Chapter 17 A Girl of High Adventure by L. T. Meade
IF IT MUST BE IT MUST
When one is young and when one is happy time goes fast; nay, more, time goes like lightning. There is the beautiful joy of existence, there is the exquisite feeling of love. There is the happiness in which each hour is occupied, fully, entirely, completely, for the use of others. Such was the case with little Margot St. Juste. She played with the sunshiny passing hours, she sat on The Desmond's knee and brought back such superb and astounding accounts of her rides on Starlight that something stirred in the old man's breast and he felt that he himself must, forsooth, go a-riding with this fascinating little colleen.
Accordingly the King of the Desmonds was brought out and Malachi rode at one side of little Margot and The Desmond himself at the other. The old horse knew quite well who was on his back and in some remarkable measure got back some of his lost youth, and noble were the exercises which the three riders took over hills and dales, across country, over different stiles and various impediments, and each day The Desmond felt younger and laughed and talked more cheerily.
The pushkeen had not only brought him back joy, but she had brought him back his lost youth. Ah, but those were happy days and neither child nor old man thought of the inevitable return to Arles which was coming nearer, like a black cloud, day by day.
When Raynes returned to his large and vulgar house on Clapham Common, he spoke to his daughter in a way which she was never likely to forget. He was, in short, furiously angry. He told her she was a bad, bad girl and that the High School at Clapham was far too good for her. Tilly had always known that the said High School was good, in fact, a great deal too good, but she wanted, if possible, to punish Margot. Although it was now finally settled that she was not to return to the school of la Princesse de Fleury, she could, nevertheless, work mischief, as far as Margot was concerned. She knew the exact date on which the little shopkeeper would return to Arles, when she would be petted by her doting and ignorant grandfather and when morning after morning she would enter the great établissement and sell chapeaux and robes innumerable to the élite of Arles, the élite of England, the élite of America. Oh, yes, she had a friend who would help her. She would write to this friend. The friend's name was Louise Grognan.
Louise Grognan was a considerable character on her own account, was liked at the school of la Princesse, and was always very friendly with Tilly. Tilly wrote to her now as follows:
"Oh, Louise," she began, "I am not coming back any more to your beautiful school. I regret this for many reasons, but my French by the ignorant people here is considered perfect and I am in consequence to be taught the tongue of England in all its branches. Think not that I will forget you, Louise, and sometime, perhaps, your good père will allow you to come to visit me in my father's grand house. It is rich and very grand and nobly furnished. Your père Grognan can make the filet de sole, the sauce Hollandaise, the entrée bouche à la reine, but my father—ah, wait until you behold him, sweet Louise! Now then, to business. You know that little Comtesse who sells chapeaux of all sorts and descriptions and robes of all sorts and makes, at the établissement of Madame Marcelle. We call her here the little shopkeeper and she likes it not. I went to stay with her at Desmondstown, a ramshackle old place, where they played a very cruel trick on me, and when I told them that la petite Comtesse was only a little shopkeeper, they would not believe me. Now, I want you to help me, and if you do, and do the thing well, I will invite you to my gorgeous home in Angleterre next summer or perhaps even at Easter. We live close to the greatest city in the world, Londres, so big, so mighty, so powerful. It is not as graceful as Paris, but it will ravish your eyes and I will take you there day by day and you will have a glorious time. But what I want you to do now is this. The grandpère of the little Comtesse, M. le Comte St. Juste, does not know at all that his granddaughter helps at a shop. He is a very old and feeble man and he ought to be enlightened. Now, I put this into your hands, my best beloved Louise, to tell him the truth. You must call at the Château St. Juste and ask to see him. Go, I beseech of you, when the weather is cold and the bees do not hum so much and do not trouble themselves to sting. If you convey the news, thoroughly and perfectly, to the ears of the old, old man, I have in my possession forty francs, no less, which I will send you, and afterwards you shall come to see me for long weeks at Clapham Common, which is thought the most aristocratic part of all London. Now listen to me, Louise, and as you listen, Louise Grognan, obey! I will promise to you a glorious time and although the food is English, not French, it is of the best and the daintiest."
