Chapter 3 A Girl of High Adventure by L. T. Meade
AN IRISH CHIEFTAIN AT HOME
Now The Desmond was tall, broad, and of enormous height. Although he was by no means a young man, he walked with great erectness. His hair, somewhat scanty now, was of a soft white. His beard was long and white, also, but his eyes were large and black and his complexion somewhat resembled that of little Marguerite St. Juste. It was of a soft brown tint and, old as he was, there was still a vivid colour in his cheeks.
This ancient descendant of an ancient race was, however, more feared than loved. In short, The Desmond ruled his little kingdom with a rod of iron. He never allowed familiarities between himself and his retainers. He could scarcely be spoken of as affectionate, and yet he had a strain of affection somewhere in his heart. That affection was entirely bestowed upon his lost, most beautiful and most dearly loved child, Kathleen. Like many Irishmen of his race, he was reserved with regard to his secret sorrows. He could not bear Kathleen's name to be mentioned in his presence and never once did he allude to the orphan child whom his pretty girl had left behind her. If he had any feeling towards the father of the said child, it almost amounted to hatred.
He could not abide, as he said once to Madam, "the Frenchies and their ways."
Henri St. Juste had, beyond doubt, hastened the end of his beautiful Kathleen. This was his belief. He wept the slow, difficult tears of the aged often at night as he thought about her, but he made no enquiries whatsoever with regard to the child and once, when Madam, in her timid, coaxing way, ventured to suggest that Kathleen's child should come to Desmondstown, The Desmond raised a shout of mighty anger and desired her to hold her peace or she would be sorry for herself.
Now of course Desmondstown was a typical old Irish place. It was going to rack and ruin as fast as ever it could. There was no money to keep it in order. There was just enough money to supply food and a sort of clothing for the inmates, to supply Malachi with horses, which he trained, some for himself, some for his sisters, some for his brothers, and the rest of which he sold, giving his father one-half of the profits.
Malachi's horses were almost the only available assets at Desmondstown; for The Desmond, although fierce, even ferocious at times, was good-natured to his tenants and strictly forbade any evictions on his estates. He gave his sons the scantiest of all possible educations with the exception of Fergus, who was his heir. Fergus, by scraping and toiling, he managed to send first of all to a fairly good school and then to Trinity College, Dublin. Fergus he also supplied with suitable clothes, but he never thought of his earning any money. It never occurred to him that any of his sons should work. Debts abounded all over the place and Desmondstown was in reality mortgaged very nearly up to the hilt.
The gardens had gone to ruin, the ancient avenue was more like a field path than anything else. All the gardeners had been dismissed. Only the stablemen and grooms and the garden boy remained outside the house, and within there were the cook, Biddy Magee, and the housemaid, Grace Connor, and Peter, the old butler. These were typical Irish people, untidy, not too clean, but, as The Desmond said, all that he could possibly afford.
Bit by bit, and by slow degrees, the lovely china, the Chippendale furniture, the coats of mail, which were supposed to decorate the old hall, disappeared in order that there might be food and wine for The Desmond and his tribe. There was also a quantity of valuable silver, the most famous in the county, which followed the same fate. The carpets were worn to shreds, the curtains hung in tatters from the windows—everything was in a hopeless state of confusion. In fact, a more dilapidated home than Desmondstown could scarcely be found anywhere, even in that region of dilapidated homes, the county of Kerry.
Nevertheless, the Misses Desmond held their heads high, and their brothers, with the exception of Fergus, were highly popular in the neighbourhood. Fergus was grave and dark, like his father before him. Now and then he even felt a degree of sorrow at the rapid decay of the old place. But to work—to have it even said that the man who would one day be The Desmond should work—was beyond his wildest dreams. He led a rather melancholy life therefore, taking little or no notice of his sisters, but often walking out with his old father, who was becoming glad of the support of his stalwart arm.
Now it was a custom at Desmondstown, as indeed it was the custom in every house in that part of Ireland, to let letters go their own way, bedad! Letters meant bills, and the best way to treat bills was not to answer them. Accordingly the long and careful letter which the Rev. John Mansfield wrote with regard to little Margot reached her grandfather, it is true, all in good time. But it only just reached him, for after staring for a minute at the handwriting he thrust it unopened into his pocket and forgot all about it.
Little Margot, whatever she went through with Uncle Jack, lived at least in a fairly neat home, where her much dreaded aunt, Priscilla Mansfield, kept everything in apple-pie order. She had no fear but that the letter had travelled on before her, and that she would find her uncles and aunts, who were so very young, and her grandfather and grandmother, who were equally old, all waiting on the tip-toe of expectation for the little colleen.
