Margaret Montfort Part 21

"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 t.i.tans 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 p.r.i.c.kles,--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 G.o.d; 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.