Little Margot soon settled down into the life she loved best. Her object was to please her dear granddad. She was fond of her uncles and her old-young aunts and of dear, stately little Madam, but there was no one in all the world like The Desmond himself.
In her sweet presence he became a sort of child again. He went out, holding her little brown hand, and although it was still too early in the year to gather many flowers, such as grew in profusion in the south of France, they did find wonderful mosses, and the first, sweet, daring crocuses, and snowdrops and even primroses.
They did find wonderful mosses and snow drops and even
primroses.—Page 349.
Margot used to pick them and bring them into granddad's room and arrange them with her exquisite taste for his comfort and pleasure. Hitherto he had called flowers more or less rubbish, but now this human flower had taught him to love all the flowers and green things of the fields. The mosses, fructifying in their full perfection, delighted the old man as much as the child. He polished up an ancient microscope, and they examined these treasures of nature together side by side. They did not want to talk about anything else while the beautiful mosses were in their bloom. The Desmond even went to the expense of getting high glass globes to cover the mosses, which caused them to grow up tall and strong, and the two—the old and the young child—felt the perfection of joy as they watched them.
"Oh, granddad, you are so funny," said little Margot.
Granddad replied by "Hip, hip, hurrah! Erin go bragh;[1] the pushkeen forever."
Her old-young aunts were much entertained by Margot's devotion to the old man. They themselves considered it childish. They began to consider The Desmond in his dotage, whereas, in reality, he had never been so alive and so amusing. A little child was leading him, and surely there could be no safer guide to the Kingdom of Heaven.
But happy days, even the happiest, come to an end. The season of the fructification of the moss was over, and Margot now was fully engaged in filling granddad's room with cowslips and bluebells, and with beautiful, large primroses in quantities.
One morning she felt unusually wakeful and unusually happy. She had received quite a cheerful letter from la belle grand'mère the night before. The établissement was flourishing, and Madame could never forget her little Margot. The child was tired of staying in bed. The time was now the middle of March, but in this soft air of the county of Kerry harsh winds were little known, and as to rain, what did a drop of rain matter?—nobody thought of rain in the county of Kerry. "A fine, soft morning," they said one to the other.
"A beautiful, soft morning entirely," they exclaimed, when the rain poured in sheets and torrents.
Margot watched it from her window and felt a sudden frantic desire to go out into this glorious softness. It would not do for granddad, dear grand-dad, but he should have his primroses and cowslips all the same.
She put on a little old shabby frock and, stepping softly, let herself out into the streaming, pouring rain. She had a tiny mackintosh, which she slipped over her shabby frock. She wanted the rain and the beautiful softness to wet her delicate, jet-black hair, and cause it to curl up tighter than ever. She wore old goloshes a little too big for her, on her feet.
She knew a certain spot, beyond the grounds of the old estate, where primroses and cowslips were growing. She had seen them the day before with her clear black eyes, but the place was too far off for granddad to walk to. She made for it now, however, her little basket on her arm. After a time, she found herself under the dripping trees.
How glorious was the wet softness of Ireland! Was there ever such a place as Erin? Surely, surely, never, never! And then she stooped down and began carefully to pick her primroses and cowslips, laying them dripping wet as they were, with delicate care into her little basket.
In the midst of her task she was arrested by the sound of voices. Who in the world could be out and near this spot of all spots, early in the morning? She gave a little sigh and stood upright, leaning against a fir tree. Then she saw a sight which caused her small heart to beat.
Her young-old Aunt Norah was walking by, leaning confidentially on the arm of Mr. Flannigan. They were evidently too much absorbed with each other to take the least notice of the child. Margot earnestly hoped they would not stop—she had no desire to act as an eavesdropper, and yet she could not get away without being seen.
"I'm a bit tired, me honey," said old-young Aunt Norah. "Let me lean on your shoulder, avick. There, that's better. Shall we sit a while? I'm not one for minding the damp, being brought up in it, so to speak."
"Eh, but listen, mavourneen," said the almost husky voice of Flannigan, "ye might catch the bitter cowld, me pretty pet, and then where in the wide world would your Samuel be?"
"Why, you'd be where you always were," replied young-old Aunt Norah.
"Ah, but no! I'd be in the cowld grave," said Samuel Flannigan. "Do ye think I could live another minute without ye, Norah, me bit thing?"
This was too much for little Margot. She would not be an eavesdropper. She must explain. She came out from under the shelter of the fir tree, and flinging the cowslips and the primroses into the lap of old-young Aunt Norah, she exclaimed:
"I'm here and I know. It's lovely to listen, but I mustn't listen. I'll leave you to yourselves. I didn't think you two would take up silly at your age, but I forgot you were young-old, and that sort does anything."
The two stared at her with their mouths open, and manifest consternation in their faces.
