“No!” Fareham exclaimed. “You don’t say so? I heard that the poor beggar had gone there. But I thought that he had only just started.”
“It’s easier to throw things down than to set them up,” Augusta said sagely. “A good character is more quickly lost than “Oh, don’t preach, don’t preach, Augusta!” Charlotte struck in. “Or I declare I’ll come and shake you. And you” — she turned on the young man—” for heaven’s sake do venture to disagree with Augusta for once. Pluck up a spirit! Say you think it’s a shame.”
Fareham coloured. What an uncomfortable person Charlotte could be!— “Well,” he said, “I did think it was rather fine of the fellow — in the Service and all that, you know, to — to knuckle down to it. But—”
“But probably,” Augusta said in her matter-of-fact way, “Budgen knows his own business best.”
“And that is all you have to say!” Charlotte retorted. “What a bloodless creature you are, Augusta! I think Budgen ought to be torn in pieces. He’s not fit to live! And if Peggy doesn’t agree with me — you do think it’s a shame, don’t you, Peggy?”
“Yes,” Peggy said. “I do.” The blow had been severe, for this was the first that the girl had heard of it. And she could have said so much — so much upon it! She could have surprised them all. But the consequences of speaking her mind — imprudent as she was they were ever before her eyes — were so grave that, though every nerve in her quivered with indignation, discretion carried it for once.
Her calmness, indeed, surprised her sister, who remarked, “Peggy and I seldom think alike.”
“I can believe it,” Charlotte retorted. “The one feels and the other glitters — like the chandelier there that gives out pretty lights and flashes, and not a spark of heat! Yes, Augusta, I mean it. You are just like that, my dear!”
“And some people’s heads are as soft as my silk,” Augusta returned, smiling indulgently. “You’ve no duties, my dear, and no responsibilities, and no one looks to you for an example. But I, you see, am in my dear mother’s place. I cannot be as easy as you are. I cannot think that this young man is a fitting object of sympathy, or upset myself because Budgen has got rid of him. You are not going, Peggy?”
“Yes,” Peggy said hurriedly. “I shall be back in a minute.” She had borne as much as she could bear.
“Well, for my part,” Charlotte declared roundly, “I know what I shall do. I shall go to Budgen and tell him what I think of him!”
“You won’t!” Augusta was shocked.
“I have a good mind to! And if Mr. Fareham had the spirit of a man and wasn’t in your pocket, my dear, he’d come with me and say the words I can’t say! After all, Mr. Bligh’s a gentleman.”
“If you think so,” Augusta said, smiling, “you know him better than I do.”
“Well, all I know of him is from meeting him here!” Charlotte rejoined, carrying the war into the enemy’s country. “Are you coming, Mr. Fareham? No! Well, I am going. Yes, I am going. Good-bye, all!” And picking up her long skirt she sailed from the room.
“Dear Charlotte!” Augusta said with a smile, when the door had closed on her. “She does not look at things as we do. It is not to be expected that she should, I suppose. Indeed I sometimes feel when I am listening to her that I can imagine just what her father was like — poor man!”
But a few minutes later, when Mr. Fareham had taken his leave and Augusta was left alone, her smile faded. She sat lost in thought, her face grave, and from time to time she glanced at the door as if she expected someone. Nor was she out in her reckoning. Presently she saw the handle move, and after a perceptible interval the door opened and Peggy came in. She walked to a window and stood awhile, her back to her sister. Then, “Did you know of this?” she asked in a low voice.
But Augusta was giving all her attention to her work. “Of what, my dear?” she asked absently.
“That Budgen had — had sent Mr. Bligh away?” Peggy’s voice trembled.
“Did I know that? Yes, and” — Augusta raised her head from her work and spoke deliberately—” I am glad of it. I think it was time, Peggy.”
“Why?”
“Why do I think it was time? Because I am not blind, my dear. Nor, believe me, is your father, and I think it is time that you knew that also and took it to heart. He chooses to go his own way about things, and he does not show his hand. But I can assure you that he knows more than you suspect.”
