Eileen the Dreamer.
There was one spot on the mountains near The Ghan House where, if you
climbed high enough and were not afraid of an almost perpendicular
path, you could get a glorious view, not only of the Loch and
mountains, but of a wide stretch of sparkling silver, or dreaming
turquoise, which was the sea.
It was here that Eileen Adair loved to sit and dream dreams and weave
romances, such as only the true Celt knows how. What she put into them
was known to none, and, indeed, probably never could be known, for they
possessed that unfathomable, mysterious, yearning quality which is so
present in Celtic blood, and were of those hidden thoughts and things
which defy words to express them. Not that Eileen ever wanted to
express them. She had not as yet met a kindred soul whom she felt could
in any wise understand, and meanwhile, having the mountains, and the
lake, and the sea, for companions, it did not seem that she needed a
listener. She could talk to these in a rapturous silence as she could
talk to no other, and feel that her spirit was one with their spirit,
and that what men call “solitude” is in reality a wealth of deep
companionship for those who have eyes to see and ears to hear. There
was a good deal of the pagan about Eileen, for, though she always went
to church, and tried to be earnest and attentive, it seemed so much
easier to her to worship out in the open air among the upland solitudes
of the mountain. And so real and intense to her in these solitudes was
the consciousness of an All-pervading God-presence, that fear of any
kind was impossible, and she was less lonely than under any other
conditions.
It was doubtless these solitary climbs and silent musings, when she
either thought deep, mysterious thoughts, or sitting motionless,
absorbed into all her being the spirit of beauty around, that had
deepened in her face year by year its dream-like loveliness. Eileen was
rarely gay, but her smile was indescribably beautiful and impressed
everyone who saw it. Paddy was her father’s darling, and had been, in
spite of his disappointment, ever since he learned that his second
child was another girl and not the fondly longed-for boy. With a sense
of vain regret he had looked dubiously at the small bundle with the
cause of his regret somewhere inside it, and retired without further
inspection. A few days later he got a full and uninterrupted view of an
ugly little brown face, with a pair of particularly bright eyes, and a
suggestion of roguishness that was entirely alluring. “Bedad!” he said,
looking back into the bright eyes, “I badly wanted a boy, but you look
as if you’d be the next best thing.” And that was how Paddy got her
self-chosen nickname.
The General was, however, very proud of Eileen, though
half-unconsciously a little afraid of her. But what she missed in her
father Eileen found amply in her mother, whose only fear was that she
might worship this sweet-eyed, fair-faced daughter too much. Mrs Adair
was a woman with whom few ever felt quite at home. Distinguished in
bearing, and still with the remains of considerable beauty, she was in
general an object of awe to her acquaintances. Those who once got to
know her and were admitted into her friendship ever after loved her
dearly—but these were few and far between. Foremost among them were the
little ladies at the Parsonage, who had been waiting at The Ghan House
to welcome their old friend’s bride the day he brought her home from
India. She had been just the same white-faced, reserved woman then, and
for a little while they had been non-plussed; but one day a letter from
India had told them her story, and soon afterward the three women had
cemented a lifelong friendship in tears of common sympathy.
“I hear General Adair has married Miss Brindley and is taking her to
your neighbourhood,” the letter had run. “She was governess with a
friend of ours in India, and we know her well and are very fond of her.
Do all you can for her; she has had a very sad life, and lately, on the
top of all the rest, saw her love killed before her eyes guarding her
from a band of Afghans on the frontier. He was a cousin of General
Adair’s, and they were very devoted to each other, and the latter
nearly lost his life also going to their assistance. Afterward he fell
in love with Miss Brindley himself, and we helped to persuade her to
marry him, because she was so friendless, and poor, and
broken-hearted.”
This, then, surely had something to do with the wistful expression in
the little sad-eyed Eileen’s face, and in later years so deeply
entwined her round her mother’s heart. Only Mrs Adair rarely showed it,
for she was eminently a just woman, and in the peaceful waters of her
after-life she put her sad past resolutely aside, and tried to live
only for the husband who was so good to her, and for her harum-scarum
tom-boy daughter, as much as for the child who would always possess the
largest share of her heart.
