THE LITTLE CHAPEL AT MONAMULLIN.
CONCLUSION.
Father Maurice sped upon his journey to Moynalty Castle. The dinner hour was eight o’clock, but he had delayed so long with his guest that it took the little pony her “level best” to do the seven miles within the necessary time.
“Av we wor wanst beyant the Mouladharb berrin’ groun’ I wudn’t care a thraneen; but sorra a step the little pony’ll pass it afther dark,” observed Murty Mulligan, bestowing a liberal supply of whip upon the astonished nag, whose habit it was to proceed upon her travels at her own sweet will, innocent of lash, spur, or admonition.
“Tut, tut! Nonsense, Murty! Push on.”
“It’s thruth I’m tellin’ yer riverince. We’re at it. See that, now—curse of Crummell on her! she won’t put wan foot afore the other,” adding, in a whisper full of consternation: “Mebbe she sees ould Casey, that was berried a Munda. He was a terrible naygur—”
“Jump down and take her head,” said the priest.
“Be the powers! I’ll have for to carry her, av we want to raich the castle to-night.”
Father Maurice dismounted, as did Murty, and, by coaxing and blandishment of every description, endeavored to induce the pony to proceed; but the animal, with its ears cocked, and trembling in every limb, refused to budge an inch.
“Och, wirra, wirra! we’re bet intirely. It’s Missis Delaney he sees, that died av the horrors this day month,” growled Mulligan.
“Silence, you jackass!” cried Father Maurice, “and help me to blindfold the pony.”
This ruse eventually succeeded, and they spun merrily along the road, the terrified animal clattering onwards at racing speed.
“This pace is dangerous, Murty,” said the priest.
“Sorra a lie in it, yer riverince.”
“Pull in.”
“I can’t hould her. She’s me hands cut aff, bad cess to her!”
“Is the road straight?”
“Barrin’ a few turns, it’s straight enough, sir.”
The words had hardly escaped his lips when the wheel attached to the side of the car upon which the priest was sitting came into contact with a pile of stones, the car was tilted upwards and over, Father Maurice shot into a thorn hedge, and Murty Mulligan landed up to his neck in a ditch full of foul and muddy water, while the pony, suddenly freed from its load, and after biting the dust, quietly turned round to gaze at the havoc it had made.
“Are ye kilt, yer riverince? For I’m murdhered intirely, an’ me illigant Sunda’ shuit ruined complately. Och, wirra, wirra! how can I face the castle wud me duds consaled in mud? How can I uphould Monamullin, an’ me worse nor a scarecrow? Glory be to God! we’re safe anyhow, an’ no bones bruck. O ye varmint!” shaking his fist at the unconscious cause of this disaster, “its meself that’ll sarve ye out for this. Won’t I wallop ye, ye murdherin’ thief, whin I catch a hould of ye!”
“Hold your nonsense, Murty. How near are we to the castle?”
“Sorra a know I know, yer riverince; the knowledgeableness is shuk out o’ me intirely.”
“The shafts are broken.”
“Av course th’ are.”
“Here, help me to shove the car over to the ditch and pile the cushions under this hedge. God be praised! neither of us is even scratched.”
A carriage with blazing lamps came along.
“Hi! hi! hi!” roared Murty, “we’re wracked here. Lind us a hand! We’re desthroyed be a villain av a pony that seen a ghost, an’ we goin’ to dine at Moynalty Castle.”
The carriage belonged to Mr. Bodkin, the senior member for the county, who was only too delighted to act the Good Samaritan; and as he, with his wife and daughter, was bound for the castle, which still lay two miles distant, the meeting proved in every respect a fortunate one.
The worthy priest was received by his host and hostess with the most flattering courtesy, and by Miss Julia Jyvecote as though he formed part and parcel of her personal property. He took Mrs. Jyvecote into dinner, and said grace both before and after.
