"I am going to be your little pupil, grandpère," said Margot, raising her beautiful eyes to the old man's face.
"Eh, what," he exclaimed, "eh, what? I thought you were at the school of Madame la Princesse."
"I don't like that school, mon cher grandpère. I don't like the girls there. I want you to teach me, yes, you! You can, you know, you know an awful lot."
"I don't know anything, little fledgling," answered grandpère. "What I did learn, I have forgotten. I am an old man on the brink of eternity. It is not given to me to teach even one so douce as thou, mon ange."
"But can we not read poetry together?" said Margot. "I know you are terribly old, grandpère; you are much—much older than The Desmond. Oh, but The Desmond he is magnifique—so big—so tall—so broad, his beard long and white as the snow! And his hair white as the snow! But his eyes are somewhat like yours, grandpère, only they don't go in so deep in his head. Yes, thou art old, mon grandpère, but still thou canst teach thy little Margot. One hour a day; say it is done!"
"But what shall I teach, my pretty?"
"How to talk the beautiful French tongue like thyself. Surely that will not be difficile. It will be to thee nothing, thou learned man; très bien—ah, but I cannot say all the words I want! But thou canst do it, mon grandpère!"
"Only for one hour a day, my Margot. But listen! understand! believe! We must not stay any longer than one hour over the French, si belle, for it would fatigue the old man."
"After that I will teach thee the Irish language," said Margot, her eyes sparkling. "I will teach thee, and thou wilt laugh—oh, how thou wilt laugh!"
"Thou art a très bonne petite enfant," said the old man. "I like to have thee near me, close to my side. For one hour each day, from two to three, we will talk that language the most elegant in the wide world, and after that I will lie back on my pillows of down and thou shalt tell me things to make me laugh, and laugh again, ma petite."
It was in this way that Margot's new life began. It was a very busy one and on the whole happy. She was glad to leave the school of la Princesse, and she greatly liked selling chapeaux and robes for her belle grand'mère la Comtesse. She was particularly happy when members of the school of la Princesse de Fleury entered the établissement, looked longingly at the pretty, clever child, and she had the opportunity of giving them as she expressed it "the back." She had great pride, had this little Comtesse, and when she swept past Lady Dorothy Duncan and even the other English girls who had tried to befriend her, she enjoyed herself immensely. She had become in fact a sort of power in the établissement and never did the francs come in so quickly and the robes and the chapeaux and the fans and the gants fly so fast.
She had a knack of picking out elderly, rich-looking people and dressing them according to her own taste. Meanwhile she passed utterly by the inmates of the great school and the other aristocrats, of whom she took no notice whatsoever. The people whom little Margot attended to were bourgeoise but they were rich, and Margot was clever enough to charge them according to their means. In short, things were going so well, that Madame la belle grand'mère felt it only her duty to give the child the very best music lessons which Arles could produce.
The afternoons were sacred to mon grandpère, and in short the little incident in connection with the school was well-nigh forgotten. Oh, what a very happy girl was Margot St. Juste! But she little knew that a cloud was arising in the blue of her sky and that she was not to escape scot free.
Hébé Duncan was really engaged to a young nobleman of great distinction. The marriage was to take place within a very short time. She had an aunt who lived some distance from Arles who would supply her with that dot which the Marquis could not possibly raise, and this aunt came constantly to Arles to see about her niece's robes and chapeaux for le mariage. The fame, the taste of the small dark-eyed Comtesse had reached the ears of Madame Derode and she was determined that the little Comtesse and no one else should assist in the choosing of the marriage garments for young Lady Hébé Duncan. But it is one thing for man to propose and another thing for God to dispose. The little Comtesse was exceedingly busy that morning turning a fat, ill-made Frenchwoman of the farmer class into an elegant lady.
She was choosing the right robes, the right chapeaux, she was—with a skill all her own—softening the tints of Madame Vollot. Madame Vollot hardly knew herself in her chapeaux and her robes. She stood in the centre of the largest salon, the admired of all beholders. A group of young girls surrounded her while la petite Comtesse gave her orders in a firm and resolute voice.
"You must wear this green, so dark," she said. "Tiens, and here are the very chapeaux for you! Hesitate not, Madame Vollot! You will look—oh, of the most charming!"