"Is it tellin', ye are going to be?" said young-old Aunt Norah.
"To be sure not—I've nothing to tell. If I'd stayed a bit longer I might have heard more. Phinias did say to me once that you and himself there, were familiar-like; but I didn't know what it meant, and I don't know what it means now, only that he calls you 'me honey,' and you stick to him in the dripping, pouring rain. Well, if you like it I don't care; I'm going home."
"No; you are not," said old-young Aunt Norah. "You've heard too much, and you shall hear the rest. We are going to be married, me and this gentleman."
"Married?" cried little Margot. "Whatever is that?"
"My child, it is the gift of heaven," said Samuel Flannigan.
Margot raised her black eyes to the dripping skies.
"It seems to come down in a good pour," she said. "Still, I don't understand."
"You know about Madam and your granddad," cried young-old Aunt Norah.
"To be sure; am I wanting in sense entirely?"
"Well, they're married, the same as we'll be very soon, very soon."
"Oh, deary me!" cried little Margot. "That does sound lovely. Only you know, Mr. Samuel Flannigan, you haven't got the beautiful face of my granddad, so perhaps your little children won't be quite as lovely. I wonder how many you'll have. My old nurse at Uncle Jacko's said that when I cracked my fingers, every crack meant a wee babe. Shall I crack them now for you two?"
"Oh, child, you are too awful," cried Aunt Norah, who found herself blushing in the most uncomfortable way.
But Margot took no notice of the blush, nor did she observe that the Rev. Samuel Flannigan had moved a trifle out of hearing. Margot gravely cracked her fingers. After a time she looked solemnly at young-old Aunt Norah and said:
"You'll have ten. They'll come out of the hearts of cabbages, and I'll order them for you one at a time, if you like; I'll go straight home now and begin to make the baby clothes."
"Margot, you are the most awful pushkeen in the wide world," said Aunt Norah. "You have made himself feel so ashamed that he can't look me in the face."
"All because of the dear little babies," said Margot. "I am more than surprised."
"Listen," exclaimed Norah, "no young girl ever talks on those subjects before marriage."
"Don't she? But why? I thought it was so interesting."
"It isn't, pushkeen; it isn't done."
"Have you told granddad yet that you are going to marry Mr. Flannigan?" inquired Margot.
"No; we don't want him to know yet. It would spoil the fun; and dear Samuel is so sensitive."
"I suppose so; I never thought it before, but if he's frightened of a wee thing like a babe, he must be. But, young-old Aunt Norah, you ought to tell granddad."
"I will, in good time, child; only it must be in my own way and in my own time. Samuel is the most blessed and holy man in the whole world."
"Well, I don't think he's quite that; for if he were he wouldn't play games like puss-in-the-corner and round the mulberry tree and blind-man's buff; and then, Aunt Norah, you can't call him handsome. His nose, it cocks right up, and there's very little of it; and his mouth is so wide; and he has teeny eyes; and his head is getting bald. Do you want to marry a man with a bald head, Aunt Norah? I'll tell you how I found it out. I saw you and him and Aunt Bridget talking and laughing and giggling the other day, and I thought it wasn't to say—well! what old-youngs did."
"You little prude," said Aunt Norah in an angry voice.
"Well, but it wasn't, old-young Aunt Norah."
"You are not to call me 'old-young'; I won't have it."
"Well, old, then."
"I'm not old."
"Whatever am I to call you, for you are not young?"
"Bless the child; she'll break me to bits," said Aunt Norah. "Pushkeen, you don't know what you are talkin' of."
"I do; I know quite well. You sent me to your bedroom the other day and I saw a very long plait of hair that wasn't yours lying on the dressing table. If you were young the hair would sprout like bulbs out of your head, and on the day that I watched you and Aunt Bride and Mr. Flannigan playing in the garden, I thought I'd find out about him, so I got Joe, the garden boy, to fetch me a ladder, and he did so, and I climbed up and sat in the bough of a tree, and Samuel's hair was all bald on the top, so you are neither of you young, and you oughtn't to pretend; it is wrong."
"Oh, you are a dreadful, dreadful pushkeen," said Aunt Norah. "But I'll forgive you all your wild ways and tell you my little beautiful secrets if you promise not to say a word of this—this meeting, to my father, nor my sisters, nor my brothers." Margot was rather beguiled by the thought of being Aunt Norah's confidante.
"I'll keep your secret as safe—as safe can be for one week," she said. "You can tell himself there'll be only ten, and that I my very self will pick them out of the choicest cabbages. Now, good-bye. I'd love to see you hugging each other, and I'm sorry they won't be pretty, but, you see, you aren't, and he isn't, and the cabbages are very particular whom they send the wee babies to. Well, I must be off." Little Margot rushed back to the house. She felt rather cold and chill. Aunt Norah's news by no means pleased her. She had never liked Mr. Flannigan, and she disliked him more than ever now. Still, she had promised to keep Aunt Norah's secret for a week. It was an awful burden on her little mind; still, she must keep her word.
