Chapter 1 A Girl of High Adventure by L. T. Meade
THE CHILD WHO WON HEARTS
Marguerite St. Juste was Irish on her mother's side, who was born of the Desmonds of Desmondstown in the County Kerry. Marguerite's father was a French Comte, whose grandfather had been one of the victims of the guillotine.
Little Marguerite lived with an uncle, who was really only that relation by marriage; his name was the Reverend John Mansfield. He had a large living in a large town about fifty miles from London, and he adopted Marguerite shortly after the death of her parents. This tragedy happened when she was very young, almost a baby. She did not in the least remember her father, whose dancing black eyes and merry ways had endeared him to all who knew him. Nor did she recall a single fact with regard to her mother—one of those famous Desmonds, who had joined the rebels in the great insurrection of '97, and whose people still lived and prospered and were gay and merry of the merry on their somewhat tattered and worn-out country estate.
Marguerite adored "Uncle Jack," as she called her supposed uncle. She had a knack of turning this grave and esteemed gentleman, so to speak, round her little finger. It was the Rev. John and his wife Priscilla who taught little Marguerite all she knew. She adored her uncle; she did not like his wife. A sterner or stricter woman than Priscilla Mansfield it would be hard to find. Her husband, it is true, considered her admirable, for she discovered whenever his parishioners tried to impose upon him, and kept the women of his parish well up to the mark.
Mrs. Mansfield was really a good woman, but her goodness was of a kind which must surely try such a nature as little Marguerite's, or Margot's, as her uncle called her. Mrs. Mansfield did her duty, it is true, but her good husband's parishioners dreaded her although they obeyed her. Her husband praised her, but wondered in his heart of hearts why more people did not love her. In especial he could not understand why little Margot objected to her. As a matter of fact, if it were not for Uncle Jack, this small girl would have found her life intolerably dull. She had managed, nobody quite knew how, to get into the very centre of the heart of the grave, patient-looking clergyman and, because of this fact which she knew and he knew, she got on quite well, otherwise—but little Margot did not dare to think of otherwise. Was she not herself a mixture of both Irish and French, and could there be any two nations more sure to produce a child like Margot—a child full of life and fearlessness, of fun and daring?
She longed inexpressibly for companionship, but young people were not permitted to visit at the Rectory. She dreamed long dreams of her father's people in the Château St. Juste, an old place near Arles, in South France, and of her mother's people at Desmondstown—an old estate gone almost to rack and ruin, for where was the money to keep it up?
Mr. Mansfield was well aware of the state to which both families had been reduced, but when his little darling, as he called Margot, liked to talk about her father's and mother's people, he invariably encouraged her; that is, provided her aunt was not present. Mrs. Mansfield snapped up the child whenever her own people were talked of. She assured her that both families had gone to the dogs and did not even remember her existence.
"You ought to be very thankful to have an uncle and aunt like myself and your Uncle John," said the good woman. "If my John was not what he is, you would be nothing more nor less than a miserable little beggar. See that you obey us both and do your best to return the great kindnesses that we show you."
Little Margot St. Juste found it quite easy to respond to her uncle's kindness, but her aunt's was a totally different matter. Mrs. Mansfield's kindness consisted of "Don't, don't, don't," repeated with increasing energy from morning to night.
"Don't attempt to stand on the hearth-rug, you bad child." "Don't look so silly; get your seam and begin to sew." "Don't stare at me out of those eyes of yours; you make me quite sick when you do, and above all things don't make a fool of your poor, overworked uncle. He has no right to teach you Latin and Greek. Such languages are not meant for women and I shall tell him so, if you don't do it yourself. Do you hear me?"
But Margot was always coming across what she called "last straws" and this happened to be one. She was not afraid of her aunt, she only hated her. Now she went straight up to her and stared fully into her eyes.
"What's the matter with you, you nasty, rude little beggar?"
