PEACE.
Peace reigned once more at Fernley House; peace and cheerfulness, and
much joy. It was not the same peace as of old, when Margaret and her
uncle lived their quiet tete-a-tete life, and nothing came to break the
even calm of the days. Very different was the life of to-day. The peace
was spiritual purely, for the lively and varied round of daily life gave
little time for repose and meditation, at least for Margaret. She had
begun to give the children short but regular lessons in the morning,
finding that the day was not only more profitable but pleasanter for
them and for all, if it began with a little study. And the lessons were
a delight to her. Remembering her struggles with Peggy,--dear Peggy,--it
was a joy to teach these young creatures the beginnings of her beloved
English history, and to see how they leaped at it, even as she herself
had leaped so few years ago. They carried it about with them all day.
Margaret never knew whom to expect to dinner in these days. Now a
scowling potentate would stalk in with folded arms and announce that he
was William the Conqueror, and demand the whereabouts of Hereward the
Wake (who was pretty sure to emerge from under the table, and engage in
sanguinary combat, just after he had brushed his hair, and have to be
sent up to the nursery to brush it over again); now a breathless pair
would rush in, crying that they were the Princes in the Tower, and would
she please save them, for that horrid old beast of a Gloster was coming
after them just as fast as he could come. Indeed, Margaret had to make a
rule that they should be their own selves, and no one else, in the
evening when Uncle John came home, for fear of more confusion than he
would like.
"But I get so _used_ to being Richard," cried Basil, after a day of
crusader-life. "You can't do a king well if you have to keep stopping
and being a boy half the time. Don't you see that yourself, Cousin
Margaret?"
Yes, Margaret saw that, but she submitted that she liked boys, and that
it was trying for a person in private life, like herself, to live all
day in royal society, especially when royalty was so excited as the
Majesty of England was at this juncture.
"Oh, but why can't you be some one too, Cousin Margaret? I suppose Susan
D. would hate to give up being Berengaria, after you gave her that
lovely gold veil--I say, doesn't she look bul--doesn't she look pretty
in it? I never thought Susan D. would come out pretty, but it's mostly
the way you do her hair--what was I saying, Cousin Margaret? Oh, yes,
but there are other people you could be, lots and lots of them.
And--Merton doesn't half do Saladin. He keeps getting mad when I run him
through the body, and I _can't_ make him understand that I don't mean
those nasty, fat, black things in ponds, when I call him 'learned
leech,' and you know he _has_ to be the leech, it says so in the
'Talisman.' And so perhaps you would be Saladin, and he can be Sir
Kenneth, though he's too sneaky for him, too. Or else you could be the
hermit, Cousin Margaret. Oh, do be the hermit! Theodoric of Engedi, you
know, the Flail of the Desert, that's a splendid one to do. All you have
to do is keep jumping about and waving something, and crying out, 'I am
Theodoric of Engedi! I am the Flail of the Desert!' Come on, Cousin
Margaret, oh, I say, do!" And Susan D., tugging at her cousin's gown,
shouted in unison, "Oh, I say, do, Cousin Margaret!"
If any one had told Margaret Montfort, three months before this, that
she would, before the end of the summer, be capering about the garden,
waving her staff, and proclaiming herself aloud to be the highly
theatrical personage described above, she would have opened her eyes in
gentle and rather scornful amazement. But Margaret was learning many
things in these days, and among them the art of being a child. Her life
had been mostly spent with older people; she had never known till now
the rapture of being a little girl, a little boy. Now, seeing it in
these bright faces, that never failed to grow brighter at sight of her,
she felt the joy reflected in her own face, in her own heart; and it was
good to let all the quiet, contained maiden ways go, once in a while,
and just be a child with the children, or a Flail of the Desert, as in
the present instance.
John Montfort, leaning on the gate, watched the pretty play, well
pleased. "They have done her all the good in the world," he said to
himself. "It isn't only what she has done for them, bless her, but for
her, too, it has been a great thing. I was selfish and stupid to think
that a young creature could go on growing to fulness, without other
young creatures about it. How will she feel, I wonder, about their
going? How would she like--"
[Illustration: "THE 'FLAIL OF THE DESERT.'"]
