Chapter 27

Both had arrived at the supreme crisis of their lives, and yet they might never have met, but for a small incident, and a rather funny one.

Norah had taken off her hat and had laid it carelessly beside her on the low wall on which she was leaning, when she became aware of some one taking possession of it, and looking round she saw the impudent face of a monkey disappearing with it up the steep side of the "Rock."

She had no energy to recover it, and was standing helplessly watching his movements when she saw the stranger who had passed her set off in pursuit of the truant.

She soon lost sight of him, and had again sunk into a reverie when a voice said: "Here is your hat; I have rescued it. I think it is none the worse for this adventure."

Oh, that voice! Norah's heart stood still, she was stunned and could not believe that she heard aright. Was she dreaming? "The rascal was caught by one of the sentries, evidently he is quite at home with them, and the soldier on duty coaxed it from him."

Then Norah turned, there was no longer room for doubt, her eyes were riveted on the grey ones fixed on her.

[Sidenote: "You are not Dead!"]

"Then you are not dead," was the thought that flashed through her mind. Her tongue was dry and parched; her heart, which had seemed to stop, bounded forward, as though it must burst its bonds.

"Oh, Edgar!" she cried, losing all self-command; "oh, if it is you, forgive me, don't leave me. Don't let me wake and find it a dream!"

A strange whizzing and whirling came over her, and then she felt herself held securely by a strong arm and a face was bent to hers. When she recovered herself somewhat, she found that she was seated on a bank, supported by her husband.

It was his voice that said in the old fond tones: "Oh, Norah, my Norah, we are together again, never, never more to part. Forgive me, darling, for all I have made you suffer in the past."

"Forgive you! Oh, Edgar! Will you forgive me?"

The sun rose higher, and sounds of everyday life filled the air, drawing 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?

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.