Chapter 12 A Girl of High Adventure by L. T. Meade
GEM OF THE OCEAN
There was no doubt on this occasion with regard to the welcome prepared for little Margot St. Juste. She and her beloved Uncle John and the Reparation, as she called the uninteresting English girl, arrived at the station nearest to Desmondstown somewhat late at night.
Matilda was overcome with delight at the thought of her three weeks at Desmondstown. She begged and implored of Margot to call her Tilly.
Margot said, "That's not your name in my mind," but when Uncle Jacko looked at the little girl out of his kind, thoughtful, sweet eyes, she felt a sudden lump rising in her throat.
Why should she be unkind to Tilly?
"I'll call you Till," she said, "only please don't clasp my hand quite so tight. I'm an Irish girl and this is Ireland, beautiful Ireland."
"The first gem of the ocean,
The first pearl of the sea,"
murmured Uncle Jacko.
"Yes, that's right," said Margot. "You'll see what it is like in the morning, Till, and grandfather, the blessed darling, says that you may stay for three whole weeks. That is, if you are good."
"Of course I'll be good; I'll be very good indeed," said Tilly. "Anyone would be good with la petite Comtesse."
"I'm not la petite Comtesse here," said Margot. "I'm 'pushkeen' here, and most likely the old-youngs will call you 'nanny-goat.'"
"Nanny-goat! But I won't be nanny-goat," said Matilda, thoroughly offended.
"Well, we'll see, but you can't help yourself."
"And who are the old-youngs?" asked Tilly.
"You'll see them also, Till," remarked Margot. "Oh, Uncle Jacko, darling Uncle Jacko, have we arrived?"
"We have, acushla machree, alanna—heart's best darling," said the elderly clergyman, clasping the child for one swift moment tightly in his arms. "Ah, but you are the soul of my soul," he muttered.
Tilly looked on in amazement. She began to consider all these foolish words, none of which she could understand, as a certain token that the Irish were half mad. Still it was glorious to be close to la petite Comtesse.
The train drew up at the station in that slow, drawling way in which Irish trains mostly do in out-of-the-way places, and lo and behold wherever Margot looked, she saw great bonfires and smiling faces and there, as large as life, were Phinias Maloney and the wife also of Phinias Maloney, and their two big "childer" and the infant who one moment howled, and the next screeched with delight.
"He really—he really came out of a cabbage leaf," said Margot. "He wasn't hatched as lots them are here. The old-youngs are hatched so often they are tired of the job. Oh, I must go and speak to that darling baby! Uncle Jacko, hold Till's hand, I'll be back in a minute."
Oh, but weren't the Maloneys glad—just beside themselves with joy—at the thought of the pushkeen coming back to them again!
"Ah, then,'tis yez that are welcome!" said Annie Maloney. "Childer, spake to her beautiful mightiness, drop your curtsies as I taught ye. There no, hould yezselves back. Ah, then, my push-keen lamb, it's me that is glad to see ye. It's the heart hunger I had when ye left, and long life to ye and to Mishter Mansfield, who has turned into a beautiful gent, for all that he war but a farmer's son. It was me that thought of the bonfires; do ye see them ablazing to the right of ye and the left of ye, little missie asthore?"
"I do, I do! It was lovely of you, Annie," said Margot, and she kissed the young woman, who whispered to her back somewhat shyly,
"Is that child to 'himself'?"
Margot burst into one of her ringing laughs.
"Child to my holy Uncle Jacko!" exclaimed Margot. "No, she's Reparation, that's what she is. Don't keep me now, Annie, I'll come to see you to-morrow or next day."
Then Phinias, who intended to offer a very nervous paw for the little girl to shake, but was rewarded by a hearty and most vigorous kiss, lifted Missie and Reparation into the funny cart. The luggage was lifted in also and they started off, bump, bump, uphill and down dale, all the way to Desmondstown.
Margot was almost too excited to speak. The clergyman walked beside Phinias and kept talking to him, and each moment the road became ruddy with more firelight and great shoots of flame rose up and filled the air, for was not the furze dry and firm and were there not great stacks of it, and did not gossoons keep putting fresh supplies on, all in honour of missie asthore, the darling of The Desmond?
Tilly, in her uncomfortable seat, felt very tired and half dropped asleep, but Margot suggested that she should sit on one of the bags and lean her head against Margot's own knee and, then, disgraceful as it may sound, Tilly did drop asleep.