But Eileen’s eyes were not sad when she hurried up the mountain on the
day the Misses O’Hara called with their piece of news. She carried a
small packet of sandwiches and a flask which the cook had hastily
prepared for her, and revelled inwardly at the prospect of at least
five hours all to herself. She knew they would not be anxious at home,
for both she and Paddy often took their lunch with them and vanished
for a day, though it must be confessed nothing in the world would ever
have induced the latter to waste an afternoon, as she would put it,
mooning about on the mountains alone. No, Paddy would be off in the
yacht, fishing or sailing, with or without Jack, or she would be away
to Newry for tennis, or to Greenore for golf, or to Warrenpoint to see
her great friend, Kitty Irvine, and listen to the Pierrots on the
front; and in any case no one would dream of worrying about her, for
had she not possessed a charmed life she must surely have ended her
short career in some sudden fashion long ago.
But to-day it was not the five hours only that lit that glow in
Eileen’s eyes. It was something quite different—quite apart, indeed,
from the whole tenor of her life, except for a few short months three
years ago.
That was the summer when Lawrence Blake, instead of going off to
foreign climes as usual, remained at his home, Mourne Lodge, a
beautiful place in the mountains about two miles from The Ghan House.
He kept his yacht that summer moored by the General’s landing-stage, so
each time he went out in it he passed through the grounds of The Ghan
House, and one of his sisters usually ran in to fetch Paddy or Eileen
if they chanced to be at home. Paddy, as it happened, much preferred
the greater excitement, not to say danger, of taking her pleasures with
Jack O’Hara, so it usually chanced that Eileen went in the Blakes’
boat. In the middle of September Kathleen and Doreen Blake had to go
back to Paris, where they were still finishing their educations, but
somehow it had seemed perfectly natural for Lawrence still to go down
to his yacht and for Eileen to keep him company. On the first occasion
Jack and Paddy went with them, but an indefinable, strained feeling,
owing doubtless to Jack’s antipathy to the wealthy, polished University
man, had caused the lively pair to come to the conclusion that it was
too tame a proceeding altogether, and they could better amuse
themselves elsewhere. In this decision Lawrence and Eileen were
secretly glad to acquiesce, for there was never any peace for anybody
when Paddy was on board. She would not sit still herself, nor let
anybody else if she could help it, and was altogether a most dangerous
young person to take on a small sailing yacht.
So sweet September glided into a sunny, warm October, and still
Lawrence went through the grounds to the bay and Eileen met him at the
water’s edge.
To him she was a beautiful girl with poetical ideas, which he found
rather amusing.
To her he was a revelation.
In all her nineteen years Eileen had never met any one so cultured as
Lawrence Blake, except Jack’s father, and he, since his wife’s death,
had grown so reserved and retiring that no one was able ever to bring
him out of himself. There seemed to be nothing that Lawrence did not
know and had not studied, and so eager was she to learn from him that
she was blind altogether to the defects which made him an object of
aversion to honest, outspoken Jack. It must be confessed, however, that
Lawrence, when he liked, could be as charming a companion as any one
need wish, and if it so pleased him, and he were not too lackadaisical,
could make his way into almost any one’s heart. It was generally said
of him that he had the most disarming smile in the world, and from
wearing a cynical, morose expression, could change in an instant to a
polished courtier if he so wished, and turn an enemy into an ally after
half an hour’s conversation.
And it pleased him during that sunny October to stand well with Eileen.
He liked her. She was not only beautiful to look at, but interesting to
talk to, and a delightful listener, and for the rest—well, what harm in
it?
So it chanced in the end that a certain subdued love-light drove much
of the usual wistfulness from Eileen’s eyes, and when unoccupied she
would steal oftener to the mountains or sit longer in the starlight on
her favourite seat by the Loch. Her mother watched her a little
anxiously, but feared to do harm by speaking. Paddy treated it all as a
great joke, and Jack, without in the least knowing why, felt a quite
unaccountable longing to duck Lawrence in the bay whenever he heard him
mentioned. Then suddenly Mr Blake died, and everything was changed.
Lawrence, being very fond of his mother, rarely left her in her
terrible grief. Finally, by the doctor’s advice, he took her abroad,
and the beautiful, hospitable house was closed, to the loss of the
whole neighbourhood. That was three years ago, and now they were coming
back once more, and it seemed likely that the old _régime_ would
recommence.
To Eileen it was simply “he” was coming back.
She told the birds about it as she hastened up to her beloved nook, and
the little trickling streams, and the flowers, and the mountains that
towered all round.
