IT IS JOYFUL TO BEHOLD THEE, MY PUSHKEEN.
On their way back to Desmondstown, Margot told Uncle Fergus that she
meant to tell The Desmond everything.
"He will be shocked," returned Fergus Desmond.
"No," replied Margot, "the truth told as I shall tell it can never
shock anyone. I will not allow him to think me what I am not. Uncle
Fergus, I thought you were too great to permit it."
"I have not your strength of character, my child," said The Desmond of
the future.
As little Margot had come back to Desmondstown now to live, as it was
to be her home in the future, with the exception of the one month which
she would spend with _la belle_ grand'mère, and as _mon_ grandpère was
dead, her return was quiet and without that sense of rejoicing which
stimulated it on her last return. There were no bonfires; there were
no excited, screaming peasants; but Phinias Maloney was there with his
little old cart, and the baby had grown so big that his mother thought
that she might bring him out just for the bit colleen to kiss him.
They drove quietly up to the rickety old house.
The girls were standing in the hall, all three of them dressed as young
and as little like their age as ever. They all came forward to greet
her, but Auntie Norah cried out:
"Whyever aren't ye in black, pushkeen?"
"Why should I be in black?" replied Margot.
"Because, for sure, isn't your French grandfather killed entirely?"
"My French grandfather is in heaven, and very--very happy," said
Margot. "He is with God, the dear God who loves us all, and I am
not going to wear black for him, for if he could speak to me now he
wouldn't like it. I loved him most dearly; I shall always love his
memory, but now I want The Desmond and Madam."
"Then whip into the room," said Bridget. "Why, to say the least of it,
you know your way about, pushkeen."
"Yes," said Margot. She could not help giving a happy little laugh; she
could not help feeling a great load rolling off her heart. This was
her real home, her beloved home, her home of all homes. There were no
people like the Irish; there was no one in the world like The Desmond.
She was wearing a little dress of thick, white serge, coat and skirt
to match, and a piece of white fox fur round her neck; her little cap
was also of white and was pushed back off her dark hair. Her cheeks
were blooming with roses. The Desmond had felt a momentary fear at the
thought of meeting his little granddaughter, but when he saw her with
her rosy cheeks and brilliant dark eyes and white apparel, he gave a
sigh of rapture.
"Eh, eh, but it is joyful to behold ye, my pushkeen," he cried, and
then they were clasped in each other's arms.
Madam went out, as was her custom, to prepare supper for the little
pushkeen; and this was Margot's opportunity to tell her proud old
grandfather what had occurred.
She told him all from beginning to end; her great dark eyes were fixed
on his face; his eyes, nearly as dark, regarded her gravely. She did
not leave out a single point. She explained the entire secret, the
miserable little secret which had turned her into a shopgirl, all for
such a wretched thing as a _dot_.
Certainly The Desmond was very grave at first--the colour mounted to
his cheeks and he clenched one of his great strong hands; but when
Margot went on to describe _mon_ grandpère's death, and then the
arrangement which had been finally decided on after the funeral, by
which Margot gave up her _dot_, returning it absolutely to _la belle_
grand'mère and only keeping the old Château for herself--which she
could not give away, for she inherited it from her father and her
grandfather--then the old man changed his attitude.
He burst into a loud guffaw. He rose to his immense height and folded
the pushkeen in his arms, and cried:
"Hip, hip, hurrah! Hip, hip, hurrah! Old Ireland forever! The Desmonds
forever! Their pluck, their spirit to the world's end!"
Madam, hearing a loud noise, came hastily in, and The Desmond told her
to calm herself and to look upon the pushkeen as a gem of the purest
water.
"She has been telling me things that set me up," was his remark; "they
set me up fine, but they are to go no further. Quit any curious ways,
my woman; get my pushkeen her supper. Old Ireland forever! Hip, hip,
hurrah! Hip, hip, hurrah!"
So little Margot sat on her grandfather's knee and ate the excellent
food provided for her by dear, sweet, dainty little Madam, and then,
being really very tired, she dropped asleep, with her head leaning on
The Desmond's breast, and her dark hair pressed against his white beard.
"Eh, but she's the wonder," said The Desmond; "and I won't have her
woke, that I won't, if she lies here all night long. She's mine forever
and ever now. Thank the Lord God Almighty and His blessed Son, Jesus
Christ, and the Holy Spirit and the angels and the archangels and all
the hosts of heaven, for their mercies! I've got her and she's mine!
My pushkeen, my mavourneen, my blessed brave little lamb. I tell you,
Mary, she's a heroine. She's better than the best--what more can an old
man say?"
Margot did awake in time to go up to her own snug little bedroom, to
slip into her own cosy bed, and to sleep the sound sleep of the weary.
But before he went to bed himself that night, The Desmond had a talk
with Fergus.
"We've got her back, Fergus boy," he said. "She's ours now forever."
"Yes, that's true enough, forever."
"She has let out something to me," said The Desmond, "which I can't
repeat and won't for the life of me."
"Don't then, father," said Fergus.
"But she's a heroine," said The Desmond.
"I always reckoned she was born that way," said Fergus.
"I'm not going to tell you her bit of a secret, my man."
"I say, father, I'm not wanting to hear it."
"But you and me, Fergus, we must provide for her. We must settle a bit
of a dower on her."
"I'm thinking that way myself," said Fergus.
"We'll talk it over to-morrow," said The Desmond.
"We will, father," said Fergus. "We'll do something fine for the
pushkeen; she's worth it."
"Worth it!" cried The Desmond. "There never was her like before in the
world. Good-night, Fergus. You are my heir, remember, and you'll be
The Desmond after me. But listen here and now--old men die off quick
sometimes, and if anything happens to me she's your charge."
"Of course, father; can you doubt it?"
"That's all right. I'm going to bed," said The Desmond. He slowly left
the room. There was a great rejoicing in his heart; he saw real, true
goodness when it was brought before him. The little pushkeen should not
suffer for her confidence in him. He had loved her before; now his love
filled his heart to the very brim.
Fergus sat for some time by the turf fire in his father's sitting-room
and laughed quietly and softly to himself at the way the little
pushkeen had managed The Desmond, who imagined _he_ was the only
one of all the family of Desmonds who knew the true story of the
_établissement_ at Arles.
"I never saw the old fellow so took up with anything," thought Fergus
to himself. "The girls and Bruce and Malachi must never know, and
of course I'll _pretend_ never to know. It's all right--better than
right--brave little pushkeen."