"To be sure not, Fergus, why should I?"
"Well, that's all right. You run off, my colleen, and I'll come and kiss you good-night, just as I kissed my own Kathleen before the Frenchman took her."
So Margot, being very weary, obeyed. The leather portmanteau stood in a very old and bare room, and Madam herself unpacked it and took out whatthe child wanted for the night. At last the little tired limbs lay between the soft Irish linen sheets and Madam kissed her grandchild two or three times, whilst big tears filled her eyes.
"What are you crying for, you darling old lady?" said little Margot.
"I'm thinking of my Kathleen," said Madam.
"I'm her little girl, therefore I'myourlittle girl," said Margot, pressing her small lips together in ecstasy. "Kiss me, grandmother. Grandmother, you love me, too."
"I do, my best mavourneen, but now I must go and get himself up, or he'll rage at me."
Madam tripped downstairs and presently returned with The Desmond. He had evidently given her a hint to leave him alone with Margot. When they were quite alone together, he pulled the curtains across one of the windows and opened the window a little wider to let in the fresh air, then he came close to Margot's side and kneeling down by her made the following speech:
"Ye need have no fear in ye, my push-keen colleen. Do ye see that door? It opens into Madam's room and mine. If you call out even a whisper I'll be with ye. Now say your hymn like a good child and God bless ye."
"My hymn, what hymn?" said Margot in some astonishment.
"Why, didn't they never teach it to ye? What a powerful, wicked shame, but you are young and you'll soon learn. Your mother used to say it to me every night when she was a young 'un. Come, fold your little hands and follow me with the words."
Margot did so. The hymn was a very baby one and very well known, but Aunt Priscilla had never thought it worth her while to teach it to the baby Margot. The Desmond had different views.
"Now begin,acushla machree."
Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,Look upon a little child,Pity my simplicity,Suffer me to come to thee.Fain would I to thee be brought,Dearest Lord, forbid it not;In the Kingdom of thy graceGrant a little child a place.
Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,Look upon a little child,Pity my simplicity,Suffer me to come to thee.Fain would I to thee be brought,Dearest Lord, forbid it not;In the Kingdom of thy graceGrant a little child a place.
Whether it was her great fatigue or the fact that she was sleeping at last in the home of her ancestors, or the other fact that there was at leastonedear old man living at Desmondstown, little Margot St. Juste slept like a top during the whole of that first night in the house where her mother had been born. She slept so soundly that she was quite unconscious of the fact that The Desmond, accompanied by Madam, entered the hastily improvised bedroom at the dawn of day and bent over the child. There was a look of positive rapture on both their old faces.
"Eh, but she's our Kathleen to the life," said Madam.
"It's the Almighty has sent her to comfort us in our old age," said The Desmond. "Step softly Madam,macree. Don't for the life of you wake the bit thing."
So little Margot was allowed to have her sleep out, but when she awoke she stared about her ingreat bewilderment. Her three old young uncles, and her three old young aunts were collected round the bed. The moment she stirred, Norah made that sort of "whoop" for which she was so celebrated, and disappeared from the room. She danced into her father's presence. She was wearing a pink dress and was attired also in a pale pink sash. Her hair was full of curl papers. She looked singularly old, but had all the actions of a frolicsome kitten.
"The pixie is awake, father," she said.
This was the signal for intense excitement. The Desmond desired his daughter to behave herself and put away some of her childishness.
"I can't help being young, Iamyoung," replied Norah.
"You're not; you are a withered twig," said The Desmond. "Find Madam and tell her that the child is awake. Madam will see to her breakfast; and try to dress like a woman of your years, Norah. You are nothing but a figure of fun in that pink dress and pale pink sash."
Norah laughed, winked, showed her really white fine teeth and disappeared from the room. She found old Madam without much difficulty and soon a cosy breakfast was brought up to little Margot. She was in the midst of enjoying her second egg when The Desmond popped in his silvery head.
"Hullo," he said, "so here we are again."
"Yes, yes, and it islovelyto see you, grand-dad, and please come and sit close to me and send the old young girls and the old young boys away. Only Madam may stay if she likes, for she's a perfect darling. Tell her—tell her to feed me. I like to be petted and I lovereallyold people, but I don't like old young people to call me 'pixie' and 'pushkeen.'"
With a wave of his hand, which was at once imperative and intensely severe, The Desmond cleared the room of all his sons and daughters. Madam sat down on the side of the bed and fed Margot, who gave herself up to intense present enjoyment.
"I'm so happy, granny," she said, looking at the old lady, "and I'm so happy, grand-dad," she continued, taking the old chieftain's withered hand and pressing her soft lips to it. "Oh, I am so very glad that you are both really old. I don't like old young, I don't, really, truly."
"Now you, child, you," said Madam, "don't you run down your aunts and your uncles. They are all young and kittenish."
"They are not Mary, and you know it perfectly well," said The Desmond. "The child is right; she is full of sense. She's exactly like my Kathleen, God bless her."
The fuss which was made over the wardrobe of little Margot could scarcely be excelled. There was no such thing as a modern bathroom at Desmondstown, but a great tub, which was used for washing clothes, was hoisted into the room by two stalwart women. Then it was made the exact right heat, and Madam and her three daughters—for nothing would keep these old young ladies a minute longer out of the room—superintended the washing and dressing of little Margot.
Eileen was the quietest of the three sisters. She was also the prettiest and the youngest. She had been out at what was called a barn-dance on the previous evening and this was her first proper view of the little arrival. Eileen, when she was really young, must have been very pretty. She had the deep, dark blue eyes of her countrywomen, and the soft dark hair which curled naturally all over her head. Unlike her sisters, she was not obliged to have recourse to curl papers and little Margot looked at her with her soft, dark brown eyes full of admiration.
Her own dress was very plain, though neat, and Eileen chose out of the child's belongings a simple white dress which she was to wear with a faded green sash that belonged to Eileen herself.
"You must wear it to-day, push-keen," she said,"as a welcome to old Ireland. Isn't it the country of the green, Madam?"
"Yes, to be sure," replied the old grandmother, "and you might go out and pick a bunch of shamrocks and fasten it in the front of her dress, Norah."
Norah gambolled like a veritable kitten downstairs. She returned presently with a great bunch of shamrocks, which was carefully pinned into Margot's white frock.
"Are ye rested now, pretty dear?" asked Norah.
"Yes, to be sure I am, Aunt Norah, and I feel so—sofat."
"Poor lamb," cried Madam, "she hasn't been half fed where she was."
"Yes, but I have," cried Margot. "Uncle Jacko fed me fine and so did Hannah. It was a wicked woman who interfered."
