Three Margarets Read online

  CHAPTER IX.

  DAY BY DAY.

  "Oh! what a mystery The study is of history!"

  For some time things continued to go smoothly and pleasantly at Fernley.The days slipped away, with nothing special to mark any one, but allbright with flowers and gay with laughter. The three girls wereexcellent friends, and grew to understand each other better and better.The morning belonged rather to Margaret and Peggy; Rita was always late,and often preferred to have her breakfast brought to her room, apractice of which the other girls disapproved highly. They were alwaysout in the garden by half past eight, with breakfast a thing of thepast, and the day before them. The stocking-basket generally came withthem, and waited patiently in a corner of the green summer-house whilethey took their "constitutional," which often consisted of a run throughthe waving fields, or a walk along the top of the broad stone wall thatran around the garden; or again, a tree-top excursion, as they calledit, in the great swing under the chestnut-trees. Then, while they mendedtheir stockings, Margaret would give Peggy a "talk-lesson," the onlykind that she was willing to receive, on English history, with anoccasional digression to the Trojan war, or the Norse mythology, as thecase might be. Peggy detested history, and knew next to nothing of it,and this was a grievous thing to Margaret.

  "First William the Norman, Then William his son; Henry, Stephen and Henry, Then Richard and John,"

  had been one of her own nursery rhymes, and she could not understand anyone's not thrilling responsive when the great names were spoken thatfilled her with awe and joy, or with burning resentment.

  "But, my dear," she would cry, when Peggy yawned at Canute, and said hewas an old stupid, "my dear, think of the place he holds! think of thethings he did!"

  "Well, he's dead!" Peggy would reply; "I don't see what good it does tobother about him now. Who cares what he did, all that time ago?"

  "But," Margaret explained patiently, "if he had not done the things,Peggy, don't you see, everything would have been different. We mustknow, mustn't we, how it all came about that our life is what it is now?We must see what we came from, and who the men were that made thechanges, and brought us on and up."

  "I don't see why!" said Peggy; "I don't see what difference it makes tome that Alfred played the harp. I don't want to play the harp, and Inever saw any one who did. It is rather fun about the cakes, but he wasawfully stupid to let them burn, seems to me."

  Not a thrill could Margaret awaken by any recital of the sorrows andsufferings of the Boy Kings, or even of her favourite Prince Arthur.When her voice broke in the recital of his piteous tale, Peggy wouldlook up at her coolly and say, "How horrid of them! But he would havebeen dead by this time anyway, Margaret; why do you care so much?"

  Still Margaret persevered, never losing hope, simply because she couldnot believe that the subject itself could fail to interest any one inhis senses. It was her own fault a good deal, she tried to think; shedid not tell the story right, or her voice was too monotonous,--Papa wasalways telling her to put more colour into her reading,--or something.The history itself could not be at fault.

  "And, Peggy dear; don't think I want to be lecturing you all the time,but--these are things that one _has_ to know something about, or onewill appear uneducated, and you don't want to do that."

  "I don't care. I don't see the use of this kind of education, Margaret,and that is just the truth. Ma never had any of what you calleducation,--she was a farmer's daughter, you know, and had always livedon the prairie,--and she has always got on well enough. Hugh talks justlike you do--"

  "Please, dear, _as_ you do, not _like_."

  "Well, _as_ you do, then. He talks William the Conqueror and all thoseold fuddy-duddies by the yard, but he can't make me see the use ofthem, and you can't. Now if you would give me some mathematics; _that_is what I want. If you would give me some solid geometry, Margaret!"

  But here poor Margaret hung her head and blushed, and confessed that shehad no solid geometry to give. Her geometry had been fluid, or rather,vapourous, and had floated away, unthought of and unregretted.

  "I am sorry and ashamed," she said. "Of course I ought to be able toteach it, and if I go into a school, of course I shall have to studyagain and make it up, so that I can. But it never can be possible thattriangles should be as interesting as human beings, Peggy."

  "A great deal more interesting," Peggy maintained, "when the humanbeings are dead and buried hundreds of years."

  "One word more, and I have done," said poor Margaret. "You used anexpression, dear,--old fuddy-duddies, was it? I never heard it before.Do you think it is an elegant expression, Peggy dear?"