The week went by, and after the first day, Margot began to enjoy herself. It was so very interesting to watch Mr. Flannigan blush. She had only to stare first at him, then at Aunt Norah, and behold, his entire face was crimson. She made little experiments with his blushes, and they succeeded to such an extent that the poor man was in agony. At last Aunt Norah had to take her away and speak to her.
"Do you know, pushkeen," she said, "that you are making my Samuel very miserable?"
"I?" said Margot. "I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, but you are. You keep looking at him."
"I can't help it; a cat may look at a king, Auntie Norah."
"Yes; but a little girl ought not to make a very reverend and pious and good clergyman uncomfortable."
"I never before thought he was reverend and pious," said Margot.
"Well, he is; he's a clergyman of the Church of Ireland."
"Do they all play puss-in-the-corner?" inquired Margot.
"Oh, you silly, silly child. Now I'm going to show you something. It's a great secret. You must keep it tight in your heart."
"I will, auntie. The week will be up to-morrow, remember, and I think I can bear an extra secret until then."
Aunt Norah first of all walked to the door, which she locked. She then unlocked a certain drawer in her chest of drawers and produced a little box with a jeweller's name on it. She opened it and showed Margot a small, very poor-looking ring. It was without precious stones and had a twisted knot in the middle.
"It's pretty," said Margot, dubiously. She knew good rings, having seen so many at Arles.
"Pretty! you little cat; it's lovely."
"What does the twist mean?" asked Margot.
"That is a true lover's knot. This is my engagement ring. Dear Samuel went to Cork yesterday and bought it for me. Oh, Margot, when we are really married we'll live in a wee house of our own; and you shall come and see us, if you'll only promise not to talk about babies."
"Indeed, truly I won't," said Margot. "I thought you'd like to have them, but you evidently don't. Will your house be very nice, Auntie Norah?"
"It will be elegant, child. Not a tumble-down place like this."
"There never was a place so perfect as Desmondstown," said Margot.
"Our little house won't be so big, but it will be sweet and fresh and pure," said Auntie Norah. "I can't bear gawds of any sort."
"Can't you, auntie? I should have thought you loved them."
"You don't know me a bit, Margot. I always felt you didn't."
Margot smiled faintly and was silent. After a very long pause she said slowly:
"Thank you very much for showing me the ring; and I hope you'll keep your word about telling granddad to-morrow."
"We're going to tell Uncle Fergus," said Norah. "He'll break the news to your grandfather."
"Oh, won't you tell him yourself—yourselves, I mean? It sounds so—so——"
"So what?" exclaimed Norah.
"Sort of cowardly," said Margot.
"You have never seen my father in a passion, pushkeen. He'll be angry at a Desmond marrying a Flannigan, and he'll let his anger out and storm and rave, and poor Sam won't be able to bear it. It is best that Fergus should get the brunt of it."
"Are you quite—quite sure that is what you mean to do?" asked Margot after a long pause.
"Well, perhaps——"
"As you are both so finicky I'd best do it for you. I'll talk to Uncle Fergus and get him to tell granddad. I'm going to have a private talk with Uncle Fergus to-night. Shall I tell him about you and the holy, saintly Mr. Samuel to-night, Aunt Norah?"
"Well, to be sure, child, you have a heart and a half."
"No, I've one heart, but it's big. It can hold you two and your little ring and your 'mendous big secret."
"I think you are a nice little girl," said Norah. "Well, tell him, but whatever you do, get him not to speak to my father till the morning."
Margot promised to obey. Just before dinner that evening she asked Uncle Fergus to walk up and down the big picture-gallery with her. All the best pictures had been sold long ago, but still there was one very precious Romney left, also a couple of Gainsboroughs, not at that great master's best, and several by unknown artists.
Little Margot was very fond of creeping up to the picture-gallery and looking at the Romney. It represented a little dark-eyed girl exactly like herself. She did not know the likeness, but everyone else remarked it, and the people of the neighbourhood invariably said:
"Oh, do—do look at the little Romney," when Margot and her grandfather passed by.
Now she stood exactly under the picture, her dark eyes raised to the dark eyes of the little girl, who was holding an enormous bunch of cowslips in her hands. With all her likeness to Margot she had not the fire of Margot in her small face. Still, Margot loved her because she was her very own—her own ancestress, who had been born a Desmond at Desmondstown, and had died before she was old enough to marry. "So she is always a Desmond," said Margot, speaking, as was her custom, aloud. "And that in itself is beautiful. I'll run to her first when I get to Heaven—even before I see dear grandpère. I do love her. Always a Desmond—a Desmond up in Heaven. She must be wonderfully happy. Oh, is that you, Uncle Fergus?"
