Chapter VI: Miss Leighton's Discovery

THE daffodil blooms had all been gathered; March had given place to April; and, day by day, Peggy was improving in health, whilst roses—faint as yet, it is true—were appearing in her cheeks. The doctor's prescription of a change of air was evidently what she had needed; and Mrs. Tiddy was much gratified at being able to write most cheering reports of her visitor's condition to Mrs. Pringle, who read them aloud to her husband and Billy with deep thankfulness in her heart.

"How we shall miss the child when she leaves us!" Mr. Tiddy remarked to his wife one evening, as they strolled up and down the path in front of the house when the work of the day was over, listening to the music which Peggy's fingers were drawing from the piano in the parlour. The little girl was naturally musical and had been well taught by her father, who had often told her that if she worked hard and practised industriously, she might become a real musician some day, and to be a real musician was her most earnest desire.

"But she is not going to leave us for a long while yet," Mrs. Tiddy responded. "I have written and told her mother that she must spare her to us for another month, at least, and I think she will be glad to let her stay, as her health is benefiting so much by our Cornish air. By the way, Ebenezer, have you heard that there are lodgers at Higher Brimley? No? An elderly lady and her maid have taken Mrs. Ford's apartments. They were pointed out to me in the village this afternoon when Peggy and I were returning from the beach. And Peggy says she is sure the lady is the one who came from Penzance on purpose to look at our flowers. She is a tall, thin, old lady with quite white hair."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed the farmer. "I told her she could get apartments at Higher Brimley, but I did not think she really meant to see about them. Did she speak to Peggy?"

"No; she did not see her, for we were in the post office when she passed with her maid. Peggy recognised her by her voice."

"I wonder who she is. You did not hear her name, I suppose?"

"No. Listen! The child is singing!"

They stood silently by the open window of the parlour and listened as the little girl's voice, low and sweet in tone, rang out clearly and softly:

"Holy Father, cheer our way
With Thy love's perpetual ray:
Grant us every closing day
Light at evening time."

"Dear child," murmured Mrs. Tiddy, tears springing involuntarily to her eyes, "it does seem hard lines that one naturally so bright and joyous should be blind! But there, God knows best, and I suppose He has denied her sight for some good reason; and she has His love to cheer her way, I'm certain."

"I think there's light in her heart," said Mr. Tiddy simply, and his wife agreed.

It was on the following morning that Peggy, who had wandered down to the beach with Wolf in attendance, met the lodgers from Higher Brimley. The old lady spoke to the little girl, and inquired if she remembered her. And, receiving an answer in the affirmative, she dismissed her maid, telling her to wait within sight, and requested Peggy to sit down by her side on an upturned boat, and talk to her for a while.

Peggy complied readily, for she was of a very sociable disposition, and commenced the conversation by informing her companion that she had recognised her voice when she had heard it on the previous day.

"I was in the post office with Mrs. Tiddy when you passed," she said, "and you were talking. We were told you had taken Mrs. Ford's rooms."

"I do not know how long I shall remain there-perhaps only a few days, perhaps longer. I suppose the daffodils are all gone now?"

"Yes," Peggy nodded regretfully; "but there are more flowers than ever in the garden, and those will not be cut. Mr. Tiddy grows them for himself and his friends; but the daffodils and narcissi, he sells."

"You are looking better than when I saw you before," observed the stranger. "I suppose you will be going home soon?"

"Not for some weeks yet. Oh, yes, I am a lot better! I feel really well; and Mrs. Tiddy says I am getting quite rosy and sunburnt. I am so glad, because they will be pleased at home."

"Are you one of a long family?"

"No. I have only one brother—Billy. Father is the organist of St. John's, but I do not expect you know the church. Mr. Maloney is our Vicar. He's a great friend of ours. I'm sure you'd like him, because he's such a good man. Mother says he's very clever, and people come a long distance often to hear him preach, so I suppose he must be."

"I think I've heard of him," said the old lady thoughtfully. "He gives up his life to working amongst the poor, does he not?"

"Yes. Nearly every one in our parish is poor. Mr. Maloney is, I believe, and we are, you know, because father's salary isn't much, and his music pupils don't pay him as they ought. But father is very clever, too, and some day I dare say we shall be better off. Father composes music, and there are very few people who can do that," the little girl said, with a ring of affectionate pride in her voice. "Do you live in London, too?" she inquired, thinking it was her turn to ask a question now.

"I have a house in town. Will you come and spend a day with me there when we both go back to our own homes?"

