"If they were black instead of blue--
My eyes--
Perhaps they'd prove unkind to you!
If they were black instead of blue.
But God designed them blithe and blue--
My eyes--
Designed them to be kind to you,
And made them tender, gay and true.
Believe me, love, no maid is wise
When from the windows of her eyes,
Her heart looks through!
Alas! My heart, to its surprise,
Has learned to look; and now it sighs
For you!"
She became conscious of somebody near, as she ended. She turned and
saw Murtagh Skeel at her elbow--saw his agitated, ashen face--looked
beyond him and discovered other people gathered in the tinted light
beyond, listening; then she lifted her clear, still gaze again to the
white-faced man beside her, and saw his shaken soul staring at her
through the dark windows of _his_ eyes.
"Where did you learn it?" he asked with a futile effort at that
control so difficult for any Celt to grasp where the heart is
involved.
"The song I sang? 'Blue Eyes'?" she inquired.
"Yes--that."
"I have the manuscript of the composer."
"Could you tell me where you got it--and--and who wrote those words
you sang?"
"The manuscript came to me from my mother.... She wrote it.... I think
you knew her."
His strong, handsome hand dropped on the piano's edge, gripped it; and
under his pale skin the quick blood surged to his temples.
"What was your--your mother's name, Miss Soane?"
"She was Eileen Fane."
The throbbing seconds passed and still they looked into each other's
eyes in silence. And at last:
"So you did know my mother," she said under her breath; and the hushed
finality of her words set his strong hand trembling.
"Eileen's little daughter," he repeated. "Eileen Fane's child.... And
grown to womanhood.... Yes, I knew your mother--many years ago....
When I enlisted and went abroad.... Was it Sir Terence Soane who
married your mother?"
She shook her head. He stared at her, striving to concentrate, to
think. "There were other Soanes," he muttered, "the Ellet Water
folk--no?----But there were many Soanes among the landed gentry in
the East and North.... I cannot seem to recollect--the sudden
shock--hearing a song unexpectedly----"
His white forehead had grown damp under the curly hair now clinging to
it. He passed his handkerchief over his brow in a confused way, then
leaned heavily on the piano with both hands grasping it. For the ghost
of his youth was interfering, disputing his control over his own mind,
filling his ear with forgotten words, taking possession of his memory
and tormenting it with the distant echoes of a voice long dead.
Through the increasing chaos in his brain his strained gaze sought to
fix itself on this living, breathing face before him--the child of
Eileen Fane.
He made the effort:
"There were the Soanes of Colross----" But he got no farther that way,
for the twin spectres of his youth and _hers_ were busy with his
senses now; and he leaned more heavily on the piano, enduring with
lowered head the ghostly whirlwind rushing up out of that obscurity
and darkness where once, under summer skies, he had sowed a zephyr.
The girl had become rather white, too. One slim hand still rested on
the ivory keys, the other lay inert in her lap. And after a while she
raised her grey eyes to this man standing beside her:
"Did you ever hear of my mother's marriage?"
He looked at her in a dull way:
"No."
"You heard--nothing?"
"I heard that your mother had left Fane Court."
"What was Fane Court?"
Murtagh Skeel stared at her in silence.
"I don't know," she said, trembling a little. "I know nothing about
my mother. She died when I was a few months old."
"Do you mean that you don't know who your mother was? You don't know
who she married?" he asked, astounded.
"No."
"Good God!" he said, gazing at her. His tense features were working
now; the battle for self-control was visible to her, and she sat there
dumbly, looking on at the mute conflict which suddenly sent the tears
flashing into his dark eyes and left his sensitive mouth twitching.
"I shall not ask you anything now," he said unsteadily; "I shall have
to see you somewhere else--where there are no people--to interrupt....
But I shall tell you all I know about--your mother.... I was in
trouble--in India. Somehow or other I heard indirectly that your
mother had left Fane Court. Later it was understood that she had
eloped.... Nobody could tell me the man's name.... My people in
Ireland did not know.... And I was not on good terms with your
grandfather. So there was no hope of information from Fane Court.... I
wrote, indeed, begging, beseeching for news of your mother. Sir
Barry--your grandfather--returned my letters unopened.... And that is
all I have ever heard concerning Eileen Fane--your mother--with whom
I--fell in love--nearly twenty years ago."
Dulcie, marble pale, nodded.
"I knew you cared for my mother," she said.
"How did you learn it?"
"Some letters of hers written to you. Letters from you to her. I have
nothing else of hers except some verses and little songs--like the one
you recognised."
"Child, she wrote it as I sat beside her!----" His voice choked,
broke, and his lips quivered as he fought for self-control again....
"I was not welcome at Fane Court.... Sir Barry would not tolerate
me.... Your mother was more kind.... She was very young. And so was I,
Dulcie.... There were political troubles. I was always involved. God
knows which was the stronger passion--it must have been love of
country--the other seeming hopeless--with the folk at Fane Court my
bitter enemies--only excepting your mother.... So I went away.... And
which of the Soanes your mother eloped with I have never learned....
Now, tell me--for you surely know that much."
She said:
"There is a man called Soane who tells me sometimes that he was once a
gamekeeper at what he calls 'the big house.' I have always supposed
him to be my father until within the last year. But recently, when he
has been drinking heavily, he sometimes tells me that my name is not
Soane but Fane.... Did you ever know of such a man?"
"No. There were gamekeepers about.... No. I cannot recall--and it is
impossible! A gamekeeper! And your _mother_! The man is mad! What in
God's name does all this mean!----"
He began to tremble, and his white forehead under the clustering curls
grew damp and pinched again.
"If you are Eileen's daughter----" But his face went dead white and he
got no further.
People were approaching from behind them, too; voices grew distinct in
conversation; somebody turned up another lamp.
"Do sing that little song again--the one you sang for Mr. Skeel," said
Lee Barres, coming up to the piano on her brother's arm. "Mrs.
Gerhardt has been waiting very patiently for an opportunity to ask
you."