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.
[Sidenote: The story of a simple Irish girl, a sorrow, and a
disillusion.]
The Queen of Connemara
BY
FLORENCE MOON
The mountains of Connemara stretched bare and desolate beneath the
November sky.
Down the bleak mountain side, with his broad-leaved _caubeen_ (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.
[Sidenote: 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 see _him_, 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
city _he_ had 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 see
_him_, and of the joy he 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!"
[Sidenote: "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
where _he_ lived, and moved, and had his being?
[Illustration: 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, and _he_ should 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.
[Sidenote: "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 the money I've spent on the trip? Better, indeed! A good deal worse
_I_ should 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!"
[Sidenote: "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 possible she could have
news of _him_? 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 to
unbutton her 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.
[Sidenote: "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, _his_ Bee 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!
[Sidenote: 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, ye spalpeen! 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 little
_contretemps_ was 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!"