The Doctor's Verdict
"He will pass away in one of these fainting fits," said the tired man as he followed her. He was kind in his way, but overwhelmed with work. "This may revive him for the time being," he went on as they ascended the cabin stairs, "but he cannot live long. I do feel for that young fellow, he is so patient. You never hear a word of complaint."
By this time they had reached the sick man. "Here, my good fellow, try and take this," said the doctor, as Eva Cameron gently raised the young head on her arm. The large dark eyes were gratefully raised to the doctor's face, and a slight tinge of colour came to the pale lips.
"NOW I AM GOING TO FAN YOU," SHE SAID."NOW I AM GOING TO FAN YOU," SHE SAID.
"Now I am going to fan you," said Mrs. Cameron, as she sat beside him. Now and then she sprinkled lavender water on his head and hands.
"Thank you," he said; "how nice that is! Would you sing to me? I heard you singing the other day."
Eva softly sang a Tasmanian air which was wild and sweet.
"Will you do me a favour?" asked the young man. "Please sing me one of the dear old psalms. I am Scotch, and at times yearn for them, you would hardly believe how much."
She sang:
"God is our refuge and our strength,In straits a present aid:Therefore, although the earth remove,We will not be afraid."
As she sang tears rolled down the wan cheek, but a look of perfect peace came over the pale face. She went on:
"A river is, whose streams do gladThe city of our God,The holy place, wherein the LordMost High hath His abode."
He was asleep, the wan young cheek leaning on his hand in a child-like attitude of repose. Eva sat and watched him, her heart full of pity. She did not move, but sat fanning him. Soon Mr. Cameron and Captain Wylie joined her; as they approached she put her finger on her lips to inspire silence.
She had no idea what the words of the dear old psalm had been to the young Highlander—like water to a parched soul, bringing back memories of childhood, wooded glens, heather-clad hills, rippling burns, and above all the old grey kirk where the Scotch laddie used to sit beside his mother—that dear mother in whom his whole soul was wrapped up—and join lustily in the psalms.
The dinner-bell rang unheeded—somehow not one of the three could leave him.
"How lovely!" he said at last, opening and fixing his eyes on Eva. "I think God sent you to me."
"Ay, laddie," said the old Scotchman, taking the wasted hand in his, "but it seems to me you know the One who 'sticketh closer than a brother'? I see the 'peace of God' in your face."
"Ah, you are from my part of the country," said the lad joyfully, trying to raise himself, but sinking back exhausted. "I know it in your voice, it's just music to me. How good God has been to me!"
They were all too much touched by his words to answer him, and Eva could only bend over him and smooth his brow.
"Now mother will have some one to tell her about me," he added, turning to Mrs. Cameron, and grasping her hand. Then, as strength came back in some measure to the wasted frame, he went on in broken sentences to tell how he had been clerk in a big mercantile house in Hobart, how he had been invalided and lying in the hospital there for weeks. "But I have saved money," he added joyfully, "she need not feel herself a burden on my sister any more; my sister is married to a poor Scotch minister, and she lives with them, or was to, till I came home. Now that will never be. Oh, if I could just have seen her!"
"But you will see her again, laddie," said the old man. "Remember our own dear poet Bonar's words:
"Where the child shall find his mother,Where the mother finds the child,Where dear families shall gatherThat were scattered o'er the wild;Brother, we shall meet and rest'Mid the holy and the blest."
"Thank you," said the dying lad. "I think I could sleep." His eyes were closing, when a harsh loud voice with a foreign accent was heard near.
"I say I will!"
"I say I will, and who shall hinder me?"
"Hush, there is a dying man here!" It was the doctor who spoke. A sick-looking, but violent man, who had been reclining in a deck chair not far off,was having a tussle with a doctor, and another man who seemed his valet.
"Indeed you should come down, sir," the man was saying, "there is quite a dew falling."
"You want to make out that I am dying, I suppose, but I have plenty of strength, I can tell you, and will be ordered by no one!"
"Well, then, you will hasten your end, I tell you so plainly," said the doctor sternly.
The man's face altered as he spoke, a kind of fear came over him, as he rose to follow the doctor without a word. As he passed near the young Highlander, he glanced at him and shuddered, "He's young to die, and have done with everything."
