REST 
 HOUSE 
 
 ..:..-. ' .. 
 
 CLARKE
 
 THE REST HOUSE
 
 Novels by Isabel C. Clarke 
 
 Each $1.S5 net. Pottage, 10 centt extra 
 
 FINE CLAY 
 
 "A fine novel, worthy of a place alongside 
 of Mgr. Benson's and Canon Sheehan's." 
 Messenger of the Sacred Heart. 
 
 BY THE BLUE RIVER 
 
 "Its gripping power is substantial. It is 
 truly a throbbing story of heart interest." 
 The Tablet. 
 
 THE SECRET CITADEL 
 
 "Fragrant with the same mystical element 
 that stamped 'By the Blue River* as a work 
 of art." Catholic Trantcript. 
 
 PRISONERS' YEARS 
 
 "Not only masterly, but in a certain way 
 masterful " America. 
 
 ONLY ANNE 
 
 "The story has a haunting beauty compar- 
 able only to that of Lucas Malet's 'The F*r 
 Horizon.'" The Republic.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 BY 
 
 ISABEL C. CLARKE 
 
 NEW YORK, CTWCIWWATI, CHICAGO 
 
 BENZIGER BROTHERS 
 
 PUBLISHEftS Of BENZIOEl's MAGAZINE 
 
 1917
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY BENZIGEH BHOTHEBS
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAG* 
 
 Chapter I 7 
 
 Chapter II 22 
 
 Chapter III 39 
 
 Chapter IV 55 
 
 Chapter V 66 
 
 Chapter VI 77 
 
 Chapter VII 88 
 
 Chapter VIII 99 
 
 Chapter IX 126 
 
 Chapter X 139 
 
 Chapter XI 148 
 
 Chapter XII . . 175 
 
 Chapter XIII 183 
 
 Chapter XIV 199 
 
 Chapter XV 216 
 
 Chapter XVI 226 
 
 Chapter XVII 242 
 
 Chapter XVIII 253 
 
 Chapter XIX 262 
 
 Chapter XX ........ 276 
 
 Chapter XXI 292 
 
 5 
 
 2134711
 
 6 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Chapter XXII 298 
 
 Chapter XXIII 312 
 
 Chapter XXIV 323 
 
 Chapter XXV 343 
 
 Chapter XXVI 358 
 
 Chapter XXVII 378
 
 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 IT WAS snowing hard, and the wind blew against 
 their faces, stinging them as if it were hurling 
 little sharp arrow-heads of ice against them 
 diminutive weapons that yet managed to add con- 
 siderably to the unpleasantness of their present 
 lot, in the opinion of these two people arrested 
 in their journey by the sudden plunge of the car 
 into a deep snowdrift. 
 
 Peggy Metcalfe stood shivering in the road ; her 
 teeth were chattering, and her hands and feet 
 were becoming every moment more and more 
 numb. She watched with mechanical attention 
 the prostrate form of her brother Peter, who was 
 "doing things" to the car, here in this lonely and 
 rather wild part of North Somersetshire. 
 
 All around them the field spread white, frozen, 
 and cheerless. Beyond the fields the hills stood 
 up snow-covered against a leaden gray sky. 
 Here and there deep blots of brown stained the 
 white disclosing woods that were as yet un- 
 buried beneath the snowy pall. It was extraordi- 
 narily silent, with the peculiar and muffled quiet 
 which invariably follows a heavy snowfall; and 
 in the silence Peggy, who was impressionable, 
 discerned a touch of that hostility which Nature 
 seems to betray when she finds human beings 
 
 7
 
 8 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 suddenly at her mercy, AS if she wished to take 
 the opportunity of showing them that despite 
 all their endeavors to tame, train, and civilize her, 
 she yet remains uncrowned sovereign of them all, 
 cruelly powerful, serenely indifferent, pursuing 
 her royal, relentless course without pity or com- 
 punction. 
 
 Those who live in close contact with her, who 
 habitually submit rather than struggle and who 
 have neither the means nor the ability to combat 
 her, are less afraid of Nature in her wild moods ; 
 just as those who are grimly accustomed to the 
 storm, the whirlwind, the earthquake, acknowl- 
 edge her superior power and bow before it. 
 
 But Peggy was softly nurtured. She was ac- 
 customed to surroundings that were extremely 
 comfortable and luxurious, and where efforts 
 were always being made to increase that com- 
 fort and luxury. If the temperature at Mildon 
 Park fell below a certain point, Nature was not 
 blamed, but some one who was responsible for 
 the central heating was very soundly rebuked. 
 Such misfortunes were, however, extremely rare, 
 for the domestic wheels at Sir John Metcalfe's 
 great Surrey residence were well oiled, and, as 
 like consorts with like in this world, Peggy had 
 small knowledge of human habitations where 
 lesser standards of comfort prevailed. 
 
 Just now, in spite of the cold and a rague 
 anxiety that occasionally rose in her mind in 
 spite of all efforts to repress it, she was enjoying 
 herself thoroughly. She even lifted her face, 
 which was unveiled, to the sky, heedless of the 
 sting of half-frozen snow and the buffeting of the
 
 THE REST HOUSE 9 
 
 bleak gale. It made her feel so extraordinarily 
 alive, and though she shivered and her face 
 smarted as if it had been skinned, these physical 
 discomforts in no way diminished her joy in the 
 sense of unusual freedom. She was going to 
 show Nature that she was not afraid of those 
 silent, lonely, hostile fields! Even if they had 
 indeed been peopled with invisible malevolent 
 presences bent on destroying herself and Peter 
 (and this dreadful thought had once or twice fan- 
 tastically occurred to her mind), she would still 
 have lifted a brave, smiling, little face to the sky. 
 
 It was such a small, slight face, so delicately 
 modeled in all its lines, that only the very per- 
 fection of its contour saved it from triviality. 
 You might have passed Peggy by, but if you had 
 paused to look at her you would certainly have 
 looked a second and third time. Her dark brown 
 hair was soft as a cloud and she wore it very 
 simply dressed; her eyes were brown, too, and a 
 shade or two darker than the hair and rather 
 thickly fringed with lashes that lent them depth 
 and softness, as dark lashes always do ; her com- 
 plexion was of that white colorlessness which 
 sometimes accompanies dark hair. In her own 
 family Peggy was not considered at all beauti- 
 ful, perhaps because she had been regarded as a 
 plain child, and this adverse opinion had clung 
 to her. Peter was the only one who thought dif- 
 ferently, but then he had always been as the 
 Metcalfes said "silly about Peggy." 
 
 After a considerable interval Peter emerged 
 from beneath the car. He stood up, shook him- 
 self somewhat after the manner of a big dog, so
 
 10 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 that the snow fell in little heaps from his coat, and 
 looked at Peggy. 
 
 "Can't you start her?" said Peggy. 
 
 "No. I think you'd better get in, and I'll go 
 and look for help. Don't stand there in the snow 
 any longer, Pegs!" 
 
 There was a note of anxiety in Peter's voice 
 as he advanced these suggestions. The daylight 
 was fast dying, and only a pale, narrow, saffron- 
 hued bar broke in the west that uniform gray sky 
 which had the thick opaque look appropriate to a 
 severe snowstorm that has not yet done its worst. 
 
 "I'd rather come with you," said Peggy with 
 decision. "It'll be quite safe to leave the car. If 
 she won't move for you, she won't move for any 
 one. And if some one came and tried to steal her 
 I couldn't stop him." 
 
 This irrefutable logic did not appear all at once 
 to convince Peter Metcalfe. He was getting a 
 little anxious about his sister. 
 
 "But, Pegs, dear, your feet must be simply 
 soaking," he said. 
 
 Peggy had always ruled Peter ever since she 
 was a mite of five years old and he had been a 
 school-boy of nine. They had formed even then 
 a kind of alliance, offensive and defensive, against 
 the two superior elder sisters, Diana and Beatrice. 
 Vivian, the younger son, who preferred peace, 
 alternately lent the weight of his person to each 
 opposing camp. He had a sneaking wish to sup- 
 port Peggy coupled with a jealous hostility 
 evoked by the superior prowess of Peter; these 
 conflicting emotions made his championship un- 
 reliable, nevertheless he leaned greatly to the
 
 THE REST HOUSE 11 
 
 winning side as represented by Diana and Bea- 
 trice. Beatrice would have been a waverer, too, 
 but the hand of Diana pressed heavily, and 
 though she loved Peter, she looked upon Peggy 
 as a baby, and a very naughty and rebellious 
 baby to boot. To side with a person who by 
 nature is always getting into scrapes and merit- 
 ing and receiving punishment from the Olympi- 
 ans almost always means that you become in- 
 volved in both scraps and consequences; it is 
 safer, therefore, to associate yourself with the 
 person who represents morality and order. It 
 had seemed all the more extraordinary that in 
 those youthful days Peter, who in age came be- 
 tween Beatrice and Vivian, should have so con- 
 sistently supported Peggy through thick and 
 thin, suffering heroically at times the pains and 
 penalties consequent upon this ill-advised cham- 
 pionship. 
 
 The ties thus formed held still, and the closest 
 and most intimate friendship existed between 
 Peter and Peggy Metcalfe. 
 
 "Never mind about me," said Peggy cheer- 
 fully, "I love this kind of thing. It is such a 
 delicious change! Where do you think we are 
 now, Peter?" 
 
 Peter looked at his watch and then opened a 
 map. Peggy held one end of it and they stood 
 side by side, examining it together. 
 
 "It is about an hour and a half since we left 
 Chippenham," he said. "Of course we ought to 
 have stuck to the Reading road instead of trying 
 this silly short-cut. That last village must have 
 been Marshfield. I wish we'd started in the
 
 12 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 morning instead of waiting till after luncheon. I 
 knew it was going to snow." He glanced rue- 
 fully at the sky, which held but one promise, that 
 of more snow and yet more snow. Even in those 
 few minutes his cap and the broad shoulders of 
 his coat were thickly encrusted, while Peggy's 
 slender, gracile form, enveloped in a heavy wrap, 
 was becoming every moment whiter and whiter. 
 
 "Let's walk on anyhow," she said cheerfully, 
 "and see if we can see any signs of human habi- 
 tation." 
 
 She spoke carelessly, for she could perceive that 
 Peter was growing increasingly anxious. Be- 
 sides, they were only wasting time in idle dis- 
 cussion, and darkness would soon be upon them. 
 
 "We shall have to send a telegram and say we 
 can't get home to-night," she said as they trudged 
 up the hill. As she spoke, a picture of that fine 
 old Georgian house rose with a certain seductive- 
 ness before her mental vision. Already the blinds 
 would be drawn down so that her mother might 
 not be disagreeably reminded of the inclement 
 conditions that prevailed outside. Electric light, 
 masses of flowers, a huge, blazing fire of logs 
 would create that artificial impression of warmth 
 and light so conducive to physical comfort. The 
 newest books from Mudie's, the latest illustrated 
 papers and reviews would lie on a table within 
 comfortable reach of Lady Metcalfe's armchair. 
 But at that moment Peggy would not have ex- 
 changed the chill bleak wildness of the Somer- 
 setshire hills for the serene environment of Mil- 
 don. She liked the rough wind, the blizzard, the 
 cold, the forlorn discomfort of it all.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 13 
 
 They walked in silence up the hill, leaving the 
 motor securely ensconced in a snowdrift under 
 the hedge. It looked a curiously derelict and 
 abandoned object in its stolid immovability. 
 
 On reaching the top of the hill the prospect 
 held nothing of hope. Bleak white hills, wide 
 white frozen fields, brown willows that possibly 
 indicated the course of a canal, met their vision. 
 There was no sign of any village, no sign even 
 of farm or house. The whole world had an in- 
 hospitable, uninhabited aspect. 
 
 "I don't believe that was Marshfield," said 
 Peggy irrelevantly. 
 
 "Of course it was Marshfield," Peter main- 
 tained stoutly. 
 
 After that they were silent again, for it really 
 did not help them particularly to know whether 
 they had passed through Marshfield half an hour 
 ago or not. What did matter very much was 
 the fact that they were not now approaching 
 Mildon, where they would certainly be expected 
 not later than tea-time. Properly speaking, 
 Peggy had no business to be here at all ; she should 
 have returned home by train with her maid. Even 
 Beatrice who was now Lady Charsley had 
 counseled this course, which was so obviously ap- 
 propriate. Peter and Peggy had been spending 
 a week with her at Lavender that famous 
 Gloucestershire seat of the Charsleys. Peter, 
 whose motor was a very recent acquisition, had 
 always intended to travel home in it, but it was 
 not until the eleventh hour that Peggy had pre- 
 vailed upon him to let her accompany him. She 
 pleaded the dullness of the cold cross-country
 
 14 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 journey, the frequent changes, the long wait at 
 Oxford. It would be much quicker to go in the 
 car, and much more fun! Peter feared the dis- 
 approval of the Olympians, for he had no chauf- 
 feur with him, and was regarded as both reckless 
 and inexperienced. Beatrice always faithfully 
 represented the Olympian point of view, and her 
 arguments were all in favor of Peggy's traveling 
 by train. Now Peter, who had allowed himself 
 to be overruled as usual by Peggy, recognized 
 when it was too late the inherent wisdom of those 
 stern infallibles. 
 
 They walked on rather aimlessly, and came at 
 last to an open, rather dilapidated five-barred 
 gate, hanging loose upon its hinges. Probably a 
 rough road led thence across the fields hidden be- 
 neath that pall of snow. There was a clump of 
 trees at an inconsiderable distance from the gate, 
 standing upon a slight eminence, that might pos- 
 sibly conceal a farmhouse or perhaps a cottage. 
 But Peter was reluctant to leave the highroad. 
 Another car might possibly pass, and tow his own 
 off in its wake. He wondered why he had never 
 thought of this contingency before. 
 
 "It's just a chance," said Peggy, after they had 
 surveyed the place for a moment; "we may as 
 well try." She plunged forward into the deep 
 snow that came nearly to her knees. 
 
 A shrill and sustained barking emerged from 
 the clump of trees. As they drew nearer the 
 sound increased to a passionate and even hostile 
 protest. Substantial shadows as of buildings 
 darkened the space between the clustered stems. 
 Then a light gleamed palely, like a solitary star.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 15 
 
 "It is a house," said Peggy briskly. 
 
 Peter was now in a thoroughly pessimistic 
 mood. The ire of the Olympians loomed large 
 before his mental vision. It would be a bad be- 
 ginning to the Christmas holidays. Sir John had 
 the disagreeable but not uncommon habit of re- 
 verting to any past manifestation of stupidity, 
 incompetency, or frailty on the part of his off- 
 spring whenever his wrath was aroused. This 
 episode would furnish him with material to em- 
 bitter their interviews for months to come! 
 
 "And if it is a house," said Peter gloomily, "I 
 don't see what use it can possibly be to us." 
 
 "Why, you said you would try to find help," 
 Peggy reminded him, "and I am very hungry. 
 I hope it will mean tea and perhaps cake. And 
 a fire and some dry clothes. And a man to go 
 with you and help you to get the car out of the 
 snow. And then it will be so nice to know ex- 
 actly where we are !" 
 
 "I am sure it will mean nothing of the sort," 
 said Peter. "Such a house as that if it is a house 
 at all, which I very much doubt can only be in- 
 habited by some cross-grained old curmudgeon 
 who hates the sight of his fellow-creatures, and 
 will probably take us for tramps or thieves and 
 slam the door in our faces." 
 
 "Dear Peter," said Peggy, and she linked her 
 arm in her brother's, "I don't really see why " 
 
 She did not finish the sentence, for at that 
 moment the owner of the bark, a small dark 
 Scotch terrier, ran out toward them uttering 
 those sustained and infuriated canine menaces 
 so characteristic of his kind.
 
 16 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Peggy spoke to him reassuringly, as if he were 
 a personal friend, which appeared to mollify or 
 at least subdue the original ferocity of his inten- 
 tions, for he ran back toward the house barking 
 as if to announce rather than to repel their ap- 
 proach. In a few minutes they came to a second 
 gate leading to a small winding path guarded by 
 twin rows of conifers and evergreen shrubs now 
 heavily burdened with snow. Beyond, on a slight 
 eminence, sheltered by a few taller trees, there 
 stood a square, solid house built of Bath stone 
 and darkened with age. There were lights in 
 some of the windows. Peter, encouraged by 
 something homely and sheltering in its aspect, 
 went forward boldly, and going up to the front 
 door, rang the bell. The dog had by this time 
 disappeared to the back regions. 
 
 "We do look like tramps," said Peggy, smiling 
 at her brother. 
 
 A maid servant opened tfie door, disclosing a 
 square, sparsely furnished hall. It had a shabby 
 aspect, and the linoleum that covered the floor was 
 so worn that no pattern was visible. 
 
 "Oh, can we come in, please?" said Peggy; 
 "we've lost our way, and we've left the motor in 
 a snowdrift at the bottom of the hill!" 
 
 The maid smiled broadly : she was a young, 
 shy, country girl, 
 
 "Please come in, Miss," she said, "and I'll go 
 and call Miss Mary." 
 
 She shut the door, and leaving them standing 
 in the hall, vanished. Peter and Peggy stared at 
 each other in the lamplight. The warmer atmos- 
 phere though even here it was not very warm
 
 THE REST HOUSE 17 
 
 melted the snow upon their clothes, and the drips 
 fell thickly upon the floor. 
 
 "We shall make an awful mess of the place," 
 said Peter, stamping his feet in a vain endeavor 
 to restore their circulation. 
 
 "I wonder who Miss Mary is," whispered 
 Peggy. 
 
 "The farmer's daughter, probably," said Peter. 
 
 They had not waited very long when the door 
 at the end of the hall was once more opened and a 
 girl entered. She did not look very much older 
 than Peggy, and she was dressed sensibly if a 
 trifle shabbily in a short blue serge skirt, a flannel 
 blouse, and a dark blue knitted coat. She had red 
 hair and very pale blue eyes and a charming smile 
 that set Peggy at once at her ease, and indeed 
 reassured both the wayfarers. Peter began to 
 apologize for the intrusion, but Miss Mary only 
 said pleasantly : 
 
 "I can send the gardener to help you with the 
 car the other men went home early on account 
 of the snow. He could take one of the farm 
 horses if that would be any use. I wish Fred- 
 erick were back he would know exactly what to 
 do!'* 
 
 "Oh, but that'll do simply splendidly," said 
 Peter; "thank you very much. And if you could 
 kindly lend my sister some dry clothes." 
 
 "Oh, I'll look after your sister," said Miss 
 Mary, smiling at Peggy, "and I'll have a room 
 ready for you too by the time you return. We've 
 lots of spare room here, luckily. You mustn't 
 dream of going on anywhere to-night. Why, it's 
 eight miles to Coldford, our nearest town, and
 
 18 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 five to Hintlecombe, our nearest station, and you 
 might stick in another drift." 
 
 "Oh, we couldn't possibly dream of trespass- 
 ing upon you like that," said Peggy, her eyes 
 shining. 
 
 "We shall be only too delighted. We so sel- 
 dom have visitors here. We are quite alone 
 my father, my brother and I. You will tell me 
 your names?" 
 
 "I'm Peter Metcalfe," said Peter, "and this 
 is my sister Peggy. We're on our way to Mildon 
 in Surrey, where our home is." 
 
 Miss Mary rang the bell; the little maid re- 
 appeared and listened attentively to the brief 
 orders that were given. It was quite evident that 
 Miss Mary, if not actually an Olympian, held a 
 position of undoubted authority. Nor was she a 
 person to be "rattled" by an emergency even 
 when it was represented by the arrival of two 
 wet, half-frozen strangers. There was some- 
 thing calm and competent about her. 
 
 After a very short delay Peter, accompanied by 
 a man and a horse and armed with a lantern and 
 some tools and a rope, disappeared once more 
 into the snow. When they had gone Miss Mary 
 conducted Peggy upstairs to her own room. As 
 they left the hall and turned down a passage, a 
 whiff of an unfamiliar odor assailed Peggy's nos- 
 trils. She wondered a little idly what it could be. 
 It was pungent and aromatic, but not scented, 
 and it penetrated up the stairs, almost like a thin 
 smoke. 
 
 "It's warmer in my room, as there's a fire," said 
 Miss Mary. "I think you had better take off all
 
 THE REST HOUSE 19 
 
 your things and wear some of mine. They are 
 sure to be too big for you, but that won't matter. 
 I'll bring you some hot water." 
 
 Peggy stooped down and began to take off her 
 boots, a matter of some difficulty as they were 
 stiff with moisture and her feet were cold and 
 swollen. Miss Mary, meanwhile, opened in turn 
 drawers and cupboards remarkable for their ad- 
 mirable and meticulous neatness, and produced 
 various garments which she laid upon the bed. A 
 white silk blouse most carefully guarded between 
 sheets of silver paper represented Miss Mary's 
 most precious and cherished "best," but she now 
 offered it to Peggy without a qualm. A 
 skirt of gray cashmere scarcely less pre- 
 cious than the blouse was laid on the bed by its 
 side. 
 
 "Do you think they will do?" she asked, for 
 something in the simple elegance of Peggy's 
 attire as she flung off her heavy fur coat made her 
 feel suddenly humble about these, the only gar- 
 ments she was able to offer. 
 
 "Oh, they're far too good for me," said Peggy, 
 her eyes shining; "how awfully kind of you. I 
 don't know how to thank you. I was just getting 
 the least bit nervous with the darkness coming 
 on and our both getting colder every minute. 
 And we never hoped to find any one as kind and 
 thoughtful as you have been!" 
 
 Miss Mary colored a little at the praise. She 
 was accustomed to much self-denial, to much 
 tender consideration of others, and those others 
 being a father and a brother, though both sin- 
 cerely devoted to her, were inclined to take her
 
 20 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 unselfishness rather for granted. The praise and 
 the thanks were novelties to her. 
 
 "I'm so glad you found your way here, Miss 
 Metcalfe," she said. "I will go away now and 
 see about a room for your brother when he comes 
 back. I hope you will take a little rest when 
 you have put on these dry things." 
 
 She moved toward the door and before leaving 
 the room she said rather hesitatingly: 
 
 "You shall have some tea in about five min- 
 utes. It is only half past four now, and Bene- 
 diction is at half past six if you would like to 
 come." 
 
 Peggy looked at her in frank surprise. 
 
 "Benediction?" she said. 
 
 "Yes we are Catholics here," said Miss Mary, 
 "and we have a chapel. Just now we have an 
 invalid priest staying with us, so we have Mass 
 and Benediction every day, which is a great hap- 
 piness." 
 
 She spoke very simply. Peggy said shyly : 
 
 "I should like to come. But I've never been 
 to Benediction before and I sha'n't know what to 
 do." 
 
 "There's nothing to do," said Miss Mary, smil- 
 ing. "But unless you feel too tired one generally 
 kneels down all the time after the priest comes 
 in." 
 
 She returned once more, bringing a tray with 
 some hot tea and a plate of bread and butter for 
 Peggy. Then she left her alone and hurried away 
 to superintend the preparation of their rooms. 
 And after that there was supper to be thought of, 
 for some addition to their simple little evening
 
 THE REST HOUSE 21 
 
 meal was surely necessary, for the entertaining of 
 these two strangers. 
 
 But first of all she must go down to the study 
 and tell her father of the unexpected arrival of 
 these guests, and beg him to break the news to 
 Frederick as soon as he returned. 
 
 She was not quite sure whether Frederick 
 would be pleased. He was shy and disliked 
 visitors and especially strangers; she hoped he 
 would be polite and not too abrupt in his manner 
 to Peter and Peggy.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 DRESSED in Mary's clothes, which were de- 
 cidedly roomy for her, Peggy sat in an arm- 
 chair by the fire and drank her tea, which was 
 stronger than Lady Metcalf e would have deemed 
 desirable for her daughter's nerves and com- 
 plexion. She finished the bread and butter and 
 ate, too, the slice of brown home-made cake which 
 Mary had brought for her. Then she leaned 
 back in the chair and suddenly realized how very 
 tired she was, and how delicious it was to be once 
 more sheltered and dry and warm. 
 
 An unaccustomed sense of physical well-being 
 and ease came over her. She felt as if she would 
 like to close her eyes and go quietly to sleep. It 
 was the snow, she told herself, that had made her 
 so strangely sleepy. 
 
 Peggy closed her eyes. She was conscious now 
 as far as she could be said to be definitely con- 
 scious of anything at all that with that sense 
 of physical ease there had come to her a serenity 
 that could not be called physical at all. It was as 
 if some cool, quiet spirit of peace had come over 
 her and laid its hands or perhaps its wings upon 
 her heart, her soul. 
 
 The room where she was sitting was plain and 
 rather bare. The furniture was of painted deal 
 and the carpet on the floor was almost thread- 
 bare. The little iron bed was covered with a white 
 cotton counterpane. Everything was scrupu- 
 lously clean and neat, but everything in it be- 
 trayed also the poverty of its owner. 
 
 22
 
 THE REST HOUSE 23 
 
 As she lay there with her eyes closed and her 
 limbs slackened and inert, she fell into a delicious, 
 restful slumber that was like an anodyne, for it 
 took away all the pain, the intense weariness and 
 fatigue from her body, and bestowed upon her 
 mind a sense of the most perfect tranquillity. As 
 the slumber deepened she began to dream and 
 in her dream she found herself wandering about 
 again in the darkness and cold with Peter by her 
 side. There was a third figure with them that 
 of a man whose face she could not see, but he was 
 a bigger man than Peter, broader, taller. He 
 walked ahead of them with easy, swinging strides. 
 . . . And then suddenly a door opened and they 
 came into the lamplit hall and found Miss Maiy 
 there waiting for them. Peggy heard a voice 
 cry aloud the one word "Come !" It was so loud 
 that it startled her and awakened her from her 
 sleep. She rubbed her eyes and looked round 
 the room. The fire was burning low in the grate, 
 and the room was rather less light in consequence 
 than it had been. She was quite alone. 
 
 The sound seemed still to echo in her ears, as 
 if the voice had spoken quite close to her, and 
 she thought for the moment that Miss Mary 
 must have called to her to go down to the chapel. 
 But nothing stirred, and there was no one in the 
 room. The door was still shut. 
 
 "I must have dreamed it," said Peggy to her- 
 self. Yet she could not help feeling that the 
 word had been actually uttered, and that it had 
 indeed awakened her. Now in the quiet room it 
 seemed to acquire a certain eerie, almost sinister 
 significance that alarmed her.
 
 24 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 The adventures of the day had aroused a curi- 
 ous excitement in Peggy. Nothing of the kind 
 had ever happened to her before, for she had 
 always been most carefully guarded and shel- 
 tered, and she had seldom stayed away from home 
 unaccompanied by her mother unless it had been 
 on a visit to one of her married sisters. But 
 Diana and Beatrice were quite as strict and vig- 
 ilant as Lady Metcalfe, and she was accorded no 
 more liberty when she was with them than she 
 had at home. But the events of the past few 
 hours seemed to have broken abruptly the smooth 
 and even monotony of her life. There had been 
 the long waiting in the snow, the expedition in 
 search of help, the finding of this little lonely 
 stone house set in the bleak hills of Somerset- 
 shire, the calm welcome offered by Miss Mary, 
 and now this strange dream! ... A sudden 
 alarm seized upon Peggy, due, perhaps, to the 
 excited state of her nerves. She was quite alone 
 here, in a strange house among strange people of 
 whom she knew nothing at all. She had heard 
 terrifying stories of travelers being lured to 
 lonely dwellings and murdered there by just such 
 apparently kind and pleasant women as Miss 
 Mary! 
 
 Oh, why had she allowed Peter to leave her? 
 Why had she not insisted upon accompanying 
 him? The echoes of that voice which had awak- 
 ened her had died away, leaving only a profound 
 silence. In her sudden terror Peggy ran to the 
 door and flung it open. 
 
 It was a relief to see Miss Mary's figure com- 
 ing down the passage toward her room. Her
 
 THE REST HOUSE 25 
 
 head was covered with a small black lace man- 
 tilla. 
 
 "I was just coming to see if you would really 
 care to come down for Benediction," she said in 
 her tranquil, steady voice. 
 
 She looked at Peggy and wondered if she had 
 a touch of fever. Her face, that before had been 
 so pale, was flushed, and her eyes were shining 
 strangely. The girl looked overwrought and 
 excited. 
 
 "I am ready, thank you," said Peggy. "I 
 should like to come." 
 
 Even if she had not felt this eager curiosity 
 to be present at Benediction she would have ac- 
 companied her hostess to the chapel rather than 
 return alone to that silent room, to a possible 
 repetition of that strange dream. 
 
 She felt reassured by Miss Mary's simple and 
 kind tone, and felt ashamed of her unworthy and 
 uncharitable thoughts, and of those fears which 
 had left her with trembling limbs and throbbing 
 pulses. 
 
 Miss Mary led the way downstairs and along a 
 passage dimly lighted by a small oil lamp. It 
 was a long passage that must have run the whole 
 width of the house. The dark oak floor was 
 uneven, and it was uncovered by any carpet; 
 this part of the house seemed older than the rest, 
 Peggy thought, and its poverty was dignified by 
 age. Quite at the far end was a door concealed 
 by a dark red curtain. Miss Mary paused, 
 opened a drawer, and taking out a black lace 
 veil, handed it to Peggy. 
 
 "Shall I put it on for you?" she asked.
 
 26 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 "Please," said Peggy. She turned and faced 
 her hostess, who arranged the veil on her 
 head with light, skilful fingers. The black 
 frame was becoming to Peggy's small, slight 
 face. 
 
 Then Miss Mary dipped her hand into a little 
 silver stoup that hung on the wall near the door, 
 made the sign of the cross, and opening the 
 door, ushered Peggy into a small chapel. It was 
 rather dark, and at first Peggy could discern 
 nothing but the red lamp which glimmered ruby- 
 like before the tabernacle. The air was heavy 
 with the perfume of spent incense, and Peggy 
 realized now that this was the odor which had 
 accosted her nostrils in the house and which had 
 been the first thing to mystify and perplex her. 
 Miss Mary with a slight gesture indicated a prie- 
 dieu, and Peggy knelt upon it and bent her head. 
 She saw that Miss Mary genuflected before the 
 altar, and then disappeared through another 
 door, from which she presently emerged again 
 bearing a lighted taper, with which she lit the 
 candles upon the altar. 
 
 As Peggy's eyes became more accustomed to 
 the obscurity she perceived that they were not 
 alone, that there were other figures occupying 
 two prie-dieus to the left. Now in the pale illu- 
 mination of those altar-candles she could see that 
 the figures were those of two men, but their faces 
 were averted and she could only distinguish that 
 one of them was old and had hair of silvery 
 whiteness, and that the other was younger and 
 dark. They did not turn to look at her; they 
 were motionless and apparently absorbed. Pres-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 27 
 
 ently there was a slight stir and a boy entered 
 followed by a priest wearing a white vestment. 
 Hidden voices sang the O Salutaris, and Peggy 
 wondered if those clear, bird-like notes that led 
 the singing belonged to Miss Mary. The Tantum 
 Ergo followed. She could hear the words of the 
 Latin prayer uttered clearly by the priest. 
 "Deus, qui nobis sub sacramento mirabili pas- 
 sionis tuce memoriam reliquisti; tribue, qucesu- 
 mus 3 ita nos corporis et sanguinis tui sacra mys- 
 teria venerari, ut redemptionis tuce fructum in 
 nobis jugiter sentiamus. Qui vivis et regnas in 
 scecula sceculorum. Amen." . . . Peggy, look- 
 ing up, saw that the priest was holding a gold 
 monstrance raised high above his head. A bell 
 rang; the two figures bent their heads as if in 
 adoration. Some Latin prayers followed. 
 
 What did it all mean? Peggy felt as if she 
 had been present at some mysterious but very 
 holy rite. And she felt, too, an almost passion- 
 ate desire to understand what had taken place. 
 She seemed to be a child groping in thick dark- 
 ness, ignorant, unaware. A sudden envy of Miss 
 Mary seized upon her. What was it that this 
 other girl possessed which she, the child of rich 
 parents, brought up to every possible luxury, 
 had never known? Was it something that 
 might satisfy a certain wistfulness of soul 
 which had often made her restless, discon- 
 tented, dissatisfied? Was there something here 
 that might prove the answer to her formless 
 prayers? 
 
 Peggy was still kneeling there when Miss 
 Mary reappeared and with swift dexterity extin-
 
 28 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 guished the lights upon the altar. When she 
 had finished she came down the narrow aisle and 
 touched Peggy on the shoulder. She was faintly 
 surprised and not a little pleased to find her still 
 kneeling there in a devout attitude, her face 
 hidden in her hands. But she rose obediently 
 now and slowly followed her young hostess out 
 of the chapel almost like one in a dream. 
 
 Peggy was not conscious of having uttered a 
 single prayer, yet she must surely have been 
 praying well, not exactly praying, perhaps, but 
 communing with some Power, some Presence 
 she could not define. 
 
 As she walked out of the chapel she turned and 
 genuflected awkwardly in imitation of Miss 
 Mary, although conscious that the attempt was 
 rather a failure. She suffered Miss Mary to re- 
 move her veil and she followed her down the pas- 
 sage back into the hall. And as she did so she 
 flung back her head a little, and there came into 
 her heart that first impulse of proud rebellion, 
 which is perhaps a not very infrequent one when 
 the human heart feels the first arrow of the Di- 
 vine Assailant, and, ignorant and unprepared, 
 evinces a certain resistance, a plea for liberty . . . 
 The pain that saints have likened to the sharp 
 piercing of a sword in the heart 5s in itself 
 sufficient to arouse that initial rebellion. What 
 prisoner still able to free himself will not seek 
 to cast away the chain that threatens his liberty? 
 Peggy felt the curious imprisoning sense that 
 sometimes comes to the reluctant, hesitating soul 
 at the first touch of divine grace. And then 
 she remembered inconsequently the cry that had
 
 THE REST HOUSE 29 
 
 awakened her the voice that had called "Come" 
 across her slumber. 
 
 As they entered the hall they saw Peter stand- 
 ing there. He still wore his coat, which was 
 thickly encrusted with snow; he seemed to have 
 just come in. 
 
 Peggy rushed forward impulsively and cried: 
 "Oh, Peter, darling, I've been so frightened." 
 
 She stopped short. In the presence of Miss 
 Mary she could hardly relate those unworthy 
 fears. 
 
 Fortunately both her hearers misunderstood 
 her. 
 
 "Why, what was there to be frightened at?" 
 said Peter, in a cheery tone. "Did you think I 
 was lost in the snow? We had an awful job 
 to get the car out, I can tell you, but we did 
 it at last and we've got her safe and sound in the 
 yard. And I've been to the village and sent a 
 wire home, to tell them we are all right but that 
 we can't be back till to-morrow." 
 
 His words reassured Peggy, who was look- 
 ing at him in a bewildered way. It hurt her and 
 gave her a sharp sense of disloyalty to remember 
 now that she had never thought of Peter at all 
 during the whole two hours of his absence except 
 just that once to wish that he had not abandoned 
 her. She had felt no anxiety whatever for his 
 safety, and he believed that she had been alarmed 
 on his account. 
 
 At that moment the two men she had first 
 seen in the chapel came into the hall. Miss Mary 
 introduced them. 
 
 "Father, this is Miss Metcalfe and her brother,
 
 30 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Mr. Metcalfe." She turned smiling to Peggy. 
 "My father, Mr. Morford, and my brother Fred- 
 erick." 
 
 Peggy shook hands rather shyly, first with Mr. 
 Morford, who was younger than she had im- 
 agined from that first glimpse of his white head 
 in the chapel, and then with Frederick Morford, 
 who she thought had rather a forbidding aspect. 
 He was tall and extremely dark, with black eyes 
 set under very straight black brows that were a 
 trifle scowling, and a thin, hard mouth that did 
 not smile at all as he greeted her. Yet the face 
 might have been cast from some ancient statue, so 
 sharp and carven in their regular symmetry were 
 its dark lines. 
 
 "My daughter has been telling me about your 
 adventures," said Mr. Morford. "I am very glad 
 that you found your way safely here ; there isn't 
 another house for quite three miles. I hope Mary 
 has been looking after you properly?" 
 
 His smile included his daughter, and seemed 
 to convey a proud confidence that she had not 
 been found wanting in this respect. For Mary's 
 domestic competence was due to long training 
 and constant practice. It would never have oc- 
 curred to Mr. Morford to refuse to accept the 
 constant sacrifice of Mary any more than it 
 would have occurred to her to refuse to offer 
 that constant sacrifice of her youth, her strength, 
 her time. It was Mary's duty to look after her 
 father and brother, and she accomplished the 
 task as a matter of course. Mrs. Morford had 
 been dead about five years, and after her death 
 Mary had slipped into her place and fulfilled
 
 THE REST HOUSE 31 
 
 the tasks bequeathed to her by those delicate dead 
 hands. Mr. Morford and Frederick had their 
 duties just as Mary had hers. The little house- 
 hold was a singularly united one united in its 
 poverty, in its faith, and perhaps, too, in its 
 resignation. Frederick looked after the farm, 
 and also acted as land-agent to a neighboring 
 squire, Sir Arthur Denby. The work was rather 
 more than enough for one man; it reduced his 
 hours of leisure to a minimum, but he had youth 
 and courage and energy. Mr. Morford's health 
 was failing, but he was still able to do a little 
 literary work for Catholic firms and newspapers. 
 When Mary's household tasks were ended she 
 often typed for a couple of hours for her father. 
 Their united incomes sufficed to keep the little 
 home together. 
 
 Peggy did not learn this all at once, but she 
 gathered the general position of things before 
 the evening was over. Supper was at half past 
 seven and was a very simple little meal indeed. 
 There was some hot soup, a cold chicken and 
 salad, and an apple tart with cream. No one 
 drank anything but water, and after supper Mary 
 vanished and returned with some cups of coffee 
 on a tray. At the beginning and end of the re- 
 past Mr. Morford said a Latin grace, and he and 
 his son and daughter crossed themselves. 
 
 They rose from table and Mr. Morford in- 
 vited Peter to come and smoke in the study. 
 Rather to her surprise, Frederick Morford did 
 not accompany them, but joined his sister and 
 Peggy in the little morning-room where Mary 
 worked. Peggy soon saw the reason for this, for
 
 32 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Mary's tasks were not yet ended and she had 
 still to help the little servant to clear away the 
 meal and put the things away. Frederick had 
 come with them so that Peggy might not be left 
 alone. 
 
 She felt curiously timid and shy in his pres- 
 ence, and his taciturnity increased her own dis- 
 position to silence. This world was so unlike 
 her own that she seemed scarcely to speak the 
 same language. No effort of will or of imagina- 
 tion could bring it into line with the sumptuous 
 standards that prevailed at Mildon. 
 
 Frederick Morford regarded her for a mo- 
 ment intently and then said abruptly: 
 
 "I thought I saw you at Benediction. You 
 were there, were you not?" 
 
 "Yes," said Peggy, and then she added with 
 an almost desperate courage, "I didn't under- 
 stand it at all." 
 
 "You'd never been before?" said Frederick. 
 She had the feeling that he was not really in- 
 terested, that he was bored at having to talk 
 to her and entertain her until his sister had fin- 
 ished her work, and that he was simply making 
 conversation. 
 
 "Never," she answered; "I suppose you will 
 think it very strange of me, but it was the first 
 time I had ever been inside a Catholic Church." 
 
 "I do not think it at all strange," said Fred- 
 erick Morford slowly ; "y u are not a Catholic- 
 why should you go?" 
 
 Peggy's eyes were fixed upon the ground as if 
 she were examining intently the old-fashioned, 
 faded garlands of roses that decorated the worn
 
 THE REST HOUSE 33 
 
 carpet. This man knew the explanation of those 
 mysterious things which she had heard and seen 
 that evening and which had puzzled and con- 
 fused her. He knew all that she wished to know. 
 Had he found those answers, those explanations, 
 sufficient ? 
 
 With a great effort she said: 
 
 "I I liked it." Her tone was low and 
 troubled and held an appeal that was not lost 
 upon Frederick. "It has made me wish to go 
 again. To learn She stopped short, afraid 
 that she had said too much. And it would be im- 
 possible to go on and tell this stranger those 
 intimate thoughts and aspirations that had been 
 hers to-night. 
 
 "I'm very glad to hear you say that," he said 
 in a tone of cold politeness. "So many people 
 are impossibly prejudiced. And no wonder, con- 
 sidering all the things they are taught to believe 
 about us against us!" 
 
 Something in his tone, although it was so little 
 encouraging, made it easier for her to speak. 
 
 "And yet my first wish was to get up and run 
 away to forget to set myself free." 
 
 Frederick's face became suddenly serious. He 
 looked at Peggy with black, scowling eyes. 
 
 "Free?" he repeated, with an almost violent 
 emphasis. 
 
 "Yes, free. As though there was something 
 there that wished to hold me to imprison me. 
 Haven't you ever felt that? Or perhaps there 
 is no need for you to feel it because you may 
 have always been a Catholic!" 
 
 "Yes, I have always been one," said Frederick
 
 34 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Morford slowly. "But although I have always 
 been one, I think I understand what you mean. 
 It binds one it holds one. You are free yet you 
 are always fettered. Because you are a Cath- 
 olic you must obey and submit." 
 
 There was an indescribable harshness in his 
 tone as he said these words. He was not even 
 sure yet whether Peggy was interrogating him 
 from sheer idle curiosity or whether she was 
 only showing the sympathetic interest of the 
 polite and conventional visitor. He did not wish 
 to talk to her of intimate spiritual things, be- 
 cause he was uncertain of the motive which 
 prompted her to question him, and also because 
 of that British reticence which forbids a man 
 to speak easily and naturally of things that are 
 dear to his heart. 
 
 Frederick Morford had had all the advantages, 
 perhaps, too, some of the temporal disadvan- 
 tages, of a strictly Catholic training. His mother 
 had been a very pious woman and Frederick had 
 adored her. She had loved him very tenderly, 
 and there had been an almost passionate sym- 
 pathy between them. He had been sent as a 
 boy to Catholic schools where priests had con- 
 tinued the training he had received at home. At 
 nineteen he had obtained the very reluctant con- 
 sent of his parents to enter the army. They 
 had not wished for that life for their only son; 
 they feared that contact with the world at such 
 an early age would diminish and impair the fine 
 flame of faith that burned in his heart. But he had 
 overruled their objections and had subsequently 
 obtained a commission in an Irish regiment,
 
 THE REST HOUSE 35 
 
 where many of his men were Catholics. He was 
 twenty-three years old when his mother fell ill 
 with that fatal ailment which a year later caused 
 her death. The expenses of that illness were very 
 great and Mr. Morford had to strain every nerve 
 to meet them. Finally, he was compelled to write 
 and tell his son that he could no longer give him 
 the slender allowance with which he was accus- 
 tomed to supplement his pay. He urged him to 
 retire from the army and come and live at home 
 and look after the farm until he had found some 
 more remunerative employment. 
 
 Frederick fought a hard battle with himself 
 after the arrival of his father's letter. His pro- 
 fession was very dear to him; he was attached 
 alike to his men and to his brother officers; he 
 had just received promotion. To give it all up 
 was a sacrifice which he felt was too heavy to 
 be borne. But the thought of his mother con- 
 quered. He returned home, and never a single 
 word of remonstrance or complaint was allowed 
 to pass his lips. When Sir Arthur Denby, who 
 had taken a fancy to the dark, taciturn young 
 man, offered him the post of land-agent to his 
 property, Frederick accepted it at once. The 
 year that followed was one of sharp discipline for 
 Frederick and Mary, but it made them turn to 
 practical account their early training. They had 
 to forego all the natural pleasures of youth. 
 There was no leisure for Frederick, and there 
 were no pretty frocks nor amusements for Mary. 
 She had to occupy herself ceaselessly with nurs- 
 ing her mother and the performance of hard, 
 distasteful household tasks. But she realized that
 
 36 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 her brother's sacrifice had been far greater than 
 her own ; he had laid aside ambition, worldly suc- 
 cess, the prospect of future advancement. 
 
 Six years had passed since the fatal decision 
 had been made, and in those years Frederick 
 had buried deep the passionate ambition of his 
 youth. He had longed for fame and success; 
 duty had held him in the grip of a commonplace 
 routine that admitted of neither leisure, nor 
 recreation, nor study. 
 
 But he could not speak of those things to 
 Peggy. The memory of tliem could still stab 
 him with the smart of an ancient wound. 
 
 Peggy had risen now and was standing in 
 front of him with flushed cheeks and eager, shin- 
 ing eyes 
 
 "Oh, please please tell me," she was saying; 
 "I know nothing at all I don't even know what 
 it is you believe! I have not even been taught 
 to be as you said just now prejudiced. But 
 won't you even tell me what there was in the 
 chapel to-night to make me feel so different so 
 frightened and yet so happy? Happy but not 
 with an ordinary happiness ..." 
 
 Frederick's face hardened, but he motioned 
 her to a chair. 
 
 "Will you sit down?" he said. "I am not at all 
 the person to instruct you. I have never in- 
 structed any one in my life. If you want to 
 know about these things, you ought to consult 
 a priest." 
 
 Peggy sat down obediently, and clasped her 
 hands with a little nervous gesture of suppli- 
 cation and entreaty.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 37 
 
 "I shall go home to-morrow," she said, "and 
 perhaps I shall never have another opportunity 
 of asking any one. I am quite certain about one 
 thing they would never let me talk to a priest. 
 So won't you please tell me because I may 
 never have the chance to ask any one again?" 
 
 "I'll tell you what I can," said Frederick re- 
 luctantly. 
 
 When he had finished speaking, encouraged, 
 perhaps, by the dark, shining eyes, by her very 
 attitude, unconscious though it was, of hanging 
 upon his very words ; flattered, too, by the almost 
 violent attention she had offered, Frederick was 
 satisfied that he must have lifted the veil of Cath- 
 olic mystery and shown her at least certain fun- 
 damental truths. It was like teaching a perfectly 
 ignorant child like scattering seed on a virgin 
 soil. Frederick's faith was very dear and sacred 
 to him, and he disliked speaking of it with all 
 the intensity of a naturally reticent man. But 
 there had been something about Peggy's appeal 
 that had insensibly touched him. He did not 
 wish to talk to her in this way, but she had 
 simply forced the situation upon him. And as he 
 went on, warming, perhaps, a little to his task 
 and using even a certain eloquence, he was con- 
 scious of a change in Peggy herself. Her face 
 had become very pale; her eyes were dark and 
 somber almost as his own. She looked exhausted 
 and spent, like a flower in a storm. 
 
 When he had finished speaking she said breath- 
 lessly: 
 
 "Are you sure that it is true?"
 
 38 
 
 "I am quite sure," said Frederick. 
 
 "Do you think that is why I felt so strange 
 so different when I was in the chapel?" 
 
 "I think you are probably very impression- 
 able and I have heard of impressionable people 
 being affected in that way the first time they 
 enter a Catholic church, and find themselves in 
 the presence of the Blessed Sacrament." 
 
 She stood up, and again he was struck by that 
 look of almost physical weakness in her. 
 
 "Please take me back to the chapel," she said. 
 
 Frederick rose and led the way down the long 
 passage and back to the door hidden behind the 
 red curtain. Peggy put on the veil that she had 
 worn before and going into the chapel, closed the 
 door softly behind her. 
 
 She could hear Frederick's footsteps echoing 
 as he went back along the passage.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 IT WAS nearly midnight when Mary came down 
 the passage and opened the door of the chapel. 
 All the rest of the little household had long since 
 retired to rest, and she had only waited up to see 
 if Peggy would require any assistance. She 
 rightly divined that the girl was accustomed to 
 the services of a skilful maid, so perfect and 
 dainty was all her apparel. 
 
 At the door Mary paused. Peggy was still 
 kneeling there, a rapt and motionless figure. 
 Mary wondered at first if the girl had fallen 
 asleep, so still and unmoving was she. 
 
 She stepped forward and laid her hand very 
 softly on her shoulder. 
 
 "It is very late, Miss Metcalfe. Don't you 
 think you had better come up to bed? And it 
 is cold for you here." 
 
 Peggy lifted her face, and looked at Mary 
 almost as ii she did not see her. There was a 
 curious, almost vacant expression in her eyes. 
 
 "I came to fetch you," said Mary rather in- 
 sistently; "I thought you might have forgotten 
 how late it was. You ought to have a good 
 night's rest." 
 
 "Please let me stay," said Peggy. "And please 
 don't sit up for me. I shall be quite all right." 
 
 "But my dear I think you really ought to 
 go to bed," said Mary in a tone of mild re- 
 monstrance. 
 
 Peggy shook her head. 
 39
 
 40 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 "There's only to-night," she said; "to-morrow 
 we shall have to go home. You mustn't ask me 
 to come away." 
 
 Mary hesitated. Peggy was very young and 
 she looked delicate. She looked, too, as if she 
 were utterly unaccustomed to anything in the 
 shape of physical hardship. Mary was afraid 
 of the consequences for her of a night spent in 
 the chilly atmosphere of the chapel. 
 
 But there was something in those words, "You 
 mustn't ask me to come away," that did most 
 forcibly impress her, and made her even stop and 
 ask herself whether she had any right to try to 
 persuade Peggy to leave the chapel and go up- 
 stairs to bed. It was impossible to consult any 
 one else at such a late hour about the wisest 
 course to pursue so Mary had to decide for her- 
 self. She bent down and said quietly: 
 
 "Good-night, Miss Metcalfe. I won't ask you 
 to come away if you prefer to remain. But if 
 you want anything, please come and knock at 
 my door." 
 
 "Good-night, and thank you," said Peggy 
 simply. 
 
 She was still kneeling there when at half past 
 six on the following morning the priest came in 
 to say Mass. The Morfords and their servant 
 had already assembled in the chapel, but only 
 Mary knew that Peggy had been there all night. 
 
 For the first time she was present at the Holy 
 Sacrifice. She felt again something of the per- 
 plexity and bewilderment she had experienced 
 at Benediction on the previous night, together
 
 THE REST HOUSE 41 
 
 with an irritating sense of ignorance and a for- 
 lorn desire to learn. But she was no longer 
 completely ignorant, although she failed to fol- 
 low any part of the Mass. Frederick had told 
 her certain facts, and above all he had told Who 
 was present in the Blessed Sacrament of the 
 Altar. It was that mystical knowledge and her 
 own immediate, unquestioning acceptance of its 
 truth that had held Peggy so fast a prisoner all 
 through the chilly darkness of the winter night. 
 In her long vigil it seemed to her that this faith 
 had sunk very deeply into her heart, bestowing 
 upon it a wistful desire to know more. Once 
 or twice the physical hardship, the bitter cold, a 
 feeling of sickness and exhaustion had threat- 
 ened to conquer and make her seek the rest which 
 her tired and exhausted body so imperiously de- 
 manded. But some more powerful influence had 
 triumphed and held her, as it were, transfixed 
 and adoring. 
 
 For the first time she realized that those 
 strange dissatisfactions that had pressed upon 
 her heavily from time to time in her home-life 
 were of spiritual origin. All the ease and luxury 
 of that life had contributed to the comfort and 
 well-being of her body, feeding it with delicate 
 food, clothing it in soft and dainty apparel, 
 shielding it from extremes of heat and cold, 
 avoiding for it all fatigue and preventable pain. 
 And through it all she had been conscious of a 
 feeling that was like privation and starvation, 
 not knowing that it was because her own spir- 
 itual needs were being suffered to perish and 
 atrophy. There was nothing in the Sunday
 
 42 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 church-going to satisfy those needs. The long 
 sermon, the interminable hymns had always been 
 something of a weariness to the flesh in Peggy's 
 eyes. There are always souls educated in Prot- 
 estantism whose inherited needs seek for the 
 privileges of which they have been deprived. But 
 steeped also in inherited ignorance, they scarcely 
 know what it is they seek, nor what Bread it is 
 for which they hunger. 
 
 Peggy knew that whatever the future might 
 hold for her, she had crossed a definite bridge 
 in the journey of the soul during that night spent 
 in the lonely little Somersetshire chapel. In her 
 mind the adventure which had brought her 
 hither seemed to acquire a new and almost violent 
 significance. She felt almost as if she had been 
 seized, arrested, compelled to stay and learn. 
 And most strange of all was the remembrance 
 of that awakening voice which had aroused her 
 and called "Come." 
 
 Peggy looked up. Mass was over, and the 
 priest with covered chalice was leaving the 
 chapel. 
 
 "Oh, I will come I will come!" she said as if 
 in answer. 
 
 As she uttered the words she felt that she had 
 made a promise that held all the passionate 
 solemnity of a vow. She could not imagine why 
 she had spoken the words aloud, nor why, indeed, 
 she had uttered them at all. It was as if they 
 had been evoked by the very experience through 
 which she had passed, as well as by the offering 
 of those sacred mysteries which she still so im- 
 perfectly understood.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 43 
 
 Now when Mary came to fetch her with gentle 
 insistence Peggy obeyed without demur. She 
 suffered herself to be led upstairs to the bedroom 
 which had been prepared for her the night before. 
 The bed was untouched, and Peggy's own gar- 
 ments, dried and folded, lay on a chair. Already 
 there was a fire blazing on the hearth. She sud- 
 denly realized how dreadfully tired she was ; she 
 felt, indeed, almost light-headed from exhaustion. 
 But a new sense of happiness and peace and 
 deep contentment informed her mind. Mary 
 helped her into bed and brought her some toast 
 and hot coffee. And then Peggy fell asleep. 
 
 It was still snowing heavily when she awoke 
 and Mary came to urge her to remain in bed 
 until it was time to get up for luncheon, telling 
 her, too, that her brother had decided not to 
 attempt to start on the return journey till later in 
 the day. Peggy was so tired that she was de- 
 cidedly relieved to hear of this decision, and she 
 slept most of the morning as if to make up for 
 those hours of voluntary vigil. She did not allude 
 to them in speaking to Mary; indeed, she felt a 
 little ashamed of having done such an uncon- 
 ventional and perhaps exaggerated thing. She 
 wondered if Frederick Morford had been told 
 about it, and whether he thought her very fool- 
 ish and impressionable. What troubled her most 
 of all was the feeling that if the incident came 
 to Peter's ears he would be little likely to under- 
 stand or sympathize. She was even a little afraid 
 that he might ridicule the whole thing. She hoped 
 they would not mention it to Peter.
 
 44 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Peter was inclined to be bored in his present 
 surroundings, though grateful for the shelter 
 they had afforded him. He had spent most of 
 the morning in the old coach-house and had 
 patched up the car so that it was now in a going 
 condition and very little the worse for its ad- 
 venture. He had also trudged off through the 
 snow and sent another telegram to the anxious 
 Olympians at Mildon. 
 
 Then he came indoors and smoked and read 
 until Peggy appeared just before luncheon time. 
 Secretly he wondered how Frederick Morford, 
 who was only a few years older than himself, 
 could endure life in such dull and desolate sur- 
 roundings. Newspapers at the best of times 
 came a day late, and to-day they did not come 
 at all, because it was impossible for the postman 
 to make the journey through the snow. No one 
 seemed in the least degree perturbed at this de- 
 privation, and he was obliged to come to the 
 conclusion that the happenings of the outside 
 world were of small importance to the little 
 household. Peter wondered at their apparent 
 contentment. It would have made life easier had 
 they possessed a motor to get about in, but he 
 discovered that Frederick invariably rode, and 
 that if any one were going away and wished to 
 drive to the station, a rough cart to which one 
 of the farm horses was harnessed provided the 
 only available conveyance. 
 
 "But as a matter of fact, we hardly ever go 
 away," said Mary. "My father goes to London 
 perhaps once a year, but I have not been there 
 since I was a child. Indeed, I hardly remember
 
 THE REST HOUSE 45 
 
 it. Frederick sometimes stays with a friend 
 when he gets a week's holiday, but that isn't very 
 often, poor boy." 
 
 There was, indeed, but little money for pleas- 
 ure-trips and excursions to London or the sea- 
 side. Mary had spent practically all her life in 
 the remote Somersetshire village. She had read 
 a good deal and was well informed, but she was 
 utterly without experience of life. She had none 
 of the distractions that belong to youth, and 
 perhaps scarcely realized their existence suffi- 
 ciently to desire them. Peggy's clothes, which 
 she had taken down to be dried last night, had 
 filled her with actual amazement. The delicate, 
 filmy garments of daintiest batiste and lace 
 threaded with blue satin ribbons, the silk stock- 
 ings and silken petticoat, the fine vest of Indian 
 gauze were things outside of all her imagining. 
 That a young girl should possess them filled her 
 with wonder. She realized that Peggy must be 
 the child of very rich parents, and that she had 
 been brought up in circumstances of great lux- 
 ury. Every detail was so perfect, as if it were 
 the result of the greatest care and attention. 
 
 "Are you the only daughter, Miss Metcalfe?" 
 she asked later in the day when she and Peggy 
 were sitting over the fire in the morning-room. 
 
 "Oh, no. I have two sisters, but they are both 
 married now," said Peggy. "I am the youngest." 
 She added after a pause, "Diana is Lady Mad- 
 dinard and Beatrice is Lady Charsley. They 
 have been married some years they were both 
 married on the same day. Diana has two chil- 
 dren now and Beatrice has three."
 
 46 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Mary was knitting some woollen socks, for it 
 was an impossibility for her to sit in idleness even 
 when she was entertaining a guest. There was 
 always too much to be done for her to think of 
 leisure. Peggy watched the quick, deft move- 
 ments of her hands as the steel needles gleamed 
 in the firelight. From them she fell to examining 
 the hands themselves. Mary wore no rings, and 
 her hands were reddened and a little roughened 
 and thickened, too, by hard work. It was the 
 color and texture of them that struck Peggy 
 more than the actual shape and made her sud- 
 denly compare them with her own. The next 
 moment she felt ashamed of having done this 
 almost as ashamed as if Mary had been able to 
 read her thoughts. Peggy's own hands were 
 small and white and fragile-looking and she wore 
 on the right one a diamond ring which she had 
 been given a few weeks before on her twentieth 
 birthday. Her hands were cared for and beauti- 
 fully manicured ; each nail was polished till it re- 
 sembled a pink shell. But when she looked at 
 Mary's she realized how useless her hands were 
 in comparison. Much of the comfort and care 
 which had surrounded her during the past twenty 
 hours had been due to Mary's initiative and en- 
 ergy. She had done all sorts of little services 
 for Peggy, quite as a matter of course, although 
 at Mildon such things would have been per- 
 formed exclusively by one of the maids. Peggy 
 saw, too, that Mary was wearing a blouse of dark 
 blue flannel that had evidently been washed many 
 times, for it had shrunk and the wrists were too 
 small. Clothes formed a very important part of
 
 THE REST HOUSE 47 
 
 life at Mildon. Peggy had an extremely large 
 allowance for a young girl, although she did not 
 know that it was unusually large. If she were 
 not perfectly tidy, or if she wore anything that 
 was not quite fresh or at all shrunken or shabby, 
 Lady Metcalfe would be certain to make a few 
 appropriate remarks upon her slack ways. 
 Peggy rather disliked the trouble of buying new 
 clothes and she had no feminine love for "shop- 
 ping." But the blouse she was wearing now 
 was a very pretty one ; it was fashioned of thick, 
 creamy, white silk cut open at the throat. The 
 long sleeves ended at the wrists with little white 
 frills that made Peggy's hands look even whiter 
 and smaller than they really were. It was a 
 simple but dainty garment and was one of sev- 
 eral she had bought for her visit to Lavender. 
 The skirt she was wearing was of fine dark blue 
 cloth. Mary felt that it must have cost a great 
 deal. While Peggy's clothes were a revelation 
 to her, she felt no envy of them. She was per- 
 fectly satisfied with her lot. 
 
 "I am afraid you would find life at the Rest 
 House dull if you were to stay here long," she 
 said presently, laying aside her knitting for a 
 moment in order to give the fire a poke. 
 
 "The Rest House?" said Peggy; "is that its 
 name?" 
 
 "Yes," said Mary; "there's a little story con- 
 nected with that. My grandfather, who bought 
 it, was once traveling in Ceylon and he fell ill 
 and was taken to the nearest rest-house, as they 
 call the dak-bungalows there. He had only a 
 native servant to look after him, and there was
 
 48 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 no doctor within reach. The only European was 
 a Catholic priest, who was also staying there, and 
 who nursed him most devotedly through a dan- 
 gerous illness. It was owing to him that my 
 grandfather became a Catholic, and he resolved 
 that when he came back to settle in England 
 he would call his home the Rest House. I am 
 glad you like the name," she added thoughtfully. 
 "We like it because it commemorates the cir- 
 cumstances which brought my father's family 
 into the Church. My mother belonged to a fam- 
 ily that has always been Catholic." 
 
 Peggy could not fail to be struck by the sim- 
 plicity with which Mary spoke of their religion. 
 It seemed, indeed, a thing so inseparable from 
 their daily lives, impregnating their goings out 
 and their comings in, that it would have been 
 almost impossible not to allude to it. 
 
 Presently Peter looked in. 
 
 "It's thawing hard," he said, "and I think after 
 all we'd better push off this afternoon. We can 
 get as far as Coldford and take the evening train 
 to town." He spoke in a tone of unusual de- 
 cision. 
 
 Peggy looked a trifle disappointed. She had 
 so hoped to remain one more day to be present 
 once more at Benediction and Mass. But she felt 
 the impossibility of giving such reasons as these 
 to Peter. She knew, too, that it was for the sake 
 of these people who had been so hospitable that 
 he was determined to go away, far he did not wish 
 to trespass longer upon their kindness. 
 
 "Oh, Peter; I am sorry." She glanced regret-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 49 
 
 fully at Mary. "But if you really think we had 
 better " 
 
 "I've made inquiries and I hear the road's 
 pretty good between here and Coldford. Any- 
 how, we'll make a bid for it." 
 
 He went out of the room and Mary rose. 
 
 "Then you shall have an early tea before you 
 go," she said, and departed to superintend the 
 preparation of that meal. She had not been gone 
 very long before Frederick came in. He had evi- 
 dently been out, for he still wore his rough riding- 
 clothes and his boots were muddy. 
 
 He drew a chair up close to the fire and sat 
 down opposite to Peggy, who felt suddenly con- 
 strained and shy in his presence. 
 
 "Well," he said almost roughly, "are you very 
 tired?" 
 
 The ruddy firelight deepened the flush that 
 overspread Peggy's pale face. 
 
 "I'm quite rested now, thank you." But there 
 was something in the little delicate droop of her 
 slight figure that still suggested fatigue and ex- 
 haustion. Why, she had not the strength of a 
 mouse ! 
 
 Frederick felt a wholesome contempt for the 
 very type to which Peggy belonged. A woman 
 who was incapable of doing the simplest womanly 
 tasks who had certainly never done an hour's 
 honest work in her life ! 
 
 Perhaps, too, there was a touch of resentment 
 that she should have so much, while Mary, with 
 her heart of gold, her patience, her unwearying 
 unselfishness should have so little.
 
 50 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 "What on earth made you do it?" he inquired, 
 and now there was no little animosity in his voice. 
 He felt so convinced that she was merely a spoiled 
 child in search of a new sensation. 
 
 His powerful eyes were fixed upon her, and 
 Peggy, meeting them, thought she could read in 
 them both impatience and contempt. They had 
 the mysterious expression which very dark eyes 
 so often have, as of some secret contained in their 
 very shadows. And they were fanatical eyes, too, 
 in a sense, as the eyes of a very devout Catholic 
 especially one who has made heavy sacrifices 
 often are. Peggy shrank before that steady, 
 searching, almost fierce gaze. 
 
 "Do what?" she said weakly. 
 
 "Stay in the chapel all night," said Frederick 
 Morford, "as Mary tells me you did." 
 
 "After what you told me I felt that I must," 
 said Peggy simply. 
 
 Not one of Peter's friends who came sometimes 
 to stay at Mildon would ever have dared address 
 her thus. 
 
 "It was an exaggerated sort of thing to do," 
 declared Morford. 
 
 He wanted passionately to probe for her real 
 reason and he did not greatly care whether he 
 hurt her in the process or not. 
 
 "Was it?" Her voice faltered over the words, 
 and she clenched her hands together with a ner- 
 vous effort at self-control. 
 
 "Do you generally allow yourself to be so in- 
 fluenced by what strangers say to you?" 
 
 Last night he had seemed more kind if a trifle 
 bored by her insistent questioning. Yet he had
 
 THE REST HOUSE 51 
 
 given in, and had answered her, though with evi- 
 dent reluctance. But to-day he looked stern and 
 almost scornful, as if he had not approved of her 
 action. Her pride was touched. 
 
 "I do not know," she said with a little touch of 
 hauteur. "I see so few strangers and I have 
 never talked to any one on this subject before. 
 And, of course, I have never done anything like 
 this before." 
 
 "Will you tell me why you did it?" he asked 
 abruptly. 
 
 Peggy looked down at the floor, at the gar- 
 lands of faded roses on the worn Brussels carpet. 
 She did not speak. 
 
 "Will you tell me?" he repeated insistently. 
 "You really must have had some reason for doing 
 anything so so extraordinary!" 
 
 "I wanted to stay there with the Blessed Sac- 
 rament," she said at last in a tremulous, nervous 
 voice. (He sincerely hoped that she was not 
 going to cry!) "I was very tired and cold you 
 mustn't think I didn't feel these things. My 
 body didn't want to stay there after the first little 
 while. I am not accustomed to any hardship. It 
 was a hardship. But I found something precious 
 something I had never dreamed of. I I 
 couldn't go away. You must not think I was 
 praying I do not think I said any prayers at 
 all." 
 
 So far she seemed perfectly sincere. Indeed, 
 there was something guileless and childlike in the 
 way she made these admissions. They touched 
 Frederick in spite of himself. 
 
 "Perhaps you are not aware that there are
 
 52 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 nuns in certain convents who take it in turns to 
 watch like that, day and night? They call it 
 Perpetual Adoration." 
 
 "I have never heard of them," said Peggy, 
 deeply interested, "but I think they must be very 
 happy," she added after a moment's pause. 
 
