CHAPTER XI

"A LITTLE TRUMP!"

CAPTAIN D'ARCY did not see Peggy again for some weeks. He was rapidly recovering his health, and one morning walked into the library to find Peggy relighting the fire which had gone out.

"Hulloo," he said, "are you getting any more sermons ready?"

Peggy stood up demurely.

"Please, sir, I don't have no sermons," she said.

"But you preached me one last time I saw you."

Peggy's cheeks became hot and red.

"Please, sir, I couldn't preach. I never has been taught nothin', but when I grows up, sir, I hopes to go and be a missionary."

"That's not surprising. I wonder you aren't off now."

"Don't you think me too small, please, sir?"

"You're not too small to preach at home. Now what good do you think you do by it? And what good do you imagine the missionaries do to the heathen abroad? They are much happier left alone."

"Please, sir, 'tis only to tell 'em about Jesus. They doesn't know He died for them—the missionary gent said so at the meeting."

"Well, why should they know it?"

Peggy looked very grave.

"They has a right to know it, please, sir. And our Lord said they was to."

It was not many that could worst Captain D'Arcy in an argument; he whistled and walked out of the room.

"She isn't a simpleton," was his murmured comment. And he did not try to tackle Peggy again.

Peggy's conversations with Tom Bennett were lengthier and more unsatisfactory. He would greet her in the morning with such mild chaff as "Good mornin', Mrs. Missionary, is your passage took for Indy or Africa?" or, "Seen any heathen, Miss Peggy, this mornin'? Wish I could get you a blackymore. Perhaps they may keep some at the Zoo. Why don't you go and inquire there?"

Peggy would not be wise enough to be silent. She plunged into talk at once, and would get so heated and excited over it that even Lucy would have to call her to order.

At last experience taught her that many words were wasted on Tom.

"I ain't a-goin' to argify no more," she said one day, "for you laughs at everythink, Mr. Bennett. 'Tis a pity you weren't born a heathen; you seems to think so well o' their darkness. But I ain't a-goin' to alter myself because you laughs so, and I'm a-goin' out to Indy if I grows up and can manage it. And I shall tell them heathen what you said of 'em—that they didn't want no Bibles."

"Oh, they'll like 'em," put in the irrepressible Tom; "they'll eat 'em up quite cheerful like, and ask for more."

"And I would rather," said Peggy, ignoring this sally, "be our black cat here, Mr. Bennett, with no head, nor understandin', nor nothink, than be you, who can understand what's told you to do, and only makes a mock at it. And I won't talk no more to you. I ain't angry, but I pities you. And I hopes as how you won't speak to me no more, except to pass the time o' day, and then we won't be able to argify."

This attitude of mind she preserved, and there was peace accordingly in the kitchen.

Captain D'Arcy was soon quite convalescent. His servant was full of importance one day.

"The captin and me has been to the War Office, and the captin has been asked a good many questions about our expedition up them heathen mountains. I told you that we were only just back when our major died, and the captin was taken ill. It seems that they be very interested in our doin's up in them outlandish parts, and the captin has to prepare some reports about 'em. He be in high feather about it, and he'll be knee-deep in pen and ink and paper for the next few weeks, you mark my words if he don't!"

Tom Bennett's assertion proved true. Captain D'Arcy spent most of his days now in the library, writing and rewriting his papers for the War Office. His aunt remonstrated one evening as she was going to bed, and he assured her that he had still a couple of hours' work before he could retire.

"You will not regain your strength at this rate, Harry."

"My dear Aunt, I am as fit as a fiddle. But I think to-night will see me through."

Two hours after, he was finishing his last sheet, and his last cigar.

"There," he said to himself, as he rose from the library table, and pitched his cigar-stump into the waste-paper basket, "I've finished at last, thank goodness! Now to bed!"

He locked up his papers in his despatch-box, which he left on a shelf in the corner of the room, and then, turning out the gas, he went lightheartedly upstairs.

The library fire was smouldering, and cast no light upon its surroundings; yet slowly a small flame danced and flickered, and gradually filled the room with light. It did not come from the grate, but from the waste-paper basket. Captain D'Arcy's cigar had set light to some fragments of paper, and it was the beginning of a greater conflagration. Slowly the contents of the basket were consumed; then the basket itself, and as it collapsed, it rolled into the folds of a muslin curtain near. The household was wrapped in sleep, no passing policeman gave an alarm, and so the fire slowly and surely made its way.