"He would tell you he is just going to begin with everything," said Mr. Cameron, who had heard the words, and came forward just then. "Doctor, I suppose we need not move him," he added, glancing at the dying lad, "you see he is going fast."
"No, nothing can harm him now, poor young fellow. I will go and speak to the captain—will you help Mr. Grossman to his cabin?"
As they reached the state-room door, Mr. Cameron said, "Friend, when your time comes, may you too know the peace that is filling the heart of yon lad."
"He is believing in a lie, I fear," said the other.
"And yet, when you were in pain the other day, I heard you call loudly, 'God help me!'"
"Oh, well, I suppose it is a kind of instinct—a habit one gets into, like any other exclamation."
"I think not," said the old man. "I believe that in your inmost, soul is a conviction that there is a God. Don't you remember hearing that Voltaire, with almost his last breath, said, 'Et pourtant, il y a un Dieu!'"
Returning on deck, Mr. Cameron took his watch beside the young Highlander. There was no return of consciousness, and very soon the happy spirit freed itself from its earthly tenement without a struggle.
Next morning they consigned all that was mortal of him to the deep, in sure and certain hope that he shall rise again. God knows where to find His own, whether in the quiet leafy "God's acre," or in the depths of the sea.
The year was advancing. It was towards the end of February. At Gibraltar great excitement prevailed in the house perched on the side of the "Rock." Major Somerset and his wife were expected! Norah paused suddenly to look out over the blue expanse of sea, to-day ruffled with a slight breeze—and then exclaimed:
"Children! children! come, a steamer with the British flag is coming in! Hurry and get on your things."
There was no need for urging them to haste—the outdoor wrappings were on in no time, and they ran down to the landing-stage just as the ship had cast anchor. Numerous boats were already making their way out to her. They soon learnt that the ship was from Malta, though she was not theMinervathey had expected.
How Norah's heart beat as she eagerly, breathlessly, watched the passengers descend the ladder and take their places in the different boats. A keen breeze had got up, and even in the harbour there were waves already.
"There is Mamma!"
"There is mamma!" exclaimed little Ethel—"see her, Nory, in the white hat! Oh, my pretty mamma!" she exclaimed, dancing with glee as the boat came nearer and nearer.
Then came exclamations, hugs and kisses, intermingled with the quick vivacious chattering of the boatmen bargaining over their fares. A perfect Babel of sound! Several passengers were landing—so a harvest was being reaped by these small craft.
The children clung to their parents, and Norahfollowed behind, feeling a little lonely, and out of it all—would there ever come a time of joy for her—a time when she too would be welcoming a dear one?—or should she just have to go on living the life of an outsider in other people's lives—having no joys or sorrows of her own, she who might have been so blessed and so happy? How long those five years had seemed, a lifetime in themselves, since she had last heard her husband's voice! Well, he had not come, that was clear.
That evening as Norah was preparing to go to bed, a knock came to her door, and Mrs. Somerset came in.
"I thought I might come in, Norah dear; I wanted to tell you how pleased my husband and I are with the improvement in the children, they look so well, and are so much more obedient. You have managed them very well, and we are very grateful," and Mrs. Somerset bent forward and kissed her. "Now, dear, we want you to accept a small present from us—it is very commonplace—but there is little variety where we are stationed."
Norah undid the cedar box put into her hand and drew out a most lovely gold bracelet of Indian workmanship.
"Oh, how very good of you, it is far too pretty!" she exclaimed, returning Mrs. Somerset's embrace. "But, indeed, I have only done my duty by the children: they are very good, and I love them dearly."
"Well, dear, I hope you will long remain with them—and yet—I cannot wish it for your sake, for I wish a greater happiness for you. You remember when you first came to me, telling me your history, Norah, and begging me never to refer to it? Well, I have never done so, but to-night I must break my promise, as I think I ought to tell you that I have actually met Captain Wylie, though he did not know who I was."
Norah's colour came and went; she said nothing, only fixed her eyes on Mrs. Somerset in speechless attention, while a tremor ran through her being.
"Now, dear, listen to me; I believe you will seehim in Gibraltar very soon. You know we were to have come here in theMinerva, which is actually in port in Malta now, but as she is detained there for some slight repairs, we did not wait for her. I went on board theMinervawith my husband, who had business with the captain—and there he was. The captain introduced us. When he heard I was a native of the 'Rock,' he became quite eager, and asked me many questions about the different families living there, and told me he intended staying a few days here on his way to England. He was standing looking so sad when we came on board, looking out to sea, and he brightened up so when he spoke of Gibraltar. But, dear child, don't cry, you should rejoice."