She was so sure he was coming back to her. Had he not lived in her
thoughts and been the central figure of her dreams ever since he went
away three years ago? Was it likely it could have been otherwise with
him, after the way he had looked at her and sought her
companionship?... And now he was to love her so much more than before,
for had she not read and thought and studied, to make herself a fitter
companion? She smiled to think what a little ignoramus she must have
seemed to him three years ago. Of course she was that, compared to him,
still, but she had at least tried to educate herself to a higher plane
and knew that she had not tried altogether in vain. “Will he know it at
once, I wonder?” she whispered to herself, sitting in her favourite
attitude, with her elbows on her knees and her chin sunk deep in her
hands, gazing at the deep blue of the distant sea. “Will he be glad? Is
he feeling as I feel now?—as if Heaven had somehow come down to earth
and shed a new loveliness over the mountains, and the valleys, and the
sea?—as if one must always be good because of the joy in the world, and
make everyone so happy that evil must eventually die out?”
Then she fell to dreaming golden dreams of love, and wonder, and
tenderness, till her eyes shone, and losing all consciousness of time
and space her soul carried her away into an unreal dreamland of
ecstasy.
From this she was somewhat suddenly and forcibly awakened by the
apparition of a stalwart form, not in the least ethereal or dream-like,
with a gun on his shoulder and two brace of snipe in his hand. He had,
moreover, emerald green on his stockings, a tan waistcoat, and a pale
green tie instead of a terra cotta one that had raised such objections
in the morning; and whatever Paddy or anyone else might like to say, he
formed as pleasing a picture of a typical young Briton as any one need
wish. He expressed surprise at seeing Eileen, but not being a good
actor, any experienced ear would easily have detected that he had come
to that spot with the express hope of finding her.
“Have you been up here long?” he asked, throwing down the gun and the
birds in the heather and telling his spaniel to keep guard over them.
“About three hours, I should think,” she replied, looking a little
askance at the gun. “Is it unloaded?”
“Yes. You’re not afraid of it, are you?”
“N-no,” slowly. “Isn’t it rather early to shoot snipe?”
“Yes, but there wasn’t anything else.”
“I thought you and Paddy were going across to Rostrevor this
afternoon?”
“So we were, but we fell out.”
“Has Paddy gone alone, then?”
“Yes. She said she’d rather swim across than have to go in the same
boat with me.” And he smiled at the recollection.
Eileen smiled vaguely also, but she was not listening very attentively,
so she was not quite sure what she was smiling at. She had
unconsciously slipped into her old attitude again, and, chin in hand,
was gazing out to sea.
Jack, having thrown himself down beside her, pulled at the heather in
silence, watching her secretly. “What do you think about when you sit
here by yourself?” he asked suddenly. “It seems as if it must be so
awfully slow.”
“Oh, no, it isn’t at all slow,” she answered simply.
“But what do you think about?” he reiterated.
“I don’t think I could explain,” slowly, “except that it’s just
everything.”
There was a short silence, then he said:
“You and Paddy are very different, aren’t you?” And she smiled as she
answered in the affirmative.
“I shouldn’t think sisters are often so different,” he went on. “Aunt
Jane and Aunt Mary are almost exactly alike. There isn’t much
difference between Kathleen and Doreen Blake, either,” he added, as if
leading up to something, and then blurted out a little awkwardly, “I
suppose you’re very glad they’re coming back?”
“Yes,” Eileen replied simply; “aren’t you?”
Jack did not reply, but remarked instead:
“I don’t suppose Lawrence will stay at home long. This place is much
too tame for him.”
Eileen only gazed fixedly at the distant sea.
“I can’t say I think it will be much loss to the neighbourhood,”
continued outspoken Jack. “He does fancy himself so.”
“I don’t think he does,” she said. “It is only that the people about
here do not appeal to him in some way, and so he stands aloof.”
“We’re not clever enough, I suppose; but we could give him points in a
good many things, all the same,” a little savagely, biting at a piece
of string with his strong white teeth. “What has he ever done beyond
taking a few degrees at Oxford?”
“You haven’t even done that.” And Eileen turned to him suddenly, with
serious eyes. She was the only one of all about him who ever took him
to task seriously about his idle life. His aunts were too fond and too
indulgent, his father too wrapped up in his books and his loss, and
Paddy, being as irresponsible and happy-go-lucky herself, only thought
about the good time they were having in the present. Eileen, however,
saw further, and sometimes tried to influence him.
