Chapter 7. More Arrivals

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_ CHAPTER VII. MORE ARRIVALS

The great day came, the day of the arrivals. Jean was the first to come, by an early train, having arrived in New York the night before, where Hugh met her and brought her in triumph to Fernley. Margaret was at the door to receive her, and Peggy's sister had no cause to complain of the warmth of her reception. She was a slenderer Peggy, with the same blue, honest eyes, the same flaxen hair and rosy cheeks. Her dress, however, was far more tasteful and neat than Peggy's had been on her first arrival. Margaret recalled the green flannel, all buttoned awry, and looked with approval on Jean's pretty gray travelling-dress.

"Dear Jean!" she said, kissing her cousin warmly. "Most welcome to Fernley, dear child! Oh, I am so glad to see you! I have been counting the days, Jean."

"Oh, so have I!" said Jean, looking up with a shy, sweet smile,--Peggy's very own smile. Margaret kissed her again for it. "The last day did seem awfully long, Cousin Margaret--well, Margaret, then! I'm sure I never call you anything but Peggy's Margaret when I think of you. Peggy hasn't come yet?"

"Not yet. She will be here this afternoon, on the three o'clock train. She knows nothing about your coming, Jean. In her very last letter, she was talking about being glad to come here, and so on, and she said the only thing wanting would be you."

"Oh, goody! I'm awfully glad--that she doesn't know, I mean. It will be just lovely to surprise her. Dear old Peg!" Jean relapsed into bashful silence when Margaret took her into the library to greet her uncle; but Mr. Montfort's smile and cordial greeting soon put her at her ease.

"Isn't he just lovely?" she whispered to Margaret, as they went up-stairs. "I was afraid he would be awful, somehow, but he isn't a bit; he's just lovely."

Margaret assented, making a mental note of the fact that this child seemed to have but two adjectives in her vocabulary. "Peggy will see to that!" she said to herself. "Peggy has improved so wonderfully in her English this last year. She will be quicker than I to notice and take up the little mistakes."

This was not strictly true, though modest Margaret meant it so. Peggy certainly had learned much at school, but her teachers had no expectation of her becoming an eminent English scholar.

"I have put you with Peggy," said Margaret, leading the way into the pretty room, hung with red-poppy chintz, where Peggy had spent a few sad and many happy hours. "I thought you would rather be together."

"Oh, yes, indeed! You are awfully kind, Cous--Margaret. I haven't seen Peggy for a year, you know. We missed her awfully at Christmas, of course, but she had a lovely time here; and it would have been awful if she had come home and got the measles, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, we did have a very good time. The children were here,--Basil and Susan D.,--and they and Peggy were fast friends. Oh, yes, it was a great holiday. Now, dear, you will want to rest a little, so I will leave you. Peggy will not be here till after lunch, so you will have time for a good rest, and to explore the garden, too, if you like. I am going now to arrange my flowers."

"Oh, might I help? I am not a bit tired, and I just love to arrange flowers. Do let me help, Margaret!"

"Very well," said Margaret, with a little inward sigh. She had her own ideas, and very definite ones, about the arrangement of flowers, in which she had exquisite taste; and her recollection of the way in which Peggy used to squeeze handfuls of blossoms tight into a vase, without regard to color or form, made her dread the assistance so heartily proffered; but Jean was quicker than Peggy had been at her age, and one glance at Margaret's first "effect," a rainbow combination of sweet-peas, showering over the side of a crystal bowl, filled her with ambition to emulate its beauty. The morning passed happily and busily, the more so that Hugh came in presently, with a chapter of Thoreau that Margaret "really must hear!" He read well, and his taste and Margaret's being much alike, they spent many pleasant hours together, he reading aloud, she with her flowers or her work. Jean, who had never heard of Thoreau, and was not bookish, tried to listen, but did not make much of it. She fell to meditating instead, and her bright eyes wandered curiously from one intent face to the other. Hugh never thought of reading aloud at home. To be sure, he was the only one who cared about reading, or had time for it. He and Margaret seemed to know each other very well, seeing what a short time he had been here. Jean, with all the eager romance of fifteen, straightway began the building of an air-castle, which seemed to her a fine structure indeed. Meantime, Hugh and Margaret, all unconscious of her scrutiny, were enjoying themselves extremely.