For Norah had broken down and was weeping bitterly, uncontrollably. She could not speak, she only raised Mrs. Somerset's hand to her lips. The latter saw she was best alone, and was wise enough to leave her.
"Oh Edgar! Edgar!" was the cry of her heart. "Shall I ever really see you? Can you forgive me?"
Just about the same time as Norah Wylie was weeping in her room, her heart torn asunder with hopes and fears, her husband was again pacing the deck of theMinerva. They had sailed from Malta the previous day, but owing to fogs, which had checked their progress, were hardly out of sight of land.
Captain Wylie's thoughts as he passed up and down were evidently of a serious nature. For the first time in his life he had began to think seriously of religious things. Ever since the death of the young Highlander, Kenneth McGregor, he had had deep heart-searchings. Besides, another event had occurred that had cast a shadow over the whole ship, so sudden and so awful had it been.
"In Spite of the Doctor"
Mr. Grossman had made a wonderful recovery. Contrary to all explanations, he was apparently almost well. It was his constant boast that he had recovered "in spite of the doctor."
One evening dinner was going on, and Herr Grossman, who was still on diet, and did not take all the courses, got up and declared that he would go on deck. It was misty and raining a little. He sent for his great coat and umbrella, and as his valet helped him on with his coat, the doctor called out to him:
"Don't stay up long in the damp."
"Oh, I'll be down directly," he had answered. "I've no wish to lay myself up again."
The company at table fell into talk, and it was some time before they dispersed.
"It is time Mr. Grossman was down," said the doctor; "did you see him, steward?"
"I saw him near an hour ago, sir, he stopped on his way up to light his cigar at the tinder lamp on the stairs."
The doctor went up, but no Herr Grossman was to be seen. He and others hunted all over the ship. At last a sort of panic prevailed. Where was he? What had happened? The ship was stopped and boats lowered. Captain Wylie was one of those who volunteered to go with the search party. Clouds of mist hung over the sea, and although lanterns were held aloft, nothing was visible.
The search was in vain. No one ever knew precisely what had happened, nor would know. Whether a sudden giddiness seized him, or whether he leaned too far forward, misled by the fog which makes things look so different; certain it is that he had disappeared—not even his umbrella was found.
No one slept that night; a great awe had settled down over the whole ship.
The next day a furious gale sprang up. Captain Wylie, who was an old sailor, crawled up on deck; he was used to roughing it, and the waves dashing over him as they swept the deck had an invigorating effect.
"We ought to be in this afternoon," shouted the captain, as he passed, "but the propeller has come to grief; you see we are not moving, and hard enoughit will be to fix the other in in such weather," and he looked anxiously around. The wind almost blew his words away.
Captain Wylie then perceived that they were in the trough of the sea, helplessly tossed about, while the waves were mounting high, and any moment the engine fires might be extinguished. Should that happen, indeed they would be in a bad strait.
With difficulty he made his way to where the men were vainly trying to fix the monster screw. Each time they thought they had it in place, the heavy sea shifted it, and the men were knocked down in their attempts. Captain Wylie willingly gave a hand, and after a long time, so it seemed to the weary men, the screw was in its place, and doing its work.
The brave ship battled on. Already in the far distance the great "Rock" was visible, and the young soldier's heart turned passionately to her whom he loved.
And now a fresh disaster had arisen; the steam steering-gear had come to grief, and the old, long-neglected wheel had to be brought into use. It had not been used for years, and though constantly cleaned and kept in order, the salt water had been washing over it now for hours, and it was very hard to turn. The question now was, should they remain in the open sea, or venture into the harbour?
A discussion on the subject was taking place between the captain and the first mate. The steering-gear did not seem to do its work properly, and the captain anxiously kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, as they were drawn irresistibly nearer and nearer to the harbour. "It is the men-of-war I dread coming near," the captain was saying to his mates; "those deadly rams are a terror in this weather."
A Critical Moment
It was a critical moment. Darkness was coming down, the rain became more violent, the wind cold and cutting, with now and then fierce showers of hail.