“Do you mean” — this time there was no doubt about the quiver in Peggy’s voice—” that — that this is his doing?”
“I know nothing, but I can guess. My dear Peggy, you are like the ostrich. You stick your head in the sand and think that no one sees you, because you see no one. But I have not my head in the sand,” Augusta continued calmly, “and unless I am mistaken Sir Albery has spoken to your father and this is the result. If you are foolish he is not, and he does not intend his plans to be spoiled by silly gossip arising from your imprudence, my dear — and that is a danger of which he is fully aware. So the sooner you see things as they are and must be, the better it will be for you.”
“And he’s — he’s been to Budgen?” It was with difficulty Peggy could frame the words. To find that so much was known, to have the cloak that hid her secret from all eyes thus coldly and deliberately withdrawn, was a shock which almost overcame her.
“I suspect that he has,” Augusta replied, as quietly as she had spoken throughout. “Though I have no more knowledge of that than you have. But I am sure of this. If he thinks that there is the smallest risk of your making a fool of yourself — and you may be sure that a good many besides your father know more than you suppose — he will see this young man out of Beremouth whatever it costs.”
“Whatever it costs,” Peggy repeated mechanically. Her thoughts were still astray, scattered by the shock of her sister’s plain speaking.
“Well, you know him, and he is not one to fail in what he undertakes — at any rate in Beremouth. That young man will have to go, my dear. I think they will both have to go. Your father will see to that, too, I expect. He’ll move them out of the Cottage. But you know him as well as I do, and you know that he is not one to make a noise. But he gets his way, Peggy.”
“Not always!” There was a new note in Peggy’s voice.
“I have never known him fail,” Augusta replied, “where he was in earnest.”
“Well, he will fail this time!” Peggy exclaimed. Surprise and dismay had given place to anger. Her voice rang with indignation.
“I think not,” Augusta replied, unmoved. “And in a year’s time, my dear, when you are Lady Wyke and reigning at Upper Bere, you will know that he was right, and thank him for it, Peggy.”
“Never! Never!” Peggy cried passionately. But she could bear no more. She could no longer control herself or her voice, and swept by such a storm of feeling as her young life had never known, the girl hurried blindly from the room.
Oh, the meanness, the unfairness, the cruelty of it! To strike at him, to ruin him, to drive him from the place and rob him of the humble work to which he had stooped, of the pittance that he had bent himself to earn! Oh, it was vile, it was intolerable, she thought. And they had watched, spied, seen! And then, smiling at her innocence, they had struck at him whom fortune had already wounded so sorely, at him whom she held dearer than her life! For her, for her fault and because she loved him, they would punish him, they would sacrifice him, would grind him into the dust and strip him of the little that stood between him and want, of the one hope that rose between him and his weakness!
Then, if they could do this, if they had the heart to do this, what had she in common with them? Nothing, nothing, she cried passionately, as she paced her room, her breast swelling with pity and indignation. Nothing — if they could do so base, so cruel a thing, could lend themselves to so mean a revenge! They, who if they had their way, would constrain and swaddle and force her to their will! Nothing! The air they breathed choked her, the thoughts they thoug
ht were not hers, the idols they worshipped she hated! But she would be no puppet to be moved hither and thither, and bought and sold as they would! She would free herself — free herself for ever! Surely life held more than this, held things purer and higher, things real and true.
Swept by a storm of passion, not ignoble, the girl passed through a bitter hour. But the habits of a life are not to be easily put off, the ties of nature are strong, and the thoughts of the young are short thoughts. The day gave time for reflection even to Peggy, ardent and love-smitten. In the silence of her room a small voice gradually made itself heard. Her home and the affections that were bound up with it appealed to her. And it was in a more sober and a chastened mood that late that evening, when the house was quiet and dark about her, she stole softly down and listened at the door of her father’s study. A light still burned within, and though this was what she had expected — or she had not come down — she paused with her hand raised. She hung a long minute, trembling, irresolute, summoning up her courage, calling despair to her aid. For it was a great, an appalling effort that she was making, and the natural woman shrank from the ordeal. But at last she knocked.