"'As polishing expresses the vein in marble and grain in wood, so music brings out what of heroic lurks anywhere. . . . When we are in health, all sounds fife and drum to us; we hear notes of music in the air, or catch its echoes dying away when we awake in the dawn. Marching is when the pulse of the hero beats in unison with the pulse of Nature, and he steps to the measure of the universe; then there is true courage and invincible strength.'"

"How beautiful that is!" said Margaret.

"Yes; that is the particular passage I wanted to read to you. Have you ever had that feeling, fancying that you wake to the sound of music? I often have, when I have been sleeping out in the open--never within doors."

"No," said Margaret, "I don't think I ever have, Hugh; but what a pleasant thing it must be! I have never slept in the open, but even if I should, I fear my waking would be plain prose, like myself."

Hugh laughed, and glanced at her affectionately. "I haven't found much prose about you, Margaret," he said. "If I had, I should not have read you my secrets when Thoreau tells them for me. That reminds me, do you sing? I have not heard you, have I?"

"No; I wish I did, for I love music very much. Oh, I sing a very little, enough to join in a chorus--if there ever were a chorus at Fernley. I used to enjoy Rita's singing intensely; she has a very sweet voice."

"Some one was singing last night," Hugh went on; "I don't know why, but this passage reminds me--I heard a woman's voice singing,--a remarkable voice."

"Indeed? Where were you? Not in your room? I am sure there is no one in the house who sings."

"No; it was pretty warm, and the moon--well, you remember, it was all you could do to go to bed yourself, Margaret. After Virtue, in the shape of yourself and Uncle John, had gone to bed, Vice, in my shape, wandered about the garden, I don't know how long. It was wonderful there, with the trees, and the smell of the roses and box, and--and the whole thing, you know. Down at the foot of the garden, over in the meadow below, some one was singing; some one with a remarkable voice; rather deep-toned, not loud, and yet full, with an extraordinary degree of melody; or, so it seemed at a distance. I wondered who it was, that was all. You have no idea, I suppose?"

"No! I wonder too, very much. No one from this house, I am sure of that. Now that I think of it, though, Polly sings--Polly, the under housemaid; she has a pretty little bird-like voice, but nothing such as you describe. I'll make inquiries, though--"

"Oh, pray don't!" said Hugh, hastily, "I'd rather not! I--I mean, of course, it is not of the smallest consequence, Margaret. It is pleasant to hear singing at night, but perhaps all the pleasanter when the singer is unseen and unknown. Now let us go on with our Thoreau."

* * * * *

"Margaret! Margaret! Margaret!"

It was all Peggy could say at first. All the way up the avenue her heart had been beating high; at sight of the brown chimney-stacks of Fernley, it seemed to give a great jump up in her throat; and when the carriage swept round the curve, and she saw the whole front of the great house, and Margaret, her own Margaret, standing on the steps, with arms outstretched to welcome her, there was nothing for it but to cry out, with the full power of her healthy lungs. Almost before Bannan could stop the horses, she had scrambled out, and was on her cousin's neck, strangling her with hugs, and smothering her with kisses at the same instant. "Margaret! Margaret! I am really here! Do you know that I am really here?"

Speech was impossible for Margaret, but a voice from behind broke in:

"Come, come! what is all this? My niece done to death on my own doorstep? Let go, Peggy, and come and kill me instead. I am older, and shall be less missed."

Peggy loosed her hold, somewhat abashed, but received an embrace from her uncle so warm that she brightened again instantly.

"Oh, Uncle John, how do you do? It was only that I was so glad to see my darling Margaret. Did I hurt you, dearest? I have pulled all your lovely hair down; Margaret, I am more clumsy than ever, I do believe."

"Dear Peggy! as if I cared whether you are clumsy or not! though it is convenient to have the use of my windpipe, I confess. Well, and here you are, indeed. Why, Peggy!"

"What is it, Margaret?"