On, on they were being driven; nothing could keep them back. The captain shouted orders, the men did their best, but the wheel did not work properly. Captain Wylie as he stood near, holding on while the waves dashed over him, saw the lights twinkling in the town, and felt that the cup of happiness so near might now at any moment be dashed from his lips.
The danger was clear to all, nearer and nearer they drew. "Out with the life-belts!" shouted the captain; "lower the boats!"
There was no time to be lost, faster and faster they were being driven into the harbour.
Captain Wylie rushed downstairs; and here confusion and terror reigned, for bad news travels fast, and a panic had seized the poor fellows who were still weak from recent illness. They were dragging themselves out of their berths.
"Get her ready, here are two belts," he cried, and, throwing them to Mr. Cameron, he hurried to the assistance of the invalids. All were soon provided with belts. A wonderful calm succeeded to the confusion, and great self-control was exercised.
"Courage!" cried the young soldier; "remember we are close to shore. If you can keep your heads above water you will speedily be rescued." The one frail woman was as calm as any.
It came at last! A crash, a gurgling sound of rushing water, a ripping, rasping noise.
"Up on deck," shouted Captain Wylie, as seizing the one helpless invalid in his arms, he hastened on deck. An awful scene met the eye. What the ship's captain feared had indeed come true!
The boats were soon freighted and pushed off.
While this terrible scene was taking place, anxious eyes were taking it all in from the shore.
Early that day theMinervahad been signalled, and Norah with her heart in her mouth had watched almost all day from the veranda, scanning the sea with a pairof binoculars. Mrs. Somerset kept the children entirely, knowing well what her poor young governess was going through.
A Weary Night
The storm had raged fiercely all day, but as night came on it grew worse. Norah could remain no longer in the house, and had gone down to the quay. As she reached it she saw a large ship driving furiously forward to its doom. There she stood as though turned to stone, and was not aware of a voice speaking in her ear, and a hand drawing her away.
"This is no place for you, Mrs. Wylie; my wife sent me for you. You can do no good here; you will learn what there is to learn quicker at home—one can't believe a word they say."
Her agony was too great for words or tears. She had gone through so much all those years, and now happiness had seemed so near, she had believed it might even yet be in store for her since Mrs. Somerset had spoken to her on the subject, and now? . . . She let herself be led into the house, and when Mrs. Somerset ran to meet her and clasp her in her arms, it was as if she grasped a statue, so cold and lifeless was Norah.
"She is stunned," the major said; "she is exhausted."
Mechanically she let herself be covered up and put on the sofa, her feet chafed by kind hands—it gave a vague sense of comfort, though all the time she felt as if it were being done to some one else.
And yet had Norah only known, grief would have been turned into thanksgiving. Her husband was not dead.
The weary night came to an end at last, as such nights do. Several times Mrs. Somerset had crept in. They had been unable to gather any reliable news about theMinerva'spassengers. The ship had gone down, but whether the people had been saved they had been unable as yet to ascertain.
A glorious sunrise succeeded a night of storm and terror, and its crimson beams came in on Norah.Hastily rising, and throwing on her hat and jacket she ran out into the morning freshness longing to feel the cool air.
She only wanted to get away from herself.
She climbed the steep ascent up the "Rock," past the governor's house, then stood and gazed at this wonderful scene.
And she stood thus, wrapped up in sad thoughts and anticipations of evil, a great, great joy lay very near her.
Edgar Wylie had thrown himself into the sea, and lost consciousness from the effects of a blow. Several boats had braved the furious sea, and come out to save the unfortunate people if possible.
Thus it was that he was picked up, as well as a young fellow he had risked his life to save.
When he came to himself, he found he had been brought to the nearest hotel, and a doctor was in attendance. There was, however, nothing really the matter with him. He had, it is true, been stunned by the sharp spar that had come in contact with his head, but no real injury had been done.
A good night's rest had restored him to himself. He woke early the following morning, and rising went out to breathe the fresh pure air.
Thus it came to pass that the husband and wife were passing each other in their morning walk, and they did not know it.
And yet, as his tall figure passed her, a thrill of memory went through her, a something in the walk reminded her of her husband.
Both had arrived at the supreme crisis of their lives, and yet they might never have met, but for a small incident, and a rather funny one.
