; and the two long, deepstreaks down the cheeks bore testimony to that happy sense of humourwhich showed the bright side of a question, and helped him out of many aslough of despair. This afternoon, as he stood reading his letters oneby one, the different lines deepened, or smoothed out, according to thenature of the missive. Now he smiled, now he sighed, anon he crumpledup his face in puzzled thought, until the last letter of all wasreached, when he did all three in succession, ending up with a lowwhistle 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 theroom; a work-basket swayed to and fro on a rickety gipsy-table, and thevicar's wife walked towards him, rolling half a dozen reels of thread inher wake with an air of fine indifference.
"Mrs Saville!" she exclaimed eagerly. "How is my boy?" and withoutwaiting for an answer she seized the letter, and began to devour itscontents, while her husband went stooping about over the floor pickingup the contents of the scattered basket and putting them carefully backin their places. He smiled to himself as he did so, and kept turningamused, tender glances at his wife as she stood in the uncarpeted spacein the window, with the sunshine pouring in on her eager face. MrsAsplin had been married for twenty years, and was the mother of threebig children; but such was the buoyancy of her Irish nature and theirrepressible cheeriness of her heart, that she was in good truth theyoungest person in the house, so that her own daughters were sometimesquite shocked at her levity of behaviour, and treated her with gentle,motherly restraint. She was tall and thin, like her husband, and he, atleast, considered her every whit as beautiful as she had been a score ofyears 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 inher usual breathless fashion, she looked like the sister of her own tallgirls; 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 shedeserved such a title as an old, or elderly, woman. Now, as she read,her eyes glowed, and she uttered ecstatic little exclamations of triumphfrom time to time; for Arthur Saville, the son of the lady who was thewriter of the letter, had been the first pupil whom her husband hadtaken into his house to coach, and as such had a special claim on heraffection. For the first dozen years of their marriage all had gonesmoothly with Mr and Mrs Asplin, and the vicar had had more work thanhe could manage in his busy city parish; then, alas, lung trouble hadthreatened; he had been obliged to take a year's rest, and to exchangehis 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'sholiday, ran away with a large sum of money; the stipend of the countrychurch was by no means generous, and the vicar was lamenting the factthat he was shortest of money just when his children were growing up andhe 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 atleast, so that the boy might be well grounded in his studies beforegoing on to the military tutor who was to prepare him for Sandhurst.Handsome terms were quoted, the vicar looked upon the offer as a leadingof Providence, and Arthur Saville's stay at the vicarage proved asuccess in every sense of the word. He was a clever boy who was notafraid of work, and the vicar discovered in himself an unsuspectedgenius for teaching. Arthur's progress not only filled him withdelight, but brought the offer of other pupils, so that he was but theforerunner of a succession of bright, handsome boys, who came from farand wide to be prepared for college, and to make their home at thevicarage. They were honest, healthy-minded lads, and Mrs Asplin lovedthem all, but no one had ever taken Arthur Saville's place. During theyear 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. Therehad never been one moment's peace or quietness; she had gone about frommorning to night in chronic fear of a disaster; and, as a matter ofcourse, it followed that Arthur was her darling, ensconced in a littleniche of his own, from which subsequent pupils tried in vain to ousthim.
Mrs Saville dwelt upon the latest successes of her clever son with amother's pride, and his second mother beamed, and smiled, and cried, "Itold you so!"
"Dear boy!"
"Of course he did!" in delighted echo. But when she came to the secondhalf of the letter her face changed, and she grew grave and anxious."And now, dear Mr Asplin," Mrs Saville wrote, "I come to the realburden of my letter. I return to India in autumn, and am most anxiousto see Peggy happily settled before I leave. She has been at thisBrighton school for four years, and has done well with her lessons, butthe poor child seems so unhappy at the thought of returning, that I amsorely troubled about her.
Like most Indian children, she has had verylittle home life, and after being with me for the last six months shedreads the prospect of school, and I cannot bear the thought of sendingher back against her will. I was puzzling over the question yesterday,when it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps you, dear Mr Asplin, couldhelp me out of my difficulty. Could you--would you, take her in handfor the next three years, letting her share the lessons of your own twogirls? I cannot tell you what a relief and joy it would be to feel thatshe was under your care. Arthur always looks back on the year spentwith you as one of the brightest of his life; and I am sure Peggy wouldbe equally happy. I write to you from force of habit, but really Ithink this letter should have been addressed to Mrs Asplin, for it isshe who would be most concerned. I know her heart is large enough tomother my dear girl during my absence; and if strength and time willallow her to undertake this fresh charge, I think she will be glad tohelp another mother by doing so. Peggy is bright and clever, like herbrother, and strong on the whole, though her throat needs care. She isnearly fifteen--the age, I think, of your youngest girl--and we shouldbe 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 knowyour decision as soon as possible."
Mrs Asplin dropped the letter on the floor, and turned to confront herhusband.
"Well!"
"Well?"
"It is your affair, dear, not mine. You would have the trouble. Couldyou do with an extra child in the house?"
"Yes, yes, so far as that goes. The more the merrier. I should like tohelp Arthur's mother, but,"--Mrs Asplin leant her head on one side, andput 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 theold chintz curtains for an ottoman--enamel the old blue furniture--newcarpet and bedstead, say five or six pounds outlay--yes! I think Icould make it pretty for five pounds!..." The calculations lasted forabout two minutes, at the end of which time her brow cleared, she noddedbrightly, 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 notbe able to resist the thought of the delicate throat! Well, dear, ifyou 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 anew experience. She will come at once, I suppose, and settle down towork for the autumn. Dear me! dear me! It is the unexpected thathappens. I hope she is a nice child."
"Of course she is. She is Arthur's sister. Come! the young folks arein the study. Let us go and tell them the news. I have always said itwas my ambition to have half a dozen children, and now, at last, it isgoing to be gratified."
Mrs Asplin thrust her hand through her husband's arm, and led him downthe wide, flagged hall, towards the room whence the sound of merry youngvoices fell pleasantly upon the ear.
About Peggy Saville Page 1
