Chapter 4 A Girl of High Adventure by L. T. Meade
OLD YOUNG PEOPLE
Whether it was her great fatigue or the fact that she was sleeping at last in the home of her ancestors, or the other fact that there was at least one dear old man living at Desmondstown, little Margot St. Juste slept like a top during the whole of that first night in the house where her mother had been born. She slept so soundly that she was quite unconscious of the fact that The Desmond, accompanied by Madam, entered the hastily improvised bedroom at the dawn of day and bent over the child. There was a look of positive rapture on both their old faces.
"Eh, but she's our Kathleen to the life," said Madam.
"It's the Almighty has sent her to comfort us in our old age," said The Desmond. "Step softly Madam, macree. Don't for the life of you wake the bit thing."
So little Margot was allowed to have her sleep out, but when she awoke she stared about her in great bewilderment. Her three old young uncles, and her three old young aunts were collected round the bed. The moment she stirred, Norah made that sort of "whoop" for which she was so celebrated, and disappeared from the room. She danced into her father's presence. She was wearing a pink dress and was attired also in a pale pink sash. Her hair was full of curl papers. She looked singularly old, but had all the actions of a frolicsome kitten.
"The pixie is awake, father," she said.
This was the signal for intense excitement. The Desmond desired his daughter to behave herself and put away some of her childishness.
"I can't help being young, I am young," replied Norah.
"You're not; you are a withered twig," said The Desmond. "Find Madam and tell her that the child is awake. Madam will see to her breakfast; and try to dress like a woman of your years, Norah. You are nothing but a figure of fun in that pink dress and pale pink sash."
Norah laughed, winked, showed her really white fine teeth and disappeared from the room. She found old Madam without much difficulty and soon a cosy breakfast was brought up to little Margot. She was in the midst of enjoying her second egg when The Desmond popped in his silvery head.
"Hullo," he said, "so here we are again."
"Yes, yes, and it is lovely to see you, grand-dad, and please come and sit close to me and send the old young girls and the old young boys away. Only Madam may stay if she likes, for she's a perfect darling. Tell her—tell her to feed me. I like to be petted and I love really old people, but I don't like old young people to call me 'pixie' and 'pushkeen.'"
With a wave of his hand, which was at once imperative and intensely severe, The Desmond cleared the room of all his sons and daughters. Madam sat down on the side of the bed and fed Margot, who gave herself up to intense present enjoyment.
"I'm so happy, granny," she said, looking at the old lady, "and I'm so happy, grand-dad," she continued, taking the old chieftain's withered hand and pressing her soft lips to it. "Oh, I am so very glad that you are both really old. I don't like old young, I don't, really, truly."
"Now you, child, you," said Madam, "don't you run down your aunts and your uncles. They are all young and kittenish."
"They are not Mary, and you know it perfectly well," said The Desmond. "The child is right; she is full of sense. She's exactly like my Kathleen, God bless her."
The fuss which was made over the wardrobe of little Margot could scarcely be excelled. There was no such thing as a modern bathroom at Desmondstown, but a great tub, which was used for washing clothes, was hoisted into the room by two stalwart women. Then it was made the exact right heat, and Madam and her three daughters—for nothing would keep these old young ladies a minute longer out of the room—superintended the washing and dressing of little Margot.
Eileen was the quietest of the three sisters. She was also the prettiest and the youngest. She had been out at what was called a barn-dance on the previous evening and this was her first proper view of the little arrival. Eileen, when she was really young, must have been very pretty. She had the deep, dark blue eyes of her countrywomen, and the soft dark hair which curled naturally all over her head. Unlike her sisters, she was not obliged to have recourse to curl papers and little Margot looked at her with her soft, dark brown eyes full of admiration.
Her own dress was very plain, though neat, and Eileen chose out of the child's belongings a simple white dress which she was to wear with a faded green sash that belonged to Eileen herself.