Norah had taken off her hat and had laid it carelessly beside her on the low wall on which she was leaning, when she became aware of some one taking possession of it, and looking round she saw the impudent face of a monkey disappearing with it up the steep side of the "Rock."
She had no energy to recover it, and was standing helplessly watching his movements when she saw the stranger who had passed her set off in pursuit of the truant.
She soon lost sight of him, and had again sunk into a reverie when a voice said: "Here is your hat; I have rescued it. I think it is none the worse for this adventure."
Oh, that voice! Norah's heart stood still, she was stunned and could not believe that she heard aright. Was she dreaming? "The rascal was caught by one of the sentries, evidently he is quite at home with them, and the soldier on duty coaxed it from him."
Then Norah turned, there was no longer room for doubt, her eyes were riveted on the grey ones fixed on her.
"You are not Dead!"
"Then you are not dead," was the thought that flashed through her mind. Her tongue was dry and parched; her heart, which had seemed to stop, bounded forward, as though it must burst its bonds.
"Oh, Edgar!" she cried, losing all self-command; "oh, if it is you, forgive me, don't leave me. Don't let me wake and find it a dream!"
A strange whizzing and whirling came over her, and then she felt herself held securely by a strong arm and a face was bent to hers. When she recovered herself somewhat, she found that she was seated on a bank, supported by her husband.
It was his voice that said in the old fond tones: "Oh, Norah, my Norah, we are together again, never, never more to part. Forgive me, darling, for all I have made you suffer in the past."
"Forgive you! Oh, Edgar! Will you forgive me?"
The sun rose higher, and sounds of everyday life filled the air, drawing those two into the practical everyday world, out of the sunny paradise in which they had been basking while Norah sat leaning against that strong true heart that all these years had beat only for her.
BY
The story of a simple Irish girl, a sorrow, and a disillusion.
The mountains of Connemara stretched bare and desolate beneath the November sky.
Down the bleak mountain side, with his broad-leavedcaubeen(peasant's hat) pulled well over his face, tramped a tall young countryman, clad in a stout frieze coat. His was an honest face, with broad, square brow, eyes of speedwell-blue that looked steadfast and fearless, and a mouth and chin expressive both of strength and sweetness.
Dermot O'Malley was the only son of Patrick and Honor O'Malley, who dwelt in a little white-washed farmhouse near the foot of the mountain. His father tilled a few acres of land—poor stony ground, out of which he contrived to keep his family and to save a little besides.
The little patch surrounding the farmhouse was, in its proper season, gay with oats and barley, while potatoes and cabbage, the staple food of the peasant, flourished in plenty. With such a desirable home, such a "likeable" face, and steady, upright character, it was no wonder that Dermot O'Malley was the object of much admiration among the people of the mountains, and several scheming parents had offered their daughters and their "fortunes" to him through the medium of his father, according to the custom of the country.
But Dermot resisted all their overtures; his heart, and all the honest true love that filled it to overflowing, was given to Eily Joyce, the carrier's daughter; for her he would have laid down his strong young life.
It was Eily's duty during the summer to take a daily supply of fresh eggs from her own hens to the proprietor of the hotel, and every morning she presented herself at the door, a bewitching little figure, her basket slung on her arm.
Coyly she glanced from beneath her black silky lashes at the little group of men who, cigar in hand, loitered about the hotel steps, chatting on the chances of sport or the prospects of the weather.
The Artist's Model
Beauty like hers could not fail to attract the attention of the artists present, and as day after day went by, flattering remarks and undisguised admiration did not fail to strike home; attentions from the "gentry" were grateful to one who was a born coquette, and Eily's visits were gradually prolonged.
Then one of the artists sought to paint her; he was a young fellow, rising in his profession, and in quest of a subject for his next Academy picture. In Eily he found what he sought, and there, among her own wild mountains, he painted her.
Day after day, week after week, Eily stole from her father's little cabin to meet the stranger, a downward glance in her dark eyes, a blush on her cheek. The handsome face of the artist, his languid manner, his admiration of her beauty, his talk about the great world that lay beyond those mountains, fascinated and bewildered poor simple Eily, who told him in her trusting innocence all the thoughts of her young heart.
So the summer passed by, till at last the picture was completed, and Eily heard, with white face and tearful eye, that the painter was going away.