This letter was addressed to Mlle. Louise Grognan at her father's large restaurant and Tilda received an answer in due course. Louise could be sure of nothing, but she would do her best. As it happened, she owed forty francs to Madame Marcelle and she knew that her father, whose restaurant was so famous, would be furious if he knew that she had gone into debt. She did not really care for Matilda Raynes, nor was she very keen to go to Clapham Common, nor to see the cold wonders of London. She preferred la belle France—with its lovely Arles and its gay Paris. She did not care for pictures nor monuments nor ancient cathedrals. She liked dress better than anything else in the world. If she paid off her forty francs she might run up a further little bill at the établissement of Madame Marcelle.
Then it occurred to her as she replied to her friend, or rather her so-called friend, that she might raise the price for this rather nasty little job. Accordingly, she said that she would do what Matilda Raynes desired for sixty francs but not a penny under. Tilly, wild with delight, felt certain that she could secure this really small sum of money, and while Margot rode with all the happiness of her joyous little heart on Starlight and The Desmond rode by her side on the King of the Desmonds and Malachi rode a horse which he called The Pet Lamb on the other side, these miserable things were being arranged for the future unhappiness of the little Comtesse.
The day and the hour arrived. There came an afternoon when, true to his word, Uncle Jacko, beloved Uncle Jacko, appeared on the scene. Margot clasped her arms round his neck, kissed him several times and said, "Has it indeed come?"
Uncle Jacko replied with that saint-like look on his beautiful face, "It is the will of the Almighty."
Fergus suddenly appeared and said to Margot, "Keep silence for a time, my child; go and nestle into the arms of your grandfather."
Little Margot went very softly and sadly away. Uncle Jacko and Uncle Fergus went out into the yard. They found a lonely spot and began to talk very earnestly together.
"Yes, I've known all about it from the first," said Fergus Desmond. "It was not our pushkeen's fault. The Comte St. Juste married beneath him and behold the result, but it must come to an end. When you start to-morrow morning for Arles with little Margot, I will go with you, Jack Mansfield, for I have a word to say to Madame la Comtesse. It is she who is doing the mischief. She is using our little one, our dear little one, for her own worldly purposes."
"I have known it also all along," said Uncle Jacko, "but if we can keep the fact from the two old grandfathers, surely no harm can be done."
"I don't wish it," said Fergus. "I, too, have my pride. Some day, I hope a far distant day, she will be the niece of The Desmond. Understand, I choose not to have a shopkeeper as a niece."
"Ah, but that matters so very, very little," said Uncle Jacko.
Fergus gave him a queer smile of non-comprehension.
"I have made up my mind and I go with you," he said after a long pause, and thus it was arranged.
Early the next morning the pushkeen appeared in her grandfather's room, where he was seated in his high grandfather's chair by a huge fire of turf.
"See, see, grand-dad!" said Margot. "See, behold, listen!" She looked wildly excited and wildly pleased. She was keeping back the sorrow that was breaking her very heart.
"See, my own, own, own grandfather," she said, seizing his fingers. "First, finger one; next, finger two; third, finger three—I go away for three of these fingers. I come back at the end of that time to my own darlingest grand-dad. I go at once, at once! Oh, grand-dad, kiss me, love me, love me! Oh, grand-dad, I love you too much to cry. Kiss me, my best of all grand-dads, kiss me at once."
The poor astonished Desmond took the child of his heart into his strong arms. He pressed her close to his heart, he solemnly counted out the months.
"You will come back," he said.
"I will come back, my own, own grand-dad."
"Three months," he said. "You came to me on the 6th of September, you will return on the 6th of March. Ah, but surely it is less than nothing. I do not grieve, The Desmond never grieves. It would be contrary to his high dignity."
Then he kissed Margot, although his lips trembled and she ran out into the great hall, so bare, so empty, so desolate, where all the family, including Malachi and Madam, were assembled.
"Don't make a fuss," said the pushkeen. "If you do, perhaps a tear might force itself out and I'm like The Desmond, I don't cry. Now then, Malachi, go straight in and talk to grand-dad. Make him laugh about the horses and keep Starlight quite safe for me and—and darling grandmother, Madam, do your lovely crochet in the corner where you always sit and talk about pushkeen and say that I'm so happy and say that I'm coming back again in a twink. Now don't kiss me and sob over me, anyone, for I belong to The Desmond and he never cries."
