A Girl of High Adventure E-Book

L. T. Meade

• Herausgeber: Interactive Media
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

"A Girl of High Adventure" by L. T. Meade follows the thrilling journey of a courageous young woman who defies societal norms to pursue her dreams. Faced with challenges, she embarks on daring adventures, pushing the boundaries of her world and proving that determination knows no bounds. This story inspires with its themes of empowerment, resilience, and the pursuit of one's passions.

Leseprobe

L. T. Meade

A Girl of High Adventure

Published by Sovereign

This edition first published in 2023

Copyright © 2023 Sovereign

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 9781787368019

Contents

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER I.

THE CHILD WHO WON HEARTS.

Marguerite St. Juste was Irish on her mother’s side, who was born of the Desmonds of Desmondstown in the County Kerry. Marguerite’s father was a French Comte, whose grandfather had been one of the victims of the guillotine.

Little Marguerite lived with an uncle, who was really only that relation by marriage; his name was the Reverend John Mansfield. He had a large living in a large town about fifty miles from London, and he adopted Marguerite shortly after the death of her parents. This tragedy happened when she was very young, almost a baby. She did not in the least remember her father, whose dancing black eyes and merry ways had endeared him to all who knew him. Nor did she recall a single fact with regard to her mother—one of those famous Desmonds, who had joined the rebels in the great insurrection of ‘97, and whose people still lived and prospered and were gay and merry of the merry on their somewhat tattered and worn-out country estate.

Marguerite adored “Uncle Jack,” as she called her supposed uncle. She had a knack of turning this grave and esteemed gentleman, so to speak, round her little finger. It was the Rev. John and his wife Priscilla who taught little Marguerite all she knew. She adored her uncle; she did not like his wife. A sterner or stricter woman than Priscilla Mansfield it would be hard to find. Her husband, it is true, considered her admirable, for she discovered whenever his parishioners tried to impose upon him, and kept the women of his parish well up to the mark.

Mrs. Mansfield was really a good woman, but her goodness was of a kind which must surely try such a nature as little Marguerite’s, or Margot’s, as her uncle called her. Mrs. Mansfield did her duty, it is true, but her good husband’s parishioners dreaded her although they obeyed her. Her husband praised her, but wondered in his heart of hearts why more people did not love her. In especial he could not understand why little Margot objected to her. As a matter of fact, if it were not for Uncle Jack, this small girl would have found her life intolerably dull. She had managed, nobody quite knew how, to get into the very centre of the heart of the grave, patient-looking clergyman and, because of this fact which she knew and he knew, she got on quite well, otherwise—but little Margot did not dare to think of otherwise. Was she not herself a mixture of both Irish and French, and could there be any two nations more sure to produce a child like Margot—a child full of life and fearlessness, of fun and daring?

She longed inexpressibly for companionship, but young people were not permitted to visit at the Rectory. She dreamed long dreams of her father’s people in the Château St. Juste, an old place near Arles, in South France, and of her mother’s people at Desmondstown—an old estate gone almost to rack and ruin, for where was the money to keep it up?

Mr. Mansfield was well aware of the state to which both families had been reduced, but when his little darling, as he called Margot, liked to talk about her father’s and mother’s people, he invariably encouraged her; that is, provided her aunt was not present. Mrs. Mansfield snapped up the child whenever her own people were talked of. She assured her that both families had gone to the dogs and did not even remember her existence.

“You ought to be very thankful to have an uncle and aunt like myself and your Uncle John,” said the good woman. “If my John was not what he is, you would be nothing more nor less than a miserable little beggar. See that you obey us both and do your best to return the great kindnesses that we show you.”

Little Margot St. Juste found it quite easy to respond to her uncle’s kindness, but her aunt’s was a totally different matter. Mrs. Mansfield’s kindness consisted of “Don’t, don’t, don’t,” repeated with increasing energy from morning to night.

“Don’t attempt to stand on the hearth-rug, you bad child.” “Don’t look so silly; get your seam and begin to sew.” “Don’t stare at me out of those eyes of yours; you make me quite sick when you do, and above all things don’t make a fool of your poor, overworked uncle. He has no right to teach you Latin and Greek. Such languages are not meant for women and I shall tell him so, if you don’t do it yourself. Do you hear me?”