When Margot parted with Phinias, she felt just a trifle lonely, but very soon this feeling passed and she was only conscious of the sensation that she was at last in very earnest going home, but the avenue was long and weedy. A good many broken branches of trees were scattered about and, walk as fast as she might, she could not get a peep of the old house. As a matter of fact, the old avenue was quite two miles in length and the child was already very tired.
There was a broken stump of a tree which offered a fairly comfortable resting place. She sat down on it and burst into tears. Her tears were bitter. This was by no means the Desmondstown of her dreams. In the midst of her sobs, however, she heard the low-pitched voices of women who were certainly no longer young. She wondered if some of the servants were about and if she might address them, but the next instant, before she could make up her mind how to act, the low voices ended off into peals of laughter, and two women appeared, dressed from head to foot in very coarse white piqué, one holding the sash of the other, while behind them came a grey-haired and decidedly ugly clergyman, who held the sash of the last and oldest sister. He gave her some infantile pats from time to time with a morsel of briar which he carried and desired her "to hould herself stiddy, and to kape it up."
"Oh, oh, but me heart 'ull break—Bridget, me heart 'ull break. Did I iver hear the like of the way this man goes on! Mr. Flannigan, you belong to the Church of Ireland, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself, beating a poor young colleen like me."
"Hold up, Norah, don't let him get any nearer. Oh, by the powers! whoever is that little pixie seated on the log!"
Margot rose with considerable dignity from her seat. She approached the two excited-looking, old young ladies. Their hair was sandy in tint and much mixed with grey, but their figures were slight as girls of fifteen, and they were evidently enjoying themselves to the utmost.
"Oh, pixie, pixie, don't come near us," cried Norah. "Mr. Flannigan, keep the pixie away for Heaven's sake."
"I'm not a pixie," said little Margot. "I know you are very young, Aunt Norah, and you are very young, Aunt Bridget, but I'm your niece for all that. I am Marguerite St. Juste. I've come to pay my relations a visit. Uncle Jack wrote a letter to The Desmond. The Desmond is my grandfather. Aren't you expecting me? I'm glad to come, but I'd like well to be expected."
The two Misses Desmond stared with all their might and main at the pretty child, then Miss Bridget Desmond gave a sort of whoop and spring in the air, while Miss Norah laughed till her sides shook.
"Heaven preserve us!" she exclaimed. "You don't suppose letters are ever read at Desmondstown? Oh, but we are right glad to see you—don't make any mistake on that point. We are as pleased as Punch, aren't we, Bridget?"
"That we are," said Bridget. "Don't hold my sash so tight, Mr. Flannigan, I can't be bothered playing horse any more."
"Oh, good little girls, dear little girls," said Mr. Flannigan, "I'll come in again to-morrow and play horses with all three of ye. But ye might introduce me to the small colleen."
"She's my niece," said Norah Desmond. "She's the daughter of my dearest beautiful sister, Kathleen, and there's scarce a year between the child and us, that I can vouch for."
"To be sure, ye needn't be talkin' about that," said Mr. Flannigan. "Why I see it in your faces—ye are three babies together."
Little Margot gave a quick sigh. She remembered, however, the words of Phinias and took no apparent notice of the fact that Aunt Norah must be close on fifty and Aunt Bridget forty-eight.
"We'll take you back home with us, little 'un," said the youngest of the Misses Desmond. "Here, let's scamper down the avenue. Good day to ye, Mr. Flannigan. There's no more playing at horses to-night. The pixie is tired, so she is. Here, catch her under the arm, Bridget, and I'll take her on the other side. Now then, put out your best foot, colleen bawn, you'll soon be home. Eh, but it's an elegant place you are coming to."
The tumbled, untidy sisters managed to get little Margot down the rest of the avenue, and presently they all bounded into the house, Miss Norah giving vent to a loud "Whoop!" as she did so.
This noise brought two untidy looking men on the scene.
"Be the powers, now, pixie, these are me brothers," said Norah. "This one is Bruce and this one is Malachi—the finest horse-breaker in the whole kingdom."
"Oh, are you indeed, are you indeed?" said little Margot, "and you are very young, too, though you look old."
"It's the climate, acushla," said Malachi, "but whatever brings ye wandering round, and who are ye, when all's said and done?"
"Let me speak," interrupted Norah. "Bridget and me we were havin' a game of horses with Mr. Flannigan, the new curate, and a rare bit of fun we had out of it, too, when who should we see but this pixie seated on the trunk of an old tree! She said her name was—whatever did ye say your name was, pixie?"