"You must wear it to-day, push-keen," she said, "as a welcome to old Ireland. Isn't it the country of the green, Madam?"
"Yes, to be sure," replied the old grandmother, "and you might go out and pick a bunch of shamrocks and fasten it in the front of her dress, Norah."
Norah gambolled like a veritable kitten downstairs. She returned presently with a great bunch of shamrocks, which was carefully pinned into Margot's white frock.
"Are ye rested now, pretty dear?" asked Norah.
"Yes, to be sure I am, Aunt Norah, and I feel so—so fat."
"Poor lamb," cried Madam, "she hasn't been half fed where she was."
"Yes, but I have," cried Margot. "Uncle Jacko fed me fine and so did Hannah. It was a wicked woman who interfered."
"A wicked woman, lawk a mercy!" cried Bridget. "What in the world had a wicked woman to do with you, pixie?"
"I'm not allowed to mention her name," said little Margot. "Don't ask me any more questions, for I've taken an oath and I won't break it. I'd like to go straight to grand-dad—that's what I'd like."
"You can't just now, pretty dear," said Madam, "he always sleeps at this hour, but he'll be up and about by mid-day dinner."
"You'd best come and play horses with us on the lawn," said Bridget and Norah, simultaneously.
"No, I don't want to. You'll have that awful old man there."
"Is it Mr. Flannigan you mean?" asked Bridget. "Why he's little better than a chick newly hatched—like the rest of us for that matter," she continued.
"Are you all just newly hatched?" asked Margot, looking with great curiosity at the figures of her old young aunts.
"To be sure, you've about said it," exclaimed Norah.
"Well, I'm a great deal older than you," said Margot, "so I'll let you play with the newly hatched chicken and I'll go and see Phinias Maloney."
"For the Lord's sake what does the child mean now?" exclaimed Madam, a little indignant colour flooding her cheeks.
"I mean what I say," replied Margot. "He's a dear old man—he's not a gentleman, but I like him all the better on account of that, for he's got a gentleman's heart inside his skin. I'll go and see him now while grand-dad is asleep—that is, if you don't mind, Madam."
"We'll all go, if it comes to that," said Norah. "Think of you picking up with Phinias Maloney, the roughest old farmer in the county."
"But I don't want to go with you, I want to go alone," said Margot. "He and I are great friends, and I slept with my head on his shoulder all the way into Kerry. What are you laughing at? Why are you looking at me as you are doing?"
"I'm fit to let out a screech," said Norah. "To think of one of the Desmonds falling asleep with her head on the shoulder of Phinias Maloney. It's enough to make a cat laugh, let alone a human being."
"Then, please, Aunt Norah, laugh as much as you like while I am away," said Margot. "I must be back in time to sit with my grand-dad. I've a great deal to say to him and the time is short."
"It's Sunday; you oughtn't to be thinking of your pleasures," said Eileen, who had a more refined voice than her sisters. "Mother, she can't go to see Phinias to-day, she really can't. Put on your pretty little white hat, pixie, and we'll take you to church."
Margot was of course accustomed to going to church on Sunday and after a moment's hesitation, during which her little face looked very downcast, she agreed to Eileen's suggestion.
"I'll go," she said, "on a condition—it's all my own."
"And what's that?" asked Eileen.
"It's that you walk on one side of me, and my young uncle Fergus on the other; then I'll know where I am, for you talk sense."
Norah tried in vain to be offended, but as this was absolutely impossible to her nature and as Bridget was equally the soul of good humour, the little party started for the small village church a few minutes later, Margot looking very neat and even distinguished between her old young aunt and her old young uncle.
She sat very still during service and kept her soft black eyes fixed on Mr. Flannigan. Was it possible that he was the same person who had played horses with her aunts on the previous day? He read the service with a good deal of force and realism, and preached a sermon which was so full of Irish stories that Norah and Bridget kept their handkerchiefs pressed against their mouths to keep themselves from screaming with laughter.
