Chapter 11 A Girl of High Adventure by L. T. Meade
THUNDER STORM
Margot had been brought up by severe and much-detested Aunt Priscilla, and by that dearly loved and holy man, Uncle Jacko, to dread a lie beyond anything in the world. Aunt Priscilla scolded her and told her of the awful fate of little girls who told lies. Uncle Jacko pursued a far gentler and more effective way.
Uncle Jacko's way prevailed. He talked of the holy children who lived in the New Jerusalem. He talked of the smiling Christ, and God, the Father, and of the Holy Spirit, who entered into the heart of the child who tried to be good. He talked very beautifully and little Margot thought him very beautiful when he did talk on this subject, and never up to the present moment had she broken her solemn word to Uncle Jacko that she would at all costs and under every circumstance keep to the truth. Nevertheless, here was she now, having broken that solemn word, having made cher grandpère St. Juste imagine that the établissement was kept by Madame Marcelle and that la belle grand'mère had nothing whatever to do with it.
Oh, it was all terrible, notwithstanding grand'mère's passionate kisses to the little girl, and notwithstanding the fact that Alphonse and his Ninon were once more priceless treasures each to the other. Margot went about with a heavy burden on her small heart. She had told grandpère St. Juste a lie—yes, yes, there was no doubt on the subject. Her spirits, so happy and high; her animation so fragrant, so delightful to watch and listen to, seemed more or less to desert her. She used to sob bitter tears at night in her little cot and long beyond words for the moment when she might confess all to Uncle Jacko.
The old grandpère noticed the difference in la petite and much wondered at it. Ninon, his wife, also noticed it and did her best, her very best, to keep the knowledge from the eyes of the adorable Alphonse. Still the fact remained—la petite was not what she was. She learnt a certain number of lessons from grandpère and enjoyed her music lessons, which la belle grand'mère supplied her with. And she worked wonderful changes in the établissement with her beautiful taste and delightful chic appearance. But still there was the lie, always the lie, resting on her white little soul.
On a certain occasion, la belle grand'mère found la petite Comtesse in floods of tears.
"What is it, ma chérie petite?" she exclaimed. "Oh, très drôle, Oh ma petite, c'est drôle, to see the tears flow for no reason!"
"But there is reason, grand'mère," said little Margot. "I have told a black, black lie."
"Thou! Ce n'est pas possible!"
"But I have, ma grand'mère. I did it for thee, because thy trouble was so great. Mon grandpère, he thinks that the établissement belongs to Madame Marcelle. I got him to think so and he was contented. Oh, my heart, it is broken, it is broken! Grand'mère, my heart is broken in little bits. Canst thou not see?"
Grand'mère burst into a low sweet laugh, not an angry laugh by any means, but one that puzzled la petite Margot not a little.
"Thou hast a genuine worship of the beautiful," she cried. "Thou dost help Madame Marcelle in her établissement. For me, my fears are at an end. Why dost thou weep, ma petite? Oh, les belles robes et chapeaux that thou dost make the old women buy. No one else could do it but thee! The beautiful costumes thou dost give them, at the highest rates. Wherever does the lie come in, ma petite?"
"Oh, belle grand'mère," said little Margot, "thou dost know the shop is thine."
"Mais non, mais non," cried Ninon, clasping her tiny hands. "The great établissement at Arles belongs to Madame Marcelle."
"Then why didst thou cry and get so frightened that day, ma belle grand'mère?" cried little Margot.
"It was an attack of the nerves, ma petite. Now run out and play, thou dost want the air. Thou thyself with thy tact did save mon Alphonse and I am a happy woman again and the dot of my little one—it grows and grows and grows! Ah, but she makes her own dot, n'est-ce pas? Now run out and play; thou didst tell no black lie."
Margot wondered very much indeed if her grand'mère was right. She was a little comforted but not altogether. She had a shrewd sense of the justice of things and went to her almanac to tick off the number of days which yet remained before Uncle Jacko came to fetch her.
Now this little French mademoiselle gave herself in her own sweet independent way a great deal of liberty. She ran whooping and smiling down the avenue. La belle grand'mère saw her and smiled to herself.