But when they came to Desmondstown itself, there was such yelling and waving and dancing and laughter—laughter so loud and yet so clear—that even English Tilly could not sleep through it. And behold! All the old-youngs were waiting at the gate to welcome them, and the largest bonfires of all were alongside of the avenue, which Tilly described afterwards to her English friends as a wall of fire.
"It was done in honour of us," she wrote. "They know how to welcome people properly in Ireland."
But in addition to the bonfires, great arches had been flung up across the weedy narrow path, and on these were written the well-known Irish words, "Céad míle fáilte," which seemed to be to right and left of little Margot; she knew well now the meaning of the generous and noble words.
Tilly was wide awake with a vengeance, and the old-youngs, both boys and girls, ran down the avenue with whoops and cries and "Céad míle fáilte, pushkeen," sounding from their lips.
At last they reached the old porch and entered by the wide double oak doors, and there, behold, stood Madam, and Fergus with his grave, still face, and in the distance The Desmond was to be seen, holding a lighted torch in his hand. Very erect indeed was The Desmond, and his beard seemed longer and whiter than ever, and his eyes blacker and more piercing, and his great stalwart form was like that of a giant.
Margot flew like a little creature all on wires from Uncle Fergus to Madam.
"Madam, darling Madam," she said, "that's the girl, Till. Tell the young-olds to look after her, for my heart is bursting till I get to The Desmond." But when she did get to him the torch was extinguished, and the very tall and majestic old man and the beautiful little girl entered his special sanctum side by side.
They were alone, they were together once more.
Little did Margot think of anyone else in that moment of glad re-union.
"I said I would come back, and I've come!" she said. "Oh grand-dad, oh, grand-dad, how lovely you look! You are worth twenty of Monsieur le Comte, mon grandpère in France."
"Speak not of him, my child," said The Desmond. "I hate him with a deadly hate."
"Oh, no, no!" said little Margot. "He means well and he can't help being very old and feeble. You see, I had to bring Reparation with me."
"Whatever does the pushkeen mean now?" said The Desmond.
"That tall, ungainly English girl," said Margot. "I had to bring her, she is Reparation."
"That's as queer a name as ever I heard," said The Desmond.
"But, grand-dad," said Margot, "you'll have to be getting in a Reparation on your own account if you speak against mon grandpère of France."
"Ah, whist, let him abide," said the old man. "I care nothing so that I have ye, my push-keen alanna. Ah, but let me look at ye, let me feast my eyes on your little face! Ah, but ye are my pushkeen alanna! No doubt on that, and here comes Madam,—here comes 'herself.' Madam, we've got our child back, we've got our darling back once more!"
But sweet, dainty little Madam looked disturbed.
"There's a gurrl that I can't make head or tail of, she's crying out for you, Margot asthore. I have set my three young daughters in their bloom upon her, but she won't have naught to do with them. She keeps screaming and screeching. You had best speak to her for a minute or two, my little alanna."
"May I go, grand-dad?" asked Margot. "It's only Reparation. I'll soon put her right. Madam, stay with grand-dad and pet him awful. I know my way and I'll smooth down Reparation as quick as a lightning flash. Pet grand-dad a great lot, Madam, for, oh, he's such a darling!"
Little Margot whisked out of the room in her French frock and with a trifle of her French manner.
"Madam," said the old man, and he lifted up his voice and wept. "I've lost her entirely, bedad! She's turned Frenchy on me, and what are we to do with the gurrl she calls Reparation?"
"She's herself the same as ever she was," said Madam, "sweet and true and dear. Hold up your head, Fergus, man, and don't shame us with your tears."
Meanwhile Margot found her way to that part of the ramshackle old house where the young-old aunts and the young-old uncles, with the exception of Fergus, were doing their best with Tilly.
Tilly was in floods of tears.
"I want Margot, I want la Comtesse," she exclaimed, "and I don't see any old-youngs. I only see the aged round me, the very aged. And I hate the place without la Comtesse."
"La, to be sure, there's no countess, here," said Norah, "and if we young things ain't young enough for you, why ye'd best be going. Ye can sleep in your bit of a bed to-night."
"Yes, and in the morning I'll drive ye back to the station and put ye in the thrain, so that ye can get to the place only fit for the likes of you, and that's England," said Malachi.
"I'd be ashamed to kick up a fluster in an Irish nobleman's house," said Bruce, "but you English have no manners, none at all."
Just then, Margot appeared on the scene.
"Ah," said Tilly, making a rush at her.