"A wicked woman, lawk a mercy!" cried Bridget. "What in the world had a wicked woman to do with you, pixie?"
"I'm not allowed to mention her name," said little Margot. "Don't ask me any more questions, for I've taken an oath and I won't break it. I'd like to go straight to grand-dad—that's what I'd like."
"You can't just now, pretty dear," said Madam, "he always sleeps at this hour, but he'll be up and about by mid-day dinner."
"You'd best come and play horses with us on the lawn," said Bridget and Norah, simultaneously.
"No, I don't want to. You'll have that awful old man there."
"Is it Mr. Flannigan you mean?" asked Bridget. "Why he's little better than a chick newly hatched—like the rest of us for that matter," she continued.
"Are you all just newly hatched?" asked Margot, looking with great curiosity at the figures of her old young aunts.
"To be sure, you've about said it," exclaimed Norah.
"Well, I'm a great deal older than you," said Margot, "so I'll let you play with the newly hatched chicken and I'll go and see Phinias Maloney."
"For the Lord's sake what does the child mean now?" exclaimed Madam, a little indignant colour flooding her cheeks.
"I mean what I say," replied Margot. "He's a dear old man—he's not a gentleman, but I like him all the better on account of that, for he's got a gentleman's heart inside his skin. I'll go and see him now while grand-dad is asleep—that is, if you don't mind, Madam."
"We'll all go, if it comes to that," said Norah."Think of you picking up with Phinias Maloney, the roughest old farmer in the county."
"But I don't want to go with you, I want to go alone," said Margot. "He and I are great friends, and I slept with my head on his shoulder all the way into Kerry. What are you laughing at? Why are you looking at me as you are doing?"
"I'm fit to let out a screech," said Norah. "To think of one of the Desmonds falling asleep with her head on the shoulder of Phinias Maloney. It's enough to make a cat laugh, let alone a human being."
"Then, please, Aunt Norah, laugh as much as you like while I am away," said Margot. "I must be back in time to sit with my grand-dad. I've a great deal to say to him and the time is short."
"It's Sunday; you oughtn't to be thinking of your pleasures," said Eileen, who had a more refined voice than her sisters. "Mother, she can't go to see Phinias to-day, she really can't. Put on your pretty little white hat, pixie, and we'll take you to church."
Margot was of course accustomed to going to church on Sunday and after a moment's hesitation, during which her little face looked very downcast, she agreed to Eileen's suggestion.
"I'll go," she said, "on a condition—it's all my own."
"And what's that?" asked Eileen.
"It's that you walk on one side of me, and my young uncle Fergus on the other; then I'll know where I am, for you talk sense."
Norah tried in vain to be offended, but as this was absolutely impossible to her nature and as Bridget was equally the soul of good humour, the little party started for the small village church a few minutes later, Margot looking very neat and even distinguished between her old young aunt and her old young uncle.
She sat very still during service and kept her soft black eyes fixed on Mr. Flannigan. Was it possible that he was the same person who had played horses with her aunts on the previous day? He read the service with a good deal of force and realism, and preached a sermon which was so full of Irish stories that Norah and Bridget kept their handkerchiefs pressed against their mouths to keep themselves from screaming with laughter.
All went apparently well until the service came to an end, but then the curate threw off his church manners and devoted himself to Miss Norah and Miss Bridget. He was invited back to dinner by both these young ladies and eagerly accepted the invitation.
"So this is the pixie," he said, his eyes fixed on Margot.
"No, it isn't," said Margot, "but you are the newly hatched chick."
Mr. Flannigan felt his red face turning redder than usual.
"Whatever do you mean?" he replied.
Just then they got inside the grounds.
"Thank Heaven for all its mercies," said Norah. "I can let out a good screech now, and no one will be any the wiser. I said, Sam Flannigan, that you were a newly-hatched chicken, when she was taunting me about your age, man. Oh, isn't it fun? I never enjoyed myself so much in my life."
"Nor did I, for that matter," cried Bridget. "It's a pity it is Sunday, for we can't play horses."
"Do let's walk a little faster, Uncle Fergus," said Margot turning to her uncle.
His grave face looked at her searchingly, then he said in a quiet tone,
"The avenue is a bit too long for a wee thing like you. See, I'm going to stoop. Put your arms round my neck,so. Now, then, hold tight. I have you on my shoulder as firm as can be."
"Oh, thank you, thank you," said Margot. "I do like you, Uncle Fergus, and I like Eileen."
"But why don't you like the others? They are harmless enough, poor bit things."
"Yes, but they were not hatched yesterday," saidMargot. "That I do know and I won't play horses with that horrid Mr. Flannigan!"
"Malachi is fit to tear his hair," exclaimed Fergus. "He has just sent off a stud of horses to Dublin for sale, so there isn't one he can offer ye to ride."
"I likeyouvery much as a horse, Uncle Fergus," said Margot.
"Do ye now? Well, that's all right."
"Did you love my mother, Uncle Fergus?"
"To be sure, but we don't talk of her."
"Why not, why ever not?"
"Because it hurts the old man; we have to be very careful about the old man. You listen, child, mavourneen. He never got over her marrying a Frenchy."
"But my father had a title, he was Comte St. Juste."
"As if that mattered," said Fergus, in a tone of violent contempt. "A title indeed, the Lord preserve us! The Desmonds don't want any title greater than their own."
"Is it very high up, Uncle Fergus?"
"High up? The stars couldn't reach it. There isn't a royal Duke in England we'd change with."
"Isn't there? I didn't know," said Margot. Shespoke in a very soft, interested voice. "And some day you'll have it," she said.
"Yes; but for the Lord's sake don't mention the awful time when the old man is took from us."
"Oh, Uncle Fergus, Idolove you," said Margot and she bent down and kissed him on his brow.
It was two or three days later that The Desmond and his son, Fergus, had a long and important conversation behind locked doors. "I'm willing to do my share," said Fergus Desmond.
"I knew you were, my boy. You have never disappointed me yet."
"And I won't begin now, father," said the son.
"We can't let her go," said The Desmond, "that's the thing."
"I see your heart is set on her," remarked Fergus.
"Set on her! It is fastened on her like a vise. I don't know myself since she came to the place. She's her blessed mother back again. Who is that man who has the charge of her, Fergus? Is he her uncle at all, at all?"
"She seems very fond of him," said Fergus, "but I don't see how he can be her uncle. He has taken very good care of her all these years, and never asked us for so much as a penny."
"I tell you what it is, Fergus," said TheDesmond. "You must go across the water and see the man and put it straight to him that we can't give her up."
"I don't see how I can exactly do that, father," said Fergus; "he's had her since she was a babe and maybe she is as much to him as she is to us."