All went apparently well until the service came to an end, but then the curate threw off his church manners and devoted himself to Miss Norah and Miss Bridget. He was invited back to dinner by both these young ladies and eagerly accepted the invitation.
"So this is the pixie," he said, his eyes fixed on Margot.
"No, it isn't," said Margot, "but you are the newly hatched chick."
Mr. Flannigan felt his red face turning redder than usual.
"Whatever do you mean?" he replied.
Just then they got inside the grounds.
"Thank Heaven for all its mercies," said Norah. "I can let out a good screech now, and no one will be any the wiser. I said, Sam Flannigan, that you were a newly-hatched chicken, when she was taunting me about your age, man. Oh, isn't it fun? I never enjoyed myself so much in my life."
"Nor did I, for that matter," cried Bridget. "It's a pity it is Sunday, for we can't play horses."
"Do let's walk a little faster, Uncle Fergus," said Margot turning to her uncle.
His grave face looked at her searchingly, then he said in a quiet tone,
"The avenue is a bit too long for a wee thing like you. See, I'm going to stoop. Put your arms round my neck, so. Now, then, hold tight. I have you on my shoulder as firm as can be."
"Oh, thank you, thank you," said Margot. "I do like you, Uncle Fergus, and I like Eileen."
"But why don't you like the others? They are harmless enough, poor bit things."
"Yes, but they were not hatched yesterday," said Margot. "That I do know and I won't play horses with that horrid Mr. Flannigan!"
"Malachi is fit to tear his hair," exclaimed Fergus. "He has just sent off a stud of horses to Dublin for sale, so there isn't one he can offer ye to ride."
"I like you very much as a horse, Uncle Fergus," said Margot.
"Do ye now? Well, that's all right."
"Did you love my mother, Uncle Fergus?"
"To be sure, but we don't talk of her."
"Why not, why ever not?"
"Because it hurts the old man; we have to be very careful about the old man. You listen, child, mavourneen. He never got over her marrying a Frenchy."
"But my father had a title, he was Comte St. Juste."
"As if that mattered," said Fergus, in a tone of violent contempt. "A title indeed, the Lord preserve us! The Desmonds don't want any title greater than their own."
"Is it very high up, Uncle Fergus?"
"High up? The stars couldn't reach it. There isn't a royal Duke in England we'd change with."
"Isn't there? I didn't know," said Margot. She spoke in a very soft, interested voice. "And some day you'll have it," she said.
"Yes; but for the Lord's sake don't mention the awful time when the old man is took from us."
"Oh, Uncle Fergus, I do love you," said Margot and she bent down and kissed him on his brow.
It was two or three days later that The Desmond and his son, Fergus, had a long and important conversation behind locked doors. "I'm willing to do my share," said Fergus Desmond.
"I knew you were, my boy. You have never disappointed me yet."
"And I won't begin now, father," said the son.
"We can't let her go," said The Desmond, "that's the thing."
"I see your heart is set on her," remarked Fergus.
"Set on her! It is fastened on her like a vise. I don't know myself since she came to the place. She's her blessed mother back again. Who is that man who has the charge of her, Fergus? Is he her uncle at all, at all?"
"She seems very fond of him," said Fergus, "but I don't see how he can be her uncle. He has taken very good care of her all these years, and never asked us for so much as a penny."
"I tell you what it is, Fergus," said The Desmond. "You must go across the water and see the man and put it straight to him that we can't give her up."
"I don't see how I can exactly do that, father," said Fergus; "he's had her since she was a babe and maybe she is as much to him as she is to us."
"Fergus, you talk folly. Is The Desmond's heart to be broken because of a common sort of chap like John Mansfield?"
"We must act fair," said Fergus, "and what's more, if we adopt her, we must adopt her properly. She must be schooled. She must be treated like the lady she is. We don't want any more Norahs and Bridgets in the house."
"No, no; of course not, of course not," said The Desmond.