All the party assembled in the hall were a little astonished at the pushkeen's manner, but they let her go without a word, and Malachi went into the special room provided for The Desmond.
The old man was cowering over the great turf fire and shivering not a little. His face was very white. He seemed to show his years. Madam did not dare to speak to him, but crept to her accustomed corner. Malachi came close and spoke in a determined voice.
"Sir, I've been thinking it out."
"I'm in no mood for your thinking," said The Desmond.
"But, listen, father, it is very important," said Malachi. "It's about her little self, the pushkeen that's gone."
"Don't talk of her or I'll let out on ye," said The Desmond. "I keep my shillelagh within reach. I'm old, but I can let the shillelagh fly."
"Ye wouldn't let it fly on your son," replied the young man. "I'm thinking that you and me will be very busy the next three months getting ready for her little self."
"Getting ready, how and what do ye mean?"
"I thought we might begin to rear a stud of horses for her and sell 'em and put away the money so as to have a bit of a pile ready for her worthy of her name, and of your name, and when the pile is big enough, she can take your name Desmond, not the whole of it of course because that goes to Fergus, but she can be the little pushkeen Desmond. Only we must set to work at once, you and me, father, a secret all to ourselves."
The old man raised his very bright blue eyes.
"Malachi," he said. "I never heard ye speak a word of sense before, but there's sense in what ye are talking about now. We must prepare for the little one's future, and ye are wonderful with the young beasts, Malachi. We'll go out to the stables at once and talk it over."
"Yes, father, to be sure," said Malachi.
Meanwhile the other old grandfather, mon grandpère, was waiting in raptures for the return of la petite Comtesse. He spoke about her every moment to la Comtesse, la belle grand'mère. He was feeling very feeble and weak but the thought of his Henri's child returning to him brought him peace and strength. Meanwhile, during the journey, Fergus acquainted Uncle Jacko with what he meant to do. The shop must be put a stop to. They could provide for the little one themselves. She must not earn money in the shop. Little Margot pretended not to listen, but in reality she listened very hard.
As they approached the town of Arles, they found that they were in an empty compartment. All the other passengers had got out at different stations. Then little Margot turned and spoke. She went straight up to Uncle Fergus and put her hand on his knee.
"That time when you thought I was asleep, I was not asleep. I had my eyes shut, but my ears were open and I heard."
"Well, what did you hear, pushkeen?" said Fergus, speaking as calmly as he could.
"I heard you say to Uncle Jacko that I was not to help ma belle grand'mère any more in the établissement. But how do you think she will get on without me? Has she not to take care of mon bon grandpère and is she not providing a dot for me? And mon grandpère does not know anything, and he will not know. Listen! I mean to help ma belle grand'mère. She shall not work for nothing at all—no, she shall not. Uncle Fergus, The Desmond must never, never know and mon bon grandpère of Arles must never know. But why should I not help a little?"
"You are a foolish colleen," replied Fergus, patting the little hand which rested on his knee.
That was all Margot could get him to say and she went back to her seat at the other side of the carriage feeling terribly disconsolate. Why should she not help people? She liked helping people. It was wrong to oppose her when she was doing right. She felt certain, sure, that it was wrong. Then she gave a quick side glance at Fergus's face and noticed the expression on it—the determination, the quiet resolution to have his own way in spite of la petite Comtesse, or the little pushkeen as she was called in Ireland.
At last they arrived. The motor-car met them. They drove to the Château St. Juste. Ah, but was not M. le Comte glad to see his little Margot! His black eyes shone, his cheeks grew pink with emotion. Time seemed not to have stirred since he saw her last. He was lying in his beautiful cool salon with his pillows of down and his thick soft, crimson rug of plush.
The good clergyman sat down and began to talk to him. He took Margot on his knee and pressed her close to him. During these precious few minutes he felt that he could indulge in the love and the joy of his heart. But Fergus was determined to have his way.