A little way to the right stood Madame Derode, the Lady Hébé Duncan, and Dorothy, her sister. La petite Comtesse kept her back to the group. She was absorbed with Madame Vollot. Just then Madame Marcelle came up and whispered some words to the little Comtesse.
The little Comtesse shook her pretty head.
"Non, non," she said, "it cannot be. I have all my time occupied to the moment. They have offended me and I will not serve them now. See, behold, when I have done with this chère Madame, there are others who are waiting for me. I cannot give any advice at all to the Ladies Hébé and Dorothy. You must attend them yourself, Madame Marcelle."
Madame Marcelle did her best, but the deed was done. Dorothy and Hébé, accompanied by their aunt, left the établissement with their heads in the air and a very significant expression on their faces.
"Behold, I had my way," said little Margot with a smile, and she went on giving all her skill and knowledge to the wives of the different farmers, who were so rich and could pay so well. But when they got into the street, Hébé said a word to her aunt, Madame Derode.
"I have suffered an insult," said Hébé, "and I wish to repay it."
"An insult, my dear child!" said Madame. "What do you mean? Who would dare to insult a bride-elect? Ah, me, I know life and I know men, also. For thee is perfect happiness, my little Hébé."
"Nevertheless I have suffered an insult," said Hébé Duncan. "Did you not observe that ugly little girl, who gave herself such airs and who only attended to the farmer folk?"
"You cannot allude to la petite Comtesse?" said Madame Derode. "Why she is a most beautiful, very young girl!"
"Nevertheless she has insulted me," said Hébé. "We have plenty of time. We will not take over long on this business. Aunt Matilda, I want to drive to the Château St. Juste."
"Ah, but certainly," said Madame Derode. "Do you know the Comte, Hébé? He is a very proud old man; he makes but few acquaintances."
"I shall get to know him," said Hébé.
"And I," exclaimed Dorothy.
"Well, have it your own way, my sweet pets. But I hear that he is of the most delicate. We will not detain him long."
"Not long," said Hébé, blushing and laughing.
They arrived in a very few minutes at the château, which was in exquisite order. Everything new and fresh and, according to Madame Derode, perfectly lovely, for she was the sort of woman who liked whiteness and spotlessness and everything in perfect present-day taste. Her own château was neat, but not to compare with this. She gave a quick sigh under her breath, but her nieces were too much occupied with their own affairs to observe it.
Now it so happened that always in the morning le Comte St. Juste took what he called his airing. He went out leaning on the arm of his garçon, a young man dressed in the ancient livery of the St. Justes. He leant heavily on the garçon's arm and went invariably in one direction, and that was first to examine the thriving rows of beehives and second the peaches, which were ripening to a lovely golden red on the high brick wall. The Comte St. Juste used to count the peaches and rejoice in their fragrance. He was a happy old man—very happy since he had married his Ninon. It mattered little to him if she had once kept a shop. She kept one no longer. He could not have married her if that was the case. They lived oh, so happily on the rich dot which she had brought with her. She was one in ten thousand, his pretty Ninon, so young, so gay, and of the taste the most perfect.
It therefore so happened that when the three ladies drove up in their automobile to the Château St. Juste, they only found Madame la Comtesse standing on the front steps and giving directions to one of her numerous gardeners.
Madame Derode got out of her car and, introduced herself and her nieces.
"Ah, but I am in ecstasies to know you, Madame," said the Comtesse, "but if you do indeed seek my Alphonse, you cannot see him now. He is at this present moment resting on his couch of down and must not be disturbed."
"I know him by appearance," said Lady Dorothy, "and he is not on his couch of down. He is in the garden yonder; behold, he is talking to a garçon! I go to tell him, to tell him the truth. I will not stand the sins of your little granddaughter, Madame la Comtesse. She serves in your magasin, and her rudeness is unthinkable. I go to report to M. le Comte the wicked ways of that ugly child."
"But—but—I entreat you to stop!" cried the anguished voice of the little Comtesse. "He knows nothing—nothing at all—oh, it will kill him, and he with the pride of all the St. Justes in his veins. He knows not of the établissement. Le petit bébé and I, we keep it from him as a secret the most profound. Do not be so cruel as to injure him, chère Mademoiselle! You go to the school of my friend, Madame le Fleury. I recognize your bijou charming face."