But Margot was always coming across what she called “last straws” and this happened to be one. She was not afraid of her aunt, she only hated her. Now she went straight up to her and stared fully into her eyes.

“What’s the matter with you, you nasty, rude little beggar?”

“I’m not a beggar, auntie,” replied Margot. “I’m going to ask Uncle Jack about that. He always tells me the truth.”

Now Mrs. Mansfield, severe as she was, had a certain wholesome fear of her good husband.

“You dare not repeat what I say,” was her remark. “I—I’ll whip you if you do.”

“Then I’ll have that, also, to tell Uncle Jack,” replied Margot. “Auntie, you had best leave me alone. I intend to learn Latin and Greek, and I won’t say a word of what you said just now to Uncle Jack if you’ll let me alone. See, auntie, you had best for your own sake.”

Margot gave the angry woman a bright glance of triumph and walked out of the room with the air of a small conqueror. At this time she was eleven years of age but looked younger and not the least like the ordinary English girl. Her little round face was slightly, very slightly, brown in tint, with a brilliant rose colour on each small cheek. Her eyes were large, soft, and black as night. Her eyebrows were well arched and also black. She had a charming little mouth and quantities of thick curly black hair.

This was the small child who, to a great extent, ruled the Rectory. It is true that Mrs. Mansfield stormed at her a great deal, but Margot was accustomed to her harsh words and by degrees took little notice of them. She was naturally very brave; she did not know what fear meant. She tried to do her best for auntie, but as auntie would never be satisfied she comforted herself with Uncle Jack. It was easy to get on with him for Uncle Jack and Margot loved each other with a great love.

The study at the Rectory was a very shabby and small room, but to Margot it seemed like Heaven. She sat there day after day for several hours, busy over her Latin and Greek. She did not care in the least for these languages, but they ensured her being for some little time with Uncle Jack, and then, when the lessons were over, the treat followed. It was that treat which supported Margot through the many trials of her small life.

She had arranged this treat for herself some little time ago and Mrs. Mansfield knew nothing about it. Always when the last Greek verb was finished, and the lesson books put away on a shelf which Margot kept in perfect order for the purpose, the little girl used to skip away to the kitchen and there coax Hannah, the cook, to give her two cups of tea and two slices of cake. With these she returned to the study and then deliberately locked the door. The tea and the cakes were placed close to Uncle Jack. Margot swept his books and manuscripts carefully to one side and then, having carefully fed him first with tea and cake, proceeded to munch her own portion.

She was always rather quick in eating her slice of very plain cake. Then she put all signs of the feast away behind a newspaper, knowing that the cook would fetch them by-and-bye. After this she climbed on her uncle’s knee, clasped her little arms round his neck and began her invariable request,

“Now, Jacko, darling——”

“You oughtn’t to call me Jacko, little heart’s love.”

“I like it,” repeated the child. “I wouldn’t say it for all the world before her, but it makes us sort of equal, don’t you understand? You’re Jacko and I’m Margot. We are playmates, you know. You are not a great learned clergyman any longer. You are just the playmate of little Margot. Come along, Jacko, don’t let’s waste time. I know she’s out. She’s visiting all the poor people; it’s her day for collecting their pennies. We’ll have a whole lovely hour if you don’t waste time. It’s the Irish turn to-day; tell me all you can about the Desmonds. My mother was a Desmond, wasn’t she?”

“She was, sure,” said the Rector, who happened to be an Irishman himself, but was careful to keep that fact a secret except when he and Margot talked together.

“And the Desmonds were mighty chiefs—great warriors?” continued Margot. “They feared nobody nor nothing. All the women were beautiful and all the men were brave. Now go on, Jacko, go on.”

“The castle had a portcullis,” said Uncle Jack, and then he burst into imaginary stories of the Desmonds, whom he hardly knew at all.

“You forget what you are talking about to-day,” said Margot, taking up the thread. “As you enter by the front door you find yourself in a great hall, covered all over with armour—perfect suits of armour.”

“Yes, of course I forget,” said Uncle Jack, “and the hall goes up as high as the roof, and there is the ingle nook, where the fire is never let out day nor night.”

“Never—never let out,” muttered Margot. “Tell me about the men now, Uncle Jack.”

“Oh, bless your heart, puss, they are fine fellows, those Desmonds—big and broad and with sparkling eyes.”

