"At Last!"
Did Eily remember him? Ay, indeed! There were the clear blue eyes, the straight nose, the drooping moustache. Eily snatched up the book eagerly, "Misther Hamilton! at last! at last!" With a great sob her head fell forward on the table, and Mrs. Grey guessed the young girl's secret.
Leslie Hamilton, R.A., was entertaining. In the middle of a smart crowd of society people he stood, the lion of the season. "The Queen of Connemara" had made him name and fame. He was smiling on all, as well he might, for his name was in every one's mouth.
Standing about the studio, chattering gaily, or lounging idly, the guests of Leslie Hamilton were admiring everything while they sipped tea out of delicate Sèvres cups. The artist himself was busy, yet his attention was chiefly directed to a beautiful young girl who sat on a velvet lounge, a tiny lap-dog on her knee. She was tall and dignified in mien, with soft grey eyes and bronze-gold hair, among which the sunlight was playing as it stole through a window behind her. She was the beauty of the season, and her father's sole heiress. Cold and distant with others, she was affable and even kind to Leslie Hamilton, and among her friends it was whispered such treatment could only end in one way; and though better things had been spoken of for Bee Vandaleur, the wife of an R.A. was by no means a position to be despised, and if Bee's fancy lay that way, why——! a shrug of its white shoulders, an elevation of its pencilled eyebrows, and Society went on its way.
Leslie Hamilton had taken up his position near the door that he might easily acknowledge each new arrival. He was leaning over the fair Bee Vandaleur, watching the animation in her beautiful face, the grace with which she wore her large picture-hat, and the regal manner in which she sat. He glanced at the gay throng that filled his rooms, growing gayer still as the tinkle of tiny silver spoons increased in number and volume; there was not one to compare with Bee,hisBee as he dared, in his own mind, to call her already. Gentle, dignified, graceful, always sweet and gracious to him, and with an ample fortune of her own, it was no wonder the artist felt that she was worth the winning.
"How I should enjoy a peep at your model!" she was saying as she looked at a rough sketch he was showing her. "Was she as beautiful as you have made her?"
"She was tolerably——" Hamilton hesitated. "Well, of course an artist's business is to make the most of good points, and omit the bad. She was a little rough and troublesome sometimes, but, on the whole, not a bad sitter."
"And her name?" asked Miss Vandaleur.
"Her name? oh, Mary, or Biddy, or Eily Joyce; really I cannot be sure; every one in that part of the world is either Eily or Biddy, and Joyce is the surname of half the population. She was a vain girl, I assure you; no beauty in her first season thought more of herself than did she."
"I do not wonder at that," said Bee gently; "there are few women who possess beauty to such a marvellous degree. If only your Biddy could come to London she would be worshipped by all who were not utterly envious."
Just what he had assured Eily himself nine months back, but it is inconvenient to remember everything one has said so long ago; we live at a pace now, and nine months is quite an epoch in our existence—so many things change in nine months!
A Startling Visitor
Hamilton smiled; it was rare to hear one beauty acknowledge another. He bent his head to make some remark that her ear alone might catch, but as he did so a slight stir at the door attracted his attention, and he looked up.
The sight that met his gaze froze the smile on his lips; with a start which he could scarcely conceal the blood left his cheeks; him face became stern and white as death.
There stood Eily herself, behind her the page who did duty at the door. The boy was pulling angrily at her sleeve, and an altercation was going on.
"Shure 'tis himself will be glad to see me, yespalpeen! Shame on yez to insult a poor girl. Musha, is it Misther Hamilton within and ashamed to spake to his Eily!"
One more moment, then within that room in which art, and beauty, and refinement were gathered in one harmonious whole, a figure stole shyly.
It was a young girl, gaudily attired in a blue dress; a hat, encircled by a long pink feather, crowned a face that was beautiful, were it not that it was marred by its many adornments. Gilt earrings glistened in the ears, a dark curly fringe covered forehead and eyebrows, and the chin was embedded in a tawdry feather boa of a muddy hue. An excited flush lay on her cheeks as she looked at the gay crowd within, searching for the loved face.
At last a joyful recognition shone in her dark eyes, and forgetful of everything and everybody, she rushed across the polished floor to the horror-stricken artist.
"Ah, Misther Hamilton, acushla! shure it's your own Eily has found yez at last!" She caught the artist's hand in her own impulsively—"Arrah, but it's the wide world I have searched, and I've found yez at last!"
Silence had fallen on that part of the room where this littlecontretempswas taking place. Hamilton saw the looks of wonderment on his guests' faces change into an amused smile as the little comedy progressed.