"I will have my revenge," said Dorothy. "I mind not at all the age of that stupid old man. I see him and I will go."
"Dorothy, don't—Dorothy, I command thee not to go," said Madame Derode, but Dorothy cared very little indeed for any such command. She had light and agile feet and before the unhappy little Comtesse could prevent her, had rushed into the garden where the peaches and the bees were, dropped a low curtsey to M. le Comte and then said in a hurried tone,
"M'sieur speaks the tongue of England. I am an English girl. My name is Dorothy Duncan. I am at the school of la Princesse de Fleury. La petite Comtesse no longer goes to that school."
The old Comte managed to hold himself very erect. He fixed his eyes on the pale blue eyes of the English girl.
"Will you have a peach?" he said.
"No, I want not your peaches, M. le Comte. But, listen, behold, I want to tell the very truth. La petite was practically expelled from our school. We would have nothing to do with her. Think, M. le Comte, would it be likely? She attends in a shop."
"In a—in a——" began the old Comte.
"In the shop of the present Comtesse. It is now known as the établissement of Madame Marcelle and la petite Comtesse goes there every day of her life to sell ugly, common things to the wives of farmers. The shop belongs to La Comtesse and she dreads that you should know. Ah, but what a buzzing," continued Dorothy at the end of her sentence. There were innumerable voices; there was the angry tone of Hébé confirming her sister's words; there was Madame Derode in tears, for she could not hear to afflict the aged; and there was the Comtesse, white as a sheet, bending over "mon adorable Alphonse," who had sunk slowly but surely to the ground in a state of complete unconsciousness.
Dorothy stood at his back, a little frightened at her own words, and then she uttered a scream and a shriek, for the celebrated bees of M. le Comte St. Juste were surrounding her. They were getting into her hair, they were stinging her neck, her arms, even her lips and her eyes. She could not get away from them. The old man heard nothing—nothing at all, and Dorothy rushed out of the garden extremely sorry for her mean little revenge.
She was immediately followed by Lady Hébé and Madame Derode. No one had been stung but Dorothy and she could do nothing but cry out at her pain. Madame Derode called her a child of the most méchantes—of revenge the most puerile. She said the bees had but done their duty and when she dropped Dorothy at her school, she said that someone who could remove the stings had better be sent for, but that hélas, for the rest, she pitied not at all la pauvre chatte!
After some difficulty, the unconscious Comte was brought into the house. He was feeling particularly weak and the abrupt sayings of Dorothy caused his heart to stop and then to bound again and then there came a dizziness and a darkness over him and he knew no more.
But when he came to himself on his couch of down and the doctor was bending over him and Ninon was weeping tears on his face, he dimly recalled what had passed. The doctor administered a restorative and then went to another room with Madame la Comtesse.
"Someone has given le bon mari a profound shock," he remarked.
"It is true; it is quite true," said the Comtesse. "Oh, Dr. Jacqueline, I must confide in you. Listen and you will know all. Before I met my beloved husband, I was the well-known Ninon Lecoles and there was not an établissement like mine in the whole of Arles, but behold! I met the old man, so gracious, so lonely, so neglected, and I exercised upon him a little piece of what the English would call the deceit. I told him of my wealth and he offered me his hand but only on condition that I would give up the établissement which brought me in the francs in such multitudes. Monsieur, I pretended to agree, but oh, la! la! how could I give up my beautiful établissement; how could I keep this château as it is now and give mon Alphonse his comforts? So I changed the name of the établissement and called it no longer that of Ninon Lecoles, but the establishment unique of Madame Marcelle. But it was mine—mine all the time, kind M. le docteur. How could I keep this place going without it? And then when la petite Comtesse came, she proved to have the gift extraordinaire, and she worked in my établissement and does work there every day and she brings in the francs as they never came before. But we decided to keep the knowledge from the old man because he is weak and feeble. Ah, M. le docteur, what am I to do? If I give up my établissement, the death of mon Alphonse will assuredly lie at my door and yet, if I keep it—Oh, doctor, counsel a wretched woman!"