He was silent now before the veiled reproach in her words, but
presently, with an irresistible little smile, he said.
“You wouldn’t have me go away and leave Aunt Jane and Aunt Mary weeping
over my empty chair and old shoes and things, would you?”
“Perhaps you will have to go some day,” she said.
“Yes, but why worry about it now? Sufficient unto the day—”
“Yes; only you are wasting your best years.”
“Oh, I don’t think so, and I’m not doing any harm to anyone.”
“You may be harming yourself.”
“How?”
Eileen gazed dreamily before her, and presently said:
“You see, I don’t think life is altogether meant to be just a playtime
for anyone. We have to make our five talents ten talents.”
“But not all in a great hurry at the beginning.”
“It is possible to put things off too long, though.”
“That’s what Paddy said because I kept her waiting nearly half an hour
this afternoon. She was very uppish,” and again he smiled at the
recollection, and Eileen gave him up.
“You are quite incorrigible,” she said. “I might as well try and
inspire Kitty,” and she patted the spaniel, now curled up beside them.
“Perhaps, but it really isn’t worth while to worry now, it is?
Everything’s so jolly, it would be a pity to spoil it. You’re so
serious and solemn, Eileen. Paddy never bothers her head about any
mortal thing—why do you?”
“I expect I’m made that way. It would not do for everyone to be the
same. Shall we go home now? We shall be just in time for tea.”
He got up at once and shouldered his gun, starting ahead of her to
clear the brambles and stones out of her path, and turning to give her
his hand where the descent became difficult. Had it been Paddy they
would have scrambled down at a breakneck pace together, and he would
have given no thought at all to her progress, for the simple reason
that she would only have scorned it if he had.
But Eileen, somehow, was different. She was really quite as good a
climber as Paddy, and probably a much surer one, but on the other hand
she seemed more frail and dependent, and Jack liked helping her, even
though he knew she would get along quite as well by herself.
At the lodge gates they met the two aunts, and Eileen was promptly
carried off to the Parsonage to tea, the two little ladies at once
commencing to pour into her sympathetic ears an account of the sad fate
of one of their favourite cats as they went along.
“My dear, when we started out this afternoon,” began Miss Jane, “we
heard a most heartrending cry in the bushes, and after hunting about,
we found such a pitiful object. It was scarcely recognisable even to
us.”
“Not even to us,” echoed Miss Mary sadly.
“It was actually poor dear Lionel, one of Lady Dudley’s last kittens,”
continued Miss Jane, “and what do you think had happened to him?”
“Was he caught in a trap!” asked Eileen.
“Oh, far worse,” in a tearful voice. “Mary and I are feeling terribly
upset about it.”
“Yes; quite upset,” came the sad echo.
“Has he singed the end of his tail?” asked Jack with due solemnity, “or
has Lady Dudley been giving him a bad time because he stole her milk as
usual?”
“Worse, my dear Jack, worse still,” with a mournful shake of both
heads. “He has fallen into a barrel of tar.” And the two little ladies
stood still suddenly, to further impress the terrible nature of the
calamity.
“Oh, Christmas!” exclaimed Jack, unable to resist laughing, while
Eileen asked most anxiously, “But he got out again?”
“Yes, my dear, but think of the poor darling’s condition!”
“What a home-coming!” said Jack irrelevantly.
“He was coated all over with tar,” went on Miss Jane, now addressing
Eileen only, and ignoring Jack with contempt, “and he had tried to
clean himself, and of course, in licking his fur, had swallowed a lot
of tar.”
“Actually swallowed it,” put in Miss Mary on the point of tears.
“And of course he was in a dreadful state, and probably in great pain,
so we put him in a basket and took his straight away to Dr Phillips.”
“Tar must be very indigestible,” murmured Jack.
“And did he cure him?” asked Eileen kindly.
“Alas, no: he said nothing could be done for him at all, and the
kindest thing would be to poison him at once.”
A big tear rolled down Miss Mary’s cheek.
“Poor Lionel,” she murmured tenderly.
“_We_ buried him ourselves,” finished Miss Jane, “under the cedar tree,
as close to the churchyard gate as we could put him.”
“Much better have put him by the rhubarb,” said Jack, for which Eileen
frowned at him over their heads, but instead of being in the least
ashamed of himself, he looked up at the clouds and murmured feelingly:
“Lady Dudley has still five living—let us be thankful for small
mercies.”