At this moment he was discovered by Basil, who charged him with a joyous
shout. "Oh, here is Uncle John! Oh, Uncle John, don't you want to be
Saladin, please? Here's Merton has hurt his leg and gone off in a sulk,
and I'll get you a scimitar in a minute--it's the old sickle, and Willis
says it's so rusty you can't really do much mischief with it; and
here's the Hermit of Engedi, you know, and he can shout--"
But, alas, for the Lion-hearted! When he turned to summon his hermit, he
saw no flying figure, brandishing a walking-stick and crying aloud, but
a demure young lady, smoothing her hair hurriedly and shaking out the
folds of her dress, as she hastened to meet her uncle.
"Bravo!" said Uncle John. "But why did you stop, Meg? It wouldn't have
been the first time I had played Saladin, I assure you!"
"Oh, uncle! I am really too much out of breath to play any more. And
besides, it is near tea-time, and the children must go and get ready. I
will come in a moment, Susan dear, and do your hair. Are there any
letters, Uncle John? Oh, two, from the girls; how perfectly delightful!
Oh, I must run up, but we'll read them after tea, shall we, Uncle John?"
"With all my heart, my dear; and I have a letter, too, about which I
shall want to consult you. Go now, or Susan D. will be trying to braid
her own hair, a thing to be avoided, I have observed."
Tea over, and Mr. Montfort seated at ease with his cigar, the children
engaged in an enchanting game of Bat (played with worn-out umbrellas,
from which the sticks had been taken: this game is to be highly
recommended where there is space for flapping and swooping), Margaret
opened her letters; reopened them, rather, for it must be confessed that
she had peeped into both while she was braiding her own hair and
changing her dress for the pretty evening gown her uncle always liked to
see.
"Peggy is actually off for school, Uncle John. It does not seem possible
that we are in September, and the summer really gone. She seems in high
spirits over it, dear child. Listen!
"DARLING DEAREST MARGARET:
"I am going to-morrow; I waited till the last
minute, so that I could tell you the last of
me. My trunk is almost all packed, and I really
think I have done it pretty well. Thank you,
ever and ever and ever so much, for the nice
things to tie up my shoes in. They are just
lovely, and so is the shoe-bag to hang against
the wall. I mean to put away every shoe just
the very minute I take it off, and not have
them kicking about the closet floor at all,
ever. And the combing-sack! Oh, Margaret, it is
a perfect beauty! Ever so much too pretty to do
my hair in, and mother says so, too, but I
shall, because you made it for me to, and think
of you all the time I am, and--
"I got a little mixed there, but you will know
what I mean, dearest Margaret. Tell Uncle John
I am so perfectly delighted with the lovely
ring, I don't know _what_ to _do_. Oh,
Margaret, you know how I always wanted a ring,
and how I used to admire that sapphire of
Rita's; and to think of having a sapphire ring
myself--why, I can hardly believe it even now!
I couldn't go to sleep for ever so long last
night, just watching it in the moonlight. Of
course I shall write to Uncle John and thank
him myself, but I couldn't wait just to let him
know how happy I was. (Margaret, if you think
he would like it, or at least wouldn't mind it,
you might give him a hug just now and say I
sent it, but don't unless you are _perfectly
sure_ he wouldn't mind, because you know how I
_love_ Uncle John, even if I am just the least
bit afraid of him, and I'm sure that is natural
when you think what a goose I am.)"
Margaret paused, laughing, to throw her arms around her uncle, and tell
him that this was "Peggy's hug;" then she went on:
"I was so glad to get your last letter, and to
hear all about dear, darling Fernley, and Uncle
John, and Elizabeth and Frances, and all the
funny things those funny children have been
doing. Margaret, they are almost exactly like
us children when we were their age. I never
began to think about growing up till I read
about how they carry on, and then saw that we
didn't act so any more, Jean, and Flora, and I.
Jean is younger than me, of course, but she's
more grown up, I really think. I think you must
have a lovely time, now that--well, you said I
mustn't call names, and so I won't, but I know
just exactly what kind of a person she was,
Margaret, and _so do you_, and you can't deny
it, so now!
"Margaret, of course I do feel rather scared
about school, for I am still very ignorant, and
I suppose all the girls will know about forty
thousand times as much as I do, and they will
call me stupid, and I know I am; but I mean to
be brave, and remember all the things you have
said, and mother has helped me, too, oh, a lot,
and she says she just wishes she had had the
chance when she was a girl, and I know now just
how she feels. And then when I come home, you
see, I can teach the little girls, and that
will be great. But I never shall try to teach
them spelling, or history, for you know I
cannot; and I cannot remember to this day who
Thomas a Bucket was, and why they called him
that.