"I don't choose to be called pixie," said Margot. "My name is Marguerite St. Juste, and my father was Comte St. Juste, and my mother was Kathleen Desmond, very own sister to you all. I live with a dear, darling, lovely uncle in England, but I thought I'd like to see Desmondstown, and Uncle John wrote to The Desmond, who is grandfather to me. I'd like well to see him, and there's my leather trunk, which belonged to my mother, hiding under a big laurel bush at the gate. I want to stay here for a full week and then I'll go away. Oh, I know you are all terrible young. I was taught that on my way here. But you are not as young as I am. Still, I don't mind your being young, if you play with me and not let that dreadful curate talk to me."
While little Margot was speaking, her eyes grew softer and darker and brighter, the flaming red mounted into her cheeks and her young lips trembled slightly.
"I'm a bit hungry," she said after a pause, "and I don't see the armour nor the ingle nook, nor the fire that never goes out day nor night."
"Bless her heart," said Malachi, "who told you those lies about the poor old place?"
"They weren't lies, they were truths," said Margot. "My uncle, my dearest darling Jacko, told me all about everything. Oh, but couldn't I have a sup of milk or something? I'm so terrible thirsty."
Before this very natural request could be granted, a door at the side of the great hall was pushed open and an aged man with snow-white hair and black eyes entered. He was followed by a little refined gentlewoman, who looked a trifle nervous and kept on repeating, "Whist, now, Fergus; the bit things must have their fun."
"I don't allow noise and confusion in my house," said The Desmond, "and whoever in the name of the Almighty is that?"
"It is only me, grandfather," said Margot. "Uncle John wrote you a letter about me. I wanted to see you so badly, I couldn't wait any longer, on account of the longing that I had. I'm Margot St. Juste, your very own little grandchild, and I want bitter bad, to have a sup of milk. My mother was your daughter, Kathleen Desmond—and——"
"What?" shouted the old chieftain.
"Uncle Jack wrote to you about me, grandfather," said Margot, who with difficulty was keeping back her tears.
The old man strode a few paces into the great bare, empty hall. He then turned the contents of his various pockets out and presently came across Uncle Jacko's letter.
"Here it is," said Margot, "here it is. Read it at once, will you, and let me sit on your knee. I'm so glad you are old, really old. I don't care for young people, not a bit. I know it is the will of the Almighty that they must be young and keep young, but I like you because you are old and my grand-dad. Please, please, let me sit on your knee."
Just at that moment another door opened and a tall, stern-looking man, with a strong resemblance to The Desmond, appeared on the scene. "Why, look here, Fergus," said The Desmond, "this little pilcheen has come along, and she is own daughter to my Kathleen, bless her. Bid her welcome, Fergus. She shall have the best the house contains. Here's your grandmother, missie, but you shall talk first with me. Norah, order the dressing-room next to mine to be got ready for her, and have a tray full of the best food brought into my smoking-room. Now then, pilcheen——"
"I'd rather you called me Margot, please, grand-dad."
"Margot," said the old man, "Margot! There's no sense in such a word. There! I'll call you Maggie; but you ought to have been christened Kathleen, after her—her that's gone—her that was as the light of my life. Girls, stir yourselves, and get everything ready for little Maggie. Don't stare and gape any more. The child has come to us and she is welcome and she shall stay as long as she likes. Now, my colleen asthore, this lady is your grandmother, this is Madam Desmond. Girls, stir yourselves and get things for the child to eat. Get the very best the house contains and put the best furniture into the dressing-room. Ain't she Kathleen's child? Madam, you and I and the little pilcheen can sup together in the smoking-room. She's mighty like our Kathleen, don't you think so, Madam?"
"I do so," said Madam, "and I'm fairly hungry to kiss her, Fergus."
"All right. Little pilcheen, you go along and kiss Madam six times and no more, then come back to me. My God, I thank thee; she's my Kathleen come to life again."
Little Margot had quite got over her shyness. She was bewildered by the queer manners of her so-called juvenile aunts, but grand-dad and Madam delighted her. She climbed willingly on the old man's knee and nestled snugly against his breast.
"You are a very old man, aren't you, grand-dad?"
"I am so, Maggie, and why shouldn't I be?"
"I'm so glad," said little Margot. "And Madam is old, too," continued the child.
Madam smiled, nodded and kissed her hand.
"Yes, darling, I'm quite old; thank the Almighty."
"Then I'm real, real glad," said Margot. "It is so difficult to understand old young people or young old people, I don't know which to call 'em."
"Listen to me, Margot," said her grandmother. "Your aunts, Eileen, Norah, and Bridget, are young maids in their first dawn, and so for that matter are Fergus and Bruce and Malachi also young as young can be."