“And the chief is called ‘The Desmond’?” interrupted little Margot.

“Yes, that’s true enough. It’s a very fine title to be sure.”

“And what sort are the ladies?” asked Margot.

“Bless you, child, something like yourself, only perhaps not quite so dark, but to hear ‘em laugh and to hear ‘em sing would make the water stand in your eyes, that it would—just for the joy of it; you understand, Margot.”

“Yes, uncle, and my mother was one?”

“She was that, and the best of ‘em all.”

“Now, describe every inch of her, Uncle Jack,” said Margot. “Begin—begin, go on—go on.”

Now it so happened that the Rev. John Mansfield was not famous for descriptions, but he did draw a certain picture of Kathleen Desmond which was not in the least like that young lady, but which abundantly satisfied her child. Her cheeks grew redder than ever as she listened and she panted slightly as she snuggled against her beloved uncle.

“My mother must have been quite perfect,” said little Margot. “Are there any of them left now, Uncle Jack?”

“Any of them left, child? Why, there is Norah and Bridget and Eileen, and there are three fine boys as well, and there’s ‘himself’ as strong as ever, and madam, his wife, who has the finest lace in the county.”

“I would like to know them,” said Margot. “Why can’t I get to know them, Uncle Jack?”

“Because they are just too poor to have ye with them, my little asthore—that’s the truth of the matter. You have got to stay with Uncle Jack and make the best of it.”

“But if I went for one week—couldn’t I stay with them for one week, uncle? I do so dreadfully want to know Norah and Bridget and Eileen.”

“’Tis aunts they are to ye, my pretty.”

“Yes, and what are the names of the boys, and what are they to me?”

“Uncles to be sure, acushla machree. There’s Fergus, called after The Desmond, and there’s Bruce and there’s Malachi.”

“Malachi—that does sound a funny name,” said Margot.

“It belonged to the finest of the old Irish kings,” said Uncle Jack, and he began to hum the well-known tune “When Malachi Wore His Collar of Gold.”

“There now, that’s enough,” said Margot. “You are wonderful to-day, Jacko, you are quite wonderful. But can’t we go to see them while auntie is away?”

“There’s no money. Acushla machree, there isn’t a penny.”

“Look here, Jacko, and don’t talk about there being no money. These are mine—they belong to me.”

The child thrust her hand into her little pocket.

“Auntie thinks she keeps them for me, but I took them away my lone self ages and ages back and she has never missed them. They belonged to my father, who was the young Comte St. Juste. See, this seal and this watch and chain and this necklet he bought for mother, and these bracelets. We can sell ‘em and get plenty of money to go to Desmondstown.”

“Why to be sure, so we could,” said Uncle Jack, “but you make me feel like a wicked old man, little puss.”

“No, no, you are a perfect darling. Promise faithful and true that you’ll take me to Desmondstown when auntie goes away to visit her sick friend. She’s going in a week or fortnight and she’ll be away for a whole fortnight at least. I was naughty, last night, Jacko, and I eavesdropped when she was telling cook. She’s going Friday week and we’re going to Desmondstown on Friday week.”

“Listen to me, Margot. I can’t lie to you, child; it is a thing that couldn’t be. I have to stay here to attend to my parochial work and I cannot leave even if I want to, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do, little puss. I’ll sell just as many of these things as are required—not nearly all, for all won’t be wanted, and I’ll take you myself and I’ll put you on board the steamer and look out for a kind Irish lady, who’ll put you into the right train for Desmondstown. Now, for goodness’ sake, let me sweep these things into a drawer. I hear herself coming in. We mustn’t let a word on to her, child, and you must be back with me faithful and true before she returns.”

“That I will, Jacko, you may be sure of that.”

The treasures were locked into one of Uncle Jack’s drawers. The door of the study was unlocked and little Margot ran out into the garden. She kept singing in her high, clear voice, “When Malachi Wore His Collar of Gold.” She felt beside herself with happiness.

CHAPTER II.

A VISIT TO IRELAND.

It so happened that after his last interview with little Margot St. Juste, the Rev. John Mansfield became subject to a strange uneasiness of conscience. Never before had he attempted to do anything underhand. He was a God-fearing and excellent man and was respected and loved by all his parishioners. Mrs. Mansfield was respected and not loved, but it was impossible to see much of the Rev. John without feeling his sympathy, and acknowledging that burning love for all human souls which filled his breast.