"I can't, Tilly, I can't, Reparation. I told you so when I invited you here. I told you that I had to spend all my time with my grand-dad. I'm ashamed of you, Till, that I am. You'd be frightened to death to sit in the room with himself. He'd let out a yell at you if you sat in the room with him and cried; you wouldn't do it twice, that I can tell you. What more can you want than what's provided? Here's Aunt Norah, she's beautiful and young; and here's Aunt Bride, she's hatched about every second day; and here's dear Aunt Eileen, and they're all as young as you, Till. As a matter of fact, their spirits are much, much younger. And Uncle Bruce and Uncle Malachi are so funny; they'll make you laugh all to fits. If you want to go home to-morrow, you can. I'm not wanting you, but you are not to screech in this house."
"Hello, here comes supper," said Bruce, as a huge joint of cold beef was brought in, accompanied by a great dish of pickles and an enormous platter of the very best potatoes, all bursting out of their skins and showing balls of flour within.
"Come and eat, Till, that's what you want," said Margot. "I must go back to grand-dad, but I'll come to you by-and-bye in your room."
Now the sight of the excellent food was certainly reviving to Matilda Raynes and when Malachi offered to lead her to the festive board, doing so with a succession of hops and skips and jumps, she suddenly found herself bursting into fits of laughter.
"Are you one of the old-youngs?" she managed to whisper to him.
"I'm nothing, I'm only Malachi. I breed horses, that's what I do. Would you like me to mount ye on one to-morrow."
"I would," said Tilly, her eyes sparkling.
"Then I will if ye stop that hullabaloo."
"You'll hold me tight, for I've never rode in my life," said Tilly.
"Ah, blessings on the girleen, but ye can learn for shure!"
"Yes, I can learn."
"I expect you can. Norah, pour out a glass of milk for her. Biddy, acushla, I'm ready for some of that home-brewed beer. Now then, babies all, to supper!"
The supper was so good and the old-young people were so merry that Tilda forgot her fears. She longed inexpressibly for Margot and for the refined life of the French school at Arles; but nevertheless there were never any potatoes like these, and Malachi had such a twinkle in his eye, and whenever she glanced at Bruce he winked back at her in the most comforting way.
Then Norah's and Bridget's mirth was irresistible; in short Tilly began to enjoy herself, and when by-and-bye Margot crept into the room set apart for Reparation, in which the young girl was lying sound asleep, she felt comparatively happy about her.
Margot was on her way to her own room, the dressing-room of The Desmond, when she unexpectedly and to her intense joy met her beloved Uncle Jacko. She stopped him at once. He put his arm round her and kissed her.
"Uncle Jacko, you are a holy priest, aren't you?"
"I'm a clergyman of the Church of England, my dear little girl."
"Uncle Jacko, I had to bring Tilly here—I didn't want to, but she—she's Reparation."
"I don't understand you, my pet."
"Oh, Uncle Jacko, I hadn't any opportunity to tell you when we were coming here, and it was a long, a very long journey, and I was tired, and Tilly was tired, and you were tired, but now, oh, I must tell you in as few words as possible. Uncle Jacko, your own little Marguerite told a black, black lie!"
"You didn't," said Uncle Jacko, starting back as though something pressed against his heart.
"I did, it came about in this way. Madame la Comtesse told the Comte St. Juste that she had given up her enormous magasin. She said she had plenty of money without working any more and the Comte, mon grandpère, he believed her. But she didn't give it up at all in reality and she sent me there every day to sell hats and robes to the customers, and at last some wicked girls in the school that I went to—they had seen me in the shop—and they went and told grandpère, le pauvre grandpère—and he fell down in a sort of fit, and Madame was beside herself. But when he came to, I told him that the établissement belonged to Madame Marcelle, and he grew happy again and he forgave ma pauvre grand'mère. Oh, but it was terrible, for I had told a black, black lie! Then I thought I would repair it by bringing Tilly here and—I couldn't confess because I'm not a Catholic—so that seemed the—the only thing to do. Oh, Uncle Jacko, can you forgive me?"
"Have you asked God to forgive you, my little child? I am a sinful man, but He—He is perfect. It was a difficult time for you, my little Margot, but you must on no account disturb The Desmond. Say nothing to him about the shop. You have three months to spend with him, and when I come to fetch you back to Arles, we can talk further on this matter."
"Oh, Uncle Jacko, you are good—you are good, and you won't cease to love me?"
"I shall never do that, my sweet babe."
"And you will stay here for a couple of days, won't you?"