  "It's as good as I am girl!" said Peggy; and Margaret shut her eyes, andfelt despair in her heart. But soon she felt a warm kiss on herforehead, and Peggy was promising to be good, and to try harder, andeven to do her best to learn the difference between the twoHarolds,--Hardrada and Godwinsson.

  And if she would promise to do that, might she just climb up now and seewhat that nest was, out on the fork there?

  Perhaps Rita would come down soon, with her guitar or herembroidery-frame; and they would sing and chatter till the early dinner.Rita's songs were all of love and war, boleros and bull-fights. She sangthem with flashing ardour, and the other girls heard with breathlessdelight, watching the play of colour and feeling, that made her face aliving transcript of what she sang. But when she was tired, she wouldhand the guitar to Margaret, and beg her to sing "something cool,peaceful, sea-green, like yourself, Marguerite!"

  "Am I sea-green?" asked Margaret.

  "Ah! cherub! you understand me! My blood is in a fever with these songsof Cuba. I want coolness, icy caves, pine-trees in the wind!"

  So Margaret would take the guitar, and sing in her calm, smoothcontralto the songs her father used to love: songs of the North, thathad indeed the sound of the sea and the wind in them.

  "It was all for our rightful king That we left fair Scotland's strand. It was all for our rightful king, We ever saw Irish land, My dear, We ever saw Irish land!"

  The plaintive melody rose and fell like the waves on the shore; and Ritawould curl herself like a panther in the sun, and murmur with pleasure,and call for more. Then, perhaps, Margaret would sing that lovely balladof Hogg's, which begins,

  "Far down by yon hills of the heather sae green, And down by the corrie that sings to the sea, The bonnie young Flora sat sighing her lane, The dew on her plaid and the tear in her e'e.

  "She looked on a boat with the breezes that swung Afar on the wave, like a bird on the main, And aye as it lessened, she sighed and she sung, 'Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!'"

  But Rita had no patience with Flora McDonald.

  "Why did she not go with him?" she asked, when Margaret, after the songwas over, told the brave story of Prince Charlie's escape afterCulloden, and of how the noble girl, at the risk of her own life, ledthe prince, disguised as her waiting-woman, through many weary ways,till they reached the seashore where the vessel was waiting to take himto France.

  "He could not speak!" said Margaret. "He just took her hand, and stoodlooking at her; but she could hardly see him for her tears. Then he tookoff his cap, and stooped down and kissed her twice on the forehead; andso he went. But after he was in the boat, he turned again, and said toher:

  "'After all that has happened, I still hope, madam, we shall meet in St.James's yet!' But of course they never did."

  "But why did she not go with him?" demanded Rita. "She had spirit, itappears. Why did she let him go without her?"

  Margaret gazed at her wide-eyed.

  "He was going into exile," she said. "She had done all she could, shehad saved his life; there was nothing more to be done."

  "But--that she should leave him! Did she not love him? was hefaithless?"

  Margaret blushed, and drew herself up unconsciously. "You do notunderstand, Rita," she said gravely. "This was her prince, the son ofher
sovereign; she was a simple Scottish gentlewoman. When he was flyingfor his life, she was able to befriend him, and to save his life atperil of her own; but when that was over, there was no more need of her,and she went back to her home. What should she have done in France, atthe king's court?"

  "Even if so," muttered Rita, with the well-known shrug of her shoulders,"I would have gone, if it had been I. He should not have thrown me offlike that."

  Margaret raised her eyes, full of angry light, and opened her lips tospeak; but instead kept silence for a moment. Then, "You do notunderstand," she said again, but gently; "my mother was a Scotchwoman,so I feel differently, of course. It is no matter, but I will tell youthis about Miss McDonald: that when she died, years after, an old womanof seventy, she was buried in the sheet that had covered Prince CharlesStuart, that night after Culloden."

  "My!" said Peggy, "it must have been awfully yellow!"