Uncle Fergus joined the child. He put his arm round her slim little waist, and they both stood together and looked up at the picture.
"Do you love the Romney picture, pushkeen?" he asked.
"Oh, Uncle Fergus, I just adore it. She must be so happy, never to have changed her beautiful name."
"She was your great-great-great-aunt," said Uncle Fergus. "Her name was Kathleen Desmond, and your own mother was called after her. She died a year after that picture was taken. It is the most valuable thing we possess. If sold it would fetch thousands of pounds, but I am going to ask my father to give it to you for your very own, Margot."
"Oh, oh, are you, Uncle Fergus? But I couldn't sell her, you know. If I felt she was my own, I'd keep her forever and ever and ever. She is part of me now, I love her so much."
"I don't want you to sell her, little one," said Fergus; "nor would The Desmond hear of it. She would not be yours as long as The Desmond lives. Then, if he consents, we will settle her on you, as well as the dower."
"Not a dot; I hope not a dot," said little Margot.
"No, I said a dower."
"Well, that's all right. How I shall pet you and love you, Great-great-great-Aunt Kathleen Desmond; even up in heaven, where you are now, I'll see your face in the sky, on starlight nights, looking down at me and smiling at me."
"Do you know, Margot, why I want to give you that picture?"
"No, Uncle Fergus. You have a funny thought at the back of your head, but I don't know what it is."
"Because you are like her, very like her."
"Am I—am I truly? Why she's quite bee-uti-ful."
"Well, never mind about that, child. You asked me to meet you here and I have come. Have you anything to say?"
"They are so frightened, poor things," said Margot, suddenly restored to the present. "They haven't got my courage nor her courage nor your courage, so I thought that you and I had best help them."
"Who on earth are you talking about, pushkeen?"
"He blushes so dreadfully," continued Margot. "It's quite awfully painful. I keep looking away from him now to ease his mind a bit. I suppose he thinks Auntie Norah very beautiful and she thinks him very holy."
"Who on earth—what do you mean, pushkeen?"
"Well, Uncle Fergus, they've settled it up and you can't stop it, 'cause Aunt Norah says they are both of age. I'm certain sure they are, for I climbed up a ladder to see the bald spot on his head. It's Mr. Flannigan and Aunt Norah, and they are going to be married at once, almost immejit, and you have got to tell The Desmond. She says she is not old-young, but that she's young. I know quite well that she's only old-young, but I don't talk of it. She's very happy, though, for she loves him. It seems a pity that God made him ugly, for she's not beautiful, and I don't quite like her taste. She's going to have a teeny house, and he has bought her a little engaged-up ring. It's a very poor sort of ring, really, truly, but oh, she is proud of it. You will be kind to her, won't you, Uncle Fergus! Poor Aunt Norah, she thinks it so more than lovely, going to be married. I was frightened at first, thinking of their wee babies; but they don't seem to want to have babies."
Uncle Fergus burst into a sudden laugh, sat down on a tattered old seat, and took Margot into his arms.
"You little blessed thing," he said. "Don't whisper to anyone, Margot asthore; keep it tight within ye. Your Aunt Norah is fifty."
"What's fifty?" asked the pushkeen.
"Why, half a century, of course. She's the eldest of us all, except your Aunt Priscilla. Well, I'll do my best with The Desmond, but he'll be rare and angry, I can tell you. His pride of birth is his greatest pride of all, and that chap Flannigan, why he is—"
"He's a clergyman of the Church of Ireland," said Margot solemnly.
"My father will think nothing of that. He knows only too well that he's the grandson of a labourer on the Desmond estate, and though he's old, he's ten years younger than your aunt; but keep it dark, pushkeen. I know you never let out secrets. I'll do my best for them for your sake, my pretty sweet. But what a pair of fools they are, to be sure."
"Oh, Uncle Fergus, don't talk like that. If we can make them joyful, let's try. Let's try very hard."
"Blessings on ye, pushkeen, I'll do my best for your sake. Now I think we must tidy up for supper."
[1] Means the Irish of Ireland forever.
Notwithstanding all her confident dreams and her bold, resolute spirit, little Margot did not find the next day at Desmondstown either peaceful or happy. Fergus, true to his word, told his father of Norah's engagement. The old man stormed and raved. He sent for Norah, who refused to go to him. His rage grew yet hotter. He said that if she did not appear at once he would have her locked up; that no child of his should disgrace herself by marrying a Flannigan.
Samuel Flannigan was forbidden the house. He was told that his case was hopeless. Aunt Norah, in terror, did appear and was assured by her father that she was nothing but a blessed bit of a fool and mighty old at that, and that she must immediately promise him that she would never speak to that low-down fellow, Samuel Flannigan, again.