Nevertheless this most excellent man was going to act in a deceitful way. He was going to do something, and that something was to be concealed from the wife of his bosom. He had long felt the injustice of keeping little Margot apart from her relations, and when the child pleaded and pleaded as she alone knew how, and even provided means that would secure the necessary cash, he could resist her no longer.

Nevertheless the good man was miserable. His sermons seemed to have lost their power. He walked with a decided stoop and a heavy expression on his face, and Mrs. Mansfield wondered if her husband, that most excellent John, was suddenly developing old age.

Meanwhile little Margot was in the highest of high spirits. She was more attentive than usual to her aunt.

“It is quite easy to be good when you are happy,” thought little Margot, and she sang with greater spirit than ever “When Malachi Wore His Collar of Gold.” But when she ventured to allude to the subject to Jacko, he desired her to hush. He spoke with a certain severity which she had never before noticed on his face. Nevertheless when he saw a look of distress creep into her brilliant, rosy cheeks, he took her on his knee, assured her that all was quite—quite right, that his promise was his promise—only he would rather not speak of it.

The Friday so full of events drew on apace. The house was to receive a thorough spring cleaning. Mrs. Mansfield would be absent exactly a fortnight. During that time Margot was to be a very good child and look after her dear, kind uncle, without whose aid she would be nothing but a beggar maid, and Margot promised to do her very best for Uncle Jack, her black eyes twinkling as she spoke.

Mrs. Mansfield left home early in the morning and, the moment she had gone, Margot danced into her uncle’s study.

“Jacko, Jacko,” she cried, “she’s gone—she’s gone! Good riddance, say I. Now we are going to begin our fun.”

“You must not talk of your aunt like that,” said Uncle John. “Are your things packed, acushla machree?”

“To be sure,” said Margot. “Dear, kind Cook Hannah helped me. She brought an old leather trunk down to my room and it is chock full—chock full, Jacko. I’m taking presents to my three aunts, Norah, Bridget and Eileen, and to my uncles, Fergus and Bruce and Malachi. I’d like well, Jacko, that you gave me money to buy a new pipe for The Desmond and something for madam as well. I don’t know what great Irish ladies like. Do you think a big box of candy would suit her when she can’t sleep o’ nights?”

“I would not buy any more presents if I were you, my pet,” said Uncle Jack. “Now, see here, I have managed everything. It is very wicked of me, but I’m doing it.”

“It is nice to be wicked sometimes,” said Margot, with untold fun flashing in her beautiful eyes.

“No, no, little one, it is wrong to be wicked, and I am deceiving the best of women; I feel it terribly on my conscience.”

“Who is the best of women, Jacko, darling?” inquired little Margot.

“There now, then, I’ll tell you if you’ll listen to me. It’s that aunt of yours, Priscilla Mansfield.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Margot. “Jacko, your conscience is too tender. It wants some kisses. Three kisses on each cheek—three kisses on your forehead and three on your lips. Now you are better, are you not?”

“Yes, I’m better,” replied Uncle Jack, “but remember, Margot, asthore, that you have got to obey me to the very letter.”

“Course,” replied Margot. “I couldn’t do anything else.”

“Well then, you listen. You stay at Desmondstown in the county of Kerry for one week and no longer, and during that time you’re on no account to speak against your aunt to the Desmonds. This is Friday. You will get to Desmondstown to-morrow. To-morrow week I’ll be waiting on the pier to get you off the steamer.”

“Yes, uncle, I’ll do everything.”

“Well, child, I have ordered a cab to fetch us to the railway station at 11 o’clock. What’s more, I have written to The Desmond to tell him to look out for you. I haven’t sold many of your things, my child, but I’ve got the price of your return ticket all the way to Desmondstown and five shillings over, in case you should want some trifles on the journey. Only remember that you must not waste your precious money. ‘Waste not, want not’—that’s an excellent proverb, Margot.”

“Oh, Jacko, you are getting so like Aunt Priscilla. Don’t—don’t say any more.”

“I won’t, my colleen, but see! have you got a pocket in your little skirt?”

“Yes, to be sure, and I sewed up the hole yesterday when Auntie Priscilla wasn’t looking.”