Father Maurice was positively startled with the splendor and exquisite taste of the surroundings. The room in which they dined—not the dinner-room, but a delightful little snuggery, where the anecdote was the property of the table, and the mot did not require to be handed from plate to plate like an entrée—was richly decorated in the Pompeiian style, with walls of a pale gray, while the hangings were of a soft amber relieved by red brown. The dinner was simply perfect, the entourages in the shape of cut glass, flowers, and fruit—veritable poems—while the quiet simplicity and easy elegance lent an indescribable charm which fell upon the simple priest like a potent spell.
Every effort that good breeding combined with generous hospitality could make was called into requisition in order to render the timid, blushing clergyman perfectly at home; and so happily did this action on the part of his entertainers succeed that before the lapse of a few moments he felt as though he had lived amongst them for years.
Mrs. Jyvecote promised to send him flowers for the altar, and Julia to work an altar-cloth for him.
“I must go over and pay you a visit, father,” she said. “I am one of your parishioners, although I go to Mass at Thonelagheera.”
“I wish you would, my dear child; but I have no inducements to offer you, although at present perhaps I have.” And he narrated the arrival of the guest to whom Mrs. Clancy was playing the rôle of châtelaine during his absence.
“Why, this is quite a romance, Father Maurice. I must see your artist coûte que coûte, and shall drive over next week.”
But fate determined that she should drive over the next day.
When, upon the following morning, Father Maurice came to examine the condition of his pony, he found both the knees barked and the luckless animal unfit to travel.
“We couldn’t walk her home, Murty, could we?” he asked of his factotum.
“Och, the poor crayture couldn’t stir a step wudout tears comin’ to her eyes. Me heart is bleedin’ for her this minnit,” replied the wily Mulligan, sagaciously perceiving that so long as the pony remained at the castle he should abide with her; and as his reception in the servants’ hall had been of the same flattering description as that of his master up-stairs, he resolved to continue in such delightful quarters as long as he possibly could.
“Poor Rosy!” he cried, affectionately scratching the pony’s forehead, “shure it’s yerself that wud dance on yer head for his riverince, av ye wor able; but yer bet up, poor little wumman, an’ it’s rest ye want for a cupple o’ days, anyhow.”
When Father Maurice mentioned the predicament he found himself in, Mrs. Jyvecote instantly proposed sending him home in the carriage, since he could not be induced to prolong his stay; but Julia insisted upon driving him herself to Monamullin in her basket phaeton; and so, laden with flowers, hot-house pines, grapes, a hamper of grouse and a brace of hares, and under solemn promise to make another visit at no distant date, Father Maurice turned homewards under the “whip” of his newly-found and exceedingly charming parishioner.
As they jogged along by the sad sea-wave she told him the entrancing history of her conversion—of her meeting with Cardinal Manning at a garden party at Holland House, and of a casual conversation which led to so much.
Father Maurice felt as if he had a white-robed angel by his side, and revelled in the absorbing narrative until the phaeton stopped at the cottage gate. The pony was duly stabled, and, while the priest set forth to attend to a sick-call, Miss Jyvecote proceeded to the chapel, where she encountered his artist guest.
Brown started, despite himself, when Father Maurice mentioned her name.
“A parishioner of mine, Mr. Brown.”
“I—I saw you in the church just now,” muttered the artist. “It’s an awfully seedy—I mean it’s a very quiet little place.”
“I could pray more fervently in a church like that than in the Madeleine,” she replied in a soft, silvery voice.
“The Madeleine is too rowy, too many chairs creaking, too many swells, and all that sort of thing, you know.”
Insensibly the drawl of society had come upon him, and the slanginess of expression which passes current in Mayfair and Belgravia.
“Miss Jyvecote is going to brighten me up, Mr. Brown; she is going to work me an altar-cloth,” exclaimed the delighted priest.
“And I am going to paint you an altar-picture, a copy of Raphael’s Virgin and Child—that is, if you will kindly accept it,” he added, blushing to the roots of his hair.
“Oh! how charming, how generous,” cried Miss Jyvecote.
“My dear Mr. Brown,” said Father Maurice, crossing the room and taking his guest by the hand, “I am deeply, deeply sensible of the kindly, the noble spirit which actuates you to make this offer; but you are a young man, with a grand future before you, with God’s help, and by and by, when you have leisure, perhaps you will get a stiff letter from me calling on you to fulfil your promise. You’ll find me a very tough customer to deal with, I assure you.”