 "Yes, they are happy," said Frederick; "they 
 have chosen that life of poverty and submission 
 and complete self-denial. It is not an easy life. 
 It entails a crucifixion of the flesh which only the 
 grace of God can make possible." 
 
 If only Father Denis had not been too ill to- 
 day to see and speak to Peggy ! He was suffer- 
 ing from a violent attack of asthma and could 
 scarcely breathe. 
 
 Suddenly Peggy said: 
 
 "Before I went down to Benediction, when I 
 was asleep or nearly asleep in your sister's 
 room, I was aroused by hearing a voice very close 
 to me calling 'Come.' I am sure I could not have 
 imagined it, for it was so loud that it woke me 
 up completely. At first I thought it was your 
 sister calling. And all night " she paused. 
 
 "Yes? All night?" said Morford, with a touch 
 of impatience. 
 
 "All night I felt that I was obeying answer- 
 ing. I told you that I did not pray, but if I said 
 any words they were these, 'I will come, I will 
 
 come.' 
 
 If she expected him to administer another 
 cold douche of his contempt upon these fanciful 
 imaginings she was destined now to disappoint- 
 ment. For Frederick Morford rose from his seat 
 and moved restlessly a few paces down the room,
 
 THE REST HOUSE 53 
 
 away from her, his face averted. Then he turned 
 and faced her, looking flown upon her from his 
 great height. His face was hard, but there was 
 an expression in it that she failed to understand. 
 At last he said in a voice that held something of 
 emotion in spite of its harshness : 
 
 "Be true to that promise, Miss Metcalfe! If 
 that is why you were brought here yesterday 
 for God has a thousand ways of bringing His 
 own into the fold may His Holy Name be 
 praised! If you ever find it is your duty quite 
 clearly your duty to God to become a Catholic, 
 I hope you will not hesitate. I hope you will not 
 disobey that first call! I don't know what your 
 position is nor what your circumstances are, but 
 I imagine that your people are rich, that you have 
 all you want of this world's goods. And you may 
 find hindrances in your path. And you look so 
 weak!" The old note of disdain was in his voice 
 now. "Some people would do anything rather 
 than forfeit their own soft physical ease!" 
 
 His strange words moved her profoundly even 
 while the harshness of his manner repelled and 
 even hurt her. But she looked up with brave, 
 serene eyes that made Morf ord wonder what kind 
 of pilgrim soul this was that fate had flung so 
 carelessly across his path. 
 
 "What does one do to become a Catholic?" she 
 asked simply. "I do not know anything at all. 
 But I feel that in some way I became one last 
 night." 
 
 "You have to learn," he answered; "when the 
 time comes if it ever comes you must go to 
 some priest for instruction. When he thinks you
 
 54 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 are ready he will receive you. There is nothing 
 very difficult if you are in earnest. The diffi- 
 culties come afterward, when you have to spend 
 the whole of the rest of your life in conformity 
 to the grace you have received, to the dispositions 
 of the Divine Will. You will find there is nothing 
 so trivial in your daily life that religion does not 
 touch it. The most harmless, the most innocent 
 things in themselves may become dangerous to 
 you if they come, even ever so little, between you 
 and the Divine Will of God." 
 
 He left the room and presently returned with 
 two little worn and shabby books, which he gave 
 to her. Peggy glanced at the titles. One was 
 the "Imitation," and the other was "The Garden 
 of the SouL" 
 
 "Will you keep these and read them?" he said. 
 "I am afraid they are very shabby, but their con- 
 tents are as good as ever." 
 
 "Oh, thank you/' said Peggy, flushing. She 
 made a step toward the door. Something seemed 
 to tell her that the interview ought now to be 
 closed. She felt exhausted, as if she had passed 
 through a strenuous hour. "I will go to the 
 chapel now until Peter is ready. Perhaps your 
 sister will fetch me when he is ready to start."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THEY left the Rest House at three o'clock, 
 when the pale wintry sun was dipping 
 westward in that opaque scarlet glow that har- 
 monizes so well with a wintry landscape of snow 
 and ice. The thaw had set in rapidly, and great 
 lumps of snow fell heavily upon the top of the 
 car as they passed under the branches of over- 
 hanging trees. There was a feeling of cold and 
 raw dampness in the air. 
 
 Peggy sat very silent beside her brother. Mr. 
 Morford and his son and daughter had all assem- 
 bled on the doorstep to watch their departure. 
 Frederick's face was very stern but his eyes had 
 softened a little as he took Peggy's little grey- 
 gloved hand, and it had seemed to her that be- 
 cause of the secret she had imparted to him he 
 had become like an intimate and understanding 
 friend. To no one else, she felt, could she have 
 revealed herself with that same frankness. Even 
 Peter, who had hitherto always been the recipient 
 of Peggy's simple confidences, could never have 
 been told this particular one. It stood much too 
 aloof and apart from all their mutual experiences. 
 It made her own individuality stand out sharply, 
 isolating her. When she came to consider it as 
 she did now with the rushing of the car humming 
 in her ears, the sense of isolation hurt her, because 
 it seemed to separate her from her beloved Peter. 
 She was jealous of anything that could obtrude 
 between them, destroying their perfect intimacy. 
 
 55
 
 56 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 But the sojourn at the Rest House had left 
 Peter perfectly unchanged and untouched ; it had 
 not influenced him at all, one way or the other, 
 and he was still unaware of her long vigil. She 
 could not tell him about that. She almost won- 
 dered now at her own hardihood in being able- 
 arid without too much difficulty to speak to 
 Frederick Morford about it. He had in a man- 
 ner compelled her confidence with an authority 
 that seemed to place them in the respective posi- 
 tions of master and pupil. It was like asking ad- 
 vice of a physician and making at the same time 
 a very clear statement of your symptoms in order 
 to help him to diagnose your case. Peggy had 
 tried to be absolutely frank. Of course he had 
 not been very kind at least, not just at first. 
 That note of scorn and disdain, that contemptu- 
 ous "You look so weak!" had hurt her not a little. 
 But she had felt, nevertheless, that he understood, 
 that to him at least she was not speaking a 
 strange language. Dimly, too, she realized that 
 he had purposely tried by hard words to prove 
 her, to test her sincerity and perhaps her resolu- 
 tion. His contempt had been for herself that 
 ease-loving, luxurious self he had discerned in 
 her, the Mildon self, in fact, that had never once 
 looked beyond the Mildon standards. But he 
 threw no cold draught of doubt upon the genuine- 
 ness of her experience, which would certainly have 
 found small credence at Mildon. 
 
 Suddenly she stretched out her hand and 
 touched Peter's impulsively. 
 
 "Oh, Peter, I was sorry to come away! I was 
 so happy there !"
 
 THE REST HOUSE 57 
 
 The fact at least he must know, and she longed 
 for him to echo the sentiments. 
 
 "Happy?" There was no doubt about his 
 astonishment as he looked at her with his gay, 
 whimsical eyes. "Why, Pegs, I was afraid you 
 were being bored to tears, just as I was! I mean 
 they were jolly decent and all that, but there was 
 nothing on earth to do from morning till night ! 
 I felt I really couldn't stick it another day, and 
 that's why I made an excuse to push off. That 
 chap Frederick must have a thin time. He told 
 me that he'd spent a few years once in the army, 
 but he had to leave because they couldn't afford 
 to keep him there. Hard luck, wasn't it?" 
 
 "Yes," said Peggy. "You did like them, didn't 
 you, Peter?" she added almost wistfully. 
 
 "Oh, I liked them well enough. Frederick 
 seemed a good sort, though a little bit glum and 
 serious. I'd like to have him down at Mildon, 
 but I'm afraid he wouldn't be allowed." 
 
 "Why?" asked Peggy. 
 
 "Oh, because he's a Catholic and all that," said 
 Peter. 
 
 "I should have liked to ask Mary, too," said 
 Peggy. 
 
 "I don't think they'd care to come," said Peter. 
 It was almost as difficult to picture the sister as 
 the brother in those elegant surroundings. "How 
 odd it must be to be a Catholic and go to Catholic 
 schools. Somehow a chap always seems quite 
 different it changes the outlook. That's why 
 you find they generally keep to their own sort. 
 If ours were a Catholic house neither of the Mor- 
 fords would feel strange there, although we are
 
 58 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 rich and they must be as poor as church 
 mice!" 
 
 "How do you know they would feel strange 
 there now, Peter?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, I knew lots of them at Oxford. Not well 
 at all, hut quite enough to see how exclusive they 
 were. I suppose it's the hereditary result of the 
 persecutions that makes them keep aloof." 
 
 "I have never known any before," said Peggy; 
 "but it seemed to me they had something that 
 made them very happy and contented." She 
 looked earnestly at Peter. "Yet Mary was very 
 shabby, and she worked hard harder than any 
 of our servants. I am sure. She even helped in 
 the kitchen, and she told me she always made the 
 butter and baked the bread herself." 
 
 They arrived at Mildon rather late for dinner. 
 To Peggy's relief there were no guests, and she 
 hurriedly slipped into a white crepe-de-chine tea- 
 gown and ran down to the drawing-room, where 
 she found Lady Metcalfe alone. She went up to 
 her and kissed her timidly. She felt so changed, 
 and yet she longed to show her mother that she 
 was not changed. 
 
 "Well, Peggy," said Lady Metcalfe, "I hope 
 you are none the worse for your escapade. Your 
 father is extremely annoyed with Peter. It was 
 very wrong of him to persuade you to go in the 
 car in such weather. Beatrice should never have 
 allowed it. We must be thankful the accident 
 was no worse and that you were neither of you 
 hurt. I hear you stayed at the most benighted 
 farm imaginable." 
 
 "Yes," said Peggy, a little chilled.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 59 
 
 She longed to defend Peter, but she could not 
 find courage to take the blame upon herself. 
 
 "Farmers, I suppose?" said Lady Metcalfe. 
 
 "The son looks after the farm. They are not 
 well off," said Peggy, "but old Mr. Morford is 
 a writer; and there was a girl a little older than 
 lam." 
 
 "I hope it was not very rough?" inquired Lady 
 Metcalfe. 
 
 "Oh, no; they did all they could to make us 
 comfortable," said Peggy. "They were very 
 hospitable and kind. And they were Catholics," 
 she added hesitatingly. 
 
 "Catholics? How extraordinary!" said Lady 
 Metcalfe. 
 
 "They had a chapel; and there was a priest 
 staying there." 
 
 "I hope you did not talk to him?" said her 
 mother, severely. 
 
 "Oh, no I never saw him to speak to. He 
 was ill," said Peggy. 
 
 "It all sounds charmingly medieval," said 
 Lady Metcalfe, "but I hope they did not try on 
 any of their proselytizing tricks with you, Peg- 
 gy? Of course the time was short, but Roman 
 Catholics never miss an opportunity if they can 
 help it. It is quite pitiable to think of the homes 
 they have divided and broken up!" 
 
 Peggy started and flushed. Her mother's 
 words seemed to color Frederick's words and ex- 
 hortations with a new and dark significance, im- 
 puting to him also an ugly and sinister motive. 
 She felt for a second a violent recoil against Mor- 
 ford, against herself also for her so easy yielding
 
 60 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 to his influence, and for being carried away by 
 his words. She seemed now to detect something 
 of unscrupulous power in Frederick Morford, 
 and it brought to her a sense of secret shame that 
 she had proved so ready a victim. 
 
 Then she thought of the quiet of the long, long 
 night, the night spent alone with that silent Pres- 
 ence, and the red glimmering lamp that burned 
 like a jewel before the Tabernacle, and suddenly 
 she was aware that this and this alone had really 
 and profoundly influenced her. Frederick had 
 been but the human messenger, the instrument, 
 who had explained those divine mysteries to her. 
 He had done this with obvious reluctance ; often 
 his tone had been positively discouraging; his 
 words had been colored, too, with a certain 
 roughness of contempt as if he doubted alike her 
 sincerity and her motives. 
 
 "It is quite providential that they live so far 
 off," continued Lady Metcalfe. "There will be 
 no need to take any further notice of them ex- 
 cept just a polite note to this Miss Morford, 
 thanking her. You might show it to me before 
 you send it, Peggy." 
 
 "We hoped," said Peggy timidly but desper- 
 ately, "that perhaps we might have asked them 
 here. Not old Mr. Morford, but Mary and her 
 brother " 
 
 "It is quite unnecessary and would be most 
 undesirable," said Lady Metcalfe in that brisk, 
 definite tone she always employed for her author- 
 itative utterances. 
 
 "But they were so very kind so hospitable " 
 said Peggy.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 61 
 
 "That's enough, dear Peggy. It tires me to 
 argue with you. Diana and Beatrice always ac- 
 cepted what I wished so simply and gracefully," 
 said Lady Metcalfe. 
 
 It was unwise of Peggy to persist, but persist 
 she did. 
 
 "They knew nothing about us, and we looked 
 just like two tramps when we got there. Yet 
 they took us in and gave us food, and lodging, 
 and shelter, and clothes," said Peggy. 
 
 "I am sure they were everything that was most 
 kind. I only wish it were possible to do some- 
 thing for them in return." 
 
 She began to perceive for very few things in 
 connection with her five children ever escaped 
 Lady Metcalfe that Peggy had been attracted 
 by these strangers. She was always impression- 
 able, reflected her mother, and was liable to be 
 impressed, too, by undesirable things, when her 
 long and careful training should have saved her. 
 She must set to work to discover wherein lay this 
 subtle attraction, and proceed forthwith to de- 
 molish it. 
 
 "Did you go into their chapel, Peggy?" she 
 inquired. 
 
 Peggy started and flushed again, and an- 
 swered "Yes," in a low, timid voice. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe reflected almost bitterly that 
 Diana and Beatrice could at any point of their 
 well-conducted careers have safely spent the 
 night at a remote Somersetshire farmhouse in- 
 habited by poverty-stricken Catholics without 
 manifesting any of this subsequent emotion, this 
 starting, this nervous flushing, this timid but ob-
 
 62 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 stinate espousal of their cause. But it was use- 
 less to try to mould Peggy to a standard to 
 which she was not naturally adapted. Her sis- 
 ters, full of tact and savoir faire, always did and 
 said the right thing as interpreted by the Olym- 
 pians! 
 
 Peggy could not meet her mother's eyes, for 
 she knew that she would probe with determina- 
 tion this line of inquiry, and she wondered how 
 far she would be able to retain her secret. 
 
 "To a service?" inquired Lady Metcalfe. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What service?" 
 
 "Benediction and Mass." 
 
 Lady Metcalfe frowned. 
 
 "Surely there was no necessity? Surely they 
 were not so ill-bred as to persuade you to go?" 
 
 "I went of my own accord. I wished to go. 
 It it interested me," said Peggy. 
 
 "You did not think perhaps it would be utterly 
 against my wishes !" pursued Lady Metcalfe. 
 
 "I am afraid I did not think about that," said 
 Peggy, raising her clear brown eyes to Lady 
 Metcalfe's blue ones. 
 
 "You never do think of anything but what you 
 wish to do. I never knew any one so unmindful 
 of other people's wishes." 
 
 Peggy was silent. 
 
 "In future I must forbid anything of the 
 kind. You are not to go into a Roman Catholic 
 church anywhere. Do you quite understand, 
 Peggy?" 
 
 "Yes, mother, I quite understand." 
 
 She looked at her mother curiously. Lady
 
 THE REST HOUSE 63 
 
 Metcalfe's face was flushed with anger. She 
 could be severe when she chose. 
 
 "Are you going to obey me?" 
 
 "I can not promise. I I will try." 
 
 Her voice was low and troubled. 
 
 "Do you wish me to speak to your father?" 
 There was a little threat now in Lady Metcalfe's 
 voice, for she was irritated by Peggy's obstinacy. 
 She knew that she was afraid of her father. 
 
 "Would he care?" 
 
 "Of course he would care. He never employs 
 a Roman Catholic either here or in his office." 
 
 Even when Peggy as a little child had shown 
 this obstinate, rebellious spirit Lady Metcalfe 
 had always been aware of something out of her 
 reach something that could not be touched by 
 sharp, coercive measures something that as now 
 mutely and almost pathetically defied her. Peg- 
 gy had been always the troublesome one I 
 
 And it was still there, that indefinable "some- 
 thing" desperately silent and hidden and re- 
 pressed. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe rose briskly from her seat. 
 
 "You will think it over and tell me your an- 
 swer to-morrow, Peggy," she said. 
 
 Peggy was silent. She was very pale now, but 
 her eyes were bright, almost defiant. She rose as 
 her mother rose and stood there in a drooping 
 attitude. The first storm had passed over her, 
 and she felt uncertain and insecure. She had not 
 the strength to weather many storms. Aware of 
 this weakness in herself, she could not bring her- 
 self to answer her mother. To make that prom- 
 ise involved something of conscience. Those
 
 64 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 spiritual needs so suddenly awakened were still 
 passionately pressing their claims to be satisfied. 
 All the time she was thinking to herself, "What 
 shall I do? What ought I to do?" Ought she 
 to obey blindly, implicitly? Peggy dreaded a 
 struggle with her parents ; she knew by past ex- 
 perience that she was always the one to emerge 
 conquered and hurt from such an encounter ; she 
 dreaded her father's cold ironic anger that lashed 
 like a whip. Why was it so difficult to make a 
 promise which ought to have been so easy? Peg- 
 gy had a tender conscience and she felt there was 
 something unfilial about her very resistance. 
 But it was strange that even now she felt less 
 fear of her father than of breaking that word of 
 hers, "I will come I will come." 
 
 That night when she went up to bed the influ- 
 ence of the Rest House held her powerfully. 
 Last night at this time she was kneeling in the 
 little chapel, and now she could almost fancy 
 herself kneeling there again, all through the long 
 and cold winter night until the grey dawn stole 
 in through the small leaded panes, telling her- 
 self, when she could formulate any ideas at all, 
 that she had found all that she had most uncon- 
 sciously and blindly sought. She tried to free 
 herself from the remembrance, telling herself 
 that it was a beautiful dream which could never 
 be realized. Could a sojourn of twenty-four 
 hours in a new and unaccustomed environment 
 suffice to change the whole tenor of her life? 
 There had been something vivid and vital and 
 passionate and compelling about it all. She saw 
 again the shabby, poorly furnished rooms, scru-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 65 
 
 pulously clean and curiously unlovely, the fig- 
 ures of Mary and Frederick Morford passed be- 
 fore her eyes, but they seemed almost like shad- 
 ows to her now. The only thing that lived for 
 her to-night was the chapel where she had offered, 
 as it seemed to her now, her whole soul to the wor- 
 ship and service of God.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 HERE is perhaps no complacency so complete, 
 so indestructible as that displayed by those 
 persons who are at once stout and rich. It would 
 almost seem as if their very embonpoint was in 
 itself indicative of the supreme interior satisfac- 
 tion produced by the knowledge of the immutable 
 stability of their financial prosperity. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe was a case in point. She had 
 inherited a large fortune from her American 
 mother, who had joined her innumerable dollars 
 to the pounds sterling ( some were unkind enough 
 to allude to them as shekels) of Vincent Lam- 
 pard of Lampard & Co. When Jane Lampard 
 reached the age of twenty (a time when plump- 
 ness and rosiness are at the zenith of their at- 
 tractions) she had married John Metcalfe, of 
 Metcalfe & Co., Limited (how strictly limited 
 only the members of that admirably conducted 
 firm were really aware) . She added her fortune 
 to that of her husband in a marriage settlement 
 which was the product of two highly trained law- 
 yers, who in turn were prompted and abetted by 
 two practical, hard-headed, and experienced 
 business men. It was indeed a legal document 
 which might almost have served as a final expres- 
 sion and model of its kind. 
 
 It is not the purpose of this book to relate the 
 rise of the firm of Metcalfe & Co., for, indeed, 
 such a record would prove monotonous from its 
 unvarying character. It would be merely the 
 
 66
 
 THE REST HOUSE 67 
 
 history of an unbroken commercial success con- 
 sequent upon the enterprise, diligence, and pru- 
 dence of three successive generations. But great 
 as the firm had been under his father and his 
 grandfather, it really only achieved true great- 
 ness and distinction when John Metcalfe the 
 Third assumed the reins of its government. He 
 was indeed one of the uncrowned kings of com- 
 merce, and possibly, in recognition of this fact, 
 and of his large and even munificent donations to 
 important charities, a baronetcy had been be- 
 stowed upon him, although many were of opinion 
 that only a crown and scepter could adequately 
 have rewarded him. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe had brought up admirably and 
 so far without much difficulty a family of five 
 children, consisting of two sons and three daugh- 
 ters. She had made but one mistake, for which 
 no one could hold her responsible, and this lay 
 in the sex of her youngest child (who, properly 
 speaking, ought it was keenly felt to have 
 been a son instead of a third daughter. One son 
 for the Firm to carry on that triumphant name 
 a second for the Army, and a third for the 
 Navy that would have been the perfect balance, 
 the arrangement which would have been above 
 all criticism. Although the mother was blame- 
 less in the matter, she illogically attributed some- 
 thing of blame to the girl herself, and while it 
 was impossible for her to be anything but kind 
 and maternally solicitous, she was in point of 
 fact a shade less affectionately disposed toward 
 Peggy than toward her other children. She had 
 been heard more than once to assert that Peggy
 
 68 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 was troublesome, and to say that it was a pity 
 she was so unlike her two elder sisters in charac- 
 ter as well as in looks. Peggy was three years 
 younger than Vivian, who came next to her in 
 age. The other four had followed each other 
 rapidly, and it may have been that Lady Met- 
 calfe had imagined she had brought her role of 
 maternity to a close in the person of her younger 
 son. That Peggy proved to be a girl was a dou- 
 ble offense. She was the crumpled rose-leaf that 
 did occasionally threaten to disturb though 
 only remotely the complacency of her mother. 
 
 The two elder girls had made brilliant mar- 
 riages at the respective ages of nineteen and 
 twenty. They were considered beautiful and, 
 indeed, they had inherited from their mother 
 her pink and white complexion, her clear blue 
 eyes and masses of golden hair. Both were tall 
 and graceful. Lady Metcalfe had seen them 
 lead in triumph to the hymeneal altar the eldest 
 sons of two peers, for although the Metcalfes 
 were soundly radical, Sir John would have dis- 
 dained lesser aspirants for his daughters, and 
 preferred to form new connections among the old 
 nobility. 
 
 His eldest son Peter was consecrated (no less 
 solemn term could efficiently describe this relega- 
 tion ) to the Firm from his earliest youth. Years 
 of suggestion, of studious implication, made the 
 sacrifice almost an automatic one when he left 
 Oxford at the age of twenty-three. Not for him 
 the transient glory of the Army, the glamour of 
 the Navy, the subtle attractions of diplomacy 
 with its titles and orders. He could not be spared
 
 THE REST HOUSE 69 
 
 to shine thus as a merely decorative adjunct of 
 his country. Metcalfe & Co. claimed the first- 
 born with the dreadful precision of an Egyptian 
 plague, with the relentlessness of a determined 
 Herod. 
 
 A year or two's grace had been accorded to 
 him; he was even allowed to remain an extra 
 year at Oxford in order to take his degree a 
 process which had presented some difficulty to 
 him. Sir John knew the value of a little rope. 
 His son could afford the loss of a year or two 
 before his initiation into the mysteries of the 
 Firm. Peter was well aware that, humanly 
 speaking, there was little chance of his being able 
 to escape ultimately that destiny which should 
 have been so agreeable to him, yet from which he 
 instinctively shrank. At the last he only exhib- 
 ited a faint restiveness, a protest so slight it could 
 hardly be called rebellion, at the prospect of hav- 
 ing to pass the greater part of his days, and con- 
 sequently of his life, in the huge, hideous, Lon- 
 don office. He was horribty conscious that he 
 was not of the stuff of which successful business 
 men are made. (His eldest sister Diana, now 
 Lady Maddinard, was the only one of the five 
 children who could adequately have upheld the 
 family tradition in this respect, and being, un- 
 fortunately, a woman, she could only practise her 
 talent in a very limited sphere.) Peter was a 
 handsome, slender, rather delicate-looking youth 
 with grey eyes and brown hair and a vague, 
 dreamy expression. At Oxford he had com- 
 peted for the Newdigate, and although he missed 
 the coveted prize his work had been greatly com-
 
 70 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 mended. This had given Sir John a decided 
 shock, and he preferred that the attempt should 
 have proved unsuccessful. Indeed, he regarded 
 the writing of poetry as a kind of intellectual 
 sowing of wild oats to be checked only if it threat- 
 ened to become a permanent occupation. He 
 had never been taken that way himself, and he 
 would certainly have nipped in the bud any crav- 
 ing for artistic expression in his own person just 
 as he would have repressed any other undesirable 
 tendency to self-indulgence. But as in the end 
 he intended to demand the supreme sacrifice of 
 Peter (he did not put it to himself in those words 
 and only perhaps vaguely realized that they were 
 thoroughly appropriate) he had so far expressed 
 no disapprobation of these literary vagaries. It 
 was not what Peter had been sent to Oxford for, 
 but no matter. He had all the rest of his life in 
 which to devote himself to acquiring an intimate 
 knowledge of the affairs of Metcalfe & Co., so 
 that when the time came he could assume the 
 guidance and direction of its manifold activities 
 with that same grasp, that wise, prudent foresight 
 characteristic of those who had preceded him in 
 that important office. 
 
 John Metcalfe was a hard, capable man of un- 
 wearying industry, shrewd, honest, and relentless. 
 His thin, lantern- jawed face (the very antithesis 
 of his wife's sleek, pink comeliness) with its gray- 
 ing hair, its light, keen, piercing eyes, its sharp, 
 thin slit of a mouth, was not the face of a man 
 who could easily be trifled with. No one could 
 lightly hope to do a deal with John Metcalfe, 
 and any one approaching him with that intention
 
 THE REST HOUSE 71 
 
 must have relinquished all idea of a successful 
 issue at first sight of him securely ensconced be- 
 hind his huge roll-topped desk. You would have 
 realized at once that you were up against some- 
 thing as hard as the nether rock and twice as 
 resistant. Perhaps that was what Peter felt 
 when the very night of his return from the Rest 
 House Sir John made use of the opportunity 
 offered by the escapade to reprove his son for his 
 careless thoughtlessness in thus exposing his sis- 
 ter to useless danger, and to assure him that it 
 was impossible to let him hang about in idleness 
 any longer. It was nearly six months since 
 Peter, having at last taken his degree, had come 
 down from Oxford. He was now nearly twenty- 
 four, an age at which serious men were resolutely 
 set upon their intended career. 
 
 As he stood opposite his father that night in 
 the fine study at Mildon Place that magnificent 
 Surrey residence protected and sheltered from 
 inclement northern airs by a ridge of the North 
 Downs Peter's mind traveled inconsequently 
 back to that day some six years ago when during 
 his last term at Eton he had been summoned to 
 London to be present at the double wedding of 
 his two sisters. He realized that his future 
 brothers-in-law were the respective heirs to peer- 
 ages of undoubted antiquity and importance. 
 (Somehow he had always imagined that Beatrice 
 would marry their young neighbor Claude Ver- 
 non.) It had seemed to Peter then that every- 
 thing had suddenly changed, and that the old 
 happy family group, with its quarrels and friend- 
 ships, had been broken up forever. Even famil-
 
 72 
 
 iar figures were scarcely recognizable. Diana 
 and Beatrice were beautiful brides even to a 
 brother's critical eyes. They were tall, slender, 
 perfectly arrayed, but he had liked them better 
 when he had last seen them in their country coats 
 and skirts of hard blue serge. He felt actually 
 timid of them, and tried to remind himself of old 
 quarrelling, old friendliness, of that rough give- 
 and-take of which family life is largely composed 
 when the children are all pretty much of an age 
 and have spent their nursery and school-room 
 days together. And although Beatrice cried a 
 little when she went away, which brought her 
 abruptly into line with the past, Diana was 
 charmingly self-possessed and played her part 
 with a finished perfection. Diana had always 
 snubbed him, and perhaps he had not felt very 
 sorry that she was going away, but he felt that 
 he should miss Beatrice. The double wedding 
 had been certainly a very grand affair, and it 
 made quite a stir in the midst of one of those bril- 
 liant London seasons that characterized the brief 
 and glorious Edwardian epoch, and which were 
 never so perfectly repeated after the death of 
 that lamented monarch. That year had smiled 
 upon the Metcalfe family, for Sir John had been 
 included among the Birthday Honors. Many 
 papers, in commenting upon this, had predicted 
 confidently that he would hereafter be the recip- 
 ient of even more dazzling marks of recognition 
 than that of a mere baronetcy. It was then that 
 Lady Metcalfe's complacency seemed to acquire 
 a more definite value, destroying, indeed, the 
 little sense of humor she had ever possessed.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 73 
 
 Peter had felt even then that on that day, so 
 symptomatic of Metcalfe prosperity and ad- 
 vancement, his sisters had arrived at those cross- 
 roads which in every life must invariably present 
 themselves. He wondered how far they had been 
 free to choose, and suspected that at least in 
 Beatrice's case the path had been kindly but most 
 firmly designated by the Olympian finger. His 
 mind was chaotic and confused and full of these 
 reminiscences, although he was really trying to 
 pay attention to his father's words. He had even 
 expressed his regret for yesterday's happenings ; 
 his hope that Peggy would be none the worse 
 for the adventure. Sir John accepted the regret, 
 and then proceeded to inform Peter of his wishes 
 and intentions concerning his elder son's future 
 career. Immediately after Christmas he would 
 be expected to attend the office regularly, going 
 up to town by the eight-thirty train, three- 
 quarters of an hour earlier than the one which 
 had the daily privilege of conveying Sir John to 
 the fastnesses of the metropolis. He would begin 
 just as any other clerk, with the same hours, the 
 same salary, and scarcely more privileges than 
 were absolutely essential to uphold the prestige 
 of the family. There was nothing like beginning 
 at the very bottom of the ladder to ensure a sound 
 practical knowledge of and insight into the busi- 
 ness of the firm. Of course he was six years older 
 than the average new clerk. It was a disad- 
 vantage for which even an Oxford degree could 
 hardly compensate. 
 
 "Still, I didn't want for various reasons to tie 
 you down too early," said Sir John, with the air
 
 74 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 of a monarch making magnanimous conces- 
 sions. 
 
 Peter did not care in the least whether he began 
 at the bottom or the top. Either place would 
 have been equally distasteful to him. If he had 
 been able to step straight into his father's august 
 shoes and assume the crown and scepter of di- 
 rectorship he would have loathed it just the same. 
 It was the office that mattered. He would enter 
 it never to emerge therefrom, until the dreadful 
 soul-destroying process was complete and the 
 Firm would once more bear the triple title of 
 Metcalfe, Son & Co. 
 
 He knew, though, that he would yield, partly 
 from the filial motives so firmly inculcated by his 
 parents during early impressionable years, and 
 partly from the indolence of the artistic tempera- 
 ment which makes it always easier for the pos- 
 sessor to submit rather than to struggle. 
 
 He was not aware that the incertitude of his 
 own intentions had given his worthy parents mo- 
 ments of acute misgiving and anxiety. Sir John 
 rejoiced when he perceived that this natural anx- 
 iety was to be allayed by the admirable subjection 
 of the young man to his own wishes. To Peter 
 these had indeed appeared less in the light of 
 wishes than of commands forcibly and peremp- 
 torily uttered, and backed up at one point in the 
 interview by a veiled threat. Sir John never lost 
 his temper ; the more angry he was the more im- 
 perturbably glacial he became. People who lost 
 their tempers were apt to lose their money, he 
 was fond of affirming. But his anger was none 
 the less apparent to Peter when just for a single
 
 THE REST HOUSE 75 
 
 moment he had wavered, and expostulated 
 against the immolation of his very youth and 
 freedom. He had gone to the window and pulled 
 aside the blind and looked out at the still snowy 
 landscape, illuminated by a wonderful moon. 
 The trees in the park were ebony-black, and 
 showed massed velvet shadows against that world 
 of luminous whiteness. It seemed to call to 
 Peter in the name of liberty and freedom, and 
 it provoked from him that futile remonstrance. 
 
 "Sometimes I don't think I want to be a rich 
 man. This sort of life suffocates me. I've some- 
 times envied the tramps sleeping out under the 
 stars!" 
 
 John Metcalfe's face became slightly cynical. 
 
 "You will have a month's holiday in the sum- 
 mer, and you can spend it sleeping under hay- 
 stacks, if that kind of folly appeals to you !" And 
 he shut his mouth like a trap. 
 
 After a few more delicate personalities of the 
 kind, Peter, pale and defeated, acquiesced. It 
 was the easier plan. 
 
 "And look here Metcalfe's doesn't want 
 slackers. You're to give all your attention to 
 the work as well as your time and your brains. 
 It's your life, remember! Don't start by being 
 sulky and quarreling with your bread and 
 butter!" 
 
 It was a substantial defeat, and when Peter 
 had retired Sir John went in search of his wife. 
 He found her alone in the drawing-room. 
 
 "Where's Peggy?" he asked. 
 
 "She was tired, so I sent her to bed early," 
 replied Lady Metcalfe.
 
 76 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Sir John sat down by the fire, took out a cigar- 
 ette, lit it, and then began gravely to recount the 
 substance of his interview with Peter. When he 
 had related with perfect accuracy all that he had 
 said and all that Peter had so unwisely said, Lady 
 Metcalfe laid her hand on her husband's arm and 
 murmured: "Dear John, you always did know 
 exactly how to take the boy!" 
 
 She smiled with that complacent contentment 
 that always soothed and flattered Sir John with 
 its hint of worshiping approval. Other people 
 might have trouble with their children, but in nine 
 cases out of ten it was their own fault, the inevi- 
 table harvest of an unwise indulgence or an im- 
 prudent severity in youth. She congratulated 
 herself that they had never had any trouble of the 
 kind only a few passing clouds easily dispelled 
 by a timely and discreet demonstration of pa- 
 rental power and prerogative. 
 
 Sir John accepted the compliment and kissed 
 his wife on both of her fat pink cheeks, and he, 
 too, perhaps secretly congratulated himself on 
 the smooth mechanism of his private life so dif- 
 ferent from that of most men ! 
 
 She knew the traces of past storms, and per- 
 ceiving that the interview, though perfectly sat- 
 isfactory in its ending, had not been quite smooth 
 in its course, she prudently abstained from men- 
 tioning her own slight annoyance evoked by the 
 obstinacy of Peggy. Besides, she felt certain 
 that Peggy would approach her on the morrow 
 with the required promise, and perhaps a timid 
 apology that it had not been at once freely and 
 frankly made.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 ON THE following morning after breakfast 
 at which his sister had not appeared, having 
 not as yet recovered, he was informed, from the 
 fatigue consequent upon his careless exposure of 
 her delicate person to the wild snowstorms of 
 Somersetshire Peter found his way up to the 
 old schoolroom on the second floor, which now, no 
 longer consecrated to its original use, had become 
 a den for Peggy. It was a large, comfortable 
 room with a deep bay window and a lovely view 
 over the Park, with even a glimpse in the far dis- 
 tance of the blue Sussex Weald. The walls were 
 paneled with white woodwork, and on two sides 
 they were filled with fitted book-cases to the 
 height of about five feet. There were flowers in 
 abundance in both vases and pots. The chairs 
 were covered with fresh and pretty chintz, and 
 there was a white carpet with a border of pink 
 rosebuds on the floor. Altogether it made a very 
 dainty and charming sitting-room for Peggy. 
 
 Photographs of Beatrice and Diana occupied 
 prominent positions on the tables and piano, and 
 almost provided a complete history of those suc- 
 cessful ladies. You could see them presented by 
 the art of Alice Hughes with lilies in their hands 
 and looking girlishly innocent, almost simpering, 
 in the days of their respective betrothals. Fur- 
 ther on they appeared as brides; a little later 
 they hung in beautifully maternal attitudes over 
 elaborate cradles whence an infant's indetermi- 
 
 77
 
 78 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 nate features were obscurely visible; now they 
 were photographed with two children, now (but 
 this only in the case of Beatrice ) with three. The 
 fashion of their hair and of their frocks differed 
 in almost every photograph, but the faces re- 
 mained unchanged; Diana's calm, determined, 
 secure in its crystallized, unshakable conviction of 
 superiority; Beatrice's gentle, smiling, suggest- 
 ive both of acquiescence and submission. 
 
 Peggy, who for one wild, unforgotten moment 
 had been the recipient of Beatrice's confidences a 
 week before the wedding, used to marvel some- 
 times at that smile, that gentle air of acceptance, 
 and wondered, too, if those dear cherubic baby 
 faces had compensated for all that her sister had 
 deliberately forfeited. Peggy had had moments 
 of apprehensive dread that some similar fate 
 might overtake herself. 
 
 As Peter came into the room that morning the 
 familiar photographs arrested his attention. He 
 felt a fellow-feeling for Beatrice who had cried. 
 He wondered if she, too, had had this yearning for 
 a simple freedom for long nights spent out 
 under the stars, away from an atmosphere of 
 clinging comfort that choked you. But the latest 
 presentment of her reassured him, and he knew 
 from his recent visit to Lavender that it was no 
 fictitious picture. It was admirably natural this 
 young mother sitting with her children, holding 
 the baby on her knee while little Ethne and Jack 
 stood one on each side of her, clinging to her. 
 Beatrice, a parent herself, had presumably done 
 with the heart-burnings of youth; she had joined 
 the opposite camp, and apparently she was per-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 79 
 
 fectly satisfied and contented with the lot that 
 had been chosen for her. 
 
 A slight movement in the window made him 
 turn abruptly from his meditation upon Bea- 
 trice, and he became aware of the dark mass of 
 hair, the pale averted profile, which was all he 
 could at present see of Peggy, whose sympathy 
 he had come to seek. He went up and roughly 
 flung an enveloping arm about her. 
 
 "Pegs, old girl!" he said, and there was a sob 
 in his voice and the tears raced unashamedly 
 down his face. 
 
 Peggy did not take her eyes off her book ; that 
 break in Peter's voice warned her that it would 
 be better not to look at him just then. But she 
 put up her hand and slid it round his neck. 
 Peggy was full of delicate instincts; her sensi- 
 tiveness was not of the kind which is self -centered 
 and shrinks only from personal wounds ; she was 
 as sharply aware of pain in those she loved as she 
 could ever be in herself. 
 
 The two faces were singularly alike. They 
 were the only two dark Metcalfes, and it was 
 perhaps because of their inability to conform to 
 the family standard of looks that they had both 
 been relegated since their nursery days to the 
 position of ugly ducklings. 
 
 "I couldn't come and tell you about it last 
 night," he said at last, "you'd gone to bed." 
 
 "Tell me about it now, Peter dear," said Peg- 
 gy. In spite of the four years between their 
 ages they had always been the closest of friends. 
 Like called to like. Only Beatrice had ever 
 touched the fringe of that friendship, and she had
 
 80 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 been a deserter; she had gone off, if not to the 
 enemy, at least to the opposing camp. 
 
 Peter bit his lip, forcing back the tears. 
 
 "If one could only make him lose his temper! 
 But he just sat there as cold as ice, as hard as 
 iron. First there was a lot about our accident 
 that seems to have been the last straw that 
 brought about the crisis! But the fiat's gone 
 forth I'm not to be allowed to spend my days 
 in idleness any more. I'm to start work directly 
 after Christmas. Pegs I'm to belong to Met- 
 calfe & Co. until the end of my life!" 
 
 Peggy put up her hand and stroked his hair; 
 her touch was soft, and the little action did some- 
 thing toward soothing that ruffled spirit. 
 
 "If it were only for a few years I could stick 
 it right enough! But all my life!" That gray 
 vision of endless years, spent as his father spent 
 them, spread out before him in an interminable 
 monotonous procession. The waste of it when 
 life might be so beautiful in its freedom! "Just 
 for the sake of those loathsome flesh-pots !" 
 
 He writhed with self -contempt at his own too 
 easy capitulation. 
 
 "I'm as weak as as Beatrice!" he declared. 
 
 Peggy colored nervously. That was a subject 
 which she had never discussed with Peter, and 
 how much he knew or guessed she could not tell. 
 Beatrice, repenting of her own indiscretion, had 
 sworn her young sister to secrecy. 
 
 "I shall be the only one left unprovided for," 
 said Peggy softly. 
 
 "It'll be your turn next, Pegs. Depend upon 
 it, they've already got something up their sleeve
 
 THE REST HOUSE 81 
 
 for you. It's not possible they could have over- 
 looked your 
 
 But something in the light, careless tone in 
 which he uttered this prophecy made Peggy feel 
 a sinking of the heart, a renewal of those dread- 
 ful apprehensions that had once or twice before 
 assailed her. As if to fortify herself against 
 these shadowy fears she put her arm again round 
 Peter's neck and kissed him. 
 
 "I shall never choose the flesh-pots! I won't! 
 I won't!" she said with decision. 
 
 "You wait and see," said Peter, ominously. 
 "I wonder sometimes that they've left you alone 
 so long." 
 
 "I must go down and see mother now," said 
 Peggy; "she wants to see the letter I've written 
 to Miss Morford." She longed to tell Peter about 
 the conversation she had had with her mother 
 last night, but some curious new instinct of reti- 
 cence prevented her. 
 
 "I hope you've given them some nice message 
 from me, too," said Peter. 
 
 "Yes I said we both thanked them very 
 much," answered Peggy. 
 
 She left her brother alone and letter in hand 
 made her way to her mother's sanctum. 
 
 Strangely enough, she felt none of that ner- 
 vous trembling which she had expected would 
 certainly assail her at this critical moment. In 
 the contemplation of Peter's acute and present 
 woes she had allowed her own perplexities to slip 
 into the background. And the morning had 
 given her courage. She felt braced for the inter- 
 view, although she had not at all made up her
 
 82 
 
 mind what she intended to say. Lady Metcalfe 
 would, no doubt, give her a lead. 
 
 Her mother was already seated at her fine old 
 Sheraton writing-table in a room which might 
 well have stood for a final example of meticulous 
 comfort. It was hung with pale rose-pink, and 
 all the flowers that were massed there in great 
 quantities repeated in various shades this exquis- 
 ite tone. The carpet repeated faithfully the 
 prevalent hue. Everything was perfect the 
 flowers, the harmony, the detailed luxury. There 
 were books arranged in fine old book-cases ; new 
 copies of the latest novels lay on the table. There 
 was a good deal of valuable china, and a few 
 priceless etchings hung on the walls. It was so 
 warm that unless one looked outside at the snowy 
 Park one could never have believed the season to 
 be mid-winter. 
 
 Peggy came in quietly. She held her small 
 head erect. She looked like the Metcalfes, her 
 mother reflected, not defiant exactly but incur- 
 ably obstinate. Diana and Beatrice through all 
 the years of their maidenhood had never looked 
 like that. Yet in that brief survey Lady Met- 
 calfe did wonder whether many people could be 
 of the same opinion as Sir Hugh Quentin, who 
 had once observed that the youngest Metcalfe 
 girl was far more beautiful than either of her sis- 
 ters. It was a remark that had been repeated to 
 her, and had been received by her with a momen- 
 tary sensation of annoyed astonishment. 
 
 But it was impossible to believe that Metcalfe 
 standards could possibly be at fault, and she 
 forthwith proceeded to attach some ulterior mo-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 83 
 
 tive of definite partiality for Peggy herself to the 
 speech of this eminently desirable young man. 
 
 "Well, Peggy, my dear," she said, offering a 
 plump pink cheek, which Peggy dutifully kissed. 
 
 "Good morning, mother," said Peggy. "I 
 have brought this letter to Miss Morf ord to show 
 you." 
 
 Already that sojourn at the Rest House was 
 becoming almost unreal in its remote distance. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe read the letter with a kind of 
 scrutinizing attention. There was, however, lit- 
 tle amiss with it, and she gave it back to Peggy, 
 saying: 
 
 "That does quite well. Perhaps you have said 
 a little more than was absolutely necessary 
 after all, you were only there one night. But 
 Peter tells me they really seemed very poor, so 
 perhaps it is better to show them you appreciated 
 their efforts." 
 
 This little speech jarred upon Peggy she 
 could hardly tell why. 
 
 "Have you been thinking over what I said to 
 you last night, Peggy?" asked her mother. 
 
 "Yes, mother," said Peggy. 
 
 "I have been thinking about it, too," said Lady 
 Metcalfe pleasantly, "and I have decided not to 
 insist upon your making that promise. For one 
 thing, I feel there is really no need, for I am sure 
 I can rely upon you to respect my wishes, and 
 then you will have no opportunity of disregard- 
 ing them, for you never go anywhere without 
 proper chaperonage. An incident such as hap- 
 pened the day before yesterday can not possibly 
 occur again."
 
 84 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Peggy felt convinced that something must have 
 happened in the interim to cause her mother to 
 compromise in this masterly way. She wondered 
 if any explanation would be vouchsafed, and 
 Lady Metcalfe's next words gave her a clue. 
 
 "I have had a charming letter from Beatrice," 
 said Lady Metcalfe; "she tells me that she en- 
 joyed having you and Peter there very much, 
 and she hopes that you will go back to Lavender 
 for the Hunt Ball in January. Should you like 
 that, Peggy?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I should like to go very much," said 
 Peggy; "has she asked Peter?" 
 
 "No she doesn't say anything about Peter. 
 But he couldn't go in any case. Peter must work 
 now. Your father says he has been idle quite 
 long enough. It would have been better for him 
 if he had begun long ago, for there is nothing so 
 demoralizing as idleness. You must not expect, 
 Peggy, always to have Peter to take you about. 
 But I can trust you to Beatrice she can look 
 after you as well as I can, and she knows my 
 wishes so well." 
 
 Peggy was not in full possession of the clue; 
 had she been allowed to read Beatrice's letter her 
 knowledge would have been complete. For there 
 had been a sentence in young Lady Charsley's 
 letter which made the proposed visit a very desir- 
 able one for Peggy. "Hugh Quentin is to stay 
 with us, too. You know, he admired Peggy last 
 summer at Oxford. Even if nothing comes of it 
 for Peggy does seem absurdly childish and un- 
 formed for her age I should like him to meet 
 her again. Please see that she has plenty of
 
 THE REST HOUSE 85 
 
 pretty frocks, for there are sure to be some pri- 
 vate dances as well." 
 
 That was so like Beatrice she was so tactful 
 and understanding. Sir Hugh was a young and 
 rich man Lady Metcalfe knew almost to a 
 farthing his rent roll and almost to an inch his 
 acres. She had met him once and had found him 
 passably good-looking and very agreeable. And 
 though of course it would not be such a brilliant 
 match as Diana or Beatrice had made, it was cer- 
 tainly quite as good as Peggy had any right to 
 expect. Lady Metcalfe was anxious now that 
 Peggy should marry soon. There had been a 
 certain manifestation of independence of thought 
 and action in her conduct last night which had 
 startled Lady Metcalfe. That touch of uncon- 
 ventionality would be certain to increase as she 
 grew older; it was far better to check it at once. 
 The time was ripe for the proper administration 
 of Peggy's future. 
 
 "That is all I wanted to say to you, Peggy," 
 she said, and took up her pen. 
 
 When her daughter had gone Lady Metcalfe 
 wrote a note to Beatrice accepting her invitation 
 for Peggy. Beatrice's letter had turned her 
 thoughts into a most promising channel, and she 
 began to feel that the ultimate solution of Peg- 
 gy's problem was at hand. She had compromised 
 successfully, and thus had avoided any possible 
 scene. Scenes were so very upsetting. Her 
 mind was riveted upon the determination to pro- 
 mote a marriage between Peggy and Hugh Quen- 
 tin. She was glad to think that the idea had also 
 commended itself to Beatrice. It would be the
 
 86 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 best possible way of driving any silly nonsense 
 which Peggy might have picked up at the Rest 
 House out of her foolish little head. 
 
 "With Peter as a junior partner and Peggy 
 married we shall feel that all our children are 
 most happily settled in life, and that we have 
 done our very best for them," thought Lady 
 Metcalfe. The knowledge of Peter's short-lived 
 resistance had left no impression upon her at all, 
 for she never allowed her mind to dwell unneces- 
 sarily upon anything that might prove disagree- 
 able in the contemplation. The best way of 
 cherishing a comfortable conviction that all was 
 for the best was never to allow yourself to believe 
 that there was another side to the picture. Peter, 
 dear boy, would be most grateful to them in a 
 few years' time, and Peggy would recall with un- 
 doubted feelings of shame her absurd if transient 
 admiration for the Errors of Rome. 
 
 However, she never ran any risks, and in her 
 letter to Beatrice she informed her of the ad- 
 ventures Peter and Peggy had met with on the 
 way home, and of her own fears that Peggy had 
 permitted herself to be unduly impressed by the 
 Roman Catholic atmosphere of the place. "No 
 doubt it will soon wear off, but you know how 
 troublesome and obstinate she has always been. 
 I have forbidden her most strictly to go inside a 
 Roman Catholic church, and I hope while she is 
 with you that you will not let her have any oppor- 
 tunity of disobeying me. So far I have not said 
 anything to your father about it, for you know 
 how nervous it makes her when he gets at all 
 angry with her. She is such a mixture of timidity
 
 THE REST HOUSE 87 
 
 and obstinacy, which makes it very difficult to 
 deal with her." 
 
 But she really entertained not the slightest 
 anxiety about her own ultimate capability of deal- 
 ing with Peggy. She thought it would be quite 
 soon enough if the marriage were to take place 
 immediately after Easter. That would give her 
 plenty of time to get the trousseau and make all 
 the necessary preparations. She felt almost ex- 
 cited at the prospect.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 SOME weeks later, when external serenity had 
 completely descended upon Mildon and 
 Peter had begun work at the office with no fur- 
 ther manifestation of rebellion or discontent, 
 Peggy, accompanied by her maid and with her 
 trunks full of pretty new frocks, started off on 
 her visit to Lavender. She had no idea why her 
 mother had "made such a fuss" about her clothes 
 on this particular occasion, for to disclose one's 
 hand to Peggy often met with the most unex- 
 pected results, as Lady Metcalfe knew by ex- 
 perience. Nor did the real reason penetrate to 
 her mind even after her arrival at Lavender, 
 when she found Hugh Quentin already en- 
 sconced there, and became aware, too, of his dis- 
 position to monopolize her. 
 
 Peggy enjoyed staying at Lavender; she had 
 seldom been there without her mother or Peter 
 before, and she felt a pleasurable little sense of 
 independence at the prospect. The little crowd 
 of people who had assembled there for the fes- 
 tivities were nearly all strangers to her; the only 
 tolerably familiar face among them was Hugh 
 Quentin, who had been at Oxford with Peter, 
 and whom she had met many times during the 
 Eights' week last summer. She had gone there 
 under Diana's wing, and Lady Maddinard had 
 reported favorably to Beatrice upon the im- 
 jpression Peggy had undoubtedly made. 
 
 Lady Charsley was a pretty blonde woman 
 88
 
 THE REST HOUSE 89 
 
 of twenty-five. The first brilliancy of her youth 
 had faded a little, for she had been delicate since 
 her marriage. She was very tall and slender. 
 They all thought it was such a pity Peggy should 
 be so small; it gave her such a childish look. 
 
 The babies were darlings. There was Ethne 
 a dainty, golden-haired creature of five; she 
 looked like a doll, Peggy thought. Next came 
 Jack, who was a year younger. The baby, who 
 was only a year old, was a faithful reproduction 
 of Ethne; her name was Verena. Beatrice was 
 passionately devoted to them, Jack especially 
 being the idol of the house. His parents wor- 
 shiped him. Peggy preferred Ethne, who had 
 gentle, affectionate ways. It seemed to her some- 
 times that Lord Charsley scarcely counted at 
 all. He was a bald, red-faced man of about 
 forty, very good-natured, devoted to his wife 
 and with a cheery, rather boisterous manner. 
 
 Beatrice was very indulgent to the babies ; she 
 never scolded them and never allowed them to be 
 punished or threatened. They were very good 
 and tractable, and when they appeared down- 
 stairs their behavior was perfect and indeed 
 almost arrogant in its dignity. 
 
 Lady Charsley welcomed her sister warmly, 
 kissing her on both cheeks and saying how well 
 she looked. But they no longer felt like sisters 
 or even intimate friends; it seemed to Peggy 
 that all Beatrice's new life and interests made 
 a wide gulf between them. She was distressed at 
 the thought and longed to recover something of 
 the old intimacy. But Beatrice was quite out of 
 her reach. It seemed as if she had forgotten the
 
 90 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 old Mildon days, so absorbed was she in her chil- 
 dren. Peggy thought she had changed more 
 than Diana. 
 
 Once when they were alone Beatrice tried to 
 draw her out upon the subject of the Rest House, 
 but Peggy was wary in her replies, and exhibited 
 a baffling reticence. Lady Charsley thought her 
 mother had made a fuss about nothing, and that 
 the impression must have been less profound than 
 she had imagined. There was no chance of 
 Peggy disobeying her while she was at Lavender ; 
 there was not a Catholic church within miles ; the 
 nearest, a private chapel at Bargrove belonging 
 to Mrs. Dalton, was quite six miles away; and 
 Beatrice was not at all intimate with the 
 Daltons. 
 
 Peggy was really quite passable-looking now, 
 Beatrice thought, in that slight, dark, pale way; 
 her clothes were charming; she could talk in- 
 telligently enough if she chose, but she was quiet 
 and lacking in animation and gaiety, and her 
 manner was grave and ungirlish. If she in- 
 tended to marry Quentin her behavior was cer- 
 tainly perfect; she was elusive, quietly resisting 
 his tendency to monopolize her; when they met 
 she was friendly, but utterly unembarrassed. 
 
 "She doesn't give Quentin much of a show!" 
 remarked Lord Charsley to his wife one evening 
 in private. "Does she mean to have him?" 
 
 "I don't know," Beatrice was obliged to con- 
 fess. "I haven't talked to her about it. I didn't 
 know, you see, how she would take it." She fell 
 back on the old formula. "Peggy has always 
 been tiresome!"
 
 THE BEST HOUSE 91 
 
 "Well, she's a fine-looking girl," said Lord 
 Charsky with a good-natured grin. "Quentin'U 
 be lucky if he gets her!" 
 
 "Fine-looking?" repeated Beatrice. For her 
 Peggy had always been the ugly duckling, and 
 she still clung unconsciously to the Mildon 
 standards. 
 
 "If she doesn't take Hugh she may get some 
 one much better. I shoukln't rush her into it if 
 I were you, Beatrice. I suppose she'll have 
 the same dot as the rest of you, although she is 
 the youngest?" 
 
 "I'm sure my father will do what is quite just," 
 said Beatrice with a little touch of hauteur, "if 
 Peggy makes a marriage that he approves of." 
 
 Hugh Quentin had come with another Oxford 
 friend of his own and Peter's, a Mr. Hollo Carter. 
 Mr. Henry Sacheverell had brought his wife, 
 Lady PhiHppa; they were a young couple re- 
 cently married and very much in love. Violet 
 Hawthorn, a tall, dark girl with an independent, 
 dominating manner, came alone. Rollo Cartel- 
 showed her the greatest attention, although it was 
 rumored that she had twice refused to marry 
 him. Apparently this did not interfere at all 
 with their intimate friendship. They played golf 
 together nearly all day. Lord Charsley's eldest 
 sister, who was many years his senior, brought 
 her girl, who was just out, a timid, shy, rather 
 plain girl called Ella. Peggy felt a little sorry 
 for her, she seemed lonely and rather friendless 
 and her mother snubbed her. Lady Trowhaven 
 was an immense, majestic woman who looked 
 capable of crushing any one. She seemed to
 
 92 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Peggy to be a kind of super-Olympian, and 
 Ella, whose personal appearance resembled that 
 of a white mouse, had yielded utterly, and was 
 reduced to a submission that might be called 
 groveling. She hardly opened her lips in her 
 mother's presence. 
 
 They had all assembled on Saturday after- 
 noon, and the Hunt Ball was fixed up for the 
 following Tuesday. That night just before 
 they went up to bed Peggy heard Beatrice say 
 to Lady Philippa: 
 
 "But you'll be back in time for luncheon, I 
 hope, Philly?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, thank you. We shall have our 
 breakfast at the Daltons, and come back here 
 very soon afterward." 
 
 "It's such a long way to go on these dark, cold 
 winter mornings," said Beatrice, with a touch 
 of protest in her voice. 
 
 "Yes, but we brought the motor on purpose 
 and one doesn't like to miss," said Lady Phi- 
 lippa. 
 
 "Mr. Sacheverell's going with you?" asked 
 Beatrice. 
 
 "Oh, yes. Henry always comes. And Mrs. 
 Dalton especially invited him." 
 
 Beatrice laughed good-humoredly. 
 
 "You'll never be happy, Philly, till you've 
 roped your Henry safely in!" 
 
 Peggy was watching them almost involuntar- 
 ily, and she could not help noticing that at these 
 words a great change came over Lady Philippa's 
 face. She flushed, and her eyes became so bright 
 that one could fancv that there were tears in
 
 THE REST HOUSE 93 
 
 them. She dropped her voice, and looking very 
 earnestly at Beatrice, she said: 
 
 "So many, many people are praying for him. 
 And he's ever so much nearer now than when we 
 first married!" 
 
 What did she mean? Peggy desired almost 
 passionately to learn the import of this conver- 
 sation. Clearly it was something that touched 
 the pretty little bride very closely indeed. What 
 was this precious gift she desired that her hus- 
 band might possess? Was it anything connected 
 with religion? She felt almost certain that it 
 must be. She longed to talk to Lady Philippa. 
 
 Suddenly Beatrice turned and saw Peggy 
 standing there, and an expression of annoyance 
 came over her face. 
 
 "What are you doing there, Peggy?" she said 
 in quite a severe tone. "I did not know you were 
 there. You mustn't stand about in that silent, 
 silly way. Go over there and talk to Ella she 
 is looking miserably bored and out of it." 
 
 Peggy turned crimson and moved across the 
 room. She had hoped that when Beatrice had gone 
 she could have had a word with Lady Philippa 
 quite alone. But after all, that would have been 
 impossible, for the next moment Henry Sache- 
 verell joined his wife and Beatrice, who soon left 
 them alone together. It was easy to see that they 
 were absorbed in each other. Why were they 
 going to motor out before breakfast on the fol- 
 lowing day? Who was Mrs. Dalton? Peggy 
 had never heard Beatrice mention her. 
 
 Peggy had not been talking to Ella very long 
 when Hugh Quentin came across to that end of
 
 94 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 the room and sat down near them. Presently 
 Lady Trowharen called her daughter away to 
 play bridge, and Peggy was left alone with 
 Hugh. 
 
 "Do you know a Mrs. Dalton who lives not 
 far from here?" she inquired, thinking he might 
 be able to throw some light on the conversation, 
 as he knew the neighborhood well. 
 
 "Oh, yes; I know her a little," said Quentin 
 carelessly; "I've stayed there once. Young Dal- 
 ton was up at Oxford with me. It's rather a 
 weird house to stay in, though they're Roman 
 Catholics and have a chapel of their own, and 
 they seem to spend half their time in it." 
 
 Peggy turned quite pink and drew in her 
 breath sharply. She felt as if she had always 
 really understood what Lady Philippa had 
 meant when she had said with such eager earnest- 
 ness that "Henry was much nearer now than 
 when they were first married." She must be a 
 Catholic, and to-morrow she was going to motor 
 over to the Daltons to hear Mass, as it was Sun- 
 day. 
 
 Peggy felt suddenly excited, and she was able 
 to recover something of those feelings and im- 
 pressions she had experienced at the Rest House. 
 
 She looked across the room at Lady Philippa, 
 who was still sitting beside her husband, and she 
 felt an envy of her so deep and profound that 
 it pierced her heart like a sword. She thought 
 to herself, "Oh, if I could only go with her. 
 But Beatrice would never let me Beatrice was 
 angry with me because I heard what they were 
 saying."
 
 THE REST HOUSE 95 
 
 It was clear that Beatrice had not intended her 
 to know that Lady Philippa was a Catholic. 
 
 "So many people are praying for him!" There 
 had been something wonderfully beautiful and 
 touching in the way Lady Philippa had said those 
 words. It had been such a simple, earnest, and 
 withal profoundly loving little speech. Now that 
 Peggy understood, it touched her very heart. 
 Evidently she had the same ideals as those that 
 prevailed at the Rest House ; she seemed to speak 
 the very language that the Morfords had spoken. 
 Peggy could hardly restrain herself from getting 
 up and going boldly across the room to speak to 
 Lady Philippa. 
 
 Once she even contemplated finding out the 
 hour of their departure and appearing down- 
 stairs at that time and entreating Lady Philippa 
 to permit her to accompany them. But this mad 
 imagining was not one that could possibly ma- 
 terialize. These people were practically un- 
 known to her: she could not possibly force her- 
 self upon them without some kind of explanation, 
 which she dared not bring herself to give. They 
 might even ask Beatrice's permission to take her, 
 and Peggy felt certain from her sister's manner 
 just now that she was fully cognizant of that in- 
 cident at the Rest House. It was more than 
 likely that Lady Metcalfe had coupled the in- 
 formation with a word of warning about Peggy. 
 She sighed, and answered Hugh at random. 
 She wished he would get up and go away. She 
 looked round the room. Rollo Carter and Violet 
 Hawthorn were playing poker patience at a little 
 table at the other end of the room. There was
 
 96 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 a rubber of bridge going on in the small drawing- 
 room beyond, and she could hear Lady Trow- 
 haven's voice announcing "Two Royals" as if she 
 defied any one to outbid her. The rest of the 
 company had sorted themselves into groups. 
 Hugh had refused to play bridge; he preferred 
 to remain and talk to Peggy Metcalfe, although 
 she was much more serious and subdued than 
 when he had seen her at Oxford in the midst of 
 the Eights' festivities. 
 
 No one else present was a patch on her, he 
 thought to himself. Violet Hawthorn, much be- 
 paragraphed in the halfpenny papers and con- 
 sidered a beauty, was not in his eyes pretty at all. 
 She was striking-looking in that dark, imperious 
 way, but her independent air and almost insolent 
 self-possession did not correspond with Hugh's 
 ideal of womanhood at all. He did not approve 
 of the way in which she "carried on" with Rollo 
 Carter, for all the world as if they were engaged 
 to be married. There was no question of an en- 
 gagement, and they were both quite well off, yet 
 they behaved like an engaged couple and were 
 absorbed in each other's society. Rollo fetched 
 and carried for her in a way that was almost 
 degrading, commented Hugh, who was fond of 
 his friend and hated to see him treated in this 
 way. Lady Philippa Sacheverell was very 
 pretty and charming-looking, but Peggy put her 
 quite into the shade. Hugh was encouraging 
 himself to fall in love with the youngest Miss 
 Metcalfe. He was very fond of Peter, and had 
 always heard a good deal from him about the 
 little sister at home. The Metcalfes could hardly
 
 THE REST HOUSE 97 
 
 now be called self-made, since the Firm was three 
 generations old and both Peggy's sisters had 
 made such brilliant marriages. Hugh was a very 
 prudent young man; he approached matrimony 
 with caution, but he was none the less deliberately 
 approaching it. Once he had been passionately 
 in love with the beautiful young Irish actress, 
 Deirdre O'Mara, and when she refused to marry 
 him he had been quite broken-hearted for at least 
 a year. Afterward he began to perceive the wis- 
 dom of Providence in withholding from the 
 young at least the fulfilment of their heart's de- 
 sire. Such a marriage would have been dis- 
 astrous to a man who wished to shine in the politi- 
 ca] world. Deirdre was only a peasant girl, 
 beautiful and charming, but quite unfit to be the 
 wife of an ambitious man. There was something 
 about Peggy that had reminded him, in the early 
 days of their acquaintance, of that lost love- 
 something in the dark sweep of the hair, in the 
 shadowy brown eyes so full of soft mystery. He 
 had often thought of Peggy during the months 
 that had elapsed since their last meeting, and 
 he had wished to see her again. Now he felt that 
 his mind was practically made up. The marriage 
 would be in every way suitable. He really did 
 not need Peggy's money, for he was a rich man 
 and had a fine old property in Kent, still money 
 was always useful. 
 
 Peggy, who feared that her inattention must 
 have seemed almost rude, tried to make up for 
 it by talking very agreeably to him for a little 
 longer than she might have otherwise done. She 
 asked no more questions about the Daltons, and
 
 98 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Hugh had left that subject and was telling her 
 about Westcombe, his place in Kent, and of 
 some improvements he intended to make there, 
 adding a hope that some day she and Peter would 
 come and pay him a visit. 
 
 "Thank you very much I should like to 
 come," said Peggy, and she put sufficient eager- 
 ness and enthusiasm into her voice to raise 
 Hugh's hopes to the very skies.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 PEGGY did not see the Sacheverells on the fol- 
 lowing day until luncheon, and she had no 
 opportunity of speaking to Lady Philippa until 
 that meal was over. She did not sit near her, and 
 she fancied that Beatrice had perhaps arranged 
 that she should not do so. Lady Charsley was 
 evidently on her guard, and Peggy felt that she 
 had been compelled to force her point a little 
 when she met Lady Philippa by chance in the 
 hall and asked her timidly if she would come to 
 her room with her for a few minutes. 
 
 It was the first time she had spoken to her, 
 and Lady Philippa looked a trifle surprised at 
 the request. Until then she had hardly noticed 
 her hostess's younger sister, and she wondered 
 what on earth she could want to say to her. 
 
 "I can come for a very few minutes if you 
 like," said Lady Philippa. "I have promised to 
 go for a walk with Henry, so I shall have to go 
 and put on my things almost at once." 
 
 Although it was not very promising, it was 
 better than nothing, and Peggy led the way to 
 her own sitting-room. She occupied the little 
 suite which Beatrice always kept for her own 
 family: it was in rather a remote part of the 
 house, but the rooms were pretty and looked out 
 on to the old-fashioned walled garden, where in 
 summer there was a famous herbaceous border, 
 now indicated only by a few dry stalks and sod- 
 den, shriveled leaves. 
 