"Fergus, you talk folly. Is The Desmond's heart to be broken because of a common sort of chap like John Mansfield?"
"We must act fair," said Fergus, "and what's more, if we adopt her, we must adopt her properly. She must be schooled. She must be treated like the lady she is. We don't want any more Norahs and Bridgets in the house."
"No, no; of course not, of course not," said The Desmond.
"She must be taught," said Fergus Desmond, "and the teaching will cost money, a sight of money. I know a lady who'd do it," he continued. "Miss Drusilla McNab—she has got fine learning entirely, foreign languages and all else, and she can play the piano and sing to make your heart burst. I might manage to settle it with her if we paid her properly, but we can't have one of the Desmonds disgracing herself and us by eating the bread of charity."
"How old is Drusilla McNab?" asked The Desmond.
"She's thirty-five, father, and she lives at Rockingham, and Malachi could drive the kiddie over there each morning and fetch her back in the evening. But we couldn't offer Miss Drusilla less than £20 a year. We couldn't in all decency."
"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed The Desmond. "Twenty pounds, when we have scarcely got so many pence. Can't you and I teach the bit thing, Fergus?"
"No, we can't," said Fergus. "She must be taught properly and like a real, out-and-out lady. Miss McNab was educated in Paris and the pushkeen is going to be a wonderful beauty. She must be taught according to her station. She'll make a fine match some day."
"I want her to stay with me," said The Desmond. "I don't wish for any of those fine matches for the pretty dear."
"Well, it will come, father; for she is the handsomest little girl I ever looked at."
"And why not," said old Desmond, his eyes flashing a sort of blue fire. "Isn't she her mother's child?"
"Yes, but she is better-looking than Kathleen. Don't fret, old man, accept the fact. She has got a look of our Kathleen, but she must take after her father, too. She doesn't get those eyes only fromour Kathleen. Why, they look as though you could never reach to the back of them."
"To be sure," said The Desmond. "Well, I can't part with her; that's plain. I'm alive all over again, and quite young with the thought of having her in the house."
"It'll take money to settle this matter, father," said Fergus. "If this John Mansfield is her real uncle, he mayn't want to give her up, and he can't be forced to give her up. It strikes me we'll have to pay him. Money settles most difficulties. Now my notion is this. You have turned against the Comte St. Juste, although you never clapped eyes on him. When our Kathleen took him for better or worse, you said you wouldn't see him or write to him or have anything to do with him. Then our girleen died after giving birth to the little one and then the poor Comte died, also, and you never breathed the name, never once, of the little colleen. But she came to you of her own accord and you have lost your heart to her."
"Lost my heart! I tell you, Fergus, my man, I'm mad about her."
"Well, then, we must get some one in to settle this question. I'll go by this very night's mail to John Mansfield and then, it strikes me—hold yourself in now, father, don't burst out. It strikes meI might go on to those French people and perhaps they'd help their son's child. You must keep her here by hook or by crook until I get back. I'll get the address of the French people from John Mansfield."
"But we don't even know Mansfield's address," muttered The Desmond.
"Oh, I see my way to that," said Fergus. "Will you put the matter into my hands, father, and I'll do my level best. There's that nice little farm of Cromartie's. We can mortgage that by-and-bye to get the little bit dear a dowry, but that's for the future. I'd do anything on earth to please you, dad, and Miss Drusilla McNab can turn the wee colleen into a fine lady. I'm thinking that between John Mansfield and those French folks I'll manage something. Can you give me that old gold watch, father, and a couple of pound notes just to take me to Dublin? That's all the money I'll ask for the present."
The interview ended by The Desmond putting two very crumpled and as a matter of fact very dirty one pound notes into Fergus' hand. He then gave him the old gold repeater and told him to be as quick a boy about his business as ever he could.
Fergus said as he was leaving the room, "Now, look you here, old man, this is a scheme between youand me and neither Madam herself nor the three girls, nor the boys, Bruce and Malachi, are to know anything whatsoever about it. If it can be done, it will be done, and I'm the boy to do it."
"Whist, lad," said his father, "where are you off to now?"
"You leave it to me, father, I must manage in my own way."
The Desmond sank back into his chair, his dark eyes deep and lustrous and a smile playing round his lips.
If only Fergus could succeed, if only he might keep the little mavourneen. He closed his eyes and slowly two tears fell over his wrinkled cheeks. He was thinking of a possible joy and of a past grief, but Fergus was the boy—there wasn't his like in the county.
Meanwhile Fergus made his way out by the backyard, crossed a tumbled-down stile without anyone noticing him and made his way in a bee line to the farm which was rented by Phinias Maloney.
Phinias was one of his father's best tenants and accordingly was entitled to a certain degree of respect. He never bothered about repairs either, and although the farm was going to ruin, he paid his rent each quarter-day like a man, and never asked for improvements.
"What did a little drop of wather matter," he said to "Herself," when the rain poured in through the badly thatched roof, "and whyever should they be botherin' theirselves about filling up gaps and such like. Wasn't The Desmond as bad off as himself and washegoin' to ruin The Desmond, not he! The gaps were mighty convanient for the young chickens and young ducklings to run in and out of the house and to take shelter when it rained hard on the roof of the old barn."
Yes, the farm was good enough for Phinias, if Desmondstown was good enough for The Desmond, and "Herself" must hold her chatter for he wasn't going to ask for what couldn't be done.
Thus the days went by and the weeks went by and Phinias was perfectly happy in the broken-down farm, but his delight knew no bounds when on a certain morning a little figure stepped lightly across the badly-kept yard, which was full of holes and numerous little pools of water in which young ducklings disported themselves.
"Why, if it isn't the little missie herself," cried Phinias. He strode out to meet Margot, who put her little cool hand into his.
"Oh, oh, Mr. Phinias Maloney, I couldn't get away a day sooner. I love The Desmond like mad and Madam and Fergus, but I don't care for theyoung old girls—only Aunt Eileen isn't so bad as the other two. They said they was only hatched about yesterday. When was you hatched, Mr. Phinias Maloney? You look miles younger than they do."
"Ah, whist, my littleacushla machree" said the farmer, "kape it up to thim that they are young and you'll be as happy as the day is long."
"But I don't want to. I like Aunt Eileen tolerable, and I love Uncle Fergus and I dote on my grand-dad and Madam. Oh, I say, I had to run away to come to you, Phinias, and there is Uncle Fergus coming in at the gate."
"Do you want to hide from him, pretty one?" said Phinias.
"Is it I that would hide?" said little Margot. "That's not me. Hullo, Uncle Fergus. I ran away this morning, all my lonesome, to have a talk with dear Phinias."