"_Why, Peggy!_"

"Oh, dear! what is the matter? Is my hat wrong side before? I know my necktie is crooked, but I couldn't help that, truly I couldn't, Margaret; the strap is broken, and it will work round under my ear. I'll mend it--"

"I wasn't looking at your necktie, child. Peggy, you are taller than I am! How dare you, miss?"

"Oh, Margaret! I really thought I had done something--why, yes, so I am taller; but only just the least little bit, Margaret."

"And your shoulders--why, Peggy, you are a great big creature! How can any one grow so in six months? We shall have to call you Brynhild."

"What's that?" asked Peggy, simply. "I haven't grown enough to understand outlandish words, Margaret, so you need not try them on me. Oh,"--she looked around her with delighted eyes,--"how beautiful everything looks, Uncle John. Why, the yellow birch has grown as much as I have; it is quite a fat tree. And--you have put out more chestnuts, haven't you? And--oh, Uncle John, I haven't told you my great news! The most wonderful news! I wouldn't write about it, because I wanted to surprise you. Hugh, our Hugh, is coming East. He is--"

"What is he?" said another voice, and Hugh came forward laughing, and took his sister in his arms. "Well, little girl,--big, enormous, colossal little girl, how are you? Shut your eyes, Peg of Limavaddy, or they will drop out, and then what should we do?"

"Hugh! what does it mean? When--how did you get here? You weren't to start till next week."

"So I wasn't," said Hugh, composedly. "But you see I did. If you are not glad to see me, Margaret will let me stay in the back kitchen, I am sure, till you go away."

Peggy's only reply was a hug as powerful as the one she had given Margaret; it set her brother coughing and laughing till the tears came to his eye. "My dear sister," he said, "have you been studying grips with a grizzly bear? I felt one rib go, if not two."

"Not really, Hugh? I didn't really hurt you?" cried Peggy, anxiously.

"No, no! not really. See now, Margaret wants you. Run along, Samsonina."

Peggy ran into the house, casting delighted glances all about her.

"How beautiful the hall looks! Oh, Margaret, what flowers! why, it is a perfect flower show! Did you do them all yourself? for me? Oh, you darling!" and again Margaret's breath was extinguished by a powerful embrace. "And, oh, the surprise of seeing Hugh! You know I love a surprise. You planned it for me, didn't you, darling Margaret? You are the most angelic--"

"Peggy! Peggy! Peggy! no extravagance!"

"No, Margaret, I won't. Only how can I help it, when I am so happy, and you are so--"

But here Margaret fairly laid her hand over Peggy's mouth. "I did not plan Hugh's coming," she said. "I was as much surprised, and as pleasantly, as you, Peggy. He came earlier than he had expected, on account of some business for Uncle James. Only, we all agreed that we would not tell you, because we knew your fondness for surprises. Do you think you could bear another, Peggy, or is this enough for to-day?"

"What do you mean, Margaret? There can't be anything more. Nothing could count after the joy of seeing Hugh. Oh, Margaret, isn't he dear? Don't you love him?"

"Indeed I do!" said Margaret, heartily. "You never said half enough about him, Peggy. Oh, we are such friends, Uncle John and Hugh and I. But is there no other thing you can think of that you would like, Peggy, dear? No one else you would like very, very much to see?"

They were now at the door of Peggy's room, and Margaret's hand was on the door. Peggy turned and looked at her in wonder. "What do you mean, Margaret? Why do you look like that?" At this moment a sound was heard on the other side of the door, something between a cry, a sniffle, and a sob.

"Who is in there?" cried Peggy, her eyes opening to their fullest and roundest extent.

"Go in and see," said Margaret, and she opened the door and pushed Peggy gently in, and shut it again.

She heard a great cry. "Jean! my Jean!" "Oh, Peggy! Peggy!" then kissing and hugging; and then sounds which made her open the door and come quickly into the room. Peggy and Jean were seated on the floor, side by side, their heads on each other's shoulder, crying as if their hearts would break. _

Read next: Chapter 8. History Repeats Itself

Read previous: Chapter 6. Ali Baba

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