THE GLORIOUS SOFTNESS OF IRELAND.
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.
[Illustration: 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 imme_jit_, 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."
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Means the Irish of _Ireland forever_.