"I'm not a beggar, auntie," replied Margot. "I'm going to ask Uncle Jack about that. He always tells me the truth."
Now Mrs. Mansfield, severe as she was, had a certain wholesome fear of her good husband.
"You dare not repeat what I say," was her remark. "I—I'll whip you if you do."
"Then I'll have that, also, to tell Uncle Jack," replied Margot. "Auntie, you had best leave me alone. I intend to learn Latin and Greek, and I won't say a word of what you said just now to Uncle Jack if you'll let me alone. See, auntie, you had best for your own sake."
Margot gave the angry woman a bright glance of triumph and walked out of the room with the air of a small conqueror. At this time she was eleven years of age but looked younger and not the least like the ordinary English girl. Her little round face was slightly, very slightly, brown in tint, with a brilliant rose colour on each small cheek. Her eyes were large, soft, and black as night. Her eyebrows were well arched and also black. She had a charming little mouth and quantities of thick curly black hair.
This was the small child who, to a great extent, ruled the Rectory. It is true that Mrs. Mansfield stormed at her a great deal, but Margot was accustomed to her harsh words and by degrees took little notice of them. She was naturally very brave; she did not know what fear meant. She tried to do her best for auntie, but as auntie would never be satisfied she comforted herself with Uncle Jack. It was easy to get on with him for Uncle Jack and Margot loved each other with a great love.
The study at the Rectory was a very shabby and small room, but to Margot it seemed like Heaven. She sat there day after day for several hours, busy over her Latin and Greek. She did not care in the least for these languages, but they ensured her being for some little time with Uncle Jack, and then, when the lessons were over, the treat followed. It was that treat which supported Margot through the many trials of her small life.
She had arranged this treat for herself some little time ago and Mrs. Mansfield knew nothing about it. Always when the last Greek verb was finished, and the lesson books put away on a shelf which Margot kept in perfect order for the purpose, the little girl used to skip away to the kitchen and there coax Hannah, the cook, to give her two cups of tea and two slices of cake. With these she returned to the study and then deliberately locked the door. The tea and the cakes were placed close to Uncle Jack. Margot swept his books and manuscripts carefully to one side and then, having carefully fed him first with tea and cake, proceeded to munch her own portion.
She was always rather quick in eating her slice of very plain cake. Then she put all signs of the feast away behind a newspaper, knowing that the cook would fetch them by-and-bye. After this she climbed on her uncle's knee, clasped her little arms round his neck and began her invariable request,
"Now, Jacko, darling——"
"You oughtn't to call me Jacko, little heart's love."
"I like it," repeated the child. "I wouldn't say it for all the world before her, but it makes us sort of equal, don't you understand? You're Jacko and I'm Margot. We are playmates, you know. You are not a great learned clergyman any longer. You are just the playmate of little Margot. Come along, Jacko, don't let's waste time. I know she's out. She's visiting all the poor people; it's her day for collecting their pennies. We'll have a whole lovely hour if you don't waste time. It's the Irish turn to-day; tell me all you can about the Desmonds. My mother was a Desmond, wasn't she?"
"She was, sure," said the Rector, who happened to be an Irishman himself, but was careful to keep that fact a secret except when he and Margot talked together.
"And the Desmonds were mighty chiefs—great warriors?" continued Margot. "They feared nobody nor nothing. All the women were beautiful and all the men were brave. Now go on, Jacko, go on."
"The castle had a portcullis," said Uncle Jack, and then he burst into imaginary stories of the Desmonds, whom he hardly knew at all.
"You forget what you are talking about to-day," said Margot, taking up the thread. "As you enter by the front door you find yourself in a great hall, covered all over with armour—perfect suits of armour."
"Yes, of course I forget," said Uncle Jack, "and the hall goes up as high as the roof, and there is the ingle nook, where the fire is never let out day nor night."
"Never—never let out," muttered Margot. "Tell me about the men now, Uncle Jack."