"You must keep the établissement, sans doute. Votre mari has had a shock but he will not die. That girl was mean who told him, but I have just been removing the stings of bees from her and she will be much swollen and distressed for some days. There is no doubt whatever that she has got her punishment. Ah, and here comes la petite Comtesse!"
The little Comtesse stared in some astonishment at the doctor's motor-car, at la belle grand'mère's tearful face and at the confusion which seemed to surround the hitherto peaceful place.
"Oh, grand'mère," she exclaimed. "I have sold three thousand francs worth of goods for thee this morning. Oui, très vrai, with my own skill I did it! I would not look at Lady Hébé nor at Lady Dorothy, the ugly stuck-up things that they are. But I attended to the wives of the farmers and they paid cash down, grand'mère, and they are going to Paris all three of them in their new chapeaux and robes and fans. Ah, but I made the stout one look slim and the slim one a little grosse, n'est ce pas? And the whole of them elegant. And Dorothy and Hébé were fluttering round waiting for my judgment, but grand'mère, I gave it not. I would not speak to them; they offended me. I gave them my back, grand'mère."
"But thou hast injured thy grandpère," said the poor little Comtesse. "That Dorothy is wicked, and has had her revenge. She found mon Alphonse in the garden with the peaches and the bees, and she told him all about thee, ma petite. He fell in a swoon, his horror was great, but the chères abeilles have stung her well."
"And thou art weeping when I have made three thousand francs for thee," said little Margot. "I will go straight to grandpère and set him right."
"Let the little one have her way, she has the genius," said the doctor.
"You keep away, grand'mère; let me go alone to mon grandpère," said Margot. And she ran in the direction of the salon with the couch of down.
Margot had a very gentle way of speaking, few things put her seriously out, and she was more pleased than otherwise at grandpère learning the truth. He was lying very still on his sofa; his face was white and a tear or two trickled down his withered cheeks.
"Thou art not like The Desmond, grandpère," said little Margot. "The Desmond would not mind anything so trifling as a shop."
"Ah, ma petite, ma petite," exclaimed the old Comte, and now he burst into floods of tears.
Margot knelt by him and wiped his tears away very gently.
"That flow of tears will give thee relief," she said. "Thou wilt be better, ah, better! Let me arrange pour vous, grandpère. I like putting the mighty from their seats. Oh, grandpère, I have such a beautiful story to tell thee!"
The old man ceased crying, and looked at the little Comtesse with wondering eyes.
"Perhaps it is a lie," he said.
"Of course," said Margot, "there is a shop—but it is not thy shop. It belongs to Madame Marcelle."
"And not to my Ninon—oh, thank the God Almighty!"
"I help Madame Marcelle a little while I am learning of the French tongue, si belle—that is all. Thou wilt not forbid it. Thy Ninon, ma belle grand'mère, is crying her eyes out at the thought of hurting thee, but it was done by those wicked girls. Behold I was in the établissement, and I have got—ah, the taste magnifique! and the farmers' wives—some very red, some very thin, came in to be suited with robes. Ah, but they were of the most superb that I did show them, and I suited the taste of each. I made the fat, red one to look thin and pale and elegant, ah oui, and the thin one I gave her a good figure and I chose chapeaux the most suitable. And I put into the pocket of Madame Marcelle three thousand francs this morning. For they are rich, these wives of farmers, and they pay as they go. But Dorothy, la petite chatte, and Hébé, they came in and they wanted me to leave my farmers' wives and attend to them. They meant, doubtless, grandpère, to run up a long bill and keep it going—going—going, so I said I would have nothing to do with them because I love them not and I do love the wives of the farmers. Then they were angry and they came here to see thee, mon grandpère, and behold, Dorothy, she was stung by thy bees. It served her right, didn't it, grandpère?"
"Was she stung?" said grandpère. "I offered her a peach, which she deserved not. I did not know that she was stung. Mon enfant, thou art faithful and so are mes chères abeilles."
"And thou wilt see thy Ninon who weeps outside?" said Margot.
"Of a verity I will see my Ninon. What care I how many établissements Madame Marcelle keeps?"
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.
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."
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."