Time had passed, and the little world among the mountains went on its quiet way, but the summer had left its impress on Eily's heart. No more was her laugh the merriest, or her foot the fleetest; she joined neither wake nor dance, but her eye wore a far-away, thoughtful look, and her manner was cold and somewhat scornful; she looked with contempt on her old comrades, and began to pine for a peep at the great world, where she would seehim, and he would welcome her, his beautiful "Queen of Connemara," as he had called her.
As though her unspoken words were heard, an opportunity to gratify her wishes soon occurred. Her mother's sister, who had married young and gone with her husband to England, returned to visit her old home; she was a middle-aged, hard-faced woman, with a shrewd eye and cruel heart; she had worked hard, and made a little money by keeping a lodging-house in the east of London.
London! Eily's heart leapt as she heard the word. Was not that the great cityhehad spoken of, where she would be worshipped for her lovely face, and where great lords and ladies would bow down before her beauty?
Shyly, but with determination, she expressed her desire to go there with her aunt. Well-pleased, Mrs. Murphy consented to take her, inwardly gloating over her good luck, for she saw that Eily was neat and handy, and had the "makings" of a good servant. It would enable her to save the wages of her present drudge, and a girl who had no friends near to "mither" her could be made to perform wonders in the way of work.
So a day was fixed for their departure, and Eily's eyes regained their old sparkle, her spirits their wonted elasticity.
Without a regret or fear she was leaving the little cabin in which she was born, her whole heart full of rapture that she was going to seehim, and of the joyhe would experience at the sight of her. Small wonder, then, was it that Dermot sighed as he walked homeward that bleak November day, for his heart was well-nigh broken at the thought of parting from the girl he loved.
As he rounded the shoulder of the mountain the clouds parted, and a shaft of bright sunlight lit up his path. Dermot looked eagerly before him. There was Eily standing outside the cabin door, bare-footed, bare-headed. Cocks and hens strutted in and out of the thatched cottage, a pig was sniffing at a heap of cabbage-leaves that lay on the ground, and a black, three-legged pot, the chief culinary utensil in a peasant's cot, stood just outside the doorway. Eily was busy knitting, and pretended not to see the tall form of her lover until he drew near, then she looked up suddenly and smiled.
"Is it knitting y'are, Eily? Shure it's the lucky fellow he'll be that'll wear the socks those fairy hands have made!"
"Is it flattherin' me y'are, Dermot? because if so ye may go away! Shure, 'tis all the blarney the bhoys does be givin' me is dhrivin' me away from me home. Maybe ye'll get sinse whin I lave ye all, as I will to-morrow!"
"Will ye Stay?"
"Oh, Eily, jewil, don't say that! don't!" he pleaded, his blue eyes looking earnestly into hers. "Whin ye go, you will take all the sunshine out of me poor heart; it's to Ameriky I will go, for nothin' will be the same to me without you, mavourneen! Eily, Eily, will ye stay?"
But Eily was firm.
"Faith, thin, I will not, Dermot! I'm weary of my life here; I want to see London and the world. Shure, I'll come back some day with gold of me own, a rale lady, for all the world like the gintry at the castle below."
He took her hands for a moment and wrung them in his, then, with a look of dumb agony in his blue eyes, turned his back upon her and continued his way down the mountain side.
London! was this indeed London, the goal of all her hopes, the place wherehelived, and moved, and had his being?
EILY STOOD A FORLORN DESOLATE FIGURE ON EUSTON PLATFORM.EILY STOOD A FORLORN DESOLATE FIGURE ON EUSTON PLATFORM.
Eily stood, a forlorn, desolate figure, among the crowds that jostled each other carelessly on Euston platform. The pretty face that peeped from the folds of a thick woollen shawl looked tired after the long journey, and her feet—oh, how they ached! for they were unaccustomed to the pressure of the heavy, clumsy boots in which they were now encased.
What a crowd of people, and how "quare" the talk sounded! How grandly they were all dressed! not one with a red petticoat like the new one she had been so proud of only yesterday morning; she glanced at it now with contempt, deciding to discard it before she had been another day in London.