“Let me feel that it is all nice and tight,” said the Rector. He put in his big hand, pronounced the pocket safe enough, and then inserted a tiny purse which he had bought for Margot and into which he put five shillings.

“Here’s your purse, Margot child, and here’s your money, and when I buy your ticket you must be sure to keep the return half safe in your purse or you’ll never come back to your own poor Jacko again.”

“Oh, won’t I!” said Margot. “I have feet and I can use them—trot, trot, trot, trot; look Jacko!”

“You can’t trot on the sea, child.”

“I’ll keep everything safe as safe,” repeated Margot. “I’ll do every single thing that you want me to do and you may look out for me to-morrow week on the pier. I shall know all about Norah and Bridget and Eileen and Fergus and Bruce and Malachi by then. Oh, shan’t I feel rich and aren’t you just the darlingest and best of uncles?”

“Run upstairs now, child, and put on your hat. The cab will be round in a moment.”

Margot disappeared.

“Bless her little heart,” murmured the clergyman, “I’ll just miss her terrible, but it stands to reason that she should get to know her own grandparents and her own uncles and aunts. I suppose I’m doing wrong but I can’t help myself. May God forgive a weak old man. I haven’t the righteous courage of my Priscilla.”

Little Margot was a delightful companion in the cab. She was quite as fascinating in the train, which bore them at last to that part of the coast where a steamer sped daily from Fishguard to Rosslare. The old-fashioned trunk was hoisted on the shoulders of a sturdy porter. From him it disappeared by means of a crane into some unknown and apparently awful depths.

The Rev. John looked round him anxiously. Was there anyone on board who would take care of the little girl and put her into the right train for Kerry? At last he came across a man who undoubtedly hailed from the Emerald Isle. He had bushy whiskers and small, twinkling grey eyes; a wide-cut mouth, and no nose to speak of. Uncle John looked at him, considered him and finally made up his mind to speak to him.

He had hoped to come across a respectable lady of his little darling’s own rank in life, but did not see one. Meanwhile the stranger’s eyes twinkled more than ever and at last he came up to Uncle John and of his own accord held out a huge paw.

“How bain’t I mistook or bain’t I not, but be ye never Jacky Mansfield, son of Farmer Mansfield, bless his sowl? Why he was took years and years ago. Stroked he was, and the stroke was so mighty it took the breath out of him, and he didn’t live the night out. He’s all right, though—he died a good Christian man. Are ye comin’ over to Ireland thinkin’ to see him, John Mansfield? for ye won’t, he’s not there. ‘It’s a poor, disthressful country’ we ‘as in these times, John Mansfield. You are best out of it. I couldn’t help noticin’ ye, seein’ as we stole so many wild birds’ eggs together.”

“Let it be,” said the Reverend John. “I’m glad to see ye, Phinias Maloney. I’m not goin’ to Ireland at all, but I want someone very badly to look after this little maid here. She’s my niece in a kind of fashion and I’ve had the bringing of her up since her parents died. She wants to go to Desmondstown. You must remember her mother, Phinias?”

“Remember her?” said the Irishman, “remember the ‘light of the morning’? She was all that and more. But they are in a poor way now at Desmondstown, although they manage to keep together. The gentlemen are all for the huntin’ and so for that matter are the young ladies, too. Young, I call them, and will, while I live. Why ever should age be added to their burdens? And so this little missie is own grandchild to The Desmond?”

“She is that,” replied the Reverend John, “and I’m sending her over to see her own people for one week and no more. I’d take it as a high favour, Phinias, if you would put her into the right train for Kerry and see after her a little bit when she lands, for she is only a wee colleen—half French, half Irish. You might help me that much for the sake of old times, Phinias Maloney.”

“Have no fear, man,” was Phinias’ reply. “I keep me father’s old farm and have a wife and three fine childer. They are frettin’ like anythin’ at me leaving of ‘em, but I had to go to get praties that’ll yield a good harvest. What did ye say the little miss’s name was?”

“Marguerite St. Juste.”

“Ah, well, I can’t quite get my tongue round that, but I’ll call her Magsie—her’ll understand Magsie—it’s a good sounding, sensible title wid no foreign blood about it.”