Norah cried, sobbed, even screamed, and was finally locked up in her room by The Desmond himself. Then little Margot came in and tried to smooth matters and comfort the distracted old man. He looked at her bonny face; at her glowing, rosy cheeks; at her wonderful, soft, black eyes; at her thick, curling, black hair; and held out his arms to her. She crept into his embrace and sat there very quiet, without speaking. Margot was singularly wise for her age, and she knew that the time to speak had not come yet.
Presently, however, as the old man was feeling the comfort of her presence, he was startled by one great tear splashing on his hand.
"Why, my pushkeen, alanna," he said. "I thought for sure that the Desmonds never cried—those that are true Desmonds, I mean."
"It was only one tear, granddad," said little Margot. "I don't like anybody to be unhappy."
"Eh, now, to be sure, nor do I," said The Desmond.
"But there's Aunt Norah, granddad. She is very mis'rable; she is fond of Samuel."
"Don't ye dare," said the old man. His whole manner changed; he pushed her off his knee. She looked at him without reproach, but with intense sadness, and then slowly, very slowly left the room.
He was so wretched after she had gone that he felt inclined to call her back, and to tell her that all the foolish Norah Desmonds in the wide world and all the ridiculous, low-born Samuel Flannigans might marry, if only she would stay with him and comfort him.
Madam came in presently and found him alone. The one tear that Margot had shed had dried on his horny old hand, but he kept on looking at the hand. He did not attempt to wipe that tear—that pearl of all price—away. It had dried itself. He thought his hand a sort of sacred thing because it held one tear from the little pushkeen.
"What ails your hand, Fergus?" asked Mary, his wife.
"Oh, nothing," he replied. "Why shouldn't I have a hand in all conscience, and why shouldn't I look at it? Where on earth is the pushkeen?"
"Why, didn't you know?" said Madam.
"No; what should I know? For goodness' sake, woman, speak out!"
"Well, I'm thinking you won't see her for a bit," said Madam; "but she'll come back by-and-bye—very soon, most like."
As a matter of fact Margot had taken up the cause of Aunt Norah and Mr. Flannigan; and for her to take up any cause meant far more than the people who benefited by her counsel and advice had any idea of. Now, having left her grandfather, she tried to find Uncle Fergus; but he was nowhere in the house. Then she went up to Aunt Norah's room. She knocked at the door. She heard sobbing and moaning within.
There were sounds like "Ohone! ohone! Oh, dear me, Oh, dear me! Oh, it's me heart that's torn to tatters!"
Margot could not get Aunt Norah to listen to her; so she left her. She went to her own little room, and opening a certain drawer took out her purse. It had been well stored by la belle grand'mère. There were a great many gold pieces in it. Margot did not stop to think how many. The sun was shining to-day. She put on a neat little dark-blue serge frock and her pretty crimson cap, and went straight to the house where Samuel Flannigan lived. It was a very small house and very shabby. It was close to the church; and the front door stood open. Margot entered. She went down the narrow hall and into the tiny front sitting-room, where the blinds were drawn down and where Samuel Flannigan was seated, his face buried in his hands, his great ungainly shoulders shaken with sobs.
Margot went up and touched him somewhat delicately.
"I don't want you, Miss Margot," he said. "It's your sort that does the mischief; but for you I wouldn't have lost my little girl."
"Mr. Flannigan, I've done no mischief, except that I made you blush. I'm sorry I did that—I am truly. I want to tell you that you need never blush any more, and you'll get your little wee young girlie if only you have patience and behave like a man. I've taken the matter up, Mr. Flannigan, and I mean to succeed. Good-bye, now, and cheer up. Things will come right soon, but not quite immediately. Trust me, Mr. Flannigan, and forgive me for making you blush such an awful ugly red."
Flannigan looked vacantly at the pretty child. Somehow a gleam of hope did stir in his heart. That child was very uncommon and remarkable. He had never, never seen her like before. He wondered whether he could manage to run away with Norah. But ten minutes after Margot had departed, his little flicker of courage had left him, and he sat down a weary, desolate man, who felt very old and good-for-nothing.
He was really fond of Norah, and he did not see why he should be abused because his grandfather was a labourer on the Desmondstown estates.
Meanwhile Margot, having quite made up her mind, went quickly in the direction of Phinias Maloney's bit of a houseen. She kissed the children who were basking in the sun and picking flowers to throw them away again.
She snatched up the baby and covered his small face with her kisses. Then she went into the little kitchen to Annie Maloney.
"Why, whatever," exclaimed Annie; "my blessed missie, what do you want?"
"Where's Phinias?" asked little Margot.