"I—I hardly know," Peggy replied doubtfully, flushing with surprise. "It's very kind of you to invite me; but I must ask mother. I don't know who you are, and—"

"And I don't know who you are, either! Suppose you tell me your name?"

"It is Margaret Pringle; but I am always called Peggy, because father calls mother Margaret."

"Pringle!" exclaimed the old lady, growing suddenly crimson. She looked almost angrily at Peggy as she spoke, but of course the little girl was unconscious of that fact, though she caught the sound of agitation in her voice. "Pringle!" she repeated. "Is it possible? Tell me, is your father's name John?"

"Yes. You have heard of him?" Since her companion had evinced some knowledge of the Vicar of St. John's, it did not occur to Peggy as at all unlikely that she should know something of the organist too. "He plays most beautifully," she continued impressively. "Mr. Tiddy will tell you so, for he heard him one Sunday evening when he went to church with us. It was the first time I had been to church after my accident. Oh, I haven't told you about that! I was knocked down when I was out with Billy, and it was a great wonder that I was not killed!"

And she recounted the story of her adventure at some length, utterly unconscious of the effect it was having upon her listener, who had lost all her colour again now, and was looking paler than before.

"The—the person in the carriage would not have understood that you were blind," the old lady remarked at length, subsequent to a long pause which had followed the conclusion of Peggy's tale.

"No, of course not," the little girl agreed, "but Mr. Maloney says the least she could have done would have been to have driven me home. Billy thinks she didn't care, if I was hurt or not. And—isn't it strange?—she's supposed to be a very charitable person!"

"Then you know who she is?"

"Oh, yes! She gave the policeman her card, and mother used to know her quite well—years ago."

"Ah!"

"I—I am afraid I have been talking too much," Peggy said hesitatingly, with a sudden touch of reserve in her tone as she became aware that she had let her tongue run away with her. She hoped she had not wearied her companion with her chatter.

"Why did you say she—the person in the carriage, I mean—is supposed to be very charitable?" asked the old lady presently.

"Because she gives away heaps and heaps of money," was the prompt reply.

"Well, that is very generous of her, is it not?"

"Yes. But I don't think she can be really charitable, if she isn't kind in little ways and if she's unforgiving. I asked Mr. Maloney what he thought."

"Well? What did he say?"

"He repeated that verse in the Corinthians, 'Though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.' He didn't say anything but that; but I know what he meant, don't you? But, don't let us talk about her any more—I am not sure that I ought to have spoken of her at all."

"You have done no harm. So that accident was actually the cause of your illness?"

"Yes. And just when the doctor said I must have a change of air, Mr. Tiddy arrived and invited me here. Wasn't it kind of him, and of Mrs. Tiddy too? You know I couldn't possibly have had a change but for them, for father couldn't have managed it, and it made him so dreadfully unhappy that he couldn't. Both he and mother were so worried about me."

Soon after that the old lady rose, remarking that she found the wind a trifle chilly. She said good-bye to Peggy and joined her maid with the intention of returning to her lodgings. Left alone, the little girl reflected that her late companion had been decidedly less affable at the conclusion of their conversation, than at the commencement, and wondered why that had been. Had she unwittingly said anything to cause her annoyance? She felt puzzled and uneasy; and, though she had been encouraged to talk, she wished she had been less communicative.

Meanwhile the old lady, who, as the reader has no doubt guessed, was no other than Miss Leighton, Mrs. Pringle's aunt, was walking up the hill towards Higher Brimley in anything but a happy frame of mind. That morning she had spoken of remaining some while longer in Cornwall, and had professed herself quite satisfied with the arrangements which had been made for her comfort; but now, she had almost decided to quit the neighbourhood at once.

She had been greatly attracted by the blind child on the occasion of her visit from Penzance to look at Mr. Tiddy's flowers. And when she had caught sight of her on the beach an hour previously, she had determined to cultivate her acquaintance. But having learnt that Peggy was the daughter of the niece whom she had never forgiven for what she called her ingratitude, she was experiencing mingled feelings of anger, bitterness, and regret.

"I will have no more to do with her," she thought.

Then she shuddered as she reflected on the accident. How terrible it would have been if her horses had killed Margaret's little daughter! She had made no inquiries concerning her niece since her marriage and had not even known where she was living, or if she had any children or not. Therefore, it had been somewhat of a shock to discover she had a child who was afflicted with blindness. She pictured Peggy, golden-haired and sunny-faced, and an unwonted expression of tenderness crossed her countenance. After all, she decided, she would remain at Higher Brimley for the time, for—it was weak of her, no doubt—she felt she must see Peggy once again.