Accordingly Uncle John placed his pretty little treasure in very capable hands. Phinias Maloney was a very rough-looking man, but he was the soul of honesty and good nature, and had the highest respect in the world for the Desmonds of Desmondstown. He went and had a chat with the captain, who, as a great favour, allowed him to sit on deck with little Margot. But Margot’s black eyes were brimful of tears. She was by no means taken by the look of Phinias, and her frantic desire to see her grandparents and aunts and uncles well nigh vanished when she parted with her beloved Jacko.

“Now then, missie, we’ll have a fine time,” said Phinias. “The wather smooth as a pond and you going to the most elegant place in the whole of the county of Kerry. I can’t make out how ‘himself’ is your uncle, but there! I don’t bother me head wid what I don’t understand. He’s a good fellow is John Mansfield.”

“He’s the best man in all the world,” said Margot, crushing back her tears with an effort. “He’s a very, very holy man, but my aunt, she’s a wicked woman. I mustn’t tell the Desmonds about her, Phinias, but she is a very wicked woman, and but for me, that holy saint wouldn’t live long. It’s me he really loves. He pretends to love her, but that is just because of his holiness. Are you a holy man, Phinias Maloney?”

“Ach, not me!” said Phinias. “I has enough to do without bein’ howly as well. My poor knees wouldn’t stand it”

“What do you mean by that, Phinias, aren’t you a bit silly?” said Margot. She had begun to get over a little of her grief and to enjoy a talk with her peculiar-looking companion. “What do you mean? Speak, man,” she repeated.

“I manes this, missie asthore. Howly men are most found on their bent knees wid their heads thrown back cryin’ out to God A’mighty to have mercy on miserable sinners.”

“Uncle Jacko never does anything quite so foolish,” replied Margot. “You don’t understand him, and we won’t talk of him any more.”

“I like that,” replied Phinias, “when him and me, we took eggs out of every wild bird’s nest in the county.”

“Well, then, it was you that tempted him,” said Margot. “It was a bitter, cruel thing to do, and you ought to be ‘shamed of yourself, Phinias.”

“Lawk a mercy, listen to the bit thing,” cried Phinias, with a hearty laugh. “Him and me was ekal in those days, though now he’s above me—no doubt on that.”

“He’s a holy man, and you wouldn’t have the right to tie his shoes,” replied Margot.

Phinias gazed with some complacency and amusement at the quaint little figure. Presently he turned the conversation to long and exciting talks about Desmondstown and the young ladies and the young gentlemen and old madam and The Desmond himself.

“Ye’ll have to be mighty particular when ye gets there, little miss. The Desmond won’t stand any freedoms like. He’s as proud as proud can be, though he’s got nothing else to be proud of but that he’s The Desmond, so ye must mind your p’s and q’s. Don’t ye play any pranks on him, missie, or it’ll turn out bad for ye.”

“I won’t, Phinias, I won’t indeed. I’m going to be quite a good girl on account of that holy man, my uncle. But please tell me what Malachi is like.”

“Oh,” said Phinias, clapping his horny hands and giving vent to a roaring laugh. “There’s a boy for ye, if ye like. There ain’t a boy in any part of Ireland, from east to west, from north to south, can beat Malachi; why he could sit a horse that would throw anyone else off its back in a twinklin’. The horse may buck-jump, may do any mortal thing he likes to do, but once Malachi’s acrost him, ‘tis no use and he knows it, for there Malachi’ll stay.”

“And tell me about the others, please,” said Margot.

“Oh, the ladies, ye mane. They’re young, mortal young—they are babes of innocence. They don’t know the world and they don’t want to. Malachi breaks in horses for ‘em, and they ride and ride and ride, and that’s about all they can do. Fergus, the wan who is to take the title after his father, is more severe like, but he’s a handsome lad for all that, and so is Bruce for that matter.”

“And do they all live at Desmondstown?” inquired Margot.

“To be sure, and where else would they live!”

“But they can’t be so young if my mother was their sister,” said Margot.

Phinias bent towards the little girl.

“Whist, missie, whist, mavourneen” he said. “We never talks of birthdays in the ould country. Age! We don’t know what age is. If we ever knew it we forgets it. We are all young—young as new-born chicks. Now then, missie, you’d best go and lie down, for it may be gettin’ a bit rough by-the-bye, and we’re due at Rosslare early in the morning.”