The Rector had no liking to be interrupted save at his own hours, which were well known; and it was in no inviting tone that he bade the unknown enter. But when he saw who it was, the frown passed from his brow. He sat back in his chair. “Oh, it is you, Peggy, is it?” he said cheerfully. “What is it, my dear? It is late. I thought that you were in bed.” Her heart beat so fast that it threatened to choke her. Now that the moment was come, she found it hard, she found it almost impossible to speak; and no doubt her pale, scared face betrayed her. Before her dry lips could frame a word the Rector knew, if he had not already guessed her errand, and what she would be at; and he had determined how he would deal with her. “What is it?” he repeated blandly. “What do you want, my dear, at this hour?”
“It is about — about Mr. Bligh,” she stammered, forcing herself to utter the name that it cost her so much to utter. “I — I want to say that — that if you will let him—”
The Rector cut her short. “Mr. Bligh?” he said, his voice rising a note. His tone was still suave, and he still smiled at her. But he lifted his hand, and the gesture was as firm as it was pregnant. “No!” he said. “No, my dear. Mr. Bligh is not a subject or a person that I am prepared to discuss with you. It is not a question for you.”
“But — but it is,” she gasped, snatching desperately at the skirts of her courage. “Oh, it is, sir! It is! I beseech you to hear me. For if — if you will let him remain, I will promise—”
He stopped her. His face was no longer either bland or pleasant. “I have spoken,” he said. “I have told you that I am not prepared to discuss the matter with you, and that is enough for you, and final. I will hear nothing — nothing, you understand. And I have nothing to say to you. It is late and I am busy. You will go to bed — at once, if you please.”
She made a last effort. “But you — you don’t understand!” she pleaded, her face colourless, her eyes imploring. “If you will let him remain, sir, I will promise not — not to see him again, or—”
But his face was inflexible. He pointed to the door. “No!” he said, and he spoke very sternly now, in a tone that forbade reply. “I am not foolish enough to hear what you may be foolish enough to speak. Go to bed. Go, and shut the door quietly. And pray, pray, girl, before you sleep, that you may be made wiser and more obedient. And more discreet.”
She went.
CHAPTER VII
MI-AW! Mi-aw! Mi-aw!
“That wretched cat!” Augusta exclaimed. She sat up in bed, her soul thirsting for vengeance, her body reluctant to leave its warm nest. Must she get up and drive that abominable cat away, or would Peggy, who slept only one door farther down the passage, save her the trouble? The grey dawn was peeping in between the closed curtains, but the room was dim, and with indignation Augusta decided that it could not be more than five o’clock.
And it was the third or fourth time that she had suffered in this way: that puss prowling through the house had roused her, complaining in falsetto of the lateness of the household in general and of that slugabed the kitchen-maid in particular. But five o’clock! And if the servants had closed the door that they should have closed, this would not have happened. Augusta fumed, but there was nothing else for it; she must let Pat through. The cat’s voice rose more piercing than before and she set a reluctant foot on the floor and felt for a slipper.
Then she paused, for she heard Peggy moving, and Peggy might as well cross the cold boards as she. Augusta drew in her shapely foot and was sinking back on her pillow when a third time the cat mewed — and still Peggy’s door remained shut. Yet the girl was moving, Augusta could hear her; moving softly, yet audibly, as if, the listener reflected with a frown, she were getting up.
Then, at long last, Peggy’s door did open, and Augusta heard her, in a subdued tone, shoo the cat down stairs. Augusta sank back; all was well. But, alas! she was now wide awake, and so apparently was Peggy. For the sounds next door continued, light feet went to and fro, once a chair was moved, and once there was a faint jar as of crockery. Peggy must be dressing.