"I will stay here till Monday," said the clergyman, "and I will do my very utmost to make Tilly happy. Now that I understand why she has come I can manage her. Good-night, sleep well, my little one."
Margot did sleep well on her soft bed. The big, untidy room had been changed and altogether altered. Malachi had papered the walls white. Norah and Bridget had painted the doors a bright emerald green. There was a little bedstead with white muslin draperies put all ready for the child to sleep in, and there was a writing table in the window, and a chest of drawers which had been bought as a bargain by Phinias by the express orders of Malachi. Then there was a deep cupboard in the wall in which the dainty and innumerable little French frocks could be hung.
But when Margot awoke the next morning, flushed with sleep, safe and happy, little knowing that Madam and The Desmond had been gazing at her at the dawn of day, she discovered in a deep corner of that same cupboard an ugly little frock, which had been made for her before she came to Desmondstown.
It was a frock made in the ugliest imaginable style by a dressmaker chosen by Aunt Priscilla. Nevertheless it was the dress she had worn when first The Desmond had seen his little grandchild. Without a moment's hesitation she put it on.
Bruce and Malachi had brought her in a hot bath in one of the famous washing tubs; and clean and refreshed, she rushed downstairs to kiss grand-dad. He was in his accustomed place by the great turf fire, and he stared first at the little frock and then at the happy child. Suddenly a cloud seemed to lift from his brow. He opened his big arms wide and folded her into them and said,
"Ah, but the Almighty be praised! I have got you back again, my bit thing. I didn't half know you last night dressed up as a Frenchy."
"I'm an Irishy to-day grand-dad," said Margot with her merry laugh.
"So you are, my bit mavourneen, so you are, the Lord be praised for all his mercies!"
Now Margot had been given by Madame Marcelle on the last day of her appearance at her établissement five hundred francs, which meant the solid sum of twenty pounds. And as her grandmother, Madame, paid all her expenses to England, in fact, beyond England, to Desmondstown, she had this twenty pounds intact. Her first idea had been to buy pretty things to take to the old-youngs and to the dear old-olds in Paris, but an instinct kept her back from doing this and finally she made up her mind to consult Uncle Fergus on the subject.
Uncle Fergus was very reliable. He would tell her what the beloved family at Desmondstown wanted most.
Matilda Raynes had got over her nervous terrors of the night before, and enjoyed beyond words playing horses with the old-young aunts. She was therefore quite off Margot's mind and Margot determined while Uncle Jacko was talking to The Desmond, to seek an interview with Uncle Fergus.
She found him in the great front courtyard. He looked anxious and even when he saw Margot hardly smiled, but when she ran up to him and slipped her hand into his, he said, "Presently, pushkeen, presently."
He then went on giving his orders to the men, but he felt all the time the soft little warm hand in his as though it were something unsurpassably delightful.
"Well, pushkeen," he said at last.
Pushkeen unfolded her simple story. She had an enormous lot of money, twenty solid pounds, no less, that she wanted to devote to the dearest family in the world—the Desmonds. Would Uncle Fergus teach her how to spend it? There came a flash in the dark eyes of the future Desmond of Desmondstown.
"Tell me, little one," he said, "is it true that that Frenchwoman really keeps a shop? She told John Mansfield and he told me, so you needn't fear to confide in me."
"I won't, Uncle Fergus, I won't. Now I'm sure the shop is hers. As you know so much, you may as well know more. I went every day to sell goods in it, and that's why I have got my twenty pounds."
"And you work, while I am idle, little pushkeen," said Fergus Desmond.
"Oh, I don't mind—I—I like it," said little Margot.
"But it can't be any longer," said Fergus Desmond. "Put that twenty pounds into the ground at Desmondstown, pushkeen."
"Bury it?" said Margot with a look of horror.
"In a sort of way, bury it," said Fergus. "The old fruit trees are worn out, we'll buy new ones, you and I, and I'll turn into a real son of the soil, and the fruit trees will bring forth fruit and we'll sell them, you and I, pushkeen. It will be a joint concern between us. I'll do the work and I'll give you so much interest on the money. Now, not a word to The Desmond, not a word. We'll turn this rich piece of land into a beautiful thriving fruit garden, and I'll buy the young trees at once and you'll watch me while I'm making the desert blossom as a rose."
"Oh, Uncle Fergus, you are splendid!" said the child.
"Don't you fear but you'll get your money back and more," said Uncle Fergus. "I'm off to-day to get the young trees. I know where I can get them cheap."