Fergus Desmond looked decidedly annoyed, but the frown quickly swept from his brow.
"Phinias," he said, turning to the man, "I want to have a few words in private with you. Take little missie in and introduce her to 'Herself' and the youngest baby."
"Oh, a baby!" cried Margot. "When—whenwas it hatched? Does it look as old as young Aunt Norah?"
"Whist, whist, missie darlint, come this way," said Phinias.
He took the little hand and led the child into the tumble-down kitchen.
"No remarks," he said, "ifyou please," dropping his voice to a whisper and introducing the little girl to "Herself," a handsome blue-eyed young woman of the true Kerry type of beauty. "The place is a bit shook up, I'm not goin' for to deny it; but neither will I let The Desmond be bothered puttin' it right. Now there's a straight tip for you, little missie. Annie, mavourneen, here's a swate little lady from Desmondstown, who I brought across the say all the way from England. She has come to pay us a call, kape her with yourself, Annie. I'll be back again in a twinklin'."
"When was the last baby hatched?" said Margot.
"Bless your heart, little missie," said Mrs. Maloney, "we don't talk of childer as hatched. He's two months old. I've called him Phinias after his dadda."
"Oh, oh,letme hold him," said little Margot, "oh, oh, I'm so glad he wasn't hatched. My aunties are hatched about every second day and it makes them so terrible young, and so, soqueer. Isn't he a perfect darling? May I kiss him, Mrs. Phinias—'cause I'msofond of your husband."
"Bless you, pretty one, to be sure you may."
While little Margot and "Herself" were engrossed over the two-months-old baby and Margot was expressing her intense delight that it wasreallya very young baby—"properyoung," she said, raising her deep, dark eyes to the young mother's face—Fergus Desmond was giving way to a certain amount of anger. He was a good fellow, one of the best in Ireland, but he was eaten up with an Irishman's pride and he did not want his little niece to be "hail-fellow-well-met" even with so good a man as Phinias Maloney.
A slight consideration, however, caused him to see the absurdity of these feelings. He had no cause to abuse poor Phinias, who was one of his own father's best tenants. The frown, therefore, smoothed away from his brow and he walked beside Phinias into one of the meadows at the back of the tumble-down farm.
"Ye may wonder that missie comes to see me, sir," exclaimed Phinias, who had been quite quick enough to discern the frown of displeasure on theyoung masther's brow. "Why, thin, I'll explain to yourself," he continued. "She's a little miss that ain't to be seen often, and she was put into my charge on board the boat. Why to be sure I didn't recognise John Mansfield at the first go-off, but when I did, I couldn't but accept the duty put on me. She's a dear little miss and wasn't no throuble at all even to sphake about, only she was fair mad to get to Desmondstown."
"Now, listen, Phinias, I want to speak to you," said Fergus. "Time is short and there is a great deal to be done. I want you to tell me, my good fellow, all that you know of John Mansfield."
"All that I know, Mr. Desmond? I know nought but what's good about the best gintleman that ever walked. It isn't to say that he's middlin' good, but he's high up among the saints, your honour. He's a priest of the Holy Church. Nobody must say a word against John Mansfield 'fore me, yer beautiful honour."
"I don't want to say a word against the man," said Fergus. "You just told me that he put a little child into your care."
"Yes, he did, and as dacent and as purty a colleen as could be found in the breadth of the British Isles."
"I know all about her," said Fergus. "The childis a dear child. She is my niece and granddaughter to The Desmond, but what I want to find out is this—how she comes to be niece also to John Mansfield."
"Sure then, did ye never hear of Farmer Mansfield of these parts?"
"What," said Fergus, stepping back a pace and a frown coming over his handsome features. "You don't mean to insinuate that my niece is a relation of that old scoundrel?"
"The man took to dhrink and dhrink finished him entirely," said Phinias, "but his son John was always a good boy, always and forever—good of the good and best of the best, and how could he possibly be responsible for the sins of his fathers? He saved money and had himself eddicated—eh, fine; fine. He's a mighty scholard is John Mansfield and has the gentlest and truest heart in the world and he took missie when she was a babby and reared her up fine and she calls him her uncle."
"Oh, well, he's not her uncle," said Fergus.
"Don't be so sure of that, Mr. Desmond, your honour. He's her uncle near as much as you are."
"What do you mean?" said Desmond.
"I'll tell ye, sir, if ye'll give me time to get me breath. Well, it was like this. You may remember how beautiful, lovely Miss Kathleen went toLondon and married a Frenchy, but nobody ever said a word about Miss Priscilla."
Fergus found himself starting.
"Miss Priscilla got tired of the life at Desmondstown and she come to me one evening late, as sure as I'm standing here, and she says, says she, 'I'm going to London after Kathleen, and if Kathleen has married, why shouldn't I?' Eh, to be sure I did what I could to stop her, but she would have her way. She wrote to The Desmond and tell't him that she had married and she didn't want no bones made about it, and she never mentioned the name of her husband, honest man. I've heard tell that she's turned out a sharp, sour woman, but she's married to John Mansfield—the best man that ever walked. So he's uncle by marriage to little missie. It's all a fact, yer honour, ye can't help it. Ye must swallow your pride, and all I can say is this, that John Mansfield deserved a better lot."
"Well, tell me this," said Fergus after a time. "I never cared for Priscilla—we none of us did—she was the eldest of the whole house, even older than my sister Norah, and tried to rule us with a rod of iron. If it hadn't been for my father, The Desmond, she would have made the place unbearable. So she took the child when her parents died?"
"She did so," replied Phinias. "It was the only good thing she done as far as I hear tell on."
"Listen to me, Phinias," said Fergus, "I want your help in this matter."
"To be sure, to be sartin sure, yer honour."
"Well, it's like this," said Fergus. "Don't you let it out to your wife or your neighbours. Keep it close within your breast."
"I will that, yer honour. I am wonderful at kapin' a sacret."
"Well, this is the state of things," said Fergus. "My father is an old man and full of years, and Madam, bless her heart, is not too young, and they've both taken a fancy to the little push-keen. We want to keep her, Phinias."
"Oh, Lord, sir; yer honour I mane, whatever for?"
"For the sake of my father," said Fergus. "He's gone fair mad over the child, and if John Mansfield has got a grain of human nature in him, he won't part the child from her own true grandfather. I'm going to see him to-night, but not a word is to be mentioned to little miss, and I want you to give me his address, Phinias Maloney."
