Part 71 (1/2)
”Thanks be to G.o.d!” 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 ap.r.o.n 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, wis.h.i.+ng 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.
”G.o.d 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 cl.u.s.tered 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 _protegee_, tending her with gentlest care.