"I'LL EXPLAIN TO YOURSELF."
While little Margot and "Herself" were engrossed over the
two-months-old baby and Margot was expressing her intense delight that
it was _really_ a very young baby--"_proper_ young," 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 the young 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 child is 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 to London 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 look nigh 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 where _he_ has 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 somewhat sorrowfully. 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 Rosslare _en route_ for
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 his altogether 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.
John Mansfield 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 love of 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 I _did_ think 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 even have a dowry provided for her.
I am sure your wife would give her consent, and she's _her_ niece--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 much as 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 own sorrows. 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," continued Mansfield. "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 a _more 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 and from 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 and _feared_ it 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 stand _serious_ illness--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't _you_ that sat up, bless your heart, it was
the master and me. There's no sense in what I calls _useless_ lies,
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 to _smooth_
her work? I must get at her to see that she _bottoms_ it properly. Take
your tea and eat your egg and think on your sins. That's all I have got
to say to _you_."