There was a girl sitting on her box not far from Eily; she was evidently waiting for some one to fetch her. Eily eyed her garments with envy; they were of dazzling crimson, plentifully besprinkled with jet; she wore a large hat trimmed with roses; a "diamond" brooch fastened her neck-ribbon, and a "golden" chain fell from neck to waist; but what Eily liked best of all was the thick, black fringe that covered her forehead; such "style" the simple peasant had never before beheld; if only her aunt would be generous she would buy just such a dress as that, but whether or not, the fringe could be had for nothing, andheshould see that she could be as genteel as any one else, he need never be ashamed of her.
Her plans and projects were alike cut short by her aunt, who, hot and excited after a wordy war with porters and cabmen, ran breathlessly along the platform.
"Make haste, Eily! how long are you goin' to stand there staring like a sick owl? Hurry up, child; the cabman will be for charging me overtime if you're so slow, and it's bad enough to have to pay ordinary fare all that way."
Eily took up the little tin box that held all her worldly possessions, and followed her aunt to the cab like one in some horrible dream. The fog, the crowds, the noises, the strangeness of everything! With a chill at her warm young heart she took her seat in the cab, and was driven swiftly through the streets. The fog was lifting slightly; she could see the houses and buildings stretching as far as eyes could follow them; houses everywhere, people everywhere; men, women, and children hurrying along the pavements; cabs and carts rolling unceasingly.
"Is there a Fair To-day?"
"Is there a fair to-day?" she asked her aunt, who was sitting opposite with closed eyes.
"Fair? Simpleton! it's this way every day, only worse, because this is early morning, and there's only a few about yet;" and Mrs. Murphy's eyes closed again.
The cab rattled along, the streets became narrow and unsavoury, but Eily knew no difference; it was all grand to her unsophisticated eyes; the little shops, with lights that flared dismally in their untidy windows, caused her much excitement and speculation.
At last the cab drew up, and her aunt awoke from her nap in a bad temper.
"Get my things together, quick, and don't dawdle; we're at home now, and you will have to set about your work!"
Eily gathered together bags and boxes and set them down upon the pavement, while her aunt haggled with the driver in a spirited manner; the man went off, grumbling at the meanness of a "couple o' Hirishers," but Eily, not understanding the English manner of using the aspirate, was blissfully unconscious of his meaning.
The house door opened, and an elderly man, looking cowed and humble, shuffled out to meet them.
"We've come at last!" cried out her aunt in a loud voice; "it's the last time I'll take the trouble to visit my folks! What the better am I for all themoney I've spent on the trip? Better, indeed! A good deal worseIshould say! Take in the box, William! what are you stopping for?" she demanded angrily.
"Oh, nothing, nothing, my dear! I'll take the box in at once, certainly!" The old man hurried to do his wife's bidding, and entered the squalid house. Eily followed with her parcels, and stood in doubt as to what her next proceedings should be, while her aunt bustled away somewhere, on food intent.
The old man, having obediently deposited the box in the region of upstairs, shuffled down again, and approached Eily gently. "Are you her niece, my poor girl?" he whispered, with a backward glance in the direction of his departed spouse.
"I am, sorr," answered Eily; "I am come to help me aunt wid the claning and the lodgers."
"Poor child! poor child! I was afraid so," he murmured, shaking his head dolefully; "but, look here, don't notice her tempers and her tantrums, her carries on fearful sometimes, but least said soonest mended, and if you want to please her keep a still tongue in your head; I've learnt to do it, and it pays best. If ever you want a friend your uncle William will stand by you; now, not a word, not a word!" and he shuffled noiselessly away as loud footsteps drew near, and Mrs. Murphy appeared on the scene.
"Now then, girl, come downstairs and set to work; the fire's black out, and not a drop o' water to be had! It's like him; he's got a brain like a sieve"—pointing to her husband, "and here am I nigh dying of thirst. Drat that bell!" she exclaimed, as a loud peal from upstairs sounded in the passage.
William lit the fire, boiled the kettle, and frizzled the bacon, his wife sitting by criticising the work of his hands, and warming her elastic-sided boots at the fire. She ate her breakfast in silence, and then remembered Eily, who was sitting on the stairs, hungry,forlorn, and desolate, the tears running down her cheeks.
"Come, girl, get your tea!" she called, as she replenished the pot from the kettle; "here's bread for you, better than that rubbishy stuff your mother makes; such bread as that I never see, it's that heavy it lies on your chest like a mill-stone."
