Part 69 (2/2)

”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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 Sevres 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 a.s.sure 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 wors.h.i.+pped by all who were not utterly envious.”

Just what he had a.s.sured 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.

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