 Lady Philippa sat down in an armchair near 
 
 99
 
 100 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 the fire, waiting for Peggy to speak. The girl 
 looked nervous and hesitating. 
 
 "Did you want to ask me anything?" inquired 
 Lady Philippa after a short pause in which 
 Peggy wondered how she should begin, and 
 whether, indeed, she would find courage to begin 
 at all. 
 
 "Yes, please," said Peggy. Her breath came 
 in short and quick gasps. "Dreadfully," she 
 added. 
 
 Lady Philippa glanced at the clock with a 
 touch of impatience. She was preoccupied with 
 thoughts of her husband; she did not want to 
 keep him waiting. And the girl, if she really had 
 anything to say, was obviously too nervous to 
 say it. 
 
 "Couldn't you have asked your sister?" she 
 said. 
 
 "Oh, no Beatrice knows nothing about it- 
 she couldn't help me at all." 
 
 "I am not fond of confidences," said Lady 
 Philippa; "if it is something about yourself 
 something private that you can't tell your sis- 
 ter I think I would rather not hear it." 
 
 Although she was not many years older than 
 Peggy, Lady Philippa had a good deal of de- 
 cision of character, and she imagined, too, that 
 Peggy was much younger than she really was 
 about seventeen, in fact. 
 
 "It is this. You're a Catholic, aren't you? 
 It's that that I want to speak to you about!'' 
 
 "Yes, I am a Catholic," said Lady Philippa. 
 
 Peggy looked at her in desperation and said: 
 "I want to be one more than I can ever tell vou!"
 
 THE REST HOUSE 101 
 
 Then all reticence vanished. Lady Philippa 
 was no longer an unwilling or reluctant listener. 
 Her face softened a little, and although she said 
 nothing, Peggy felt encouraged to proceed. She 
 related rapidly in a few words and with uncon- 
 scious dramatic effect the story of her adventure 
 at the Rest House, of her first and profound 
 initiation into the mysteries of the Catholic Faith. 
 Frederick Morford played but a slight and in- 
 significant part in the recital, his name was not 
 mentioned and Peggy only referred to him occa- 
 sionally as the son of the house. 
 
 Lady Philippa's attention was thoroughly 
 aroused. She did not for a moment doubt the 
 girl's sincerity. There was something remark- 
 able and unusual in the little history, and the sim- 
 plicity of the narrative touched her. It was like 
 a little miracle but then was not every con- 
 version in its own way a miracle? 
 
 "How old are you?" she inquired, when Peggy 
 stopped. 
 
 "I am twenty." 
 
 "I suppose you will have to wait until you are of 
 age before you can take any definite step. Wait- 
 ing won't hurt you; it will test and prove your 
 perseverance. And you are very young you 
 may change your mind." 
 
 "I can never change my mind I have made 
 a promise," said Peggy Metcalfe. 
 
 "Your mother will object, perhaps?" 
 
 "Yes she was annoyed when I told her about 
 my going to Mass and Benediction she wanted 
 me to promise that I wouldn't go into a Catholic 
 church. Lady Philippa, I feel starving."
 
 102 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Lady Philippa rose and with an impulse of 
 kindness she laid her hand on Peggy's shoulder. 
 She was not a demonstrative woman, but the 
 glimpse into that young and ardent soul had 
 stirred her sympathy and even her affection. 
 
 "My dear, I will think it over. But I don't 
 see how I can possibly help you yet. Later on, 
 perhaps, when you are of age. But if I can I 
 will go over to the Daltons again while I am 
 here and consult Father Dominic about you." 
 
 She saw by the clock that she must have kept 
 Henry waiting quite ten minutes. Such a thing 
 had never happened before. She was hurrying 
 out of the room when the door opened and 
 Beatrice entered. 
 
 "Oh, Philly! I didn't know you were here. 
 Mr. Sacheverell's waiting for you. I came up 
 to look for Peggy. They're all going for a walk 
 up to the Beacon, Peggy, and Hugh's been ask- 
 ing for you." 
 
 "Oh, Beatrice, I am tired. I don't really want 
 to go for a walk," pleaded Peggy. 
 
 But Lady Charsley spoke with an air of brisk 
 decision not unlike her mother's: 
 
 "What nonsense, Peggy! You can't possibly 
 stay moping up here." She turned to Lady 
 Philippa and said good-humoredly, "You 
 mustn't let Peggy bore you, Philly." 
 
 "Oh, she hasn't bored me at all," said Lady 
 Philippa, smiling kindly at Peggy; "we have 
 been making friends and I hope some day she 
 will come and pay us a visit in town." 
 
 She went out of the room, leaving the two 
 sisters together.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 103 
 
 "I don't think mother would care about your 
 going to the Sacheverells," said Beatrice. "Of 
 course, it's a very nice house and all that and 
 you would meet nice people, but Philly is a Cath- 
 olic and a dreadfully priest-ridden little person. 
 I believe the Sacheverells were quite shocked 
 at the things poor Henry had to promise when 
 he married her such tyrannous conditions. I 
 believe they wanted him to draw back, for really 
 it was no marriage for him. Although the 
 Perrymouths are such an old family, they 
 couldn't give Philly a farthing, they are so mis- 
 erably poor. But he was so much in love with 
 her that he utterly refused to give her up, and 
 promised everything they told him to. Such a 
 pity, for their children if they ever have any 
 will all have to be brought up as Roman Cath- 
 olics!" 
 
 "Perhaps he will become one, too," said Peggy 
 softly. 
 
 Beatrice looked at her keenly. She longed to 
 examine her, but she felt sure that Peggy would 
 parry her questions. Her silence on the subject 
 of the Rest House was not due to indifference 
 of that Lady Charsley now felt quite sure. 
 Peggy had some deeper reason for her reticence. 
 She said quietly: 
 
 "I really don't think mother would care for 
 you to become very intimate with Philly Sache- 
 verell. Of course, she is a friend of mine and 
 I've known her for years, but I know she has 
 done some very injudicious things. Catholics 
 often do," she added. "Did she ask to come up 
 here with you, Peggy?"
 
 104 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 "No; I asked her to come," said Peggy. 
 
 "She must have thought it very odd of you 
 when you hardly know her," said Beatrice. 
 
 "I think she did at first," said Peggy. 
 
 Beatrice went away feeling a little baffled, but 
 before leaving the room she repeated her in- 
 junction to Peggy to get ready for the walk, 
 and her sister made no second remonstrance, but 
 went into her bedroom and put on her hat and a 
 long fur coat. The day was cold and there was 
 a good deal of wind, and Peggy dreaded the long 
 expedition to the Beacon a favorite Sunday 
 afternoon walk of Lord Charsley's. He was 
 fond of victimizing his guests by entreating them 
 to accompany him, and to-day few had the 
 strength or determination to resist. But the 
 Sacheverells had gone off together for a tramp, 
 and Hollo Carter and Violet Hawthorn, careless 
 of all the unwritten rules of the house, were play- 
 ing golf together in the Park. 
 
 Beatrice remained at home, and she was glad 
 to be alone and think over this affair of Peggy. 
 She was a very conscientious person, and this 
 interview that she had surprised between her 
 sister and Lady Philippa had given her consider- 
 able food for thought. She had the feeling that 
 Peggy was conducting an intrigue under her very 
 nose, and with a determination of which she 
 knew her to be thoroughly capable. If Philippa 
 chose to try on any of her imprudent proselytiz- 
 ing ways she would find in Peggy a ripe and 
 ready victim. Beatrice felt that she must step in 
 at all costs and "save" Peggy. She owed this
 
 THE REST HOUSE 105 
 
 to her mother, who had given her a word of 
 warning that after all had been very necessary. 
 It had been impossible for her to put off the 
 Sacheverells, for they had already received and 
 accepted her invitation before she had received 
 her mother's letter about Peggy. It would be 
 terrible, indeed, if the girl showed any continued 
 obstinacy on the point, and of course it was very 
 significant that she should have refused to make 
 that promise about not entering a Catholic 
 church. If she did take any disastrous step of 
 the kind while she was still too young to know 
 all that it might involve, it would simply ruin all 
 her chances of marrying Hugh Quentin. Bea- 
 trice had set her heart on this marriage. She 
 liked Hugh very much, thought him clever and 
 ambitious and well able to manage Peggy. And 
 she and Diana had always had the dreadful fear 
 that Peggy might take it into her head to marry 
 some utterly undesirable person. She was so 
 unlike the rest of them! Lady Metcalfe also 
 shared this fear, and she was very careful not 
 to let Peggy go anywhere alone unless it was to 
 stay with one of her sisters. There was no trust- 
 ing Peggy! And even though she was now 
 grown up, that obstinate tactlessness of hers 
 seemed to deepen rather than diminish. 
 
 Well, she should have little opportunity of 
 talking to Philly Sacheverell Beatrice made up 
 her mind to that! If necessary she would give 
 Philly a hint on the subject and tell her that 
 Peggy was fanciful, even a little hysterical. It 
 would show Philly not to attach too much im-
 
 106 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 portance to any unwise, indiscreet thing Peggy 
 might have said to her. 
 
 The Hunt Ball was a very brilliant affair, and 
 even Beatrice was obliged to admit that Peggy 
 looked charming in a soft white charmeuse dress 
 and a string of pearls round her slender throat. 
 She wore no ornament in her simply arranged 
 dark hair. Hugh looked at her with evident ap- 
 proval. Although he had not seen as much of 
 Peggy as he could have wished in these past few 
 days, she had always been very agreeable and 
 pleasant to him when they had met, and he was 
 looking eagerly forward to the dance, which 
 would surely give them an opportunity of seeing 
 much more of each other. Hugh thought he was 
 making progress and then Lady Charsley was so 
 very encouraging, but he could not in the least 
 tell whether he had made a favorable impres- 
 sion or indeed any impression at all upon 
 Peggy. There was something baffling about the 
 girl, in those little hesitancies and silences of hers, 
 in the reticence of her manner that corresponded 
 so ill with the childish aspect of her appearance. 
 But the more he was baffled the more attracted he 
 became. Certainly he intended to dance a great 
 deal with Peggy to-night. 
 
 Beatrice always arrived late, and dancing was 
 in full swing when she disembarked her large 
 party at the Town Hall. Hugh, who looked ex- 
 tremely well in "pink," claimed Peggy at once 
 for a dance. She was still dancing with him when 
 she became suddenlv aware of a familiar dark 
 face turned toward her, and of two dark eyes
 
 THE REST HOUSE 107 
 
 regarding her with cold scrutiny. The room 
 seemed to swim round before her eyes and the 
 very music sounded faint and distant, but for 
 the grip of Hugh's arm she thought she must 
 have fallen. That Frederick Morford should be 
 there to-night filled her with a sense of faintness, 
 almost of terror. Her emotion at seeing him sur- 
 prised even herself. That he should actually be 
 dancing with Philippa Sacheverell filled her with 
 a pang of envy. She remembered Peter had 
 doubted the advisability of inviting him to Mil- 
 don. She was glad that she had not mentioned 
 his name to Lady Philippa. 
 
 When they paused Peggy found that her limbs 
 were trembling ; a strange, unaccountable excite- 
 ment had taken possession of her. Would Fred- 
 erick come up and claim her acquaintance? 
 Would he ask her to dance with him ? Would he 
 discover that she and Lady Philippa knew each 
 other formed part of the same party to-night? 
 Peggy's mind was so full of these thoughts that 
 she scarcely heard what Hugh was saying to her. 
 The music stopped, and they were just going to 
 leave the room when Lady Philippa and her 
 partner advanced toward them. 
 
 Peggy's face was almost deathly pale. 
 
 "I think you and Mr. Morford know each 
 other," said Lady Philippa in her careless way. 
 
 Peggy looked up and met his eyes. He did 
 not smile as he shook hands with her and asked 
 her for a dance. She answered in a low, nervous 
 tone so low that he had to stoop a little to hear 
 the words. The knowledge that he knew every 
 detail of her experience at the Rest House filled
 
 108 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 her with a dreadful timidity that seemed to rob 
 her of all her self-possession. They were almost 
 strangers, and yet she had given him this intimate 
 insight into her very heart. It was as if they 
 possessed in common a secret so profound that it 
 seemed to hold something of guilt. She moved 
 away now with Hugh, who was getting a little 
 impatient. He had observed her look of shrink- 
 ing fear as this dark, odd-looking young man had 
 approached them; he had noticed, too, how low 
 her voice had been when she answered him, and 
 how deadly pale she had become. Hugh had 
 never seen her so shy and embarrassed before. 
 She had always seemed to him quite self-pos- 
 sessed, although she was so quiet and grave. 
 
 Peggy, indeed, was hardly aware of what she 
 had said to Morford, for a lump had risen in her 
 throat, threatening to close it up, and her lips 
 were so dry she could scarcely articulate. 
 
 "Who's that chap ?" inquired Hugh, and there 
 was something of denigration in his voice. 
 
 "A Mr. Morford," said Peggy. 
 
 "Morford? Oh, I suppose he's one of Mrs. 
 Dalton's lot, as he seems to know Lady Philippa. 
 These Catholics always hang together. I im- 
 agine that's why they get hold of such queer, 
 backwoodsy people." 
 
 Peggy was silent. There was something con- 
 temptuous and disdainful in Hugh's tone. And 
 even in that one shy glance Peggy had bestowed 
 upon Morford she had become aware that he was 
 less well dressed than the men of Beatrice's 
 party than Hugh Quentin, for instance; he 
 had not the same soigne look; his clothes were
 
 THE REST HOUSE 109 
 
 perhaps less new, less well cut. He was very 
 tall and had an air of strength, but this also made 
 him look a trifle uncouth. He lacked that pol- 
 ished look which Hugh possessed in such per- 
 fection. But he was not queer not backwoodsy ! 
 Peggy's heart passionately denied this calumny. 
 
 "Mrs. Dalton always brings a menagerie," said 
 Hugh, whose jealousy, to tell the truth, had been 
 somewhat keenly aroused by that curious, ill- 
 suppressed emotion Peggy had betrayed at the 
 approach of this man Morford. Hugh had never 
 heard his name before. How and when and 
 where had Peggy made the acquaintance of such 
 a weird-looking person? 
 
 Peggy had the good sense to keep her temper ; 
 she was intuitively aware that Hugh was an- 
 noyed about something, and felt that Morford 
 must in some way have aroused his suspicions. 
 
 "Have you known him long?" he asked irri- 
 tably, after a brief pause. 
 
 "Who? Mr. Morford?" She tried to speak 
 his name carelessly. "Oh, no we met for the 
 first time a few weeks ago." 
 
 "Where did you meet him?" asked Hugh. He 
 was so jealous that he could not control his desire 
 to question Peggy. It seemed to him so ex- 
 traordinary that she should know this peculiar- 
 looking man who did not look at all as if he 
 belonged to the Metcalfes' world, 
 
 "In in Somersetshire," said Peggy. 
 
 Presently they went back to the ball-room. 
 Peggy joined Beatrice, who was surrounded by 
 a little group of friends, important county 
 people. She was always popular and admired.
 
 110 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 In a few minutes Peggy saw Morford and Lady 
 Philippa approaching the group. 
 
 Again her heart beat with that suffocating vio- 
 lence. Morford was coming to claim his dance. 
 She hoped that Beatrice would not notice him. 
 If she saw Peggy dancing with any one she did 
 not know she would be certain to ask who he 
 was. 
 
 "I think this is our dance," said Frederick 
 stiffly. 
 
 He towered above Peggy, the top of whose 
 head was barely on a level with his shoulder. His 
 great height made him conspicuous ; he could not 
 possibly escape the disapproving scrutiny of 
 Lady Charsley. When they danced Peggy felt 
 that he would have lifted her off her feet. Mor- 
 ford was by no means an accomplished dancer 
 and he disliked dancing ; his movements were not 
 light and rhythmic as were Hugh's. But Peggy 
 had the sense that she was yielding to his will as 
 he bore her along; he whirled her whither he 
 would. As yet they had not exchanged a word. 
 
 How strange to find him here in this gay 
 throng he who had told her he so seldom left the 
 Rest House! She would have wondered still 
 more had she been able to penetrate into the real 
 motive of his presence there to-night. For Mor- 
 ford disliked and eschewed gaieties; he had no 
 social instincts at all; he felt at a disadvantage 
 among wealthy and worldly people, and he re- 
 garded almost all amusements as foolish as well 
 as contemptible. But Aloysius Dalton had per- 
 suaded him to come, and he was the most intimate 
 friend he possessed in the world. They had been
 
 THE REST HOUSE 111 
 
 at Stonyhurst together. And in a lesser degree 
 Morford loved his friend's mother, who had 
 always and most affectionately welcomed him to 
 her house. But this time it was not for Ally 
 Dalton's sake that Morford had accepted the in- 
 vitation. He had learned from Mary that Peggy 
 was a sister of young Lady Charsley at Lav- 
 ender a place which was only six miles from 
 the Daltons' little property. There was just a 
 chance a mere ghost of a chance, but worth 
 trying for that he might meet again that quiet, 
 pale girl who had come to the Rest House on that 
 winter night. He wished to see her again. It 
 could lead to nothing; their worlds were as the 
 poles apart, but the girl had aroused his inter- 
 est. If it led to nothing else, another meeting 
 might at least spoil his memory of her and give 
 back to his heart its old and jealously guarded 
 liberty. Not for nothing had Peggy Metcalfe 
 offered him that intimate glimpse of the pilgrim 
 soul in her. 
 
 "Don't let us dance," he said suddenly in an 
 abrupt tone. "I know I dance abominably." 
 
 Without waiting for a reply he led her out of 
 the room, and sought a secluded spot at the far 
 end of the wide, heated corridor. For a little 
 while perhaps for the last time in his life he 
 would be alone with Peggy, and the thought 
 pierced him like a sword. How slight and slim 
 and fragile she was; he felt he could have lifted 
 her with one hand. When they had been dancing 
 she had seemed as thistledown in his hands. In 
 the silence that followed Morford inwardly and 
 silently but very thoroughly cursed his own folly
 
 112 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 for venturing here to-night. She would spoil no 
 memories that he held of her; rather she would 
 impress them the more deeply upon his heart so 
 that it would be a thousand times more difficult to 
 go away and forget her. 
 
 "Well," he said at last, "how have you been 
 getting on?" 
 
 "I have not been very happy," said Peggy, and 
 her voice trembled a little. It was useless for 
 her to try to talk conventionally to Morford; to 
 her he seemed like a master, stern and harsh, but 
 able to teach her the things she wished to know ; 
 she felt like a willing though timid pupil. 
 
 "Why have you not been happy? Isn't that 
 very foolish of you?" he asked. 
 
 "My mother was angry when I told her about 
 your chapel. About my having been to Mass 
 and Benediction. She wanted me to promise 
 never to go inside a Catholic church. Oh, I have 
 never mentioned it since to any one until I spoke 
 to Lady Philippa last Sunday. And she thought 
 I had better do nothing until I came of age." 
 
 "Do you mean you are still thinking seriously 
 of it?" he asked, and his dark eyes swept her face. 
 
 "It seems to me that I have thought of nothing 
 else," said Peggy; "it is like having a double life 
 when your thoughts are fixed on something that 
 has no connection with your present surround- 
 ings." 
 
 "Oh, you have found that, too, have you?" he 
 said. 
 
 "Yes," said Peggy. 
 
 "I came here with the Daltofis to-night," he 
 said. "Ally Dalton is my greatest friend the
 
 THE REST HOUSE 113 
 
 only really intimate friend I have. We were at 
 school together. But he doesn't often let me in 
 for this kind of thing!" He went on speaking, 
 for he saw that Peggy was now only controlling 
 her emotion with great difficulty, and the knowl- 
 edge stirred within him a sensation that was not 
 wholly free from pain nor wholly removed from 
 an insensate desire to take her in his arms and 
 comfort her. Fool fool that he was ! To her 
 he was only the man who could teach her the 
 things she so ardently desired to know ; to whom 
 she could speak freely of her wish to be a 
 Catholic. 
 
 "I wanted to tell you," continued Peggy, in a 
 low, troubled tone, "how much how often I have 
 thought of it all. You can hardly realize how 
 ignorant I was, but until you told me I had no 
 idea what it was that Catholics believed. I had 
 heard of the errors of Rome, but I did not know 
 what was meant by them. My mother always 
 forbade any religious discussions. And now I 
 want to be a Catholic. I have even had the 
 strange feeling that I am one!" 
 
 Frederick Morford was silent. He knew that 
 Peggy was not thinking of him at all ; the emotion 
 that she had betrayed at seeing him again was 
 due only to the fact of his connection with those 
 first strange spiritual experiences of hers. 
 
 "You can not possibly be one till you have been 
 baptized and received," he said abruptly. "And if 
 your mother is opposed to your becoming one, 
 that puts it out of the question for the present. 
 Why, you look hardly more than a child!" 
 
 "I am twenty," said Peggy simply.
 
 114 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Twenty? She looked scarcely more than 
 seventeen with her slim, straight, childish figure, 
 her clear, childlike gaze. 
 
 "You would have to wait in any case a year," 
 he told her. 
 
 "Oh," she said impulsively, "can't you under- 
 stand how difficult how impossible it seems to 
 me to wait even a day longer?" 
 
 Morford was silent for a moment. He looked 
 at her as if measuring her strength, her power 
 of endurance. There was nothing very reassur- 
 ing in the result of this scrutiny. He said 
 roughly : 
 
 "Look here. Let me give you a word of advice. 
 You can do nothing until you have consulted a 
 priest, and I think most priests would advise you 
 to wait another year. Your impressions are still 
 very fresh and vivid, but in a year they may have 
 worn off a little other things may have arisen to 
 claim your attention, your interest. I have 
 known converts who've had to suffer frightfully 
 for their Faith people who've been turned out 
 of house and home penniless, and left to starve. 
 A man can always work and earn his bread with 
 his two hands, but you!" Again there was that 
 old glance of contempt at the very softness, the 
 luxury, of the atmosphere in which she had been 
 born and bred, unfitting her for strenuous effort 
 or great privations, yet now it seemed to her that 
 the look he gave her was not wholly unmixed 
 with a certain pity. "What could you do, Miss 
 Metcalfe? You would most certainly starve! 
 I'm not saying, of course, that your people would 
 go to that extreme. I do not know them, so I
 
 THE REST HOUSE 115 
 
 can not possibly say what they would do. I only 
 tell you that these things are possible even to 
 people who believe themselves to be good and 
 conscientious ! You might be turned out without 
 a penny. Of course there are people who are 
 strong enough to suffer even as St. Paul suf- 
 fered every imaginable privation for their 
 Faith. But you you must forgive me, Miss 
 Metcalfe, if I do most seriously doubt your ca- 
 pability of being one of them!" 
 
 He spoke with rough but passionate earnest- 
 ness, and as he uttered the last sentence he 
 looked straight into Peggy's eyes. Before that 
 glance, which was a strange mixture of pity, dis- 
 dain, and something else which she could not and 
 dared not try to define, Peggy lowered her eyes 
 to the ground. What if it all happened as he 
 said? Could any starving of the body could 
 any cold and privation suffered by the body 
 fill her with that torture of privation and nos- 
 talgia from which her soul was suffering? She 
 saw herself again in those desolate, snow-wrapped 
 surroundings, only this time Peter was not with 
 her; she was wandering astray and alone. And 
 suddenly on the hill there was a beacon-light 
 shining with vivid radiance to summon her into 
 the very presence of God. Moved by something 
 in his words and look that touched her to the 
 heart, she cried, "But I am starving now!" 
 
 There was a long silence, in which Morford 
 could not trust himself to speak. The effort to 
 control himself was so great that it made his very 
 features stern and grim. To a man severely 
 trained to self-discipline, as all Catholics are in
 
 116 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 their youth, the actual effort was no new thing 
 to him, but it had never before been put to this 
 kind of proof. The very youth and weakness of 
 Peggy, the immaturity of her, were things that 
 seemed to demand his help and sympathy. Yet 
 he dared not offer his help. In her blind striving 
 toward the goal upon which her whole heart and 
 being were set he felt that she would not even 
 have disdained the only offer of practical help he 
 could make to her. If he had asked her then and 
 there to be his wife he believed, with no touch of 
 self-complacency, that she would have accepted 
 him, simply as a means to an end. It would have 
 been a cruel taking advantage of that youth and 
 inexperience, and Morford banished the thought 
 from his mind with a bitter self -contempt that he 
 had even admitted it to temporary harborage 
 there. Poor and obscure, he saw in her the sister 
 of Lady Charsley, whom he had observed to-night 
 with curious attention as the center of a brilliant 
 little throng of worldly people. He had recog- 
 nized this with something that approached agony. 
 Yet this girl had bared her heart to him; she 
 seemed to be unconsciously but very definitely 
 appealing to him for a help and assistance he 
 could not in honor give her. He was nothing 
 to her personally; he was only the instrument 
 flung fortuitously across her path. 
 
 "Oh, I shouldn't risk the very certain things 
 you do possess for what may prove only a whim !" 
 he said with a roughness that was intended to 
 hide from her his own emotion. 
 
 "And you think it is only a whim after all I 
 have told you?" said Peggy, hurt beyond words
 
 THE REST HOUSE 117 
 
 at this recrudescence of his old unkind and scorn- 
 ful tone, that wounded her very heart. 
 
 "How can I tell? I know you so little. You 
 and your world are strangers to me! I know 
 nothing of your ideals and standards. But I can 
 see at least that you are emotional easily swayed 
 and impressed. And then you are so pitiably 
 young almost a child! Even if you risked 
 nothing by becoming a Catholic, I think almost 
 any priest would insist upon your waiting until 
 you were more sure of your own heart. Let me 
 tell you it isn't easy, this Catholic life. Some- 
 times it is very difficult, indeed. It demands hard 
 things of us perpetual self-denial, perpetual 
 submission of our own will. Sometimes we who 
 are born to its discipline have been known to 
 rebel. Its laws are harsher than the laws men 
 make for themselves. Oh, I am not denying that 
 it can give a great deal, but we are taught every 
 moment the price we have to pay if we submit to 
 its means for securing the ultimate salvation of 
 our souls." 
 
 There was a pause. In the distance the strains 
 of a fashionable, rather sentimental waltz could 
 be faintly heard. The music seemed to Peggy 
 to strike a false note ; the very pathos of it was 
 false. She threw back her head and looked stead- 
 ily at Morford. 
 
 "Oh, I am not afraid," she said proudly. "I 
 believe that I am prepared to sacrifice everything 
 for the possession of those things I learned at 
 the Rest House. I am ready to pay, although 
 you think I am so small and weak!" Although 
 she looked at him, Frederick felt that she was
 
 118 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 not now thinking of him at all; his very words 
 were hindering rather than encouraging; his 
 doubts of her powers of endurance hurt her pride, 
 but could not diminish her ardent resolve. 
 
 "I think we have been talking long enough," 
 he said; "we ought to go back to the ball-room. 
 You must have people waiting for you and I am 
 sure that I ought to be dancing with Miss 
 Dalton." 
 
 But Peggy seemed disinclined to move. 
 
 "Oh, do not let us go back yet," she said almost 
 with entreaty. "I have so much to say so many 
 things to ask you. Please please do not go 
 away yet." 
 
 The vainest of men could not have read any 
 personal preference for himself into this im- 
 pulsive speech. It forced a smile from Morford 
 a little grim smile. 
 
 "I imagined you must be wishing to go back 
 and dance," he said. 
 
 "Oh, I don't want to dance at all. I would 
 far, far rather remain here with you and talk!" 
 protested Peggy very earnestly. "Although 
 some of the things you say hurt me, it is only 
 because I am so so foolish. But you must not 
 think, please, that I am not ready to pay to 
 pay even more than you have said to possess 
 what you possess." Her voice was low and 
 troubled; all the pride it had betrayed just now 
 had gone from it; she was trembling as if with 
 some unconquerable emotion. 
 
 Ah, if he could only have given it to her! If 
 he could only dare tell her all that there was in 
 his heart of love and pity for her! But he dared
 
 THE REST HOUSE 119 
 
 not. She was the child of rich parents, and he 
 knew that he could never dare approach her thus 
 and ask her to be his wife. He would be dubbed 
 self-seeking by all the world; would inevitably 
 be condemned as a fortune-hunter who had taken 
 advantage of her youth and inexperience to win 
 her. 
 
 How could he answer her? The very sim- 
 plicity of her speech gave it a meaning that was 
 absolutely true and genuine. Words came back 
 to him then: "For I will show him how great 
 things he must suffer for My Name's sake." 
 Very few converts escape altogether that divinely 
 imposed suffering ; in his own experience all were 
 called upon in a greater or lesser degree to pay 
 that grim price for the gift of their spiritual 
 gain. And in most cases it was gladly and gen- 
 erously paid. He remembered the case of a 
 foreign infidel who soon after his conversion was 
 attacked by a painful and fatal malady, and ac- 
 cepted it as a just punishment for the sins of his 
 past life, refusing to pray for his own recovery 
 or even for a diminution of the agony it entailed. 
 But there were also weaker souls who, when the 
 time of trial came, could not face the temporary 
 loss, the poverty, the exile, the ostracism from 
 the old, beloved milieu, the sacrifice of friends and 
 fortune. And it was the fear that Peggy might 
 not have the strength to persevere in the face 
 of perhaps cruel opposition that made him now 
 stern in his very discouragement. 
 
 "You think that now," he said, "but I do not 
 suppose you have ever had to do without a single 
 thing you wanted during the whole course of
 
 120 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 your life. We could not help seeing when you 
 were with us how utterly different your circum- 
 stances were from ours. But if you are really in 
 earnest," he continued, and the old harshness in- 
 formed his voice as he spoke, "you can begin your 
 preparation now in your daily life. I am not a 
 priest and I don't profess to be devout and I 
 hardly know how to explain what I mean in- 
 deed, it isn't my place to say these things to you 
 at all. But as you have asked my advice and 
 because you seem to wish me to speak to you on 
 this subject, I can at least say this much. Begin 
 now to cultivate that interior submission to the 
 Divine Will which is the very heart and root of 
 Catholic life. Practise it in your daily life. We 
 are taught from childhood to offer the actions, 
 small and great, of each day to God in a spirit 
 of humble submission. And not only our actions 
 but our thoughts, our prayers, and our suffer- 
 ings our liberty, our memory, our understand- 
 ing, and our will all that we may have and pos- 
 sess! You can do that much at any rate. It is 
 within the power of all of us at least to make the 
 attempt. You can make yourself fit to become a 
 Catholic and you can pray to receive the Faith 
 and to become a member of His Church. You 
 must forgive me if I have said too much per- 
 haps these things mean nothing to you." 
 
 "Do not be afraid," she said gravely; "they 
 mean a great deal. I will try to do as you say. 
 I will try to remember." 
 
 There was a long silence during which both 
 figures remained curiously motionless. Frederick 
 made no second attempt to take her back to the
 
 THE REST HOUSE 121 
 
 ball-room. He imagined that whatever her en- 
 gagements might be, she must feel little in the 
 mood for dancing. As for himself, he could 
 easily make his excuses to Bridget Dalton, with 
 whom he was on friendly, almost brotherly, terms. 
 It seemed impossible to urge Peggy to go back 
 and join the rest of her party; she looked so spent 
 and exhausted. They were interrupted at last by 
 Hugh Quentin, who came hurrying toward them. 
 
 "Miss Metcalfe," he said in a cold voice, "Lady 
 Charsley has sent me to look for you. She is 
 ready to go, and is waiting for you." 
 
 The glance he bestowed upon Morford was 
 the reverse of friendly ; indeed, it was as insolent 
 as he dared to make it. 
 
 Frederick and Peggy rose simultaneously. 
 They shook hands and said good-by to each 
 other. And as she walked away, a slight, almost 
 drooping little figure by Hugh's side, Morford 
 folded his arms and watched them as if he were 
 making an effort to engrave this last memory of 
 her forever upon his mind. He was aware that 
 there had been something almost openly hostile 
 in Hugh's manner as he bowed stiffly to him in 
 farewell. It seemed to him an expression that 
 might be symbolic of all Peggy's world toward 
 himself and all that he stood for. He felt in that 
 moment as if he were parting from her for ever, 
 and the thought held for him all the anguish of 
 sharp physical suffering. 
 
 "My dear Peggy! Where on earth have you 
 been ?" Beatrice's manner was irritable from sheer 
 anxiety; she did not even try to control it,
 
 122 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 although Lady Philippa was standing there and 
 could hear every word she said. Lady Trow- 
 haven and her daughter were also present, but 
 they were so busy putting on their cloaks that 
 they seemed to have no attention for anything 
 else. 
 
 "Did you have any supper?" inquired Beatrice, 
 as her sister did not speak, but stood looking at 
 her in a confused and bewildered way. 
 
 Peggy had not given a thought to supper. She 
 had not been aware that her sister never stayed 
 late at a dance. Beatrice considered three hours 
 quite sufficient for any one, and if the men of 
 the party wished to remain longer, they could 
 always do so and a motor was left at their dis- 
 posal. 
 
 "No but I didn't want any," said Peggy, 
 looking at her sister with strangely shining eyes. 
 She took her white fur coat from the hands of 
 the attendant. "I am tired, Beatrice. I shall 
 be glad to go." 
 
 "I only saw you dancing, twice quite early in 
 the evening. But it can not be true what Hugh 
 suggested to me that you were still with this 
 Mr. Morford when he went to look for you?" said 
 Beatrice in an undertone that held no little 
 anger. 
 
 Peggy had eluded her vigilance; she had 
 slipped away without a word, accomplishing ex- 
 actly all that they had intended to avoid for 
 her. Beatrice was perfectly aware that Mr. Mor- 
 ford was the hero of that Somersetshire escapade. 
 She dreaded his influence upon Peggy. 
 
 "Yes; I was with him. I am sorry, Beatrice.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 123 
 
 I did not know how late it was or that we had 
 been sitting there such a long time." 
 
 It seemed to her that she had only spent a few 
 minutes in the company of Frederick Morford; 
 she had not asked him one-tenth of the things she 
 had wished to. 
 
 "It is very bad form to sit out the whole even- 
 ing like that. You ought to have known better, 
 Peggy. Of course, one can not expect any deli- 
 cacy of understanding from such men as that; 
 but he should have known better than to make 
 you so conspicuous!" 
 
 The implied insult in her speech made Peggy 
 flush with a momentary sensation of anger. But 
 it passed and she said very quietly: "He did wish 
 to take me back to the ball-room, but I begged 
 him to remain." 
 
 "You begged him to remain?" cried Beatrice. 
 Her other guests had gone into the entrance-hall 
 and were waiting for her there, thinking she had 
 something of importance to say to Peggy. "It 
 is not possible, Peggy, that you could have flung 
 yourself at his head like that!" 
 
 Peggy colored all over her face and neck. 
 Beatrice's words were dreadful, and it seemed to 
 her almost as if the touch of a soiling hand had 
 actually smirched her. 
 
 "Oh, Beatrice!" she said. "Mr. Morford 
 would never think a thing like that of me. He 
 knows so well why I wanted to speak to him 
 why I wanted to remain there instead of 
 dancing!" 
 
 Beatrice's hard words had wrung this timid 
 confession from her. Peggy felt she would rather
 
 124 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 that her sister should know the real truth than 
 that she should put such a false interpretation 
 upon her action. 
 
 Beatrice bestowed upon her a searching glance. 
 It seemed to her that Peggy was changed this 
 evening; she looked so vivid and alive she who 
 was generally so quiet and colorless. And she 
 was almost beautiful with that delicate flush still 
 lingering in her face and her eyes as bright as 
 lamps. She showed traces of excitement and of 
 emotion. Was she could she be in love with 
 this man? Were her leanings toward Catholi- 
 cism inspired by an incipient and utterly unde- 
 sirable love-affair? If so, the sooner her engage- 
 ment to Hugh Quentin was announced the better ! 
 Beatrice moved toward the door. 
 
 When they were all in the motor, traveling 
 home at top speed, Beatrice said in a disapprov- 
 ing voice: 
 
 "I couldn't persuade Violet Hawthorn- to 
 come !" 
 
 "Oh, Rollo'll look after her," said Hugh, who 
 had sulkily announced his intention of accom- 
 panying them home. His evening had been thor- 
 oughly spoiled and he was quite out of temper. 
 
 "It is a great pity that she mil get herself 
 talked about," said Lady Trowhaven, censo- 
 riously, glancing at her daughter to see if the 
 censure had penetrated to that meek blonde head. 
 
 "People will only think they're really engaged 
 at last," said Hugh. 
 
 Peggy sat silently on a small seat beside him. 
 All through the drive home she did not once 
 speak. Beatrice's words had aroused within her
 
 THE REST HOUSE 125 
 
 a strange excitement that expressed itself in the 
 hard beating of her heart, the trembling of her 
 limbs. Only she was not thinking now of Bea- 
 trice nor of her displeasure; her thoughts were 
 entirely concentrated upon that conversation with 
 Frederick Morford. It had been, as she knew, 
 hardly purchased. Beatrice's suspicions were 
 aroused and she would certainly relate the episode 
 to Lady Metcalfe.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 PEGGY passed a restless and almost sleepless 
 night, and she did not know whether she felt 
 happy or the reverse in those hours she spent 
 lying awake. Her brain was so active that she 
 almost felt as if something were moving about in- 
 side her head, confusing her thoughts. It never 
 occurred to her to analyze her own feeling for 
 Morford nor to ask herself why this sudden ap- 
 pearance had evoked within her a feeling of fear 
 as well as of joy. Apart from his Faith and 
 indeed apart from that he hardly mattered to 
 her at all she was not even sure that she liked 
 him. He was not gentle and agreeable and suave 
 of speech like Hugh Quentin. There was some- 
 thing harsh and dominating about him, some- 
 thing fiercely scornful. Always he suggested 
 that disdainful contempt of weakness. If Peggy 
 had examined her own heart, as an older woman 
 would probably have done, she would perhaps 
 have discovered something of the truth. The 
 man was dangerously fascinating because he 
 could attract even when he most repelled. Peggy, 
 looking upon him only in his capacity as a 
 teacher, was conscious of that rough mastery that 
 held her like a vise, and made her obedient, timid, 
 and submissive to a point that astonished her- 
 self. But with it all there had been something 
 in his manner to-night that repudiated all per- 
 sonal responsibility in the affairs of her soul, a 
 rejection of any participation in it that was tan- 
 tamount to a refusal to be mixed up in the matter 
 
 126
 
 THE REST HOUSE 127 
 
 of her possible conversion. It was this attitude 
 that had wounded Peggy. He had spoken to her 
 as if he were doing so only at her request but 
 against his own will and against his better judg- 
 ment. And she she felt that he had in some 
 sense been sent to help her, and it wounded her 
 to feel that he rejected any responsibility in the 
 matter. And he had shown so plainly through all 
 his speech that he did not believe her capable 
 of any sacrifice, of any forfeiting of the purple 
 and fine linen of her present soft life. She was 
 made in his eyes for ease and calm, not for strife 
 and storms. 
 
 Peggy, as she lay in bed, feeling little inclined 
 for the toast, butter and marmalade and steaming 
 hot coffee that had been brought up to her on a 
 tray, could not help feeling that she was in dis- 
 grace with Beatrice. Those few words that had 
 passed between them last night had shown her 
 that Beatrice had felt ashamed at her conduct. 
 And Hugh was angry and perhaps a little jealous 
 that she had not danced with him again, although 
 she had promised to do so. 
 
 Perhaps Beatrice would send her home in dis- 
 grace. While she remained at Lavender there 
 was always a chance that she might see Morford 
 again. The future looked very dark. Peggy 
 felt that it would be less of a trial to be a martyr 
 than to be treated as a naughty, rebellious child ; 
 and it was in the latter guise she would certainly 
 have to appear before the ultimate domestic 
 tribunal at Mildon if Beatrice sent her home. 
 Then there would perhaps be that threatened in- 
 terview with her father a course that had all
 
 128 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 her life been adopted when it was found neces- 
 sary to bring Peggy to reason. Sir John had 
 always left the management of his daughters to 
 his wife unless she called upon him for assist- 
 ance, and except in Peggy's case she had never 
 done this. His measures, if drastic, had been suc- 
 cessful and had contributed sensibly to the sub- 
 dual of Peggy when she was a little child, and 
 the fear of him, inherited from those days, had 
 never left her. 
 
 Peggy drank some coffee; she hoped that it 
 would steady her nerves. She was certainly over- 
 tired as a result of last night's dissipation, and 
 consequently she was unnerved and inclined to 
 look upon the dark side of things. Suddenly a 
 knock at the door caused her to set down her 
 cup with a startled, guilty air; she said, "Come 
 in," and the door opened to admit Lady Philippa. 
 
 Lady Philippa had rooms not far from Peggy's 
 own and she had come to her as yet not fully 
 dressed, for she wore a dainty wrapper of pale 
 pink silk and her hair was carelessly arranged 
 under a little cap of pink silk and lace with a 
 diminutive wreath of roses. She looked amaz- 
 ingly pretty, and as fresh and rosy as a baby 
 newly emerged from slumber. 
 
 "My dear child," she said as she came across 
 the room to Peggy's bedside, "you quite alarmed 
 me last night." 
 
 "Did I?" said Peggy. She did not feel in- 
 clined to discuss last night's happenings in an 
 intimate way with Lady Philippa; she was not 
 sure how far she could trust her not to tell Bea- 
 trice.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 129 
 
 "Beatrice was awfully put out. You weren't 
 very discreet, you know. I hope there's no secret 
 understanding between you and Frederick Mor- 
 ford?" 
 
 "Oh, Lady Philippa; what do you mean? Of 
 course there isn't! Why, I hardly know him 
 we are almost strangers." Her eyes filled with 
 tears at this fresh evidence of misinterpretation 
 and misunderstanding of her interview with Mor- 
 ford. 
 
 But her scarlet, confused face only aroused 
 Lady Philippa's suspicions anew. 
 
 "Is he trying to persuade you to become a 
 Catholic? But I'm sure I needn't ask you that. 
 Frederick is very prudent and you are so young. 
 He is quite well aware what people would say if 
 he attempted to do such a thing!" 
 
 "I was asking him about it," said Peggy in a 
 low voice. "You see, he knows everything 
 everything. He has been a Catholic all his life. 
 I was only making the most of my opportunity 
 of talking to him perhaps I shall never have 
 another! I am sure that he does not want me to 
 be a Catholic he thinks I am not strong enough 
 to persevere." 
 
 "He can not have fallen in love with you?" said 
 Philippa, looking so hard at the lovely, childish 
 little face with its dark framing hair that it 
 brought a fresh crop of blushes to the pale cheeks. 
 "He could not be such a fool as that when he has 
 not got a penny piece! They are most awfully 
 hard up Ally Dalton says they really have not 
 always enough to eat, and his sister works harder 
 than a servant. Your father would never allow
 
 130 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 it apart from the religious difficulty. You must 
 not let yourself think about Frederick!" 
 
 "I am not thinking of him like that," said 
 Peggy miserably ; "I know how poor they are and 
 that he had to leave the army, and perhaps that 
 has made him harsh and embittered. And of 
 course he is not in love with me. I do not think 
 he likes me at all. He has only seen me twice and 
 he speaks to me as if I were a child. Not even 
 kindly, but harshly and roughly! He is not at 
 all kind and agreeable as Peter's friends gen- 
 erally are. but he knows he can teach me. And 
 I want to learn." 
 
 She sat up in bed, clasping her hands to- 
 gether. In the thin, cobwebby nightdress cut low 
 at the throat and short-sleeved she looked more 
 than ever like a child. 
 
 "And so he is against your becoming a Cath- 
 olic?" said Lady Philippa. 
 
 "Yes, as far as I can tell. He says almost any 
 priest would make me wait, and that it is hard 
 and difficult and that the convert always has to 
 pay. He thinks I am too weak that I should 
 not persevere." 
 
 Although she was a devout Catholic, Lady 
 Philippa was a thorough woman of the world, 
 and she wondered a little how Peggy Metcalfe 
 had managed to arrive at the age of twenty and 
 possess so little experience of the world and of 
 men. She seemed unaware that it could be pos- 
 sible for any other interpretation to be placed 
 upon her very prolonged interview with Fred- 
 erick Morford last night. They had disappeared 
 from the ball-room for a couple of hours, a thing
 
 THE REST HOUSE 131 
 
 which people do not generally do unless they 
 are at any rate deeply interested in each other. 
 Peggy must have known that her other partners 
 were waiting for her and perhaps wondering 
 where she was, but it had not even occurred to 
 her that she was exciting remark or stimulating 
 criticism. 
 
 "I think, my dear," Philippa said lightly, "that 
 it would perhaps be more discreet if you were to 
 sit at the feet of a female Gamaliel in the future. 
 A woman will be able to teach you all you wish 
 to know on the subject of religion quite as well 
 as Frederick Morford. I have never heard that 
 he was an exceptionally devout man, and you 
 must forgive me if I think you have at least mis- 
 interpreted his view of the situation !" 
 
 Beatrice had spoken rather openly to Philippa 
 about Peggy last night and had set her on her 
 guard. Peggy, she averred, was full of whims 
 and fancies, was inclined to be nervous and hys- 
 terical, and had always been rebellious against 
 authority. Peggy's bad "nursery -character" had 
 stuck to her like a gigantic burr. 
 
 "You are very young, you know," continued 
 Philippa Sacheverell, "and, although you may 
 not be aware of it, you are letting this man in- 
 fluence you. He has a powerful personality, and 
 of course you are a baby in his hands. I advise 
 you to be more careful in the future. You can 
 not play with a man like Frederick Morford 
 you will only burn your own fingers and wake 
 up one day to find that you are hopelessly in 
 love with him!" 
 
 Peggy was just about to make an indignant
 
 132 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 rejoinder when the door opened and Beatrice 
 came into the room accompanied by her two elder 
 children. She held one by each hand and ad- 
 vanced toward the bed smiling 1 and looking very 
 happy and contented. Beatrice was always seen 
 at her best with her children; she was passion- 
 ately attached to them and was never so happy 
 as when there was a new baby to demand her 
 care. It was undoubtedly this maternal quality 
 which had made her marriage such a success. 
 Her pride in her children was almost arrogant. 
 
 She stooped down and kissed Peggy and then 
 Ethne and Jack followed their mother's example. 
 
 "Dood morning, Auntie Peggy," they both 
 said in chorus. 
 
 "Peggy, I'm going to be a hard-hearted sister 
 and send you home to-day. Diana's coming and 
 I want her to have these rooms," said Lady 
 Charsley. 
 
 She had had a long talk with her husband and 
 he had agreed with her that if there was to be any 
 trouble about Peggy and the violent fancy she 
 had taken for that queer-looking man, it was 
 better that the venue of it should be else- 
 where than at Lavender. He at least did not 
 wish to incur any blame from Sir John, whose 
 behavior as a father-in-law was all that the most 
 extravagant and impecunious son-in-law could 
 desire ! 
 
 "Very well, Beatrice," said Peggy. 
 
 Lady Philippa, thinking the sisters had some- 
 thing more to say to each other, discreetly left the 
 room, bestowing a parting nod and smile upon 
 poor Peggy.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 133 
 
 "What time do you want me to go?" asked 
 Peggy with a lump in her throat. 
 
 "Directly after luncheon. Hugh's going then 
 and you can travel by the same train. It'll be 
 more convenient, as the car can wait at the station 
 for Diana." 
 
 Beatrice spoke in a tone of authority and de- 
 cision; she looked this morning a thoroughly 
 capable and competent young matron. 
 
 "Why is Auntie Peggy going away?" inquired 
 Ethne. "Has she been naughty?" She detected 
 with the unerring instinct of childhood that there 
 was displeasure in her mother's tone and that 
 for some mysterious reason she was "cross with 
 Auntie Peggy." And in Ethne's limited experi- 
 ence people were only cross with you when you 
 had been naughty. "What's oo done, Auntie 
 Peggy?" she further inquired, as no answer 
 seemed to be immediately forthcoming. 
 
 "I am sorry I can't undertake the responsi- 
 bility of you any more," said Beatrice, in a light, 
 cutting tone; "you know there are two or three 
 dances still to come and I had meant to take you 
 to them all. But I see it would never do. It 
 is not my place to say anything to you about 
 last night; but I'm older than you, Peggy, and 
 I'm married and have had more experience. You 
 did behave outrageously last night. I don't know 
 anything about this Morford man, but if you 
 fall into the clutches of any fortune-hunter while 
 you are under my care, mother will never forgive 
 me. She gave me such strict injunctions about 
 you and I have the feeling that you have delib- 
 erately defied me. I'm quite sure religion hasn't
 
 134 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 anything to do with it. Religion says we are to 
 honor and obey our parents. If you say you 
 want to be a Roman Catholic we shall all know 
 it's because you want to show us how rebellious 
 and undutiful you can be!" 
 
 "Mummy, why's oo scolding Auntie Peggy?" 
 inquired Ethne with shrill persistence. Little 
 Jack, however, hung his head and looked as if he 
 were about to cry. He always cried if Ethne 
 wer6 scolded ; he was so sorry for her. 
 
 "Is oo going to whip Auntie Peggy?" asked 
 Ethne, who had been occasionally informed as a 
 deterrent that very naughty and disobedient girls 
 were sometimes called upon to endure this pain- 
 ful punishment. 
 
 "Run away to nurse, darling, and take Jack 
 with you," said Beatrice. 
 
 When the children had gone Peggy lost con- 
 trol of herself and began to cry. She felt tired 
 and miserable and she dreaded the thought of 
 returning home. She would be in dire disgrace 
 when Lady Metcalfe learned the reason of her 
 premature departure from Lavender. There 
 would be a scene, and Peggy hated and feared 
 scenes. 
 
 "I have wired to mother that you are coming 
 and I have written a long letter besides," said 
 Beatrice. 
 
 "How cruel you are, Beatrice!" sobbed Peggy. 
 
 "I am acting only for your good. You are 
 very young and very foolish. You must be saved 
 from yourself. Look facts in the face, Peggy. 
 You would never be allowed to marry this man, 
 apart from the fact of his being a Roman Cath-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 135 
 
 olic, which is like a red rag to a bull to father. 
 The sooner you give up thinking of him the 
 better. In any case I do not mean to run any 
 risks you shall not have the chance of meeting 
 him again while you are under my roof." 
 
 When Beatrice had left her alone Peggy lay 
 back on the pillow and her tears flowed unre- 
 strained. She was too tired and too wretched to 
 attempt to control them and her sobs became 
 every moment louder and more violent. At last, 
 realizing that her maid would soon want to come 
 and pack, she rose and sponged her face with cold 
 water and put eau-de-cologne on her swollen eye- 
 lids. It made them smart and sting, but it did not 
 improve their disfigured appearance. By the 
 time Peggy was dressed she perceived that she 
 was still quite unpresentable and that she could 
 not possibly appear downstairs at luncheon. This 
 would annoy Beatrice, who probably would 
 not wish her guests to know that there was 
 anything sudden or unusual about Peggy's de- 
 parture. 
 
 Peggy had her luncheon in her room, and when 
 Beatrice came up to see her she felt a little sorry 
 for her and wished that she had kept her in bed 
 instead of sending her home. It was a long jour- 
 ney and the day was very cold, and Peggy looked 
 unfit to bear any unusual fatigue. The girl really 
 looked quite ill, and her face, though now calm, 
 still bore the traces of that violent weeping. 
 However, there was only time for her to take a 
 very hurried farewell of her fellow-guests as she 
 passed through the hall, and some of them were 
 not even there to witness her departure. Only
 
 136 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Philippa Sacheverell came up and kissed her 
 kindly and whispered, "Cheer up, my dear, we've 
 all had to go through these things !" And Henry 
 Sacheverell shook her hand and bade her adieu 
 in his grave, courtly way. 
 
 Hugh sat outside with the chauffeur and 
 Peggy sat inside the car with her maid. It 
 seemed a very long way to the station, yet she felt 
 sorry when they arrived, and positively dreaded 
 lest Hugh Quentin should insist upon traveling 
 with her. She so wanted to be alone to think out 
 things a little. 
 
 She was standing on the platform when Hugh 
 came up to her. Her maid had gone to see after 
 the luggage and Peggy was alone. But he only 
 asked her if she wanted anything to read, and 
 then went off to the book-stall to buy some papers 
 for himself. Peggy felt embarrassed at seeing 
 him thus again. She had been so crushed by 
 Beatrice, who had somehow made her feel 
 that she had behaved in an outrageous and 
 unladylike way that she felt she could hardly 
 hold up her head and meet his eyes. She was 
 ashamed because her own action had been so mis- 
 construed. Her pleasure in seeing Morford 
 again had been so completely misinterpreted by 
 Beatrice and Hugh and even by Lady Philippa, 
 who ought at least to have understood. And 
 even Morford had not been very kind. He had 
 snubbed her, scorned her, tried in every way to 
 discourage her and dimmish her enthusiasm. 
 There had been no comfort anywhere, and she 
 was being sent home in disgrace, just like an 
 unmanageable child. The worst of it all was that
 
 THE REST HOUSE 137 
 
 she had a secret dread that Morford had also 
 misread that emotion which his sudden appear- 
 ance had evoked. 
 
 As the train came in Hugh approached her 
 again with a stern, unsmiling face. He opened 
 the door of a first-class carriage and helped 
 Peggy into it. Her maid followed with her bag 
 and rug. Silently Hugh helped to install her, 
 and his solicitude for her comfort, despite his evi- 
 dent displeasure, touched her a little and made 
 her feel grateful to him. Then he raised his hat 
 and walked away down the corridor. Obviously 
 he had no intention of traveling with her. She 
 saw nothing more of him until they reached Lon- 
 don, when in the same speechless way he saw her 
 into a taxi and waited while her luggage was 
 being brought. 
 
 Then he said: "Good-by, Miss Metcalfe. Say 
 all sorts of things to Peter for me, please," but 
 he did not smile at all and took her hand for a 
 second, only to drop it abruptly. His eyes 
 softened involuntarily, however, as he looked at 
 her. What had happened to make the girl look 
 so wan and white to-day? Last night she had 
 seemed to him such a radiant, vivid, almost 
 troubling vision, utterly out of his reach. To- 
 day she resembled a sad child pleading inarticu- 
 lately to be comforted. What had this strange 
 man said to her? Were they in love with each 
 other with that swift, sudden love which some- 
 times springs up between two people of widely 
 different upbringing and position, as if to verify 
 the old belief that Love is a god, recking nothing 
 of worldly standards? He knew enough of the
 
 138 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Metcalfes to know they would never for a mo- 
 ment tolerate such a match as that for one of 
 their daughters. 
 
 "Good-by," said Peggy, holding out a little 
 listless hand. Even through her glove the touch 
 of it chilled him.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 LADY METCALFE was not without the wisdom 
 which the placid of this world possess. She 
 always avoided anything disagreeable in the 
 shape of a scene if she could. So, although she 
 was astonished at Beatrice's telegram announc- 
 ing Peggy's return and felt sure that something 
 really grave must have happened to necessitate 
 such sharp and swift measures, she made no com- 
 ment upon it whatever when she saw her daugh- 
 ter. But she took away the letter which was 
 presented to her by the maid and proceeded to 
 her own room to read it in private. 
 
 Her curiosity was thoroughly stimulated, and 
 the only interpretation she had been able to place 
 upon the untoward incident was the fear that 
 Hugh might have been a little premature in the 
 disclosure of his intentions, and had already 
 asked Peggy to be his wife and that she had 
 refused him which was unfortunately only too 
 probable. But in this case it was surely Hugh 
 who should have left Lavender, not Peggy. 
 
 Beatrice's letter, however, threw a very abun- 
 dant and detailed light upon the situation. It 
 gave a singularly full and exact account of all 
 that had happened at the Hunt Ball, and of the 
 unexpected as well as unfortunate appearance of 
 Morford among Mrs. Dalton's guests. "She 
 always has Noah's Ark parties," wrote Beatrice, 
 "but I never remember to have seen quite such a 
 menagerie before. If it were not for Ally, who 
 
 139
 
 140 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 is a good sort, I really think I should drop the 
 woman's acquaintance." Beatrice went on to 
 say that she believed Peggy had fallen in love 
 with Morford during her visit to the Rest House. 
 He was a very rough diamond indeed suppos- 
 ing that he were a diamond at all, which Beatrice 
 plainly doubted a boor of a man, slovenly in 
 appearance, but not bad looking in a great, dark 
 way. His people were extremely poor Philly 
 Sacheverell, who had heard a good deal about 
 them from the Daltons, said they sometimes 
 even hadn't enough to eat. He and Ally Dalton 
 were said to be intimate friends, and Mrs. Dal- 
 ton had told Philly that she liked him very much ; 
 he had borne so many trials with such perfect 
 fortitude. Beatrice added by way of parenthe- 
 sis, "I have often observed that Roman Catholics 
 who are so opposed to Socialism are often far 
 more democratic at heart than we are. It is 
 often enough just to be a Catholic to obtain ad- 
 mittance to their most exclusive circles." She 
 went on to describe Peggy's prolonged disap- 
 pearance in the company of Morford, and 
 Hugh's ill-concealed annoyance and jealousy. 
 "Of course she may be for all we know a thor- 
 ough-paced little flirt, and have done it only to 
 lead Hugh on by tormenting him and arousing 
 his jealousy. But when a man sees a girl carry- 
 ing on with a nobody it is much more likely to 
 disgust and drive him away altogether. Hugh 
 spoke to me very plainly about Peggy before 
 the ball and he admitted that he was in love with 
 her, but he feared that she was too much of a 
 child at present to know her own heart. Now I
 
 THE REST HOUSE 141 
 
 am afraid that she has deliberately destroyed that 
 impression (which I did my best to encourage) 
 by her very silly behavior. She went as white as 
 a sheet when Morford came up to her. She 
 looked positively agitated! It is a thousand 
 pities that such a silly, impressionable girl as 
 Peggy should have been snowed up in that mis- 
 erable farm-house." 
 
 Yes, it was a thousand pities, but it was too 
 late to undo it now. The question was how to 
 remove, efface, obliterate the unfortunate im- 
 pressions there engraved upon Peggy's plastic 
 mind. To be severe with obstinate persons often 
 had the undesired effect of making them cling 
 with even greater determination to the error of 
 their ways. After an hour's reflection Lady 
 Metcalfe resolved to be tactful and silent, and 
 conceal her displeasure from Peggy. She was 
 even inclined to think that Beatrice had behaved 
 in rather a high-handed way by sending Peggy 
 home, and washing her hands so to speak of 
 her. But she felt that it was not at all the mo- 
 ment to scold Peggy. It might even do more 
 harm than good. Girls were so apt to consider 
 themselves ill-used when their wise elders stepped 
 in to nip an incipient love affair in the bud. Be- 
 sides, it was almost a relief to her to know that 
 Beatrice's view held the consoling belief that 
 Peggy was much less attracted to the religion 
 itself than to the man who had probably used 
 all his influence to set it before her in an attractive 
 light. For, knowing nothing herself of Mor- 
 ford, she had really imagined that when Peggy 
 first returned from the Rest House it was the
 
 142 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Roman Catholic religion and that alone which 
 had so powerfully fascinated her. It was a re- 
 ligion that did sometimes make this kind of in- 
 stant and violent appeal to the young, suscep- 
 tible, and emotional mind ; and she was genuinely 
 afraid that this had been its effect upon Peggy. 
 But that there should be a young man concerned 
 in the affair a young man, too, who was capable 
 of producing a visible emotion in Peggy that 
 was quite another matter, and placed things at 
 once on a more normal, easy-to-deal-with basis. 
 It was indeed a case with which Lady Metcalfe 
 from past experience felt perfectly competent to 
 cope. Had she not dealt skilfully and most suc- 
 cessfully as she now proudly reflected with 
 the affair of her second daughter Beatrice? And 
 who could possibly be more grateful, more ap- 
 preciative of that timely interference than Bea- 
 trice herself after six years of happy marriage? 
 This thought came into Lady Metcalfe's mind 
 with an almost sentimental self -approbation. It 
 is true that Beatrice's young and ardent lover had 
 not been an obscure, ineligible Catholic nobody 
 like this Morford. He had been boyishly young 
 and not at all well off according to Metcalfe 
 standards, but he had been of excellent birth 
 and extraordinarily handsome and agreeable. 
 His mother, too, had spoken with tactless con- 
 tempt of the Metcalfes, and this had reached 
 Lady Metcalfe's ears. Mrs. Vernon had ac- 
 tually (and most strangely) objected to a match 
 between her only son and Beatrice, although the 
 latter's money would have paid off all the mort- 
 gages on the property and given the young couple
 
 THE REST HOUSE 143 
 
 something substantial in hand. Sir John had 
 never pined to pay off the mortgages on the 
 Vernon property, and besides Lord Charsley had 
 already made his intentions very clear to him. 
 The admirable parents had not been without 
 misgiving and anxiety about Beatrice herself. 
 They knew she was in love with Claude and that 
 heedless of mortgages or settlements, the pair 
 had plighted their troth to each other. Nothing 
 was said, but a silent, subtle, and relentless pres- 
 sure had been applied to poor Beatrice. Young 
 Claude Vernon had been sent away abroad as an 
 unpaid attache to a distant embassy, and Bea- 
 trice was not allowed to communicate with him. 
 At the end of two months the brilliant double 
 wedding took place. 
 
 The general who has once been successful in 
 bringing off a decisive victory in the face of con- 
 siderable odds has less fear of defeat in the 
 future. It was so with Lady Metcalfe. She 
 braced her mind to the task. It may be believed 
 that she felt a certain pleasurable excitement in 
 the prospect of the conflict. She had out- 
 maneuvred Love in the case of Beatrice, and she 
 felt able if not eager to deal in precisely the same 
 way with Peggy. History repeats itself, espe- 
 cially in families where possibly the same pre- 
 dispositions may not improbably be manifested 
 by the various members. But in any case it 
 would be far easier to deal with this affair of 
 Peggy's, for Morford was not a near neighbor, 
 as Claude had been. Claude had been, so to 
 speak, a present and imminent danger, but Mor- 
 ford lived far away in the heart of Somersetshire
 
 144 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 in a wretched ramshackle old farmhouse miles 
 from anywhere. He was somebody's agent. 
 Beatrice had contrived to amas a surprising 
 amount of information about the young man, for 
 she had questioned Lady Philippa very closely 
 on the subject. 
 
 There was, therefore, only one plan to be pur- 
 sued, to treat the whole affair with silent con- 
 tempt and to keep a vigilant eye upon Peggy 
 herself. Time and parting would surely efface 
 what was on the face of it so undesirable. After 
 all, the girl was only twenty, and after a few 
 months of the kind of pressure that had been 
 applied so successfully to Beatrice there was no 
 doubt that Peggy would marry Hugh without 
 demur. Lady Metcalfe prided herself upon the 
 fact that her "dear girls," as she called them, 
 made such excellent wives and mothers; and 
 although Peggy had shown herself hitherto so 
 deplorably different, there was no doubt that in 
 the end she would conform to the high standard 
 of social and domestic success set before her by 
 her two sisters. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe also decided that the affair 
 should not be mentioned to Sir John. He was 
 worried about Peter, who, though fairly diligent, 
 was showing less aptitude for business than he 
 could have imagined possible. Already there 
 had been one or two angry scenes between father 
 and son. It would not be wise to give Sir John 
 any further reason for annoyance. And he had 
 a singularly violent prejudice against Catholics 
 the more violent, perhaps, because he had him- 
 self been brought up as a Wesleyan. These
 
 THE REST HOUSE 145 
 
 prejudices could hardly be ascribed to his own 
 fault, for his father had held them and had 
 inculcated them into him at an early age. Lady 
 Metcalfe by no means shared the violence of his 
 views, but she liad no Catholics among her ac- 
 quaintance and regarded them rather as a race 
 apart who perhaps deserved pity for their blind- 
 ness and ignorance. If they could only have a 
 single glimpse, she felt, of the Protestant re- 
 ligion it would surely suffice to make them re- 
 nounce the dangerous superstitions of their own 
 errors. Only it was so difficult to give them that 
 glimpse they were so hedged in by the bitter 
 implacability of the priests, who ruled their lives 
 with such remorseless and ceaseless vigilance! 
 
 Knowing exactly her husband's views on this 
 important subject, she made no mention of the 
 episode to him. To mention Morford one must 
 necessarily make mention also of his religion, 
 which would at once and inevitably arouse Sir 
 John's anger. It would make things hard for 
 Peggy at this stage, when probably she was feel- 
 ing a little sore at heart at this arbitrary termi- 
 nation of the affair. Violent opposition and 
 sharp coercive measures had never been success- 
 ful in conquering Peggy's tacit obstinacy, even 
 when she was a child, and they had been em- 
 ployed by no means infrequently. One forced 
 her into submission, but one felt all the time that 
 that fine spirit of hers was unconquered and ready 
 at the first opportunity to reassert itself. Peggy 
 must not be made to feel that every one was 
 against her. It might only awaken a morbid 
 sense of being misunderstood and thwarted.
 
 146 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Time and a silent, loving surveillance herein 
 lay Lady Metcalfe's best equipment for the little 
 struggle that lay in front of her. It would end, 
 she felt confident, in a second triumph scarcely 
 less brilliant and permanent than that achieved 
 in the case of Beatrice. 
 
 "I am quite sorry that you met this Mr. Mor- 
 ford again," she said to Peggy in the drawing- 
 room that evening. "He seems a rather dreadful 
 person from Beatrice's description." 
 
 "I do not find him dreadful," said Peggy, 
 steadying her voice. "Of course he is not like 
 the men who come here. He is poor arid his 
 clothes are shabby. He can not help that." 
 
 Lady Metcalfe thought it wiser not to pursue 
 the subject. 
 
 Presently Peggy looked up from her work and 
 said: 
 
 "I do not see what right Beatrice has to de- 
 spise him. He was staying with the Daltons, 
 and the Daltons are friends of hers. And he 
 knew Lady Philippa Sacheverell I saw them 
 dancing together." 
 
 Her face flushed a little with indignation. 
 