At five o’clock? Impossible! Augusta sat up, and whether it was the cold light or her thoughts that sharpened her features she looked less handsome than usual. She stepped from her bed and stole barefoot to her door. With care she opened it an inch or so and, heedless of the draught that swept through the narrow aperture and chilled her thinly-clad form, 6he listened, peering into the passage.
On the landing was an uncurtained window which made it lighter than her room, and all that was there could be clearly seen. Yet for a full five minutes Augusta continued to peer and to listen, though all that she could now hear was the cat’s distant complaint rising from some lower floor. At length that which she expected happened. With a faint creak Peggy’s door moved, opened, and the girl appeared, dressed in a hat and cloak and carrying a bag. She closed the door softly behind her, and moved along the passage towards the watcher and also towards the stairs.
But mid-way she paused: her eyes had taken in the unclosed door. She stared at it, and for a few dramatic seconds the two sisters gazed at one another, or seemed to do so. But Augusta, assured that, lost in the gloom of her room, she was invisible, did not stir, and presently Peggy went by with a light step and disappeared in the direction of the stairs.
Augusta drew a deep breath. She stepped back a pace, but she did not take her hand from the door. And later — later and often — she persuaded herself that she had hesitated; that it had been in her mind to stay her sister, and that only surprise and Peggy’s haste had forestalled her purpose. Be that as it may, she made no attempt to follow, though, during the time that she stood with her hand on the door, she might have overtaken the fugitive and put before her the rashness of the step that she was taking and the unhappiness that she was laying up for herself. Augusta might have done this, but she did not. Conceivably she shrank in her modesty from going through the house in her night-dress.
Instead she stood listening, until a vibration rather than a sound told her that the door of the house had been closed. Then, shutting her own door, she crept stealthily back to her bed, and sitting up in it with her arms about her knees, gave herself to thought.
Possibly she recalled the long years — for the years of youth are long — during which they had grown up together, sleeping side by side, or the later days when they had flitted in and out of their rooms to gossip, and morning by morning had descended the same stairs; or the nights when they had brushed one another’s hair, and, home from ball or assembly, had exchanged their tales of girlish triumphs, trotting out their partners, laughing or lamenting. And the remembrance of this communion, grown into a habit, yet in these last months discarded, may have penetrated to her heart, and troubled her.
Or her thoughts may have run otherwise. For after all this ending was Peggy’s choice, not hers, Peggy’s hea
dstrong act, not hers! If Peggy chose to have her heart’s desire and to pay for it, as assuredly she would pay for it — or virtue and obedience were mere words — it was Peggy’s business, not hers. The girl could not have it both ways, and if she had chosen to put her lover before father and sister, home and duty-silly, undisciplined Peggy! — she would have no one to blame for the consequences but herself. And — and at any rate the field was clear!
Yes, the field was clear now, and Sir Albery at liberty.
When, some hours later, Dr. Portnal stood ready, his fine Jove-like head erect and his glasses adjusted, to read prayers to his household, his eyes fell on an empty chair. He paused.
“Where is Miss Peggy?” he demanded.
The servants were silent. It fell to Augusta to answer.
“I am afraid — that she is late, sir,” she said.
“Then she should not be late!” The Rector’s gaze travelled severely along the line of servants and alighted on a certain maid. “Tell your mistress,” he said, amid a portentous silence, “that I am waiting.”
The maid wilted away. The household stood looking to the front. Presently the girl returned.
“Miss Peggy is not in her room, sir,” she said.
“Not in her room?” The Rector turned to Augusta. “Where is she?” No shade of misgiving clouded his mind. All about him was as usual, the spacious well-ordered room, the row of grave servants, the sunshine twinkling on china and glass; all was as it had been morning by morning for years past.
Timidly Augusta made a suggestion. Peggy might be in the garden. On that Jove, withholding his thunderbolt but making it clear that it impended, waited no longer but burst into a denunciatory psalm in a tone that did the theme justice. This finished, and the rites which followed performed, he stood gazing with an angry brow at the door, prepared to deal with the offender the moment that she appeared.
But Wignall brought in the hot dishes, and still no Peggy entered.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 748