"He's over beyont; ye can see him if ye look. He's planting cabbages for the summer."
"Annie," said Margot, "are you great enough to be good in a very great cause?"
"Well, now, whatever does the bit thing mean?" said Annie.
"I want Phinias. Will you give him to me?"
"Well, now, I'd do most things for ye, alanna, but himself!—I couldn't part with himself. 'Tain't likely now, is it, missie, and he the father of the childer?"
"I only want him for about two or three days at the most," said Margot; "and I'll pay him well," she added. "A pound for every day he's away from you."
"To be sure now, that's powerful big pay," exclaimed Mrs. Maloney. "We could buy another piggeen, and put by for the rint, and tidy up the place a bit."
"So you can," said Margot. "We'd best make it three days."
"To be sure, my blessed mavourneen—to be sartin sure."
"Well, I'm going to speak to him," said Margot. "You're a very noble woman, Annie. He'll be back with you in three days and he'll have three pounds to put into your hand. Now then, don't tell anybody in the world where we have gone."
"Is it a sacret?" exclaimed Annie. "Lor' love us, I dote on a sacret."
"I'll go and see him at once," said Margot. "I trust you, Annie, more than anyone else in all the world; I do indeed."
"Lor' love ye, my pretty," said Annie.
Margot scampered across the field. Presently she reached "himself" as he was planting the young spring cabbages.
"Phinias," said Margot, "you are just a darling."
"Be I?" said Phinias. "You do use pretty words, missie, asthore."
"It's what I feel, Phinias. Now I've spoken to Annie and Annie is satisfied, and I'll pay all your expenses and my expenses, too. I can't run away alone, because I'm too small; but Phinias, I'm going to run away."
"Lor' bless us and save us," cried Phinias, "and you the idol of The Desmond's dear old heart."
"Sometimes we must be parted from the people we love," said Margot. "Get the cart ready as fast as you can, Phinias, and put on your best things and come with me. You must take me straight, right away, this blessed minit, to dear Uncle Jacko. As soon as ever I get there you can go home again. And when you get home you'll carry a letter with you which I'll have written, and you'll put it yourself into the hands of The Desmond. That's all; and you'll get three pounds besides your food and your travelling. Come along this blessed minute, Phinias; there isn't a moment to spare."
Phinias stared out of his truly Irish eyes; his wide mouth grinned a trifle. He looked a little sheepish, a little glad, vastly surprised; but in the end Margot got her way. She was seated beside Phinias in the queer little cart.
They went by a road they did not usually go, and arrived at a railway station which they did not generally get to, and there they took train for Rosslare.
On the following day, quite late in the evening, Margot's little brown face peeped round the shabby door of the study, where Uncle Jacko was preparing his Sunday sermon.
Margot gave a cry of joy and flung herself into his arms.
"Why, then, by the powers! isn't this too joyful altogether?" exclaimed Uncle Jacko.
"Yes," said Margot, "Phinias brought me. You'll keep him for to-night, and he'll go back to-morrow. Uncle Jacko, is Aunt Priscilla about?"
"No, thank the Lord. She's gone missioning to Manchester."
"I don't know what that is," said little Margot.
"It's good work, very good work. She's a good woman," said Uncle Jacko.
"Then we'll be alone?"
"We will so, my bonny bird."
"Then everything is going to come beautifully right," said Margot. "I think God is almost too good, Uncle Jacko. Oh, I do love Him so tremendously."
That evening the little girl told Uncle Jacko the entire story of Aunt Norah and Mr. Flannigan, of her grandfather's unaccountable rage and of her own determination that Aunt Norah and Mr. Flannigan should be happy.
"He—granddad—can't live without me, Uncle Jacko, so you see I ran away. I'm going to send him back a letter to-morrow morning by Phinias Maloney. The very moment he says 'yes' about Aunty you'll take me back to him, won't you, Uncle Jacko?"
"I will, my sweet child, although the parting with you will be a sort of tearing open of an old wound."
"Oh, Uncle Jacko, he won't give way for a bit. We'll have some days to play—to be just a little boy and just a little girl together."
If Uncle Jacko was delighted to see Margot, old Hannah's raptures were also beyond words.
"Thank the Lord the missus is away missioning," she said, and then she hugged and kissed, and kissed and hugged Margot, and got her old tiny room warm and snug for her, and treated those two children, as she spoke of her master and Miss Margot, to the very best that the house could afford.
Before she went to bed that night, however, Margot wrote a letter to granddad. It ran as follows:
Darlingest and Best:—
I couldn't live even with you at Desmondstown unless we were happy together. I couldn't bear to see your dear face all puckered up with sorrow, and with anger, which the beautiful God hates; so I have come away for a bit to Uncle Jacko; but when you feel that you can give your bit girleen to poor Sammy, why then—then I'll fly back to you, for you'll be the noblest old man in the world—nobler than your pride; and I'll never leave you again, never, never. This is to say that I'm here and I'm safe, and my heart is full to the brim with love for you; so send for me very quick indeed, my own granddad.
