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.
[Sidenote: 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 the _portière_
courteously, but his face became livid with rage as he spoke in a low,
stern voice, "Go, girl! never dare 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?"
[Sidenote: "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; I am 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!"
[Sidenote: "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
your eye!" 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 jealous fear, 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."
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.
[Sidenote: 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 looked out 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's _protégée_, 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."
[Sidenote: "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, while tears 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 4, "Sedgmoor" changed to "Sedgemoor." (in Sedgemoor days)
Page 30, "Fraülein" changed to "Fräulein." (to be respected
Fräulein)
Page 32, same. (Fräulein Christina Fasch)
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. ([Sidenote: Uncle Max]) and (it was so, Max.)
List of Illustrations and on Illustration, "MARTIN" changed to
"MARTYN" to conform to text. (SELINA MARTYN GAVE)
Illustration caption, "FIRST-BORN" changed to "FIRSTBORN" to
reflect text. (THEIR FIRSTBORN)
Page 176, "half mended" changed to "half-mended." (was only
half-mended)
Page 240, "Kaffir" changed to "Kafir." (and a Kafir sprang out)
Page 314, "ever" changed to "over." (throw over the head)
Page 317, "unbotton" changed to "unbutton." (unbutton her gloves)
Page 323, sidenote "Good-bye" changed to "Goodbye."
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.
The illustration labelled "AT THE PICNIC:" seems to go with no
story in this text.