Margot sat very still for a few minutes.

“Phinias,” she said, then, “I have a little money, a very little money by me. Can I have a bite and a sup to eat and drink?”

“To be sure ye can; for sartin ye can. What ‘ud ye fancy now? A drop of whisky I’d say, or a bottle of Guinness’ stout.”

“Oh, no, please; may I have a cup of tea and a little bread and butter?”

“I’ll get it for ye, honey bird, and for the Lord’s sake don’t mention the word age in Ould Ireland. There ain’t sich a thing. Mind me now and be careful!”

“I will,” said Margot, “I’ll be very careful.”

Presently the farmer returned with some very uninteresting tea and bread and butter, which he offered to the little girl. She was hungry and faint, also, for all this unexpected excitement had made her terribly tired. But when she offered to pay, Phinias shook his shaggy head.

“Not me,” he said, “not a bit of me. I guess ye’ll want your money, for them colleens and boys at Desmondstown. This ‘ull pay for some of the eggs that your uncle, John Mansfield, robbed from the birdies afore he turned a howly saint.”

So Margot ate her uninteresting meal, found the stewardess extremely kind, got into the berth reserved for her and slept soundly until she was awakened at 6 o’clock on the following morning by Phinias himself.

“Here we be, missie; here we be. If we are quick we can get lovely coffee at the restaurant in the station and then off we goes to Kerry. I’ll take ye as far as the gates of Desmondstown and don’t ye fear nuthin’. Be as free as ye like with Miss Norah and Miss Bridget and Miss Eileen, and be playful as a kitten wid Master Bruce and Master Malachi, but hold yeself in a bit with Madam Desmond and The Desmond and Fergus, the future heir. There! I can say no more. We’ll be travelling third, forsooth, in order to make the money go, and I’ll be surrounded by ould friends—only don’t ye forget there’s NO AGE in Ould Ireland. Kape that fact stuck in your breast and all ‘ull go well. Ah, never mind favouring the stewardess with a tip—shure, Mrs. Mulchi, ye wouldn’t be robbin’ the poor orphan.”

“To be sure I wouldn’t, Phinias,” replied Mrs. Mulchi.

Margot was now intensely excited, although she did feel a certain sense of disappointment at observing that the grass was much the same colour as the grass in England. That the trees also appeared much about the same; and even the flowers, the daisies and buttercups were what she was accustomed to. But Phinias Maloney supplied her with an excellent breakfast of good coffee, bread and butter, new-laid eggs and honey.

“Ye’ll be wantin’ all ye can git,” he said, “and I tell ye what I knows. Stuff it in, stuff it in, missie, and thin we’ll take our places in the train. Ah, to be sure won’t thim giddy young things be glad to lay eyes on ye?”

“Do you think they will, Phinias?” answered Margot, who regarded the uncouth Irishman now as an old friend. “Do you really and truly mean it?”

“Does I think it? Don’t I know it? It’s hugging ye they’ll be, and don’t ye repulse them whatever ye does, and when the gurrls is kittenish, ye be kittenish too. Ah, well, I can’t give any more advice for the present for I see several old friends makin’ for this compartment, drat ‘em, and ye must hould up your head and look mighty proud. The Desmonds of Desmondstown! there ain’t their like in the county.”

Poor little Margot endured that long and weary journey as best she could. It was the spring of the year and the feeling of spring seemed to have got into the breast of every individual who crowded into that uncomfortable carriage. The farmers smoked and talked incessantly about the lambing season and Margot, presently, unable to keep her eyes open, dropped asleep with her head on the shoulder of Phinias.

She felt as though she had known Phinias all her life by now. At Mallow they changed and Phinias provided a second excellent meal, also out of the birds’ eggs which Uncle John had stolen before he became a saint. He further told the child that if she was in any sort of a bit of a throuble any wan would tell her where Phinias Maloney’s farm was, and he’d help her and so would “herself” help her, and so would the childher help her from the bottom of their hearts.

Then they got into the train, which took them into the famous and lovely county of Kerry and by-and-bye, about five in the evening, they drew up at a little wayside station. Here a very rough-looking cart was waiting for Phinias and a small boy who was addressed as “gossoon” was standing by the horse’s head.