"It is dreadful to have la petite with a conscience that pricks," thought grand'mère, "but I think I have soothed her, and to-morrow morning I will communicate with Madame Marcelle and tell her that a lie which rests so lightly on the soul of the French madame must be communicated to little Margot. She must tell little Margot that the établissement is altogether her own, then la petite will smile again and feel that she has told no lie. Yes, it can be done—it must be done! Mon Alphonse notices the cloud on the brow of la petite. It must vanish. She must converse, she must amuse. She must be as of old, a French petite with the wit of Ireland in her veins. Ah, she is truly diverting with her little pricked conscience, but I can set that matter right for her."
Meanwhile Margot walked along the road thinking very hard indeed and wondering if la belle grand'mère had told her the truth. It was now getting to the end of August and in little more than a fortnight she would be returning to that ancient man of might, The Desmond. Oh, how happy she would be; how she would nestle in his arms and tell him of all her sorrows! And on the way to Desmondstown she would confide in Uncle Jacko. Yes, he would tell her what was right to be done—Uncle Jacko, who only feared God, but no man that ever lived—Uncle Jacko with the clear face and soft gentle eyes, who was so unlike Aunt Priscilla, that woman who was altogether terrible. Ah, but even Uncle Jacko was not quite so dear to her as was her grandfather, The Desmond. He and Madam were perfect and so was Uncle Fergus perfect, and as to the old-youngs—well, she could not help them. They were much nicer than most of the French people she saw around her. So she skipped and ran and sang a gay little French song all to herself, but she did not notice that all the time as she was going further and further away from the château, a heavy cloud was coming up and obscuring the sky, a cloud black and cruel as night when it is hopeless—quite hopeless with gloom.
Pretty little Margot suddenly stopped singing because a great heavy blob of rain fell on the tip of her little nose. This was immediately followed by a flash of lightning and a peal of thunder so loud, so vivid, that it seemed to shake the very ground under her feet. There was a hedge at the side of the straight French road and Margot took refuge there, crouching in so as not to get too wet. She had just managed to effect her object when she heard an unmistakably English voice saying to her:
"It's you, Margot St. Juste; I'm your late schoolfellow, Matilda Raynes. I came out without leave. I put on my best hat, the one you chose for me. I wanted to go into Arles and to sun myself in the sight of the French windows of your great shop, Margot. But, behold, look, the rain, it trickles down, it pours in sheets; my chapeau which you chose for me will be destroyed. We were all so glad, Margot, when that horrid Dorothy got stung by the bees of M. le Comte. Oh, but she was a figure of fun, and she howled and screamed when the doctor came and removed the stings. Why did you leave us, little Margot? Could a girl such as Dorothy interfere with you?"
"Yes, she could, she did!" said little Margot. "I'm not going back to the school of la Princesse de Fleury any more."
"Oh, my hat, my hat," sobbed Matilda. "Oh, how it pours—and see the lightning, it flashes through the raindrops. Oh, let us get further under this hedge. My beautiful chapeau will be destroyed and it will be known that I left the grounds without leave."
"Come," said Margot, getting up in her quick and resolute way. "Never mind your chapeau, it is not safe to be under a hedge with thunder and lightning like this. Behold, the lightning may kill you—come, come!"
"Oh, but I cannot have my beautiful chapeau ruined," said Matilda.
"Never mind, I'll speak to grand'mère and perhaps we may contrive another," said Margot. "Come along at once or I must go alone. I don't mean to be killed for the sake of any chapeau."
"Don't leave me, don't leave me; that lightning frightens me!" said Matilda.
"I must leave you," said Margot, "unless you come with me. You don't want both your chapeau and yourself to die. Come, quick!"
Margot pulled her with a strong arm. Matilda found herself forced to come out into the centre of the road. They had half a mile to walk through the drenching rain. The poor little chapeau became like a sponge; both girls were wet to the skin, for the torrents of rain continued and the lightning still played, played brilliantly, unceasingly, and the thunder roared with mighty force. At last they got to the gates of the Château St. Juste, and Margot led her dripping companion into the well-kept hall. Both grandpère and grand'mère were waiting in the hall for their little Margot.