"Hugh came in just now, and I asked him that,
and he laughed, and said Thomas a Bucket was
certainly pale before they got through with
him. I don't know what he means, but he says
you will, so I write it down. Good-bye,
dearest, darling Margaret. Give heaps and
oceans and lots of love to Uncle John, and most
of all to your own darling self, from
"PEGGY."
"I wonder how Peggy will get on at school?" said Margaret. "Very well, I
should think. Certainly no one can help liking her, dear girl; and she
will learn a great deal, I am sure."
"She'll never learn English history," said Mr. Montfort; "but after all,
there are other things, May Margaret, though you are loth to acknowledge
it."
"And now for Rita. I'll just run through it again, Uncle John, to
see--oh! oh, yes! The first part is all just that she wants to see me,
and so on,--her wild way. She has had the most wonderful summer,--'the
Pyrenees, Margaret! Never before have I seen great mountains, that scale
the heavens, you understand. The Titans are explained to me. I have
seen, and my soul has arisen to their height. I could dwell with thee,
Marguerite, on snow-peaks tinged with morning rose, peaks that touch the
stars, that veil themselves in clouds of evening;' perhaps I'll skip a
little here, Uncle John. Interlaken,--the Jungfrau,--oh, she _is_ having
a glorious time. Oh! oh, dear me, uncle!"
"Well, my dear? She has not fallen off the Jungfrau?"
"No, not that; but she--she is--or she thinks she is--going to be
married."
Mr. Montfort whistled. "To the Matterhorn, or to some promising young
avalanche? Pray enlighten me, my dear."
"Oh! don't laugh, Uncle John, I am afraid it may be serious. A young
Cuban, she says, a soldier, of course." Margaret ran her eyes down the
page, but found nothing sober enough to read aloud. "He seems to be a
very wonderful person," she said, timidly. "Handsome, and a miracle of
courage,--and a military genius; if war should come, Rita thinks he will
be commander-in-chief of the Cuban army. You don't think it will really
come to war, Uncle John?"
"I cannot tell, Margaret," said Mr. Montfort, gravely. "Things are
looking rather serious, but no one can see just what is coming yet. And
this seems to be a bona fide engagement? It isn't little Fernando, is
it?"
"No! oh, no! She says--she is sorry for Fernando, but he will always be
her brother. This one's name is--let me see. Jose Maria Salvador
Santillo de Santayana. What a magnificent name! He had followed her from
Cuba, and he has Uncle Richard's permission to pay his addresses to
Rita, and she says--she says he is the dream of her life, embodied in
the form of a Greek hero, with the soul of a poet, and the intellect of
a Shakespeare. So I suppose it is all right, uncle; only, she is very
young."
"Young! My dear child, she was grown up while you were still in the
nursery," said Mr. Montfort. "According to Spanish ideas, it is high
time for her to be married, and I am sure I wish the dear girl all
happiness. We must look over the family trinkets, Margaret, and find
something for our bird of Paradise. There are some pretty bits of
jewelry; but that will keep. Now, if you can stop wondering and
romancing for a moment, May Margaret, I, too, have a letter, about which
I wish to consult you."
"Yes, uncle, oh, yes! I hope he is good as well as handsome, don't you?
She says the Santillo nose is the marvel of all Cuba."
"The Santillo nose may be pickled in brine, my dear, for ought I care; I
really want your attention, Margaret, and you must come down from the
clouds. Here is Anthony Montfort writing for his children."
"_What!_" cried Margaret, waking suddenly from her dream. "What did you
say about the children, Uncle John? Cousin Anthony writing for them?
What can you mean?"
"Why, my love, I mean writing for them," said Mr. Montfort, calmly. "He
is, you may remember, a relation of theirs, a father in point of fact.
He has found an excellent opening in California, and means to stay
there. He says--I'll read you his letter, or the part of it that relates
to the children. Hum--'grateful to you'--ha! yes, here it is. 'Of
course I must make some arrangement about the children. One of the boys
can come to me, but I cannot take care of both, so Basil will have to go
to boarding-school, and Susan D., too. If you would be so good as to
look up a good school or two, I should be ever so much obliged. Basil
can take care of himself, you'll only have to consign and ship him;
perhaps you can get some one to go with the little girl, and see to her
things and all that. It's a shame to call upon you,'--h'm! so forth!