Peggy was sleeping in a top room with Nesbitt, when she was startled out of her sleep by shouts in the street.

She sat up in bed, then shook Nesbitt.

"Nesbitt, there's a fire in our street. Do you hear them shoutin'?"

Nesbitt sprang out of bed and looked out of the window.

She started back with a terror-stricken face. "'Tis our house, Peggy! Wake cook, and let's fly!"

At the same moment Captain D'Arcy's voice could be heard below, and in another moment the frightened servants were dashing downstairs.

Volumes of smoke were issuing from the library door, but the stairs and hall were untouched, and all reached the pavement outside in safety. It is true they were very indifferently clad. Mrs. Dale was in her fur cloak, but Lucy and Nesbitt only had their thin waterproofs on, and as for Peggy she was so occupied in getting hold of her beloved stocking, that she only had time to wrap a counterpane round her shoulders.

Firemen were already on the scene. The library faced the front, and the flames were pouring out of the windows. An opposite neighbour offered Mrs. Dale shelter. Turning to her nephew, who looked quite distraught, she said—

"We must thank God we are all safe."

Captain D'Arcy muttered an expletive—

"My papers are in there in my despatch-box! I'd give ten pounds to get them out!"

"Where did you leave them?"

"On the corner shelf by the bookcase."

"I am afraid they are doomed. How trying for you!"

Then calling the servants to follow her, Mrs. Dale went into the opposite house.

But Peggy did not go. She had heard the few words about Captain D'Arcy's papers.

"Peggy," she murmured to herself, "You've got to go and get 'em; set your mind to it!"

And silently she slipped into the house again.

A fireman saw her go, and raised a shout of warning.

Then a thrill ran through the crowd when they know that some one was within. For a moment or two they waited in breathless expectancy for her to reappear. The passage, was already smoking, and the hose was kept steadily playing upon it. A fireman dashed up the steps to the door, and disappeared. He was only just in time, for out of the burning, smoking room staggered a little figure, and dropped like a stone at his feet. Holding her in his arms, he faced the crowd, and a ringing cheer went up—a cheer that brought Mrs. Dale and her nephew to the windows, wondering at the cause.

Nesbitt burst into the room and enlightened them.

"Oh, if you please, ma'am, Peggy is burnt to death!"

It was a startling announcement, but when Mrs. Dale saw the blackened and unconscious little figure she almost feared it was true. In one hand she still grasped her stocking, in the other was Captain D'Arcy's despatch-box.

The young man took it from her clasp with some emotion.

"What a little trump! She must have heard my words, and gone straight to get it."

After a short consultation, poor Peggy was conveyed in a cab to the nearest hospital, Captain D'Arcy going with her himself. And, thoroughly unstrung, Mrs. Dale sat down and burst into tears. Nesbitt drew near to sympathise, but hardly to comfort.

"Lucy and I have often said, ma'am, that she be quite unnatural for goodness. They say them that have short lives have to make up for it, and gets all their goodness crammed up one end, so to speak. I never did hear a young girl so simple and earnest about her religion, and we have remarked that she would die early. They always do, that class o' girl, but it do seem so terrible an end. I really don't think, ma'am, there were any life in her when she were brought out. She must have been suffocated where she dropped, and perhaps it was a mercy!"

"Faithful unto death!" murmured Mrs. Dale, trying to compose herself. "Oh, Peggy, how you have shamed us all!"

A couple of hours later the fire was extinguished, and the crowd dispersed. Only one or two firemen and police guarded the house.

In the early morning Captain D'Arcy returned to his aunt.

"She is alive, Aunt, but very badly burnt. I am afraid she may not recover."

And this was the fear of both nurses and doctors who attended her.

The days and nights seemed a long delirium of pain and fever to Peggy. But the day came when she recovered consciousness, and began to inquire where she was.

"In a hosspital," she repeated weakly; "and, has missus got another girl to do my work? What's been the matter with me?"

"You got burnt," said the nurse gently; "but you are getting better. Don't think about it."

Peggy moved her head restlessly on the pillow; then she put one of her bandaged hands to her head.

"I feel so light-headed; where be my hair? Have you cropped me like the workhouse girls?" A frightened look was in her eyes.

The nurse wondered at her vanity.

"Your hair was burnt," she said. "It had to be cut off."

Peggy looked at her in dismay; then tears trickled down her cheeks.