She went swiftly up to them.
"Mon grandpère must not touch me," she said, "for I am a pool of water. I met Matilda Raynes—she belongs to the school of la Princesse. May we go upstairs, grand'mère, and take off our dripping things, and when the storm gets less may a message be sent to la Princesse, and may I lend Matilda some of my clothes, grand'mère, until hers are dry? Ah, tiens, le chapeau, it is pulp!" She kicked the offending hat with her foot.
A few minutes later, both little girls were lying warm and snug in Margot's bed. Margot told Matilda that she was nothing but a bébé, but that if she stopped crying she would try to get her another chapeau.
"It shall be for nothing this time," said Margot.
"Ah, thou little shop-keeper!" exclaimed Matilda, "thou little adorable one!"
"Call me not shop-keeper, please. I am Comtesse St. Juste. Now lie still and I will get up and dress. Louise, see, has a message been sent to la Princesse de Fleury?"
"Ah, mais oui, Comtesse!" replied Louise.
"Then I will dress. I will wear my coral frock, and thou must get a white frock of mine and undergarments for mademoiselle. Vite, vite, Louise! Mademoiselle wants to get up."
"I don't. I want to stay here forever," said Matilda, yawning not a little.
"Thou lazy one," said Margot, "thou must be returned to the school."
Louise went out of the room to return with the information that the bath was hot and ready for both les petites. Then the two children were dressed in Margot's clothes and Matilda flung her arms round Margot's neck and said,
"Oh, but behold me of the most miserable! I am English and I do not like a French school, and I have a stepmother and I love her not, and my father is harsh and cruel. Will you not pity me, Margot? When the time comes for you to leave this so-called beautiful country of France, may I not come, too? I am learning to be a very bad girl at the school and I was always a bad girl at home, because of my stepmother and my harsh cruel father. Could you not get me to that castle of yours in beautiful Ireland? If I lived for even three or four weeks with you I might turn good, I might indeed."
"I can't say," replied Margot, "I must think. There, thou art dressed and my clothes suit thee better than thine own. Hold thy head erect. See, I will dry thy hair and I will go now, this very minute, and speak to Madame, ma belle grand'mère, about a chapeau for thee."
"Ah, yes, yes," said Matilda. "You are noble, Comtesse. I love you, I could crawl at your feet."
"But I should not wish it," said Margot. "I hate people that crawl. I want you to become good, and perhaps, God knows, it may be the right thing to do. Stay where you are, Matilda, and I will go and speak to grand'mère."
She came back in a few minutes with a light dancing step.
"Grand'mère est un ange. She will settle with Madame Marcelle and I will choose you a chapeau for nothing at all. I know the kind that will suit you. I can dispose of you in a moment."
"But, but——" exclaimed Matilda. "Am I not to see you again, sweetest Margot?"
"You have got to go back to school this minute. The rain is over and grandpère's automobile is waiting for you. Madame la Comtesse has written to Madame la Princesse and you will not be scolded and you will send back my clothes after they are well washed and ironed. I cannot tell you anything about Ireland for a long day yet. Go now, Matilda, and don't grovel, I beg."
Matilda looked rather startled and slightly frightened.
Margot danced down to her grandpère.
"I have missed thee so, ma petite," he exclaimed.
"The girl would have died, grandpère, if I had not rescued her. A flash of lightning would have taken her up to heaven as Elijah was taken up."
"I know not that story," said grandpère.
"Ah, well, grandpère, thou art a little ignorant in some things, but never mind, I want to ask thee a question."
"Ask away, my cabbage, my fledgling," said the old man.
"I want to suppose a bit," said Margot.
"Suppose away, then, ma petite."
"There was a little girl and she did wrong," said Margot. "It's all suppose, don't forget that, grandpère."
"I'm not forgetting," said grandpère.