"She must be taught," said Fergus Desmond, "and the teaching will cost money, a sight of money. I know a lady who'd do it," he continued. "Miss Drusilla McNab—she has got fine learning entirely, foreign languages and all else, and she can play the piano and sing to make your heart burst. I might manage to settle it with her if we paid her properly, but we can't have one of the Desmonds disgracing herself and us by eating the bread of charity."
"How old is Drusilla McNab?" asked The Desmond.
"She's thirty-five, father, and she lives at Rockingham, and Malachi could drive the kiddie over there each morning and fetch her back in the evening. But we couldn't offer Miss Drusilla less than £20 a year. We couldn't in all decency."
"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed The Desmond. "Twenty pounds, when we have scarcely got so many pence. Can't you and I teach the bit thing, Fergus?"
"No, we can't," said Fergus. "She must be taught properly and like a real, out-and-out lady. Miss McNab was educated in Paris and the pushkeen is going to be a wonderful beauty. She must be taught according to her station. She'll make a fine match some day."
"I want her to stay with me," said The Desmond. "I don't wish for any of those fine matches for the pretty dear."
"Well, it will come, father; for she is the handsomest little girl I ever looked at."
"And why not," said old Desmond, his eyes flashing a sort of blue fire. "Isn't she her mother's child?"
"Yes, but she is better-looking than Kathleen. Don't fret, old man, accept the fact. She has got a look of our Kathleen, but she must take after her father, too. She doesn't get those eyes only from our Kathleen. Why, they look as though you could never reach to the back of them."
"To be sure," said The Desmond. "Well, I can't part with her; that's plain. I'm alive all over again, and quite young with the thought of having her in the house."
"It'll take money to settle this matter, father," said Fergus. "If this John Mansfield is her real uncle, he mayn't want to give her up, and he can't be forced to give her up. It strikes me we'll have to pay him. Money settles most difficulties. Now my notion is this. You have turned against the Comte St. Juste, although you never clapped eyes on him. When our Kathleen took him for better or worse, you said you wouldn't see him or write to him or have anything to do with him. Then our girleen died after giving birth to the little one and then the poor Comte died, also, and you never breathed the name, never once, of the little colleen. But she came to you of her own accord and you have lost your heart to her."
"Lost my heart! I tell you, Fergus, my man, I'm mad about her."
"Well, then, we must get some one in to settle this question. I'll go by this very night's mail to John Mansfield and then, it strikes me—hold yourself in now, father, don't burst out. It strikes me I might go on to those French people and perhaps they'd help their son's child. You must keep her here by hook or by crook until I get back. I'll get the address of the French people from John Mansfield."
"But we don't even know Mansfield's address," muttered The Desmond.
"Oh, I see my way to that," said Fergus. "Will you put the matter into my hands, father, and I'll do my level best. There's that nice little farm of Cromartie's. We can mortgage that by-and-bye to get the little bit dear a dowry, but that's for the future. I'd do anything on earth to please you, dad, and Miss Drusilla McNab can turn the wee colleen into a fine lady. I'm thinking that between John Mansfield and those French folks I'll manage something. Can you give me that old gold watch, father, and a couple of pound notes just to take me to Dublin? That's all the money I'll ask for the present."
The interview ended by The Desmond putting two very crumpled and as a matter of fact very dirty one pound notes into Fergus' hand. He then gave him the old gold repeater and told him to be as quick a boy about his business as ever he could.
Fergus said as he was leaving the room, "Now, look you here, old man, this is a scheme between you and me and neither Madam herself nor the three girls, nor the boys, Bruce and Malachi, are to know anything whatsoever about it. If it can be done, it will be done, and I'm the boy to do it."
"Whist, lad," said his father, "where are you off to now?"
"You leave it to me, father, I must manage in my own way."
The Desmond sank back into his chair, his dark eyes deep and lustrous and a smile playing round his lips.