Fergus asked Madame to walk with him in the garden, which was sunny and bright, but which only held some apples, some pears, and such like fruits on the old trees. The peaches had vanished, the bees had gone into their winter quarters. It was never cold at Arles, but the people there thought it cold. Anyhow the bees felt that they might rest from their labours.
Madame la Comtesse thought Fergus Desmond very handsome. She adored mon Alphonse, but she enjoyed talking to any handsome man.
"Thou hast brought la petite back with you, Monsieur," she said.
"I have," he replied. "It is her French grandfather's turn to have her for three months. These partings are sore blows. Madame, I would speak with you."
"Ah, but I did think so," replied Madame. "Is not life assuredly of the most miserable unless we speak out our innermost thoughts? Thou hast a weight on thy mind, Monsieur le Desmond."
"I have; it is a bad subject, it must be got through. I have learnt from the lips of John Mansfield, Madame, and also from the lips of a very nasty girl who goes to the school of a certain princess, that our little Margot assists you in a shop. It is kept by a certain Madame Marcelle. But it is in reality your shop. Her grandfather does not know, neither her French grandfather nor her Irish grandfather. Such news would kill either of them. Madame, it must cease. The child goes to her grandfather, she does not go to you. You must assure me now and here on your word as an honourable woman that you will never allow the little Margot to enter the shop of Madame Marcelle, which is in reality your shop, any more."
"But listen! Understand, monsieur. May not la petite enter the apartment where the chapeaux are sold, may not la pauvre chérie buy a chapeau for herself? Ah, but non, non, you can not say against it, monsieur. La chère petite must be dressed according to the wishes of her grandfather and me, and, behold! I am making her dot and it will be solid—oh a pile, a pile; francs by the thousand, by the tens of thousands, by the hundreds of thousands! Your little niece will be très riche, monsieur, but she must be dressed, ah, oui, in the proper way, monsieur. She wears not now the correct garments for la petite Comtesse St. Juste, but I was ready for that, and I have a fresh set of little garments all waiting for her in her chambre de nuit. You will agree with me, monsieur, n'est-ce pas?"
"I do not mind what clothes you buy for the child," said Fergus, "if you promise that she does not sell things herself in the shop."
"Ah, but you are cruel, and she likes it. One little hour per day, monsieur. She has the manners, ah, of the grande noblesse, and behold, the people flock to her and she is making her own little dot, by her own clever speeches, and her own wonderful taste. Permit it, monsieur, I entreat!"
"I refuse to permit it," said Fergus. "It must not be. I would rather she had no dot and was a lady."
Tears filled the eyes of little Madame.
"Ah, but indeed, she is a lady the most perfect," was her remark. "Think, monsieur, consider what I have suffered. I married mon Alphonse because of the love, oh, so mighty, and because I did so pity him. He was so beautiful, so desolate, so poor. He was nearly on the brink of starving, monsieur. Then I come along and I make the wicked lie. He thinks that I have given up the établissement, I make out to him that it is so, but I could not give it up, monsieur, and give him the comforts that he needs, the frail, frail old man. Then there came as a ray of sunshine to his heart la petite Comtesse, the only child of his only son, and behold he revived! And I took la petite Comtesse into my établissement and behold! She had the taste superb. The chapeaux they went like the wind, the fans like the whirlwinds, the robes they vanished as you looked, and all because of la petite Margot and her immaculate taste. She is well taught, monsieur, also. She has masters for French and dancing and the piano and singing. Only a little of the singing, she is too young at present. She spends but two hours a day in the établissement, and behold it flourishes as it never did before, and neither of the grandpères know. Where is the harm, Monsieur Desmond? Why conceal a talent so great? Madame Marcelle cannot attempt to dispose of my goods as la petite Comtesse does. You see the thing is honourable, n'est-ce pas, Monsieur Desmond?"
"I do not. I forbid it," said Fergus. "We care not for fine clothes in Ireland and a little money goes a long way. What we want is to keep up our great, great nobility. You understand, Madame, have I your word that it shall cease?"
"Ah, oui, oui, if it must be, it must," said Madame. She spoke in a gay, light sort of voice and picked a luscious pear, which she presented to Monsieur Desmond as a token of her unfailing esteem.