The girl was looking earnestly at him.
"Shure, you do not forget your own Eily—the girl you made into the picthur, your colleen oge! But maybe it's the jiwils and the clothes that has changed me; it's mighty grand they make me, to be sure, but it was so you should not be ashamed of me I put them on. Arrah, shpake to me, and let me hear the sound of your voice!"
She looked pleadingly into his eyes, but he was speechless. At last by a mighty effort he turned with a sickly smile to some of his guests—
"Here is the original of 'The Queen of Connemara'—scarcely recognisable in her new clothes, is she? Why, Eily, my child," with a paternal air, "whatever brought you here to London?"
It was an unwise question; the answer was plain enough.
"Faith, thin, 'twas yourself, Misther Hamilton! You promised to come back to me, and said you would make me the finest lady in the land; and I waited, but faix, I got sick and sore, so I came to find yez, and it's well-nigh at death's door I was till I heard of yez and found where ye live—and musha, but it's a grand place, God bless it!"
Eily was looking around her now at the beautiful room, the lovely women, their smart attire, and shyness seized her; she hung her head in dismay; every one in the room was pressing forward to see the girl whom Hamilton had immortalised, and comments on her appearance passed from lip to lip.
"Stand there, Eily," said Hamilton kindly, placing her on a low stool that stood near. The game should be played out now.
The crowd pressed around eagerly, delighted and curious.
A Pleasant Surprise!
"What a pleasant surprise you have prepared for us, dear Mr. Hamilton! quite unprepared, I assure you! but ah, how you artists idealise to be sure! who but genius itself could find anything picturesque under so much glitter and vulgarity?" and so on and so on, until Eily's blushing face grew paler and paler.
"Now, Eily, you may go; the ladies and gentlemen have looked at you long enough. Here is something to buy a new gown and bonnet," and Leslie Hamilton, with a patronising smile, put some gold into her hand.
"How kind and considerate!" murmured the highborn dames as they turned away.
He escorted the girl to the door, and drew aside theportièrecourteously, but his face became livid with rage as he spoke in a low, stern voice, "Go, girl! neverdare to come here again—if you do, I swear I will call the police!"
He closed the door after her retreating figure, and turned with a smile to the company; his eyes sought those of beautiful Bee Vandaleur, but she had gone.
Outside in the busy street Eily stood, leaning for support against a stone pillar. She heard nothing, saw nothing. A mist swam before her eyes; she was dumb with shame and disappointment; her face, a moment before so eager, was pale as death, and deep sobs that came from her very soul shook her poor body. She clenched the gold in her hands, and then with a bitter, passionate cry threw it into the street, and watched while two street-urchins picked it up and ran off with their treasure-trove.
"May I help you, my poor girl? Are you in trouble?" Bee Vandaleur spoke gently and softly; she had heard all that passed between the artist and his model.
Eily looked up. "Oh, me lady, God bless ye! but I'm past the helping now! I loved him, I would have died to save him from a minute's sorrow, and he threatened the police on me!"
"Come with me; I will take care of you, and you shall tell me all." Miss Vandaleur hailed a passing hansom and jumped in, followed by Eily, white, shivering, and limp. "Now tell me all," she said, as they were driven at a rapid pace through the streets. Eily, won by her gentleness, told her the pitiful story of her love; told her of her simple mountain home, of the handsome stranger who had promised to return and carry her to a land where she would be fairest of the fair; told it with dry eyes and white set lips, while her heart was breaking and her temples beat, beat, beat, like sledge-hammers beneath the weight of the fringe with which she had thought to please him.
Miss Vandaleur heard all, and made no sign, save that her lips tightened now and then, and an expression of pain stole into her soft grey eyes.
It was a pathetic story, and the rich girl was touched as she listened to the poor simple one at her side. "Where do you live, Eily?" she asked, as the girl stopped speaking, and lay back with closed eyes.
"At me aunt's, your honour, but I won't go back! shure, I cannot! Oh, me lady, let me go; it's not for the likes of me to be keeping your ladyship away from her grand friends. God's blessing upon ye for your kindness to a poor girl!"
Bee was silent, wondering what she could do with the unhappy creature beside her; presently a bright thought struck her.
"I am looking out for a girl who will attend on me, Eily; do you think you would like the place if you are taught?"
"An Angel from Heaven!"
"Arrah, me lady, me lady! it's an angel from heaven ye are!" cried Eily gratefully, but her head sank back again, till the gaudy pink feather in her hat was spoilt for ever.
That night Eily was taken to hospital. Brain fever set in, and the doctors and nurses feared the worst.