"Well, to be sure, I can do that fine," said Phinias. "Didn't he give me his kyard when he put the bit colleen into my care, and didn't he looknigh to weepin'. He's an elegant man, yer honour, and he loves the little colleen like anythin'. There's nothin' on earth he wouldn't do for the pretty dear, but I can see that he's mortal afraid of 'herself'—that's Miss Priscilla that was. His address is Handley Vicarage, Balderstown, near Earlminster. You won't see much of the old farmer in the Rev. John Mansfield, yer honour. To look at, he's a gintleman as good as yourself and with 'the spiritual eye.'"
"Whatever do you mean by that, Phinias?"
"Ah, thin," exclaimed Phinias, "it's given but to a rare few, and they lives—well, somewhere above the stars I'm thinking—close to the golden gates, by the same token. There's no difference between 'The's' and Priests and Marquises and Counts wherehehas fixed his gaze, yer honour. He's a howly man, that's what he be and 'the spiritual eye' in him is downright wonderful."
"Well, thank ye, Phinias," said Fergus, after a pause. "I don't quite understand your full meaning, but I want the wee push-keen for my father, and if I can get her I will. How, then, will you call her out to me, for she may as well ride home on my shoulder?"
"Ah to be sure, the pretty bit dear," said the farmer.
He entered his untidy kitchen somewhatsorrowfully. He was thinking of John Mansfield. He did not see—being a very upright man himself—why even The Desmond should be considered, when he had taken no notice at all of the little 'herself' all these long, long years, and he thought his honour, Mr. Fergus, somewhat cruel to drag the child from his own friend.
Fergus, however, having got the information he required did not give Phinias Maloney a further thought.
Margot, in the highest spirits, rode back to Desmondstown on her uncle's shoulder. She had by this time become great friends with Aunt Eileen and she endured the passionate caresses of old young Aunt Norah and old young Aunt Bridget. She chattered a good deal as they all ate their lunch together about the baby who was real—real young.
Aunt Norah let out one of her whoops and then one of her screeches, but The Desmond was too much absorbed with his plan to take much notice of her. On that same evening Fergus started for Rosslareen routefor Fishguard. He managed to find time to sell the old gold repeater and had in consequence sufficient money in his pocket for his immediate wants.
Fergus Desmond did not much mind his shabby attire, nor his unwieldy-looking boots, nor hisaltogether Irish appearance. He had a goal in view and that goal he was determined to carry through if it cost him half his life. The Desmond was mad about little Margot and The Desmond must be satisfied.
All in good time he arrived at Handley Vicarage. He enquired at once for the Rev. John Mansfield. Hannah opened the door for him and stared at him a good bit. It seemed as though Hannah, who was a most astute woman, was tracing out a likeness between Fergus and somebody else. Who could the somebody else be? Surely—surely not the bit girlie. Hannah was devoted to Margot and had bitterly regretted her visit to Ireland, but she was in all the throes of spring cleaning at the present moment, and altogether it was an awkward time for Fergus Desmond to come.
"My master's out at the present moment," she said, "but if you'll tell me your name, sir, I'll let him know if you'd like to call again."
"I'll wait here for him, thanks," said Fergus, "and I'd rather not give my name."
"He's a burglar like as not," thought Hannah, but there was something so masterful and big and grave about this dark-eyed man that she could not by any possibility attempt to oppose him. She accordingly put him into the study and a few minutes later John Mansfield entered the room. JohnMansfield was thought a tall man by his English parishioners, but as he crossed the room to welcome the stranger, who was totally and completely a stranger to him, he looked small by comparison with Fergus Desmond.
Fergus, however, was immediately fired by that curious admiration for the man himself, which all those who knew him felt. There was, according to Phinias, "the spiritual eye" very distinctly visible in John Mansfield.
"I must introduce myself," said Fergus. "I am an Irishman."
"Ah, to be sure, sit down, won't ye?" said John Mansfield. His heart gave a thump in his breast. Ireland for him at that moment only meant Desmondstown, where his little Margot, his little treasure, was staying.
"And my name," continued Fergus, dropping into a chair, "is Fergus Desmond."
"Not—not of Desmondstown!" gasped John Mansfield. "My God, speak the truth at once, lad—not of Desmondstown?"
"Yes, of Desmondstown, where else?"
"Then you have brought bad news—something has gone wrong with my—my little darling."
"No, sir, nothing has gone wrong. Ease your mind, once and for all. The child has won the loveof everyone in the house, and The Desmond and Madam they want to keep her. That's what I've come about, Mr. Mansfield. For the matter of that, you are my brother-in-law, sir. You have married my sister Priscilla."
"I have so," said Mansfield, "and she's a good woman."
"She's not at home now, is she?" asked Fergus.
"No, thank the—I mean she won't be back for over a week, Mr. Desmond."
"You had best call me Fergus, John," said the other man.
"If you like it, I will, but it don't seem fair. I never set myself up to be one of your class."
"Well, never mind that, you are married to my eldest sister and you are a good man; I can see that by your face."
"I try my best, Mr. Fergus, but we are none of us good. There's a heavy load of sin on us all, and I'm no better than my neighbours."
"You ask Phinias Maloney and he'll tell you a very different story," said Fergus, a grim smile passing over his stern features.
"Ah, Phinias," said John Mansfield. "He always had the heart of the matter in him. But tell me again what you have come about, Mr. Fergus. You don't want to take my girleen from me."
"That's what I do want. Tell me truthfully, does her aunt love the child?"
"I can't say that she does," replied John Mansfield, "but discipline is good for us all."
"Well now, listen to me, John Mansfield. The Desmond is getting old and when an old man sets his heart on a thing, it's bad—it's terribly bad to upset him. Let him have all his wishes until the breath leaves his body."
"Sir, why didn't The Desmond write about little Margot before now?"
"He didn't think of her and that's the truth," said Fergus.
"But Ididthink of her," said John Mansfield. "She's the light of my heart—the joy of my life. Haven't I trained her and loved her and taught her since her father's death when she was barely two years of age? I had hard work to bring Priscilla round to my keeping her at all, but now—now she's my sunshine and joy and you want to take her from me. Don't you think you're a cruel man, Mr. Desmond?"
"No I don't; I'm thinking that the old man won't live long. I expect it is a bit of a sacrifice to you, John Mansfield, but you might think of the old who have so few days before them. And the little one shall have every care and be well taught and evenhave a dowry provided for her. I am sure your wife would give her consent, and she'sherniece—not yours—John Mansfield."
"That's true; Priscilla wouldn't mind," said Mansfield. "She'd be glad to get rid of her."
"Then, man, whyever do you hesitate? You are only her uncle by marriage. You can't keep her away from her grandfather if he wants her."
John Mansfield rose from his seat and walked to the window. He stood there for some time, looking out with a very steady and fixed gaze. At the end of that time the cloud which had covered his brow disappeared. Then he went up to Desmond and laid his delicate and refined hand on the other man's shoulder.