If only Fergus could succeed, if only he might keep the little mavourneen. He closed his eyes and slowly two tears fell over his wrinkled cheeks. He was thinking of a possible joy and of a past grief, but Fergus was the boy—there wasn't his like in the county.
Meanwhile Fergus made his way out by the backyard, crossed a tumbled-down stile without anyone noticing him and made his way in a bee line to the farm which was rented by Phinias Maloney.
Phinias was one of his father's best tenants and accordingly was entitled to a certain degree of respect. He never bothered about repairs either, and although the farm was going to ruin, he paid his rent each quarter-day like a man, and never asked for improvements.
"What did a little drop of wather matter," he said to "Herself," when the rain poured in through the badly thatched roof, "and whyever should they be botherin' theirselves about filling up gaps and such like. Wasn't The Desmond as bad off as himself and was he goin' to ruin The Desmond, not he! The gaps were mighty convanient for the young chickens and young ducklings to run in and out of the house and to take shelter when it rained hard on the roof of the old barn."
Yes, the farm was good enough for Phinias, if Desmondstown was good enough for The Desmond, and "Herself" must hold her chatter for he wasn't going to ask for what couldn't be done.
Thus the days went by and the weeks went by and Phinias was perfectly happy in the broken-down farm, but his delight knew no bounds when on a certain morning a little figure stepped lightly across the badly-kept yard, which was full of holes and numerous little pools of water in which young ducklings disported themselves.
"Why, if it isn't the little missie herself," cried Phinias. He strode out to meet Margot, who put her little cool hand into his.
"Oh, oh, Mr. Phinias Maloney, I couldn't get away a day sooner. I love The Desmond like mad and Madam and Fergus, but I don't care for the young old girls—only Aunt Eileen isn't so bad as the other two. They said they was only hatched about yesterday. When was you hatched, Mr. Phinias Maloney? You look miles younger than they do."
"Ah, whist, my little acushla machree" said the farmer, "kape it up to thim that they are young and you'll be as happy as the day is long."
"But I don't want to. I like Aunt Eileen tolerable, and I love Uncle Fergus and I dote on my grand-dad and Madam. Oh, I say, I had to run away to come to you, Phinias, and there is Uncle Fergus coming in at the gate."
"Do you want to hide from him, pretty one?" said Phinias.
"Is it I that would hide?" said little Margot. "That's not me. Hullo, Uncle Fergus. I ran away this morning, all my lonesome, to have a talk with dear Phinias."
Fergus Desmond looked decidedly annoyed, but the frown quickly swept from his brow.
"Phinias," he said, turning to the man, "I want to have a few words in private with you. Take little missie in and introduce her to 'Herself' and the youngest baby."
"Oh, a baby!" cried Margot. "When—when was it hatched? Does it look as old as young Aunt Norah?"
"Whist, whist, missie darlint, come this way," said Phinias.
He took the little hand and led the child into the tumble-down kitchen.
"No remarks," he said, "if you please," dropping his voice to a whisper and introducing the little girl to "Herself," a handsome blue-eyed young woman of the true Kerry type of beauty. "The place is a bit shook up, I'm not goin' for to deny it; but neither will I let The Desmond be bothered puttin' it right. Now there's a straight tip for you, little missie. Annie, mavourneen, here's a swate little lady from Desmondstown, who I brought across the say all the way from England. She has come to pay us a call, kape her with yourself, Annie. I'll be back again in a twinklin'."
"When was the last baby hatched?" said Margot.
"Bless your heart, little missie," said Mrs. Maloney, "we don't talk of childer as hatched. He's two months old. I've called him Phinias after his dadda."
"Oh, oh, let me hold him," said little Margot, "oh, oh, I'm so glad he wasn't hatched. My aunties are hatched about every second day and it makes them so terrible young, and so, so queer. Isn't he a perfect darling? May I kiss him, Mrs. Phinias—'cause I'm so fond of your husband."
"Bless you, pretty one, to be sure you may."