“He thinks I cannot afford it,” said Brown to himself; “and how delicately he has refused me!”
The entrance of Mrs. Clancy with a smoking dish of salmon cutlets turned the tide of the conversation, and in a few moments the artist found himself with Miss Jyvecote discussing the Royal Academy pictures of the last season, glorifying Millais, extolling Holman Hunt, raving over Leslie and Herbert, and ringing the changes over the pearly grays, changeful opals, amaranths, and primrose of Leighton. From London to the salon is easy transition, and from thence to the galleries of Dresden, Munich, and Florence. She had visited all, and to a purpose. He had lingered within their enchanting walls until every canvas became more or less a friend. There was a wonderful charm in this meeting. To Brown Miss Jyvecote was a listener freshly intelligent, naïvely sensible. To her the clever critiques of this high-bred yet humble artist savored of a romance written but unreal. It is scarcely necessary to say that when people drop thus upon a subject so charming, so inexhaustible, so refreshing the old Scytheman is utterly disregarded, and the sun was already sinking towards the west when Miss Jyvecote’s phaeton came to the gate.
“Have you any of your sketches here, Mr. Brown?” she asked, as she drew on her yellow dogskin driving-gloves.
“Only a few that I dashed off on my walk hither from Castlebar.”
They were glorious little bits of weather-worn granite, brilliant with gray, green, and orange lichens; luminous green seas and black rocks basking in the sunlight; fern-crowned inlets and cliffs glittering with bright wild flowers. She gushed over them. What girl does not gush over the sketches of a tall, handsome, earnest artist?
“Oh! if I might dare to ask you for one of them, Mr. Brown.”
“Take all,” he said.
She would not hear of this.
“They are your working-drawings, Mr. Brown?” selecting one, possibly the least valuable.
“Will you not require an escort, Miss Jyvecote, on your lonely drive?”
“Escort! No. In the first place, I shall probably not meet a human being; and, in the next, I should only meet a friend were I to encounter any one. I fear my prolonged visit has spoiled your work for to-day, Mr. Brown.”
“My work! You will hardly guess what I am pledged to do and the work I am about to commence. It is nothing less than a copy of the picture of Daniel O’Connell which hangs over the mantel-piece. It is for Mrs. Clancy, who is to adorn her kitchen wall with it.”
“Surely you are not in earnest?”
“Hélas! I am always in earnest, and so is Mrs. Clancy,” he added, laughingly narrating that worthy lady’s anxiety with reference to the artistic adornment of the back door.
“May we not hope to have the pleasure of seeing you at Moynalty? Father Maurice has promised us a visit. I’m sure my father will call and—”
“Pray do not trouble him. I never visit, and, as my stay here is only one of sufferance, I know not the moment I may be evicted by my ruthless landlord.”
“You should make an exception in our favor, Mr. Brown. We can show you a Claude, a doubtful Murillo, and a charming Meissonier. Our flowers, too, are worth coming to see—that is, they are wonderful for Connemara. Father Maurice, you must ask Mr. Brown to come over with you on Monday.”
“Of course, my dear child, of course. He’ll be enchanted with the castle. You’ll come, of course, Mr. Brown?” turning to our hero, who, however, remained silent, although brimming over with words he dared not speak.
“Then it’s au revoir, messieurs!” gaily exclaimed Miss Jyvecote, as she whirled rapidly away.
It would have surprised some of the artist’s London friends could they have peeped behind the scenes of his thoughts and gazed at them as naturalists do at working bees. It would have astonished them to hear him mutter as he watched the receding vehicle: “This is just the one fresh, fair, unspotted, and perfect girl it has been my lot to meet. Such a girl as this would cause the worst of us to turn virtuous and eschew cakes and ale.”