"I won't say any longer that you are doing a cruel thing," he said, "but if it's a case of adoption, I must get Priscilla's leave, and I must go to the present Comte St. Juste and see what he says about his son's child being adopted by the Desmonds. If it's done it must be done properly."
"I'm willing; I'm quite willing," said Fergus. "Where does the Comte St. Juste live?"
"At a place called Arles in France. There's the old château still standing and I'm told they are terribly poor, but the child belongs to them as muchas to you. I hear they are greedy, too; they may want a hit of money to give her up."
"John Mansfield," said Fergus, "if you lend me fifty pounds you and I might go together to see the Comte St. Juste and I'll pay it back to you as sure as I am a Desmond of Desmondstown when I return home again. Let us start at once, my good sir. You'll help me to get the little one for my father."
"I got my quarter's income yesterday," said John Mansfield. "I must keep some of it to live on, but I can let you have thirty pounds. I didn't know when I sent my little treasure to Desmondstown that it would come to this. You must do with thirty pounds, Fergus Desmond, I can't spare any more."
"I'll do with thirty pounds," said Desmond.
"Very well; we'll start for London to-night. This is the room where she and I were so happy together. Here is the little shelf where she kept her Latin and Greek books."
"My good gracious, you didn't teach her the dead languages?" said Fergus.
"I did, for certain. She was the aptest little pupil you could find in your march through life."
"I'll have her taught fine," said Fergus, "but you are a good—very good man, Mansfield."
"Don't say that again," replied Mansfield. "The heart knoweth its own wickedness and its ownsorrows. I can't explain what I feel and if I could, I wouldn't. I'll be ready to accompany you this very evening, Mr. Desmond."
"Fergus Desmond, please," said the future heir to The Desmond.
Mansfield left the room. Fergus looked round the shabby little study. He took up the Latin and Greek books and a sense of amazement possessed him. If it had not been for his old father he would not have gone on with this thing. He felt he had never seen a man like John Mansfield before. Fergus thought a good deal of rank and old family, but Mansfield was above all that kind of thing. He was higher up. He had, in fact, reached the soul heights, where earthly rank counts for nothing.
By-and-bye he came back, the colour in his cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes.
"I have news for you, Fergus," he said, "sudden, unexpected. Priscilla has come home."
"My goodness," said Fergus, "we all vowed that we would never speak to her again."
"Because she married me?" said Mansfield, with a sort of angelic smile.
"Yes, we were fools. I should like to see my sister, and I tell you honestly, Mansfield, that I think she has got the best of the bargain."
"But there is one thing I must add," continuedMansfield. "I cannot go with you to France to-night. I cannot desert my wife on her unexpected return."
There was a loud, harsh voice heard in the hall.
"Maggie, Maggie, where are you, Marguerite?"
Mansfield hurriedly left the study; his firm, refined face assumed a somewhat slight and delicate flush; he drew himself up to his slender height, a half-suppressed sigh rose to his lips and then he disappeared. Fergus Desmond heard him murmur to himself,
"She's a good woman, yes, she's a good woman, and I—I have deceived her," but whether Mrs. Mansfield was good or bad, nothing could exceed her wild rage and anger when she encountered her husband in the little narrow hall and when he told her, which he did firmly and gently, that he had sent little Margot to visit her relations in Ireland.
"I didn't act fair by you, Priscilla," he said, "and I'm more than willing to own it, but the child pined to see her own people, and I—I, yes, I let her go."
"The little brat," said Mrs. Mansfield, "and pray what money did you give her? She couldn't cross the briny with nothing in her pocket."
"She didn't have a penny of yours, Priscilla; but wait, whist, I have something to say...."
Whatever that something may have been, it was interrupted in a most startling and unpleasant manner, for Fergus Desmond also opened the door of the little study and stood in the hall. He was exactly three years younger than Priscilla, and Priscilla could not mistake him for a moment. She disliked all her family, but perhaps she disliked Fergus the most, for Fergus would never give in to her or submit to her scoldings, and even the lively Norah and the old young Bridget found their brother a rock of defense on the occasions when Priscilla rounded on them.
"I've come, Prissy," he said, not offering to kiss her or even to take her hand. "I see you are exactly the same as ever. I pity from the bottom of my heart the good man you have made your husband."
"You pity the son of a farmer for having married a Desmond of Desmondstown," almost hissed the good lady.
"I pity the man you have married—I care nothing about his ancestry. He's got a good bit of property I'm thinking in amore enduring country than this. But now, about the child. I came over on purpose to speak to you and John about her. My father, The Desmond, wants to keep her andfrom what I can see of you, Prissy, you'll be glad to be rid of her."
Mrs. Mansfield was at first so much startled at seeing her brother that she could find no words to reply, but now they came in what in Ireland might be called not only a flow but a rapid torrent.
"Ah, to be sure," she said, "that's a nice thing to come and say and do. I took the child when she was too small for anyone else to think about her. I took her and cared for her and nursed her and trained her and sat up with her at night when she had the whooping-cough and the measles, and now that she is a strong colleen you want to take her from me. All I can tell you is this, Fergus, you don't get her, so there! She can be of use to me now," repeated Mrs. Mansfield, "and I won't give her up. That's my answer. You can go, Fergus. There is nothing more to be said."
"But there is something more to be said, good wife," said John Mansfield. "I have given in—I, who love the little creature as though she were my own."
"Oh, do stop your foolery, John," said Mrs. Mansfield. "Who cares whether you love her or not? It's the plague of my life the way you go on about her."
"I can't help loving her, dear, no more than you can help—help hating her."
"Who said I hated her? That's a nice thing to repeat to my brother."
"Well, then, give her up, Priscilla."
"I won't, unless I'm paid," said Priscilla. "She's a perfect torment of a child and I never did think when I went away to visit my sick friend that I should be treated in so mean and so deceitful a manner. I won't give her up unless I'm paid," screamed Priscilla. "How much are you prepared to offer me for her, Fergus?"
"I'll give you fifteen pounds, Priscilla. I'll send it to you from Desmondstown, but first of all this good fellow and I must go and see the child's French relations."
"Oh you must, indeed, must you? A fine fuss you are making—a fine hue and cry about a beggar's brat, whom nobody took any notice of at all until the last week or so."
"Come along now, ma'am, and sup up your tea," said Hannah, who just then added her own goodly proportions to the group in the hall. "I have a beautiful egg boiled as light as anything for you and new laid as though it had dropped out of the nest, and a little bit of curled up bacon. Master,you take the gentleman into the study and I'll see after Mrs. Mansfield."