P.S. Don't let your wee girlie get too old from sobbing. You and I, we both know that it isn't the way of the Desmonds. Be as quick as you can in settling the matter up.
Forever and forever,
Your Pushkeen.
This letter was read by a broken-down old man who, for three days, had given up Margot as lost; whose heart was so completely broken with regard to her, that he did not give either Norah or Flannigan a thought.
When the old man read Margot's letter he gave vent to a sort of yell of delight.
"Why, bless the bit thing," he cried. "Madam, Madam, Fergus, Fergus, she's safe with that good fellow, Mansfield. Wire to her to come home. Fergus, go off at once and send a wire. Norah may go her own way. She's nothing to me compared to my Margot—my pushkeen—my blessing."
So the wire was sent, and as quickly as possible Uncle Jacko and little Margot returned to Desmondstown. Margot flew into her grandfather's arms.
"Is it right?" she said. "May they marry?"
"They may marry every single week of the year from this time forward, for all I care," said The Desmond.
"Have you told them so?" asked Margot.
"No, and don't want to."
"Granddad, you must."
"All right, my pushkeen."
"Madam, darlin,' bring Norah down to granddad this minute."
"I'll fetch her," said Fergus.
He went up to his sister's room, and in a few minutes she appeared, looking very cowed and shaken.
"It's that blessed little Margot's doings," said Fergus. "No one else would have brought him round. Loving my father as much as she does, she was determined to give him up unless he allowed you to be happy."
"I don't understand," said Norah.
"Well, you needn't, colleen. Come with me now and don't keep the old man waiting."
Norah went. Margot was in her usual place on her grandfather's knee. She would not allow him to rise. He just put out his great hand in the direction of Norah.
"Ye're looking a bit white, colleen," he said; "and weak, too, with the weakness of the aged. I give in; you can take him. Why, there he is," for Malachi had rushed round to the house of Flannigan and brought him straight back—a very red-eyed, feeble man, to meet his red-eyed, feeble bride.
"There, I've settled it," said The Desmond. "You can both go out and spoon. I'm busy with my granddaughter. I had never have given in but for her. She's as cute as she's sweet. Lor' bless her, she's the cutest thing on earth," and then he hugged Margot close to his heart.
The three Sundays were obliged to be gone through in order that the banns might be properly read, and Margot brought her wonderful taste to bear on the subject of the wardrobe of the bride. Knowing quite well that her grandfather would give in, she had wired to belle grand'mère from England, telling her what things she would require for the wedding.
Accordingly a huge parcel arrived, containing muslins, silks, laces, hats, gloves, stockings, shoes. Was not Margot busy during that fortnight? Was not Bride busy helping? Did not Eileen show the taste she—Margot—had in a far greater degree? The bride was the most indifferent of all, for did not Samuel come at all hours to her window and sing out to her: "Norah me honey, Norah, asthore;" and was not the entire place alive with the excitement of a wedding in the Desmond family?
It was Margot herself, however, who superintended the making of the bride's dress. She hired a sewing-machine; and bought the softest cream satin, suitable for a bride of eighteen, and saw that it was properly cut and prepared for old-young Auntie Norah.
At last the wedding day arrived, and a great feast was to be held in the huge dining-room when the ceremony was at an end. Nothing could take Norah's fifty years from her, but Margot arranged her hair in a marvellous style, and put a bunch of white roses into her dress, and made her look as no one else could have made her look.
"To be sure, she passes the years wonderful," said one old crone to another.
But it was at the wedding breakfast that little Margot shone in all her glory. She was in very simple, pure white, and her cheeks were flushed a little deeper than usual, and her eyes shone with a softer and more beautiful light. By The Desmond's desire there was a chair placed for Margot next to himself. He sat at the head of the board, but in such a position that he could not see the old bride and bridegroom.
"Margot," he whispered, "pushkeen asthore, they'll be making speeches to drown ye like, and they'll be expecting me to take my turn. Will you do it for me, little Margot?"
"I do it?" said Margot. "What sort is a speech, granddad?"
"What comes into your head and what ye lets out. That's a speech."
"Oh, that's easy enough," said Margot. "May I say that I'm speaking for you?"
"Ye may, pushkeen asthore."
So when the right moment arrived, a very, very tall old man, of immense breadth of stature as well, stood up, holding the hand of a lovely little dark girl.