 "Beatrice knows my wishes so perfectly, dear 
 Peggy," said Lady Metcalfe in her placid way, 
 "and I can trust her so perfectly not to let you 
 be carried away by any unwise youthful en- 
 thusiasm. She was quite right to send you 
 out of harm's way from any recurrence of 
 this man's unwelcome attentions. He ought 
 to have seen how very young and inexperi- 
 enced you were, and not taken advantage of these 
 things to render you so conspicuous. I am not
 
 THE REST HOUSE 147 
 
 going to say any more about it now, Peggy 
 dear. You have had your lesson and I dare say 
 you are feeling a little sore about it. It is all 
 over now and you must look upon the chapter 
 as quite closed. I advise you not to think about 
 it any more. It was unfortunate that the ad- 
 venture should have happened to you, for you 
 have never had the same poise as dear Diana and 
 Beatrice. But it is all over and you are never 
 likely to see these odd people again." She spoke 
 in a brisk, bright tone that was intended to brace. 
 But Peggy only went on with her work in 
 silence. She was wondering if it were quite true 
 that she would never be allowed to see Morford 
 again. There were so many things she still 
 wished to ask him, and although he was rough 
 and harsh and even impatient with her, his ex- 
 planations, when he did give them, were clear 
 and sank deeply and permanently into her mem- 
 ory. Yes, even when he had set down those hard 
 rules for her daily life she had accepted them as 
 part of the teaching he was able to give. She 
 realized perfectly that these were not individual 
 opinions, the views of one particular man; they 
 all formed part of that system to which Mor- 
 ford belonged and in conformity to which he 
 had been educated and trained. The man did 
 not count at all, and Peggy wondered why Bea- 
 trice should be so eager to denigrate him. It 
 was what he had to say and teach that mat- 
 tered so much. He was the messenger sent to 
 show her how best to become a Catholic. Surely 
 some day he would come back and help to finish 
 the work he had begun.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 UNKNOWN to his wife, Sir John Metcalfe's 
 mind had been greatly preoccupied of late 
 with thoughts and plans for the future of his 
 youngest daughter. 
 
 All his other children were now provided for 
 and installed, so to speak, in their respective voca- 
 tions. Peter was employed at the office, and 
 though he showed no aptitude at all for the work, 
 he was diligent and persevering. Vivian was in 
 a cavalry regiment in India, where he was rap- 
 idly becoming renowned as a polo player. lie 
 was gay and handsome and popular perhaps, 
 indeed, he was the handsomest of the Metcalfe 
 children but his extravagance was appalling, 
 and in this respect he showed no sign of amend- 
 ment. There really only remained Peggy to be 
 considered. One day he counted up the years 
 that had elapsed since this, their last child, was 
 born, and he discovered with some dismay that 
 they amounted to twenty. Diana was just 
 twenty when she married, but she had been en- 
 gaged for nearly a year to Lord Maddinard be- 
 cause his father preferred that he should wait 
 to marry till he came of age. Beatrice was only 
 nineteen, but her husband was well on in his 
 thirties. There had been no need for them to wait ; 
 indeed, there had been every reason why the mar- 
 riage should take place without delay. But so far 
 no suitor for Peggy had presented himself. Sir 
 John mentally reviewed the neighborhood of 
 
 148
 
 THE REST HOUSE 149 
 
 Mildon, but he could find no one at all suitable. 
 The same survey was then applied to Peter's 
 friends who sometimes stayed at Mildon, but 
 he felt that even among these there was no one 
 of sufficient consequence. He wondered why his 
 wife had been so dilatory in the matter, for it was 
 high time that Peggy should marry. 
 
 Sir John was fond of Peggy fonder perhaps 
 than his wife was. It seemed only the other 
 day that Lady Metcalfe had called her trouble- 
 some, and had brought her down to him for cor- 
 rection. She was the only one of the girls who 
 had ever been brought to him for punishment, 
 and he imagined that Peggy must have been 
 flagrantly naughty to induce his wife to adopt 
 this unusual course. She was no longer trouble- 
 some at least as far as Sir John knew, for he 
 had been told nothing of the Morf ord affair. She 
 seemed to be a sweet, docile girl, silent, more 
 serious than her sisters had been, but gentle in 
 her ways. Peggy must certainly find a husband. 
 She was an attractive little thing, not a beauty, 
 of course, like her sisters, but very charming 
 looking. Peter was very fond of her. 
 
 Some months had passed since the episode of 
 the Hunt Ball when Sir John first addressed his 
 wife upon the subject of Peggy's future. Easter 
 was approaching, and at Easter the Metcalfes 
 generally had the house full, prior to their de- 
 parture for London. Lady Metcalfe spent fewer 
 weeks in London now than she had formerly 
 done. She did not care about it herself and 
 Peggy was by no means enthusiastic and greatly 
 preferred Mildon.
 
 150 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 "I should like," he said slowly one evening, 
 when he was alone with his wife, "to see our 
 little Peggy as well and happily married as her 
 sisters." 
 
 He had looked up quite suddenly from his 
 newspaper when he made this speech. Lady 
 Metcalfe was quite startled for the moment. 
 Then she said quickly: 
 
 "Oh, Peggy will marry Sir Hugh Quentin 
 that friend of Peter's. He saw her last summer 
 at Oxford and they met again at Beatrice's in the 
 winter. He is in love with her he spoke quite 
 definitely to Beatrice." 
 
 "Then why," said Sir John, laying down his 
 newspaper with a frown, "has nothing been 
 settled? Peggy is twenty she is as old as Diana 
 was when she married. I will not have young 
 men who can not make up their minds hanging 
 about my daughters!" 
 
 "Oh, I am sure Hugh has made up his mind," 
 replied Lady Metcalfe uneasily, "but I wasn't 
 sure about Peggy. I was afraid that if he spoke 
 too soon she might refuse him. Peggy is differ- 
 ent from the others, and she has always been 
 troublesome," she added, falling back upon the 
 old formula. 
 
 "Does Peggy know of this man's intentions?" 
 inquired Sir John, who began to consider that 
 he had been kept unnecessarily in the dark about 
 the whole affair. 
 
 "I am not at all sure that she does," said Lady 
 Metcalfe. "I have never spoken to her about 
 it. I do not know if Beatrice has. To tell you
 
 THE REST HOUSE 151 
 
 the truth, I hoped that Peggy might return en- 
 gaged from Lavender last January." 
 
 "I think you had better ask him here for 
 Easter," said Sir John, who knew all about Sir 
 Hugh Quentin, although he had never seen him. 
 "That will give them the chance to make up their 
 minds. They could be married as soon as they 
 like there is nothing for them to wait for. I 
 shall give Peggy just what I gave her sisters if 
 she makes a marriage that meets with my ap- 
 proval. Perhaps you had better speak to her 
 about it." 
 
 "I think it would be better to leave the speak- 
 ing to Hugh," said Lady Metcalfe. "I will write 
 and ask him to come. They haven't seen each 
 other for nearly three months they have had 
 plenty of time to think it over." She added with 
 a sigh, "You must not count too much upon 
 Peggy, John. If she takes it into her head that 
 she won't marry Hugh I am sure we shall never 
 be able to persuade her to. She is not like Bea- 
 trice." 
 
 "I think you'd better sound her first, then, my 
 dear. See if she likes the idea of his coming. I 
 don't want to force the girl against her will, and 
 at the same time we can't ask him here just to be 
 flouted!" 
 
 He went back to his newspaper and Lady Met- 
 calfe went on with the novel she was reading. 
 Yes; that would be an excellent idea. It would 
 not be necessary to say a great deal to Peggy, 
 but she would tell her that they were thinking 
 of asking Hugh and watch the effect upon her.
 
 152 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Surely in the last three months spent quietly at 
 Mildon Peggy had had ample time to meditate 
 upon her folly, and to eliminate the image of 
 Morford from her mind. 
 
 She said carelessly to Peggy on the following 
 morning: 
 
 "Your father wishes Sir Hugh Quentin to be 
 asked here for Easter. I hope you do not object 
 to his coming, Peggy?" 
 
 It was warily put, although Lady Metcalfe had 
 no intention of setting a trap. A very faint flush 
 came over Peggy's face as she answered, "Oh, 
 no; I shall be very glad to see him. Peter will 
 like to have him." 
 
 Nothing could have been more perfect, more 
 delicately maidenly. Lady Metcalfe looked ap- 
 provingly at her daughter. But she said nothing 
 more. If Peggy had no objection one could re- 
 gard the whole affair as settled. 
 
 Quentin accepted the invitation and appeared 
 on the day appointed the Saturday before 
 Easter. He had been restless and unhappy dur- 
 ing these past months, and though he had tried 
 to divert himself at Monte Carlo, the attempt had 
 not been very successful. Peggy was constantly 
 in his thoughts. But the remembrance of those 
 days at Lavender gave him, it must be said, very 
 little food for hope. 
 
 The invitation to Mildon, received a few days 
 after his return to town, came like a bolt from 
 the blue. He had never stayed there before and 
 Lady Metcalfe's note was charmingly worded. 
 Hugh was determined that nothing should pre- 
 vent him from asking Peggy to be his wife. He
 
 THE REST HOUSE 153 
 
 knew he had the approbation of Lady Charsley 
 and he believed now that Peggy's parents shared 
 that approval. He was in good spirits when he 
 arrived at Mildon, and had something of the 
 arrogance of a man who is certain that he is 
 going forth to conquer. 
 
 There was a dinner party on the Saturday 
 night and some of the more prominent of their 
 country neighbors had been invited. Lady Met- 
 calfe had shown of late a disposition to fuss about 
 Peggy's clothes; she had accompanied her to 
 town on several shopping expeditions, and had 
 chosen most of her things herself. Peggy never, 
 she affirmed, had any ideas about clothes and 
 would have gone on cheerfully wearing the same 
 old things from year to year. 
 
 She came up to her daughter's room that eve- 
 ning when it was time to dress for dinner and 
 said: 
 
 "I want you to wear that new pink dress of 
 yours, Peggy. And tell Valerie to part your 
 hair on one side. I should like you to look as 
 much like Deirdre O'Mara as possible." 
 
 Peggy flushed. She had seen Deirdre O'Mara 
 in some of her most celebrated parts, and she 
 had felt half attracted and half repelled by the 
 Celtic witchery of the woman who disdained all 
 theatrical make-up and refused to allow her 
 strange white face to be reddened or whitened by 
 grease paint. 
 
 "Why do you want me to look like Deirdre 
 O'Mara?" she said in a low, constrained tone. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe paused. She felt she could not 
 say, "Because Sir Hugh said you were like her
 
 154 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 and he used to admire her very much" it might 
 arouse Peggy's suspicions and obstinacy. That 
 was the worst of Peggy one never felt sure of 
 her. One could not count upon her loyal sub- 
 mission. To either of her elder daughters Lady 
 Metcalfe would certainly have given her real 
 reason and perhaps added a tentative word about 
 her own hopes, counting, too, upon a filial co- 
 operation. But there was something in the crude 
 bluntness of Peggy's question that seemed to put 
 her mother in the wrong almost as if she be- 
 lieved that she were intriguing against her. Her 
 words suggested a reproach. How absurd when 
 she had neither wish nor thought except for her 
 daughter's welfare ! 
 
 "You are very like her," she said cautiously; 
 "people have noticed it. It is always a good thing 
 for a girl to be thought like a celebrated beauty 
 people begin to admire her at once. Deirdre 
 O'Mara is considered a very beautiful woman." 
 
 "I do not want to be admired," said Peggy 
 slowly. She was standing on the hearth-rug 
 looking rather intently at the flames as they 
 played and leaped about a huge oak log. There 
 were blue flames as well as red and orange; the 
 effect was pretty. 
 
 "That is nonsense," said Lady Metcalfe 
 briskly ; "all girls like to be admired by the right 
 man." 
 
 Peggy felt a little uneasy when her mother 
 had left the room. The episode, sufficiently in- 
 significant in itself, had aroused a whole army of 
 disquieting suspicions little, teasing, worrying 
 things that resembled a swarm of mosquitoes.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 155 
 
 Suddenly she remembered with a flash almost 
 of illumination a chance word she had once heard 
 spoken about Hugh Quentin. It was at Oxford 
 last summer, and some woman had remarked to 
 Diana, "Poor Hugh seems quite to have got over 
 his infatuation for Deirdre O'Mara at last !" She 
 had never thought about it again, but something 
 in her mother's words had awakened the dormant 
 memory. It suddenly became apparent to Peggy 
 why Hugh had been invited to Mildon. It was 
 not on Peter's account at all it was on her own. 
 The scales fell suddenly from Peggy's eyes, and 
 her heart began to beat so violently that it almost 
 suffocated her. She saw the first edge of the net 
 into which in days gone by Diana and Beatrice 
 had both stepped, one cheerfully and the other 
 reluctantly, and she wondered whether she would 
 dare refuse when it came to her turn. She had not 
 perceived its approach ; it had revealed itself sud- 
 denly, and she felt for the moment stupefied at 
 the sight. She sat down by the fire and tried to 
 arrange her chaotic thoughts a little. 
 
 Peter had conformed to his parents' wishes, and 
 she alone knew perhaps with what interior re- 
 bellion he had done so. But it was a chain from 
 which he could free himself at any time without 
 sin. Marriage was a very different thing mar- 
 riage bound you for life ; it meant the surrender 
 of soul and body for always. Only love could make 
 such surrender desirable and inevitable. With- 
 out love it could surely only be imprisonment, a 
 fettering of soul and sense. She was certain that 
 she had in her heart no feeling for Hugh Quen- 
 tin such as his wife ought to have. If he were
 
 156 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 coming to Mildon on her account he had far 
 better remain away. 
 
 In those three months that had elapsed since 
 their last meeting Peggy had strenuously endeav- 
 ored to rule and discipline her life as Morford 
 had recommended her to do. She had tried to be 
 obedient, docile, submissive. She had subjected 
 her words and actions to a strict self-control. 
 She had made the daily offering of all things 
 small and great to God. She had carefully 
 studied the books Morford had given her, and she 
 knew now all that was most essential for a Cath- 
 olic to know. And somewhere in her heart was 
 the thought that as soon as she came of age she 
 would take that step that plunge into the un- 
 known and become a Catholic. She did not 
 very often put that thought into actual words, for 
 it was a very solemn as well as a very terrifying 
 one, and she could not imagine how she should 
 ever accomplish such a thing. But she had the 
 feeling that all her present life was leading up 
 to that one crowning hour when she should kneel 
 before the Blessed Sacrament, a Catholic in name 
 as well as in heart. 
 
 To-night she could not help thinking of that 
 future day, and she saw in Hugh Quentin some 
 one who could not help her at all, but who might 
 prove rather a hindrance and an obstacle. She 
 wished he had not been asked to come. 
 
 Then she looked round the room and saw that 
 outspread upon the bed was the lovely new pink 
 dress which was so like one that Deirdre O'Mara 
 had worn in her most successful and daring part. 
 A sudden hatred of it came over Peggy. She
 
 THE REST HOUSE 157 
 
 looked at it with anger in her eyes, and at the 
 little gold shoes, and the gold fillet she was to 
 wear in her dark hair. Deirdre O'Mara had worn 
 just such shoes on her feet, just such a fillet in her 
 hair. 
 
 These things, pretty in themselves, produced a 
 sudden revulsion in Peggy. She would not wear 
 them! She would throw down the glove! She 
 would not parry and deceive and pretend not to 
 understand, now that her eyes had been opened. 
 Her nature was frank ; she had something of her 
 grandfather Lampard's bluntness and honesty. 
 
 Valerie came into the room carrying some hot 
 water. She was a young French girl who had 
 been sent by Diana, in whose service she had been 
 employed as children's maid. She knew almost 
 all that there was to be known about the Met- 
 calfes; she was aware that something had oc- 
 curred at the Hunt Ball last January to cut short 
 her young mistress's stay at Lavender, and in 
 common with the rest of the servants at Mildon 
 she had guessed at the reason of Sir Hugh 
 Quentin's present visit. His valet was a singu- 
 larly intelligent, well-informed young man. 
 
 She could, in fact, have told Peggy many 
 things had Peggy ever sought her confidence. 
 
 Peggy pointed now to the litter of finery upon 
 the bed. 
 
 "I'm not going to wear those things to-night, 
 Valerie," she said with unusual decision. 
 
 Valerie had seen a picture post-card in Lady 
 Metcalfe's room only a few days ago which had 
 been a source of considerable enlightenment to 
 her. It bore on its reverse side a flattering photo-
 
 158 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 graph recently taken of Deirdre O'Mara, dressed 
 in exactly such a dress as the one Miss Metcalfe 
 was now repudiating. The face on the photo- 
 graph was extremely like Miss Metcalfe's, except 
 that it was more intelligent and much more 
 sophisticated. It had not that serene look of 
 almost Puritan innocence that characterized 
 Peggy's. But the likeness was nevertheless strik- 
 ing, and Valerie had quickly perceived that for 
 some occult reason of her own a very wise 
 one, no doubt Lady Metcalfe in choosing this 
 dress for her daughter had desired to empha- 
 size it. 
 
 Valerie stared as if she could hardly believe 
 the evidence of her own hearing. She made no 
 attempt to obey. 
 
 "Put them all away at once, please," said 
 Peggy in an unusually authoritative tone, "and 
 put out my black dress and black shoes." 
 
 Valerie opened her lips as if to remonstrate, 
 but a glance at her young mistress seemed to sug- 
 gest that silence would be more prudent. Still 
 her orders from Lady Metcalfe had been equally 
 definite and peremptory. She hesitated. 
 
 "What are you waiting for?" said Peggy. 
 "There is no time to lose. I shall be late as it is." 
 
 Her own courage was of less hardy a quality 
 than could be gathered from her words. 
 
 "Milady will not be pleased. Milady said she 
 would come and see you when you were dressed, 
 to see if her orders had been carried out. She 
 was very particular in the instructions she gave." 
 
 "Look here, Valerie," said Peggy, "you must 
 please understand I intend to wear my black
 
 THE REST HOUSE 159 
 
 dress to-night. Don't say another word or I 
 shall send you out of the room and dress my- 
 self." 
 
 Valerie had never heard Peggy speak like that 
 before. She was always quiet and gentle when 
 she spoke to her maid. But to-night there was a 
 flush almost of anger in her cheeks and her eyes 
 were shining very brightly. Although her con- 
 science was not very clear, she felt quite sure of 
 one thing that at all costs she would not remind 
 Hugh Quentin of Deirdre O'Mara to-night. In 
 inviting him to come she felt that her parents had 
 placed them both in a false position. She must 
 remedy things as far as she was able. 
 
 Valerie was doing her hair when Peggy sud- 
 denly said : "Give me the brush. I'm going to do 
 my own hair." She undid it quickly and with a 
 swift movement parted it again down the middle 
 instead of at the side, for it seemed to her that 
 when Valerie had arranged her hair thus she 
 looked terribly like Deirdre O'Mara. Peggy's 
 hair was fine and lustrous as black silk ; she gath- 
 ered it simply in a knot low at the base of her 
 neck. It displayed as no more complicated and 
 elaborate method could have done the simple per- 
 fection of contour that was hers. She had those 
 twin beauties a long neck and a small head. 
 And she carried herself well, which made up in 
 great measure for her lack of inches. To-night 
 she looked beautiful, and she recognized the fact 
 and hated it. She did not want to look pretty. 
 The black dress was the most unbecoming one 
 she possessed; it was not at all new, for she had 
 had it more than a year ago when they all
 
 160 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 mourned for a decorous few weeks for Sir John's 
 elderly half-sister, whom they had scarcely ever 
 seen. But she had been a Metcalfe and there- 
 fore the conventionalities were observed. Peggy 
 knew perfectly well that it was not customary for 
 girls of her age to wear black except when they 
 were in mourning, and black was not at all be- 
 coming to her, she was too dark and pale. It 
 took away something of her look of youth. She 
 stood up when she was ready and surveyed her- 
 self in the long glass. 
 
 Valerie, who was desperately afraid of Lady 
 Metcalfe, was inclined to be tearful. 
 
 "Milady will dismiss me for not obeying her," 
 she whimpered. 
 
 Peggy felt oddly excited. She took no notice 
 of Valerie, but curtsied to herself in the glass 
 and then pirouetted lightly on one foot. It was 
 her first definite and open act of rebellion against 
 that suddenly disclosed plan to marry her to 
 Hugh Quentin. She was, however, feeling a 
 vague alarm at her own temerity; she almost 
 wished now that she had worn the pink dress. 
 There was something guilty and feverish about 
 this excitement of hers ; she felt as she had done 
 when she was a small child and had deliberately 
 embarked upon a disobedient course. The thrill 
 of it the joy of it that no dark prospect of 
 future retribution could quite quench ! It was the 
 passionate assertion of independence so dear to 
 souls that are born free. Even when she had been 
 caught and whipped in those days Peggy had felt 
 that that tameless something within her was still 
 untouched and unhurt.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 161 
 
 Still the click of the handle as Lady Metcalfe 
 opened the door and made her majestic entrance 
 into the room did momentarily force her heart 
 downward toward those little black satin shoes 
 that had so recently been employed in that airy 
 capering. It sent the blood to her face, and even 
 to herself she felt and was afraid also that she 
 looked like a small and guilty child who has been 
 caught red-handed in the performance of some 
 infantile felony. 
 
 "Peggy, what have you got on?" inquired Lady 
 Metcalfe. 
 
 In that single glance all her sense of content- 
 ment and complacency had been rudely dispelled. 
 She had pictured Peggy in the pink dress, look- 
 ing deliciously like Deirdre O'Mara perhaps 
 proving doubly attractive to Hugh for that very 
 reason. 
 
 "My black dress," replied Peggy. 
 
 They stood and faced each other for a curious 
 and uncomfortable moment of mutual compre- 
 hension, at once illuminating and disconcerting. 
 
 "You must change it at once. You have just 
 got ten minutes. The Gillespies are always late 
 you know what airs she gives herself!" 
 
 "Oh, I'm not going to change it, please, 
 mother," said Peggy with something of entreaty 
 in her voice. "I made up my mind I would wear 
 it instead of the pink dress. I don't want to look 
 like Deirdre O'Mara!" 
 
 There was a hint now of the old passionate, 
 rebellious, troublesome Peggy. 
 
 "Don't be childish, Peggy," said Lady Met- 
 calfe, who realized that to give way to anger
 
 162 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 would certainly upset her for the rest of the even- 
 ing, besides being utterly disastrous to a com- 
 plexion that in middle age had an unfortunate 
 tendency to be florid. "You're much too young 
 to wear black, and besides that dress is quite out 
 of fashion. The skirt looks perfectly ridiculous. 
 Skirts are so narrow now. You must take it off 
 at once. I can't bear to see you looking so 
 dowdy you might be the governess!" 
 
 Peggy realized that the net was outspread, and 
 that she must either refuse to entangle her feet 
 in it or make the first step toward that intolerable 
 doom. 
 
 Valerie had slipped away at the first approach 
 of Lady Metcalfe, so that Peggy and her mother 
 were alone. They both felt that they had never 
 seen each other so clearly never understood each 
 other so perfectly before. 
 
 "Mother," said Peggy desperately, "I am not 
 going to marry Hugh Quentin. It isn't a bit of 
 use your trying to make me. I'm not Diana and 
 I'm not Beatrice I can't be forced into it !" The 
 words came so swiftly almost as if they were 
 tumbling over each other, and at the end of this 
 little fiercely mutinous speech Peggy gasped for 
 breath. "Oh, I'm ready to obey you in in 
 almost everything. I've tried to be a good daugh- 
 ter to you you can not imagine how hard I have 
 tried; but this is impossible and it would be 
 wrong." She stopped, gazing at Lady Metcalfe 
 with shining eyes. 
 
 She stood there trembling like a lily in a storm. 
 A lily black-petalled but lovely and graceful, if 
 a little tragic in her physical fragility. Lady
 
 THE REST HOUSE 163 
 
 Metcalfe was completely startled out of that 
 serene complacency that fitted her like a wonder- 
 ful garment of chain-mail. 
 
 "If I were not afraid of annoying your father 
 I should say that you are to wear what I wish or 
 remain upstairs. But he would be very angry 
 if } r ou did not appear, and you know it is not very 
 pleasant for you when he is really put out. I am 
 afraid it is too late for you to change now. You 
 must come down as you are. If your father 
 notices you and disapproves, you will only have 
 yourself to thank. I am extremely annoyed with 
 you, Peggy." 
 
 Her avoidance of any mention of Quentin's 
 name was intentional. There would be plenty of 
 time to discuss that matter later on. Had not 
 Beatrice once said as much even more? 
 
 As they passed downstairs they felt the cold 
 draught of air from an unseen window, carelessly 
 left open. Lady Metcalfe gave a little appro- 
 priate shiver, but Peggy paused so that the cold- 
 ness of the air might linger for a moment on her 
 face. It seemed to give her courage to tell her 
 that outside the world lay free and beautiful 
 under the stars, swept by winds, warmed by sun- 
 shine. Nature always appealed passionately to 
 Peggy, its roughness, wildness, the very wanton- 
 ness of its destructiveness, its careless indiffer- 
 ence to hurt. 
 
 Here one was as Peter had once said suffo- 
 cated. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe, before she had arrived at the 
 bottom of the stairs, had lulled her mind into the 
 pleasant and complacent belief that Peggy looked
 
 164 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 extraordinarily well in black. It was, of course, 
 very naughty and rebellious of her to behave like 
 this, and to announce so bluntly her refusal to 
 marry Quentin. But many girls disliked the idea 
 of too early a marriage one need not attach any 
 importance to that. She looked again at the 
 slight white arms, the delicate throat, the slim, 
 small form swathed in deep, soft, clinging black. 
 And although the dress was old-fashioned, it had 
 been a very expensive one, copied from an ex- 
 clusive Paris model. And Lady Metcalfe, de- 
 termined to make the best of things, assured her- 
 self that it brought out something that was at 
 once individual and arresting in Peggy's ap- 
 pearance; it gave her quite a distinguished 
 look. 
 
 "She's really much more beautiful than Deirdre 
 O'Mara, and then she's ten years younger!" she 
 thought to herself with a little secret triumph. 
 
 Peggy had made her first move and won her 
 point, and although her mother's displeasure 
 made her feel uncomfortable, she was not without 
 a sense of satisfaction. When they entered the 
 big drawing-room a very sumptuous apartment 
 with other smaller rooms leading from it they 
 found Sir John alone reading the evening paper. 
 
 He looked up and his eye fell disapprovingly 
 upon his daughter. 
 
 "What are you wearing black for?" he asked. 
 His wife had told him that Peggy was to wear a 
 new and very pretty pink dress to-night. He 
 disliked black, could not bear his wife to wear 
 it, and he thought it singularly unbecoming to 
 Peggy.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 165 
 
 "I like black," said Peggy in a low voice, 
 scarcely aware of what she said. 
 
 "You must give Peggy a good scolding to- 
 morrow," said Lady Metcalfe; "she's very 
 naughty and rebellious and refused to wear her 
 new dress. And it was such a delicious model 
 I should never have gone to that expense if I had 
 thought she would appreciate it so little." 
 
 "You look very ugly in black," said Sir John, 
 with one of his cold, withering smiles. 
 
 Peter appeared from the room beyond at that 
 moment accompanied by Sir Hugh Quentin, who, 
 after shaking hands with Peggy, turned away 
 and began to talk to Lady Metcalfe. 
 
 Peggy watched him critically. He was tall 
 and fair and rather colorless ; his hair was almost 
 flaxen and he wore it cut very short ; his eyes were 
 narrow and gray and he had rather a long upper 
 lip. There was something nice about him 
 straightforward, simple, and wholesome. He 
 had the very clean look which is seen to especial 
 perfection in a fair Englishman. His linen was 
 spotless and his clothes were beautifully cut. 
 Peggy wondered why she found him so little at- 
 tractive this man whom her parents wished her 
 to marry. 
 
 The Rector and his wife came in. Mr. Sturgess 
 was tall, clean-shaven, with a hearty manner in- 
 dicative of good-fellowship. His wife, a thin, 
 nervous woman, wore her hair scraped back from 
 her forehead with a knot of rolls pitched at an 
 unbecoming angle, but so rich and glossy that 
 the most indulgent observer could scarcely have 
 supposed them to be indigenous to that sterile
 
 166 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 soil. She smiled at Peggy and said with cheer- 
 ful tactlessness: "I hope you are not in mourn- 
 ing, my dear!" 
 
 "Oh, no; our mourning was over long ago,'* 
 said Peggy, smiling. 
 
 "You're too young to wear black," said Mrs. 
 Sturgess, whose own dingy black satin had seen 
 many years of honorable usage. "I wonder your 
 mother doesn't dress you in white it's so much 
 more suitable for young girls. Or pale pink I 
 think would suit you, as you are so dark." 
 
 Peggy smiled remotely. 
 
 "Mother said I should look like the governess," 
 she said in a low, confidential tone. 
 
 Mrs. Sturgess had been a governess in a great 
 family and had married the curate of the parish, 
 and any allusion to her former profession made 
 her feel almost as guilty as if it had been of a 
 criminal nature. She blushed and blinked her 
 eyes, not knowing whether to take offense. 
 
 The Gillespies came in late, as Lady Metcalfe 
 had prophesied. Mrs. Gillespie was an Ameri- 
 can, very rich and always beautifully dressed. 
 She towered above her husband, who was small 
 and fat and fair. Though he was over forty, he 
 had something of the aspect of a good-tempered 
 schoolboy. 
 
 "Well, Hugh," said Mrs. Gillespie, holding out 
 a tiny white-gloved hand to Quentin, "what are 
 you doing in this part of the world?" 
 
 "I'm staj T ing here," said Hugh laconically. 
 
 "Hullo, Hugh! Why haven't you been over 
 to see us?" said Mr. Gillespie. 
 
 "I only came down to-night," said Hugh.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 167 
 
 "But I meant to give myself that pleasure very 
 soon." 
 
 "Come on Monday," said Mrs. Gillespie. 
 "Come to lunch. Make Peter bring you over." 
 She smiled at Peter. 
 
 "Thanks very much," said Peter and Hugh 
 almost in a breath. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe heard the invitation given and 
 promptly accepted, and she thought it a singu- 
 larly tactless one. She did not invite important 
 young men down to Mildon to fill Mrs. Gil- 
 lespie's luncheon table. Monday would be Bank 
 Holiday a day when there was nothing to do, 
 and she had intended that whether Peggy liked 
 it or not, she should see a great deal of Hugh. 
 She had even planned a long motor excursion. 
 For she attached little importance to Peggy's 
 fierce asseverations. The girl only required a little 
 time to accustom herself to the idea. A little time 
 in which to think it over, a little application of 
 firm parental pressure, and the wedding would 
 ensue quite naturally. It had always been 
 Peggy's way to create a disturbance; she could 
 never comply amenably, gracefully, as her sisters 
 had done. 
 
 Hugh took Peggy in to dinner, and during the 
 first part of that meal she sat by his side, stiff and 
 silent and sullen. She wanted to make him hate 
 her so much that he would not wish to marry 
 her any more. And if he didn't wish it her 
 parents could not possibly force her into his arms. 
 She had liked him very much last summer at 
 Oxford, and she had treated him in the frank, 
 sisterly fashion she had always shown to Peter's
 
 168 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 friends. But the sight of the net had been as the 
 touch of a whip to a high-spirited horse; it had 
 made her restive. 
 
 "What's the matter with you? Have I done 
 anything to offend you?" said Hugh at last, after 
 he had borne a couple of delicate snubs with ad- 
 mirable patience. 
 
 "You haven't done anything; I wasn't think- 
 ing of you," said Peggy with a light disdain. She 
 did not know herself to-night; she felt excited, 
 daring, a little beyond herself. She turned a 
 black shoulder to Hugh and he could catch only 
 the glimpse of a pale profil perdu as she began 
 to talk to Mr. Sturgess, who was sitting at her 
 other side. Lady Metcalfe had felt so confident 
 that this arrangement would offer Peggy no 
 temptation to neglect Hugh during dinner. 
 
 The young man was dismayed. He in turn 
 became sullen. Had he been invited down here 
 just to be made a fool of? Surely Lady Charsley, 
 who was in his confidence, had informed her 
 mother of the state of affairs. 
 
 He turned to talk to Mrs. Gillespie, who re- 
 garded him with her curious eyes, which were 
 almost as green as jewels. 
 
 "What are you really doing down here, 
 Hugh?" she inquired in the hollow, rather sepul- 
 chral voice which people thought so attractive; 
 "no one would stay in this house for the good of 
 their health it is far too stuffy ! Are you after 
 the shekels? There are simply lots of them, you 
 know!" 
 
 She was good-looking in rather a weird way, 
 with her green eyes, heavily lashed, a dead white
 
 THE REST HOUSE 169 
 
 skin, and pale golden hair. She was dressed in 
 green with touches of silver and she wore some 
 very fine emeralds. She made Hugh think of a 
 snake a snake that was not poisonous. 
 
 "The shekels aren't taking any," said Hugh 
 with a grimace that was intended to hide his hurt. 
 
 "Lucky for you. What do you want a wife for 
 at your age? Wait till you're forty!" 
 
 "Oh, I mean to marry as soon as possible," said 
 Hugh. "I'm awfully bored down at my place 
 since my mother married again." 
 
 His face broke into a smile. 
 
 "People have called her pretty," said Mrs. 
 Gillespie in a very low, deep tone and bending 
 a little forward so as to catch a glimpse of the 
 averted Peggy, "like Deirdre O'Mara and all that 
 kind of thing. Why, I never saw such a dowdy 
 little thing in my life that black dress must be a 
 hundred years old at least. Her sisters are quite 
 smart, especially Diana Maddinard. But as they 
 are both married I see no object in making her 
 such a Cinderella!" 
 
 "You may depend upon it," said Hugh resent- 
 fully, "that if she is a Cinderella it's because she 
 wants to be and thinks she looks well in the part !" 
 
 He was angry with Peggy; her manner had 
 mortified him. She was quite incomprehensible 
 to-night, and the black dress seemed to be sym- 
 bolic of some mood in her that eluded his com- 
 prehension. 
 
 He comforted himself with the reflection that 
 perhaps she was aware of the reason of his visit 
 and that she did not wish to appear to him in the 
 light of too facile a quarry. Only he had thought
 
 170 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 of her as such a simple, unsophisticated little 
 thing, quite unable to play a part of any kind. 
 
 If Peggy had deliberately set herself out to 
 attract and draw this young man to her feet, she 
 could not have done it more thoroughly than in 
 this foolish little attempt to repel and disgust 
 him. 
 
 Her coldness had only set a match to the flame. 
 He was determined to win her. 
 
 "You were a fool to come, Hugh," said Mrs. 
 Gillespie presently; "it was just a case of ' "Will 
 you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the 
 fly.' You'll be gobbled up before you know 
 where you are!" 
 
 "I liked the look of the web, you see," said 
 Hugh. 
 
 "Oh, well; then you deserve to be gobbled up. 
 Is there really a lot of money? I've heard that 
 Charsley has pretty well run through Beatrice's 
 fortune." 
 
 "I don't know we haven't got as far as the 
 settlements yet," said Hugh with a grin, "but in 
 any case I've got such heaps myself I don't really 
 want any more." 
 
 "How hopeless you are I must leave you to 
 your fate," said Mrs. Gillespie. 
 
 "Oh, don't do that, please, Anne she's bitten 
 my head off twice," said Hugh with pretended 
 dismay. 
 
 "Perhaps she thinks it's time you'd declared 
 yourself," she said coolly. 
 
 "Oh, is that what she means ? You know better 
 than I do. Do you think I'd better propose to her 
 after dinner?"
 
 THE REST HOUSE 171 
 
 "If you want to be the silliest young fool that 
 was ever hooked with a pin !" said Mrs. Gillespie 
 laughing. 
 
 Hugh joined in the laugh. She had put him 
 in a good temper again and he felt cheered by her 
 satirical comments. And he really loved Peggy. 
 He was piqued by her attitude. Of course it was 
 going to be all right, else why had he been in- 
 vited to come? Nothing could have been kinder 
 and warmer than the welcome offered by Sir 
 John and his wife. And if the girl herself seemed 
 something more than reluctant, she was perhaps 
 only employing the usual feminine tactics of a 
 feigned withdrawal to induce the enemy to ap- 
 proach. 
 
 He looked at Peggy. She made him think 
 of a flower in mourning if such a fantastic thing 
 could be imagined. And although she was a Met- 
 calfe, she had an indefinable air of race. That 
 slim and long throat of hers the slight arms 
 and tiny hands the little head with the close 
 dark silken hair arranged with such perfect sim- 
 plicity. Why did she wear black to-night? 
 Black was not the wear for youth if only for 
 his sake she should have appeared in something 
 more gay! He watched her covertly. She was 
 beautiful. 
 
 "I'll ask her to come on Monday, too. That'll 
 give you a better opportunity on neutral 
 ground," said Mrs. Gillespie, after a pause. 
 "Say 'thank you nicely,' " she added with a smile. 
 
 "Thank you nicely," repeated Hugh, in a 
 parrot-like tone; but a light leaped into his eyes 
 and he looked at her gratefully. "It's topping
 
 172 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 of you to do that, you know I mean I'm most 
 awfully grateful!" 
 
 "I wonder if it's really kind to give babies 
 what they cry for?" she said. "I'm not sure that 
 a good smack isn't better for them!" 
 
 But in the drawing-room after dinner she 
 sought her opportunity of going up and speaking 
 to Peggy. 
 
 She had hardly spoken to her in her life; the 
 youngest Miss Metcalfe had seemed to her so 
 shy and retiring so different from her worldly 
 sisters that she had not troubled about her. 
 Still, she felt there must be something attractive 
 about a girl whom Hugh could allow himself to 
 fall seriously in love with. She knew he had 
 been the despair of mothers with even beautiful 
 marriageable daughters. What had made him 
 fix his thoughts so resolutely upon little Peggy 
 Metcalfe? 
 
 "I want you to come on Monday, too," she 
 said in her odd, gruff little voice. "Peter and 
 Hugh are both coming to luncheon." 
 
 Peggy opened her lips as if to refuse. But 
 that would have been an unheard-of indepen- 
 dence of action impossible hereafter to excuse or 
 explain. All invitations were referred to Lady 
 Metcalfe. She glanced toward her mother. 
 
 "I must ask mother," she said, smiling. "She 
 may not like me to be away there are so many 
 people staying here." 
 
 "Oh, I'll make it all right with your mother," 
 said Mrs. Gillespie; "you mustn't disappoint me. 
 Why are you wearing that doleful dress to-night, 
 my child?"
 
 THE REST HOUSE 173 
 
 Peggy crimsoned. She felt as if those experi- 
 enced eyes had penetrated into her motive, which 
 became all at once trivial and absurd. 
 
 Seeing that her question produced only silence 
 and confusion and that no answer appeared to be 
 forthcoming, Mrs. Gillespie moved away from 
 Peggy and went up to Lady Metcalfe, repeating 
 the invitation. 
 
 "I want Peggy to come with Peter and Hugh 
 on Monday. She wants to know if you'll let 
 her." 
 
 It was not a very exact statement of the case, 
 and perhaps Lady Metcalfe divined this. 
 
 "Hugh wishes it particularly," said Mrs. Gil- 
 lespie in a hollow undertone. 
 
 Their eyes met. Lady Metcalfe said : 
 
 "I shall be delighted to let her go." 
 
 It was evident that Hugh was in earnest, un- 
 deterred by the black dress, the symptoms of 
 withdrawal that had been all too visible during 
 dinner to that watchful maternal eye. These had 
 but given the spur to the young man's resolves. 
 But Peggy? There had been something so very 
 unreasonable about Peggy's conduct to-night! 
 She glanced at her daughter. 
 
 "Oh, that'll be all right," said Mrs. Gillespie, 
 with a dreadful frankness that almost pierced the 
 complacency of Lady Metcalfe; "she is only jib- 
 bing, you know. You leave her to Hugh!" 
 
 Lady Metcalfe thought the metaphor a trifle 
 crude. But she said/ almost as if she had been 
 surprised into a corresponding frankness: 
 
 "I don't know. I don't understand Peggy. 
 She's always been troublesome. She has always
 
 174 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 given me more trouble than all the others put 
 together." 
 
 "She was bound to do that," said Mrs. Gil- 
 lespie, bestowing a perfunctory glance full of 
 admiration upon Peggy. "But she's perfectly 
 lovely, and if she won't have Hugh she'll get 
 some one much better!" 
 
 "Oh, we've never considered her at all pretty," 
 said Lady Metcalfe, repudiating the compli- 
 ment; "she isn't at all like her sisters. Although 
 I am their mother, I can not help seeing that 
 Diana and Beatrice are beautiful women." 
 
 No Peggy was not of the type that was ad- 
 mired in the family. She was the only dark 
 and colorless one. There was something strange 
 about her, as if she did not realize her position. 
 Lady Metcalfe felt a kind of jealous dislike at 
 hearing her youngest daughter immoderately 
 praised. 
 
 Mrs. Gillespie was made to feel that she had 
 said the wrong thing. 
 
 "Oh, well, of course she's not a bit like her 
 sisters," she remarked carelessly.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 PEGGY had rather dreaded the advent of Easter 
 Sunday, but the coming of Hugh Quentin 
 and the little struggle with her mother had driven 
 the dread from her mind. It was one of those 
 days when Lady Metcalfe drove down to the 
 eight o'clock service at Mildon Church and ex- 
 pected Peggy to accompany her. On Christmas 
 Day she and her daughter had both been suffer- 
 ing from colds, so nothing had been said, and 
 Peggy had not been asked to attend such a 
 service since her experience at the Rest House 
 early in December. 
 
 She had a vague hope that her mother might 
 forget to say anything to her, for her mind was 
 evidently deeply occupied with that determina- 
 tion to arrange a marriage between herself and 
 Hugh Quentin; there could be no doubt at all 
 about that after the little scene that had taken 
 place over the pink dress. It might be that in the 
 midst of his preoccupation Lady Metcalfe 
 might forget to express her desire that Peggy 
 should accompany her on the following morning. 
 
 Perhaps Mr. Sturgess recalled it to her mind, 
 for he made some excuse for leaving early with 
 his wife. "To-morrow's an early day with us, 
 you know, Lady Metcalfe. We must turn in in 
 good time," he had said. 
 
 When every one had gone and the men had 
 all departed to the smoking-room, Peggy went 
 up to her mother to kiss her and say good-night. 
 
 "I shall expect you to be ready at a quarter 
 175
 
 176 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 to eight to-morrow, Peggy," said her mother. 
 "I have ordered the motor. Mind you are down 
 in good time." 
 
 She did not even wait for a reply. For the 
 last five years, ever since Peggy's confirmation, 
 she had made precisely the same little speech to 
 her on the eve of the most of the great Feasts of 
 the Church. It never occurred to her now that 
 Peggy would offer any resistance. 
 
 Peggy went up to her room, and dismissing 
 Valerie as soon as possible, sat down by the 
 fire. The April night was very chilly and she 
 threw a woollen wrapper over her nightdress. 
 Her little feet were enclosed in warm slippers. 
 She looked diminutive and childish with her hair 
 hanging all loosened about her face. 
 
 All thoughts of Hugh and the unpleasant 
 little episode in connection with the pink dress 
 had vanished utterly from her mind had been in 
 a sense swept away by this simple remark of her 
 mother's. She felt that she could not possibly 
 accompany her to church. Yet what excuse 
 could she offer? Short of telling her the whole 
 truth, she felt there was none to be made. 
 
 In despair she went to a little locked drawer 
 where she kept the books Morford had given 
 her, and took out the "Garden of the Soul." 
 Peggy had read and reread it until she almost 
 knew it by heart. It had taught her in plain 
 language the duties and obligations of the Cath- 
 olic. There were rules for the examination of 
 conscience, sets of questions intended to help the 
 penitent to discover exactly where he had sinned, 
 prayers to be said before and after confession.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 177 
 
 The thought of confession had never presented 
 to Peggy that obstacle which it does to many 
 intending converts. Perhaps she was too young 
 to resent any form of discipline, for in spite of 
 the luxury in which she had always lived, Peggy 
 had been strictly and even severely brought up 
 by her parents. She had been less indulged, per- 
 haps, than the others, and as a child she had been 
 more frequently punished. It was quite possible 
 that this training helped her now when she ap- 
 proached in thought the sacrament of Penance. 
 But even if it had offered any special hardship 
 to her, Peggy would never have permitted it to 
 become a definite obstacle in her path. Her 
 whole mind was set in the most single-hearted 
 manner upon becoming a Catholic as soon as 
 possible. She was prepared to pay any price 
 that might be demanded of her in order to gain 
 that end. It lay at the back of all her obstinate 
 determination not to marry Hugh. 
 
 Peggy had forced herself every night as a kind 
 of preparation to examine her conscience with 
 the help of this little book. It was a process that 
 seemed to throw a powerful searchlight upon the 
 soul, disclosing its dark places, revealing its im- 
 perfections. She had learned in this way that she 
 habitually committed the same faults over and 
 over again those very imperfections in herself 
 that she so clearly realized and tried to conquer 
 faults of wilfulness, of obstinacy, even of dis- 
 obedience and rebellion. She had often felt that 
 it would be a comfort when she could receive 
 absolution for those faults; it would surely help 
 her not to commit them over and over again.
 
 178 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 During these last three months indeed, ever 
 since her return from Lavender she had made 
 efforts to amend. She had tried to put Morford's 
 advice into practice, and to make her daily life 
 a preparation for the day when she should be- 
 come a Catholic. It had not been easy, but she 
 had not always failed. It had helped her to be 
 docile and gentle; it had checked her too im- 
 pulsive speech; in many little things that were 
 disagreeable to her she had submitted without 
 remonstrance. But to-night she clearly saw that 
 she had come to the cross-roads. She had 
 dreaded and feared that some such moment might 
 arise, forcing her to disclose her ultimate inten- 
 tion before the time was ripe for her to take the 
 decisive step. And now the moment seemed to be 
 approaching on swift wings. She could not pos- 
 sibly accompany her mother to Mildon Church 
 on the following day. And it would be the more 
 remarkable because in former years Peggy had 
 always gone eagerly. But to-night the influence 
 of the Rest House was strong upon her; she 
 seemed to be back in the chapel praying through 
 the long, cold hours. She could hear herself say 
 again in a breathless whisper, "Oh, I will come. 
 I will come." 
 
 To all converts there must come the moment of 
 definite breach when the sharp conviction comes 
 upon them that they can no longer receive com- 
 munion in the Protestant Church. To the High 
 Churchman this may even be a moment of agony, 
 a kind of spiritual farewell, a severance from 
 something beloved and sacred. But to others the 
 moment holds nothing of pain; the soul submit-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 179 
 
 ting instantly to another and higher authority 
 only sees in the severance part of the task de- 
 manded of it, and can no longer accept anything 
 else, anything less than the Truth it has beheld. 
 Peggy felt that fierce recoil which some people 
 do. She was instinctively preparing for her First 
 Communion in the Catholic Church, a divine 
 event for which she was waiting with eager im- 
 patience amid a sense of acute spiritual starva- 
 tion. Her nostalgia had slowly grown during 
 these past months until it had become a torment ; 
 to-night she felt that she must cry aloud her 
 suffering for all the world to hear. 
 
 She felt now that something had been de- 
 manded of her which it was no longer in her 
 power to give. She could not conform to the 
 Protestant Church. She had known the truth 
 in one swift hour of miraculous illumination, and 
 she could not look back. 
 
 But to refuse and rebel required courage. 
 Lady Metcalfe would not be slow to discern the 
 motive for this reluctance, to trace it back with 
 unerring finger to that night spent at the Rest 
 House. 
 
 Clearly Peggy had come to the cross-roads. 
 She felt that rather than comply she would face 
 any disgrace any punishment. If need be, she 
 would speak out. 
 
 She got into bed at last, but she could not 
 sleep, and sometimes during the night she 
 switched on the electric light and read that little, 
 worn book of devotion and prayer. It seemed to 
 give her courage and to help her. 
 
 When Valerie came to call her, she told her
 
 180 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 that she had had a bad night; her head was 
 aching; she did not feel well. She could not get 
 up; she would have her breakfast in bed. The 
 excuses were perfectly true, and yet she felt as 
 she made them that they were the excuses of a 
 coward. 
 
 At any other time Lady Metcalfe would cer- 
 tainly have accepted them with perhaps only a 
 word of reproof at the lack of effort thus demon- 
 strated. But she was on the alert just then for 
 any possible key to the solution of the problem. 
 She came hurrying upstairs on the receipt of her 
 daughter's message and breathlessly entered 
 Peggy's room. 
 
 "My dear Peggy, why aren't you ready? 
 What on earth is the matter with you?" 
 
 "I have had a bad night; my head aches," said 
 Peggy, flushing nervously. 
 
 She hoped that perhaps there would not be 
 time for her mother to make more searching in- 
 quiries. 
 
 But Lady Metcalfe's eye had fallen upon the 
 little brown book that lay on a table by Peggy's 
 bedside. 
 
 "What is that book, Peggy?" she asked, and 
 made a step forward. 
 
 Peggy had utterly forgotten that she had left 
 the incriminating volume on the table. She 
 stretched out her hand to seize it, but she was 
 too late Lady Metcalfe had already taken pos- 
 session of it. She looked at the .worn gilt letter- 
 ing of the title and read aloud in slow and awful 
 accents, "The Garden of the Soul." 
 
 Peggy was as white as a sheet; she watched
 
 THE REST HOUSE 181 
 
 her mother with a kind of fascinated gaze; her 
 limbs trembled so much that the bed-clothes 
 stirred. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe was not content with the title 
 only; she opened the book and glanced at its 
 contents. "The Ordinary of the Mass," "The 
 Canon of the Mass," "Devotions for Com- 
 munion," "Devotions for Confession," "Exam- 
 ination of Conscience," "The Particular Ex- 
 amen," "Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament" 
 these were only a few of the headings that 
 caught her eye, but they taught her that this was 
 a book of Roman Catholic prayer which Peggy 
 had most assuredly been reading and studying. 
 It offered a perfect explanation for this idle ex- 
 cuse of a bad night and a headache. 
 
 "Where did you get this book, Peggy?" she 
 asked. She looked at Peggy curiously, almost as 
 if she had been a stranger. 
 
 "It was given to me," said Peggy. 
 
 "By whom?" 
 
 "By Mr. Morford." 
 
 "I thought as much," said Lady Metcalfe; 
 "this man has set himself deliberately to work to 
 corrupt your mind. Is this the reason why you 
 are not ready to go with me now the real 
 reason?" 
 
 "Yes, mother," said Peggy, in a voice so faint 
 that it could scarcely be heard. "I am very 
 sorry . . . it is impossible." Her courage gave 
 way; she began to cry. 
 
 "I can not stay and talk to you now, Peggy," 
 said Lady Metcalfe as she moved, still holding 
 the book, toward the door. "You had better get
 
 182 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 up and after breakfast I will see you in my room. 
 I shall be late as it is." She glanced at the clock. 
 It was terrible of Peggy to spring this mine upon 
 her; she had offered no word of reluctance last 
 night. Even Lady Metcalfe was upset. She did 
 not want to have a disturbance with Hugh in the 
 house, and she did not in the least know how 
 to act. 
 
 It disturbed her especially as she sped down 
 to church in the motor to remember that Beatrice 
 had always held that Peggy had been less influ- 
 enced by the religion itself than by the man who 
 had so unwisely taught her about it. She had 
 believed that the whole episode was past and for- 
 gotten, yet here it was cropping up again, just at 
 a moment, too, when it threatened to interfere 
 with all their plans. Peggy had been flagrantly 
 disobedient and deceitful, had been filling her 
 mind with dangerous Roman Catholic literature, 
 which had evidently perverted her moral sense 
 and induced her to disobey and thwart her 
 parents. Did this lie, too, at the bottom of her 
 strange conduct toward Hugh? Was the influ- 
 ence still so strong that it would prevent Peggy 
 from marrying a Protestant husband?
 
 IT WAS Hugh Quentin's presence at Mildon 
 that prevented matters from coming to a 
 crisis. Lady Metcalfe hoped that Peggy would, 
 upon reflection, repent of the enormity of her 
 conduct, and make tardy amends by accepting 
 Hugh when he invited her to be his wife. 
 
 She did not want to have a scene with Peggy ; 
 there would be tears on the girl's part and 
 Peggy looked singularly plain when she had been 
 crying. To have family dissensions when the 
 house was full of guests might seriously diminish 
 the popularity of Mildon as a week-end resort. 
 Lady Metcalfe was restored to her usual com- 
 placency by the time she had partaken of her 
 coffee that morning, and when Peggy came down 
 to her room and timidly approached her she said 
 brightly : 
 
 "My dear Peggy, I am sure you have come 
 to tell me you are very sorry that you displeased 
 me this morning. We won't say anything more 
 about it and you will know much better next 
 time. I think you'd better go back to your room, 
 because your eyes are still very red and any one 
 can see that you've been crying. I hope you 
 will come down looking sweet and cheerful, as 
 you can look when you choose, at luncheon." 
 
 Thus admonished, Peggy went upstairs. So 
 nothing more was to be said, but there was a hint 
 in Lady Metcalfe's words that any future con- 
 duct of the kind would not so readily be over- 
 
 183
 
 184 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 looked. The pressure was being applied rather 
 sharply now. Peggy was to make amends, and 
 how? If she consented to marry Hugh all would 
 be forgiven and forgotten ! But to marry Hugh 
 would put an end for ever to her cherished dream 
 of becoming a Catholic. 
 
 When she said good-night to her mother that 
 night Lady Metcalfe put her arms round her 
 neck and kissed her affectionately. 
 
 "These are very important days for you, my 
 dear child," she said in her smooth way, "and 
 something tells me that perhaps to-morrow will 
 be the most important one of all. I know my 
 Peggy will respond." 
 
 She looked into Peggy's dark eyes, but there 
 was little response in their somber depths. She 
 could almost have fancied that the girl shrank 
 ever so slightly away from her, but of course that 
 was quite impossible. It was a critical time, of 
 course many girls resented the thought of giv- 
 ing up their freedom and independence. 
 
 Peggy looked at her mother almost in alarm. 
 There was something so implacable, so deter- 
 mined about her. One might as well try to make 
 a permanent impression upon a feather bed- 
 that soft resistance of hers was on the face of it 
 so unassailable. She had been forgiven her con- 
 duct of the morning, but she was to show re- 
 pentance in a practical way; she was to yield in 
 this other and more important affair. 
 
 "I am your mother," continued Lady Met- 
 calfe softly; "I know what is best for you. I 
 only desire your happiness. I wish to see you 
 as happy as your sisters, with the same kind of
 
 THE REST HOUSE 185 
 
 happiness. You have seen both Diana and Bea- 
 trice in their beautiful homes. A happy mar- 
 riage that's the best fate for a girl." 
 
 "Not unless you are in love," faltered Peggy, 
 trembling like a leaf. 
 
 "My dear child, if you can honor your husband 
 there need be no silly romance. The great thing 
 is to marry a good man of your own world 
 some one who can give you the things to which 
 you are accustomed." 
 
 Again there was a pause. Encouraged by 
 Peggy's silence, Lady Metcalfe continued: 
 
 "A young girl can not always choose wisely for 
 herself especially a girl with so little experience 
 of the world as yourself. But you must trust 
 your parents, Peggy, to choose wisely for 
 you." 
 
 Was there really something at the back of all 
 Peggy's resistance? It was only kind to let her 
 see quite clearly how futile that resistance would 
 be. 
 
 "Your father has made up his mind to give 
 you exactly what he gave your sisters if you make 
 a marriage of which he can thoroughly approve." 
 
 She kissed Peggy's forehead. 
 
 "That's all I wanted to say to you, my dear. 
 Good-night." 
 
 Peggy, still silent, went out of the room. She 
 had the curious physical sensation that heavy, 
 crushing things had passed over her body, numb- 
 ing and paralyzing it. It seemed to her almost 
 possible then that she would obey, and promise 
 to marry Hugh if he should ask her to be his 
 wife.
 
 186 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 When she awoke the next morning it was with 
 the feeling that something dreadful was going 
 to happen. She could not at first remember what 
 it was, but in a flash her mother's conversation 
 came back to her mind. Lady Metcalfe had said 
 that this would be a very important day for 
 Peggy, and that she hoped she would respond. 
 There was that luncheon party at Mrs. Gillespie's 
 to be faced. The very thought of it filled her 
 with fear and apprehension. It seemed then that 
 her daily life, which she had so passionately 
 wished to make into a preparation for her recep- 
 tion, as Morford had advised, was to be filled with 
 fierce storms, agonizing rebellions against au- 
 thority. 
 
 She thought of Beatrice Beatrice, who had 
 meekly obeyed and submitted. The fear that she 
 would be compelled to imitate her sister dimin- 
 ished the courage she had hitherto felt. She 
 longed for advice. If she could only have seen 
 Morford and asked him what she ought to do! 
 Although he was harsh and stern, he seemed to 
 see always quite clearly what was right and what 
 was wrong. She could rely upon him to tell her 
 the truth about her duty. He had authority, but 
 not of a personal individual kind ; in this respect 
 his power was derivative, was based, as she was 
 dimly aware, upon the teachings of his Faith. It 
 was this fact that made his words seem of such 
 value. 
 
 Peggy did not see Hugh that day until it was 
 time to start for the Gillespies'. It was a fine 
 day with bright sunshine and a glow of real
 
 THE REST HOUSE 187 
 
 spring warmth was in the air. In obedience to 
 her mother, Peggy had put on a perfectly new 
 white cloth coat and skirt and a little blue straw 
 hat that was very becoming to her. From the 
 crown of her hat to the tips of her little white 
 shoes Peggy Metcalfe looked a very dainty per- 
 son indeed. Lady Metcalfe kissed her approv- 
 ingly, and Hugh, standing there in the hall, 
 watched the embrace. He thought that she 
 looked to-day wonderfully like Deirdre O'Mara 
 in one of her ingenue parts. Yet her face pos- 
 sessed, too, something of the spiritual that had 
 never been in Deirdre's. 
 
 "Where's Peter?" said Peggy. 
 
 "He's out there, looking at the car. He's 
 going to drive, you know." 
 
 Peggy was a little dismayed at hearing this; 
 she wondered whose suggestion it had been. The 
 motor was a closed one and she would have to 
 sit inside. What if Hugh insisted upon keeping 
 her company all through that long drive? She 
 went out of the front door and ran down the 
 steps to where Peter was standing. 
 
 She slipped her arm in his. "Peter," she said 
 in an imploring whisper. 
 
 "Well, what is it, Pegs?" 
 
 "Make Sir Hugh sit with you," she whispered. 
 ''I don't want him to come with me. Oh, why 
 did you say you'd drive?" 
 
 "The mater said I must. Jones has got a 
 cold." 
 
 "Yes, but the other one could have come." 
 Her cheeks were on fire with indignation. 
 
 Sir Hugh came out and stood on the door-
 
 188 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 step, his hands in his pockets. He looked very 
 cheerful and assured, as if things were going well 
 with him. He smiled and helped Peggy into the 
 car in a possessive way that made her shrink from 
 his touch. Her nerves were on edge. 
 
 Peter said coolly: 
 
 "I expect you'd rather sit outside on such a 
 fine day, wouldn't you, Hugh?" 
 
 Sir Hugh complied, nevertheless he gave 
 Peggy a swift glance. Lady Metcalfe, who 
 joined them now, saw that it was too late to alter 
 things. She attributed the blame to Peter. How 
 tactless he was, how careless of his sister's inter- 
 ests. Young men were always selfish. 
 
 "You're not afraid of the cold?" said Peter. 
 
 "No ; but your sister it's dull for her alone." 
 He turned his head and looked through the win- 
 dow at Peggy sitting huddled up in a corner with 
 a great fur rug over her knees for all the world 
 as if she were cold. 
 
 "She's got a headache she'd rather be alone," 
 said Peter, carelessly. He could not quite make 
 out Peggy's attitude to Hugh. His father had 
 spoken to him yesterday as if the engagement 
 were practically arranged; he wondered why 
 Peggy had said nothing about it to him. 
 
 "Oh, I'm sorry," said Hugh. 
 
 The car went swiftly over the dry and hard 
 roads. Mildon Place was only five miles away, 
 and they very soon found themselves before the 
 high iron gates of the nearest lodge. 
 
 Peggy had looked almost mechanically at the 
 two heads in front of her, the one fair and the 
 other dark. Then she began to criticize Hugh
 
 THE REST HOUSE 189 
 
 Quentin. His head was a trifle too narrow, his 
 neck a shade too thick. She had never noticed 
 this peculiarity before; perhaps in comparing it 
 to Peter's perfect proportions the defect was 
 more noticeable. She wondered if she could have 
 learned to love him if she had not been search- 
 ing for a spiritual ideal. He could not help her 
 in the quest, and if she married him it meant that 
 she would have to forego that quest. He had 
 spoken slightingly of Catholics in alluding to 
 the Daltons in her hearing. She had never been 
 in love, but she felt that the emotion must cer- 
 tainly hold a delicate and mysterious delight that 
 was utterly absent from any feeling she had for 
 Hugh. She had liked him well enough as Peter's 
 friend, but now that his intentions were mani- 
 fested she felt that she no longer liked him at all. 
 
 Mrs. Gillespie greeted her with a little smile, 
 disdainful, experienced. 
 
 "So you've really come, Peggy? I hardly ex- 
 pected you. I wasn't a bit sure what you meant 
 to do on Saturday night," she said in her hollow 
 voice. 
 
 She addressed Peggy by her name in the infor- 
 mal manner with which one addresses a child. 
 
 Peggy was very silent. Mrs. Gillespie made 
 her feel shy and awkward, like a school-girl. 
 
 "Hugh must be in the seventh heaven," she 
 added when they were alone together in the 
 drawing-room before luncheon was announced. 
 
 She seemed to regard the fact of Peggy's ap- 
 pearance to-day in the light of a tacit capitula- 
 tion. And she was thinking all the time how 
 charming Peggy was looking. That blue hat
 
 190 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 became her vastly, as they would have said in 
 the eighteenth century. And of course that 
 silence, that shyness, would soon wear off. Only 
 it was strange of Hugh to fall in love with any- 
 thing so young and ingenuous. 
 
 She narrowed her green eyes and said: 
 
 "Hugh's a great dear. I've known him ever 
 since I came to England. I'm sure he'll make 
 you happy. If Blossom were grown up there's 
 no one I'd sooner give her to." 
 
 Peggy resisted an impulse to shiver under the 
 application of this particular form of torture, 
 that seemed to shame rather than to hurt her. 
 
 "Never mind if you don't feel enthusiastic at 
 first. Hugh may not be exactly a Prince Charm- 
 ing, though he would be handsome if he hadn't 
 got such a long upper lip. But he's a downright 
 good sort. And he hasn't got a mortgaged 
 estate like Charsley had, and he isn't a foolish, 
 idle boy like Maddinard. You'll have done 
 better really than either of your sisters." 
 
 Peggy felt like a mouse hesitating on the very 
 threshold of the trap, half-hypnotized by the 
 cheese within. 
 
 "There I won't tease you any more," said 
 Mrs. Gillespie. "Come in to lunch there'll only 
 be ourselves. I couldn't scrape up any one, but 
 it doesn't matter. I hate a crowd." 
 
 When they had all assembled in the dining- 
 room a fine room with paneled walls hung with 
 splendid old family portraits, and with beautiful 
 views over the Park a small child was brought 
 in by her nurse and perched on a highchair close 
 to her mother. Mrs. Gillespie stooped and be-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 191 
 
 stowed a perfunctory embrace on the mop of 
 golden curls. 
 
 "Darling Blossom," she murmured in a cooing 
 tone. 
 
 Blossom was a very dainty little creature of 
 four, with green eyes just like her mother's. Her 
 father caught her up and covered her face with 
 kisses. She resisted a little and Peggy heard her 
 say: 
 
 "Don't, Daddy you'll cwush my fwock!" 
 
 Peggy sat next to her host with Hugh on her 
 other side. Peter was opposite, with Blossom 
 for his neighbor. She stared at him with great 
 interest. 
 
 Peggy felt nervous and unstrung. 
 
 "Hugh, you must come and see my new studio 
 after lunch. I've had it put near the wood, be- 
 cause I was always being disturbed by people 
 when I worked in the house," said Mrs. Gillespie. 
 She was an expert photographer and spent a 
 great deal of time over this hobby. 
 
 Peggy flushed a little. She knew perfectly 
 well that Mrs. Gillespie would contrive to send 
 her to the studio with Hugh ; the thought fright- 
 ened her a little. Peter must come with them 
 he must, he must! Peter must not desert her. 
 She answered her host at random ; her mind was 
 full of the evil hour that was so fast approaching. 
 She did not dare look at Hugh. He was so 
 cheerful and confident, inclined to be a trifle pos- 
 sessive in a good-humored way, as if he were 
 cheered by Mrs. Gillespie's support. Peggy had 
 never felt so acutely miserable in all her life as 
 she did at that luncheon party.
 
 192 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 The afternoon was fine. Above the dark 
 purple line of the Weald, touched faintly with 
 the bloom of spring, a motionless belt of cloud 
 hung, pale and pearl-tinted. The grass in the 
 Park was vividly green and the tall elms showed 
 their first emerald-colored leaves. The borders 
 were gay with the gold of innumerable daffodils. 
 The air was full of spring scents, and the wind 
 had the cold, clean quality that it wins in its pas- 
 sage across the sea. 
 
 When they started forth for their walk after 
 luncheon Peggy found herself with Hugh, but 
 Mrs. Gillespie and Peter were following close 
 behind with the dogs. It was only when they 
 reached the studio, a gaudy new red brick build- 
 ing with a roof of red tiles, that Peggy perceived 
 that the others had suddenly vanished. She was 
 alone with Hugh Quentin and he was holding the 
 door open, inviting her to enter. 
 
 The room was a large one and the walls were 
 hung with specimens of Mrs. Gillespie's work. 
 She was extremely skilful, and both her portraits 
 and landscapes were beautiful. There were 
 lovely studies of little Blossom at all stages of 
 her young life. She made an almost perfect 
 model. 
 