Bee Vandaleur sat in her boudoir thinking. Her pretty brow was puckered as she gazed at the photograph of a young man, tall, fair, and handsome. For some time she cogitated, then, setting her lips together, she tore the card straight across, dropped it into the waste-paper basket beside her, and shrugged her pretty shoulders, exclaiming in a tone more forcible than polite, "Brute!"
Leslie Hamilton stood outside the door of Mr. Vandaleur's handsome town residence. The footman, gorgeously attired, opened the heavy door.
"Not at 'ome, sir," he answered pompously in answer to inquiries.
"My good man, you have made some mistake; Iam Leslie Hamilton, and I wish to see Miss Vandaleur."
"Very sorry, sir, no mistake, sir; Miss Vandaleur is not at 'ome!" and the door closed in the face of the astonished artist.
It was June in Connemara. Where else is the month of roses half as lovely? where does the sky show bluer, or the grass greener? and where is the air so clear and cool and fragrant, or the lakes half as still and azure as in that blessed country?
The sun rode high in the sky, monarch of all, and men smiled as they went about their daily toil, and thanked the good God who was sending them favourable weather. Here and there, dotted about the hillsides, the tiny white-washed cabins were full of life; the cocks crowed proudly as they strutted in and out among their plump, sleek wives; the useful ass brayed loudly, roaming about field and lane in enjoyment of a leisure hour; the men were in the fields, cutting the sweet-scented grass, and the women busied themselves about the midday meal, while babies, with dirty faces and naked feet, tumbled about among the wandering pigs and quacking ducks in blissful content.
Along the white road that bordered the lake a cart was jolting slowly along; it was painted in a startling shade of blue, with shafts of brightest red that projected both back and front; upon it was arranged, with neatness and precision, a load of turf just cut from the bog; on one side, painted black, that all who run might read, was the name of "Patrick O'Malley" in crude lettering, and Patrick himself, in working dress of coarse cream homespun, walked beside his slow-going jennet, idly smoking his tin-topped pipe. From time to time he drew from his trouser pocket a letter, which he fingered with respect, gazing at it with profoundest wonder.
"Shure, 'tis the grandest and the natest letther ever seen, and the ilegant picthur on the back! Musha,musha, 'tis not the likes o' that comes to Biddy Joyce ivery day, no, nor to no one else neither in these parts! It minds me of a letther her ladyship at the castle aksed me to take to the posht, and her in a hurry; begob, but the paper's thick and good entoirely!" and he rubbed it softly between his finger and thumb. "Shure 'tis from London itself, and maybe the one as wrote it is some friend o' Eily's. Ah, but it's she is the foolish one that she did not take the boy! it's long ere she'll find another such a match again, and him with cattle and sheep and pigs o' his own, a house that many a girl would be wild for to get, and maybe—maybe—a bit laid by for a rainy day into the bargain!"
"Too Good for Her!"
The jennet jogged slowly on as Patrick soliloquised. "The poor lad, but it makes me heart ache to see him so low-like, setting so quiet in the house, and him thinking, thinking all the blessed while, and never a word out o' his mouth to complain. He's a rale good lad, and it's sorry I am that he should take on so bad, and all for the sake o' a pair o' bright eyes! To see him when Biddy Joyce was sick and Mike got laid up with rheumatics; who was it minded the cattle, and fed the pigs, and sat early and late 'tending on the pair o' thim but Dermot! It's mighty high the girl is, with her talk o' the gintry and the ilegant places she seen in London, and never a mintion o' his name in all her letthers, the foolish craythur! it's too good the bhoy is for the likes o' her!" The old man was beginning to wax indignant over his son's unfavoured suit when a voice, rich and strong, called to him across the loose stone wall that divided the road from the fields.
"Any news going down Lissough way, father?" It was Dermot, who had stopped for a moment in his task of cutting down the long grass.
"Arrah, phwat news is it likely an old man like me should bring? You ask me so eager-like that I misdoubt me but it's some colleen that's caught youreye!" Patrick's eyes twinkled merrily as he made his little joke. Dermot's face saddened, and he turned to his scythe once more.
His father, sorry that he had brought back the cloud once more to his son's face, pulled the letter from his pocket and laid it on the wall.
"Now, there's for yez! as lovely a letther as ever you seen, all the way from London, with a little picthur of an agle on the back o' it! 'Tis for Biddy Joyce, and maybe ye'll take it, Dermot, seeing your legs is younger than mine?"
Dermot was off already, climbing the mountain slopes in hot haste.
Biddy Joyce stood watching him from the door where Eily and he had parted months before.