Now if there was one person in the world whom Mrs. Mansfield both respected andfearedit was her old-fashioned servant, Hannah. Hannah had lived with her ever since her marriage, solely and entirely first on account of Mr. Mansfield, and then because of the sweet brown-eyed baby. She hated the woman for herself, but she would have done more than put up with her for the sake of that good man, John Mansfield, and for the sake of the bit girleen. She was a Yorkshire woman, firm and determined. She kept the house very clean, she allowed no waste anywhere and in some extraordinary way she managed to rule Priscilla Desmond that was. She ruled her by being outspoken and by letting this Irishwoman see what she really was.
"Here's your supper, ma'am," she said. "You'd better sit down quiet-like and eat it."
"Hannah, I've been treated shameful—shameful."
Hannah put her arms akimbo and stared fixedly at her mistress.
"I can't see for the life of me where the 'shameful' comes in," she said, "and whatever made ye come back a week or more before ye were wanted. Wasn't the master and me in the thick of housecleaning when you come bally-ragging us?"
"I couldn't help it, Hannah. My friend got a bad attack of pleurisy, and you know I can never standseriousillness—it's more than I've nerve for."
"Oh you are not lacking in nerve, ma'am. When you told all those lies about sitting up with the child that time she had measles and whooping-cough. It wasn'tyouthat sat up, bless your heart, it was the master and me. There's no sense in what I callsuselesslies, and them was useless. The master knew it, and he give one of those quick little sighs of his that cut me to the very bone, back behint the heart, and, what's more, that fine gentleman from Ireland knew it—I saw it in his face. You are perjuring yourself more every day, Mrs. Mansfield, and you'd best step easy and go more cautious if you want ever to get to Heaven. There, now, you are crying—that'll do you good. This tea is prime. I bought it at Dawson's out of my own wages this morning, and this little curly crisp bit of bacon with the new-laid egg will hearten you up. Eat and drink, ma'am, and be decent to your good husband and, for the Lord's sake, let the child go where she will be loved. There is no one loves her in this house but the master and me. There, to be sure, haven't I got in a girl who is trying tosmoothher work? I must get at her to see that shebottomsit properly. Take your tea and eat your egg and think on your sins. That's all I have got to say toyou."
Hannah had certainly managed to say a good deal in this short but pungent lecture, and the immediate consequence was that Mrs. Mansfield was comparatively reasonable when her husband and Fergus saw her next. She confessed that children were a nuisance and if Fergus gave her twenty pounds she wouldn't mind parting with the child.
"It can't he done," said Mansfield firmly.
"Whatever do you mean by that, John Mansfield?"
"Exactly what I say, dear love. The little one has been the joy and blessing of my life. I can never express to this good brother of yours what little Margot has been to me and if I give her up at all, I give her up from a sense of duty, but I won't allow you to receive money for her."
"And right you are, sir, right you are," said Hannah, who came into the room at that moment. "The missus wouldn't touch a brass farthing for the kiddy when she gets over the kind of shock ofseeing that fine man her brother. I'll manage her, master dear, you needn't trouble your head."
It so happened that Hannah had her way. She did manage Mrs. Mansfield and, what was more, she got everything in order for her master and Fergus Desmond to start for their expedition to Arles, not that night but on the following morning. How neither of these good gentlemen knew a word of the French tongue, but they did discover by the aid of atlases, etc., the direction in which Arles was situated and they started off on their quest for little Margot's French relations at an early hour the next day.
They arrived at Arles on the following evening and, after making enquiries by means of one of Cook's interpreters, they discovered the Château St. Juste. Arles is a lively and busy place and more than one person watched the singular pair as they passed down an avenue of plane-trees and by-and-bye came to some heavy iron gates, which the said interpreter informed them opened on to the avenue, and eventually led to the Château St. Juste. The interpreter then felt that he had done his duty.
Fergus paid him twenty francs and a sprightly little woman, quite young and very lively, came out of a small and daintily furnished lodge to greet them.
"Ah, but you are Anglais," she said, "it goes without saying. I will take you down to thechâteau if messieurs so desire. Monsieurmon mariis ill, but it matters not—he can talk the English—ah,charmant! He has fallen ill of the accursedgrippe, but I nurse him well and he will soon be restored. Come, then, my good messieurs, come for yourselves and see le Comte St. Juste. I am his wife, it goes without saying. He is old and I am young, that also goes without saying. Follow me, messieurs, you will be rewarded when you see all that I have done for the castle. It was in ruins—ah! but I had mydot, chersmessieurs. I made my money by means of thechapeauxand thetrès chicgarments for the differentfêteswhich abound at Arles. Ah, but I made my pile—my pile, and the Comte he worships me, and I myself amla Comtesse. Think you not it was well done, and think you I am ashamed of how I made mydot? Ah,mais non, mais non! The beautiful hats are made for the beautiful youth, the beautiful robes,très distinguées très comme il faut, are also made for the young and lovely, but see! I get my price, the true price—one hundred and fifty francs for one littlechapeau, one thousand francs for a robe which might be distinguished in any part of Paris. Ah, think not of it any more. It is over. I am Madame la Comtesse and Monsieur is le Comte and I put the place—ah, into its bridal dress. See! behold! Nota weed, not an entanglement—all of the most spotless. Think what the place was! One raises the eyebrow at the thought, and behold it now! Monsieur the Comte, he is that eaten up withjoiethat he can scarcely contain himself. Ah, messieurs, have I not done well?"
"You have done very well," said John Mansfield.
The little French lady turned towards him and gave him a sparkling nod.
"You come from the coldAngleterre?" she enquired.
"I live in England and I love that country very dearly," said John Mansfield.
"Ah, and you, monsieur?" the black eyes fixed themselves on the eyes which were almost as black as Fergus Desmond's.
"I come from Ireland," he said. "I have come on a matter of great importance; I wish to speak to your husband, madame."
"Ah,certainement, certainement. Oh, la! la! you shall have your way. But Ireland—Ireland, have you not a name, monsieur?"
"My name is Desmond of Desmondstown," said Fergus in his slow, grave voice.
The little madame gave a sort of bounce in the air.
"Then the day of greatest joy has arrived," shesaid. "My poor husband, he frets day and night, oh, but he has no reason. He is not ravished as he ought to be with all those good things that I have provided him with. His son, his only son, married! Ah, but it was a Paul and Virginia affair. He married a young Irish lady of beauty the most superb. I know it, for she came here andIsold her achapeauand arobe. Ah, but you are like her, monsieur—you of Ireland, I mean."
"I am her brother," said Fergus.