"She did wrong, a deep, terrible wrong," continued Margot, "and there came to her a sorrow which was great, which was severe. Her conscience pricked her. For behold, understand, she was a Protestant and could not confide in one of thy Catholic Church. Then it occurred to her that she might make reparation for her wrong and do something that she most badly hated, and so set her pricked conscience at rest. Dost thou think, if she did that thing, that the great God would forgive her, grandpère?"
"I am certain of it, ma petite. I am as sure as that I am a very old man and that thou art my best chérie. But now, let's talk of something cheerful. What does it matter to thee, petite, how wrong others are if thou thyself art free?"
"Nothing at all, grandpère, dear grandpère."
"Then make me laugh, my little pigeon. Turn to the merry things of life. We of the French nation are always cheerful. That is why we live so long. The gloom, it kills us, but the sunshine, behold, it gives us life. Be my sunshine now, ma petite. See, behold, make thy old grandpère laugh. It is all right and good and as it should be. Ah, my little one, but I love thee well!"
"And I love thee, grandpère, but not as well as The Desmond. Thou dost not mind?"
"I could kill The Desmond," said grandpère.
Margot burst into a peal of laughter.
"Indeed, but thou couldst not," she remarked. "Thou hast not got his height nor his strength and thou art older. I see the age in thy sunken eyes. Now I will tell thee a story très drôle."
Little Margot told her story and Madame la Comtesse listened to the childish laughter and the clear, happy, childish voice, and said to herself that there never was anybody before quite so sweet as little Margot. She must get that little conscience to prick no more.
"There is no time like the present," thought la Comtesse. "The shower has passed away and the air is fresh and here is the motor car returning, having conveyed that common English girl back to her school. I will go this very moment and speak to Madame Marcelle."
This Madame la Comtesse did, and to such purpose and with such excellent effect that she did not once upset the nerves of Madame Marcelle and came home to enjoy the society of her husband and granddaughter in the best of spirits.
The next morning Margot went as usual to the établissement, but before she began her accustomed work, Madame Marcelle called her into her private room and there she told her that she was working for herself, not for Madame la Comtesse, and that she found la petite Comtesse so useful that she was going to pay her two hundred francs a month for every month that she was with her, and that it had been further arranged that the little Comtesse before she left France for Ireland was to receive five hundred francs besides, having her dot put carefully away for her in addition.
"Ah, but thou wilt be riche, ma petite!" said Madame Marcelle, "and now go and attend to thy duties, for my magasin is like no other in the whole of Arles."
Little Margot looked with her firm, clear, very dark eyes full into the face of Madame Marcelle. It seemed to her that she did not believe her in the least. Nevertheless, the woman had told her what was beyond doubt the apparent truth. The little Comtesse attended to her usual duties, and in the end wrote a letter to Matilda Raynes, telling her that she would write to her grandfather and, if all went well, would invite her to spend two or three weeks with her at Desmondstown.
Margot took a long time in writing her letter, but it was written at last. She would like to bring a girl, an English girl, back to Desmondstown; would The Desmond mind? The girl should never interfere with him, the darling, nor with that dear, dear Madam, but she could play with Norah and Bridget, and perhaps a little bit with Eileen. She was unhappy at home, and not very happy at school and would The Desmond greatly mind?
The Desmond did not mind at all. He said to Madam:
"Put the English miss as far away from me as possible. Hand her over to the care of our young daughters. For me, I await my grandchild. I think and dream of no one else."
"It shall be as you wish, Fergus," said Madam. "It is now the 1st of September. We shall have the little angel with us in less than a week."
"Ah, the good God be praised!" said The Desmond. "I look not ahead, I enjoy the present to the very, very utmost."
"Your little grandchild loves you," said Madam. "We will get her room neat and beautiful for her, and we will creep in, in the early morning, and see her asleep."
"Hand in hand," said The Desmond, looking at his old wife.
"Yes, Fergus, hand in hand," said Madam.
They looked at each other with a world of love in their eyes. That love had never been so strong as since the adorable grandchild had appeared on the scene. It had nearly killed them to part with her, but she was coming back again. Their night of weeping was turned into a morning of joy.