"My granddad is tired," began Margot, "and he can't speak what he thinks, so he has put his thoughts into me. There's a bride and there's a bridegroom sitting beyont. They were married in church this morning. They are both of them young, for their hearts are young, and they are mighty fond of each other entirely; and my granddad, he wishes me to say——"
"Whist, pushkeen," came from the lips of the old man. But pushkeen could not be stopped at that moment. She was looking straight into the happy eyes of old-young Aunt Norah, and into the blissful face of old-young Uncle Samuel.
"I'm wishing you," she said, "me and my grandfather, long, long life and prosperity. I'm wishing that your happiness may continue and you may always, as long as you live, play puss-in-the-corner and blind man's buff. I'm thinking it's a very good way to begin to get married, by playing those games; and I recommend them to the rest of my uncles and aunts. I'll look out for husbands for them if I can, and for wives for the boys if I can, but for me myself I don't mean to marry, being altogether too much occupied, having one so precious as my granddad to live with forever and forever. Amen."
"Isn't she exactly like the Romney?" said a quaint old lady who was one of the guests invited for the occasion.
"Yes, to be sure, only handsomer," said her companion.
"She's the sweetest, most uncommon child I ever saw," said the first lady; "and doesn't the old man love her? He's bound up in her, bless her little heart."
A few minutes later Norah went upstairs to change her bridal robes and put on the going-away dress which Margot had selected for her. She never felt so stylish in her life, nor so tearful, nor so happy.
"Why, Margot," she said, turning round and looking at the child. "It was you that did it all—all. There was a time when I hated you. But for you, I can plainly see now that I'd never have got my Sam. Oh, Margot, I am happy. And tell me, what does the Rev. John Mansfield think of the holy man?"
"He loves him; he can't do more," said Margot.
"And you love him, don't you, Margot?"
"For your sake I'll begin to twist myself in that direction," said Margot. "Now hurry, auntie, hurry, or you'll miss your train."
A beautiful carriage had been provided. This had been secured out of the proceeds of a small cheque which la belle grand'mère had sent to Margot for the wedding; and the bride and bridegroom, when they went away, were not obliged to step into Phinias Maloney's trap.
"For all God's mercies, let's be thankful for that," said Aunt Norah.
But Margot, as she watched them go and helped to throw slippers and rice after them, felt that she herself would prefer the little trap.
"The house is well quit of them," whispered The Desmond; but Margot would not allow him to say these words aloud.
"It's her wedding day; it has come a bit late, but let her be happy in it, granddad."
"Right you are, my dove, my blossom;" and then they sat down—the old, old man, and the young child—to examine some flowers by the aid of a microscope.
All was indeed well in the heart of little Margot. She and her grandfather were in the midst of their game, and as a matter of fact, had forgotten Norah and her husband when Fergus came in.
"This is a lucky day in the Desmond family," he said, "and to complete it utterly, I think we ought to present little Margot with the deed of gift which will secure to her the Romney picture whenever you pass from this world to a better, dear sir."
"Oh, I won't take it if it means that," said Margot. "I want granddad to live forever and ever."
"But I can't do that, my child; no one can. You are quite right, Fergus, my son. The Romney is mine for my life, and I think my life will last for some time yet with such a little dear to put life and joy into it; but I should like to sign the document now to make all sure and safe. She is the little Romney, only just twice as beautiful. But we can have the deed signed at once, my son."
So the deed, which Margot did not in the least understand, was brought in by a very old man, who was a solicitor from the city of Cork; and a great many names were put in certain places, and the old Desmond signed his name, and Fergus Desmond his name, and the little Margot was requested to write certain words in her clear, childish writing:
"I accept this picture as a most sacred gift whenever my grandfather, The Desmond, goes up to God."
But the signing of this paper, coming on top of everything else, was almost too much for the sensitive child. She had to rush from the room to keep back her tears, for a Desmond, a proper Desmond, must not cry.
"I tell you what, father," said Fergus, "I have been thinking that as I, too, shall never marry—for I don't care for the colleens round this part—and so, in this case, I shall eventually leave Desmondstown to the little pushkeen, she might take back the name of Desmond, and if she marries, as marry she will some day, her husband must take the name with the property. Somehow, since she came to us everything has prospered in the most wonderful way, and I'm paying off the mortgages, and Desmondstown will be clear of all debt long before you die, father. What do you think of the little dear taking back the old name?"
"I say goroosh! I say hurrah! I say hip, hip, hurrah! I say Erin-go-bragh! I say the Desmonds forever; and beyond and above all other things, I say God bless the little Desmond, the future owner of the Romney. God bless and keep her forever!"
"Granddad, what a noise you are making," said Margot, coming in at that moment, having got over her tears.
"It was about you, my pushkeen. It's all settled and you are to be a Desmond forever and forever and forever!"
Little Margot did not understand, but she was happy beyond words; and what could it matter about understanding when you are happy—too happy even to speak?
THE END.