 Hugh went on talking quietly, admiring and 
 criticizing the photographs, and Peggy listened 
 in absolute silence. She felt like some one in a 
 dream. 
 
 "You are looking tired," said Hugh at last; 
 "hadn't you better sit down? I suppose the 
 others will join us here presently." 
 
 He touched Peggy's arm as if he wished to
 
 THE REST HOUSE 193 
 
 lead her to a seat, but she shrank away from 
 him and said in a hoarse voice: 
 
 "Please I would rather stand!" 
 
 There was a moment's pause and then he said 
 suddenly: 
 
 "Peggy I love you I want you to marry 
 me." He caught her two hands in his in a firm 
 grip that made flesh and spirit alike rebel at the 
 capture; his face, pale and emotional, was bend- 
 ing slightly toward her. 
 
 Peggy wrenched herself free. 
 
 "No no it's impossible. Please let me go- 
 Sir Hugh, I can't marry you!" 
 
 But his hands closed on hers again and held 
 them as in a vise. 
 
 "Peggy, your parents both wish it. And I 
 love you I promise to make you happy to 
 care for you always." 
 
 His voice softened; he dropped her hands. 
 Peggy stood there trembling like a lily. 
 
 "I can't marry you," she said. She was on the 
 verge of tears. 
 
 Had he been cheated duped? There was 
 more in this determined refusal than could be 
 attributed to mere coyness. Yet Lady Metcalfe 
 had spoken with perfect confidence on the sub- 
 ject of her daughter's decision. 
 
 But Hugh's mind traveled swiftly back to the 
 Hunt Ball. 
 
 "There is some one else?" he demanded. 
 
 Peggy shook her head. "Oh, indeed, there is 
 no one." 
 
 "Are you sure it is not that man Morford?" 
 said Hugh.
 
 194 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Peggy's blanched face turned to a lovely crim- 
 son. She tried to turn it away. "There is no 
 one," she said again. 
 
 All Hugh's ancient jealousy was aroused. 
 
 "Why did you let me come?" he said angrily. 
 "I was assured your father and mother both 
 assured me. I had my own misgivings, it is true. 
 But you must have said something to make them 
 think that you would not utterly refuse." 
 
 "I told my mother I could not marry you," 
 said Peggy in a low tone. 
 
 But he seemed to be paying no attention to her 
 words. 
 
 "It is useless of you to think of Morford," said 
 Hugh. "You will never be allowed to marry 
 him. But you will never get me to believe that 
 he did not make love to you at the Hunt Ball 
 last winter. I am not blind, and I saw the way 
 he looked at you!" 
 
 "The way he looked at me?" repeated Peggy, 
 amazed at his words. 
 
 "Yes as no man looks at a girl unless he is 
 in love with her." Hugh was almost beside him- 
 self with rage and disappointment. "You must 
 surely know this as well as I do. You did not 
 cry then!" he added, as Peggy's tears began to 
 flow. 
 
 "It isn't true," she sobbed; "it isn't true. He 
 has never said a word of that kind to me. He 
 has only seen me twice. There is no one no one 
 whom I care for at all." 
 
 "I still can not understand why you let me 
 come to Mildon. It was done with your consent 
 and you can not have been in ignorance of my
 
 THE REST HOUSE 195 
 
 hopes in the matter. Still less do I understand 
 why you came here to-day!" His voice was 
 fiercely reproachful. 
 
 Peggy sank down on the seat which she had 
 at first refused and began to cry. Hugh was 
 dismayed at the violent outburst of tears. He 
 was angry with himself now and he tried awk- 
 wardly to comfort her. 
 
 He knelt down by her side. 
 
 "Peggy dearest don't cry I know I have 
 been a brute, but I've been horribly jealous of 
 Morford. Forgive me let's be friends at least. 
 We used to be friends once I always thought 
 you liked me, at any rate." 
 
 Peggy's gratitude was always quickly aroused. 
 
 "Oh, I did like you I do like you," she assured 
 him almost with eagerness. "It's only that I 
 don't love you that I can't marry you. And 
 they'll be so angry with me at home." 
 
 Her white face showed terror now almost the 
 terror of a child. 
 
 "They always said I wasn't like Diana and 
 Beatrice!" 
 
 "No more you are," said Hugh cheerily; "you 
 are far more beautiful!" He took her hand 
 gently now in his and stroked it, and this time 
 Peggy did not shrink from his touch. This 
 change of mood in her to one of gentleness gave 
 him an odd renewal of hope even at the moment 
 when things were going worst with him. He 
 sat beside her still holding her hand while Peggy 
 with her free hand wiped her eyes and began to 
 think she had behaved very foolishly indeed. 
 Hugh had not meant to alarm her and his angry
 
 196 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 words were the outcome of the jealousy he had 
 felt for Morford. There was, indeed, one mo- 
 ment when Peggy almost told him the truth 
 about Morford, and how it was his religion that 
 attracted her and not himself. But she felt per- 
 haps it would be wiser not to touch again upon 
 that rather thorny topic. 
 
 Had any one looked in suddenly upon them 
 they might have been pardoned for imagining 
 that Hugh's suit had been successful. He was 
 still rubbing Peggy's cold little hand, caressing 
 it gently, and the little action comforted them 
 both. He was certainly dearer to Peggy then than 
 he had ever been before. She liked him when he 
 treated her as Peter might have done like a big, 
 strong, elder brother, in fact it was the lover in 
 Hugh that repelled her. 
 
 "I'll make it all right with your mother, 
 Peggy," he said. "Why, I wouldn't hurt you for 
 the world you poor little trembling thing." 
 
 Peggy was soon soothed into composure. She 
 rose at last, straightened her hat in front of the 
 glass and dabbed at her eyes with her already 
 wet handkerchief. The tip of her nose was 
 faintly reddened. 
 
 "How horrible I look," she said, smiling at this 
 wan presentment. 
 
 "You look simply adorable," said Hugh. He 
 stood there by her side, looking at her mirrored 
 face. 
 
 She moved toward the door. Hugh followed 
 her and they went back down the path toward 
 the house. There was no one in sight. In spite 
 of all that had passed between them they were
 
 THE REST HOUSE 197 
 
 better friends now than when they started. 
 There was a simple understanding between them. 
 And Hugh was by no means without hope. He 
 believed Peggy's word when she assured him that 
 there was no one else. 
 
 "If I can ever help you in any way you must 
 write to me," said Hugh. "And oh, Peggy, if 
 you should ever change your mind." 
 
 As they approached the house they could see 
 Mrs. Gillespie and Peter standing on the terrace 
 and evidently waiting for their return. 
 
 "Well, Peggy! Well, Hugh!" she called, in 
 her hollow little voice. 
 
 She turned to Peter and said : 
 
 "Don't you long to know what's happened?" 
 
 She had been talking to him about his sister, 
 and had half converted him to her point of view. 
 
 "You must use your influence with her. 
 People say you're awfully devoted to each other. 
 Don't let her make a silly mistake now. She's 
 just at the age when she wants what she can't 
 have." 
 
 Peter looked at her curiously. Did Peggy 
 know best what was for her own happiness ? Did 
 any of us know? Were the ideals of youth illu- 
 sionary, and the ideals of age the only solid ones 
 that made for security? Custom, he knew, wears 
 down the finest, freest spirit. His own dreams 
 had sensibly diminished after three months of the 
 office stool. 
 
 "We all ought to be left to choose for our- 
 selves," he said half sullenly, for he could not 
 bear to think his point of view had changed even 
 a little.
 
 198 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 "Ah, I used to think that, too," said Mrs. 
 Gillespie, "but now I feel I know ever so much 
 better than Blossom when she cries for cake and 
 chocolate. And if I whip her she doesn't like 
 it though I know it's good for her. Aren't we 
 all just children? Crying for things we can't 
 have crying because we get hurt?" 
 
 Then Hugh and Peggy came up to them. 
 Both looked very serious, but quite calm. It 
 was impossible to read anything from their 
 faces. But just before he was going away Hugh 
 managed to say to Mrs. Gillespie: 
 
 "It's no go, Anne. She won't have me." He 
 winced as he spoke and she saw that the hurt 
 had gone deep. She felt that she would like to 
 put her arms round his neck and say all kinds of 
 comforting things to him just as if he had been 
 Blossom. For he, too, was crying for the things 
 that were out of his reach. 
 
 "Oh, poor Hughie," she said.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 LADY METCALFE was not long left in ignorance 
 as to the result of the visit to Mildon Place, 
 for Hugh made some inadequate excuse for cut- 
 ting short his stay and announced his intention of 
 leaving for town early on the following day. 
 
 Although she had little opportunity of saying 
 anything to Peggy before the departure of her 
 guests, she was extremely angry with her. Why 
 was her youngest child so different from all the 
 others? Again and again she told herself that 
 there was something strange and unusual about 
 Peggy. Something, too, that was elusive and un- 
 touchable. Lady Metcalfe was a very material- 
 istic person, and she was hardly to be blamed for 
 this, for she had spent all her life in surround- 
 ings where material comfort was the principal 
 object of life; she had lived in a money-making 
 atmosphere, and though she went to church 
 nearly every Sunday and insisted also that her 
 household should always attend at least one 
 service on that day, the concerns of the soul 
 scarcely touched her at all. It was a subject 
 she regarded with a respectful ignorance, and 
 though she certainly did give it a perfunctory 
 glance, as it were, on Sundays, she thought of it 
 as having as little as possible to do with the pres- 
 ent world. The soul was doubtless immortal 
 and its concern was, therefore, chiefly with 
 eternity. Lady Metcalfe believed also with per- 
 
 199
 
 200 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 feet complacency that when she died her soul 
 would go to heaven ; she would have been shocked 
 if any one had suggested any doubt of this. But 
 she had, nevertheless, discerned in Peggy an am- 
 biguous quality as of a soul striving for freedom, 
 for expression. It was in Peter, too, but less 
 obtrusively, and Peter was beginning to conform 
 quite admirably to Metcalfe standards; in an- 
 other year or two he would certainly become a 
 partner, when he would learn to appreciate the 
 value and advantage of wealth. But Peggy was 
 not worldly ; the things that had pleased her sis- 
 ters left her cold; one could not charm her with 
 pretty frocks and smart functions. There was 
 an inherent simplicity about her, as there always 
 is in those persons where the soul dominates the 
 body. Material things delicate food, soft rai- 
 ment and the like become, as it were, physical 
 or temporal accidents not even always advan- 
 tageous, since the possession of them may 
 actually serve to hinder the soul on its upward 
 progress and suffocate the quest of the spiritual. 
 Peggy's refusal to marry Hugh came to her 
 mother's ears with something of the effect of a 
 violent physical shock. She was at first unable 
 to believe that Peggy had dared thus openly to 
 rebel. Although Beatrice had up to the last mo- 
 ment wept and threatened rebellion, she had ac- 
 cepted Charsley very prettily, indeed, when the 
 crucial moment came. Lady Metcalfe had quite 
 persuaded herself that this was how Peggy would 
 behave. During the past three months, ever since 
 that deplorable episode in the winter, there 
 had been a very marked change in the girl, and
 
 THE REST HOUSE 201 
 
 it really looked as if she had made up her mind 
 to turn over a new leaf. There had been some- 
 thing very charming about her, in her thought 
 for others, her unselfishness, her eagerness to 
 please. Even Sir John had noticed it and it had 
 made him wonder why his Peggy (his little 
 Peggy, as he called her in moments of rare affec- 
 tion) had not yet been sought in marriage, for 
 in his eyes she had a quiet charm that her sisters 
 had never possessed. She had contributed 
 greatly of late to the peace and contentment of 
 the domestic circle. Now an abrupt change had 
 fallen upon the scene. Not only had a young 
 man of wealth and position and excellent char- 
 acter come forward with the ardent desire to 
 marry Peggy, but he had been met with as sound 
 a refusal as an eager lover could ever have feared 
 to meet with. It was an unheard-of piece of 
 impertinence on Peggy's part, especially as she 
 had actually encouraged the idea of his coming 
 to Mildon. When Sir John was told what had 
 passed he was very angry indeed, and said that 
 Peggy had made fools of them all. His anger 
 was, in his own opinion, justifiable, and this time 
 Lady Metcalfe did not wish nor try to screen her 
 daughter from the paternal wrath. She washed 
 her hands of her and left her to her fate and to 
 the sound scolding she so richly deserved. 
 
 She, too, had been deluded by the calm of the 
 past three months. She had felt that Peggy had 
 somehow realized the enormity of her conduct 
 and had tried to make amends for her behavior 
 while at Lavender. She had not let Hugh come 
 until she felt quite sure that Peggy was in a
 
 202 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 state of submission, of filial tractability. Lady 
 Metcalfe had played her cards with great care, 
 calculating all the chances. But it can not be 
 denied that the most skilful players are often 
 put out of their reckoning by one who defiantly 
 disregards all the rules and conventions of the 
 game; it upsets the balance and poise of things, 
 producing confusion and complications. 
 
 Perhaps that apparent change had been simply 
 a surface thing an astute maneuvre intended 
 to divert attention from the real thoughts that 
 were swaying her. And when Lady Metcalfe 
 put two and two together and thought of Peggy's 
 refusal to accompany her to church on Easter 
 Sunday, and of her own discovery of the "Garden 
 of the Soul," she began to attribute the whole 
 business to the influence of Morford. Was she 
 still thinking of him ? Were her leanings toward 
 Catholicism still governing her thoughts? A 
 week ago Lady Metcalfe would most unhesitat- 
 ingly have answered both these questions with a 
 decisive negative. But her daughter's refusal of 
 Hugh Quentin had upset all her calculations, and 
 then there had been that disagreeable exhibition 
 of rebellion on Easter Sunday. No, it was impos- 
 sible to dogmatize about Peggy. There was some- 
 thing elusive about the girl something one could 
 not hold or handle. In the first ebullition of her 
 own wrath she placed her husband in full pos- 
 session of all the facts of the case in so far as 
 she herself knew them, and begged him to give 
 Peggy the talking-to which she merited. 
 
 "When she was a small child I always had to 
 bring her to you when I couldn't manage her,"
 
 THE REST HOUSE 203 
 
 said Lady Metcalfe. Her complacency had 
 broken down and she was in tears. "Will you 
 talk to her, John?" 
 
 "I can't force her to marry a man she doesn't 
 want," said Sir John, "but you send her to me 
 and I'll tell her straight what I think about all 
 this Roman Catholic nonsense. That's what 
 we've got to put a stop to, and I'm only sorry 
 you didn't tell me about it long ago. It oughtn't 
 to have been allowed to go on." 
 
 His grim hatchet face had an unpleasantly de- 
 termined expression, as Peggy advanced into the 
 study in obedience to the paternal summons. 
 She had been waiting for it, dreading it all day, 
 and now the moment had come she did not feel 
 quite so nervous as she expected. Many years 
 must have elapsed since she had last been sum- 
 moned to appear before that ultimate tribunal. 
 
 "What's this I hear about you and Quentin?" 
 growled Sir John. 
 
 But as he looked at Peggy his heart softened 
 a little. She looked so young almost like a 
 child! There was something pathetic and ap- 
 pealing in that so evident effort to appear calm 
 and controlled. 
 
 "I am sorry, father," said Peggy simply, rais- 
 ing her dark eyes to his. 
 
 "Sorry?" repeated Sir John, with a little snort 
 of contempt; "you should have said straight out 
 you didn't mean to marry him when your mother 
 first talked about asking him down. You knew 
 what he was coming for. Your mother told me 
 she had put it before you quite clearly." 
 
 "I didn't know that he was going to ask me
 
 204 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 to marry him. It never entered my head until 
 until mother told me to put on that pink dress. 
 But when she did speak to me I said I couldn't 
 marry him. She didn't believe me she thought 
 I was going to be like Beatrice!" 
 
 Although this slightly altered the complexion 
 of affairs in Peggy's favor, Sir John had other 
 reasons for being imperfectly satisfied. 
 
 "In Beatrice's case," he said, "there was Claude 
 Vernon a most ineligible young man. May I 
 ask who the fortune hunter is in your case, who 
 is trying to persuade you not to marry Quentin?" 
 
 A very deep flush overspread Peggy's face. 
 But her eyes met her father's squarely and there 
 was something fearless in her answer. 
 
 "No one has persuaded me. I have never cared 
 for Hugh at all. I liked him as I have always 
 liked Peter's friends because they were his 
 friends." 
 
 In spite of the deepening color in her cheeks 
 her voice was cool and steady. 
 
 "That is an evasive answer. Who is this other 
 man the Claude Vernon in your case?" 
 
 "There is no other man," said Peggy. Her 
 heart beat violently against her body, and it 
 seemed to her that between herself and her father 
 she saw another figure a dark, looming figure. 
 And it flashed into her memory that Hugh had 
 said Morford had looked at her as no man would 
 look at a girl unless he were in love with her. It 
 was a mistake, of course, born of Hugh's foolish 
 jealousy of Morford, but the words came back 
 very forcibly to her mind at that moment. He 
 did not care for her, she felt certain of that; he
 
 THE REST HOUSE 205 
 
 had not even wished to help her; he had always 
 been a little disdainful of her passionate interest 
 in the Catholic Church. Peggy had never tried 
 to analyze her own feeling for him; she only 
 knew that she was a little afraid of him, of his 
 sternness, his strength, that roughness which was 
 so wounding in his speech. Why should she 
 think of Morford now when her father harshly 
 demanded what man was trying to dissuade her 
 from marrying Hugh? There was no Claude 
 Vernon in her case, no young and ardent lover 
 pleading his cause as Claude had pleaded his with 
 Beatrice. There could not possibly be anything 
 in her feeling for Morford that could prevent her 
 from falling in love with and marrying another 
 man. Peggy chased the very possibility of such 
 a thing from her mind as soon as the thought 
 presented itself. It was impossible a man 
 whom she had only seen twice ! A man who had 
 not been kind or agreeable at all, but who had 
 flung hard truths at her. 
 
 "There is no other man," she repeated. 
 
 "That is not true!" said Sir John with cold 
 violence. "There is a man the one you stayed 
 with in Somersetshire last winter when you and 
 Peter met with that motor accident and the car 
 had to be dug out of a drift. Your mother has 
 told me about him, and I only wish she had told 
 me about him before. I know how conspicuous 
 you made yourself at the Hunt Ball Beatrice 
 took you to. She sent you home because the man 
 was still in the neighborhood, and she refused 
 to have the responsibility of looking after you 
 any more. I daresay these incidents sound trivial
 
 206 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 in themselves young girls are often indiscreet 
 and you are singularly childish and unformed 
 for your age. But it happens to be the only 
 instance in which you have ever displayed the 
 slightest preference for or interest in any par- 
 ticular man. We are obliged, therefore, to be- 
 lieve that you have a preference for this Mr. Mor- 
 f ord and that there may even exist a secret under- 
 standing between you!" 
 
 During this speech, delivered almost in the 
 manner of an oration, Peggy stood transfixed 
 and motionless before her father, as if her feet 
 were glued to the ground. It seemed to her that 
 the very secrets of her heart secrets upon which 
 she had never dared to look were being torn 
 ruthlessly from her, and contemptuously ex- 
 posed to common view. That conversation with 
 Morford, which had been intimate only on the 
 spiritual plane, was being criticized and regarded 
 as if it were a mere vulgar flirtation. The evi- 
 dence against her had been carefully sifted and 
 collated, and as her father proceeded to elab- 
 orate it like an accusing counsel she felt that 
 curious and dreadful sinking of the heart which 
 so often precedes the materialization of some 
 acutely apprehensive fear. She had striven to 
 hide from herself the profound influence that 
 Morford had gained over her during those two 
 interviews, and now she could not but see that this 
 knowledge was securely in the possession of her 
 parents. But they had not yet, she hoped, pene- 
 trated to the heart of that secret, and discovered 
 the reason of that influence which had governed 
 her daily life during these past months. Her
 
 THE REST HOUSE 207 
 
 father's next words roughly dispelled that illu- 
 sion. 
 
 "This man is, I understand, a Roman Catholic. 
 Whether he is in love with you I do not know, 
 but it is quite certain he believes that you will 
 have a dot equal to that of your sisters. And 
 your mother assures me that he is further exert- 
 ing his influence to proselytize that you have 
 already spoken to her on the subject that you 
 have even attended services in a Roman Catholic 
 church, although you must have been perfectly 
 aware of our attitude toward them. This conduct 
 of yours needs no comment. We have often had 
 to find fault with you and correct you for in- 
 subordination and disobedience in the past, but I 
 hoped as you grew older you would become wiser 
 and more docile. That has, unfortunately, 
 proved a false hope. You have refused a man 
 good and excellent and devoted to you. That is 
 in itself perfectly excusable, although you cer- 
 tainly led us to believe that you intended to accept 
 him. But you have in addition to this shown a 
 horrible preference for a man beneath you in 
 social position, practising a religion of which we 
 highly disapprove. You are continually engaged 
 in thwarting and defying us. I should place my- 
 self in the wrong if I deceived you on the point. 
 Unless you marry with our consent and approval 
 you shall never receive a penny piece from me, 
 either now or after my death. And if you become 
 a Roman Catholic you will equally forfeit any 
 participation in my wealth, and you shall never 
 from the day you become one be permitted to 
 enter this house again. Do you understand me,
 
 208 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Peggy? I am perfectly serious and I mean every 
 word I say. I only wish I had been in possession 
 of all the facts a little sooner, but your mother 
 hoped that you were learning to regret and re- 
 pent your folly she believed that you were go- 
 ing to make amends for it. I am sorry, however, 
 that you were not warned before Quentin came 
 about our attitude toward this other man.'* 
 
 "It would not have made any difference," said 
 Peggy slowly. 
 
 She was a little bewildered; her father's long 
 speech had confused her; it seemed to touch so 
 many and such important issues. And all the 
 time she had felt that the words had been like a 
 succession of little hammers beating cruelly and 
 persistently upon her brain. She was still 
 standing, and she felt very tired. But she had 
 always been forced to stand as a child when 
 her father was reproving her. It was all part 
 of the dreadful discipline that governed those 
 occasions. 
 
 Although she had been listening attentively to 
 her father, and no part of his meaning had been 
 uncomprehended by her, she seemed all the time 
 to be listening to Morford's voice saying: "But 
 you! What could you do? You would most 
 certainly starve. You might be turned out with- 
 out a penny. Of course there are people who are 
 strong enough to suffer every imaginable priva- 
 tion for their Faith. But you must forgive me, 
 Miss Metcalfe, if I do most seriously doubt your 
 capability of being one of theml" She remem- 
 bered, too, the strange look of pity and disdain 
 that had accompanied those words ; it seemed to
 
 THE REST HOUSE 209 
 
 her now that Morford was really present, so 
 clearly could she visualize him. 
 
 Now she was conscious of a sensation of shrink- 
 ing physical weakness. Was it true, as Morford 
 had said, that she was not one of those strong 
 and ardent souls who can suffer all things for 
 their Faith who can go to martyrdom singing 
 the praises of God? Was she only, when it came 
 to the bed-rock of the matter, only a rebellious, 
 disobedient, undutiful daughter? There was 
 something drooping and pitiful about her now 
 slight, childish, weak. 
 
 "What has this man said to you to induce you 
 to defy us and behave in this way?" pursued her 
 father, with growing anger. "What understand- 
 ing is there between you? He must be singularly 
 unscrupulous to approach any one so childish and 
 young and easily led." 
 
 Even now he did not lose his temper; there 
 was something cold as well as fierce in his man- 
 ner; he had perfect control over himself. 
 
 "There is no understanding," said Peggy des- 
 perately. "It is true that I did ask him questions 
 about the Catholic Church when I stayed at the 
 Rest House with Peter last December. But it is 
 not the case that he ever encouraged me or tried 
 to to proselytize. Indeed indeed, he did not 
 wish to speak to me about these things at all he 
 did not think I should be strong enough to perse- 
 vere." She strained her clasped hands to her 
 heart as if to check its wild beating. "It was I 
 who asked who begged him to explain." 
 
 "That is not the version Beatrice gave," said 
 Sir John ; "she said that he never took the slight-
 
 210 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 est notice of any one in the room but yourself. 
 He made you conspicuous the whole evening by 
 his attentions. Do not tell me that a man would 
 permit himself to be detained by any woman for 
 two hours, answering questions that he did not 
 want to answer, unless he wished to be there. 
 This man has used his influence for some special 
 reason ; he is either trying to marry you for your 
 supposed fortune or he is one of those fanatics 
 that must always proselytize whenever he can 
 find any one weak and silly enough to listen to 
 him. But I am convinced the first hypothesis is 
 the correct one." 
 
 "I am quite sure he could not possibly wish to 
 marry me," said Peggy in a low voice; "he has 
 only seen me twice and I am sure he does not 
 like me. I think he even disliked me if he thought 
 about me at all! And he was not encouraging 
 when I asked him about the Catholic Church. I 
 do not think that he wished to tell me about it." 
 
 Sir John had small sense of humor at the best 
 of times, and at present his anger eclipsed all 
 that he might possess, or surely this naive state- 
 ment must have wrung an unwilling smile from 
 him. 
 
 "You are convicted by your own words," he 
 went on, "of having wilfully played with for- 
 bidden things. You actually took the first oppor- 
 tunity you had ever had of making inquiries 
 about the Roman Catholic Church. Once for all, 
 Peggy, I forbid it!" He raised his voice. "Do 
 you hear? I forbid it!" He rose and came a 
 step toward her almost menacingly. Peggy had 
 a moment's dreadful fear that he was going to
 
 THE REST HOUSE 211 
 
 strike her. "You are very wicked and ungrate- 
 ful and disobedient ! Whatever this man has said 
 or not said to you, I can see that he is exerting 
 an unholy influence over you. You shall never 
 see him again. I do not believe what you say of 
 him. Either he has made love to you or he is 
 trying to entrap you. Remember what I have 
 told you to-day. I mean every word of it. If you 
 disobey me in either of these respects you will 
 suffer very heavily for it. As it is, your mother 
 will see that your liberty is curtailed. You will 
 not leave home or go about by yourself you 
 shall not even visit your sisters. We shall keep 
 you here so that you will have no opportunity of 
 getting into mischief and ruining your own life." 
 
 "Please may I go, father?" said Peggy. She 
 was trembling now with fear. His raised voice, 
 his threatening attitude seemed to deprive her of 
 all courage. What were these dreadful things he 
 believed of Morford a man he had never seen? 
 That they might quite possibly be true seemed 
 to take all hope out of her heart. 
 
 "Yes, you can go now. Think over what I 
 have said. And do not come downstairs again 
 to-day. You have upset your mother very much, 
 and I do not choose to have her disturbed by your 
 presence." 
 
 Peggy went up to the schoolroom. Her eyes 
 were smarting with the tears she had been too 
 proud to shed. The interview had been much 
 worse than she had expected; in all her life she 
 had never seen Sir John so angry before. It had 
 lasted longer, too, than she had expected, and it 
 had unnerved her a little. But it had served one
 
 212 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 purpose it had made Peggy envisage quite 
 clearly her own attitude toward Frederick Mor- 
 ford. 
 
 Whether she loved him or not she could not tell. 
 There was too much fear mixed up in her feel- 
 ing for him. Surely that strange unrest, that 
 trembling excitement which his presence pro- 
 voked, could not be called love. She had honestly 
 believed that she had only been so delighted to 
 see him again because she longed to speak to him 
 of her experience at the Rest House and to ques- 
 tion him anew about those things she wished so 
 passionately to learn. But her father's words had 
 torn every shred of self-deception from her mind. 
 She saw one fact quite clearly, and that was 
 that while Morford was in the world she could 
 never marry another man. Not Hugh not any- 
 body. She had never known this until now, and 
 she was still uncertain of her love for him. But 
 before she could ever marry any one else she 
 would have to forget Morford utterly his face, 
 his words, his strong, almost fierce personality. 
 And she was nothing to him at all in spite of all 
 that Hugh and Beatrice and her father had said. 
 She knew quite well that he did not like her at 
 all. Her very questions had aroused within him 
 a certain ironic irritability. He never seemed to 
 take her seriously. She was to him only a silly, 
 spoiled child, impossibly indulged, and in search 
 of a new and perhaps forbidden sensation. It 
 hurt her to believe that she was an object of 
 scorn, almost of derision, to Frederick Morford. 
 If he could see her now her tears, her weakness, 
 her utter want of spirit and pluck, he would be
 
 THE REST HOUSE 213 
 
 more than ever convinced that she was not among 
 those who are capable of suffering all things for 
 their Faith. 
 
 Perhaps she was unworthy to be a Catholic. 
 And if she were to become one it would be a 
 crowning offense in the eyes of her parents, merit- 
 ing complete banishment. She would be sent 
 away and perhaps she would never see Peter 
 again they would certainly forbid him to go and 
 see her or help her in any way. Yes, Morford 
 was right ; she was not strong enough. She could 
 face being poor and homeless, but she could not 
 cut herself off from Peter that would be a sacri- 
 fice too great to be borne. And perhaps this 
 thought came to her now as a supreme torture 
 Peter would blame her too. Already he was not 
 quite sympathetic about her refusal of Hugh. 
 He would have liked to see her the wife of his 
 great friend. The marriage would have pleased 
 every one. A year ago she might even have con- 
 sented to it as a natural destiny. This brought 
 her thoughts back to that tremendous starting- 
 place. She could not marry Hugh or any one 
 else while Morford was in the world. The wish 
 to see him, to speak to him, was too strong. She 
 did not love him, but she had felt in his presence 
 that sudden, swift sympathy that has been called 
 though she did not recognize it as such love at 
 first sight. She wondered if he had felt it too. 
 
 She looked round the room and she saw with 
 renewed interest those photographs of her sisters ; 
 it was Beatrice's especially that claimed her atten- 
 tion. Beatrice in her first Court dress young 
 and beautiful as she had been in the davs when
 
 214 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Claude Vernon loved her. But those later pre- 
 sentments with Ethne and Jack and little 
 Verena grouped around her seemed to express a 
 deeper contentment, a satisfaction, a quietness, 
 that the older photograph did not possess. If 
 she married Hugh would she learn to close the 
 book of the past utterly and live only in her 
 children? But Peggy saw clearly it was not only 
 Morford that held her so close a prisoner. It 
 was the long night she had spent last year in 
 the chapel of the Rest House that held her so 
 powerfully. She could not bury that experi- 
 ence, as she would have to bury it if she became 
 Hugh's wife. She could not be false to her own 
 word, that came back to her again as it had done 
 so often before, with all the binding force of a 
 most solemn vow: "'Oh, I will come I will 
 come." 
 
 Yes, it was that word of hers that made this 
 proposed marriage so impossible. At the remem- 
 brance of it all thought of Morford left her mind. 
 She closed the door and knelt down upon a prie- 
 dieu chair decorated on back and seat with in- 
 tricate Victorian designs. Mind and heart be- 
 came utterly emptied of all worldly puzzles and 
 problems and bewilderments. She hid her face 
 in her hands and with bowed head remained for 
 a long time without moving. And as she knelt 
 there in an attitude that was in itself symbolic 
 of her complete submission to the Divine Will, a 
 wonderful peace flowed in upon her heart, healing 
 its wounds. 
 
 No one disturbed her. She was not conscious 
 of prayer, only of that inrush of peace that gave
 
 THE REST HOUSE 215 
 
 her hope and strength, fortifying her resolution. 
 When at last she raised her head she saw that 
 twilight was beginning to draw thin blue veils 
 across the brightness of the spring sky. In the 
 west there were bars of purple and amber melting 
 to gray. A star, very white and brilliant, flick- 
 ered above the elms in the Park. Through the 
 open window a breeze stirred, its cold, clean 
 breath touched her face with a reviving, bracing 
 quality. Physically she was exhausted and a 
 little hungry. But the remembrance of her 
 father's harshness had vanished, leaving no scar. 
 She was reassured as to her own strength, her 
 own power of endurance.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 IN THE weeks that followed pressure was ap- 
 plied with a new and significant turning of 
 the screw that governed the rack. 
 
 Outwardly everything went on just as usual. 
 Sir John sometimes secretly congratulated him- 
 self upon the success of his methods for setting 
 his own house in order. There was no word of 
 remonstrance from Peggy, who accepted the 
 novel restrictions of her lot with perfect cheerful- 
 ness and submission. It could not be that she was 
 insensible of the pressure, for Lady Metcalfe 
 restored to an almost complete assumption of 
 complacency had not hesitated to show her 
 daughter invitations from Diana and Beatrice, 
 accompanied by a mournful regret that they 
 could not under the circumstances be accepted. 
 It had always been one of Peggy's great pleas- 
 ures to go and stay with her sisters. She was 
 especially fond of Beatrice's children. Last sea- 
 son she had spent two whole months in Beatrice's 
 big house in Portman Square, and had enjoyed 
 a much larger measure of liberty there than she 
 did at home. There were delicious days when 
 Peter came to take her to Hurlingham or Rane- 
 lagh; to watch the flying at Brooklands or to 
 spend long hours on the river with him. Some- 
 times they went to the play together. She was 
 always much happier when going about alone 
 with Peter in this informal way than when Bea- 
 trice insisted upon taking her to fashionable f une- 
 
 216
 
 THE REST HOUSE 217 
 
 tions in huge houses where she felt horribly alone 
 and astray. Now she was made to see that she 
 was not to enjoy these pleasures. Her father's 
 threat about restricting her liberty had been no 
 idle one; it was severely put into practice in the 
 weeks that followed the storm. 
 
 In all this it is hardly necessary to say that 
 Sir John and his wife were actuated by no other 
 motive than to secure the welfare of their child 
 according to their own rigorous conception of it. 
 They did not enjoy hurting Peggy it was 
 simply a necessary measure to prevent her from 
 utterly ruining her life, as it seemed only too 
 probable that she would do if she were not for- 
 cibly restrained. They were obliged to take pre- 
 cautions just as they had been obliged when she 
 was a little girl to punish her into submission. 
 It was not a pleasant process for either party, 
 but it had to be done. 
 
 "So different from darling Beatrice," sighed 
 Lady Metcalfe. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe corresponded with Hugh, who 
 had taken his broken heart to Africa, where he 
 meant to start a farm in the intervals of big game 
 shooting. Boldly she urged him not to give up 
 hope. Peggy was too young to know her own 
 mind ; she would think quite differently about it 
 later on. In a few months, perhaps. 
 
 Hugh was more comforted than convinced by 
 the letters. He felt that he knew Peggy better 
 than her mother did. Love is not always blind. 
 Indeed, it can be productive of a very enlighten- 
 ing process, particularly if it is not returned.
 
 218 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Peggy was quite as cheerful and amenable as 
 she had been before that unfortunate episode. 
 Although they did not perceive it, being too 
 deeply engaged in their silent surveillance of her 
 outward actions to care about the interior con- 
 flict, she gained in those days many small vic- 
 tories over herself. That self -discipline and con- 
 quest did not come very easily to her, but she was 
 considerably helped by the knowledge that she 
 was trying to carry out Morford's advice. And 
 the sense of her own unworthiness to become a 
 Catholic acted as a sharp scourge that stimulated 
 her to fresh effort. And very slowly, very pain- 
 fully she was learning her first lessons in that 
 detachment which forms so great a part of Cath- 
 olic life. 
 
 She saw that when the time came for her to 
 make her final choice no thought of her love for 
 Peter must be permitted to hold her back. The 
 question had presented itself to her once as a fierce 
 temptation. But she had very soon learned to 
 put it on one side. It was a hard saying that 
 Divine Word that set forth so plainly the neces- 
 sity of putting on one side the dearest, closest 
 human ties but it was one, too, that admitted 
 of no appeal. Peggy did often in those days med- 
 itate upon the fact of her own conversion. It had 
 been quite sudden, quite unprovoked and per- 
 fectly complete. The truth had been abruptly 
 and as it were accidentally presented to her, and 
 she had accepted it without the slightest hesita- 
 tion. No convert lives, perhaps, who has not in 
 some sense participated in greater or lesser de- 
 gree in the blindness that fell upon St. Paul on
 
 THE REST HOUSE 219 
 
 his way to Damascus, when he first heard the 
 Voice summoning him to submission. It is a 
 blindness that forces the soul to concentrate upon 
 that interior light so recently vouchsafed and be- 
 stowed. 
 
 With Peggy there had never been any serious 
 disposition to look backward. But from the day 
 of her interview with her father her resolve 
 strengthened from day to day. She would be 
 twenty-one in October, and after that she could 
 foresee no future for herself beyond the fact that 
 that date would mark her entrance into the Cath- 
 olic Church. 
 
 Her cheerful acceptance of those novel disabil- 
 ities imposed upon her did not escape the notice 
 of Lady Metcalfe, who felt that the ultimate do- 
 mestic tribunal had not been appealed to in vain. 
 Whatever Sir John may have said to his daugh- 
 ter and by his own showing he had not minced 
 his words the effect had been wonderfully suc- 
 cessful in bringing Peggy to reason. They had 
 no reason to find fault with her in the summer 
 months that ensued, and Lady Metcalfe had even 
 been heard to say that Peggy had quite ceased to 
 be troublesome. Her hopes turned resolutely 
 Quentin-ward in spite of past defeat ; she thought 
 it would be quite a good plan to take Peggy up 
 to stay with Beatrice about the time of Hugh's 
 return from Africa. His return was to be 
 hastened by the fact that he had been suffering 
 from an attack of fever. Peggy's soft heart 
 would be touched, perhaps, by the sight of a suf- 
 fering Hugh. 
 
 When Peggy first heard the plan of going to
 
 220 THE BEST HOUSE 
 
 London mooted she felt an indescribable sensa- 
 tion of joy. In October she would be twenty- 
 one and it was in October that Lady Metcalfe 
 proposed to take her to town, ostensibly to do 
 their autumn shopping. Beatrice was spending 
 the autumn in London as she was expecting once 
 more to become a mother, and she was delighted 
 at the thought of having her mother and sister 
 with her. 
 
 Peggy had made no definite plans, and the 
 question of the ways and means was for the pres- 
 ent quite beyond her. It hurt her to think of all 
 the secret intentions that lay behind her eager- 
 ness to accompany her mother. She was nat- 
 urally straightforward, and to plan and plot in 
 secret were repulsive to her. But she saw, too, 
 that if she let the slightest hint escape her she 
 would not be allowed to leave Mildon at all. It 
 was all very difficult and she had no one to advise 
 her. The only thing that seemed quite clear to 
 her was that she must fulfill her promise made 
 first at the Rest House and since renewed many 
 hundreds of times. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe had many engagements in Lon- 
 don, many friends to see, much shopping to do. 
 Beatrice was not well, and she often left Peggy 
 at home to keep her sister company. The autumn 
 days were rather wet, but Lady Metcalfe defied 
 weather in her beautiful limousine. 
 
 Peggy's opportunity came one afternoon when 
 her mother had gone out with some friends. 
 Beatrice announced her intention of going up to 
 her room to rest. There were plenty of new 
 books, she told Peggy, and as it was so wet, per-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 221 
 
 haps she would not mind staying indoors alone 
 just for once. It was only till tea-time, and then 
 she herself would come down again. 
 
 Peggy waited alone for a few minutes after her 
 sister had left her and then ran quickly up to her 
 own room. She dressed herself as inconspicu- 
 ously as possible in a long dark coat and a little 
 close fur hat ; then she went downstairs again and 
 out of the front door without any one observing 
 her departure. 
 
 She walked very fast until she came to the 
 Marble Arch and there the hurrying crowds 
 seemed to confuse and bewilder her. She almost 
 ran into a little throng of people pouring out 
 of the Tube station. It was raining fast, and her 
 umbrella seemed to get into every one's way. 
 The road was crowded with taxis and motors 
 and carriages of all descriptions, while the heavy, 
 lumbering, motor-omnibuses painted bright scar- 
 let passed east and west with their crowded 
 human freight. She was thankful when she suc- 
 ceeded at last in crossing that road, which is per- 
 haps one of the most dangerous in all London 
 to the pedestrian, and found herself safely in- 
 side the Park. 
 
 The Park was comparatively deserted except 
 by a few carriages and motors passing through, 
 and here and there a figure hurrying forward like 
 herself under a dripping umbrella. She went 
 down a side path and gained at last the Prince's 
 Gate entrance. 
 
 Now she could see the violet dome of the Ora- 
 tory surmounted by a gold cross outlined against 
 the pale gray of the sky. It was already getting
 
 222 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 a little dusk, for in the shortening October days 
 darkness comes early to London. To-day there 
 were none of those beautiful, strange, misty 
 effects that sometimes make the twilight in Lon- 
 don so exquisite a thing; all was obscure and 
 gray; and dark clouds promising still more rain 
 were hurrying across the sky. 
 
 Peggy paused for a moment under the plane- 
 trees in the Park, watching the stream of life go 
 by the endless procession of vehicles and people 
 that passed up and down the road in shifting 
 phantasmagoric groups and colors. The stir of 
 the traffic evoked a sense of excitement within 
 her; she liked the feeling that she, too, was form- 
 ing part of that teeming life. And she was alone 
 she, who was so seldom now alone ! The very 
 sight of the dome dark, strong, enduring, gave 
 her courage. 
 
 Now she had crossed the road and was hasten- 
 ing down Ennismore Gardens. Many of the 
 houses were still empty and the shutters were 
 fastened across the windows, giving them that 
 peculiar, blind look as of unseeing eyes. 
 
 She turned to the right and came to the path 
 that leads through the old cemetery with its 
 ancient blackened tombstones. On one side they 
 stood in a row against the ivied wall, but on the 
 other side of the railings the cemetery stretched 
 out for some distance, forming, as such places do, 
 a curious contrast to the stir of life that goes on 
 ceaselessly so near to them. Even on this dull 
 autumn day the grass looked very green, spread- 
 ing out like a sea between the tombs with their 
 stiff inscriptions and the inevitable text, express-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 223 
 
 ive always of some deep human affection or belief 
 in the resurrection of the dead. There were not 
 many people walking along that quiet path to- 
 day; but Peggy noticed those who did pass her 
 almost without being aware of it. First came an 
 errand-boy, basket on arm and whistling cheer- 
 ily; he was followed by a poor woman carrying 
 a baby wrapped in a shawl. Then came two 
 lovers, their arms intertwined, silent, but with a 
 look of foolish bliss on their pale faces. Now she 
 was out in the Brompton Road, and its crowded 
 traffic seemed to deafen her after the quiet peace 
 of the old churchyard. Opposite stood a row of 
 shops, already showing their lights, as if to attract 
 customers within from the wretched conditions 
 that prevailed outside. Above them loomed tall 
 houses, and Peggy had sometimes accompanied 
 her mother to visit people in the sumptuous flats 
 concealed behind those curtained windows. She 
 paused for a moment on the pavement and then 
 quickly turned. A few steps brought her to the 
 Oratory. It was a Thursday afternoon and 
 already people were to be seen entering the big 
 doors, assembling for Benediction. 
 
 Inside the great building it was very quiet, and 
 Peggy scarcely noticed now the stir of the traffic. 
 Far off she could see through the mist of tears 
 that gathered in her eyes the white altar, lying 
 like some precious pearl across the gloom. With 
 an instinct to hide herself from curious eyes, she 
 slipped into one of the side chapels and made her 
 way toward the other end of the church. She 
 passed a large Calvary dimly lit with lamps. 
 People were kneeling before it in silent prayer.
 
 224 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Peggy paused for a moment, then she, too, knelt 
 down and prayed. It seemed to her that she 
 offered her very heart to God. 
 
 The beautiful altar of Our Lady came into 
 view as she moved onward. The richness and 
 splendor of it amazed Peggy. Wrought richly 
 with delicately colored marbles, it looked like a 
 wonderful jewel of the Italian Renaissance. But 
 she scarcely paused there now. Trembling in 
 every limb, she began to cross the church until she 
 came in front of the Tabernacle. Then she knelt 
 down and hid her face, bowing low. It was 
 nearly a year since she had been in the presence 
 of the Blessed Sacrament, and for a few minutes 
 she was hardly conscious of anything at all; she 
 was faint and spent with emotion, and felt as one 
 starved suddenly admitted to the vision of food. 
 
 It would be difficult to analyze her thoughts 
 then, perhaps, indeed, they were too sacred and 
 intimate for description. But she was uplifted 
 in a veritable ecstasy of thankfulness. Perhaps 
 the one enduring advantage that the convert pos- 
 sesses over the Catholic born and bred in the 
 Faith is that supreme sense of a personal and in- 
 dividual interposition calling them arbitrarily to 
 the Throne of Grace. This is the miracle that 
 characterizes all conversions. Not all hear the 
 Divine Voice. "It is hard for ihee to kick against 
 the goad" Not all feel the touch of the Divine 
 Hand smiting them to blindness of all but His 
 Great Glory. But all must feel that wonderful, 
 mystical intervention directly appealing to the in- 
 dividual alone that brings people by a thousand 
 paths to the door of the fold.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 225 
 
 It is surely the remembrance of this that im- 
 poses an ineradicable humility upon the convert 
 who recognizes the unworthiness of his own heart 
 to receive this personal Divine favor. 
 
 "I want to see a priest," said Peggy suddenly. 
 She scarcely knew to whom she was addressing 
 the words, but a little elderly woman dressed 
 shabbily in black looked up from her prie-dieu 
 and answered her. 
 
 "You will find one in the confessional," she said 
 kindly. 
 
 "Oh, no not like that," said Peggy, confused. 
 "I mean I want to talk to a priest, but not here 
 not to to make a confession," she added, stam- 
 mering. 
 
 The lady pointed to a bell and notice on the 
 wall. "You had better ring that bell, then, and 
 ask to see a priest in the parlor," she said. 
 
 Peggy hesitated a moment ; she knew now that 
 she was going to make the first tremendous and 
 decisive step. Her heart thumped against her 
 body; her knees trembled and her throat was so 
 dry that she could only with difficulty articulate. 
 But she had come at last to the cross-roads that 
 led to the goal for which her soul had panted. 
 There must be no going back; there must be no 
 looking back. 
 
 She threw back her head a little and with firm 
 step followed her guide into the parlor.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 IT is among the priest's most difficult duties to 
 assume the task of instructing and advising a 
 convert who, he knows, will be called upon in all 
 probability to surrender home and friends and 
 wealth from the day of his reception into the 
 Church, to forfeit, indeed, all temporal advan- 
 tages for the sake of the Faith he is determined 
 to possess. And although this is perhaps now 
 less frequent than it used to be, it happens suffi- 
 ciently often for Peggy's case to be no unusual 
 one. Her father's words had been quite clear, 
 and she knew that he meant every one of them. 
 He was not a man to indulge in idle threats. He 
 had done his best, too, to shield his daughter from 
 carrying out her intention, for he did not wish 
 to put those threats into execution. He hoped 
 that his words would prove a deterrent. 
 
 But Father FitzGerald, who came down to the 
 parlor in answer to Peggy's request to see a 
 priest, had seldom questioned an intending con- 
 vert who was so far advanced in the knowledge 
 of her faith. It is true that her chief book of in- 
 struction had been confiscated, but not until she 
 had learned almost all she could from it. She was 
 perfectly convinced, and in her case there was no 
 need for argument or polemic; her attitude was 
 that of a little child who asks humbly to be taught 
 all that it is necessary to know. Peggy's con- 
 
 226
 
 THE REST HOUSE 227 
 
 version at the Rest House had been as complete 
 as it was sudden. She had had nearly a year to 
 think it over, to satisfy herself that the step was 
 inevitable, to consider her powers of endurance. 
 The priest gave her some books, and she prom- 
 ised to return when it was possible to do so. 
 
 It was nearly an hour later when she again 
 passed through the church. Benediction was 
 just over; the air was full of the smoky scent 
 of incense and the odor of it took Peggy back 
 to her night at the Rest House. She knelt down 
 for a moment's prayer, but she could not remain 
 long. Already there was danger of her being 
 late for tea. 
 
 When Peggy came in, having first taken off 
 her hat and coat, Beatrice was in the drawing- 
 room. Her sister did not inquire how she had 
 spent the afternoon ; she imagined that as it was 
 so wet she could not have been tempted to leave 
 the house. And although Peggy looked un- 
 usually flushed and animated and perhaps a little 
 excited, it never occurred to Beatrice that there 
 could be any special reason for this. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe came in much later; she had 
 been out to tea, and she had seen several people 
 whose sayings and doings seemed to interest 
 Beatrice, for she listened languidly as they were 
 related to her. Peggy sat very silent, thinking 
 over her wonderful afternoon, glad to feel, too, 
 that the first step had at last been made. She 
 could not think now of the pain and sorrow that 
 lay before her, only of the great joy that was 
 already beginning to flood her heart. She had 
 scarcely begun to think of what she should do
 
 228 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 when she was poor and homeless, but like all 
 untrained, unskilled women, she would probably 
 endeavor to get a post as companion. She had 
 no money, for her allowance had been stopped 
 immediately after her interview with her father 
 last spring. It was no longer considered advis- 
 able to give Peggy any money of her own to 
 spend. She had a five-pound note locked away 
 somewhere and that was all she had. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe had had some surprising news 
 that day, which had pleased her very much and 
 distracted her thoughts from Peggy's doings, or 
 she would probably have asked her if she had 
 been with Beatrice all the afternoon. 
 
 She had received a letter from Hugh Quentin 
 telling her that he had arrived at Naples on his 
 homeward journey and that he would be in town 
 in about a week, as he was going to stay a day or 
 two in Paris. He was much better, he said, and 
 was looking forward to being back at home again. 
 When Peggy had gone out of the room Lady 
 Metcalfe confided this secret to Beatrice. 
 
 "I daresay Peggy will have him if he asks her 
 again," said Beatrice; "she was so young before 
 and I daresay it took her by surprise. She's had 
 lots of time to get used to the idea, and it was 
 very sensible of Hugh to go quite away like that 
 and not hang about." 
 
 "Peggy has certainly improved very much 
 since your father spoke so seriously to her at 
 Easter," said Lady Metcalfe musingly. "He 
 told her some very disagreeable truths, but it did 
 her a lot of good. She's been very careful ever
 
 THE REST HOUSE 229 
 
 since I think she was a little frightened. And 
 I do hope and trust by this time that that un- 
 fortunate Somersetshire episode has faded from 
 her mind." 
 
 "I hope so, too," said Beatrice. "That man 
 has never turned up again, has he?" 
 
 "Oh, my dear Beatrice, no!" said Lady Met- 
 calfe, with a little shiver of horror at the bare 
 suggestion. 
 
 "When Hugh comes I shall ask him to dinner. 
 We needn't let Peggy know beforehand it will 
 take her by surprise. I shouldn't wonder if she 
 were quite pleased to see him again," said 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Hope triumphed, too, in Lady Metcalfe's 
 heart and she seconded her daughter's suggestion 
 warmly. In the few days that followed Peggy 
 was even given a little more liberty, just to show 
 her that she had begun to regain their confidence. 
 Peggy consequently spent as much time as she 
 dared at the Oratory. She felt that she would 
 be thankful when this hateful necessity for 
 secrecy came to an end. It was necessary and 
 that was the only thing that made it tolerable 
 to her. 
 
 The dinner party at which Hugh was to be 
 present was a very small, informal affair, as 
 Beatrice was not well enough to entertain large 
 parties. It consisted only of Lady Metcalfe; 
 Peter and Peggy; Diana, who was passing 
 through town just then on her way from Scot- 
 land; Hugh, and, of course, Lord Charsley.
 
 230 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Peggy supposed the party was given for Diana, 
 who would naturally wish to see them all. She 
 herself had not seen her for more than a year, 
 and she was dressing when Diana came into her 
 room to take off her cloak. 
 
 Lady Maddinard was a good deal changed 
 since her marriage, and she was far more beauti- 
 ful now than Beatrice, but less simple-looking. 
 It even seemed to Peggy that her sister was a 
 trifle made up ; the pink color in her cheeks was 
 so unchanging. Her blue eyes were very bright 
 and her golden hair was most fashionably ar- 
 ranged. She kissed Peggy in rather a patroniz- 
 ing way. 
 
 "Well, my dear child, how are you?" she said, 
 and she looked very attentively at Peggy for a 
 moment. 
 
 Peggy flushed a little under the scrutiny which 
 she felt was not untouched by criticism. 
 
 "I hear you have been behaving very fool- 
 ishly," she said in a light, ironic tone. "I very 
 nearly wrote to give you a word of warning 
 myself. However, I am sure you must see for 
 yourself how silly you have been, and I daresay 
 you will be more sensible in the future." She 
 thought that a timely hint at this juncture would 
 not be altogether out of place. It was better to 
 let Peggy know what was expected of her. 
 
 She threw her beautiful white brocaded coat 
 heavily trimmed with white fur upon the bed 
 and then, as Peggy made no reply, she said: 
 
 "Silent as ever, Peggy? When you were little 
 we all knew that meant you were hatching some 
 mischief! What are you plotting now, my dear?"
 
 THE REST HOUSE 231 
 
 She took Peggy quite firmly by the shoulders 
 and looked mockingly into her crimsoning face. 
 
 "Please don't, Diana," said Peggy desper- 
 ately. 
 
 She felt as if those bright, searching eyes 
 would penetrate her secret. Diana was far the 
 most intelligent of all the Metcalfes, and Peggy 
 felt afraid of her. In the old days nothing had 
 escaped her, and she had often been the means of 
 bringing Peggy's childish guilt home to her. 
 
 "Never mind," said Diana cheerfully, "you 
 shall tell me all about it by and by! Let's go 
 down now we are late as it is." 
 
 She slid her arm through Peggy's and went 
 downstairs with her. When they entered the 
 drawing-room Peggy saw with consternation 
 that Hugh Quentin was there, standing with his 
 back to the fire. He came forward immediately 
 and greeted her. Peggy turned as white as a 
 sheet and her mother mistook the pallor for emo- 
 tion at this sudden meeting. She watched the 
 little scene with approving eyes. Oh, there 
 was no doubt that all that discipline to which 
 Peggy had been subjected would bear good 
 fruit now! 
 
 Hugh greeted Peggy with nonchalant ease. 
 He was changed, for he was very thin and sun- 
 burned and looked older, less of a boy. Peggy 
 did not know what she said to him, nor even 
 whether she had said anything at all ; she felt mis- 
 erably confused and embarrassed and Diana's 
 words came back to her with a new and terrible 
 significance. She knew now that there had been 
 a plot, and that she was the victim who had walked
 
 232 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 so unsuspectingly into the trap. And the worst 
 of it was the knowledge that they were all doing 
 it as they thought for her good and to secure her 
 happiness. 
 
 It seemed incredible to her that her mother 
 should understand her even now so little should 
 be ready, indeed, to mistake her docility for a 
 sign that on this point of marrying Hugh she 
 was going to yield and obey. The surprise had 
 been successfully sprung upon her, but it only 
 awakened within Peggy a fierce recrudescence of 
 the old rebellion. 
 
 She consoled herself with the thought that 
 when Hugh knew of her intention to become a 
 Catholic he would no longer wish to marry her. 
 If, indeed, it could be possible that he still wished 
 it, after her definite refusal of him last spring. 
 Perhaps he had only come to-night to show her 
 how completely he had recovered from that little 
 humiliation. Then the memory of Diana's words 
 rudely dispelled these consoling considerations. 
 His very presence seemed to assure her that he, 
 at any rate, had been a party to the plot, that he 
 was at least a willing if not an eager adherent 
 to the Family Council. 
 
 Yes, they were all there, Lady Metcalfe, 
 Peter, the Charsleys, and Diana. Seen thus 
 together, even if one excluded Peter (who, she 
 was quite sure, was innocent of any conspiracy) , 
 they seemed formidable in their fixed and united 
 determination to make her yield. She was to be 
 made to see that all paths were closed to her 
 other than this one which they wished to compel 
 her to tread. She was too young to know what
 
 THE REST HOUSE 233 
 
 was good for her or to be allowed to choose for 
 herself. There was to be no attempt to stray 
 from the beaten track of Metcalfe prosperity. 
 And thus united they did seem to poor Peggy 
 terribly strong almost invincible in their 
 strength. The net was already round her feet; 
 she wondered if she would ever have the strength 
 or pluck to extricate herself. 
 
 After dinner Beatrice slipped her arm in 
 Peggy's as they ascended to the drawing-room 
 while Lady Metcalfe sailed on ahead with Diana. 
 
 "Darling Peggy," she whispered, "weren't you 
 most awfully surprised to see Hugh again ? He's 
 looking splendid, isn't he? If I were a young 
 girl and he were in love with me I should feel 
 simply frightfully proud of him!" 
 
 "Why should you be proud of him?" asked 
 Peggy coldly, and surveying her sister with eyes 
 of sick misery. 
 
 "To think he loved me and wanted to marry 
 me!" said Beatrice. 
 
 Peggy was silent. 
 
 "And then it's so delicious to feel that one's 
 own happiness is making so many other people 
 happy," pursued Beatrice. 
 
 Still Peggy did not speak. The chain was 
 tightening, like a band of cold iron, pressing 
 against her heart. 
 
 She did not speak till they reached the landing. 
 It was furnished like a room, for its width was 
 so great that it had almost the dimensions of a 
 small room. There were chairs there and palms, 
 a beautiful inlaid Italian cabinet, tables with 
 flowers and photographs, and a wonderful
 
 234 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Chinese screen whose faint gilding caught the 
 radiance from the electric light that was sub- 
 dued and almost mysterious. Underfoot was 
 a thick Oriental rug of delicate coloring. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe and Diana had gone on ahead 
 into the drawing-room. 
 
 Peggy said at last almost fiercely: 
 44 Oh, Beatrice why did you let him come?" 
 Beatrice looked at her in astonishment. Peggy 
 was standing there with her hand resting on the 
 polished rim of a little table as if she were seek- 
 ing support. Her face was pale, but there was a 
 strange brightness, of excitement as well as of 
 anger, in her eyes. 
 
 "Why Peggy, what do you mean?" 
 For the first time Beatrice's misgivings were 
 thoroughly aroused, and she began to wonder 
 if Lady Metcalfe could possibly have again mis- 
 taken Peggy's intentions. 
 
 "I mean it's all useless! I don't feel in the 
 least bit proud of Hugh, and it's more and more 
 impossible for me to many him." 
 
 She almost flung the words at her sister. 
 "What nonsense, Peggy!" said Beatrice, try- 
 ing to speak lightly; "of course you're going to 
 marry him. He's a dear and he's perfectly de- 
 voted to you, and we all know that you have 
 regretted your hasty action last spring. Mother 
 has appreciated the change in you very much, 
 and realized that it was a tacit acknowledgment 
 on your part that you had been in the wrong 
 and intended to behave differently in the future. 
 She wanted you to have plenty of time to think 
 it over, and she told me that she was certain of
 
 THE REST HOUSE 235 
 
 you now, and was sure you were going to be 
 sensible and obedient. You are too old to in- 
 dulge in childish dreams of romance. Marriage 
 isn't a romance, but with a good man who loves 
 you it can bring you all kinds of happiness. 
 Don't throw away your chance of happiness 
 while you are young you will regret it after- 
 ward. You must believe that mother that all 
 of us know best what is good for you !" 
 
 Peggy looked curiously at her sister while she 
 made this long speech. Yes, Beatrice was 
 happy; she was sure that she would not now 
 exchange her lot for any other in the world. She 
 was perfectly satisfied, and the prospect of hav- 
 ing another child filled her cup to overflowing. 
 Yet far away in the past Peggy had a vision of a 
 girl weeping her very heart out in the old school- 
 room at Mildon only the day before her engage- 
 ment to Lord Charsley was announced. 
 
 Had she utterly forgotten that day of pas- 
 sionate stress? Had it been relegated to the 
 shadows of childish dreams of romance insub- 
 stantial things that had no bearing upon real life ? 
 
 Beatrice said rather inconsequently : 
 
 "Why, when I was your age, Peggy, Ethne 
 was a year old !" 
 
 She had always been intensely proud of her 
 motherhood ; it was the one thing that mattered. 
 She felt that if a woman had a good husband and 
 children she need ask nothing more of life. As 
 Peggy made no reply Beatrice continued: 
 
 "If you are still thinking of that rather dread- 
 ful young man you were so taken up with at the 
 ball last winter I must tell you it isn't the slight-
 
 236 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 est use. In fact, I know father told you quite 
 plainly you wouldn't be allowed to marry him. 
 The sooner you forget all about him the better. 
 He doesn't belong to our world, and women are 
 never really happy away from their own milieu, 
 especially if they exchange it for a lower plane ! 
 Diana and I both feel very strongly that if you 
 married him we could never receive you again. 
 Whereas we are both devoted to Hugh, and think 
 you a very lucky girl to have such a splendid 
 fellow at your feet!" 
 
 A glint of anger showed in Peggy's eyes at 
 this denigration of Morford. Yet she felt as if 
 those cruel words had smirched the bright mem- 
 ory of him a little. 
 
 "So, dear Peggy, I know you will think over 
 what I've said. I'm sure you wouldn't distress 
 mother for all the world. And you will be grate- 
 ful to us all one of these days for persuading 
 you for helping you. When you are engaged 
 to Hugh I am sure he will teach you to care. 
 It's lovely being engaged, Peggy." 
 
 But Peggy said in a slow, careful, final tone : 
 
 "I shall never, never be engaged to Hugh. It 
 is quite useless of you to talk in this way to me, 
 Beatrice." 
 
 She followed Beatrice into the drawing-room. 
 
 Beatrice went up to her mother and said in a 
 low voice : 
 
 "I really think you'd better say a word to her. 
 She's in a dreadful mood." 
 
 Diana glanced at Peggy, who had retired into 
 a distant corner of the room and was idly turning 
 over the pages of some illustrated papers.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 237 
 
 Lady Metcalfe rose and crossed the room to 
 where her daughter was sitting. 
 
 "Hugh wants to have a few words with you 
 after dinner, my dear Peggy," she said affection- 
 ately. "I hope you will realize now how im- 
 portant it all is." She lowered her voice. "I 
 didn't care for your manner to him at dinner. 
 Of course it's a mistake for a girl to seem too 
 eager and encouraging. But there is a medium 
 in all things." 
 
 Peggy flushed under the rebuke. 
 
 "No doubt you felt a little embarrassed at 
 meeting him again. Perhaps we ought not to have 
 taken you by surprise. But I felt it would be 
 such a pleasant one for you. Dear Peggy, you 
 know what is before you and it isn't every girl 
 that gets a second chance, I can tell you. I am 
 sure that you are going to make us all Hugh 
 included very happy. You know what your 
 sisters' lives are like and how happy they are. 
 That is the kind of happiness every mother 
 wishes for her daughter. I am so thankful it is 
 coming now to my little Peggy." 
 
 This speech seemed to give an additional pang 
 to the pain Peggy was then enduring. Her 
 mother, Diana, Beatrice, and perhaps Hugh him- 
 self, were all perfectly convinced that she was 
 going to yield to their wishes and marry him. She 
 wondered drearily if it would not be well for her 
 peace to give up those wild dreams and submit. 
 
 "I am glad to think you have come to under- 
 stand at last that we know what is best for you. 
 You see we are older and more experienced and 
 are better judges of what is likely to promote
 
 238 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 your happiness. I am sure you will be every bit 
 as happy as Diana and Beatrice. Hugh can give 
 you everything in the world, and you will soon 
 wonder that you ever hesitated!" 
 
 Peggy clasped her hands nervously together. 
 Her eyes were fixed upon the floor. It was im- 
 possible for her to speak, and Lady Metcalfe, 
 convinced that she was making an impression, 
 pursued contentedly : 
 
 "Hugh is more in love with you than ever. 
 He told me he had never seen you look so 
 beautiful. You must not let his admiration turn 
 your head," she went on playfully; "you have 
 had so little compared to what your sisters always 
 received wherever they went!" 
 
 Peggy's heart was waging a fierce conflict 
 within her. She had allowed herself to be half- 
 hypnotized by her mother's words until she found 
 herself actually contemplating the possibility of 
 marrying Hugh and sacrificing herself on the 
 altar of their wishes. Almost she saw herself 
 following that line of least resistance and placing 
 her life, her freedom, in Hugh's hands, turning 
 her back forever upon those spiritual dreams 
 which seemed now too far off and remote to be 
 reached by her weak hands. She felt a passion- 
 ate desire to secure the approbation of all these 
 people who wished her so well, and were only 
 trying to coerce her for her own benefit. And in 
 time, perhaps not all at once, of course, but 
 when years should begin to deaden the dreams 
 that had been left to atrophy slowly in her heart 
 she, too, would taste the quiet domestic hap- 
 piness that Beatrice had found; she, too, would
 
 THE REST HOUSE 239 
 
 look back and wonder at her own hesitation. And 
 she would live the life she was accustomed to 
 under those familiar external conditions of 
 wealth, comfort, and luxury. There would be no 
 going forth into that loneliness that awaited her 
 the moment she became a Catholic. 
 
 But even as her thoughts traveled swiftly like 
 restless birds over that life that was hers for 
 the taking, she realized the utter impossibility 
 of choosing it. No fugitive vision of Morford 
 rose to confront her now, making that proposed 
 marriage impossible, but the fact that she was 
 a Catholic in all but name. In a few weeks, per- 
 haps, she would have taken that step which was 
 to change her life utterly. Soon, very soon, she 
 would have sought and found admittance at those 
 long-closed doors. It would mean poverty, 
 penury, the displeasure and bitter disappoint- 
 ment of her parents, a confusion of darkness 
 wherein she seemed to see herself wandering 
 homeless and astray. It was the loneliness of it 
 that frightened her, for she had been always 
 guarded and sheltered. Her very youth and in- 
 experience protested against such a fate, so cheer- 
 less and so forlorn. The thought that Peter 
 would not be there to comfort her gave it an 
 added loneliness and terror. 
 