"Did I not say it was a day of joy," exclaimed the little Comtesse. "Well, she was beautiful and they loved her all of them, but the Comte, my good husband, he was harassed much because there was not the customarydot, and he made the young m'sieur Henri, the husband of the beautiful madame, angry with bitter words and the young m'sieur he took, yes, he took his wife away. She was like a star for loveliness and then we heard that she had died, and shortly afterwards we got the information that the romantic ideas ofmon pauvre mariwere never to be fulfilled, for the young Comte died also somewhere in that bitterAngleterreand we lost sight of the good babe that had been put into his hands by his young lovely wife before she departed tole bon Dieu. Ah, but those were sad times! This is the house, messieurs, nowwe will enter, and I will tell M'sieur le Comte that you have arrived."
The two men were left staring at each other. The château was in truly French style, and although it looked perfectly neat and tidy lacked the air of comfort which John Mansfield's little home possessed, and which was even to be seen in Desmondstown.
After a very short interval Madame appeared again on the scene.
"Alors, je vais vous présenter à l'instant.Follow me, I beg. Rest you here, M'sieur." She pointed to a little lounge in a gaily decorated drawing-room, "and I will take M'sieur, the Irish gentleman, to see my husband. I will bring youl'eau sucrée, tout-de-suite. Now follow me, M'sieur from Ireland."
Fergus Desmond gave his friend a glance of dismay.
"Be sure that all will be well," murmured the Rev. John Mansfield. There was a sort of intense encouragement in the words, and, holding his head very erect and pushing back his fine square shoulders, Fergus followed Madame la Comtesse into a peculiarly arrangedsalon, which was half a bedroom, half a sitting-room.
On a sofa, supported by many pillows, andcovered by a thick crimson plush rug, lay a thin, very old, very worn man. He had all the inimitable grace of his nation, and would have sprung to his feet to put his heels and knees together, and make the necessary bow if Madame had not interrupted him.
"Alphonse, thou naughty one, thou must not rise," she exclaimed. "Rest at thine ease on thy cushions of down, and I will talk to the stranger with the good face in the other room. M'sieur Desmond will divert thee, my little Comte." Here she pressed a light kiss on his forehead and danced out of the room.
The first thing that Fergus felt when he found himself quite alone with the Comte St. Juste was the extraordinary likeness the old man bore to little Margot. It is true that it was a likeness between extreme youth and extreme age. Nevertheless, it was there. The shape of the face, the aristocratic poise of the head were repeated in the old man and the young child. There was a flush of childish pleasure now on the old Comte's cheeks. He spoke in a hurried voice,
"Behold! are you indeed a Desmond?"
"Undoubtedly. I am the eldest son of The Desmond of Desmondstown and in our country 'The' is the proudest of all titles."
"All, ah," said the Comte, "I know it not, I know it not. But see—I speak the English tongue. You doubtless bring me information. I have been long, long pining for my grandchild. Do you know whether the little one born to my Henri was son or daughter? All in vain have I made enquiries, but I have dreamt of that little one, by day and by night. Have you brought me news of her—of him?"
Fergus felt his heart sink within him.
"There is a child," he said, "a daughter. She is not so very young now—she will be twelve in ten months. She is beautiful. She came to us of her own accord and The Desmond wants to keep her."
"Mais non, non," exclaimed the old Comte. "Is she not the child of my son, my only son? And if she is eleven, she will ere long be marriageable. Ho, sir, no, M'sieur Desmond, I willnotgive her up."
"I thought, sir, we mightpayyou," began Desmond, who was not very tactful, and longed beyond words to have the clergyman by his side.
The old Comte moved restlessly. He coughed also; he waved his hot hands. At that instant Madame la Comtesse entered, accompanied by the Rev. John Mansfield.
"I have been hearing the story, the romance," she said. "Ah, but it is of the most romantic. See! I deliver myself.Écoutez.These are my words:
"The little Comtesse, for by the French usages she is also a Comtesse, belongs tous, M'sieur Desmond. But we do not wish to be unfair. This is what I propose. Ah, mon Alphonse, I adore thee, yes, hopelessly, incurably, I adore thee to the folly. Sip this iced lemonade, my adoring love, and then listen to the words of a French Comtesse, who knows how exactly to make the words come right, to make the thoughts come quickly, to put the ideas straight. The little one, it seems, belongs both to thee, my adorable Alphonse, and also to the father of this good gentleman from Ireland. Let's divide her, therefore. We have her half the time, and the good Desmond the other half the time, and I begin immediately to make herdot. See, my beloved one, see! Is it not sense? The two grandpapas shake hands over the head of the little one."
"It seems to me the best idea of all," said the Rev. John Mansfield. Now this man had a wonderfully sweet voice, but while he uttered these words, his heart was like lead within him, for while the two grandfathers claimed the possession of little Margot, she was to him the life of life. She was to him the joy of all joy, but not for the world would he interfere with what he knew was right. He thought of a home no longer joyful, blessed,cheerful, merry, and then he pushed that thought out of sight. He was here to mediate, to arrange.
The old Comte gave an impatient sigh.
"I tell thee what it is, my good Ninon," he said. "I have not the secret of eternal youth. I must have my little one soon—at once—or behold I die. These limbs grow cold, this heart ceases to beat. M'sieur Desmond, I will have her now—at once—for three months, then your father of the title so high and proud can have her for three months. Is that not fair, will not that suffice?"
"It is fair and it must suffice," said Fergus.
"Then go, my good M'sieur. Go quickly, I entreat, and return with thebébéto her French home. Will you not go? It will be good forl'enfant, the little Comtesse St. Juste. But hold for one moment, the heart and the head get hopelessly mixed. Whatdotcan we settle on her, Ninon,ma petite?"
"Fifteen hundred thousand francs," replied Ninon without a moment's hesitation, "and when Monsieur the Irishman brings the little Comtesse here, we will have a notary present to sign the agreement, so that on her marriage day she shall be much looked up to, and I myself will arrange the marriage according to the true French style."
"We do not want anydotat all," began Fergusin an angry voice, but John Mansfield rose and interrupted him.
"We will go home at once and fetch the little one so that you may have three months' joy in her society, M'sieur le Comte," he said. "At the end of that time, I will myself fetch her to spend three months with her Irish grandfather."
"That is well," said the Comte; "that is as it ought to be."
"How soon then may we expect the little Comtesse Margot?" said the present Comtesse St. Juste.
"Within a week from now," said Fergus firmly.
"Ah, then, I must be preparing her little wardrobe. Think of that, my adorable Alphonse. The wardrobe of thy little Comtesse. Of what height is she, M'sieur Desmond, and of what breadth and of what colour? My taste is of the rarest. Come with me for one moment all alone, M'sieur Mansfield; you have seen most of her and can describe her best."