Eily took the slice of bread offered her and gnawed it hungrily; she had tasted nothing since the previous evening, as her aunt objected to waste money on "them swindling refreshment rooms," and the stock of bread and cakes her mother had given her was soon exhausted.
"Now, girl, if you start crying you'll find you make a great mistake. I brought you here to work, and work you must! Fie, for shame! an ignorant country girl like you should be thankful for such a start in life as you are getting."
"I'm not ignorant," Eily answered with spirit, "and it's yourself that knows it!"
"Do what you're Told!"
"Then get up and wash that there delf—don't give me any imperence, or you'll find yourself in the street; there's others better than you I've turned away, and the work'us has been their end—so mind your business, and do what you're told!" With this parting injunction Mrs. Murphy left the kitchen.
The winter passed—cold, foggy, murky, miserable winter. Eily was transformed. No longer bright, sparkling, and gay, but pale, listless, and weary—the veriest drudge that ever lived under an iron rule. A thick black fringe adorned her forehead, her ears were bedecked with gaudy rings, and her waist squeezed into half its ordinary size; her clothes, bought cheaply at a second-hand shop, were tawdry and ill-fitting, yet they were her only pleasure; she watched herself gradually developing into a "fine lady" with a satisfaction and excitement that alone kept her from giving way altogether.
Her heart was still aching for a sight of her lover,and many a time when her aunt was out she neglected tasks that she might sit at the parlour window and watch with feverish expectancy for the owner of the fair moustache and languid manner that had so completely taken her fancy; but he never came, and she rose from her vigils with a sore heart.
Two friends she had; two who never spoke roughly, nor upbraided her. "Uncle William," himself cowed and subdued, stood first. Sometimes, when the lady of the house became unbearable, and poor Eily's head ached with all the tears she shed, he would take her in the cool of the evening away to a large green park, where the wind blew fresh, the dew sparkled on the grass, and the noisy traffic of the streets was still; there she would rest her weary body, while the old man soothed her gently and stroked her poor hands, all chapped and red with hard work.
Eily's other friend was a lady who occupied a single top room in her aunt's tall house. She was a gentle, white-haired woman, with faded blue eyes and a sweet smile. She had won Eily's heart from the first by the soft, kindly tones of her voice, and the consideration she showed for the severely-tried feet of the little Irish maid. Mrs. Grey taught drawing and painting; her pupils were few, her terms low; it was a difficult matter to make both ends meet, but she managed it by careful contriving, and sometimes had enough to treat her waiting-maid to a morsel of something savoury cooked on her own little stove.
It was May. Eily was standing at the window while Mrs. Murphy went forth on a bargain-hunting expedition.
"Eily, come upstairs, child; I have something to show you." Mrs. Grey was in the room, looking flushed and excited; she was flourishing a book in her hand. Eily's heart beat rapidly as she ascended the steep staircase in the wake of her friend. Was it possibleshe could have news ofhim?Then she shook her head, for Mrs. Grey was not in her secret.
They entered the neat little room at the top of the stairs. Mrs. Grey, walking to the table, never pausing to unfasten her bonnet-strings or tounbuttonher gloves, opened the book and laid it on the table, exclaiming in triumph, "There you are to the life, Eily! See! it is the picture of the year, and is called 'The Queen of Connemara.'"
A girl with eyes half-defiant, half-coquettish, lips demure and smiling, hair tied loosely in a knot at the back of her proudly-set head, was leaning against the white-washed wall of a thatched cabin—ah! it was Dermot's own! Eily noted the geraniums in the little blue box that he had tended himself.
Eily's heart leapt, and then was still; there were her two bare feet peeping from beneath her thick red petticoat, just as they used in the olden times, and there was the blue-checked apron she had long ago discarded. With face now white, now red, she gazed at the picture, then spelt out its title, "The Queen of Connemara," painted by Leslie Hamilton.
"Arrah, 'tis Misther Hamilton himself! 'twas he painted me!" she cried breathlessly, and sank into a chair completely overcome.
"Then, Eily, you are a lucky girl! Every one in London is talking about 'The Queen of Connemara,' and this Hamilton has made his name and fortune by your picture. Well, well! no wonder you are surprised! Here is the artist's portrait; do you remember him?" She turned over a few leaves of the book and pushed it towards Eily.