"How can I fasten my caps on?" she sobbed. "I'd jist got 'em to look so nice. I'll never be able to go back to my place. If my hair be gone, caps is no use, and my missus won't have girls with no caps."

"Look here," said the nurse determinedly, "you leave your caps and your hair alone. You won't be fit for service yet awhile, and by that time, who knows? Your hair will be grown, and you'll be your old self again. Now drink this beef-tea, and stop talking!"

Peggy lay back exhausted, and resigned. That was the only murmur that ever passed her lips.

As she regained her health, her spirits returned, and she was soon with her bright smile and quaint speeches a favourite patient.

The first Saturday after she recovered consciousness, she had a visitor. Captain D'Arcy himself came into the ward.

It was a proud moment in her life; and in spite of the pain she was suffering, her eyes lighted up with delight.

"Well, Peggy," said the young man, "I thought I must come and thank you in person for what you did for me. You are getting on first-rate, I hope?"

"Yes, sir. Please, sir, excuse me arskin', but did I drop my stockin'? I've kep' thinkin' on it, and I feel sure I had it in my hand."

Captain D'Arcy smiled.

"Yes, I think my aunt has it in her keeping. You had it right enough."

"And please, sir, is your papers safe too?"

"All safe. They would have been a great loss to me. And I am deeply grateful to you."

He pulled out of his waistcoat pocket two five-pound notes, and put them on her pillow.

Peggy's face grew very red.

"Please, sir, I don't want no money. Oh please, sir, you didn't think I went to get 'em for money?"

Tears were in her eyes. Such a little brought them there now.

"Of course not," said Captain D'Arcy hurriedly; "but I'm going away, Peggy, and I wanted to give you a little present before I left. You know the fire was my fault I am afraid; and certainly it was my fault that you nearly lost your life. You will greatly oblige me if you take this."

Peggy's smile shone out.

"Thank you very, very much, sir. I'll take it for my stockin', and it will be lovely! And, please sir, are you going back to Indy?"

"Not just yet. I am going to visit some friends first."

"I shall always think on you, please sir," said Peggy earnestly. "I always have longed to meet you, and I never did think I'd have done it. And, please sir, I does hope I told you right the fust time I sawed you. I was in such a hurry to get it out, that p'raps I said it wrong."

"Oh no, your sermon was quite plain," said the young man, looking at her this time without the customary twinkle in his eye. "I shall remember it, Peggy, every word. I shall never be able to say that I didn't know who to go to for a new heart. I haven't got that article yet, but I daresay I might be the better for it."

Peggy looked at him in perplexity.

"'Twas the sick capting in the Bible goin' so quick and getting cured, that made me think you would p'raps," she said wistfully. "I always did want to be that there maid, and when I really did meet a sick capting I was so overjoyed that my heart nearly busted!"

"A sick captain in the Bible," said Captain D'Arcy, looking at her meditatively; "now who was he, I wonder?"

"'Twas a leper captin, and the maid were waitin' on his lady, and she told him to go to Elisha, and he went, and he was told to wash hisself, and he wouldn't, and then he did, and he come home quite well!"

"How interesting! And do you think I want washing?" The twinkle was in the captain's eye again.

"I believe your inside does," said Peggy. "You said it was awful bad, didn't you, sir?"

"Did I? Well, Peggy, if I ever follow your advice, I will let you know. Now you hurry up and get well. Have you got all you want?"

Peggy smiled. "I has everythink, please sir."

"That's right. Goodbye."

He nodded to her and was gone.

Peggy fingered her bank-notes with her bandaged hands. When the nurse came to her, she said—

"Nurse, I ain't quite sure of my sight yet; How many shillin's is there in those two bits o' paper?"

Peggy would not confess her ignorance of the value of bank-notes. She had never seen one in her life before.

"Shillings!" laughed the nurse. "Pounds, you mean. You have ten pounds there, Peggy. Shall I take care of them for you?"

Peggy was silent from sheer astonishment.

"But 'tis more than a whole year's wages!" she gasped. "Oh, how could he giv' it! Oh my! What a full stockin' I shall have!"

She lay and thought of her beloved stocking, and when her burns were about to be dressed, she would say to herself—

"Now keep up, Peggy, and think of yer stockin'! That will make yer take no notice of the pain! And think o' the time comin' when the gold will roll out, and you'll hand it up to the missionaries!"