  After dinner it was Rita's custom to take a siesta. She declared thatshe required more sleep than most people, and that without eleven hours'repose she should perish. So while she slept, Margaret and Peggyarranged flowers, or Peggy would write home, with many sighs ofweariness and distress, while Margaret, sitting near her, snatched ahalf-hour for some enchanting book. It sometimes seemed to her more thanshe could bear, to be among so many fine books, and to have almost notime to read. At home, several hours were spent in reading, as a matterof course; often and often, the long, happy evening would pass without aword exchanged between her father and herself. Only, when either lookedup from the book, there was always the meeting glance of love andsympathy, which made the printed page shine golden when the eyesreturned to it. Here, reading was considered a singular waste of time.Rita read herself to sleep with a novel, but Peggy was entirely frank inher confession that she should not care if she never saw a book again.Even the home letters were a grievous task to her, for she never couldthink of anything to say. Margaret, deep in the precious pages ofFroissart, it might be, would be roused by a portentous sigh, andlooking up, would find Peggy champing the penhandle, and gazing at herwith lack-lustre eyes.

  "What's the matter now, Peg of Limavaddy?"

  "I can't--think--of a single thing to say."

  "Child! I thought you had so much to tell them this time. Think of thatlovely drive we took yesterday; I thought you were going to tell aboutthat. Don't you remember the sunset from the top of the long hill, andhow we made believe the clouds were our fairy castles, and each saidwhat she would do when she got there? Rita was going to organise aSunset Dance, with ten thousand fairies in crimson and gold, and youwere going to be met by a hundred thoroughbred horses, all white assnow, and were going to drive them abreast in a golden chariot; don'tyou remember all that? Tell them about the drive!"

  "I have told them," said Peggy gloomily. "I couldn't put in all that,Margaret; it would take all day, and besides, Ma would think I wascrazy."

  "Do you mind my seeing what you wrote?--oh, Peggy!"

  For Peggy had written this: "We had an elagant ride yesterday."

  "What's the matter?" asked Peggy. "Isn't it spelled right?"

  "Oh, that isn't it!" said Margaret. "At least, that is the smallestpart. 'Elegant' has two _e_'s, not two _a_'s. But,--Peggy dear, yousurely would not speak of a _drive_ as _elegant_!"

  "Why not? I said ride, not drive, but I don't see any difference. It_was_ elegant; you said so yourself. I don't understand what you mean,Margaret." And Peggy looked injured, and began to hunch her shouldersand put out her under lip; but for once Margaret, wounded in a tenderpart, took no heed of the signs of coming trouble.

  PEGGY WRITES HOME.]

  "_I_ say so? Never!" she cried indignantly. "I hope I--that is, I--Idon't think the word can be used in that way, Peggy; I do not, indeed.You speak of an elegant dress, or an elegant woman, but _not_ of anelegant drive or an elegant sunset. The word implies something refined,something--"

  "Oh, bother!" said Peggy rudely. "I didn't come here to school, MargaretMontfort!"

  "I sometimes wonder if you ever went anywhere to school!" said Margaret;and she took her book and went away without another word, her heartbeating high with anger and impatience.

  Such affairs were short-lived, however. Margaret had too much sense andgood feeling, Peggy too much affection, to let them last. The kiss andthe kind word were not long in following, and it was to be noticed thatRita was never allowed to find out that her two Northern cousins everdisagreed by so much as a word. There was some unspoken bond that badethem both make common cause before the foreign cousin whom both lovedand admired. So when Rita made her appearance beautifully dressed forthe afternoon drive or walk (for they could not have the good whitehorse every day,--a fact which made the senorita chafe and rage againstJohn Strong more than ever), she always found smiling faces to welcomeher, and the three would go off together in high spirits, to exploresome new and lovely part of the country.

  Peggy was always the driver. On their first drive John Strong had gonewith them, to the intense disgust of Rita, and the indignation of Peggy,who, though she was very fond of the grave factotum, resented the doubthe implied of her skill. It was a silent drive, Margaret aloneresponding to the remarks of their conductor, as he pointed out this orthat beautiful view. He never went with them again, but having firsttested Peggy's powers by a _tete-a-tete_ drive with her, cheerfullyresigned the reins, and used to watch their departure with calmapproval.

  "The little one makes much the best figure on the box!" John Strongwould say to himself. "If life were all driving, now--but--

  "Weel I ken my ain lassie; Kind love is in her e'e!"