"The poor fellow! it's like me own son he has been all this time, so kind when the sickness took hould o' Mike and me! It's meself that wishes he could forget me daughter, for it's poor comfort she will ever be to him. Faith, thin, Dermot," she exclaimed, as he came towards her, "phwat is it at all at all that ye come hurrying like this when the sun is warm enough to kill a body? Come inside, lad, and taste a sup o' me nice, sweet butther-milk; shure the churn's just done, though the butther's too soft entoirely"—she shook her head sadly.
"A letther!" cried Dermot, drawing out the treasured epistle from between the folds of his shirt, where he had hastily thrust it, that his hands might not soil the creamy paper.
"Thanks be to God!" exclaimed the woman, raising her eyes and hands for one moment to heaven. "'Tis long sence she wrote to me, the poor darlint, and it's many a time I lie awake and think o' the child all alone wid sthrangers not of her own blood. Whisht, boy, but you are worse nor meself I make no doubts"—as Dermot snatched the letter from her and hastily tore open the envelope. His face was pale with excitement and dread, for he feared, with a lover's jealousfear, that this was an announcement of Eily's marriage with some of the grand folks she had talked about.
"Rade it, Dermot; 'tis long sence I was at school, and the writin's not aisy."
Dermot obeyed, and this is the letter he spelt out slowly, with no little difficulty and several interruptions—
"Miss Vandaleur is sorry to tell Mrs. Joyce that her daughter Eily has been suffering from a severe illness; she has been in hospital for three weeks with brain fever, and until a few days ago was unable to give her mother's address. She is now much better, and the doctors hope to allow her to leave soon; she is being taken every care of by friends, but if some one could be spared to come such a long distance to see her, it would be the best thing for the poor girl, as she is always wishing for her home, and seems tired of living in London."
"Miss Vandaleur is sorry to tell Mrs. Joyce that her daughter Eily has been suffering from a severe illness; she has been in hospital for three weeks with brain fever, and until a few days ago was unable to give her mother's address. She is now much better, and the doctors hope to allow her to leave soon; she is being taken every care of by friends, but if some one could be spared to come such a long distance to see her, it would be the best thing for the poor girl, as she is always wishing for her home, and seems tired of living in London."
Biddy Joyce was weeping bitterly before the end of the letter, with her blue-checked apron held up to her eyes; three or four of the little ones had gathered around, staring with wide-open eyes.
Dermot's Resolve
Dermot kept up bravely till the last sentence, and then he could stand it no longer; he rushed out of the house, down the stony boreen. Eily sick and ill! Eily well-nigh at death's door! Eily far away in hospital with strange hands to tend her! Poor girl, his love, his darlint! she was tired of it all, wishing for home; oh, how his heart yearned for her, and he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her.
He wandered aimlessly about the mountain side until his emotion had well-nigh subsided, and then he plunged into the Joyces' cabin once more.
"Mrs. Joyce, it's to-morrow, early mornin', you and me musht shtart for London!"
Biddy looked up quickly. "To-morrow! the bhoy's crazy entoirely! It will be a week before I can go.Who will look after the house and the hins, and the childer, not forgetting Mike himself? I musht wait till me sister comes from Ballinahinch, and thin I will go to the child. She's betther, and near well, or the docthors wouldn't be for lettin' her out o' hospital, and faith, her aunt, me sisther Delia, will look afther her for a bit until I find it convaynient to lave; shure Mike himself will write to Eily and tell her I'm coming; that will cheer her heart up, the poor sowl."
"Maybe ye are right, Mrs. Joyce." Dermot said no more, but turned slowly away.
With a firm step and an air of decision he walked homewards across the fields.
"Mother, it's going to London I am," he said as he entered the house; "will ye see me clothes is ready, and put me up a bit o' bread? That's all I'll trouble ye for."
Honor O'Malley looked at the tall, manly figure of her only son, at the frank, proud face, the bright blue eyes, and the firmly-set mouth; the exclamation that was on her lips died away.
"God bless ye, me own bhoy!" she cried instead, in a half-smothered voice, and bent, down over the hearth to hide the tears that rose to her eyes and choked her utterance.
Dermot climbed the ladder that led to the tiny room in the roof where he slept; from beneath the mattress he drew a box, which he unlocked carefully. A small pile of sovereigns lay at the bottom; he counted them carefully, although he knew exactly the sum the little box contained; after fingering them almost lovingly for a few moments he transferred them to a small canvas bag, which he put in his pocket. "Maybe 'twill all be wanted," he exclaimed, with a happy gleam in his eye; "maybe, and maybe not, but howsoever it goes, one look at her blessed face will be worth it all!"