 "So do thou also learn to part with the neces- 
 sary and beloved friend for the love of God" 
 Those words from Morford's little, worn copy 
 of the "Imitation" flashed into her mind and 
 made the path become suddenly clearer. The 
 way that had seemed suddenly obscured by deep, 
 impassable mists showed itself like a little thread
 
 240 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 of silver. If she did not follow it she who had 
 bravely put her hand to the plow she would be 
 false to her own heart, to her own soul. She 
 would have to go through all her life starved as 
 she had been starved during the past year. 
 
 "We have often been very anxious about you, 
 Peggy," continued her mother in her soft, smooth 
 voice; "y u have such a different temperament. 
 We saw that we could not force you to do any- 
 thing against your will. Go into the white draw- 
 ing-room, my dear child. You will, I think, find 
 dear Hugh waiting for you." 
 
 She rose and then stooped down and lightly 
 kissed Peggy's dark head. "Dear little naughty, 
 wilful Peggy," she murmured affectionately, 
 "what an opportunity you have now of redeem- 
 ing your old bad character. Don't keep Hugh 
 waiting, my dear child." 
 
 The power of suggestion is one that can not 
 be overlooked, and in the mentality of Lady Met- 
 calf e it became a sharp and useful weapon. What 
 did Beatrice mean by saying Peggy was in a 
 dreadful mood? Why,, she had never found her 
 more tractable. During the whole of that inter- 
 view, which she herself had found so strenuous 
 and exhausting, Peggy had not said a single 
 word. She had listened to her with the most 
 perfect filial respect. There was no doubt that 
 Peggy had become quite reasonable and that to- 
 morrow they would be able to announce her en- 
 gagement to Hugh Quentin. 
 
 "I don't think we had better risk a long en- 
 gagement," thought Lady Metcalfe; "in fact,
 
 THE REST HOUSE 241 
 
 under the circumstances the shorter it is the 
 better. Perhaps the first week in December I 
 am sure I can get all she requires in a month. 
 Oh, it would be a mistake to delay the marriage 
 it isn't as if one could ever feel quite, quite sure of 
 darling Peggy 1"
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 PEGGY rose quite meekly and went into the 
 white drawing-room. True to her mother's 
 expectations, she found Hugh standing there, his 
 feet in their polished shoes firmly set upon the 
 white hearth-rug. He had just lit a cigarette. 
 The aroma greeted Peggy's nostrils as she en- 
 tered the room and she felt suddenly an un- 
 reasonable hatred of it. 
 
 The windows of the white drawing-room 
 looked onto the street, and she could hear the 
 rumble of the traffic as it passed down Portman 
 Square. 
 
 "I have come. Mother said you were here," 
 said Peggy simply. 
 
 She could see that Hugh was feeling embar- 
 rassed too ; he was not quite at his ease. A little 
 cinder fell from the end of his cigarette upon 
 the rug. He put his foot on it at once, but there 
 was a faint smell of burning and a tiny brown 
 mark showed on the rug. 
 
 Then he went across the room and shut the 
 door which Peggy had left open. 
 
 ''They did not tell you that I was coming 
 to-night?" said Hugh at last, looking down upon 
 Peggy, who was sitting on a low chair by the 
 fire. 
 
 "No," she answered. 
 
 Yes, she would be quite frank with him she 
 had made up her mind to that. She would tell 
 him what she meant to do. That would surely 
 
 242
 
 THE REST HOUSE 243 
 
 put a stop to his wish to marry her. Even if he 
 told her mother about it and an effort was made 
 to restrain her from becoming a Catholic, that, 
 too, must be risked. 
 
 "I went away because I could not bear to be 
 in England and never see you, Peggy," said 
 Hugh at last. "But they tell me you have 
 changed that last spring you did not know your 
 own mind. That gives me hope, although when 
 I last saw you you did not leave me much room 
 for hope. I love you, and I want you to be my 
 wife. It has been horrible to me this long sep- 
 aration this uncertainty." 
 
 "Hugh," she said desperately, "I have some- 
 thing to tell you." 
 
 "Whatever it is it can make no difference to 
 my love for you," he assured her. 
 
 "When you have heard it you will not perhaps 
 care for me any more," said Peggy. 
 
 Hugh was quick to take alarm. Had any one 
 else entered Peggy's life during his months of 
 absence, stirring that untried heart to love? But 
 no it was impossible. Lady Metcalfe had as- 
 sured him that Peggy had spent all those months 
 in quiet and seclusion; until this visit to London 
 she had not once left Mildon. Her father had 
 wished it to be so. There could have been no 
 opportunity for her to see and fall in love with 
 another man. 
 
 "Will you tell me what it is?" he said. 
 
 "I have made up my mind to become a Cath- 
 olic," she said at last. "I have not told mother 
 yet I am sure she believes that I have given 
 up thinking of it. I felt sometimes that was why
 
 244 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 they would not let me leave Mildon why they 
 have been keeping such a watch upon me. I have 
 had no freedom at all. I was not even allowed to 
 go and stay with my sisters." She stopped short. 
 There was a strange expression upon Hugh's 
 face of horror as well as of surprise. 
 
 "A Catholic? What on earth for?" he ex- 
 claimed at last. "Who's been getting at you?" 
 
 His eyes searched her face, and suddenly his 
 features stiffened and seemed to grow hard. 
 
 "Oh, by the way," he said roughly, "that weird 
 chap Morford was one, I remember." 
 
 Peggy's face was a shade paler. At the men- 
 tion of Morford and no one seemed able to 
 leave his name out of the matter she felt a pang 
 of physical pain as if a sword had touched her. 
 
 "Is it his doing?" demanded Hugh. 
 
 Had the man come back in spite of all their 
 precautions in spite, too, of that vigilant guard- 
 ing of their young daughter? 
 
 "It has nothing to do with him," said Peggy 
 in a voice that struggled unsuccessfully to be 
 steady and controlled. "I have never seen him 
 again. It is most unlikely now that I ever shall." 
 
 "And your father does not know?" 
 
 "I have not told him yet that my mind is quite 
 made up. It will be very difficult he has violent 
 prejudices. He told me once that if I ever be- 
 came a Catholic he would not let me go on living 
 in his house that he would not give me any 
 money." 
 
 She spoke tranquilly, and Hugh saw that she 
 did not in the least realize what those things 
 would mean when put into stern practice.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 245 
 
 "I should hope you were not going to be so 
 silly as to risk that, then," said Hugh with rising 
 impatience. 
 
 It was quite true what her mother had con- 
 stantly said of her Peggy was extraordinarily 
 unformed for her years. He felt impatient with 
 her as one is impatient with an obstinate child. 
 He did not love her any the less there was 
 something charming to him about that childlike 
 innocence of hers, but he did long quite savagely 
 to take her out of harm's way to make her his 
 own and shield her from wilfully exposing her- 
 self to such tragic happenings. 
 
 "I am going to risk it," said Peggy tranquilly. 
 
 She was now by far the more composed of the 
 two ; indeed, it increased her own calm to witness 
 Hugh's perturbation and anger. 
 
 For a few minutes there was silence. He was 
 reflecting upon her words that had held so much 
 decision, so much firmness of purpose. He was 
 a rich man, and the thought of Peggy's fortune 
 had always been with him a secondary consid- 
 eration; he had often assured himself that he 
 would have wished to marry her just the same 
 if she had not had a farthing. But he knew very 
 little of Catholics; they had always seemed to 
 him a race apart, surrounded with disadvan- 
 tages, and he did not at all wish his wife to be 
 one. And there was surely no reason on earth 
 for her to become one to take upon herself 
 those disadvantages. Besides all this, it came 
 into his mind that in becoming a Catholic Peggy 
 would give a proof of her submission to the in- 
 sidious influence of Morford. He was certain
 
 246 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 that it was Morford's work, and as such he was 
 prepared to combat it. 
 
 "So you see that I couldn't marry you now in 
 any case," Peggy was saying. "I couldn't make 
 the two lives fit together. I I have asked 
 Father FitzGerald about it, because my mother is 
 so anxious that you and I should be married. I 
 told him," and now she raised her eyes to his in 
 perfect frankness, "that I didn't care for you 
 as I am sure a woman ought to care for the man 
 she marries. He said he should never advise a 
 mixed marriage in the case of a young convert 
 that it might even mean my perseverance might 
 be tried too much that even if I had loved you 
 it would still have been a risk." 
 
 "Who is this man who has dared to advise you 
 in this way?" demanded Hugh fiercely. 
 
 "He is a priest a Catholic priest," said 
 Peggy. 
 
 "You would never have thought of this if you 
 had not met Morford. It is all his doing!" cried 
 Hugh. 
 
 Once he had felt a violent, unreasoning jeal- 
 ousy of Morford when he had seen him with 
 Peggy, and now that jealousy surged back to 
 his heart like a dark flood, chilling and wound- 
 ing it. 
 
 "You are not telling me the real truth," he 
 went on. "I told you once before and I repeat 
 it now you are in love with this man. And 
 now you intend to give him a final and open 
 proof of your love by joining the Church to 
 which he belongs. But do you think he will care 
 for you any more when he finds you have lost 
 your fortune? He has not got a farthing in the
 
 THE REST HOUSE 247 
 
 world, and your fortune must have been an im- 
 mense attraction to him. You will find, how- 
 ever, that you have fallen between two stools 
 you will have cut the ground from under your 
 feet. You father will never forgive you for dis- 
 obeying him, and as for Morford, do you sup- 
 pose he will care what becomes of you when you 
 are turned out of your home without a penny? 
 You will find what his love is worth then." 
 
 He spoke harshly. Could she not see these 
 facts for herself? Was she so blinded by her 
 desire to please Morford that she would risk all 
 she possessed for this one end? 
 
 "My becoming a Catholic has nothing to do 
 with Mr. Morford," Peggy repeated; "it is true 
 that my conversion dates from the night I spent 
 at the Rest House. Otherwise it has nothing to 
 do with him nothing nothing!" 
 
 "I simply don't believe you!" said Hugh. 
 
 There was a long pause. Peggy sat there, mo- 
 tionless and still as a statue. Her little white 
 figure seemed to detach itself from the surround- 
 ing whiteness in a manner that no contrast of 
 color could have more perfectly achieved. 
 
 "You say your father has threatened to send 
 you away in disgrace if you disobey him. He 
 is a hard man, Peggy, and if he does this you 
 will be alone and poor and you will suffer hor- 
 ribly. How will you earn your own living? You 
 have lived in luxury all your life you have never 
 been taught to do anything that is likely to help 
 you then. It is a madness you would very soon 
 regret. And it will not bring you any nearer 
 to Morford if that is what you are thinking of!" 
 
 It was an effort always to him to mention
 
 248 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Morford's name; it stirred within him that un- 
 worthy, savage, primitive instinct of jealousy. 
 He had always looked upon himself as an ex- 
 tremely civilized man, and he disliked to discover 
 this primitive passion in his own heart aroused, 
 too, by a man he considered his own social in- 
 ferior. What could Peggy see in this this 
 bounder? Of course she was in love with him! 
 That explained everything that even her own 
 people failed to understand about her. This talk 
 of religion was a mere blind. A man had been 
 from first to last at the bottom of the whole busi- 
 ness, and her own strenuous denial did not affect 
 the point at all. 
 
 His words stirred her pride ; she longed to de- 
 fend Morford from the accusation of fortune - 
 hunting. But she only repeated slowly and with 
 deliberate emphasis: 
 
 "I tell you Mr. Morford has nothing to do 
 with it at all. I am going to become a Catholic 
 because I must." 
 
 "Must! Why must you?" he said. His im- 
 patience was increased by that stubborn ob- 
 stinacy of hers; he still believed that all these 
 symptoms of religious caprice were the outcome 
 of Morford's influence. No doubt the man was 
 too much of a fanatic to dream of marrying a 
 Protestant, and he had snatched the opportunity 
 given of making love to a girl whose father was 
 reputed to be fabulously rich, while he tried to 
 make her believe that it was only her conversion 
 he desired. Again Hugh longed to carry her 
 away in safety before she could actually commit 
 this mad act. "Why can't you be satisfied as
 
 THE REST HOUSE 249 
 
 your sisters are with your own religion? Do you 
 think you know better than your parents?" 
 
 "Oh, Hugh, please don't. I really can't ex- 
 plain, and if I did you wouldn't understand me. 
 Do you think the prospect of being poor and 
 homeless is a very pleasant one to me? You 
 know my father well enough to know that when 
 he says a thing like that he means it. As soon as 
 he knows he will send me away." 
 
 "This is folly 1 This is madness!" said Hugh. 
 "You are far too young to take your life into 
 your own hands in this way ! Ask Peter ask any 
 one! You will only be sorry when it is too late. 
 Your parents, as you have just said, wish for 
 our marriage. I have their full permission to 
 make you my wife. It has been my one dream 
 for a whole year. You say that you do not care 
 for me as a wife should care for her husband. 
 Believe me, Peggy, that love will come I will 
 teach you to care for me. I want you to put 
 aside all this madness and forgive the hard things 
 I have said to you in my anger to-night. And 
 perhaps later on if you still wished it we could 
 see about your becoming a Catholic." 
 
 "I am sorry, Hugh. I don't love you and I 
 can't marry you. But I did hope perhaps that 
 when you knew you wouldn't care any more." 
 
 There was something so naive and childlike 
 in this speech that it wrung a little smile from 
 Hugh in the midst of his own misery. 
 
 "Did you think as little of my love as all that?" 
 he asked, and he stood there looking with shining 
 eyes at Peggy, trying to understand her and fail- 
 ing completely in the effort. "Do you under-
 
 250 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 stand nothing, then, of what my love means? Do 
 you think it could perish as quickly as all that?" 
 he sharply demanded. "Catholic or not, I shall 
 always care for you. If you become a Catholic 
 I am still ready to marry you." He had not been 
 so sure of this a few minutes ago, but as Peggy 
 became more and more remote and out of his 
 reach he felt he would be ready to make any sac- 
 rifice to try to win her. "Of course I would a thou- 
 sand times rather you remained a Protestant. It 
 makes all kinds of odious complications when 
 husband and wife are of different creeds. And 
 there isn't a Catholic church within miles of 
 Westcombe ! Oh, Peggy, let me entreat you not 
 to take this step ! Wait a year or two longer to 
 convince yourself that it is necessary. You 
 really oughtn't to disregard the wishes of your 
 people. It'll be most awfully wrong of you, and 
 you are sure to regret it sooner or later. Forget 
 it, my darling, and forget this man who has used 
 his influence so unscrupulously to persuade you!" 
 There was warmth and fire in his pleading now, 
 and as he spoke he came over to where she was 
 sitting, took her hand in his and bent a little 
 toward her. 
 
 But Peggy freed herself quietly from his grasp 
 and rising, stood facing him. 
 
 "I have chosen," she said very quietly, "and 
 I can only assure you that no one has persuaded 
 or influenced me. I am following my own con- 
 science; I am doing what my heart tells me is 
 right for me. I can see without your telling me 
 that it would be far better for my temporal hap- 
 piness to remain where I am. I daresay," and
 
 THE REST HOUSE 251 
 
 now her voice trembled a little, "there will come 
 moments when my perseverance will be greatly 
 tried. Father FitzGerald has warned me that 
 this may be the case. I have never known what 
 it is to be cold and hungry my body is not 
 accustomed to any privations at all." She held 
 her head proudly. "I know there will be temp- 
 tations for me, but I do not yet know how hard 
 they may be. But I shall pray for strength." 
 
 There was a nobility about her now which he 
 felt he was observing for the first time. And he 
 was aware that this resolve of hers was uncpn- 
 querable. She saw all that it meant for her of 
 hardship in the future, and if she did not realize 
 all the details, she saw at least that there lay 
 before her a period of suffering, of trial. And 
 the fragility of her ! The thought of her suffer- 
 ing touched him to the quick. Yet through it all 
 he saw how little he knew of that beloved heart he 
 had believed so confidently he was going to win. 
 
 "Shall you tell j^our people soon?" he asked. 
 "It seems to me that they ought to know." 
 
 "I shall tell them nearer the time," said Peggy. 
 "Although I dread doing it, I long to tell them. 
 They will think as you have thought, I know. 
 They will believe that Mr. Morford has urged 
 me persuaded me. I do not expect they will 
 believe me any more than you have believed me." 
 
 "No I don't suppose they will," said Hugh. 
 
 He felt that he was looking at a new Peggy, 
 one with different ideals, different standards 
 from the one he had known and loved. But she 
 was much dearer to him now, and his heart ached 
 to think of all that lay before her if she perpe-
 
 252 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 trated this supreme folly. She was very delicate 
 and it was possible that her very health might 
 suffer. She was the last person to make her own 
 way in the world. Even strong men had been 
 known to starve in the effort. And there was 
 something peculiarly weak and incompetent 
 about Peggy. Diana in such circumstances 
 might have achieved wealth and fame! But 
 Peggy . . . His heart sank afresh as he looked 
 at her. 
 
 "Shall we go back to the others now?" said 
 Peggy. 
 
 He followed her back into the drawing-room. 
 Perhaps Lady Metcalfe and her daughters had 
 wondered a little at the protracted nature of 
 the interview, and had put a wholly wrong inter- 
 pretation upon it. 
 
 Not much could be gathered from the two 
 faces that confronted them. Hugh's was grimly 
 set; he scarcely smiled as he bade Lady Met- 
 calfe good-night and shook hands with her two 
 daughters. Peter accompanied him downstairs, 
 but he did not even attempt to make any state- 
 ment to Peter. Peggy could tell them just as 
 much or as little as she chose. After all, nothing 
 could mitigate the fact that he had made a second 
 endeavor to win her, and he had failed even more 
 completely than he had done that first time. Her 
 mind was wholly occupied with other thoughts, 
 and whither these would lead her he could not 
 tell. He only felt amid the general confusion 
 and pain that they would inevitably lead her fur- 
 ther and further away from himself.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 PEGGY went up to her room that night without 
 having vouchsafed any information about 
 her interview with Hugh. She had said good- 
 night and left them all almost immediately after 
 Hugh had taken his departure. She was feeling 
 utterly exhausted with all the emotions of the 
 evening, and she was beginning to see that she 
 would not be able to keep her mother in ignorance 
 of her intentions much longer. The moment for 
 revealing them was fast approaching, and the 
 crisis of this evening's happenings would cer- 
 tainly hasten it. 
 
 Nor did Lady Metcalfe disturb her that night. 
 No one came to her room, a fact for which she 
 felt she could never be sufficiently thankful. She 
 had been afraid that her mother would come to 
 learn the details of her long conversation with 
 Hugh Quentin. 
 
 Early in the morning when the maid brought 
 her tea a little note from Lady Metcalfe was 
 sent up to her room. "Come to my room as soon 
 as you are dressed. I wish to see you most par- 
 ticularly. J. M." That was all, but as Peggy 
 rose and dressed herself as quickly as she could, 
 she knew in her heart she could not again leave 
 her mother's room until she had told her every- 
 thing. 
 
 She put on a little gray dress and went down 
 with firm footsteps to Lady Metcalfe's room. 
 Her mother was still in bed and was reading the 
 
 253
 
 254 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 letters and newspapers that had just been 
 brought to her. She looked curiously at Peggy 
 as she came quietly into the room. How well 
 that dress became her it was just the shade of 
 gray that was becoming to dark pale people. 
 
 "Well, Peggy. Good-morning," she said 
 brightly. 
 
 Peggy stooped and kissed her mother's fore- 
 head. 
 
 "Good-morning, mother," she said. 
 
 She felt as if she had already begun to walk 
 stumblingly and blindly along that destined path 
 whose sharp stones were even now beginning to 
 wound her feet. Was she strong enough? 
 Would it not be better and wiser to follow 
 Hugh's advice and give up the idea that seemed 
 to him so mad ? Hugh had taught her last night 
 to envisage her future position with absolute 
 clearness. She would find herself in a desperate 
 position, and she would wound the feelings of 
 all those who were near and dear to her. 
 
 "I want to know what passed between you and 
 Hugh last night," said Lady Metcalfe. 
 
 "I think it would have been kinder if you had 
 warned me I was going to see him again," said 
 Peggy in a low voice. "I should have told you 
 that I had not changed. He asked me to be his 
 wife he was angry when I refused. But I have 
 tried to make it quite clear now that I can never 
 care for him in that way." 
 
 Lady Metcalfe looked at her daughter in 
 angry astonishment. She was about to speak 
 when Peggy resumed quietly: 
 
 "I told him that I meant to become a Cath-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 255 
 
 olic," she said. "Mother, I have waited until I 
 was twenty-one, and now I dare not put it off 
 any longer. I have had a whole year to think 
 about it. I am sorry to seem undutiful." 
 
 "Peggy you can not mean it!" cried Lady 
 Metcalfe. "You know what your father said. 
 He will never have you in the house again you 
 will ruin your life and your future and you 
 will break my heart!" 
 
 Confronted by the prospect of this dire calam- 
 ity, Lady Metcalfe burst into tears. She was less 
 angry with her daughter than appalled by the 
 threatened scandal. What would people say of 
 a girl who was capable of committing an action 
 that should compel her own father to such ex- 
 tremes of severity and harshness? 
 
 "It is very wicked of you, Peggy, to threaten 
 to bring all this misery upon us," she sobbed; 
 "we have always been so blessed so happy in 
 all our children. We have always congratulated 
 ourselves upon the fact that we had loving and 
 dutiful children who appreciated all we had done 
 for them. None of the others has rebelled and 
 disobeyed us. Oh, I am sure you can not really 
 mean it. You could not bring this dreadful dis- 
 aster upon us. I shall take you home this after- 
 noon and tell your father he must speak to you 
 again. He will show you better than I can how 
 wrong and wicked you are even to contemplate 
 becoming a Roman Catholic!" 
 
 "I can't go home to-day," said Peggy. "I 
 am going to be received very soon, and perhaps 
 I shall never go home again. Oh, mother you 
 don't know anything about the Catholic Church
 
 256 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 how holy and beautiful it is." She came over 
 to the bedside and knelt down near her mother. 
 "You must forgive me. I shall need your for- 
 giveness," she said ; "it is something that I must 
 do something that has been too strong for me. 
 I can not turn back now." 
 
 Lady Metcalfe looked at Peggy with eyes 
 that were still full of tears. She had always 
 been just a little less fond of her than of her 
 other children, and she had found her much more 
 difficult to deal with than the others, and per- 
 haps she had not always understood her very 
 well. But she had been conscious especially of 
 late of some depth and power in Peggy that none 
 of the others had seemed to possess. One could 
 never force her into the same groove, the same 
 routine as her sisters. Gentle and pliable as she 
 had seemed in these past months, she now gave 
 evidence of her own right to rule her life; she 
 was as far as ever from submitting to their will. 
 She could not be forced into a marriage that was 
 distasteful to her, as Beatrice had been forced. 
 And with this same determined obstinacy she had 
 set her heart upon becoming a Catholic. 
 
 There was something delicate and rather 
 fragile about Peggy's appearance which did not 
 at all correspond to the strength of purpose, the 
 courage, she was now displaying. She was de- 
 termined to possess those things that seemed 
 good in her eyes, she was ready even to pay a high 
 price for them; she was prepared to sacrifice 
 home and parents and friends in the attainment 
 of them. 
 
 "Did not Hugh say anything to try to deter
 
 THE REST HOUSE 257 
 
 you?" Lady Metcalfe said, the tears flowing 
 afresh as she considered the matter in all its ap- 
 palling possibilities. 
 
 "He said a very great deal," said Peggy, "he 
 even said that he was ready to marry me if I 
 became a Catholic." 
 
 "And you still refused him? You thought 
 nothing of the great sacrifices he would have to 
 make?" 
 
 "I have never cared for Hugh as I am sure 
 one ought to care for the person one marries," 
 said Peggy tranquilly. 
 
 "Lots of girls only learn to care afterward. 
 Look at Beatrice and how happy she is now with 
 her little children." 
 
 "Yes, but I am not like Beatrice," said Peggy. 
 
 "If you had married Hugh you would at least 
 have been provided for, even if your father still 
 refused to make a settlement. That would have 
 been a thousand times better than that you 
 should be sent away in disgrace perhaps to 
 starve. Oh, you are cruel and callous, Peggy. 
 You don't seem to care at all that you are break- 
 ing my heart. Do you suppose your mother 
 wishes to see you turned out of your home like 
 this?" Don't you realize that I shall suffer 
 very much?" 
 
 "I am sorry, mother," said Peggy patiently, 
 "I am very sorry." 
 
 "It will be such a terrible scandal," moaned 
 Lady Metcalfe, "of course most people will see 
 our point of view and not blame us for our harsh- 
 ness they will recognize that it was the only 
 thing to be done. But others will blame us very
 
 258 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 much for sending our own daughter away. It 
 is not a very pleasant thing to do if you come to 
 think of it, and you are very young and ignorant, 
 Peggy, and there is no one I can ask to look after 
 you."* 
 
 There was very genuine concern for Peggy in 
 her heart; her maternal feelings were strongly 
 touched; at that prospect of parting, so inevit- 
 able yet so forlorn, she seemed to forget her 
 anger and to love Peggy more than she had ever 
 done before. For after all Peggy was her own 
 child. 
 
 "I am sure I shall manage all right," said 
 Peggy, bravely. "And no one will blame you 
 for doing what you think to be right." She 
 made a movement as if to go toward the door. 
 
 "You must go and tell Beatrice to come to 
 me," said Lady Metcalfe; "I must see Beatrice 
 at once. You had better tell Valerie to pack 
 your things, Peggy, for I shall certainly take 
 you home to-day." 
 
 Peggy went quietly away and knocked at her 
 sister's door. She did not go in, in response to 
 Beatrice's answer, but contented herself with 
 saying, in a slightly raised voice. "Mother 
 wants you to go to her room when you are 
 dressed, please." She could hear the children's 
 voices in Beatrice's room ; they always assembled 
 there in the morning to see their mother and say 
 their prayers. 
 
 Beatrice was extremely anxious not to say 
 curious to know why her mother wished to see 
 her. She felt certain that it concerned Peggy, 
 so she rang the bell for the nurse and sent the
 
 THE REST HOUSE 259 
 
 children away sooner than usual. Then she 
 slipped on a wrapper of pale blue silk and ran 
 down the passage to her mother's room. 
 
 She rightly surmised that her mother wished 
 to acquaint her with the latest developments of 
 a situation that had seemed on the face of it so 
 promising. 
 
 When she had listened to Lady Metcalf e's agi- 
 tated delineation of Peggy's untoward and un- 
 expected behavior, she exclaimed angrily : 
 
 "Of course it is this man Morford! I have al- 
 ways felt convinced that she had some one else in 
 her mind. And she probably thinks if she be- 
 comes a Catholic it will force him to come for- 
 ward and declare himself!" 
 
 This explanation had not occurred to Lady 
 Metcalfe. Unless Peggy had come across Mor- 
 ford during the last few days in London, when a 
 larger liberty had been accorded to her, there 
 could have been absolutely no opportunity of 
 their meeting. The thought that Morford could 
 have had anything to do with these later develop- 
 ments had never presented itself to her as it 
 had done to Hugh and now to Beatrice. 
 
 "Oh, my dear Beatrice, I am sure, however tire- 
 some Peggy may be, she could not possibly wish 
 to marry that dreadful young man!" she said. 
 
 "I believe that Mrs. Dalton is trying to make 
 a match between him and her second girl 
 Bridget," said Beatrice. "But then Catholics 
 have so little choice they are obliged to let their 
 girls make these queer marriages, especially 
 when they are too bigoted to let them marry 
 Protestants! Well, we can always console our-
 
 260 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 selves that we have done our very best for Peggy, 
 and it will not be our fault if she comes to the 
 most awful grief. Peggy is perfectly hopeless 
 and you will never get her to behave in a rational 
 way." 
 
 "I mean to take her home at once," sobbed 
 Lady Metcalfe, "and then her father can talk 
 to her again. I am sorry for her, but there really 
 is nothing else to be done. He is the only person 
 she will ever listen to. Perhaps even now it is not 
 too late to get her to behave reasonably." 
 
 "I think it would be much better to leave her 
 here for a few days longer," said Beatrice, "and 
 let us see what we can do with her. I will get 
 Diana to come, and in the meantime you can go 
 home and prepare father a little." 
 
 "She will only rush off to be received," said 
 Lady Metcalfe. 
 
 "If she does that you need not have her back 
 at home again," said Lady Charsley, "and it will 
 not make half so much scandal as if she were 
 really turned out of the house. You know how 
 servants talk. Peggy is of age and one can't pre- 
 vent her by force from doing any mad thing she 
 sets her heart upon." 
 
 "Perhaps that would be best," said Lady Met- 
 calfe, "I shall go back to Mildon this afternoon, 
 and you must see what you can do. I am sure 
 Diana will think of something to say. And then 
 if she does get herself received, as you say, the 
 scandal will be much less. No one will know at 
 Mildon exactly what has happened. Whereas, if 
 Peggy went home and had a scene with her 
 father every one would know about it, and there
 
 THE REST HOUSE 261 
 
 would be sides taken, and all kinds of unpleasant- 
 ness would follow." 
 
 There was a good deal of reasonableness in 
 Beatrice's suggestion, and it would certainly di- 
 minish a scandal which was to all appearances 
 becoming inevitable. Beatrice was always per- 
 suasive and tactful, and with Diana's support, 
 her influence might be of use at any rate in de- 
 laying Peggy from taking the dreadful step she 
 was now so earnestly contemplating. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe longed to save her daughter. 
 She did not wish to see her thrust homeless and 
 penniless from Mildon, and at the same time, she 
 knew that there would be no chance of averting 
 this dire catastrophe if Peggy ended by defying 
 her father. Lady Metcalfe wept a little when 
 Beatrice got up to go away. There was nothing 
 to be done nothing at all except to try to keep 
 Peggy back, at any rate, for the present. It was 
 all too dreadful to be thought of! Catholics 
 never realized what mischief they were making 
 when they deliberately set themselves to prosely- 
 tize. And there was no doubt that in the begin- 
 ning Morford had taken advantage of Peggy's 
 youth and ignorance and impressionable nature 
 to fill her mind with these strange, dangerous, 
 foreign ideas. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe, feeling that it could only pro- 
 duce an increase of her own agitation, did not 
 see Peggy again before her departure from Lon- 
 don that day. She left by a morning train, hav- 
 ing consigned Peggy with many tears to the care 
 of her two sisters.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 PEGGY'S calm baffled while it annoyed Bea- 
 trice. She was really causing an upheaval 
 that was unprecedented in the sedate annals of 
 the Metcalfe family annals which so far had 
 held nothing but the honorable records of per- 
 sonal success crowning diligent endeavor; of 
 appropriate (from the Metcalfe point of view) 
 marriages ; of daily duties and pleasures and so- 
 cial and philanthropic obligations meticulously 
 performed and fulfilled. To the rigorous prose- 
 cution of these obligations the family might well 
 and proudly trace its present prosperity, and 
 ascribe also its position upon that social pinnacle 
 where it so securely and immutably rested. Now 
 that suave harmony, repeated through three suc- 
 cessive generations, was abruptly threatened by 
 Peggy, always the least conspicuous as she was 
 the least effective member of the family. It was 
 Peggy, the unsuccessful and (almost) unad- 
 mired, who dared to come forward and announce 
 her intention of deliberately defying and disobey- 
 ing them all, calling down just if severe Olym- 
 pian wrath and retribution upon her head. It 
 was not that Beatrice approved any more than 
 did her mother of the punishment that awaited 
 Peggy. To pack Peggy off forlorn and home- 
 less without a penny would certainly earn for 
 Sir John a character of almost criminal harsh- 
 ness. He would be accused of bigotry by per- 
 sons who had tolerant opinions, and it was quite 
 
 262
 
 THE REST HOUSE 263 
 
 possible that his action might turn the flood of 
 public opinion against him, and cause it to 
 espouse Peggy's cause. It was all very difficult 
 and perplexing, and Beatrice even shed a few 
 tears when she left her mother that morning and 
 went back to her own room. 
 
 And then the culprit who was the cause of 
 all this agitation put in an appearance at lunch- 
 eon presenting a perfect outward serenity that 
 was, under the tragic circumstances, at once dis- 
 concerting and a trifle insulting! 
 
 But then, as Beatrice indignantly reflected, 
 that was Peggy all over! She was always the 
 one to display the least concern in any awkward 
 situation she had been instrumental in bringing 
 about. After all, it would not do her a great deal 
 of harm and it might even do her a great deal of 
 good to taste the parental discipline for once, 
 say for a week, and realize exactly what it meant 
 to be deprived of the luxuries and even of the 
 very necessities of life for that period. Beatrice, 
 who could not imagine doing without any of 
 these things herself (it was that same fear in- 
 deed which had induced her finally to break with 
 Claude Vernon) , considered that one little touch 
 of the whip of want might produce a wholesome 
 reaction in Peggy. She felt that it might even 
 destroy her smiling serenity. 
 
 "Dear Beatrice how kind of you to let me 
 stay on here a little. I am most awfully grate- 
 ful," said Peggy. 
 
 Except for Ethne's presence, they were alone 
 at luncheon. Jack had a cold and was not per- 
 mitted to leave the nursery.
 
 264 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 "I am doing it for mother's sake, not for 
 yours," said Beatrice coldly, "she is worried out 
 of her senses about you. I asked you to stop on 
 just to give her a little respite. You are getting 
 thoroughly on her nerves, what with your refusal 
 of Hugh and this silly talk of becoming a Cath- 
 olic." 
 
 It was as well to let Peggy understand the 
 position thoroughly, and to realize that she was 
 in disgrace, and that Beatrice's only motive in in- 
 viting her to remain was to be found in her un- 
 selfish wish to relieve her mother of a burden that 
 was becoming impossibly heavy. 
 
 "Charsley says you always seemed such a sen- 
 sible girl with no nonsense about you he is 
 almost as horrified as I am. You see, it reflects 
 upon us all, and if you are really sent away from 
 home in disgrace we shall feel it as a personal 
 matter that touches the whole family," said 
 Beatrice. 
 
 "I'm so sorry, Beatrice," said Peggy. "But 
 it's very painful for me, too, to feel I'm being 
 condemned as a criminal when I'm only trying to 
 do what's right." 
 
 "Oh, you will enjoy being a martyr we all 
 know that," said Beatrice, "but as for doing 
 right, I am sure it can never be right to disobey 
 your parents and make every one perfectly miser- 
 able just for a caprice. That is the worst of 
 Catholics they so easily persuade themselves or 
 let themselves be persuaded that black is white! 
 And if you are only doing this, as I think and as 
 mother thinks and as I am sure Hugh must think, 
 just to catch that Morford man, you had much
 
 THE REST HOUSE 265 
 
 better leave him out of your reckoning. People 
 say he is going to marry Bridget Dalton the 
 tall fair one. It is no match for her, of course 
 we should certainly call it a mesalliance but 
 Catholics, if they are at all bigoted, can not pick 
 and choose ; they have to let their girls make that 
 kind of marriage. And Bridget will have five 
 hundred a year, so, though they will be poor, they 
 won't starve." 
 
 She watched the effect of her words upon 
 Peggy. It was only local gossip and probably 
 there was little truth in it, but it would at least 
 demonstrate to Peggy that Morford was not 
 thinking about her at all. But beyond a slight 
 increase of color spreading over the delicious pal- 
 lor of Peggy's face at the mention of Morford's 
 name, she betrayed no sign of emotion, nor even 
 of surprise. What did it matter to her if Fred- 
 erick were engaged to Bridget Dalton? The 
 marriage would be a perfectly suitable and prob- 
 ably a very happy one. In her maddest mo- 
 ments, when the memory of him held her so 
 strongly that she could almost fancy it had 
 evoked his physical presence, she had never im- 
 agined that he cared at all for herself. Indeed, 
 during the short hours of their intercourse she 
 had dreadfully suspected that her importunate 
 questioning had "got on his nerves," so brusque 
 and even irritable had he seemed in his manner 
 toward her. She had always felt quite convinced 
 that he had not liked her at all, that she was to 
 him merely representative of a type he disliked 
 and despised. But in spite of this the impressions 
 that had been so deeply and sharply engraved
 
 266 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 upon her mind at the Rest House were still those 
 that irresistably governed her with a force from 
 which she could not escape. 
 
 She was certain that those ideals which set re- 
 ligion above and beyond all things, which did not 
 fear poverty but might conceivably fear riches, 
 to which temporal success was a danger rather 
 than an advantage, to which all things were in- 
 ordinate that occupied the mind to the exclusion 
 of God were, in spite of all teaching to the con- 
 trary, the right ones, the only sound and whole- 
 some ones that would lead the soul, if necessary, 
 through paths of pain and suffering, to the ulti- 
 mate reward of heaven. There are certain 
 minds to whom the whole Faith is revealed in- 
 contestably as if by a miracle and Peggy's was 
 one of them. In those passionate hours she had 
 spent in the chapel that winter night, Peggy 
 had learned unforgetable truths. She had seen 
 the Faith not only in relation to herself but in 
 relation to her whole life. She was prepared to 
 suffer for it and if need be to die for it. It was 
 to her the only thing that greatly mattered. And 
 with it all, she did feel now a little secret aston- 
 ishment at her own fixity of purpose, her own 
 changeless resolution qualities about which 
 Morford had so strongly expressed his doubts. 
 Not that Morford and his opinions mattered to 
 her now. He had passed by, and in passing had 
 forgotten her. Perhaps he only now remembered 
 her as a weak and foolish girl, tiresome in her 
 persistent demands for explanations and infor- 
 mation. 
 
 Beatrice felt that she was not making much
 
 THE REST HOUSE 267 
 
 progress, so she wrote a little note to Diana ask- 
 ing her to come to tea. Peggy found rather to 
 her dismay that she was to be kept in durance vile 
 in the drawing-room all the afternoon. But she 
 managed to scribble a little note to Father Fitz- 
 Gerald, telling him that matters had come to a 
 crisis and she had been obliged to reveal her in- 
 tentions, and she hoped, if he thought she was 
 now quite ready, that he would receive her on 
 the following morning. Valerie was entrusted 
 with the note and told to bring the answer back 
 with her. 
 
 She was not gone more than an hour and 
 when she returned with a reply that was to 
 Peggy so satisfactory that it brought tears of 
 joy to her eyes, the very fact gave the girl 
 strength to endure that very strenuous interview 
 with Diana after tea. 
 
 Beatrice left her two sisters alone together. She 
 had played her trump card by hinting at Mor- 
 ford's engagement, and she had really very little 
 left to say. Besides, the whole affair was begin- 
 ning to upset her. It was clearly Diana's turn, 
 and she knew that Diana could be sharp of 
 tongue if she chose. Diana was the clever one of 
 the family. 
 
 "I don't know in the least what you intend to 
 do in the future, Peggy," said Lady Maddinard, 
 who was looking very magnificent in a dark dress 
 of purple-colored velvet, which was extremely 
 becoming to her, "but of course if you do become 
 a Catholic and father packs you out of the house 
 you must not imagine that Beatrice and I intend 
 to come to your rescue. We should both consider
 
 268 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 it very wrong to go against father, so you must 
 not expect us to do anything to help you. But 
 I am still hoping that you will be reasonable and 
 not do anything to distress us all." 
 
 Peggy raised her clear brown eyes to her sis- 
 ter's face. It had indeed once or twice passed 
 through her mind that her sisters would offer her 
 a home, perhaps, for a few days while she was 
 looking out for a situation. Now she only said 
 quietly : 
 
 "I daresay I shall be able to find something 
 to do, if they refuse to let me go home." 
 
 "That is all nonsense, Peggy!" said Lady 
 Maddinard angrily, "y u are the most useless 
 person that ever lived. You have never been 
 accustomed to do any little thing for yourself I 
 am sure you could not even darn a stocking de- 
 cently. What sort of a companion would you 
 make, or a governess either, for that matter? I 
 do not think you are even capable of teaching 
 quite little children. I should never dream of 
 engaging a nursery governess for the boys unless 
 she had received a proper training for the post. 
 Teaching is highly specialized in these days, I can 
 tell you, and the great thing is to have children 
 properly grounded from the first. You will 
 probably have a very hard time of it, indeed, if 
 you force father to take these extreme measures, 
 and I am not sure that it would not be much 
 kinder if they were to give you a good whipping 
 and shut you up in your room, just as they used 
 to do when you were a little child, until you came 
 to your senses. If you were my daughter that 
 is how you would be treated, and fifty years ago
 
 THE REST HOUSE 269 
 
 it is certainly what would have happened to you. 
 Girls were much more severely treated then." 
 
 "You really must not trouble about me, Diana. 
 I am sure I shall manage very well." 
 
 "I am not going to trouble about you at all. 
 But if you do take this step I shall certainly wash 
 my hands of you. I am not at all intolerant or 
 bigoted on the subject of religion, but I do think 
 it very wrong of any girl to be as disobedient as 
 you are threatening to be!" 
 
 Peggy was silent. After a short pause Diana 
 returned to the attack. 
 
 "Of course it was suicidal of you to refuse to 
 marry Hugh. You are twenty-one you have 
 been out three years, and this is the first proposal 
 you have had. You have never been at all a 
 success, socially speaking, and mother soon saw 
 that and gave up trying to take you out. She 
 said it was useless to bring you to town for the 
 season. I was beginning to be afraid that you 
 would never marry, and I was delighted to hear 
 that Hugh wanted to marry you. I never ex- 
 pected you would have such a good offer as that, 
 and we were all very much surprised. It's not as 
 if you were pretty, Peggy. And then you never 
 tried to make yourself agreeable to people. 
 When Hugh first proposed and you refused him 
 we all felt that you were very young for your age 
 and did not realize what you were doing. Mother 
 thought a little time for quiet reflection would be 
 the best thing for you, and you have had a good 
 many months in which to think it all over. And 
 last night Beatrice gave you another chance of 
 seeing Hugh, but it was no use. You did not
 
 270 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 respond at all you only flung this absurd talk 
 of becoming a Catholic at his head. It is not as 
 if we had any Catholics in the family! No one 
 has ever been taken that way, and it shows how 
 unreliable you must be to think that one night- 
 owe night, Peggy! spent in a Catholic house 
 should have the effect of making you forget all 
 your early training all that you have been so 
 carefully taught. Of course, we all know that 
 there is a dreadful bounder of a man at the back 
 of it all, but he is going to be married, Beatrice 
 says, so you can not hope that he will take pity 
 on you and marry you !" 
 
 This cruel allusion to Morford made Peggy's 
 heart beat a little quicker, but her face was even 
 more sternly controlled. Xo one seemed able to 
 discuss the subject with her without dragging 
 in his name. He was in their eyes the one who 
 was originally responsible for the defection of 
 Peggy, and although he could have now little or 
 nothing to do with her continued desire to be re- 
 ceived into the Catholic Church, he was still 
 blamed for his interference in the past. And he 
 was so innocent he deserved nothing of all their 
 blame ! Peggy longed most passionately to defend 
 him, but the words that she would have uttered 
 died on her lips. She seemed to recognize how 
 useless her little effort would be to convince Lady 
 Maddinard. Yet she felt that her very silence 
 held something of disloyalty toward him, who 
 after all had taught her her first lessons in the 
 Faith. 
 
 "It is so dreadful to think you should have 
 allowed yourself to be influenced by such a per-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 271 
 
 son," continued Diana, "Beatrice says the Mor- 
 fords are nobodies and are as poor as church 
 mice it is no match at all for Bridget Dalton, 
 but as she is a Catholic it is perhaps as good as she 
 can expect!" 
 
 Peggy said slowly: 
 
 "I hope some day, Diana, I shall be able to 
 convince you all that Mr. Morfcrd had nothing to 
 do with my wish to become a Catholic. It is 
 true I asked him questions about it and he an- 
 swered them not always very willingly. But he 
 never tried to influence me nor persuade me." 
 
 "Peggy," said Diana, very seriously indeed, 
 "I will give you another chance. Come down to 
 Queensworthy to-morrow with me and stay with 
 us and think it all over. You can stay with me 
 as long as you like ; and I hope when you realize 
 what misery you will bring upon us all by persist- 
 ing that you will give up the whole idea. We 
 shall be quite alone we shall have no one staying 
 with us. You can be as quiet as you wish. I do 
 not wish to be hard on you I wish to be your 
 friend, Peggy, and save you from the awful con- 
 sequences. Will you come?" 
 
 Peggy waited for a moment. Then she looked 
 up and said quietly: 
 
 "Thank you very much, Diana ; it is very kind 
 of you. But I can't come. My mind is quite 
 made up." 
 
 She rose and stood there, a rather drooping 
 little figure in her plain gray dress. 
 
 "I daresay we shall not see each other again," 
 she said as she held out her hand timidly to her 
 sister. "But please think as kindly of me as you
 
 272 THE BEST HOUSE 
 
 can. Please believe that my reasons must have 
 been very strong to make me go against you all 
 in this way." 
 
 Diana did not attempt to take her sister's hand 
 nor did she say another word as Peggy went 
 noiselessly out of the room. 
 
 "She must be quite, quite mad," thought 
 Diana, "and I'm not sure that is'nt the kindest 
 thing one can say about her!" 
 
 It was soon after breakfast on the following 
 day that Beatrice appeared unexpectedly in 
 Peggy's room and found her dressed and ready 
 to go out. Something in her sister's appearance 
 attracted her attention and also aroused her sus- 
 picions. She had never seen Peggy dressed quite 
 like that before. That black coat and skirt must 
 have formed part of her ancient mourning for old 
 Miss Metcalfe. It was certainly not new and it 
 was decidedly shabby. On her head Peggy wore 
 an inconspicuous black hat and rather a thick veil 
 which obscured her features. 
 
 The morning was wet, and Beatrice could not 
 imagine why Peggy should choose such a day for 
 an early expedition. 
 
 "Where are you going, Peggy?" she inquired, 
 trying to speak lightly. 
 
 After all, it would have been better to let 
 Peggy return with her mother to Mildon. Her 
 father might have frightened her into submission, 
 whereas she and Diana had only wasted their 
 breath in talking to her. 
 
 "I am going out, Beatrice," said Peggy.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 273 
 
 "Not ? You are not going to be received, 
 Peggy?" cried Beatrice. 
 
 Peggy did not answer. She was buttoning her 
 gloves and seemed absorbed in this minor activity. 
 She did not even look at her sister. 
 
 Beatrice caught her quite roughly by the arm. 
 
 "Peggy! I won't have it! You shan't go! 
 You're too young to know what you are doing 
 how wicked it is how dreadful!" 
 
 "Leave me alone, please, Beatrice," said 
 Peggy. Her face was white, she felt a little 
 shaken by her sister's violence. 
 
 "You know how furious father will be! And 
 he will blame me for keeping you here for not 
 sending you home yesterday ! You will bring un- 
 told trouble upon us all as well as upon yourself. 
 It is such a disgrace to have one's own sister sent 
 away from her home people will imagine all 
 kinds of dreadful things!" 
 
 Peggy turned and looked quite steadily at her 
 sister. 
 
 "My mind is quite made up," she said, 
 "nothing can stop me now. I am going to be re- 
 ceived this morning. I know I can not go home." 
 Her eyes were bright and hard and her voice was 
 steadily controlled. 
 
 Beatrice turned abruptly away and burst into 
 violent weeping. Oh, the disgrace of having a 
 sister turned out of her own home as if she were 
 too wicked to be permitted to remain there ! The 
 shame would cling to the whole family one knew 
 how these things were exaggerated in the course 
 of constant repetition. People would soon cease
 
 274 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 to believe the real explanation ! And they had al- 
 ways been so proud, they had held their heads so 
 high! The episode, trivial in itself, promised to 
 stain as with a permanent blur the bright glory of 
 the Metcalfe family. 
 
 But the violence of Beatrice's grief and emo- 
 tion awoke no contrition in Peggy. She felt as 
 if now she were being invincibly pushed forward 
 across all obstacles, despite all warnings. Be- 
 yond lay something that was still untried by her, 
 but she believed that it was very good. 
 
 "I am sorry, Beatrice," she said, "I can't go 
 back now, and whatever happens I shall know 
 that I have done right. But of course it is horri- 
 ble to give other people so much pain and distress 
 even when it is inevitable." 
 
 "Inevitable!" exclaimed Beatrice with indigna- 
 tion. "It is not inevitable! It is only a silly 
 whim a caprice you have always been silly 
 and hysterical and strange and not like the rest 
 of us. You have always given as much trouble 
 as you possibly could. We were none of us ever 
 punished as you had to be!" 
 
 Peggy had moved toward the door, but her 
 sister's taunts moved her to a sudden anger which 
 she could not repress. She faced Beatrice once 
 more and said: 
 
 "Yes, I could never obey blindly, Beatrice, or 
 I suppose I should have married Hugh when I 
 was told to, just as you married Charsley." 
 
 She was ashamed of having made this retort 
 the moment it had passed her lips ; it was her one 
 little lapse from perfect self-control. She ran 
 quickly back to her sister's side.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 275 
 
 "Oh, I am sorry, Beatrice I did not mean to 
 say anything unkind. Just for the moment I was 
 angry and forgot." She looked pitifully, en- 
 treatingly at Beatrice. 
 
 But Beatrice did not seem to notice the words 
 nor the little imploring gesture that accom- 
 panied them. She was biting her lips as if to 
 keep back her tears. She looked quite strangely 
 at Peggy as she went out of the room.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 WHEN Peggy returned to her sister's house in 
 Portman Square about two hours later she 
 saw her trunks locked and strapped waiting in 
 the hall. As she entered the house, Lord Chars- 
 ley appeared from his study, which was on the 
 ground floor. 
 
 "Call a cab for Miss Metcalfe," he said to the 
 footman, and then turning to Peggy added: 
 "Will you come in here for a moment, please?" 
 
 Peggy followed him into the room. He closed 
 the door, and then said abruptly: 
 
 "Have you carried out your threat and be- 
 come a Catholic?" 
 
 "Yes. I was received this morning," said 
 Peggy quietly. 
 
 "You can't stay here, then," said Lord Chars- 
 ley, in tones that were icily polite. "Beatrice 
 owes a great deal to her father and so do I. We 
 don't wish to offend him by keeping you here. 
 Sorry, Peggy, but you'll have to go. I daresay 
 you noticed that your luggage was ready in the 
 hall." 
 
 "Yes, I saw it there," said Peggy a little ab- 
 sently. "May I go and say good-bye to Bea- 
 trice, please?" 
 
 "No, certainly not," he answered. "My wife 
 is very much upset. She said you were very un- 
 kind and rude to her before you went out this 
 morning. I can't have her worried, and she's 
 
 276
 
 THE REST HOUSE 277 
 
 lying down now. That is all I think I have to 
 say to you." 
 
 As he looked at her he wondered a little at the 
 cool tranquillity of her. He had never seen her 
 look so serene or so happy. He had always liked 
 his young sister-in-law, had treated her rather as 
 if she were quite a little girl. But his opinion of 
 her had changed. She had taken this step in 
 defiance of her parents' wishes. In the past he 
 had been inclined to think that the Metcalfes 
 were a little hard on Peggy; now he saw that 
 probably the treatment had been necessary. The 
 timid-looking little creature had a will of her 
 own. 
 
 "Good-bye," said Peggy, forcing back her 
 tears. She longed to see Beatrice once more 
 before she went away. But there was something 
 stern and unrelenting about Lord Charsley's 
 red, boyish face. She held out her hand to him as 
 she spoke, but he did not seem to notice it. 
 
 "I believe the cab is there," he said. 
 
 "Please say good-bye to Beatrice for me. Tell 
 her I am sorry I said anything she thought was 
 rude and unkind," said Peggy. She had some diffi- 
 culty in uttering the words, for a lump had risen 
 in her throat and threatened to choke her. She felt 
 suddenly small and young and very helpless and 
 cold. It was the physical cold that seemed to 
 creep inward toward her heart like a trickle of 
 icy water. She slowly went out of the room and 
 back into the hall. The cab was there, not a taxi 
 but an ancient four-wheeler, and her boxes were 
 piled upon it. She gave the man the address of 
 a convent not very far from the Oratory where
 
 278 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Father FitzGerald had told her she could go for 
 a few days if her sister really refused to receive 
 her. 
 
 Peggy had known that she would not be per- 
 mitted to remain in Beatrice's house. Her sisters 
 had plainly intimated that in this matter they 
 would be firmly ranged on the side of the Olym- 
 pians would join in their endeavor to force her 
 ultimate capitulation by the cutting off from her 
 of all the necessities of life. But she had not 
 believed that Beatrice would allow her to be sum- 
 marily turned away from Portman Square in this 
 manner; without a word of farewell and without 
 so much as a mouthful of food. And she was so 
 tired and cold and hungry! She felt as if 
 she had had a blow in the face. The shutting of 
 the big door as she got into the cab seemed to be 
 drearily symbolic of the attitude of all her rela- 
 tions. She was to be shut out from all intercourse 
 with them because she had disobeyed and offended 
 her father. The knowledge did for a moment 
 blot out the perfect contentment that had been 
 hers since she left the Oratory that morning. 
 
 Of course it had not been without its difficult 
 side. To no convert, however young, however in- 
 nocent, however free from grave mortal sin, is the 
 first confession a very easy matter. It is the first, 
 fiery proof of submission, a sharp way that must 
 be passed before the gates can be opened. And 
 Peggy, sensitive of conscience as of heart, had 
 dreaded it not a little. There had been so many 
 faults so often repeated, with so little serious en- 
 deavor on her part to correct them. But Father
 
 THE REST HOUSE 279 
 
 FitzGerald had made the whole thing as easy as 
 he could for her, as a wise and experienced priest 
 always can. He was deeply learned in the human 
 soul, and he was aware that Peggy was on the 
 threshold of what might possibly prove a life of 
 great sacrifice. There was a risk about instruct- 
 ing and receiving a girl placed as she was. He be- 
 lieved and prayed that she would have the strength 
 to persevere in spite of it all. And when her con- 
 fession had been made haltingly, stumblingly, 
 but with a contrition that was almost over- 
 whelming, Peggy for the first time received the 
 grace imparted by sacramental absolution. Per- 
 haps there is nothing quite like the sense of holy 
 joy and peace that follows that first absolution, 
 that washing white of past stains. Peggy had 
 passed through that pain and joy since she had 
 left her sister's house that morning. She felt 
 changed and in some ways much older and more 
 responsible. She had taken her life deliberately 
 into her own hands. That in itself was a great 
 responsibility. She had undertaken new duties 
 and new obligations, some of which she could not 
 forego under pain of mortal sin. But she had 
 knelt for the first time as a Catholic before the 
 altar of God. She had said over and over again 
 with tears of contrition and joy, "I have come! 
 I have come!" 
 
 That promise, with all the heavy obligations 
 it involved, had been rigorously fulfilled. That 
 there was any generosity in her action never en- 
 tered Peggy's mind. She had the knowledge 
 which all converts must have that all she could
 
 280 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 be called upon to sacrifice for her faith was as a 
 mere grain of dust in comparison with the gifts 
 she had received. 
 
 Although her heart was sore and wounded by 
 Charsley's words and Beatrice's refusal to see 
 her or receive her again, there was a contentment 
 and happiness in her soul which these exterior 
 hardships could not touch. 
 
 The cab had passed down Park Lane, and near 
 Hyde Park Corner there was a block in the traffic 
 and she was delayed for a few moments while a 
 stream of vehicles passed northward. A gleam of 
 sunshine touched the bare, leafless trees in the 
 park and made the grass seem almost vividly 
 green. There were a good many people there, 
 riding and walking. A small child clad from 
 head to foot in scarlet made a sudden diminutive 
 blot of abrupt color. Then the cab passed down 
 the hill to Knightsbridge, and at Sloane Street 
 turned into the Brompton Road. 
 
 The convent where she was to stay was not 
 very far from the Oratory. It was situated in a 
 quiet street and was a tall house built of dark 
 brown brick. Father FitzGerald had made all 
 the arrangements for her to stay, supposing she 
 was not allowed to return to her sister's house; 
 he had said it would be easier for her to receive 
 her First Communion there in the nuns' chapel 
 on the following morning. 
 
 Peggy felt very nervous when she had paid the 
 cabman, as she went up the steps to the front door 
 and rang the bell. She even had a vague appre- 
 hension that Father FitzGerald might have omit- 
 ted to mention the possibility of her arrival to
 
 THE REST HOUSE 281 
 
 the nuns, and that they would hesitate in conse- 
 quence to receive a perfect stranger of whom they 
 knew nothing. She had just received one sharp 
 rebuff and dreaded a second one. But her fears 
 were quickly lulled, for the lay- Sister who admit- 
 ted her showed her at once into a small, rather 
 bare parlor, and merely asked if she wished her 
 luggage to be brought in. Peggy answered yes, 
 and that she would like to speak to the Mother 
 Superior. The Sister went away then and left 
 her, closing the door. 
 
 The room was rather dark ; it looked onto a tiny 
 garden that contained apparently only a few 
 smoke-blackened shrubs, and was over-shadowed 
 by a wall that was built out at right angles. There 
 was not much furniture. A round, polished table 
 with a few books on it occupied the middle of the 
 room. Some chairs were grouped severely round 
 the walls. There was another table on which 
 stood a cheap plaster statue of Our Lady. A 
 large crucifix hung on the wall and a shiny, 
 colored oleograph of Pope Pius X. 
 
 It was not long before the Reverend Mother 
 appeared. She was a tall, elderly Englishwoman 
 with a plain, kind face. She kissed Peggy, and 
 told her that she had heard her history from 
 Father FitzGerald and was glad that she had 
 been able to come to the convent. She hoped that 
 she would stay there as long as she liked. 
 
 The kind words cheered poor Peggy, who was 
 feeling a little lost and strange in her novel, un- 
 accustomed surroundings. It seemed to her that 
 she must be dreaming, and that she would pres- 
 ently awake and find herself back at Mildon. It
 
 282 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 was impossible to think that her father would 
 never let her go back there again. 
 
 Presently the Reverend Mother gave her into 
 the charge of another and younger nun, bidding 
 her take Peggy up to the room that had been 
 made ready for her. They climbed several flights 
 of steep stairs, and at the top of the house the 
 nun showed Peggy into a tiny room facing the 
 streets. 
 
 "I daresay you would like some books to read," 
 said the nun, I will go and fetch some for you." 
 She smilled kindly at Peggy as she went away. 
 
 Peggy looked round the room. It was small 
 and fireless and very cold. It was furnished, too, 
 in a manner that the veriest under-servant at 
 Mildon would never have tolerated. There was 
 no wardrobe, only a row of pegs behind a faded 
 chintz curtain that had become shrunken and 
 colorless from frequent washing. A threadbare 
 strip of carpet was spread on the floor beside the 
 bed, otherwise the boards were bare and uncov- 
 ered. There was a small iron bedstead covered 
 with a white counterpane. An iron wash-stand 
 stood in one corner, and there was a cheap painted 
 chest of drawers with a discolored looking-glass 
 standing upon it. Over the bed there was a small 
 crucifix and just by the door hung a stoup of 
 holy-water. There was one or two framed photo- 
 graphs of sacred pictures on the walls. But in 
 spite of its poverty there was something about the 
 room that attracted Peggy. The crucifix and the 
 holy- water stoup seemed to her symbolic of those 
 precious things for which she had exchanged the 
 soft ease and luxury of her former life. They
 
 THE REST HOUSE 283 
 
 were the things that were not to be found at 
 Mildon. Sir John would not have admitted "that 
 Popish rubbish" into his house. He would not 
 have had such things there even had they been 
 antiques and curios to be exhibited behind the 
 glass doors of priceless cabinets, as some people 
 keep them. 
 
 Peggy took some writing materials from her 
 bag and wrote a little note to her mother. It was 
 not a very easy thing to do, although she im- 
 agined that Beatrice had already acquainted her 
 with the fact of her reception by telegram. The 
 little action cost her some tears and she tore up 
 several sheets of paper before she felt at all satis- 
 fied with the result. First she seemed to write 
 too much and then too little. Even when she had 
 folded the letter and consigned it to an envelope 
 she did not feel as if she had said exactly what 
 ought to have been said. 
 
 "My dearest Mother (the letter ran) I am 
 afraid that what I am going to tell you will dis- 
 tress you very much. I was received into the 
 Catholic Church to-day. Beatrice says I can not 
 stay with her any more, so I came here. It is a 
 convent. Some day I hope you will learn to for- 
 give me, for, indeed, I could not have acted in 
 any other way. Ever since I learned about the 
 Catholic Church I felt that I must belong to it. 
 I am stopping here till I hear from you whether 
 I may come home, but of course I can not hope 
 that father will receive me now. 
 
 "Your loving daughter, 
 
 PEGGY."
 
 284 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Luncheon was already over at the convent, 
 for in almost all religious houses the hours of the 
 meals are much earlier than those that generally 
 prevail in the outside world. About three o'clock 
 a tray with tea and bread and butter was brought 
 up to Peggy's room. She was quite glad of the 
 food, for she had eaten nothing since her break- 
 fast and was begining to feel exhausted. When 
 she had finished her tea she lay down on the bed 
 and as long as the light lasted she read the books 
 the nun had brought for her. Among them was 
 Mother Loyola's "Welcome," and Peggy found 
 in it something at once absorbing and peculiarly 
 fitted to her own case this simple instruction for 
 a child who is about to receive its First Commu- 
 nion. Although it was written expressly for 
 children there was something in the book that 
 fascinated Peggy; she read it through from be- 
 ginning to end. It seemed to her when she had 
 finished it that it had taught her a great deal 
 more abqut the joy that awaited her on the fol- 
 lowing day. 
 
 Then it became too dark to read. A candle 
 and matches stood by the bedside; there was no 
 gas or electric light in the room. But Peggy did 
 not light the candle. She was tired and very 
 drowsy; she turned her head on the pillow and 
 fell asleep. And in her sleep she had the same 
 dream that she had once before she dreamed 
 that she was wandering in the darkness and cold 
 with Peter by her side and a third figure whose 
 face she could not see. But this time, instead of 
 remaining obscure and invisible, the face was sud- 
 denly turned toward her, and she saw that it be-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 285 
 
 longed to Frederick Morford and he was leading 
 her to the door of the Rest House. 
 
 Perhaps it was this dream which first put it 
 into Peggy's head to go down to the Rest House 
 and see Mary Morford again and talk things over 
 with her, supposing she was not allowed to re- 
 turn to Mildon. It would be all the easier to do 
 this now that she knew Morford was going to 
 marry Bridget Dalton. Without this knowledge 
 Peggy felt it would have been impossible to seek 
 Mary Morford now. Every one had been so 
 ready to believe that it was Frederick's influence 
 that had induced her to become a Catholic ; it was 
 quite clear, too, that they all believed that she had 
 fallen in love with him. This would have made 
 her nervous and self-conscious about approaching 
 him, but now that she was convinced he was not 
 thinking of her at all had never, indeed, thought 
 of her in that way it made it seem quite the 
 most natural thing for her to seek out these peo- 
 ple in whose house she had had her first lessons 
 in the Faith. 
 
 When Peggy went downstairs to supper that 
 night she found quite a number of people sitting 
 at the long table in the dining-room. She slipped 
 into a vacant place, feeling far too shy and em- 
 barrassed to speak to any one. 
 
 Presently she glanced at her next-door neigh- 
 bor and found that she did not look at all an 
 alarming person, being a girl scarcely older than 
 herself. Their eyes met and she said to Peggy: 
 
 "Have you been here long? I only came to- 
 day."
 
 286 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 "I have only just come myself," said Peggy. 
 
 "I wonder if the food is decent," said the girl 
 as a plate of soup was set in front of her. 
 
 Peggy could offer no information on the point, 
 and presently her companion said: 
 
 "Is this the first time you've been here?" 
 
 "Yes," said Peggy. 
 
 "Do you mean to stay long?" 
 
 "I I'm not sure. But I suppose until I've 
 found something to do." She paused a moment 
 and then said: "You see, I have only just become 
 a Catholic I was received to-day." 
 
 "How odd that must be," said the girl, looking 
 at Peggy with some curiosity, "I've always been 
 one myself. But there are lots of converts here, 
 and some of them have homes they can't go to." 
 
 "I'm afraid that's what will happen to me," 
 said Peggy. 
 
 "Although the girl had a brusque, offhand 
 manner, she could not help liking her; there was 
 something kind about her light eyes as she looked 
 at Peggy. She was plain and shabbily dressed 
 and had pale, sandy hair and a freckled com- 
 plexion. Peggy noticed, too, that she was not 
 very neat; her hair was untidy and there was a 
 button missing on her blouse. 
 
 "Oh, that's bad luck!" she said in a sympathetic 
 tone that went to Peggy's heart and almost 
 brought the tears to her eyes, "but I daresay 
 you'll soon get something to do. You could eas- 
 ily get a place as companion perhaps to some 
 rich lady. People like to have a pretty, well- 
 dressed companion to go about with them."
 
 THE REST HOUSE 287 
 
 Peggy flushed a little at the implied compli- 
 ment. 
 
 "My name's Monica West," she presently in- 
 formed Peggy, "will you tell me yours?" 
 
 "Peggy Metcalfe," said Peggy, with a smile. 
 
 "You must ask Reverend Mother to try and 
 find something for you. People often come to 
 her if they want governesses and companions. 
 She is awfully kind and takes no end of trouble, 
 especially if one's a homeless convert. Some 
 friends of ours have told me so." 
 
 "You're not looking for anything?" asked 
 Peggy. She thought Miss West seemed a very 
 capable and competent girl, well able to look 
 after herself. 
 
 "Oh, no I'm going to work at a studio. I won 
 a scholarship for painting in the North where we 
 live, and so I came to study in London. Do you 
 paint at all?" 
 
 "Oh, no; I can't do anything. My sister said 
 I shouldn't even be qualified to teach little chil- 
 dren. People want trained governesses with cer- 
 tificates and all that." 
 
 "What a pity! And people generally expect 
 their companions to be musical. But I'm sure 
 you'll get on all right," said Miss West. 
 
 She looked with frank envy at Peggy's pretty, 
 dainty blouse. 
 