Phinias was now most deferential in his manner to Margot. He got Nat, the gossoon, to assist him to hoist her old leather trunk into the cart, and then he whispered a word or two into the ears of the said gossoon, which induced the boy in question to give Margot many and amazed glances.

“Ye couldn’t reach to the height of her forever and ever and ever and a day,” remarked Phinias to Nat, the gossoon. “Ain’t she own granddaughter to The Desmond and child to beautiful Miss Kathleen—bless her white sowl—and wasn’t her father a nobleman of France? You kape your manners tight on your head when ye look at her, Nat. We’ll have to drive right round to Desmondstown. The young ladies must be expectin’ her by now, belike, and thim young boys must be hankerin’ for a sight of her. Now then, gee up, Dobbin, gee up!”

Off they started in the springless cart, up hill and down dale. The evening light flooded the land and Margot was too excited and too fascinated by the beauty of the scene round her to remember either her deadly fatigue or any little stray crumbs of nervousness which might be lingering in her breast.

At last they pulled up at a tumbled-down gate. The last time that gate was painted must have been many long years ago. There was an avenue winding along inside and covered with weeds. Nat lifted the leather trunk out of the cart with reverence. Phinias took off his shabby hat, pulled his forelock and said,

“Welcome, ten thousand times, céàd míle fáilte, to Desmondstown, missie asthore, missie mavourneen.” Then he bent his head and, lowering his voice, said,

“We must be about our business, missie, but we’ll put the bit trunk under this laurel bush and some of thim young boys ‘ull fetch it for ye, and ye walk down the avenue bould and free, wid no sort of shyness in ye, and when ye comes to the front door, ring the bell. Most like the bell ‘ull be broke. If so it be, and like enough it will be, turn the handle and walk in. There ain’t no one ‘ull interfere wid ye, but bear in mind we are all young in these parts.”

With these words he left the somewhat desolate little girl.

CHAPTER III.

AN IRISH CHIEFTAIN AT HOME.

Now The Desmond was tall, broad, and of enormous height. Although he was by no means a young man, he walked with great erectness. His hair, somewhat scanty now, was of a soft white. His beard was long and white, also, but his eyes were large and black and his complexion somewhat resembled that of little Marguerite St. Juste. It was of a soft brown tint and, old as he was, there was still a vivid colour in his cheeks.

This ancient descendant of an ancient race was, however, more feared than loved. In short, The Desmond ruled his little kingdom with a rod of iron. He never allowed familiarities between himself and his retainers. He could scarcely be spoken of as affectionate, and yet he had a strain of affection somewhere in his heart. That affection was entirely bestowed upon his lost, most beautiful and most dearly loved child, Kathleen. Like many Irishmen of his race, he was reserved with regard to his secret sorrows. He could not bear Kathleen’s name to be mentioned in his presence and never once did he allude to the orphan child whom his pretty girl had left behind her. If he had any feeling towards the father of the said child, it almost amounted to hatred.

He could not abide, as he said once to Madam, “the Frenchies and their ways.”

Henri St. Juste had, beyond doubt, hastened the end of his beautiful Kathleen. This was his belief. He wept the slow, difficult tears of the aged often at night as he thought about her, but he made no enquiries whatsoever with regard to the child and once, when Madam, in her timid, coaxing way, ventured to suggest that Kathleen’s child should come to Desmondstown, The Desmond raised a shout of mighty anger and desired her to hold her peace or she would be sorry for herself.

Now of course Desmondstown was a typical old Irish place. It was going to rack and ruin as fast as ever it could. There was no money to keep it in order. There was just enough money to supply food and a sort of clothing for the inmates, to supply Malachi with horses, which he trained, some for himself, some for his sisters, some for his brothers, and the rest of which he sold, giving his father one-half of the profits.

Malachi’s horses were almost the only available assets at Desmondstown; for The Desmond, although fierce, even ferocious at times, was good-natured to his tenants and strictly forbade any evictions on his estates. He gave his sons the scantiest of all possible educations with the exception of Fergus, who was his heir. Fergus, by scraping and toiling, he managed to send first of all to a fairly good school and then to Trinity College, Dublin. Fergus he also supplied with suitable clothes, but he never thought of his earning any money. It never occurred to him that any of his sons should work. Debts abounded all over the place and Desmondstown was in reality mortgaged very nearly up to the hilt.