In a pretty, low-ceiled parlour, whose windows lookedout upon a pleasant garden, lay Eily. The wide, old-fashioned sofa was drawn close to an open window, that she might feel the soft, cool air on her cheeks, and sniff the fragrance of the mignonette that filled the beds outside. It was a very thin face that lay upon the soft down pillow, but a slight tinge of pink on her cheeks told of returning health. Her abundant black tresses had been ruthlessly shorn away, and tiny curls clustered around forehead and neck; her eyes, dark as sloes, were large and thoughtful. Two days before she had been removed from the great London hospital, and brought by Miss Vandaleur to her father's country-home, where the kindliest of white-haired house-keepers watched over her beloved Miss Bee'sprotégée, tending her with gentlest care.
"Good-morning, Eily;" Miss Vandaleur, in a simple morning gown of white, entered the room.
Eily struggled to her feet. "Good-morning, miss, your honour!"
Bee laughed good-naturedly; it was funny to hear herself addressed by such a title.
"Now lie still, Eily, you are not quite strong yet. Tell me, are you happy here?"
"Happy! Arrah, it's like heaven, miss; my blessin' and the blessin' of God on ye for all your kindness to a poor girl. Shure, but for yourself I would have been in me grave this day."
"Is there no one else?"
"I am glad you are happy, Eily; but is there no one you would like to see, no one from home, I mean? Just say the word; perhaps I can manage it," she said slyly.
"Shure there's me mother—maybe me father too; but you could scarce get them here, miss—beggin' your honour's pardon," she added hastily.
"Is there no one else, Eily? no one that you think of sometimes—no one who was kind to you, and loved you dearly?" Bee was leaning over the wan face eagerly, and what she saw for answer was a deep crimson flush that covered face, neck, and brow, whiletears rolled down the cheeks. Eily had been thinking of Dermot continually of late, wishing with all her heart that she had not so scorned his love; she had learnt many lessons in the quiet watches of the night and the weary hours of weakness through which she had passed.
Bee Vandaleur said no more, but patted the dark curls gently. "Don't cry, Eily, all will be right soon," and she left the room.
Eily was alone once more.
"Ah, Dermot, Dermot asthore! why was it I trated ye so!" The tears were trickling through her fingers, and her heart was aching with self-reproach.
"Eily, mavourneen!"
The tear-stained fingers were taken in two big, strong hands, and Dermot, with a depth of love in his eyes, bent over the sorrow-stricken face and laid a kiss on the quivering lips; not another word was spoken, but Dermot's protecting arms were around her, and with her head on the heart that throbbed with love and devotion all the past was blotted out, all her folly forgotten, and Eily found rest.
In a surprisingly short time Eily regained her health; happiness is the best of medicine, and Eily felt she had as much as her heart could hold. Looking at Dermot with a lover's eyes she found out all that was noble and good in him, and when he asked her to be his wife ere a week had flown by she gave a glad consent.
UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON
Transcriber's Notes:Obvious punctuation errors repaired.Varied hyphenation retained between different authors' stories.Page 63, A character named "Robert" appears in a sidenote and one paragraph. In the next paragraph his name is changed to Max. The first two instances have been changed to Max to conform. (Uncle Max) and (it was so, Max.)The story entitled "Poor Jane's Brother" is credited to M. Ling in the table of contents and in the list of authors, but the page on which the story begins lists Marie F. Salton as the author. This discrepancy was retained.An illustration was included in this volume originally on page 38. However it does not seem to belong with any of the stories this book contains. It is included here.AT THE PICNIC: I SHAN'T PLAY IF YOU FELLOWS ARE SO ROUGH!"AT THE PICNIC: "I SHAN'T PLAY IF YOU FELLOWS ARE SO ROUGH!"The remaining corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text willappear.
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Varied hyphenation retained between different authors' stories.
Page 63, A character named "Robert" appears in a sidenote and one paragraph. In the next paragraph his name is changed to Max. The first two instances have been changed to Max to conform. (Uncle Max) and (it was so, Max.)
The story entitled "Poor Jane's Brother" is credited to M. Ling in the table of contents and in the list of authors, but the page on which the story begins lists Marie F. Salton as the author. This discrepancy was retained.
An illustration was included in this volume originally on page 38. However it does not seem to belong with any of the stories this book contains. It is included here.
AT THE PICNIC: I SHAN'T PLAY IF YOU FELLOWS ARE SO ROUGH!"AT THE PICNIC: "I SHAN'T PLAY IF YOU FELLOWS ARE SO ROUGH!"
The remaining corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text willappear.