 "I suppose you were pretty well off at home?" 
 she said, "that will make it harder for you now. 
 You must have lots of pluck, though, to become 
 a Catholic when your people disapproved. I have 
 sometimes almost wished I wasn't one. Oh,
 
 288 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 don't think me very wicked but it's ofter rather 
 a bore. For instance, when I'd won the scholar- 
 ship, I was dreadfully afraid I shouldn't be al- 
 lowed to come to London. Such a fuss and 
 bother! Our priest was consulted and at first he 
 was awfully against it said I was too young to 
 be in town on my own and all that. Mother was 
 on the point of refusing, when she heard of this 
 convent, and Reverend Mother has promised to 
 keep her eye on me and see that I don't get into 
 mischief." She smiled and her light eyes 
 twinkled. "We weren't brought up to think much 
 about fame and success and all that, only to be 
 good Catholics and practise our religion faith- 
 fully. I made all sorts of promises, I can tell 
 you, before they gave their consent!" 
 
 Peggy began to feel deeply interested in her 
 companion, but supper was now at an end ; some 
 of the ladies had already risen from their seats 
 and were moving toward the door. In a few min- 
 utes she rose, too, and followed Monica West 
 up the steep stairs to her room on the top floor. 
 It was rather nice to find that Monica was in the 
 room next to hers. She liked to think she had a 
 friend at hand. 
 
 Peggy rose very early on the following morn- 
 ing, and made her way down to the little chapel. 
 She was there for quite half an hour, a devout and 
 kneeling figure, before Father FitzGerald came 
 in to say Mass. Nearly all the nuns seemed to 
 to be present, and the front benches were filled 
 with black-veiled figures, kneeling there very still 
 and motionless and absorbed. Peggy crept into
 
 THE REST HOUSE 289 
 
 a corner. She wore on her head a white veil which 
 had been brought to her room just as she was fin- 
 ishing dressing. The nun who arranged it for 
 her, fastening it firmly upon her dark hair, had 
 noticed how pale she looked. She had kissed 
 Peggy on both cheeks and said: 
 
 "We are all praying for you." 
 
 It was the first time Peggy had been present 
 at Mass since that morning at the Rest House. 
 She was still unable to follow it quite perfectly, 
 but she understood it now and realized its tre- 
 mendous and poignant significance. It seemed 
 to her, too, that it was the most complete prepara- 
 tion that there could possibly be for the com- 
 munion that was to follow. Her eyes fell upon 
 her open book and she read these words : 
 
 "Oh, for the ardent faith of those who truly 
 know their Lord in the breaking of bread, whose 
 heart burns when Jesus is with them" 
 
 After her communion Peggy remained upon 
 her knees for a very long time. She could, in- 
 deed, have remained there for hours and hours, as 
 she had done that night at the Rest House when 
 she had unconsciously made her first spiritual 
 communion. She had the sense of safety after a 
 breathless chase and capture which many converts 
 feel a capture that ends that fierce pursuit when 
 the quarry has no real desire to escape, only per- 
 haps to defer the moment when he shall feel the 
 touch of those Hands from which there can be no 
 after-escaping. It is even possible that the human 
 and earthly part of the personality may have re- 
 sented subconsciously that prospect of curtailed 
 liberty, that permanent submission to purely spir-
 
 290 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 itual laws, that prospective subjugation of the 
 body to the needs of the imperious soul. 
 
 Peggy had felt such resistance stirring within 
 her from time to time, urging her at least to con- 
 template the advantages that were being offered 
 to her on the temporal plane in place of the gifts 
 she was seeking. The body had seemed to pro- 
 test against that comfortless prospect of privation 
 and penury, just as her heart had protested vio- 
 lently against that wilful severance from those 
 she loved especially from Peter, who was so 
 dear to her and from whom she had not dared 
 even to take formal farewell. 
 
 But the soul, always more urgent in its needs 
 than body or heart, when once it has succeeded in 
 asserting itself, had triumphed splendidly in the 
 case of Peggy. She knew as she knelt before the 
 Tabernacle that morning in deep thanksgiving 
 that she had followed the only possible course. 
 She had been called with loving and mystical per- 
 sistence, and she had answered gladly and will- 
 ingly. 
 
 "I have come I have come," whispered 
 Peggy with streaming eyes. 
 
 She had no knowledge of the passing of time 
 and was still kneeling there with her face hidden 
 when the nun came and touched her lightly on 
 the shoulder and said: 
 
 "I think you ought to come and have some 
 breakfast. It is nearly ten o'clock." 
 
 Ten o'clock? She had no idea it was so late. 
 Mass had been at half-past six, and it had taken 
 barely half an hour. Peggy looked up in sur- 
 prise and saw that the chapel was now quite
 
 THE REST HOUSE 291 
 
 empty, everybody had disappeared except her- 
 self and the nun who had come to fetch her. She 
 rose and moved slowly out into the passage, hav- 
 ing genuflected and crossed herself with holy- 
 water. There was an expression upon her face 
 as if she were a little bewildered, perhaps not 
 quite awake. It even seemed to her that her body 
 felt unusually light and small.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 IT was just after luncheon that day that a tele- 
 gram was brought to her room. When Peggy 
 saw the fatal orange-colored envelope she felt 
 a strange shrinking at the heart, and her hands 
 trembled so that she could hardly open it. If 
 Peggy's spirit were strong and willing her flesh 
 was almost contemptibly weak. She opened the 
 envelope and drew out the pinkish slip of paper 
 it contained, and read the following message : 
 
 "Your mad folly is breaking your mother's 
 heart. Until you can assure me that you have 
 renounced the Roman Catholic religion you shall 
 never enter my house, nor will any one here be 
 permitted to see or to communicate with you. 
 
 "JOHN METCALFE." 
 
 It was what Peggy had fully expected, per- 
 haps a little more cruel in its finality, but as she 
 read it her eyes grew dim with the burning tears 
 that scalded and seared them. She had a sense 
 of truly desolate abandonment, as if she were 
 completely cut off from all familiar and dear 
 things. She was never to go back to Mildon, 
 never to see any of her own people again. And 
 Peggy had spent all her life at home except for an 
 occasional visit to one of her sisters; she had no 
 intimate friends to whom she could turn. Yet, 
 even when she knew the worst there was no least 
 wish in her heart that she had yielded or tem- 
 porized or delayed. The bonds had to be cut, 
 
 292
 
 THE REST HOUSE 293 
 
 and though she emerged bleeding and wounded 
 from the process she knew she would have severed 
 them with even greater violence had it been neces- 
 sary. All her life from the night she had spent 
 at the Rest House had been tending to this single 
 end. There had been no desire to evade it. It 
 had seemed rather as if it formed part of her fate, 
 her destiny. No matter that she felt at present 
 this cold sense of isolation and abandonment chill- 
 ing even her ardent spiritual joy, which to-day 
 had been so complete. Just for the moment the 
 awful nightmare of exile was upon her with such 
 force that she felt it must be a temptation that 
 had been sent perhaps to try to diminish her per- 
 severance. "Of course there are people who are 
 strong enough to suffer every imaginable priva- 
 tion for their Faith. But you you must forgive 
 me, Miss Metcalfe, if I do most seriously doubt 
 your capability of being one of them." She could 
 almost hear Morford's voice uttering those very 
 words, and the remembrance stirred her pride. 
 She was going to be strong she was going to cor- 
 respond to those gifts and graces she had re- 
 ceived! She thrust aside those thoughts of her 
 own weakness as if they had been poisonous ser- 
 pents. She was beginning to realize the strength- 
 ening power of those veiy graces. Had not God 
 chosen her called her to Him? Was she too 
 weak to fling aside the nets that had been, as it 
 were, her means of subsistence and answer and 
 follow that Voice whither it might choose to lead 
 her? She knelt down by the side of the bed and 
 with her eyes fixed upon the crucifix, Peggy 
 prayed.
 
 294 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 A light tap at the door interrupted her and 
 Monica West poked her head in. 
 
 "Oh, I'm sorry," she began, but Peggy rose 
 from her knees and said smiling, "Please come 
 in." 
 
 There were still traces of those recent tears on 
 her face. 
 
 "Had bad news?" inquired Monica, in her 
 cheery, sympathetic manner. 
 
 "Yes, I've had a telegram from home. They 
 won't let me go back there," said Peggy. 
 
 "Bad luck !" said Monica. "I suppose you feel 
 very lonely and all that, don't you?" 
 
 Peggy nodded; she could not trust herself to 
 speak. 
 
 "Well, don't feel too bad about it," said Miss 
 West; "you'll find it'll pan out much better than 
 you expect. You are never quite alone and with- 
 out friends if you're a Catholic. Wherever you 
 go there is generally a priest to whom you can 
 go for advice. There are lots of convents all over 
 the country where you can stay if you haven't any 
 money or friends until you can find something to 
 do. We aren't very perfect lots of us but we 
 do look after each other. It makes a bond be- 
 tween rich and poor. It's rather like being part 
 of one huge clan. And a woman I know who had 
 traveled a great deal told me once she never felt 
 alone or strange in a new place after she had once 
 visited the Blessed Sacrament there." 
 
 Peggy found the cheery, brave words con- 
 soling. 
 
 "Now I shouldn't waste any time if I were 
 you," continued Monica. "Tell Reverend Mother
 
 THE REST HOUSE 295 
 
 just what they've said and ask her to help you 
 to find something to do. And then if I were you 
 I should go and see the priest who received you 
 and talk to him about it. You are so young that 
 you oughtn't to do anything without asking ad- 
 vice!" 
 
 "I will go and see him this afternoon," said 
 Peggy. A great wish to go down to the Rest 
 House, to spend a few days there in the quiet and 
 peace of it, had come over her. She felt, too, a 
 wish to go and make a thanksgiving in the little 
 chapel where her conversion had really taken 
 place. She would ask Father FitzGerald, but she 
 was almost certain he would approve of the idea. 
 Afterward she could return to the convent and 
 try and find a situation. 
 
 "I think you had better write a line to them 
 first and say that you are coming," he said when 
 Peggy consulted him on the point. "It might not 
 be convenient for them to receive you, and also 
 they might be away from home and then you 
 would have had the long journey for nothing." 
 
 "I will write at once," said Peggy, "but I am 
 sure Miss Morf ord will be there ; she never leaves 
 home. And she is very kind I know she will not 
 refuse." 
 
 When Peggy returned to the convent that 
 afternoon she sat down and wrote a letter to 
 Mary Morf ord, telling her that she had just been 
 received, and that she had been forbidden to re- 
 turn to Mildon. "I am homeless now," she wrote, 
 "and it would be very kind of you to let me come 
 for two nights. I want to see your chapel again. 
 If it is not convenient please send me a telegram;
 
 296 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 if not, I will come by the afternoon train on 
 Thursday." 
 
 She had hardly finished when Monica West 
 again tapped at her door. 
 
 "Oh, you're back!" she said. "I'm just going 
 out myself. Is there anything I can do for you?" 
 
 "I wonder if you would mind posting this let- 
 ter for me?" said Peggy, hastily sealing the en- 
 velope. "I want it to go as soon as possible." 
 
 She held out the letter to Monica, who took it, 
 saying : 
 
 "Of course I will. If I were you I'd lie down 
 for a bit. Benediction isn't till six." 
 
 She went away and Peggy took her advice and 
 lay down on the bed. It was very cold in her 
 room and she put a rug over her. She was glad 
 the letter to Mary Morford had gone and she 
 felt a little thrill of excitement at the thought 
 of going back there. In all this she scarcely 
 thought of Frederick Morford at all. Perhaps, 
 indeed, he would hardly remember her. It was 
 Mary whom she wished most passionately to see, 
 Mary with her serene smile and kind, light blue 
 eyes. She was not beautiful with her square, 
 strong figure, her plainly dressed red hair, her 
 shabby clothes, and yet there was beauty in that 
 tranquil, serene, contented expression of hers. 
 One felt on looking at her that her soul was as 
 clear as crystal, that her mind was too pure ever 
 to have harbored a bad or even unworthy thought. 
 Peggy felt that she could throw herself on Mary's 
 mercy and kindness now, and speak to her freely 
 of all she had gone through since last she had 
 spent the night under her roof. It formed quite a
 
 THE REST HOUSE 297 
 
 little history unfinished, it is true, but consecu- 
 tive and inevitable. Perhaps Frederick would 
 not even be there to disturb her long conversa- 
 tions with Mary. She hoped that he might be 
 away from home, perhaps staying with the Dai- 
 tons, as he was so soon to be a son of the house. 
 No telegram came for her on the following day, 
 so on Thursday she left the convent, taking with 
 her only a little box with just the few things she 
 thought she would require for such a short visit, 
 having packed the rest away in her trunks, which 
 were to be left at the convent until her return.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE afternoon train which ran in connection 
 with the branch line from Bath to Hintle- 
 combe left Paddington about two o'clock. Peggy 
 had never traveled quite alone before; she had 
 certainly never bought her own ticket in her life ; 
 there had always been her maid or Peter to do this 
 for her. The noise and bustle of the great Lon- 
 don terminus confused and bewildered her. She 
 took a third-class ticket to Hintlecombe, which 
 she remembered Mary had said was their near- 
 est station; although they generally used Cold- 
 ford, which was more convenient in spite of its 
 being further away, as there were better trains. 
 She bought a third-class ticket because she had 
 already spent ten shillings of her five pounds in 
 cabs and tips and she knew the money could not 
 last forever. The train was very crowded, and to 
 Peggy there seemed an immense number of 
 people gathered on the platform. Some of them 
 looked preoccupied, others were attending in a 
 businesslike way to their luggage, many were 
 pressing round the newsstands to buy newspapers 
 and magazines wherewith to beguile their jour- 
 ney. Peggy did not buy any papers; she 
 felt no wish to read. She wanted to think hard 
 during the few hours' journey to Hintlecombe. 
 She got into the train, gave sixpence timidly to 
 the porter who had looked after her luggage and 
 found her a seat, and then she crept into the 
 farther corner of the compartment. She was 
 
 298
 
 THE REST HOUSE 299 
 
 afraid of being seen by some one she knew, and of 
 being addressed and perhaps questioned. What 
 would her mother say if she could see her as she 
 was now, traveling alone in a third-class carriage ? 
 
 It was only when the train had started that any 
 doubt as to her welcome at the Rest House began 
 to assail her. It is true that she had not received 
 any answer from Mary, but then she had told her 
 to telegraph only if her coming should prove 
 inconvenient. It was extremely unlikely that 
 Mary could be away from home, as Father Fitz- 
 Gerald had suggested, for she had assured Peggy 
 that she very seldom left the Rest House. Still, 
 she began to feel that she would rather have 
 known for certain that she would find Mary at 
 the end of her journey. 
 
 The train was traveling through the unlovely 
 western suburbs of London. Cheerless fields 
 spread out on either hand. Even the beautiful 
 Thames Valley, through which they were so 
 soon speeding, had lost something of its loveli- 
 ness in the gray and bleak chill of the November 
 day. There was a slight fog, too, which blurred 
 everything and seemed to shorten still more the 
 hours of daylight. The river was steel-colored, 
 the woods that clothed its banks were like brown 
 blots, the fields had a sodden aspect. Overhead 
 was a sky of monotonous gray. The distance 
 was quite obscured by the fog. Very soon the day 
 merged dismally into twilight, and as darkness 
 came on a little fear began to creep anew into 
 poor Peggy's heart. She wished that she had 
 come by an earlier train; she reflected for the 
 first time that it would be perfectly dark before
 
 300 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 she reached Hintlecombe. How incompetent she 
 was to arrange even a short journey for herself! 
 She had not had time to discuss those details with 
 Father FitzGerald or the Reverend Mother, but 
 she could at least have consulted Monica West, 
 who was accustomed to do things for herself. At 
 Bath she got out and there she learned for the 
 first time that she would have to drive across 
 the town to the Midland station in order to take 
 the train for Hintlecombe. There would be just 
 time for her to catch it, the porter said, but the 
 very knowledge that there was a chance of miss- 
 ing it and of finding herself stranded for the 
 night terrified Peggy. She was feeling very 
 tired and cold and alone; she began to wish she 
 had not left London. 
 
 Night had fallen as she drove through the 
 city, but the streets were well lighted and the 
 electric lamps lit up the old blackened houses, 
 and she could see the Abbey standing a dark, 
 solid mass with its fine tower outlined obscurely 
 against the night sky. Boys were hawking news- 
 papers and shouting much as they did in the 
 streets of London, but there was less noise and 
 less traffic. The cab was an open one and it was 
 drawn by a strong horse that went at a quick 
 pace over the cobbled roads. The rush of cold 
 air against her brow revived Peggy and gave 
 her courage. It was a relief, too, to find when 
 she arrived at the Midland station that the train 
 to Hintlecombe had not left. 
 
 Soon she was sitting in a damp, cheerless com- 
 partment with black, shiny seats and a boarded, 
 carpetless floor that struck cold to her feet. It
 
 THE REST HOUSE 301 
 
 was not very clean, and there were crumbs on 
 the seats and scraps of orange peel on the floor, 
 as if people had been feasting there. Presently 
 two poorly clad women got into the carriage. 
 Their clothing gave forth a peculiar odor that 
 Peggy found very horrible. They closed both 
 the windows, and the atmosphere became close in 
 spite of the cold. Peggy, forlorn and chilled, 
 could hardly keep from crying. She felt that 
 she never wished to travel alone again without a 
 maid to look after her and see that she was in a 
 comfortable carriage with hot-water tins for 
 her feet. 
 
 The train was late, and it was six o'clock be- 
 fore she reached Hintlecombe after innumerable 
 stops at small stations on the way. Her two 
 companions had long since left her, but other 
 people had got in at different stations and she 
 had never once been alone. All in turn had 
 stared at Peggy, perhaps wondering what she 
 was doing there with her fine clothes and furs. 
 By the time she reached Hintlecombe the rain 
 had begun to fall heavily and persistently. The 
 station was little more than a series of small 
 sheds, and her feet became soaked as she walked 
 down the platform exposed to rain and wind, 
 the chill country air blowing sharply in her face. 
 
 "Any one comin' to meet you, miss?" inquired 
 the solitary porter, coming up and touching his 
 cap. 
 
 There were one or two large houses in the 
 neighborhood, and though their guests did not 
 normally travel third class, such a thing was not 
 unknown in these democratic days. But Peggy's
 
 302 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 dress and appearance were quite consistent with 
 some one on her way to one of those exalted 
 habitations. 
 
 "No," said Peggy. Her teeth chattered and 
 her lips were so cold she could hardly pronounce 
 the word. All the excitement had gone out of 
 the adventure and her courage was at a low ebb. 
 "Can I get a cab, do you think?" she asked. "I 
 am going to the Rest House." 
 
 In the flickering light of the oil lamp that was 
 suspended above the waiting-room it seemed to 
 her sensitive imagination that a faint look of sur- 
 prise came over the man's face. 
 
 "Rest House be five mile up on the wold," he 
 said. "I doubt if you'll get anything to take 
 you up there to-night. Road's baddish, too, and 
 what with this weather and all " He shook 
 his head doubtfully. Ideas came slowly to his 
 mind; he was little accustomed to dealing with 
 problems of the sort. People were either met 
 or they walked, or synchronized their coming 
 so as to avail themselves of the carrier's cart, 
 which met the earlier train three times a week. 
 "But if Jebb ain't gone, mizzy, he might give 
 you a lift as far as the Three Lanes, and mebbe 
 you could walk that bit o' the rest. If zo be 
 as he can take you, your box can be sent on by 
 the carrier to-morrow." 
 
 "Jebb?" repeated Peggy interrogatively. 
 Who was this Jebb upon whose favor her slender 
 chance of arriving at the Rest House that night 
 depended ? 
 
 "Jebb's the baker at Stone Cross four mile 
 away. He's been in to Bath on business to-day,
 
 THE REST HOUSE 303 
 
 miss. I'll go and see if zo be as he's started. 
 Jebb loikes his drop before he goes to keep the 
 cold out, mizzy!" 
 
 He chuckled as he stumbled away, leaving 
 Peggy alone on the platform. She crept into the 
 shelter of the waiting-room. It was furnished 
 after the manner of its kind, with two wooden 
 seats against the walls, which were hung with 
 time-tables ; a round, shabby table with a stained 
 top on which rested a discolored carafe and glass ; 
 a fireplace in which only a few cinders were vis- 
 ible, protected by an iron guard. An oil lamp 
 that smelt evilly also stood on the table; it had 
 evidently been smoking, for the glass was black- 
 ened up one side. The floor was wet and soiled 
 with mud stains from the feet of former occu- 
 pants. 
 
 It was a cheerless place enough, but it pro- 
 vided some sort of shelter from the inclement 
 conditions that prevailed without, and Peggy sat 
 down almost thankfully upon one of the wooden 
 benches and waited in apathetic silence. Her 
 physical misery was almost complete and she 
 seemed to be in the midst of a dreadful dream. 
 As she sat there her mind traveled back to Mil- 
 don, and she had a kind of swift and alluring 
 vision of the library at that hour. When there 
 were no guests Lady Metcalfe often sat in that 
 room instead of in the drawing-room during the 
 winter months. It was more cosy, she affirmed. 
 Peggy could see the generous fire, piled high with 
 logs and coal, and her mother sitting there with 
 a table by her side, to which she would turn occa- 
 sionally to regard with perfunctory interest the
 
 304 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 newest illustrated papers and magazines. Per- 
 haps the tea-table would still be there, loaded 
 with sandwiches, cakes, and fruit in case her 
 father and Peter should require tea on their re- 
 turn from town. She could see, too, the fine 
 carved ceiling and mantelpiece; the rows and 
 rows of polished-looking books books that no 
 one ever dreamed of reading. And she had for- 
 feited it all! She was sitting here alone in the 
 darkness that seemed to be pressing upon her 
 heart. For she had always loved her home, had 
 never wished to leave it as so many girls do. It 
 had always offered her sufficient interest, suffi- 
 cient pleasure and occupation, had given her all 
 that she required until her visit to the Rest House 
 nearly a year ago. The sense of exile was very 
 strong upon her then, and a little thought crept 
 into her mind that she did not at first recognize 
 as a subtle temptation. Had she perhaps been 
 wrong in her disobedience, and was God going 
 to punish her? It was a terrible thought, and as 
 she envisaged it she pictured herself returning to 
 Mildon, contrite and penitent, and begging 
 humbly for admission on the only terms her 
 father would accept. 
 
 It would have been difficult for Peggy then to 
 have escaped altogether from the sentimental 
 weakness of self-pity. She had gone forth so 
 full of high courage and resolve, so full of pas- 
 sionate zeal for the Faith for which she was pre- 
 pared to sacrifice all, and then little by little the 
 desolation of the cold and darkness had chilled 
 her heart to a kind of despair. The martyrs, 
 whose histories fascinated her and imbued her
 
 THE REST HOUSE 305 
 
 with courage, had only had to face perhaps one 
 splendid and dreadful hour of fierce flame or 
 physical torment before death released them. 
 But she had to face endless days all the days 
 of her life spreading out in gray succession 
 days of privation, want, pain, and loneliness; 
 days of bitter dependence upon strangers. She 
 would know the slow process of wearing down 
 that can subdue the proudest spirit and break the 
 highest resolve. 
 
 The rain pattered down upon the iron roof 
 with an almost savage persistence, its steady 
 drip-drip seemed to be beating upon her brain. 
 She tried to think of the Rest House, and of 
 Miss Mary coming out to greet her just as she 
 had done before, but with an increased friendli- 
 ness and pleasure, as if her coming to them under 
 her new and changed circumstances were just a 
 matter of course. But alas, the Rest House lay 
 five miles away across those lonely and desolate 
 hills, and even if Jebb were propitious, she would 
 have to walk at least one long mile through de- 
 serted lanes, exposed to she knew not what of 
 danger. Then the remembrance of the day when 
 she and Peter had trudged through those very 
 lanes together, their feet deep in snow, came back 
 with a strange clearness to her mind. But Peter 
 had been by her side then and she had enjoyed 
 the adventure with all the careless zest of youth. 
 A whole lifetime seemed to separate her from 
 that thoughtless girl of a year ago the girl 
 whose dissatisfactions were so formless, whose 
 worst troubles had been the childish ones of re- 
 proof and punishment, who had only vaguely felt
 
 306 THE BEST HOUSE 
 
 that something was yet lacking in the midst of 
 all that ease and luxury. And then the awaken- 
 ing! That, at least, was surely an experience 
 that had brought with it a definite message. She 
 was angry with herself now for those fugitive, 
 rebellious thoughts that had assailed her through 
 her very physical discomfort. Oh he had been 
 right after all she was one of the weak ones who 
 could not suffer a moment's privation without 
 complaint ! 
 
 It seemed a very long time before the porter 
 returned, and his appearance suggested he had 
 spent at least a portion of the interim in joining 
 the unknown Jebb in his efforts to keep the cold 
 out. But Peggy had already heard the welcome 
 sound of an approaching cart and had sprung to 
 her feet with a ray of hope in her heart. 
 
 "Jebb be waiting, mizzy," the porter informed 
 her. 
 
 Peggy followed him down to the end of a plat- 
 form where a gate led into the lane opening into 
 the station yard. A rough cart stood there and 
 in the obscurity it appeared to her so high as to 
 be almost inaccessible. The prospect of a long 
 drive with an unknown man whose driving ability 
 was unknown to her in such a conveyance made 
 Peggy's heart sink anew. On a high box-seat 
 sat a man with a mackintosh coat pulled up to 
 his ears, and a rough tweed cap pulled down 
 almost to his nose. The purple wedge of face 
 visible between the two garments did little to 
 reassure her. 
 
 "Get up, mizzy," he said in a hoarse, muffled 
 tone.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 307 
 
 Peggy pulled out a shilling and gave it to the 
 porter. Then with some difficulty, as her fur coat 
 was thick and heavy and impeded her movements, 
 she climbed up on to the seat beside him. The 
 ground looked to her very far away. 
 
 "I hope the horse is quiet," she said. 
 
 "Quiet as a lamb if nothink don't come along 
 to dizturb un," he replied reassuringly. 
 
 They started forth down the hill and along the 
 principal street of Hintlecombe. A single lamp 
 sufficed apparently for its illumination. Owing 
 to the rain there were very few people about. 
 When the village was past, a long hill rose before 
 them; it was like going forward into complete 
 darkness which the two small lamps on the cart 
 did little to mitigate. But she was well on her 
 way now to the Rest House, and even the pros- 
 pect of doing that last dread mile on foot could 
 not quite diminish her intense relief. 
 
 Jebb was not at all communicative, for that is 
 not the Somersetshire way; and even his recent 
 refreshment had done nothing to loosen his 
 tongue. If Peggy questioned him, he responded 
 in a monosyllable. And there was something 
 about her that mystified and perplexed him. She 
 was to all appearances a "voine loidy," as he 
 would have expressed it, and what she might 
 want with the young master of the Rest House 
 was no concern of his. He did not supply the 
 Morfords with bread for the simple reason that 
 they baked their own. "Queer Papist lot who 
 durzn't even go to Church on Zunday like any 
 other Christians," Jebb would have said had any 
 one questioned him about the inhabitants of that
 
 308 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 lonely abode. There was a good deal of gossip 
 about the Morfords in the country around 
 Hintlecombe. That they were Catholics the 
 only ones in that rural district made their go- 
 ings-out and comings-in things of unsolved mys- 
 tery, and seemed to separate them from their 
 neighbors as completely as if they had been Hin- 
 doos of an exclusive caste. In native parlance 
 they "kept their selves to their selves" and were 
 known to worship the "Virgin Mary" like the 
 idolaters they were. The Church of England 
 parson living in a sumptuous rectory in Hintle- 
 combe and who also conducted a fortnightly 
 service at Stone Cross, adopted a tolerant if 
 slightly contemptuous attitude toward that poor 
 little mission across the hills. The dissenting 
 minister, who had a larger following and who was 
 locally famous as a preacher, was wont to shake 
 his head and murmur dark and ominous allusions 
 to the Scarlet Woman when he heard the place 
 mentioned. The village cobbler, who belonged 
 to another sect and was also something of a 
 preacher, usually contented himself by saying, 
 "We don't want no popery 'ere!" 
 
 If Peggy had been bound for Sir Arthur 
 Denby's huge Grange at Stone Cross, or the 
 Radlett's mansion over by Incherton, Jebb would 
 gladly have driven her the whole way regardless 
 of his own convenience on this wet, stormy night. 
 But he would not go a step out of his appointed 
 way to take any benighted traveler to the Rest 
 House. 
 
 So at the Three Lanes, a bleak spot sur- 
 mounted by what is locally known as a handing-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 309 
 
 post, bearing the three inscriptions, "To Hintle- 
 combe," "To Stone Cross," and "To Incherton," 
 Peggy was constrained to dismount from her 
 high perch. Her feet sank deeply with a squelch 
 into the mud of the road. It was very dark, there 
 was not a light to be seen and a forlorn terror 
 seized her. 
 
 She took half a crown out of her bag (a sum 
 which Jebb contemptuously regarded as incom- 
 mensurate with the finery of her apparel) and 
 said piteously: 
 
 "Oh, please, is it very far? I am afraid I shall 
 never find the way." 
 
 Jebb was untouched by the appeal in her 
 voice. Inwardly he thought it might prove a 
 beneficial lesson, "laming her" not to seek the 
 habitations of young men at a late hour on winter 
 nights. 
 
 "You can't mizz it, mizzy," he replied with a 
 grin; "keep on down the lane for a moile and a 
 bittuck and you'll see the lights of the Rest 
 House on your left. Keep close to the hedge 
 and you can't mizz it. You'll find the road a 
 bit baddish," he added by way of a parting con- 
 solation. 
 
 "Zarves her right for being a shameless hussy," 
 he chuckled to himself as he drove off in the teeth 
 of the wind to his own comfortable quarters at 
 Stone Cross, where the missus would have pre- 
 pared a tasty supper against his return. "Goin' 
 arter a young man at this time o' day! And 
 who'd a thought it of young Morford? Givin' 
 'imself such airs, too, as if he wur a pattern. 
 Well, well, still waters run deep!"
 
 310 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Unconscious of the calumnious interpretation 
 placed upon her action, Peggy stumbled off down 
 the lane in the direction indicated by Mr. Jebb. 
 She followed his advice so churlishly proffered 
 and kept close to the hedge, but her feet sank 
 deeply into the long grass and she could feel the 
 wet penetrating the soles of her not over-thick 
 shoes. Her skirt was fairly short, but skirts have 
 a habit of growing in wet weather, as most 
 women must have discovered, and its soused rim 
 slapped painfully against her ankles as she 
 walked. The effort fatigued her, for the wind 
 was strong and the rain beat pitilessly upon her. 
 Once a man passed ; he was whistling and did not 
 seem to notice her. Afterward she wished she 
 had had the courage to stop him and ask how 
 much farther it was to the Rest House. The 
 mile was a very long one it seemed to Peggy 
 much more like three and it was a long time 
 before she discerned across the fields to the left 
 the glimmer of light that she felt sure must belong 
 to the Rest House. She pushed open the ancient 
 five-barred gate, and began her dreary pilgrim- 
 age across the rough farm track. 
 
 Here the deep ruts were filled with water and 
 her feet splashed with every step she took. 
 Everything about her had become terribly heavy, 
 her shoes, her skirt, her fur coat and the little 
 bag she was carrying. She had long ago relin- 
 quished the effort of holding up her umbrella. 
 She was dreadfully tired and exhausted after that 
 long tramp down the muddy lanes. 
 
 The light glimmered uncertainly from the 
 grove of trees, and as she approached them the
 
 THE REST HOUSE 311 
 
 prospect of shelter made her quicken her foot- 
 steps a little. It was so near now that little 
 haven of peace and rest. 
 
 As she went up to the front door she heard a 
 clock striking eight within. The sound startled 
 her. Certainly she must have been walking a 
 very long time, but she had no idea it was so 
 late. She hoped that Mary would not think it 
 inconsiderate of her to descend upon them at 
 such a late hour. Peggy flushed as this thought 
 occurred to her like a vague forerunner of evil. 
 She began to doubt Mary's reception of her ; she 
 saw in herself the unwelcome, self-invited guest. 
 
 Why should she disturb the tranquillity of 
 these people whom she knew so little? 
 
 Now the high branches of the pines were toss- 
 ing darkly above her head against the thick, star- 
 less night sky. Their murmuring was sustained, 
 like the waves of a restless, unquiet sea. Peggy 
 nervously looked up at the house, and saw that it 
 was all in darkness ; there were no lights to-night 
 in any of the windows. The light she had seen 
 must have been the solitary one that burned be- 
 fore the Blessed Sacrament in the chapel. Per- 
 haps every one was away. Her letter to Mary 
 might have miscarried. A hundred sinister pos- 
 sibilities thronged to her mind. In her agitation 
 she almost forgot to ring the bell. 
 
 When she did so the sound seemed to echo and 
 echo as if the house within were empty
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 IT WAS a long time before any answer came, 
 and Peggy was just summoning up courage 
 to lift her hand and ring again when she heard 
 a movement as of footsteps in the hall, and a 
 voice that she could not fail to recognize ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "It's all right, Martha don't you come. I'll 
 open the door." 
 
 The very sound of it ringing clear and decisive 
 made Peggy's heart beat with an almost sicken- 
 ing violence. 
 
 Then the door was flung open and she saw 
 Frederick Morford standing there, his great, 
 broad figure outlined darkly in strong relief 
 against the light of the hall within. Almost in- 
 stinctively she shrank back into the shadows so 
 that he might not see her face. 
 
 "Who is it?" he demanded, and she fancied that 
 she could detect a touch of irritability and resent- 
 ment at being disturbed at such an unusual hour. 
 "Who is it," he repeated, "and what do you 
 want?" 
 
 Peggy made a step forward and now the light 
 fell upon her face and revealed it, pale and 
 troubled, to the astonished gaze of Frederick 
 Morford. 
 
 "Please I am Peggy Metcalfe," she said in 
 a trembling voice that threatened to break with 
 fatigue and emotion. It was with difficulty that 
 
 312
 
 THE REST HOUSE 313 
 
 she could repress her tears. But if she were to 
 weep now he would surely only consider her a 
 thousand times more weak and foolish than he did 
 already ! 
 
 "Miss Metcalfe!" he repeated, and now there 
 was no doubt about the effect her name had had 
 upon him, for there was both horror and conster- 
 nation in his voice as he uttered the words with 
 an emphasis that pierced poor Peggy like a 
 sword. 
 
 The wind blew a gust of rain against his face 
 and it was with difficulty he could hold the door 
 open. 
 
 "For goodness' sake come in now you are 
 here!" he exclaimed, and he almost pulled her into 
 the hall. The door slammed to with a crash that 
 shook the pictures on the walls, and Peggy and 
 Morf ord stood facing each other in silence. 
 
 She scarcely realized what a dripping, discon- 
 solate little figure she must look. The water 
 streamed from her shoes and clothes and made 
 little puddles on the worn linoleum of the hall. 
 She was very cold and very tired and extremely 
 miserable, and Morford's rough manner, his 
 astonishment at seeing her, the horrified expres- 
 sion in his face as he had repeated her name, had 
 frightened her. He made her feel that she had 
 done wrong to come that she of all people in 
 the world was the most unwanted and the most 
 unwelcome ! 
 
 "Why have you come?" he said at last. His 
 annoyance was increased by his utter bewilder- 
 ment and mystification; it was as if in his eyes 
 her intrusion were perfectly unwarrantable.
 
 314 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 "How did you come? But I need not ask that; 
 you must have walked for miles/' 
 
 Even the girl's pitiable appearance did not 
 soften him. 
 
 "I walked from the Three Lanes," Peggy said. 
 "A man called Jebb drove me as far as that 
 from Hintlecombe I could not get a cab. Did 
 not your sister tell you that I was coming? Oh, 
 I am sorry it is so inconvenient, but I told her 
 to be sure and send me a telegram if she couldn't 
 have me." 
 
 Morford did not speak but continued to gaze 
 at her in astonished surprise. 
 
 "Won't you tell her that I'm here? I came 
 I was sure she would not refuse to receive me. 
 She was so kind to us last year. And I felt 
 somehow that she would help me. Do please 
 tell her that I've come don't please send me 
 away. I am so very tired." 
 
 The strange expression deepened upon Mor- 
 ford's face, accentuating the rugged hardness 
 of its lines. 
 
 "I can not go and tell Mary," he said, "for the 
 simple reason that she is not here. And there 
 have been no letters for her this past week of 
 that I am quite certain. I have seen everything 
 in the way of letters that has come to the house." 
 
 But Peggy was paying no attention to the last 
 part of his speech; her mind was occupied with 
 the single thought of Mary's absence. Why was 
 she away just now of all times? She who so 
 seldom left home at all. What dreadful mis- 
 chance was this? 
 
 "Is it possible," he continued, "that you are
 
 THE REST HOUSE 315 
 
 unaware of all that has happened here this year? 
 My father died," he crossed himself and bowed 
 his head slightly, "last July, and Mary has gone 
 into a convent. She has been gone three months. 
 I knew she wished it very much and I could not 
 be so selfish as to try to keep her here. I am 
 alone here except for old Martha, our nurse, who 
 came to look after things when Mary went away. 
 Even Father Denis is not here he has been ill 
 and went to Bath last week." 
 
 As he uttered this speech slowly and care- 
 fully as if to assure himself that Peggy should 
 miss nothing of its dire import, it seemed to the 
 girl that the very ground had been cut away 
 from beneath her feet. Mary was in a convent- 
 Mary was a nun! And Frederick was alone 
 here except for one old servant. Ignorant as she 
 was of the ways of the world, sheltered as she had 
 always been from all knowledge of evil, Peggy 
 knew enough to be instantly aware that her pres- 
 ence at the Rest House was imprudent and un- 
 conventional, and that by coming thither she had 
 placed herself in a false and untenable position. 
 
 "But I can not imagine in the least what 
 possessed you to come," continued Frederick, 
 and now there was a touch of irony in his voice. 
 "Unless your memory is of the shortest you can 
 not have forgotten the shortcomings of our very 
 limited establishment. It is ten times worse since 
 Mary left us, and I try to give Martha as little 
 to do as I can, she is getting so very infirm. 
 There could have been little to attract you at any 
 time, Miss Metcalfe, but there is less than ever 
 now." His glance fell upon her face with a cold
 
 316 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 scrutiny, but it gave him no key to the riddle. 
 "You have not run away from home, have you?" 
 he demanded at last. 
 
 "No I have not run away. My father has 
 forbidden me to go back, and Beatrice wouldn't 
 let me stay with her any longer. I I have be- 
 come a Catholic," she went on in nervous haste, 
 "I waited, as you advised me to do, until I was 
 twenty-one. I came of age about a month ago 
 and I was received on Tuesday." 
 
 "You have become a Catholic?" repeated Mor- 
 ford in a stupefied tone. 
 
 "Yes. And I have hardly any money they 
 will never give me any more so I came to see 
 your sister and ask her advice !" 
 
 "Why didn't you consult the priest who re- 
 ceived you before you did anything so mad?" 
 asked Frederick. 
 
 Up to this point Peggy had remained stand- 
 ing, but now her exhaustion was so complete, she 
 felt that if she continued to do so she would cer- 
 tainly fall headlong upon the floor. She sank 
 into one of the stiff, upright chairs and hid her 
 face in her hands. Morford must not see her cry. 
 His anger would only be increased by her tears. 
 
 "I told him I was coming to stay with friends 
 with some people I knew who were Catholics. 
 He told me I had better write first, and I did 
 write the day before yesterday. I can not think 
 why the letter never arrived!" Her voice broke 
 on a weak sob. 
 
 Morford paced up and down the little hall in a 
 restless, agitated manner. From time to time he 
 threw a glance at the little figure, so small, so
 
 THE REST HOUSE 317 
 
 childish of aspect, sitting huddled up on the high 
 uncomfortable chair. He repressed an impulse 
 to pity so sharp that it smote him like a physical 
 pang. Then he said: 
 
 "Well, there is nothing for it that I can see but 
 for you to stay here to-night. I will go and con- 
 sult Martha and she will come and help you off 
 with all those wet things you will catch your 
 death of cold if you do not take them off soon. 
 Please do not sit there and cry. I am sorry but 
 the whole thing is so impossible!" 
 
 Martha had been his nurse and his mother's 
 before him. She was seventy now, an aged, 
 wrinkled woman, but still active and even auto- 
 cratic, still expecting to use the authority that 
 had been hers in the days when she ruled over the 
 nursery at the Rest House. It was Frederick 
 who had been the noisy and unruly member of 
 that nursery, but she adored him still as she had 
 always done. 
 
 He disappeared down the passage, leaving 
 Peggy alone, and made his way to the kitchen. 
 
 "Martha," he said abruptly, "Miss Metcalfe is 
 here; she has walked from the Three Lanes 
 that brute Jebb would not bring her any further, 
 I suppose, and she is wet through and 
 thoroughly exhausted. She came here because 
 she's been turned out of her own home for becom- 
 ing a Catholic, and she thought, of course, she 
 would find Mary here. What am I to do? I 
 can't turn her out, and I'm afraid of what people 
 may say about her if she stays!" 
 
 Martha was shocked into silence. That a 
 young lady should have come so far alone on such
 
 318 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 a night filled her with an anxious apprehension 
 second only to that displayed by Frederick. She 
 had not been at the Rest House when the Met- 
 calfes had found shelter there last year, and she 
 had not heard of the little adventure. There was 
 silence in the kitchen except for the fierce patter 
 of the rain on the flagged path outside. 
 
 "You might take her to the Grange, Mr. Fred- 
 erick," she suggested. 
 
 "How could I take her to the Grange? What 
 explanations could I possibly give to them? Lady 
 Denby is the most conventional woman in the 
 world ! Besides, they have the house full for the 
 shooting." 
 
 "Better take her in to Coldford then, when 
 she's dried her things," said Martha. 
 
 "How can I take her to Coldford? You know 
 perfectly well there's only one horse in the stable 
 now, and he's dead lame. Martha she must 
 stay here and you must look after her." 
 
 "Very well, Mr. Frederick," said Martha, in a 
 dogged, decisive way, "stay here she shall and I'll 
 look after her. You leave her to me. I'll make 
 up a bed for her in Miss Mary's room that'll 
 be the quickest got ready. And then I'll 
 get her a bit of supper. There's no cold meat 
 left and you finished the apple pie for supper and 
 we've no butter, for to-morrow's churning day. 
 But she can have some boiled eggs and toast and 
 a cup of hot tea." 
 
 "Oh, that'll do beautifully, Martha," said Fred- 
 erick, relieved to find that there was any kind of 
 food to place before Miss Metcalfe. "I don't 
 suppose she'll care what it is she's dog-tired. If
 
 THE REST HOUSE 319 
 
 only it hadn't been Jebb. That's the mischief of 
 it, Martha!" 
 
 "Jebb can't do you no harm, Mr. Frederick," 
 said Martha. 
 
 "Me? Do you suppose I care what Jebb says 
 about me? I'm thinking of her of Miss Met- 
 calfe her people are well known." 
 
 "More shame to them, then, for turning of 
 her out," said Martha, giving her young master 
 a very searching glance. 
 
 "Ah you'll say that more than ever when you 
 see her. Such a little thing, Martha, such a 
 fragile, delicate-looking little thing!" 
 
 Martha filled a large jug with hot water from 
 the kettle and moved slowly toward the door. 
 Frederick went ahead of her into the hall where 
 Peggy was still sitting on the high chair, in the 
 same huddled position, as of one at the end alike 
 of her strength and courage. 
 
 "So that's the way, is it?" muttered the old 
 woman to herself. "Well, well, his turn was 
 bound to come sooner or later as I always told 
 Miss Mary, when she couldn't make up her mind 
 to leave him." 
 
 "Here is Martha," said Frederick and the tone 
 of his voice sounded slightly more gentle to 
 Peggy; "she will take you up to Mary's room 
 and help you to take off all those wet things. 
 Mind you make a good fire, please, Martha, and 
 see Miss Metcalfe has something to eat as soon 
 as possible." 
 
 Martha, competent and sensible despite her 
 years, had soothed his nerves, and he was now full 
 of solicitude for Peggy's welfare.
 
 320 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 There was no answer from the huddled figure, 
 but he thought to detect a smothered sob. The 
 sound hurt him and he began to feel that in his 
 first astonishment and consternation he had not 
 been very kind. He went up to her and quite 
 awkwardly touched her hand. 
 
 "I've talked it over with Martha and it'll be all 
 right you must stay here to-night, and I can 
 think it over and decide what you'd better do 
 next. You must have a good sleep." He looked 
 at her as she raised her face, pale and tear-stained 
 to his. 
 
 "Oh, thank you, thank you," she said. 
 
 She stumbled to her feet. 
 
 "Please let me go to the chapel." 
 
 "No, certainly not," said Frederick with deci- 
 sion, "you must not stay a moment longer than's 
 necessary in those soaked things. As it is, I sup- 
 pose you will have an awful cold. But when you 
 are ready, if you don't want to go to bed directly, 
 I hope you will come down and have your supper, 
 and then you can go for a few minutes into the 
 chapel." 
 
 He spoke in a tone of brisk and decisive au- 
 thority, which appeared to brace Peggy to effort. 
 She followed Martha across the hall and up the 
 stairs to Mary's room. 
 
 About an hour later Frederick heard a light 
 tap at the study door. Peggy was standing there 
 flushed and smiling. 
 
 "I have come to say good-night," she said tim- 
 idly, "I have had my supper and Martha has been 
 so kind and helpful. And now may I go to the 
 chapel, please?"
 
 THE REST HOUSE 321 
 
 Frederick sprang up from his seat. He always 
 seemed formidable to Peggy when he thus tow- 
 ered above her, looking down upon her from 
 his great height. 
 
 "I will take you there myself," he said and 
 lighting a candle he led the way down the long 
 passage to the chapel. Peggy almost mechan- 
 ically opened the drawer in which Mary had 
 found a veil for her. It was still there ; she threw 
 it lightly about her head. Her face looked 
 charming in that soft black frame. 
 
 Then Frederick threw open the door and she 
 slipped into the shadows of the dimly lit chapel 
 beyond. She knelt down, and it was quite a long 
 time before she perceived that Frederick had not 
 gone away; he was kneeling at a little distance 
 from her, his head bowed low upon his hands. 
 
 Presently he got up and went across to Peggy 
 and as she did not stir he touched her on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Come," he said, "you are not to stay here all 
 night, you know. I am not going to allow it. 
 It is time for you to go to bed." 
 
 Peggy rose and obediently followed him. Al- 
 though his manner had grown much more gentle, 
 he was still speaking to her as if she were a little 
 child. He commanded and very meekly she 
 obeyed. 
 
 He paused when they were standing outside 
 in the passage, and watched her as she took off 
 the veil, folded it, and put it back into the drawer. 
 
 She looked up at him. 
 
 "You can not imagine how much I have wished 
 to come back here and say thank you. Because it
 
 322 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 was there," she bent her head slightly toward the 
 chapel, "that I first knew I must be a Catholic. 
 You must not think because I was weak and cried 
 to-night that that I regretted anything. I was 
 only cold and tired and I could not help seeing," 
 she dropped her voice, "that you wished I had not 
 come. But I will go away to-morrow I can 
 always go back to the convent in London, and I 
 am sure I shall very soon find something to do." 
 
 Again she saw that strange expression which 
 she could not understand in his eyes. But she 
 was almost sure that he felt a little sorry former 
 because she was homeless and rather weak and 
 stupid, and unable to take care of herself. 
 
 But he only led the way to the foot of the stairs 
 and then held out a candle to her. 
 
 "I hope you will have a good night, Miss Met- 
 calfe," he said. "You must ask Martha for any- 
 thing you want." 
 
 He watched her as she went up the narrow, 
 steep flight of stairs. "Poor little girl poor 
 little girl," he said to himself.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 REDBRICK sat up very late that night meditat- 
 ing upon the events of the day which had 
 begun for him with all the colorless monotony of 
 his life at the Rest House. The rising at the ap- 
 pointed hour there was no Mass as Father 
 Denis was aw r ay, but he spent the half hour in 
 the chapel just the same, making his morning 
 offering and meditation. Then the daily routine 
 of work from which he had returned about six 
 o'clock; his lonely evening meal presided over 
 by old Martha and then the coming of Peggy. 
 As he first let his mind dwell upon that unbe- 
 lievable vision of her he remembered that she had 
 seemed to him like some elfin spirit that had 
 strayed to his house for shelter from the lonely 
 Somersetshire woods and hills. 
 
 But that Peggy should be here, under his roof, 
 the Peggy whose image he had thrust so reso- 
 lutely from his mind that for months past it had 
 scarcely ever arisen to trouble the peace thereof, 
 filled him with perplexity and bewilderment; he 
 could not realize it ; it was indeed one of those im- 
 possible events that even actual fact can scarcely 
 invest with credibility. Moved by some impulse 
 he hardly yet understood, she had strayed back 
 to seek out his sister, to make her thanksgiving in 
 the little chapel where the light of faith had first 
 been vouchsafed to her. 
 
 With harsh words he had tried to shield his 
 323
 
 324 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 own heart, to armor it against her who had found 
 access to it so easily. And through that very 
 heart of his there ran now a little thrill of passion- 
 ate triumph that she who had seemed so utterly 
 beyond and above his reach, a remote, inaccess- 
 ible, yet tantalizingly beautiful creature, should 
 be here of her own will, lodged under the roof he 
 had judged so wholly inadequate to receive her. 
 
 She, friendless and alone, had returned to the 
 Rest House for shelter like a little wounded hom- 
 ing bird. 
 
 Of course it was not likely that these tragic 
 present circumstances of hers should be perma- 
 nent. Surely her father, having first lodged his 
 severe protest and harshly exercised his author- 
 ity, would relent and send for her when he found 
 them unavailing to deter her from her fixed de- 
 termination of purpose. No man who had an 
 ounce of pity or affection for his child could pos- 
 sibly contemplate the permanent infliction of 
 so severe and sharp a penance upon a young 
 and weak girl. Surely, too, her mother would 
 plead for her, and soften the father's obduracy, 
 and persuade him to receive her again. It was 
 impossible for him to believe that they could be 
 utterly destitute of affection and solicitude for 
 any one so lovely and so delicate-looking. For 
 like many Catholics born and bred in the Faith, 
 Frederick Morford was inclined to undervalue 
 the fierce passion of Protestant prejudice. He 
 could not believe that the sentence would be per- 
 mitted to continue unrevoked. Some day she 
 would surely be forgiven and allowed to return 
 to that home of hers ; she would go back to a mar-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 325 
 
 riage that would be in all respects worthy of her, 
 with a man whose fortune matched her own. 
 She had not really come any nearer to him. She 
 was still as far removed from him as ever. Even 
 to-night he ought to try to prevent his thoughts 
 from dwelling upon her so persistently. 
 
 Before going to bed herself, old Martha came 
 down to the study to inform him that Miss Met- 
 calfe was in bed and sound asleep. She had had 
 a cup of hot milk the last thing; it often helped 
 people to go to sleep. "And I'll take her a cup 
 of tea when she first wakes," added Martha, "I'm 
 sure she must be used to it." 
 
 "Thank you, Martha," said Frederick. 
 
 What a comfort that she had been able to go to 
 sleep so soon, after such a long and trying day. 
 
 "She's a sweet, pretty young lady, Master 
 Frederick," said Martha after a moment's pause. 
 "Such nice manners the way she thanked me 
 and begged me not to trouble, and seemed so 
 sorry to disturb us. Well, well, perhaps she's 
 been sent here for some good purpose who 
 knows? I made her say a Hail Mary because 
 she'd got here safe and sound. And she said it 
 after me like a child." 
 
 "Thank you, Martha," said Frederick again. 
 "I'm sure youVe done all you could. Good- 
 night," he added hastily. Martha was a great 
 talker and he wanted desperately to be alone, to 
 think things out as he would have expressed it, 
 to make plans for the future, sensible, practical 
 plans that should relieve the confusion of the sit- 
 uation and leave him no space for idle dreaming. 
 
 Li#ht came to him at last with the sudden force
 
 326 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 of an illumination. There was Mrs. Dalton, 
 kindest of friends, most sensible and motherly of 
 women. Her matter-of-fact mind, her complete 
 want of imagination two qualities in her which 
 had often irritated him had never seemed so 
 attractive to him as they did now. She would be 
 the very person to help him, to suggest something 
 that should be at once wise and kind and helpful 
 to Peggy. Her influence might even prove brac- 
 ing. Of course the girl had gone through a great 
 deal, but she ought to learn a measure of forti- 
 tude, and he knew that Mrs. Dalton's kindness 
 was not of the weakly indulgent order. She 
 could teach Peggy, who was still in so many ways 
 such a child. 
 
 He forced himself to think of Peggy thus 
 as a child weak and rather forlorn who needed 
 guidance and help. Not as a woman to be loved 
 and knelt before and worshiped. Frederick shut 
 that aspect of her resolutely from his heart; it 
 must never be allowed to dwell there. He knew 
 better than any one the limitations of the Rest 
 House, its poverty, the plainness and often the 
 insufficiency of its fare, the absolute lack of all 
 creature comforts. He, a strong, vigorous man, 
 could endure to be cold and hungry, but Peggy ! 
 To capture her imprison her here in all her 
 youth and beauty would be to impose only a 
 cruel fate upon her, a fate, too, that in her present 
 loneliness and destitution she might even accept. 
 There lay a subtle temptation in this thought 
 which again and again presented itself to hinic 
 If he were to ask her to-morrow to give him the 
 right to protect and guard her as his own wife,
 
 THE REST HOUSE 327 
 
 would she refuse? Would it not offer to her a 
 present solution of that problem of hers, a conso- 
 lation in her present distress ? In the emergency 
 of her need, would she not perhaps promise to be 
 his wife and share with him the poverty of his 
 life? 
 
 He put aside these dreams. To-morrow he 
 would take her to Bargrove, and entreat Mrs. 
 Dalton to give her hospitality for a few days. 
 She would be the very person to help him in his 
 dilemma; he felt sure that she would welcome 
 Peggy, the history of whose previous visit to the 
 Rest House had already been communicated to 
 her. 
 
 Of course it was most unfortunate that Miss 
 Metcalfe should have come to the Rest House in 
 this unconventional way. Evil tongues might 
 well place a bad interpretation upon her innocent 
 action. There was that man Jebb, for instance, 
 an advanced socialist with a fierce antagonism 
 toward Catholics, a follower of the Stone Cross 
 cobbler, in whose cry of "No Popery!" he was 
 ever ready to join. Jebb had brought her as far 
 as the Three Lanes and had left her to continue 
 the rest of her journey on foot, a fact which might 
 be regarded as a tacit assertion of his own disap- 
 proval. It was hardly to be hoped that he would 
 be silent in his criticism of the unconventional 
 situation. Frederick had a man's large contempt 
 for what people might say about himself, but he 
 felt a passionate desire to shield Peggy from the 
 arrows of poisonous tongues. To shield her for- 
 ever behind the armor of his own name was a 
 thing he dared not contemplate, and he thrust
 
 328 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 the thought from him as he might have tried to 
 avert the point of some sharp instrument that 
 was capable of inflicting an exquisite torture. It 
 was impossible ; she must never feel even the need 
 for rehabilitating herself in this way; she must 
 never know that her innocent action was capable 
 of being vilely interpreted. She had only seemed 
 to-night to think of the inconvenience she had 
 caused. He knew that he could trust Mrs. Dai- 
 ton not to enlighten her. 
 
 His plans were fully matured in all their nec- 
 cessary detail before he allowed himself to go 
 to bed. He knew that he would not be able to 
 sleep with that high wind screaming round the 
 house and the rain beating and splashing its large 
 tears against the panes. There were many 
 thoughts in Frederick's heart that night, some of 
 them too intimate and sacred to be revealed. It 
 was here that Peggy's spiritual capture had taken 
 place; here that she had known first that divine 
 imprisoning; here that she had heard the words 
 summoning her. And with all her weakness she 
 had answered quickly, obediently, generously, 
 with scarcely a thought for those readily aban- 
 doned nets. And he knew that if he could ever 
 win that priceless gift, the love of Peggy's heart, 
 she would care for poverty and privation as little 
 as he did. 
 
 He rose early on the following day it seemed 
 to him that he had scarcely slept for five minutes 
 when Martha's heavy knock sounded at the door. 
 His visit to the chapel accomplished, he went off 
 to borrow a horse for the drive to Coldford. He 
 would not go to Hintlecombe to give another
 
 THE REST HOUSE 329 
 
 fillip to gossiping tongues, and besides, there was 
 a train which ran from Coldford to the Daltons' 
 nearest station without change. It would be time 
 enough when they reached that town to send Mrs. 
 Dalton a telegram to announce their coming. 
 She took everything as a matter of course and 
 would, he knew, feel scarcely any surprise. 
 
 Peggy was still too tired to do anything but 
 fall in quite readily with all Frederick's arrange- 
 ments. She made one little protest about going 
 to Mrs. Dalton's, saying it might be inconvenient 
 for them to receive her and pleading that she 
 could quite well return to the convent. Fred- 
 erick dismissed these arguments with a quick 
 frown. 
 
 "I really think you'd be better there just for a 
 bit. You see you've got to get used to things." 
 
 If she had been capable of feeling pain at all 
 amid the confusion of so much change and up- 
 heaval, she would perhaps have shrunk a little 
 from going to Bargrove. But Beatrice had 
 spoken with so much certainty about Frederick's 
 engagement to Bridget Dalton that she had to a 
 certain extent accustomed her mind to the 
 thought. What more natural thing than that he 
 should under the circumstances shift the burden 
 of herself upon these people who already had 
 such a strong claim upon him? As a future son 
 of the house he could appeal to them for assist- 
 ance with confidence and assurance in their readi- 
 ness to grant it. 
 
 Peggy had never deeply analyzed her own feel- 
 ing for Frederick ; she had never discovered that 
 the strong influence he exercised over her owed
 
 330 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 its origin to her own heart. She had never recog- 
 nized that the fear and excitement and strange 
 trembling she had felt at his approach were the 
 first tremulous feelings of love in a heart that was 
 wholly untried. She had hoped if she ever mar- 
 ried that her husband would think as he did, and 
 that he might perhaps even be a little like Fred- 
 erick. She had even thought once for a short 
 time before she knew of his engagement that she 
 could never marry Hugh Quentin or any other 
 man while Frederick Morford was in the world. 
 There was no pain in the thought that he be- 
 longed to another girl, yet she felt if she dwelt 
 upon it too long or envisaged it too clearly that it 
 might be productive of a pain whose sharpness 
 and extent it would be impossible to measure. 
 
 But he had disclosed his plan of taking her to 
 Bargrove as a premeditated arrangement which 
 did not even require her consent; he had waved 
 aside those timidly proffered objections of hers; 
 he had given her to understand quite clearly that 
 Mrs. Dalton of all people in the world was the 
 one best fitted to cope with the exigencies of her 
 own present difficult situation. His own relief, 
 too, at this shifting of his burden to the shoulders 
 of another was so obviously intense that Peggy, 
 feeling she had tried him enough by coming at all, 
 meekly fell in with his wishes. She had, too, the 
 comfortable conviction that he knew best, even if 
 what he had determined to do did hurt her a little. 
 And even if she had been sensible of the hurt that 
 was surely to follow instead of vaguely fearing it, 
 there would still have been a deep and strange joy
 
 THE REST HOUSE 331 
 
 in the thought that they were to make this short 
 journey together. 
 
 It seemed so wonderful to be traveling alone 
 with Frederick Morford! The November day 
 was beautifully fine, as if the weather were re- 
 penting of its insubordinate mood of yesterday. 
 The sunlight lay in pale bars of golden light upon 
 the green slopes of the Mendip hills, and illu- 
 minated the soft brown bloom that still colored the 
 leafless woods. There was a soft, almost warm 
 breeze such as often blows in Somersetshire and 
 to which is perhaps attributable its character of 
 having a "muggy climate." The horse Frederick 
 had borrowed was a strong one and they drove 
 along at a swift, steady pace. 
 
 On the way to the station she said timidly : 
 
 "Is it long since you have been to Bargrove?" 
 She looked up at him under those thick, dark 
 lashes that lent such fire and depth to her eyes. 
 
 "Some months," said Morford. "Mary and I 
 went there after my father's death, a few weeks 
 before she went to the convent. It was a farewell 
 visit. You see, the Daltons are really the only in- 
 timate friends we have," he added as if to explain 
 this visit, which was an unusual occurrence at 
 least in his sister's life. 
 
 Evidently, then, the engaged pair had not met 
 since then they would have much to talk over 
 with and tell each other. Their separation must 
 have lasted more than three months. But Mor- 
 ford was too poor and too hard-worked to leave 
 home very often even to visit his fiance. She 
 wondered if the marriage would take place soon. 
 It seemed to her that Frederick had been a little
 
 332 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 surprised at her question just now, as if the mat- 
 ter had been no affair of hers. She colored as if 
 she had said something very indiscreet. 
 
 "Oh, I'm afraid of going there!" she cried sud- 
 denly, as they came in sight of the little gray town 
 of Coldford lying at the foot of a hill. "I am a 
 stranger to them they can not even know my 
 name. And perhaps they will not like my com- 
 ing." She looked piteously at Frederick, and he 
 wondered a little why she should dislike the idea 
 
 if 
 
 of going there so much. 
 
 "Mrs. Dalton is an extremely kind woman," 
 he said shortly, "and I know she will do anything 
 I ask her. Besides, you need not stay there 
 longer than you like. It would be better to con- 
 sult her, though, before you take any steps about 
 going away." 
 
 Morf ord took the horse and trap to an inn near 
 the station, giving orders that they were to be 
 kept there until his return on the following morn- 
 ing. Peggy was standing near when he gave the 
 order, and she was dismayed to find that he only 
 intended to spend one night at Bargrove. It 
 showed her quite plainly that his chief reason for 
 making the journey thither was in order to see 
 her safely installed under Mrs. Dalton's roof, and 
 if he had any personal pleasure in the prospect of 
 the visit he concealed it with the most perfect 
 success. 
 
 He had with him only a bag, and Peggy had 
 her little trunk, which had arrived early at the 
 Rest House, brought by the carrier's cart. 
 
 Frederick bought the tickets, gave the luggage 
 in charge of a porter to be labeled, and then said :
 
 THE REST HOUSE 333 
 
 "Do you mind waiting here, Miss Metcalfe, 
 while I go and send a telegram to Mrs. Dalton?" 
 
 "Oh, no," said Peggy. She sat down on a seat 
 and watched the little groups of passengers 
 assembled on the platform. Suddenly she caught 
 sight of a familiar face turned sharply and scru- 
 tinizingly toward her. It was Mrs. Gillespie. 
 She was alone, and was dressed in a coat and skirt 
 of rough, grass-green frieze that seemed to in- 
 crease the odd greenness of her eyes. 
 
 "Why, my dear Peggy!" she exclaimed, "what 
 in the world are you doing here all by your little 
 alone?" 
 
 Peggy stood up, and her confusion painted her 
 cheeks a flaming scarlet. 
 
 "I am not alone," she said, and then stopped. 
 How could she possibly explain the situation to 
 Mrs. Gillespie? Probably she knew nothing of 
 her exile from Mildon. She stood there looking 
 the picture of guilty embarrassment. Oh, what 
 would Mrs. Gillespie say when she saw Morf ord ? 
 His return from the telegraph-office could not 
 long be delayed. 
 
 "Why, what's the matter, Peggy?" inquired 
 Mrs. Gillespie smiling, "who on earth have you 
 got with you that you should look so shy about it ? 
 Not Hugh?" And she looked full into the 
 girl's eyes with a merciless, humorous stare. 
 
 "Oh, no; it isn't Hugh," said Peggy des- 
 perately. She wished the ground would open to 
 receive her. 
 
 "I thought you never went about alone with- 
 out Peter or your mother or one of your sisters," 
 said Mrs. Gillespie, who had heard that the Met-
 
 334 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 calfes were very strict with Peggy and had even 
 wondered why they should imagine it to be so 
 necessary. She had never seen a girl who looked 
 less likely to get into mischief of any kind. 
 
 "Oh, haven't you heard?" said Peggy, thankful 
 to change the conversation from the subject of 
 her traveling companion, "I'm not allowed to 
 live at home any more. I I have become a 
 Catholic." 
 
 "Become a Catholic?" repeated Mrs. Gillespie 
 in a tone of scornful surprise; "what made you 
 do such a silly thing as that? And do you mean 
 that they have turned you out of the house ? Why 
 didn't vou come to me? I should have been de- 
 
 v 
 
 lighted to have you, and I would have got Hugh 
 down and fixed it all up between you in no time, 
 so that vou would never have had to wander about 
 
 / 
 
 the country like this! Why didn't you let me 
 know, Peggy? You're much too young to be 
 going about by yourself in this way." 
 
 "I haven't told any one yet except the nuns at 
 the convent where I stayed in London, and Mr. 
 Morford." She uttered his name with a certain 
 timid hesitation that did not escape the attention 
 of Mrs. Gillespie. 
 
 "Mr. Morford? And who is he?" she asked. 
 
 "He is a friend of mine a Catholic," said 
 Peggy in a low voice. 
 
 "Oh, I see," said Mrs. Gillespie in a meaning 
 tone; "it generally means that, doesn't it? when 
 a girl suddenly becomes a Catholic. So that's 
 why you packed Hugh off to East Africa?" 
 
 Peggy did not reply. Her eyes full of terror
 
 THE REST HOUSE 335 
 
 were fixed upon Morford, who was rapidly ad- 
 vancing down the platform toward them. He 
 felt a little surprise when he saw Peggy talking 
 to an unusual-looking woman dressed in vivid 
 green. 
 
 "Mr. Morford Mrs. Gillespie," said Peggy, 
 crimsoning anew and stammering over the two 
 names. 
 
 "Which way are you going?" Peggy heard her 
 say to Morford. 
 
 "To Freshly it's in Gloucestershire," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 "I suppose you are going to stay with the 
 Charsleys at Lavender then?" said Mrs. Gilles- 
 pie, whose curiosity was thoroughly aroused. 
 
 What a little puss Peggy was in spite of her 
 innocent childlike airs! 
 