"Oh, bless your heart, puss, they are fine fellows, those Desmonds—big and broad and with sparkling eyes."
"And the chief is called 'The Desmond'?" interrupted little Margot.
"Yes, that's true enough. It's a very fine title to be sure."
"And what sort are the ladies?" asked Margot.
"Bless you, child, something like yourself, only perhaps not quite so dark, but to hear 'em laugh and to hear 'em sing would make the water stand in your eyes, that it would—just for the joy of it; you understand, Margot."
"Yes, uncle, and my mother was one?"
"She was that, and the best of 'em all."
"Now, describe every inch of her, Uncle Jack," said Margot. "Begin—begin, go on—go on."
Now it so happened that the Rev. John Mansfield was not famous for descriptions, but he did draw a certain picture of Kathleen Desmond which was not in the least like that young lady, but which abundantly satisfied her child. Her cheeks grew redder than ever as she listened and she panted slightly as she snuggled against her beloved uncle.
"My mother must have been quite perfect," said little Margot. "Are there any of them left now, Uncle Jack?"
"Any of them left, child? Why, there is Norah and Bridget and Eileen, and there are three fine boys as well, and there's 'himself' as strong as ever, and madam, his wife, who has the finest lace in the county."
"I would like to know them," said Margot. "Why can't I get to know them, Uncle Jack?"
"Because they are just too poor to have ye with them, my little asthore—that's the truth of the matter. You have got to stay with Uncle Jack and make the best of it."
"But if I went for one week—couldn't I stay with them for one week, uncle? I do so dreadfully want to know Norah and Bridget and Eileen."
"'Tis aunts they are to ye, my pretty."
"Yes, and what are the names of the boys, and what are they to me?"
"Uncles to be sure, acushla machree. There's Fergus, called after The Desmond, and there's Bruce and there's Malachi."
"Malachi—that does sound a funny name," said Margot.
"It belonged to the finest of the old Irish kings," said Uncle Jack, and he began to hum the well-known tune "When Malachi Wore His Collar of Gold."
"There now, that's enough," said Margot. "You are wonderful to-day, Jacko, you are quite wonderful. But can't we go to see them while auntie is away?"
"There's no money. Acushla machree, there isn't a penny."
"Look here, Jacko, and don't talk about there being no money. These are mine—they belong to me."
The child thrust her hand into her little pocket.
"Auntie thinks she keeps them for me, but I took them away my lone self ages and ages back and she has never missed them. They belonged to my father, who was the young Comte St. Juste. See, this seal and this watch and chain and this necklet he bought for mother, and these bracelets. We can sell 'em and get plenty of money to go to Desmondstown."
"Why to be sure, so we could," said Uncle Jack, "but you make me feel like a wicked old man, little puss."
"No, no, you are a perfect darling. Promise faithful and true that you'll take me to Desmondstown when auntie goes away to visit her sick friend. She's going in a week or fortnight and she'll be away for a whole fortnight at least. I was naughty, last night, Jacko, and I eavesdropped when she was telling cook. She's going Friday week and we're going to Desmondstown on Friday week."
"Listen to me, Margot. I can't lie to you, child; it is a thing that couldn't be. I have to stay here to attend to my parochial work and I cannot leave even if I want to, but I'll tell you what I'll do, little puss. I'll sell just as many of these things as are required—not nearly all, for all won't be wanted, and I'll take you myself and I'll put you on board the steamer and look out for a kind Irish lady, who'll put you into the right train for Desmondstown. Now, for goodness' sake, let me sweep these things into a drawer. I hear herself coming in. We mustn't let a word on to her, child, and you must be back with me faithful and true before she returns."
"That I will, Jacko, you may be sure of that."
The treasures were locked into one of Uncle Jack's drawers. The door of the study was unlocked and little Margot ran out into the garden. She kept singing in her high, clear voice, "When Malachi Wore His Collar of Gold." She felt beside herself with happiness.