Well, Meg, what do you say?"
But Margaret said nothing. She was sitting with her hands fallen on her
lap, gazing at her uncle with a face of such piteous consternation that
he had much ado to keep his countenance.
"Take them away!" she faltered, presently. "Take away--my children? Oh,
Uncle John!"
Mr. Montfort looked away, and smoked awhile in silence, giving the girl
time to collect herself. Margaret struggled with the tears that wanted
to rush to her eyes. She forced herself to take up the letters that lay
in her lap and fold them methodically. When he saw that her hands
trembled less, Mr. Montfort said, quietly, "The children have been a
great deal of care to you, Margaret; but you have grown fond of them, I
know, and so have I. I think a good deal of your judgment, my dear,
young as you are. What would you like best to have done about the little
people? Take time; take time! Anthony practically leaves the whole
matter in my hands. In fact, I think he is puzzled, and feels perhaps
that he has not done as well as he might for them always. Take time, my
child."
"Oh, I don't need any time, Uncle John!" cried Margaret, trying to speak
steadily. "I--I didn't realise, I suppose--it has all come about so
gradually--I didn't realise all that they were to me. To lose Basil and
Susan D.,--I don't see how I can let them go, uncle; I don't indeed. You
won't think me ungrateful, will you, dear? I was, oh, so happy, before
they came; but now--they are so dear, so dear! and--and Susan D. is
used to me, and to have her go to a stranger who might not understand
the poor little shut-up nature--oh, how can I bear it? how can I bear
it?"
"Well, my dear," said Mr. Montfort, comfortably. "How if you did not
have to bear it?"
Then, as Margaret raised her startled eyes to his, he went on, in the
kind, steady tone that always brought quiet and peace with it.
"How if we made the present arrangement--part of it, at
least--permanent? Let Merton go to his father; I should not care to have
the bringing up of Merton. But there is an excellent school near here,
on the island, to which Basil could go, staying the week and coming home
here for Sunday; and if little Susan would not be too much care for
you,--she's a dear little girl, once you get through the prickles,--why,
May Margaret, it seems to me--"
But Mr. Montfort got no further; for here was Margaret sobbing on his
breast as if she were Rita herself, and calling him the best and
dearest and kindest, and telling him that she was so happy, so happy;
and that was why she was crying, only she could not stop; and so on and
so on, till Uncle John really thought he should have to send for
Frances. At his suggesting this, however, Margaret laughed through her
tears, and presently struggled into something like composure.
"And, after all," said Mr. Montfort, "how do you know the children will
want to stay with you, you conceited young woman?"
"Oh, Uncle John! I will teach Susan D. all I know, and a great deal
more, I hope, for I shall be learning all the time now, if I have
another coming after me. And we will keep house together, and it will be
like the little sister, like little Penelope, Uncle John. And then to
have Basil coming home every week, all full of school, and fun, and
noise,--why, how perfectly delightful it will be! And I will not let
them overrun you, dear uncle; they have been good lately, haven't
they?"
"They have been extremely good, my dear. All the same, I think you would
do well to interview them on the subject, before you prepare all your
chickens for the market. See, there are your two coming up the walk this
moment. You might go--"
But Margaret was already gone. Mr. Montfort watched her light figure
flying down the walk, and thought she had grown almost back into a child
again, since the children came. "And yet all a woman," he said; "all a
sweet, wholesome, gentle woman. See her now with her arms around the
child; the little creature clings to her as if she were the mother it
never knew. Ah! she is telling them. No need to smother her, children. I
never really meant to separate you; no, indeed. I only wanted you to
find out for yourselves, as I have found out for myself. No more
solitude at Fernley, please God; from now on, young faces and hearts,
and sunshine, and a home; the future instead of the past."
The good man laid down his cigar, quietly and carefully, as he did
everything, and opened his arms as the three, Margaret and her
children, came flying towards him; and they ran into those kind strong
arms and nestled there, and looked into his eyes and knew that they were
at home.
THE END.
THE
"Queen Hildegarde" Series.
By Laura E. Richards.
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* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Page 125, word "the" was inserted into the text (out of the window)
Page 188, "year" changed to "years" (for thirty years)
Page 226, "bother" changed to "bother" (want to bother her)
Page 268, "scimetar" changed to "scimitar" (a scimitar in a)
The asterism on used on the second to the last advertising page was
changed to *** for this text version.