 "Oh, no," said Peggy looking up quickly, 
 "Beatrice isn't at Lavender now she's spending 
 the autumn in town. But in any case she 
 wouldn't let me stay with her now." 
 
 "We are going to Mrs. Dalton's at Bargrove," 
 said Frederick rather haughtily. He disliked 
 Mrs. Gillespie's manner to Peggy, and he felt 
 a little afraid of what she might say next. 
 
 The train steamed into the station at that mo- 
 ment, putting an end to the conversation. Fred- 
 erick moved toward the opening doors to find 
 seats for himself and Peggy. Mrs. Gillespie 
 took the opportunity of whispering: 
 
 "Well, my dear Peggy, when am I to con- 
 gratulate you? I don't think much of your 
 taste though Hugh's far better looking and you 
 could have had a lovely time if you'd married
 
 336 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 him. He was so much in love with you he'd have 
 given you everything everything! Who is this 
 Mr. Morford? Where did you pick him up?" 
 
 There was fortunately no time for Peggy to 
 answer this question, for Frederick beckoned to 
 her as he held open the door of a carriage. 
 
 "Will you get in, Miss Metcalfe?" he said with 
 a return of his old, forbidding manner. 
 
 "Good-by," said Peggy hastily to Mrs. Gilles- 
 pie. 
 
 "Good-by," replied Mrs. Gillespie, "if it's not 
 too late, Peggy, do let me entreat you to be care- 
 ful. Sir John may not wish to have you back at 
 home but he would be the first to disapprove of 
 your being seen in the wilds of Somersetshire 
 alone with a strange young man. I hope you will 
 reach your destination safely." 
 
 Peggy was crimson in the face as she mounted 
 up the steps into the carriage. She felt for the 
 first time that she was doing an unconventional 
 and very strange thing. If Mrs. Gillespie had 
 not evinced such disapproving surprise she would 
 have attached scarcely more importance to the 
 episode of traveling with Morford than if Peter 
 had been her escort. She was only thankful after 
 her experience of yesterday that Morford had 
 not insisted upon her making the journey alone. 
 It was what she had fully expected she might 
 have to do, and she was excessively grateful to 
 him for putting himself to the additional incon- 
 venience of accompanying her. But this point 
 of view had been relentlessly swept away by Mrs. 
 Gillespie's words, and Peggy felt that what she 
 had said was quite true had Sir John been able
 
 THE REST HOUSE 337 
 
 to see her now his anger and displeasure would 
 be increased a hundredfold. She was perfectly 
 aware of the opinion he held about Morford, and 
 if he could see them now perhaps he would feel 
 his opinion was justified. Had he not called him 
 a fortune-hunter who had taken advantage of 
 her youth and inexperience to make the attempt 
 to proselytize her? Had not Mrs. Gillespie im- 
 mediately attributed her conversion to Morford's 
 influence? Peggy, shamed and humbled, shrank 
 into the corner, trying to avert her face from 
 Morford's stern eyes. 
 
 "Your friend seemed surprised to see you 
 here," he said at last, trying to speak lightly, for 
 something in Mrs. Gillespie's manner had jarred 
 upon him. 
 
 "I think she was," admitted Peggy. 
 
 He wondered if Peggy in her innocence had 
 informed her of yesterday's adventure of her 
 unexpected visit to the Rest House. 
 
 "She seemed so curious to know where we were 
 going," he continued. 
 
 "Yes," agreed Peggy. Then she added, "She 
 lives at Mildon, you see; they are our neighbors." 
 
 "She will be able to give news of you to your 
 people," he said with a touch of bitterness in his 
 voice. 
 
 "Yes," said Peggy. "I am afraid as she said 
 that they would not approve of my traveling 
 about like this." 
 
 "Then they should not have turned you away 
 penniless!" flashed out Morford with a violence 
 that astonished and alarmed her. "It is their own 
 fault ! Oh, when I think of them I have no words
 
 338 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 to express what I think of their conduct toward 
 you!" 
 
 Peggy had never suspected that Morford 
 would adopt this point of view. She even wished 
 to defend those absent ones who were still dear 
 to her and were perhaps justified in the exercise 
 of their Olympian authority. She had rebelled 
 and disobeyed, and she no more questioned their 
 right to punish her in this way than as a child 
 she has questioned their right to administer sharp 
 physical chastisement to her. In their eyes her 
 fault had been unpardonable. 
 
 "You must not blame them," she said quickly, 
 "I am their child they have a right to punish 
 me if they think I deserve it." 
 
 Frederick looked at her in speechless astonish- 
 ment. It was evident that she did not blame them 
 at all for their unparalleled harshness; she even 
 defended them from hostile criticism. 
 
 "They warned me that it was what would hap- 
 pen," she explained. "Just as they used to warn 
 me that I should be punished when I was a little 
 child if I did certain things. If I disobeyed them 
 I had only myself to thank, but it didn't " and 
 now her face broke into an enchanting smile "it 
 didn't make the pain any easier to bear!" 
 
 She remembered afterward that throughout 
 the journey Frederick Morford did strenuously 
 exert himself to look after her comfort, as if 
 perhaps he wished to make amends for the harsh- 
 ness of his reception of her on the previous day. 
 He sedulously saw that she had all that she re- 
 quired in the way of open or shut windows, rugs, 
 hot-water tins for her feet, newspapers to read.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 339 
 
 He could ill afford the money he had spent on 
 the latter, as well as on the first-class railway 
 tickets which Peggy had unthinkingly permitted 
 him to buy. Bat at least it should never be said of 
 him that he had neglected to take care of this 
 creature of china-like fragility beside whom he 
 felt so aware of his own great clumsiness and 
 awkwardness. 
 
 The two hours' journey passed all too quickly 
 for Peggy, who was now definitely dreading the 
 thought of seeing Frederick and Bridget Dalton 
 together. Her pride, too, suffered a little at the 
 prospect of being thrust in all her new homeless- 
 ness and friendlessness upon the charity of these 
 strangers. 
 
 It seemed to be her very first taste of the bitter 
 bread of dependence, which in the future must 
 certainly form her principal sustenance. 
 
 Mrs. Dalton greeted them with warm and 
 frank kindliness. If she felt any surprise at their 
 advent she managed to conceal it admirably, and 
 she did not betray much curiosity about the ex- 
 planation which in his telegram Frederick had 
 promised to offer. But he took so little notice of 
 women as a rule that Mrs. Dalton did give 
 Peggy one quick, searching glance to ascertain, 
 if possible, what there could be in this girl to 
 awaken his interest. She saw a pale, dark-haired 
 slip of a girl who at first sight was scarcely 
 pretty at all, and moreover, seemed to be afflicted 
 with the most agonizing timidity or shyness- 
 Mrs. Dalton could not quite make up her mind 
 which. The question that did frankly puzzle her, 
 even when the explanation had been offered, was
 
 340 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 why Peggy should have sought out Frederick 
 Morford when she was first flung a homeless con- 
 vert upon the world? It was a courageous thing 
 for any one to do ! She was not certain that she 
 would have embarked upon that course herself. 
 Was it only the proverbial rushing in of the fool 
 upon sacred or dangerous ground ? 
 
 "Of course she can stay with us, Frederick," 
 said Mrs. Dalton when she was alone with him 
 after tea. Bridget, who had not been in when they 
 first arrived (a fact which aroused Peggy's sur- 
 prise and made her question herself as to whether 
 she would have been capable of a similar detach- 
 ment in Bridget's position) bore Peggv off to 
 her room as soon as that meal was over. 
 
 "It'll be awfully kind of you to have her for a 
 bit," he said; "you see she's not accustomed to 
 looking after herself, and she might do something 
 foolish. In some ways she is such a child! And 
 she's not resentful she hasn't a hard feeling in 
 her heart toward her parents ! She she almost 
 reproached me for blaming them." 
 
 "I'm sure that's very nice of her," said Mrs. 
 Dalton in her pleasant, conventional way, "she 
 certainly looks a dear little thing, Frederick. 
 Well, we shall be delighted to keep her as long as 
 she likes to stay. This house is big enough to 
 hold a dozen homeless converts. Still, I can't 
 imagine any parent hard-hearted enough to turn 
 a little bit of a thing like that out into the world 
 without a penny. I suppose they thought it 
 would be the quickest way of getting her back 
 again." 
 
 "I suppose they did," said Frederick gloomily.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 341 
 
 "Let's hope she'll have the strength to persevere. 
 It was a bit of a risk, wasn't it? You can't im- 
 agine what a miserable object she looked last 
 night when she arrived at the Rest House. Wet 
 through and splashed with mud and cold and 
 crying!" 
 
 "I wonder what made her go to the Rest 
 House?" she said, looking straight at Frederick 
 with her clear, candid eyes. He changed color 
 a little, feeling that the question was perhaps less 
 simple than it sounded at first. 
 
 "Oh, well she had an idea Mary might help 
 her. She didn't know, you see, that my father 
 was dead or that Mary had gone into a convent. 
 And she said, too, that she wanted to come and 
 make a thanksgiving in the chapel where she first 
 received the Faith." 
 
 "Very nice of her, I'm sure," said Mrs. Dalton. 
 "Still, it was just a little awkward for you, wasn't 
 it? I don't suppose that idea occurred to her, 
 though." 
 
 "I'm quite sure it didn't," said Frederick 
 warmly, "she was only distressed because she 
 thought her coming was inconvenient. I tell you 
 she has the outlook of a child!" 
 
 "Yes she's a wee bit thing, as my old Scotch 
 nurse used to say," said Mrs. Dalton. But as 
 she spoke she gave Frederick another quick 
 glance of scrutiny, as if she wished to penetrate 
 into the fastnesses of that young man's well- 
 guarded heart. She had always hoped that he 
 might take a fancy to Bridget, who was more 
 than ready to fall in love with him and had suf- 
 fered already from one or two severe heart-aches
 
 342 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 on his account. Mrs. Dalton had hoped, too, that 
 Mary's departure to the convent might have been 
 helpful in turning his thoughts toward matri- 
 mony. And so far as she had been aware, 
 Bridget was really the only girl whom Fred- 
 erick knew at all intimately. It was only to be 
 expected that in contemplating matrimony in the 
 abstract his thoughts should turn to his friend's 
 sister. She herself had done all that a wise 
 mother could do to show a young man that he 
 was welcome in spite of his lack of fortune, and 
 would be equally welcome if he wished to estab- 
 lish a permanent connection between them. She 
 had once artlessly informed him of the amount 
 that would pass into Bridget's hands on the day 
 of her marriage according to the terms of her 
 father's will. But Frederick, the least vain of 
 men, who believed himself to be inherently unat- 
 tractive to all women, had perceived none of these 
 innocent maternal maneuvres. He was friendly 
 to Ally's sisters and nothing more. 
 
 It never occurred to him that Mrs. Dalton had 
 any wish for him to marry Bridget, nor that her 
 first feeling on receiving his telegram that day 
 had been one of vague disappointment. And 
 Bridget had looked at the telegram and said, 
 "Miss Metcalfe? Who can she be? How odd 
 of him to bring a girl we've never seen here!" 
 Bridget was indeed so astonished that she had 
 forthwith gone off for a long walk, and when 
 she came back her eyes and nose were a little red- 
 dened by the wind.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 LADY METCALFE'S complacency received an in- 
 dubitable shock when she received Beatrice's 
 letter telling her that Peggy had been received 
 into the Catholic Church, and therefore she and 
 her husband had deemed it better that she should 
 not return to their house. 
 
 "We feel that we should have been going 
 against you and father by continuing to receive 
 her," wrote Lady Charsley. 
 
 That Peggy should have left Portman Square 
 for an unknown destination did disturb very 
 powerfully Lady Metcalfe's maternal tran- 
 quillity. She had counted upon Beatrice keeping 
 her for the first few days if the worst came to the 
 worst and Peggy defied them all. 
 
 "Charsley packed her off the moment she re- 
 turned," was the next sentence of this agitating 
 letter; "he was very angry with her. I am sure 
 when she finds herself quite penniless and alone 
 and with nowhere to go to, she will come flying 
 back to Mildon, and beg your forgiveness, and 
 give up these dreadful errors." 
 
 But although she wrote with such apparent 
 conviction in the righteousness of her own action, 
 Beatrice was not without a dreadful misgiving 
 (which she attributed to nerves) that Peggy 
 might meet with some untoward fate before the 
 salutary process of bringing her to her senses 
 should be perfectly completed. London was not 
 
 343
 
 344 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 the safest place for a girl who had always been 
 sheltered from the slightest knowledge of evil. 
 It was all very well to be firm and put down one's 
 foot and uphold stern parental authority, but how 
 about Peggy alone in that vast wilderness of 
 streets ? Beatrice was too maternal a woman her- 
 self not to picture Ethne grown up and situated 
 in some such deplorable position, and it was this 
 that made her ease her own conscience by writing 
 that letter to her mother with the desire to justify 
 her own action. 
 
 The letter, unfortunately, had not at all the 
 effect upon Lady Metcalfe which Beatrice had 
 hoped and expected. Her mother had indeed 
 confidently pictured Peggy being gradually 
 brought to her senses and to a proper knowledge 
 of her own wrong-doing under the safe and com- 
 fortable roof of Beatrice's domain. She was not 
 quite without hope that even if Peggy did not 
 repent and recant, Sir John might eventually be 
 persuaded to permit her to return home. At 
 present he was very angry and there was no use 
 in trying to propitiate him. On the top of this 
 came Peggy's own letter dated from the convent 
 announcing the fact of her reception. She was 
 staying there, she said, until she heard from them 
 if she might return to Mildon. Sir John would 
 not let his wife reply to the letter; he himself 
 sent the angr) r telegram which had upset poor 
 Peggy so in her new solitude. Peter was miser- 
 able and after one violent outburst in which he 
 took Peggy's part, quite fearlessly blaming his 
 parents for their abandonment of her, he had 
 hardly been on speaking terms with his father.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 345 
 
 Meals passed in gloomy silence and everything 
 was terribly upsetting. Lady Metcalfe felt she 
 could have borne it all if she had only been able 
 to picture Peggy safely in Portman Square. A 
 convent to Lady Metcalfe represented a place of 
 almost sinister mystery. No doubt they would 
 do their best to make a nun of Peggy. When this 
 idea occurred to her she actually wept. 
 
 On the following Thursday she went to town, 
 but when she arrived at the convent, determined 
 to stifle her pride and entreat her daughter to re- 
 nounce her religion and return home with her, 
 she found to her dismay that Peggy had already 
 left it. Xo she had given no address, for she 
 had left most of her things there and intended to 
 return in a few days. They understood that she 
 had gone to stay with friends in the country. 
 Lady Metcalfe was frankly puzzled. Peggy had 
 no intimate friends, and certainly none to whom 
 she could appeal in a crisis of the kind. She had 
 never paid many visits, except to her married sis- 
 ters, and Lady Metcalfe could not possibly im- 
 agine whose hospitality she could have sought in 
 this way. It is one thing to turn your daughter 
 out of the house, or rather to forbid her to return 
 there, in order to punish her for disobedience, but 
 to be absolutely ignorant of her present wherea- 
 bouts puts a very different complexion upon the 
 matter when viewed in the light of anxious mater- 
 nal solicitude. 
 
 It is true that Lady Metcalfe had loved Peggy 
 in a lesser degree than her other children, and that 
 she had been more ready when Peggy was little 
 to reprove and punish her, but that she did love
 
 346 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 her was not to be doubted, and at that moment 
 of her leaving the convent, having unsuccessfully 
 tried to discover her whereabouts, she felt that 
 she would have given anything in the world to 
 know that Peggy was safe and sound and not 
 more unhappy than she deserved to be after such 
 reprehensible behavior. It is certain that had she 
 met Peggy then in the street she would have flung 
 her arms about her in an excess of relief and 
 affection. 
 
 Instead of going to see Beatrice as she had 
 planned, Lady Metcalfe dismissed the taxi in 
 which she had driven to the convent and walked 
 to the nearest Tube-station, where she took a 
 ticket for the Bank. It was the first time she 
 had ever traveled by this modern subterranean 
 and altogether terrifying means, but she felt it 
 would be the quickest way of arriving at Sir 
 John's office. She even managed the change at 
 Holborn with quite a little thrill of excitement at 
 her own independence. 
 
 Sir John's office was in Fenchurch Street, and 
 as Lady Metcalfe did not wish to be seen walking 
 in the City alone, she took another taxi from the 
 Bank. In all the long years of her married life 
 she had never penetrated unexpectedly to that 
 city sanctum, for Sir John was old-fashioned and 
 preferred to keep his business life and his home 
 life strictly apart. That had been his father's 
 way and he had adopted it, and when the time 
 came, he intended to recommend it to Peter. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe was not even known by sight 
 to some of the clerks, whose business seemed to 
 consist solely in protecting the person of Sir John
 
 THE REST HOUSE 347 
 
 from fortuitous molestation, so firm were they in 
 their courteous endeavors to restrain her from 
 reaching his own private domain. But she 
 brushed them all aside and opened his door with- 
 out knocking. 
 
 On seeing his grim face regarding her with 
 surprise and annoyance, Lady Metcalfe burst 
 into a torrent of tears. 
 
 "Peggy!" she sobbed, "Peggy!" 
 
 Sir John's mouth hardened till it looked like 
 a neat slit across the lower part of his face. But 
 as he could not help seeing that something had 
 upset his wife very much indeed, he pulled a chair 
 forward, held her arm as she sat down, and said, 
 "Do try to control yourself, my dear Jane." 
 
 Control there was nothing to equal that qual- 
 ity in all the world. Its possession gave you an 
 immense advantage over those persons who 
 habitually gave way to emotions, anger, and pas- 
 sion of any kind. 
 
 But the words did not have the effect upon his 
 wife which he had hoped. Instead of displaying 
 any disposition to control herself, her sobs be- 
 came more unrestrained than ever, and between 
 the sobs came broken words and sentences that 
 revealed the unhappy cause of her agitation. 
 
 "Peggy's lost we don't know where she is 
 she's left the convent. And I can't bear it ! You 
 must find her and bring her back or I shall die, 
 John. I feel as if I couldn't bear it one single 
 moment longer! Of course you've every right 
 to be angry with her, but you can't turn a young 
 girl like that out into the world, without a home 
 and without a penny. I've been thinking of all
 
 348 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 the dreadful stories I've ever heard of girls dis- 
 appearing in London and never being heard of 
 again. If she were to die if anything were to 
 happen to her you would be blamed, and you 
 would feel like a murderer!" 
 
 Sir John closed the door which led into the 
 room where Peter worked ; he did not wish his son 
 to hear these maternal outpourings. He said 
 stiffly: 
 
 "No man likes to turn his daughter out of the 
 house. But Peggy has deliberately disobeyed 
 and defied us. I warned her that it would hap- 
 pen. I have only carried out my word. And 
 until she can show sorrow and signs of amend- 
 ment, she shall not return to Mildon. I hope I 
 made it clear in my telegram yesterday that there 
 was only one condition on which I was prepared 
 to receive her back." 
 
 "But she won't show sorrow and I'm sure 
 she'll never give up her religion you know how 
 obstinate she is," wailed Lady Metcalfe. 
 
 "Then she shall not return," said Sir John. 
 "My dear Jane, I am really much too busy to dis- 
 cuss this matter with you just now. You must 
 wait till I come home to-night." 
 
 "I can't be put off like this, John," wailed 
 Lady Metcalfe, "you can have nothing to think 
 about that can possibly be more important than 
 my darling Peggy. I must know where she is. 
 If she can't come home I must know where she is ! 
 She must have money a home a companion to 
 look after her she's too young to be alone it 
 isn't safe for Peggy she's always been such a 
 child for her vears." Her tears flowed afresh.
 
 THE REST HOUSE 349 
 
 "Oh, what's the use of my talking like this? I 
 must find Peggy before I can do anything for her. 
 You must advertise for her and put her photo- 
 graph in the 'Daily Mirror'!" 
 
 "I shall certainly do nothing of the kind," said 
 Sir John, "it would be absurd to forbid your 
 daughter to return home because she chose to 
 disobey and defy you, and then advertise for her 
 whereabouts. Discipline must be maintained 
 I daresay later on she will be very grateful to us 
 for taking this firm stand. Peggy will come 
 home fast enough when she has found out what it 
 is like to be cold and hungry!" 
 
 "But I don't want her to be cold and hungry," 
 sobbed Lady Metcalfe, "she isn't strong like 
 Diana and Beatrice, and quite little things upset 
 her and make her ill. She will get ill now and 
 then it will turn to consumption and she will die." 
 
 "Jane, you are giving way. You must believe 
 that I know best how to deal with Peggy. I beg 
 that you will not do anything so foolish as to 
 interfere." 
 
 At that moment the door was flung open and 
 Peter suddenly appeared in the doorway. 
 
 "I've heard what you have been saying," he 
 said, eyeing his father with a cold hostility, "and 
 I have come to tell you that you need not worry 
 about Peggy I know where she has gone to. 
 I've had a letter from her and she's gone to 
 friends who will be kind to her. She knew, you 
 see," and now his voice was slightly raised and 
 his dark eyes blazed with passion, "that even if 
 you didn't care what became of her, / should be 
 wretched and anxious if I didn't know. I'm not
 
 350 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 going to give my sister up just because she's be- 
 come a Catholic. I know Peggy is in earnest 
 about it, and it's made her miserable to go against 
 you and be the cause of this awful family row." 
 He spoke hurriedly and passionately, as if the 
 very act of speaking increased his anger. He had 
 lost all control of himself and faced both his aston- 
 ished parents in a difiant attitude. "But she had 
 to obey her own conscience. She isn't like Diana 
 and Beatrice and myself!" He uttered this 
 word with a fierce scorn. "We have all in turn 
 yielded and done things we didn't want to be- 
 cause we couldn't bring ourselves to sacrifice the 
 flesh-pots. Peggy is the only one of us who is 
 worth her salt and can do what she knows to be 
 right regardless of the consequences!" 
 
 "Hush, Peter, hush," sobbed Lady Metcalfe, 
 "you mustn't talk like this. It's very undutiful 
 we've done the best we possibly could for you all. 
 You mustn't say such wicked things about your 
 sisters. Diana and Beatrice are both perfectly 
 happy they have both married men they can 
 love and respect and have happy homes and dar- 
 ling children. I only wish Peggy were as happily 
 provided for." 
 
 "Oh, I don't deny they're contented now," said 
 Peter, recklessly, "but it was simply a frightful 
 risk to marry poor Beatrice to Charsley when she 
 was in love with Claude. It's turned out all right 
 as it happened, but supposing Beatrice hadn't 
 found that the flesh-pots compensated for what 
 she'd given up and had gone off with Claude 
 afterward, you would have been to blame for the 
 scandal !"
 
 THE REST HOUSE 351 
 
 "Oh, how dare you speak so wickedly of your 
 own sister? That was only a silly boy-and-girl 
 affair between her and Claude he had not a 
 penny, and he was too young to think about mar- 
 riage. No one saw the unsuitability of it more 
 clearly than Beatrice as soon as it was put to 
 her. And she is perfectly happy with Charsley. 
 We parents do know what is best for our chil- 
 dren." 
 
 "All the same it was a risk," said Peter grimly, 
 "and when you tried to force Peggy into marry- 
 ing Quentin you made certain she would submit 
 as tamely as Beatrice did." 
 
 "Oh, hush, Peter don't, don't," sobbed Lady 
 Metcalfe. 
 
 "You appear to have taken leave of your 
 senses, Peter," said Sir John in a cold, unmoved 
 tone that had in it a note of actual boredom. 
 "Kindly go back to your room and use your un- 
 doubted ability to get through the work I gave 
 you this afternoon. If I dismiss you," he con- 
 tinued, his hard eyes fixed upon his son, "you 
 will be able to join your sister and starve in her 
 company it is what you both deserve. And if 
 you speak in this way again you will most as- 
 suredly be dismissed, just as I should sack any of 
 my clerks for insolence and insubordination." 
 
 Peter, white as a sheet now that his anger had 
 subsided, went back to his own room and slammed 
 the door. 
 
 "I hope you are satisfied now, Jane," said Sir 
 John, addressing his wife, "you know your pre- 
 cious Peggy is safe and probably enjoying herself 
 thoroughly now she is no longer trammelled by 
 the discipline of home. I am very busy just now
 
 352 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 and have extremely important letters to attend 
 jto. Shall I ask Wilson to get a taxi for you?" 
 
 "Yes, please, John," said Lady Metcalfe. She 
 was once more the submissive wife. And it was 
 such an enormous relief to think that Peggy was 
 quite safe, even if they did not know who those 
 mysterious friends of hers might be. And 
 although Peter was treating the whole affair in a 
 very wrong and subversive spirit, he had taken 
 a great load off her mind by saying that he knew 
 where his sister was. She kissed her husband and 
 went downstairs. 
 
 "I shall give Peter some money and tell him 
 to send it to Peggy," she thought to herself as 
 she drove away. Dusk had begun to fall, and the 
 lamps along the Embankment were showing their 
 pale globes of light. The sky was clear and a 
 little breeze was blowing across the river. It was 
 one of those late autumn evenings when London 
 looks perhaps more beautiful than -at any other 
 time, full of mystery, of suggested but not de- 
 fined detail, and with lights and shadows curi- 
 ously mingling. Those brown blurred effects are 
 often more exquisite even than the blue and white 
 of its summer mornings. There was something 
 calm and soothing in this vision of twilit London, 
 and it helped to restore the shaken complacency 
 of Lady Metcalfe. 
 
 "Peter mustn't really talk like that," she re- 
 flected ; "if any one were to hear him it would give 
 them such a bad impression of us all. We have 
 always done our very best for our children, and if 
 we have erred at all it has been on the side of 
 doing too much for them. They have always had
 
 THE REST HOUSE 353 
 
 everything they could possibly want everything 
 that money could buy. The best education at the 
 most expensive schools the best medical advice 
 
 the most expensive doctors and dentists and 
 oculists. And I am sure no other girls had half 
 the frocks that mine had." A rapid mental sur- 
 vey of all these substantial benefits convinced 
 Lady Metcalfe that nothing had been left undone 
 in their anxious desire that their children should 
 derive every possible advantage from the increas- 
 ing prosperity of Metcalfe & Co. Sir John was 
 always liberal in his allowances for all these pur- 
 poses. Nothing had ever been denied to them 
 except for their good, and then only when it was 
 absolutely necessary! 
 
 It was so wrong such a wilful mis judgment 
 
 on the part of Peter to declare that Beatrice 
 had been forced into marrying Charsley. Such 
 an ideally happy union. Parents were respon- 
 sible for their daughters' marriages; they knew 
 best what was conducive to true happiness. 
 
 Two days later she received a visit from Mrs. 
 Gillespie, who drove over from Mildon Place 
 early one afternoon. 
 
 "Oh, my dear Lady Metcalfe," she cried im- 
 petuously when her hostess entered the drawing- 
 room, "y u must not think me dreadfully inter- 
 fering, but I could not help hearing that you were 
 very angry with Peggy." 
 
 At the mention of her daughter, Lady Met- 
 calfe's face changed a little ; something of its rosi- 
 ness seemed to vanish. 
 
 "You haven't come to tell me that anything
 
 354 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 has happened to Peggy, Mrs. Gillespie?" she 
 said. 
 
 She was anxious and quick to take alarm ; she 
 had such visions of little Peggy astray and home- 
 less, in spite of all that Peter had said to reassure 
 her. 
 
 "Oh, she is quite well, if it comes to that! I 
 have seen her," said Mrs. Gillespie. "I met her 
 down at a place called Coldford in Somersetshire 
 yesterday. I was waiting for the London train 
 and she was going to Freshly in Gloucestershire." 
 
 "Freshly? Why, that is Beatrice's station 
 when she is at Lavender," exclaimed Lady Met- 
 calfe in a tone of surprise. 
 
 "Yes, I imagined at once that she was going to 
 Lavender. But it appears that Lady Charsley 
 refused to have her there and Peggy was going 
 to the Daltons at Bargrove. She was not alone- 
 she had a man with her, and I can tell you she 
 was very much embarrassed at the sight of me." 
 
 "A man?" repeated Lady Metcalfe. "Who 
 could it possibly have been? It was not Hugh 
 Quentin?" 
 
 "No, it was certainly not Hugh," replied Mrs. 
 Gillespie; "it was some one very different from 
 Hugh. A black-haired, black-browed, forbid- 
 ding looking man she introduced him to me 
 his name was Morford." 
 
 "Morford!" cried Lady Metcalfe, sinking back 
 in her chair and looking almost faint with emo- 
 tion. "You do not mean to tell me that Peggy 
 went off to that dreadful Rest House!" 
 
 "I really know nothing of her doings. But it 
 looked uncommonly like it."
 
 THE REST HOUSE 355 
 
 "But Peggy assured us that he never tried to 
 proselytize to convert her. We were always 
 afraid he had acquired an influence over her. 
 Beatrice told me he was such a terrible back- 
 woodsy young man!" She could hardly repress 
 her tears at this fresh and disastrous development. 
 
 "But if you won't receive your daughter at 
 home, and if her sisters won't receive her, it stands 
 to reason that she must go somewhere. I daresay 
 this man was doing the best thing he could by 
 taking her to Mrs. Dalton's. They are Cath- 
 olics I know the name quite well." 
 
 "But she must have gone to the Morfords 
 first," moaned Lady Metcalfe. Oh, there was no 
 doubt that Peggy, released from all parental 
 trammels, had sought out this man in a way that 
 must certainly have looked suspiciously like a 
 throwing of herself at his head. And he had not 
 been slow to shift the burden of her to other 
 shoulders. It was dreadful to think that Peggy 
 should be living on charity. It was an appalling 
 position for a Metcalfe, and one that struck an 
 overwhelming blow at the family pride. There 
 was no doubt that Peggy intended to marry this 
 man it was what they had always suspected. 
 And if the young man himself approved of the 
 scheme, the marriage might even take place be- 
 fore there was time for any of them to step in 
 and prevent it! 
 
 "I felt it wasn't right for Peggy to be traveling 
 about alone like that," said Mrs. Gillespie; "she is 
 such a baby. I am sure that you and Sir John 
 have every reason to be angry with her, but at the 
 same time I want to entreat you to have her home
 
 356 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 again. I've thought it over, Lady Metcalfe, and 
 I determined to come and intercede for her 
 that chance meeting seemed to give me the right. 
 I've pictured Blossom at Peggy's age and I know 
 however disobedient and rebellious she might be, 
 I could never let her go out of my keeping- 
 alone like that just when a girl wants her 
 mother most!" 
 
 Her little deep, hollow voice almost croaked 
 with emotion. 
 
 "Peter said she was with friends. He had a 
 letter from her, and he seemed quite satisfied. 
 But I never dreamed that the friends could be 
 theMorfords!" 
 
 Peggy would certainly set the seal upon her 
 disgrace by marrying this man, and then she 
 would be lost to them forever. 
 
 "My husband would never let me have her 
 back," she said. "He is very angry with her. 
 Oh, I know you are blaming us, Mrs. Gillespie, 
 but Peggy has been very naughty and rebellious, 
 going off and becoming a Catholic like this, 
 though we warned her what would happen if she 
 did!" 
 
 "I simply longed to carry her off and bring her 
 back with me yesterday," said Mrs. Gillespie, 
 "but I don't suppose for a moment she would 
 have come." 
 
 Having said her say, she rose to go. 
 
 As she said good-by she looked earnestly into 
 Lady Metcalfe's agitated face and said: 
 
 "You're going the right way, you know, to 
 make her fly into an unsuitable, imprudent mar-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 357 
 
 riage. If you really know anything against this 
 Morford man you should go and fetch her home 
 at once!" 
 
 "Oh, you don't know Sir John he is very 
 obdurate," sobbed Lady Metcalfe. "He will 
 never let her come!"
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 PEGGY had not been at Bargrove many days 
 before Mrs. Dalton definitely offered to 
 give her a home with them as long as she chose 
 to remain. 
 
 Frederick had returned to the Rest House 
 early on the day after their arrival. Nothing at 
 all was said about his engagement to Bridget, 
 and there was no outward evidence of any ex- 
 traordinary or intimate interest in each other dis- 
 played by either of the persons concerned. But 
 Peggy had no reason to doubt Beatrice's word, 
 and she could not help perceiving the extreme 
 suitability of such a marriage. Frederick was 
 nothing to her a man who had crossed her path 
 by chance and left upon her life a mark as if some 
 storm had passed heedlessly across it, a mark of 
 which he was himself utterly unaware. It was more 
 than likely that he should choose for his wife 
 the sister of his great friend. Bridget was a very 
 charming girl, tall, fair-haired, with blue eyes 
 and a skin of cream and roses the very antithesis 
 of Peggy herself. She was kind to Peggy in a 
 sweet, rather undemonstrative fashion, and reso- 
 lutely stifled any unworthy or jealous thoughts 
 in her regard. For the sight of Morford arriving 
 at Bargrove with Peggy was a sharp experience 
 for Bridget one that she felt she would never 
 quite forget. It had shown her just where she 
 stood, and what the ultimate loss of him might 
 mean. It would be always difficult for her to 
 
 358 "
 
 THE REST HOUSE 359 
 
 show him in the future that frank, sisterly affec- 
 tion which she had always displayed toward him 
 ever since he first came, a shabby, ill-clad school- 
 boy, to spend his holidays with Ally 
 
 Bridget suspected Peggy of being in love with 
 Morford. Else why should she have rushed off 
 to the Rest House, to these people she knew so 
 slightly, seeking, as it were, sanctuary with them 
 the moment she found herself homeless ? Bridget 
 was three or four years older than Peggy and she 
 knew it had not been a very wise nor a very con- 
 ventional thing to do. It had placed Peggy in a 
 false position from which only Frederick's great 
 tact and delicacy had been able to extricate her. 
 A man could not think any better of a girl who 
 was capable of acting with such impulsive and im- 
 prudent rashness. 
 
 Whether his interest in her was very profound 
 Bridget could not say. He had deposited her at 
 Bargrove and left again on the following morn- 
 ing. Bridget wondered if he would write to her. 
 To be sure, he had not been at all tender or 
 friendly in his manner to Peggy; he had been 
 brusque and rather domineering, and the girl 
 seemed timid and a little afraid of him, though 
 eager to do everything he suggested in an almost 
 childishly obedient way. There was one com- 
 forting thought, however Frederick could not 
 possibly marry a woman without a penny. And 
 her own fortune of five hundred a year would be 
 quite enough with what Frederick earned to en- 
 able them to live comfortably if simply at the 
 Rest House. Yet in spite of these consoling 
 thoughts Bridget still wondered if he were as
 
 360 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 insensible to the charm of Peggy as he appeared 
 to be. It was a very real charm, underlying all 
 that soft, hesitating timidity of hers. 
 
 Ifcridget would scarcely have been human had 
 she not heard with delight that Peggy had de- 
 clined the home so generously offered by Mrs. 
 Dalton; she would only accept her hospitality 
 until she had found that mysterious "something" 
 which was to render her independent of all char- 
 ity. She was very grateful, was obviously 
 touched by Mrs. Dalton's kindness, but there was 
 an inherent pride in Peggy which came to the 
 fore now and prevented her from accepting a 
 permanent home at Bargrove. Father Fitz- 
 Gerald or the Reverend Mother at the convent 
 would certainly soon hear of something suitable 
 for her in the way of a post perhaps as a com- 
 panion, or a governess to quite small children. 
 Diana, it is true, had said that no one would en- 
 gage her as a governess, but Monica West had 
 been encouraging about the possibilities of her 
 rinding a situation as companion. 
 
 Soon after Frederick's departure from Bar- 
 grove Peggy received a letter full of apology 
 from Monica. She was very, very sorry, she 
 said, but she had utterly forgotten to post the 
 letter Peggy had entrusted to her. She had just 
 discovered it in the pocket of a coat she had not 
 worn for some days. She hoped it had not caused 
 Peggy a great deal of inconvenience. She ended 
 the letter by saying, "I miss you very much 
 there's no one else of my own age here. I hope 
 you will soon come back." 
 
 It was so simple an explanation she wondered
 
 THE REST HOUSE 361 
 
 she had never thought of it before. Next time 
 she saw Frederick Morford she would tell him 
 what had happened. Next time? She did not 
 know when, if ever, they should meet again. She 
 had been over a fortnight with the Daltons be- 
 fore any more news was heard of him, and then 
 he only wrote a line to Mrs. Dalton, saying he 
 was very busy, and he hoped that all, including 
 Miss Metcalfe, were well. 
 
 At last came the desired letter from the Rev- 
 erend Mother saying that an elderly lady whom 
 she knew very well was looking for a young com- 
 panion to travel abroad with her, and she had 
 recommended Peggy for the post. If she knew 
 French and a little Italian, so much the better, as 
 her friend was to spend the winter in Florence 
 after two or three weeks at Cannes. There would 
 be no salary, but all expenses would be paid, and 
 Mrs. Ralston was extremely kind and would 
 treat her as a daughter. But she was also deli- 
 cate and nervous and Peggy would have to read 
 to her and amuse her. It sounded an ideal pros- 
 pect to Peggy, who ran, overjoyed, to display the 
 letter to Mrs. Dalton. 
 
 The thought of Peggy going out as a de- 
 pendent even under such favorable circumstances 
 as these filled Mrs. Dalton with a very real con- 
 cern and misgiving. She was singularly un- 
 formed, and Mrs. Dalton had the feeling that she 
 would very easily be hurt. But there seemed to 
 be no alternative. The girl was too proud to 
 accept her hospitality for any length of time, and 
 it seemed unlikely that her father would relent 
 and forgive her. Peggy must therefore earn her
 
 362 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 bread as thousands of homeless converts had done 
 before her. Surely she could pay the price as 
 well as they! 
 
 She put down the letter and looked at Peggy. 
 
 "I think if you are determined to leave us that 
 you had better accept it," she said. "I have met 
 Mrs. Ralston, and she is a very charming woman 
 and a most pious, good Catholic it would be an 
 advantage for any young convert to be with her. 
 But, on the other hand, she is very delicate and 
 she might make too great demands upon your 
 physical strength. You do not look very strong, 
 and when you are with her you will not be able 
 to call your time your own." 
 
 "I am prepared for that," said Peggy. The 
 prospect of going to Italy was rather exciting; 
 it made up for a good deal. 
 
 "Perhaps you would rather consult Frederick 
 Morford before you decide," said Mrs. Dalton. 
 "I will write and ask him to come here, if you 
 like." 
 
 "Oh, no, please not," cried Peggy, distressed at 
 the idea. "I mean he is far too busy to make 
 a journey just on my account. I was 
 ashamed of giving him all that trouble of taking 
 up so much of his time when he brought me here. 
 I would not trouble him again for the world!" 
 A quick flush colored her pale face as she spoke. 
 
 "Perhaps you will write and tell him, then, 
 what you intend to do. I really think perhaps 
 you owe him this courtesy," said Mrs. Dalton. 
 "He has been very kind to you, Peggy." 
 
 "Very well. If you wish it I will write," said 
 Peggy, though her heart shrank from the task.
 
 THE itEST HOUSE 363 
 
 She had several letters to write. First to the 
 Reverend Mother, saying she would be delighted 
 to accept the post ; then one to Peter, whom she 
 passionately hoped to see before she left Eng- 
 land. She had received sympathetic notes from 
 Peter, and she knew that he was unalterably on 
 her side, although she was afraid that in his heart 
 of hearts he considered her a goose. But there was 
 a change, too, in their mutual attitude; she did 
 not find it quite so easy to confide in Peter now 
 as she used to. She mentioned Morford's name 
 as little as possible, and the details of her forlorn 
 arrival at the Rest House were still unknown to 
 him. 
 
 Frederick's turn came at last, and Peggy felt 
 sure that she should not find it an easy matter 
 to write to him. She wished to be cold and polite 
 and the result seemed almost rude in its stiffness. 
 And after all, as Mrs. Dalton had pointed out, 
 he had been very kind. When the letter was fin- 
 ished it ran as follows: 
 
 "Dear Mr. Morford: 
 
 "Mrs. Dalton thinks you would perhaps like to 
 know my plans. I have been offered a post as 
 companion to a Mrs. Ralston, who is going 
 abroad for the winter, to Cannes and then to 
 Florence. I have made up my mind to accept it 
 if she thinks me suitable. I am returning to the 
 convent on Tuesday. 
 
 "Yours sincerely, 
 
 "MARGARET METCALFE." 
 
 Morford did not answer the letter, although
 
 364 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 Peggy hoped that he might. Aware that the 
 thought of him occupied her thoughts with a 
 greater frequency and persistence since her sec- 
 ond visit to the Rest House, and that he was 
 capable of stirring within her heart a sense of 
 emotion and pain that she could not define, 
 Peggy longed for the day to come when she 
 should leave England and put the sea between 
 herself and this man, who seemed actually in some 
 obscure, fantastic manner to dominate her life. 
 In another country, amid fresh and unaccus- 
 tomed surroundings, she would perhaps be able 
 to thrust the remembrance of him from her. She 
 would destroy this childish dream. He had been 
 sent into her life, so she still firmly believed, in 
 order that he might help her to become a Cath- 
 olic; the very strength of him had in a sense 
 supported her. But now he had fulfilled the 
 task allotted to him. The bridge across which 
 she had passed to reach the desired stronghold 
 had served its purpose. He had given her her 
 very first lessons in the Faith impatiently, 
 grudgingly, it is true and she tried to believe 
 that all she felt for him now was the outcome 
 of her fervent gratitude for the instruction thus 
 offered and the help thus given. But she must 
 not think of him any more, and in this first prac- 
 tical impulse toward detachment Peggy felt a 
 sharp pain that clouded her horizon. 
 
 On Monday she rose early and went to Mass 
 as usual and after breakfast she set to work to 
 pack her few possessions. She was to start early 
 on the following day, and she wished to have the 
 afternoon free in case Mrs. Dalton proposed to
 
 THE REST HOUSE 365 
 
 take her anywhere. But the small activity of 
 packing, instead of distracting her, served to de- 
 press her. It was true she was only to return to 
 the convent on the following day, but in a very 
 few days more she would set forth on that first 
 stage of her new life, among strangers. The 
 prospect alarmed her a little now that it was com- 
 ing so close. 
 
 When she came down to luncheon Mrs. Dalton 
 said: 
 
 "I have had a letter from Frederick Morford 
 he is coming here for the night. I'm sorry Ally 
 will miss him again." 
 
 She spoke carelessly, as if Frederick's coming 
 concerned no one in particular. Peggy had often 
 wished that Bridget would confide in her about 
 her engagement to Morford. But perhaps it 
 was only one of those understandings that had 
 not yet been ratified by a formal betrothal, as 
 sometimes happens when the marriage can not 
 take place very soon. 
 
 Now Peggy and Bridget glanced nervously at 
 each other, and both faces betrayed a heightened 
 color. The thought that involuntarily presented 
 itself to Bridget's mind was this: "If he had only 
 waited until next week, when she wouldn't have 
 been here!" There was a lurking fear in her 
 heart that his coming did closely concern Peggy, 
 and that he was determined to see her again be- 
 fore she left England. 
 
 Peggy, on her side, could only hope that he was 
 not coming to try to dissuade her from going 
 out as a companion. She was utterly innocent of 
 any thought that he might have yet another ob-
 
 366 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 ject and one that most intimately concerned her- 
 self, in coming to Bargrove to-day. 
 
 "It is very unlike Frederick to pay us two 
 visits so close together," continued Mrs. Dalton, 
 "and he gives no reason at all for coming to-day. 
 However, he knows he js Very welcome whenever 
 he likes to come." 
 
 Peggy stole up to her room after luncheon. 
 She felt that she did not wish to be downstairs 
 when Frederick arrived. It was rather hard on 
 her that he should choose to-day her last day at 
 Bargrove to come, especially when she had just 
 made so many firm resolutions to forget him or at 
 least to think of him less often. It would only 
 make things a little more difficult for her. She 
 had so hoped to go away without seeing him 
 again. 
 
 "Does this mean he's in love with her?" said 
 Bridget to her mother when Peggy had slipped 
 away upstairs. 
 
 "I can't tell. Frederick is so strange and reti- 
 cent," said Mrs. Dalton. "It must be on her ac- 
 count that he's coming, though." 
 
 "She wrote to him she may have suggested 
 it," said Bridget, feeling hurt and jealous. 
 
 "I don't think that for a moment. I asked her 
 if she would like him to come and she seemed 
 quite distressed at the very idea. And if she had 
 cared at all for him she could hardly have been 
 in such a hurry to leave us." 
 
 With this Bridget had to be satisfied until 
 Frederick should arrive and divulge his motive. 
 Events would disclose what was in his mind, sup- 
 posing there existed any definite policy or inten-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 367 
 
 tion therein. Bridget was not without courage 
 and she braced herself for the blow that her heart 
 feared might be about to descend upon her. Oh, 
 why had this foolish, helpless elfin creature 
 slipped so unnecessarily into Frederick's life ? 
 
 When Peggy went downstairs to the drawing- 
 room Frederick was already there and they were 
 having tea. She sat down near the fire, her face 
 in shadow, and it seemed to her as well as to the 
 Daltons that Frederick took but scant notice of 
 her. He scarcely bestowed a glance upon that 
 little figure sitting there silently in the corner. 
 But Peggy felt more than ever that when he was 
 present he did appear to take possession of all her 
 thoughts, dominating them with the very strength 
 of his personality; it made her feel young and 
 timid and absurd ! She was a child to be taught 
 and scolded and ordered about in that impatient, 
 half-scornful way. 
 
 It is not always easy for two guests to obtain 
 a long and private interview in another person's 
 house. Short of giving Mrs. Dalton the key to 
 the whole situation, which Frederick felt a little 
 shy about doing, it was impossible for him to see 
 Peggy alone. After tea they would probably all 
 continue to sit there and talk until it was time 
 to dress for dinner. And after dinner there 
 would be more conversation and perhaps a rubber 
 of bridge till bed-time. And in the morning 
 Peggy was to leave for town by an early train; 
 she would have to start soon after eight o'clock. 
 
 Of course, he could go off to the smoking-room 
 whenever he wished, he reflected gloomily. But 
 even so it would be impossible to ask Peggy to
 
 368 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 come with him. Now that at last he had made up 
 his mind to speak to her he was perhaps going 
 to be denied the opportunity. 
 
 Yet how absurd of him ever to imagine that 
 she could learn to care for him ! Just now, when 
 she had given him her hand for that brief second 
 the conventions demanded, it had lain cold and 
 still in his. Her face when she greeted him had 
 betrayed no pleasure, only perhaps a timid anx- 
 iety. Fool fool that he had been to come ! 
 
 But Bridget unwittingly gave him the oppor- 
 tunity he was seeking. 
 
 "There is Benediction at the convent this even- 
 ing, Peggy. I think you said you would like to 
 go. I'm afraid I can't come with you, but you 
 know the way," she remarked after tea. 
 
 "Yes I should like to go," said Peggy. "I 
 will go and put on my things." 
 
 It was a relief to escape from the room. The 
 sight of Frederick had filled her with that strange 
 and trembling excitement his presence never 
 failed to evoke in her. He made her feel wonder- 
 fully alive, but unhappy and restless, too, and 
 even a little afraid. It would be a relief to go 
 to the convent and pray. 
 
 She moved away, her eyes on the ground, her 
 hands hanging limply. Frederick's large black 
 eyes were fastened upon her retreating figure. 
 To permit her to go forth into a cruel and hostile 
 world to earn her own bread seemed to him a 
 thing that was almost criminal. She had hardly 
 closed the door when he burst forth : 
 
 "You can not be serious in saying that child 
 is going to earn her own living! Why, she is
 
 THE REST HOUSE 369 
 
 hardly better than a baby and she must be 
 nearly as useless and ignorant." 
 
 "She will learn," said Mrs. Dalton calmly, 
 "and I do not agree with you that she is so very 
 young. She is quite determined to go, and there 
 is an obstinacy about her which one can't touch. 
 You must see that for yourself, for how else 
 would she have persisted in becoming a Catholic 
 in the face of so much cruel opposition? There 
 is something very sterling about Peggy Met- 
 calf e. I am sure she doesn't care at all for all the 
 money she has had to give up. She has got what 
 she wanted, and she seems perfectly satisfied, ex- 
 cept for the very natural pain at having to re- 
 nounce her own people." 
 
 "And what can they be made of to turn a baby 
 like that adrift?" demanded Frederick fiercely. 
 
 Bridget looked at him with surprise; she had 
 never seen him so deeply roused before. His eyes 
 were blazing. 
 
 "Oh, they know where she is now," returned 
 Mrs. Dalton, in her pleasant, matter-of-fact way; 
 "they know she is safe. They seem to hope she'll 
 get tired of it and give up her religion and go 
 back to be forgiven. Lady Metcalfe has even 
 sent her a little money through the elder son." 
 
 Frederick rose and paced up and down the 
 room in a restless, agitated manner. Suddenly 
 he said: 
 
 "You must forgive me, Mrs. Dalton, but I 
 really must make one more effort to induce her to 
 give up this mad scheme. I will walk to the con- 
 vent with her we can discuss it on the way !" 
 
 Bridget's heart sank as he announced this in-
 
 370 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 tention. Whatever he meant to say to her, it 
 was quite evident that his thoughts were full of 
 Peggy, and if they gave evidence of anger and 
 irritability and impatience, there seemed to lie 
 behind them also an almost fierce solicitude for 
 her welfare. 
 
 When Peggy, dressed in her outdoor things, 
 came down the stairs into the hall, she saw Fred- 
 erick's great figure standing there as if awaiting 
 her. 
 
 "Are you ready?" he said. "I am coming with 
 you. It is much too dark for you to go alone and 
 it was very thoughtless of Bridget to suggest it. 
 She forgets that you are not used to tearing over 
 the country at all hours as she is!" 
 
 "I don't mind going alone," said Peggy 
 quietly; "I should like to be as brave and inde- 
 pendent as Bridget." 
 
 Morford opened the door. The night was fine 
 and above the tall elms a young sickle moon, a 
 mere thread of silver, was visible, cutting the sky 
 like a white gash. A cold and buoyant breeze 
 touched their faces. Morford strode forward a 
 few paces ahead of Peggy as if he were leading 
 the way. He turned across the garden and 
 through a little gate that led down a private patli 
 to the convent. Here high trees formed an arch- 
 way above their heads, producing a deep ob- 
 scurity. 
 
 "I never come this way by myself," said Peggy, 
 "it is so dark. I keep to the road, though it is so 
 much longer." 
 
 Morford did not reply, and Peggy thought he
 
 THE REST HOUSE 371 
 
 must have come out against his inclination on 
 purpose to accompany her and protect her from 
 possible danger. Throughout the walk to the 
 chapel he did not say a single word, but took 
 advantage of the narrowness of the path to walk 
 on ahead of her. 
 
 It was impossible for Peggy ever to hear Bene- 
 diction without feelings of the most profound 
 emotion. To that service, eternally beautiful and 
 consoling, many persons have owed their con- 
 version. Peggy was aware that she owed hers to 
 that first Benediction in the little chapel at the 
 Rest House, where for the first time she had knelt 
 unknowing in the presence of the Blessed Sac- 
 rament. 
 
 To-night she forgot Frederick, who was kneel- 
 ing only a few paces from her, his dark head 
 bowed upon his hands, his lips moving in in- 
 audible prayer. The thought of to-morrow, 
 which promised to be the starting-point, the 
 threshold of a new and strange life during which 
 it was quite possible that her perseverance and 
 fidelity might even be put to most fiery proof, 
 filled her to-night with no kind of fear. This 
 much she knew with a deep gratefulness, that she 
 would always have these unchangeable spiritual 
 things to help her; in all her journeying she 
 would never be far from this most Holy Pres- 
 ence. And although there was something cold 
 and forlorn in the prospect of going away to be 
 among strangers, it did not to-night give her too 
 much cause for apprehension. She was not 
 strong as Morford had once scornfully told her
 
 372 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 she was not the stuff of which martyrs are 
 made. Only she had the faith, and she wanted 
 passionately to be worthy of this great grace. 
 
 The lights on the altar had all been extin- 
 guished before she rose from her knees with a 
 little start and a feeling of compunction that per- 
 haps she had kept Morford waiting. She felt 
 happier; those prayers had strengthened her; she 
 felt more hopeful, less nervous. As she rose and 
 moved toward the door the light fell full upon 
 her face. She reminded Morford of some picture 
 he had seen years ago a St. Agnes, perhaps, at 
 any rate one of the girl-martyrs with just such 
 an uplifted, tranquil expression. He stood aside, 
 allowing her to pass, watching her with a curi- 
 ously intent expression in his eyes. He seemed 
 to discern something in Peggy's face then that 
 had never been there before a strength and pur- 
 pose of which he had hardly deemed her capable. 
 Across his mind words traveled rapidly, he almost 
 repeated them aloud: "My grace is sufficient for 
 thee" 
 
 He followed Peggy in silence out of the gate 
 and into the lane beyond. 
 
 "Shall we go back by the road?" he said to her. 
 
 "Very well,'* she answered. 
 
 They went forward in silence. The road that 
 dips to Bargrove is broad and has grassy spaces 
 on both sides of it, and then a low stone wall 
 loosely built to divide it from the fields beyond. 
 And the fields are not flat they slope and spread 
 right up to the top of the wolds. In the pale 
 moonlight could be discerned the dark and en-
 
 THE REST HOUSE 373 
 
 circling shape of the hills, cut at intervals by the 
 black rim of the walls that separated field from 
 field. 
 
 There had been days since their last meeting 
 when Frederick had thought it might be perhaps 
 an easy thing to speak to this girl whose change 
 of circumstances had placed her within his reach. 
 But now in her presence it seemed no longer easy. 
 He felt certain that she had never regarded him 
 with anything but a friendly indifference, tem- 
 pered with a little fear of his strength and rough- 
 ness. Their mutual positions had been almost 
 those of teacher and pupil. And now if she re- 
 fused to listen if she would not hear him she 
 would have to go forth alone to earn her bread. 
 No one in the world could be less suited for that 
 task than she. 
 
 He slackened his steps ; at this rate they would 
 be back at the house before he had uttered a 
 word. 
 
 "What has put it into your head to leave the 
 Daltons like this?" he said at last. "I am sure 
 they have done everything they possibly can to 
 make you feel happy and at home." 
 
 "Oh, indeed they have," said Peggy eagerly, 
 "but I think it is my duty to try to work for 
 my own living. And the sooner I begin the 
 better. I am so stupid that I am sure I shall 
 not find it at all easy." 
 
 There was something so naive in this admission 
 that it won an unwilling smile from Frederick. 
 He stopped and looked at Peggy. Their two fig- 
 ures made black blots in the broad, moonlit read. 
 There was not a great deal of light, but he felt
 
 374 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 certain as he looked at her that he could see tears 
 glistening on those thick black lashes. 
 
 "But I think," she went on in that slow, tran- 
 quil way of hers, "that my being a Catholic will 
 make lots of things much easier even hard, diffi- 
 cult, disagreeable things." 
 
 "Of course it will," agreed Frederick. He 
 scarcely knew what he was saying, so great was 
 his longing then to take Peggy in his arms and 
 hold her to his heart, and shut out from her for- 
 ever all that was hard and difficult and disagree- 
 able. His control was breaking down. She was 
 still the child of rich parents, delicately nurtured, 
 brought up to every imaginable luxury, and he 
 could not but believe that some day she would be 
 restored to their favor. But here, to-night, she 
 was only the girl who had coolly faced such im- 
 mense temporal losses for the Faith, a girl strong 
 in spite of her weakness, and steadfast in the front 
 of cruel opposition. The thought that he had 
 ever misjudged her smote him now like a self- 
 inflicted blow. 
 
 "Miss Metcalfe my dear Peggy " he stam- 
 mered, and now he found he had no words with 
 which to speak the thoughts that thronged to his 
 mind as he stood there gazing into her pale and 
 astonished face. "My dear, dear Peggy," he re- 
 peated, and his voice was so softened that it 
 sounded in her ears like some unbelievable music, 
 thrilling and bewildering her. 
 
 She felt that she must be dreaming. It was 
 impossible for Frederick to have spoken thus to 
 her she must have made a mistake. Yet that 
 "My dear, dear Peggy" echoed and echoed across
 
 THE REST HOUSE 375 
 
 the silence. And then surely these were no 
 dream hands, but things of warm flesh and blood, 
 that were clasping hers as if they would never let 
 them go. She made no attempt to free herself, 
 to shorten that moment that held so much and 
 such thrilling happiness. And across the con- 
 fusion and bewilderment of her own thoughts 
 these words came caressingly : 
 
 "My darling I can't let you go! I love you 
 too much. Oh, don't tell me that my love is 
 nothing at all to you ! I want you to come back 
 to the Rest House with me I want you to be 
 my wife. Oh, I shall never forget that night, not 
 three weeks ago, when you came back all cold 
 and wet and frightened. I wanted to tell you 
 then all that your coming meant to me how I 
 had dreamed of it through those months and 
 months of silence when no word of you ever 
 reached my ears." Still holding her hands in that 
 passionate grasp, he drew her to him; her head 
 was against his heart, he could feel her shiver and 
 sob. "Speak to me, Peggy! Tell me that you 
 love me that you will be my wife." Harsh and 
 imperious as ever, his voice was informed with a 
 fear, a passionate suspense to which she could 
 not remain indifferent. 
 
 Strange to say that Peggy, listening in an en- 
 chanted silence to Frederick's words, was rapidly 
 losing all fear of him. She felt, indeed, a new 
 sense of security, more complete and permanent 
 than she had ever experienced even in her past 
 sheltered life. To marry Morford and to be with 
 him forever and ever seemed in her eyes now 
 the only perfect earthly security. And dimly
 
 376 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 she guessed that this man was offering her a hap- 
 piness which Diana and Beatrice had never 
 dreamed of. It was from joy and not from fear 
 that she trembled now and clung to Frederick for 
 support. 
 
 "Oh," she said at last, "I never thought you 
 even liked me. I felt so silly and nervous and 
 young when you were there. It never entered my 
 head that you could possibly want to marry me. 
 Besides, Beatrice told me that you were en- 
 gaged to Bridget." 
 
 "To Bridget?" he echoed in astonishment, and 
 with a most comfortingly unlover-like emphasis 
 upon the name. "Why, I have known Bridget 
 since I was at school. We are more like brother 
 and sister than anything else. Surely you didn't 
 believe that silly gossip, Peggy?" 
 
 "I didn't see why it should not be true," ad- 
 mitted Peggy. 
 
 "Well, you know now that there isn't a single 
 word of truth in it," said Frederick, "so will you 
 please give your attention to the matter in hand ? 
 Will you give me a straightforward answer? 
 Will you marry me, Peggy? I'm poor, and I've 
 very little to offer you except my love, which is 
 all yours and has been yours, I believe now, since 
 the day I first saw you." 
 
 Now there could be no mistake about those 
 tears that hung on the black lashes, glistening 
 almost frostily in the moonlight. When she 
 spoke, the words were almost inaudible ; he had to 
 bend his head to catch them. 
 
 "Yes I love you. I didn't know it till now, 
 but I think I must have loved you all the time,
 
 THE REST HOUSE 377 
 
 because when I thought of you I knew I could 
 never marry Hugh not even to please them all." 
 
 "And you will be my wife? And you will give 
 up this mad scheme of earning your own living? 
 You will stay here or at the convent in London 
 until we can be married?" 
 
 "Yes," said Peggy very seriously, "I will do 
 whatever you wish, Frederick whatever you 
 think best for me." 
 
 There was no one in sight. They might have 
 been alone in the world, with only the young 
 moon who has watched millions of such lovers 
 plighting their troth to witness the little drama 
 of their betrothal. 
 
 Morford bent his head and pressed his lips to 
 hers. 
 
 "Oh, Peggy, my darling, my beloved," he mur- 
 mured.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 MRS. DALTON communicated the news of 
 Peggy's engagement to Lady Metcalfe in 
 a letter of which the following extract may be 
 given : 
 
 "I am sure they will be very happy," she wrote ; 
 "it is a real love match, and they are very devoted 
 to each other. But while I feel you may have 
 had much more ambitious hopes for your daugh- 
 ter, I can only tell vou there is no man to whom 
 
 * * 
 
 I would rather have given one of my own girls 
 than Frederick Morford. I have known him 
 since he was a boy, and I know what a splendid, 
 courageous, upright, and unselfish man he is. I 
 feel that the only thing necessary to complete 
 Peggy's happiness now is to receive your ap- 
 proval and forgiveness, and I hope and pray that 
 in time you may be able to grant her both." 
 
 After what she had learned from Mrs. Gil- 
 lespie, the news was not really a matter of very 
 great surprise to Lady Metcalfe. She had been 
 expecting to hear something of the kind, and as 
 Peggy had wrought such deliberate havoc of her 
 young life and had shattered her own prospects 
 with such wilful recklessness, the knowledge that 
 she was going to be married came almost as a 
 relief. She would be very poor, of course the 
 man hadn't a penny beyond that wretched little 
 property with the ridiculous name down in the 
 wilds of Somersetshire! But at least she would 
 
 378
 
 THE REST HOUSE 379 
 
 have a home, and anyhow that was better than 
 working for her living, which Peter had declared 
 was Peggy's intention. 
 
 But what distressed Lady Metcalfe very much 
 indeed was to think that her daughter's engage- 
 ment should have taken place under the roof of 
 some one she had never seen, and that another 
 woman should have been the first to kiss and con- 
 gratulate Peggy in that wonderful and radiant 
 moment of her life. There was no doubt that 
 parents could not inflict drastic punishment upon 
 their children without bringing upon themselves 
 a measure of that punishment. Lady Metcalfe 
 felt a fierce jealousy of this Mrs. Dalton, who 
 wrote with such affection and solicitude of Peggy. 
 She felt as if an interloper had usurped her own 
 rights and privileges. Without consulting Sir 
 John, she sat down and wrote a very loving little 
 letter to Peggy, which made her daughter very 
 happy indeed. She never guessed that the letter 
 was the outcome of violent maternal jealousy. 
 
 The wedding took place in London early in the 
 New Year. Lady Metcalfe, Peter, Diana and 
 Beatrice were all present, as well as the Daltons, 
 the Sacheverells and Mrs. Gillespie. Sir John, 
 still obdurate and a little annoyed at his wife's 
 obstinate attitude, declined to see Peggy or to 
 make any provision for her. By this marriage 
 she had, in his opinion, set the seal upon her dis- 
 obedience and rebellion. 
 
 Lady Metcalfe had never been present at a 
 Nuptial Mass before, and she was obliged to ad- 
 mit that it was a most imposing ceremony and
 
 380 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 that the music was very beautifully rendered. 
 She felt proud of Peggy, who looked pale but 
 beautiful in her white bridal array. As for Mor- 
 ford Lady Metcalfe was further obliged to 
 admit that Beatrice had done him scant justice. 
 He was handsome enough to have captured the 
 heart of any impressionable young girl, and that 
 he was deeply in love with Peggy no one could 
 deny who saw him on that important occasion. 
 Lady Metcalfe, though she would hardly ac- 
 knowledge it even to herself, was very agreeably 
 impressed in Frederick's favor. 
 
 When the service was over she was the first to 
 go up to Peggy and put her arms round her neck 
 and kiss her. 
 
 "Dear Peggy," she murmured, "I hope you 
 will be very happy." 
 
 And Peggy clung to her mother and kissed 
 her just as she had done when she was a little 
 girl. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. 
 
 "I know now that I must have cared for him 
 ever since I first went to the Rest House," whis- 
 pered Peggy, "and that was when he first began 
 to care for me." 
 
 Then it was Peter's turn. 
 
 "Pegs, darling I know you'll be awfully 
 happy, and I hope you'll never regret the things 
 you've had to give up!" he murmured, kissing 
 her. "You always said you wouldn't choose the 
 fleshpots when the time came!" 
 
 "Oh, Peter, I'm sure I shan't regret them. I've 
 got such lovely things, you see, in place of them ! 
 And now mother's forgiven me I feel very 
 happy."
 
 THE REST HOUSE 381 
 
 Before they parted Lady Metcalfe had a few 
 words with her new son-in-law. Peggy was not 
 at all robust, she informed him ; it was all the more 
 strange because Diana and Beatrice had such 
 splendid constitutions, but then Peggy had never 
 resembled her sisters in any one way. She ad- 
 monished him always to take great care of Peggy, 
 to see that she was never over-fatigued, to avoid 
 for her any extremes of heat or cold. Frederick 
 was secretly amused at this manifestation of ma- 
 ternal solicitude, but he readily promised to take 
 all necessary precautions for the safeguarding 
 of Peggy's health. 
 
 "Of course I hope her father will relent in time, 
 especially if there are any children," continued 
 Lady Metcalfe in a hurried and rather embar- 
 rassed tone, "but in the meantime you must let 
 me do what I can I only wish it were in my 
 power to do more." She then disclosed her plan 
 of settling the only spare capital she possessed 
 upon her youngest daughter. Owing to the in- 
 tricate provisions of her marriage settlement, she 
 could not touch any of her own Lampard money, 
 but she had received two inconsiderable legacies 
 from relations and these she now proceeded to 
 hand over to Mrs. Morford. Frederick was 
 touched as well as amused. Viewed by the 
 standards of the Rest House, the income thus de- 
 rived would constitute wealth and even affluence, 
 and he felt certain of their ability to live upon it 
 in great comfort. 
 
 Morford took his bride back to the Rest House 
 that afternoon. The January day was fine and 
 clear, and Lady Denby sent her motor to Cold-
 
 382 THE REST HOUSE 
 
 ford to meet the bridal couple and convey them 
 to their home. As they drove along the lanes 
 between the high brown hedges they could see 
 glimpses of the Mendip hills rising softly green 
 against the pale blue of the winter sky. 
 
 Father Denis and old Martha were standing in 
 the doorway to welcome them. As they entered 
 the hall Frederick and Peggy Morford knelt 
 down to receive the priest's blessing on this the 
 threshold of their new life. 
 
 THE END 
 
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