"Ah, but I'm sorry," said little Margot. "I suppose it is all right. I can't stay very long, grand-dad, darling, because I have faithful and true to get back to Uncle Jack, for Uncle Jack is both my uncle and my playfellow, but while I am here I would like most of the time to be with you and Madam, 'cause I don't like old-young girls."
"Come, let that be," said Madam. "The girls are only amusing themselves, to be sure they are."
Margot was quite silent for a minute.
Jacko was a big man, but he was not nearly so big as The Desmond, and she felt exceedingly comfortable nestling up in his arms, while his snow-white beard gently touched her little brown face.
"There's a trunk of mine," she said. "It is under a laurel bush by the gate. Could one of the servants go and fetch it down, grandfather?"
"Servants, bedad," exclaimed Malachi, who just then entered the room. "Oh, yes, I'll see about the servants. I'll put everything as right as rain."
He marched out of the room.
"If it is a heavy trunk, missie," he said, turning round with his laughing eyes, "ye'll want about five men to hoist it on their shoulders."
"Well, that's easily done in a big place like this," he continued.
Margot gave a contented little sigh. Madam followed her son out of the room. She thought it well to lend a hand in the preparation of the wee colleen's supper.
When they were quite alone together, Margot turned and kissed The Desmond several times.
"You are my very own grand-dad," she said.
"Yes, push-keen, I am that," said he.
"I am so happy in your arms," continued Margot. "I'll tell you why. First, because you are so big; second, because you are so beautiful and old, and third because you belong to me."
Again she kissed the brown cheek; and the brown eyes of the man looked into the brown eyes of the child.
"It's my Kathleen before she grew up," he whispered to himself, "before she met that Frenchman, drat him."
"Do you love me, grand-dad?" whispered Margot.
"Yes, push-keen, I think a bit."
"Will it be a good bit, soon, grand-dad?"
"I'm thinking it might."
Margot gave another sigh of intense and complete satisfaction.
"I wanted to see the house and the place and the young girls and the young boys and Madam, but I wanted most of all to see you, grand-dad."
"Ah, now, that's proper," said The Desmond. Just then there was a rustling outside the door, and Madam came in with a little tray, which contained milk and bread and butter and home-made jam and new-laid eggs.
Margot would not for a moment resign her post on The Desmond's knee, but she allowed Madam to draw a little table forward and to feed her from there. She ate with considerable appetite and looked prettier than ever when her fatigue vanished.
"And now I'm going to take you to bed, my baby," said Madam.
"Yes, yes," said The Desmond. "Ye'll go off like a good colleen and when ye are lying between the sheets—the finest linen for that matter——Mary, you didn't have any but the finest sheets put on the pushkeen's bed?"
"To be sure not, Fergus, why should I?"
"Well, that's all right. You run off, my colleen, and I'll come and kiss you good-night, just as I kissed my own Kathleen before the Frenchman took her."
So Margot, being very weary, obeyed. The leather portmanteau stood in a very old and bare room, and Madam herself unpacked it and took out what the child wanted for the night. At last the little tired limbs lay between the soft Irish linen sheets and Madam kissed her grandchild two or three times, whilst big tears filled her eyes.
"What are you crying for, you darling old lady?" said little Margot.
"I'm thinking of my Kathleen," said Madam.
"I'm her little girl, therefore I'm your little girl," said Margot, pressing her small lips together in ecstasy. "Kiss me, grandmother. Grandmother, you love me, too."
"I do, my best mavourneen, but now I must go and get himself up, or he'll rage at me."
Madam tripped downstairs and presently returned with The Desmond. He had evidently given her a hint to leave him alone with Margot. When they were quite alone together, he pulled the curtains across one of the windows and opened the window a little wider to let in the fresh air, then he came close to Margot's side and kneeling down by her made the following speech:
"Ye need have no fear in ye, my push-keen colleen. Do ye see that door? It opens into Madam's room and mine. If you call out even a whisper I'll be with ye. Now say your hymn like a good child and God bless ye."
"My hymn, what hymn?" said Margot in some astonishment.
"Why, didn't they never teach it to ye? What a powerful, wicked shame, but you are young and you'll soon learn. Your mother used to say it to me every night when she was a young 'un. Come, fold your little hands and follow me with the words."
Margot did so. The hymn was a very baby one and very well known, but Aunt Priscilla had never thought it worth her while to teach it to the baby Margot. The Desmond had different views.
"Now begin, acushla machree."
Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
Look upon a little child,
Pity my simplicity,
Suffer me to come to thee.
Fain would I to thee be brought,
Dearest Lord, forbid it not;
In the Kingdom of thy grace
Grant a little child a place.