Mr. Brown had confided in one man ere dropping out of Vanity Fair. To this individual he now addressed himself, requesting of him to “drop down to O’Connor’s, the swell ecclesiastical stained-glass man in Berners Street, Oxford Street, and order a set of Stations of the Cross. You don’t know what they mean, old fellow, but the O’Connors will understand you. Let them be first class and glowing in the reds, yellows, blues, and greens of the new French school of colors. I don’t mind the price. Above all things let them have especially handsome frames of the Via Dolorosa pattern.” The letter went on to tell Mr. Dudley Poynter of his doings and the calm throb of the heart of his daily life. “There is not much champagne in it, Dudley, but there is a body that ne’er was dreamed of in your philosophy, or in that of the wild, mad wags of the smoking-room clique.”
Mr. Brown completed his copy of the Liberator, to the intense admiration of Father Maurice and the ecstasy of Mrs. Clancy. The worthy priest would not permit its being hung in the kitchen, though, but gave it the place of honor in the snug little sitting-room. It is needless to say that the entire population of Monamullin, including the cabin curs—who were now on terms of the closest intimacy with the artist—turned in after last Mass to have a look at the “picther o’ Dan.”
“Be me conscience! but it’s Dan himself—sorra a wan else,” cried one.
“I was at Tara, an’ it’s just as if he was givin’ Drizzlyeye [Disraeli] that welt about his notorious ancesthor, the impinitent thief on the crass,” observed another.
“Faix, it’s alive, it is. Look at the mouth, reddy for to say ‘Repale.’”
“There’s an eye!”
“Thrue for ye; there’s more fire in it than in ould Finnegan’s chimbly this minit.”
“Troth, it’s as dhroll as a pet pup’s.”
“Stan’ out o’ that, Mr. O’Leary, or ye’ll get a crack av his fist.”
“Three cheers for the painther, boys!”
These and kindred comments flung a radiated pleasure into the inner heart of the artist—that sanctum which as yet was green and fresh and limpid—while the eulogies, however quaintly and coarsely served up, bore the delicious fragrance which praise ever carries with it like a subtle perfume.
“The love of praise, howe’er concealed by art,
Reigns more or less, and glows in every heart.”
Mr. Brown was enamored of his new existence—possibly with the child passion for toyland; but the passion endured, nevertheless, strengthening with each successive sunrise and maturing with every gloaming. An invitation, accompanied by a card, had arrived by special messenger for the artist, requesting the favor of his company, et cætera, et cætera, to which that gentleman responded in a polite negative, assigning no particular reason, but indulging in vague generalities. He had thought a good deal of Miss Jyvecote, and sat dreaming about her by the sea, his hands clasped around his knees and his beloved meerschaum stuck in his mouth—sat dreaming, and fighting against his dreams—fights in which fancy ever got the uppermost of the rude and real. A longing crept up out of the depths of his heart to see her once again, and to travel in the sunlighted path of her thoughts. One thing he was firmly resolved upon—not to leave Monamullin without another interview; though how this was to be brought about he did not very well see. Yes, he would see her just once more, and then stamp the whole thing out of his mind. He had been hit before, and had come smilingly out of the valley of desolation, and so he should again, although this was so utterly unlike his former experiences.
Father Maurice was charmed with his guest. He had never encountered anything like him—so bright, so genial, so cultured, so humble and submissive, and so anxious to oblige.
“Imagine,” said he in cataloguing his virtues to Larry Muldoon—“imagine his asking me to let him ring the bell for five o’clock Mass, and he a Protestant!”
The priest and his guest had long talks together, the latter drawing out his host—digging for the golden ore of a charming erudition, which lay so deep, but which “was all there.” Night after night did Father Maurice unfold from germ to bud, from bud to flower, from flower to fruit the grand truths of the unerring faith in which he was a day-laborer, the young artist drinking in the sublime teachings with that supreme attention which descends like an aureole. Father Maurice was, as it were, but engaged in thinking aloud, yet his thoughts fell like rain-drops, refreshing, grateful, and abiding.
The good priest, although burning with curiosity with regard to the antecedents of his guest, was too thorough a gentleman, had too great respect for the laws of broken bread and tasted salt, to ask so much as a single question. A waif from the great ocean of humanity had drifted into this little haven, and it should be protected until the ruthless current would again seize it to whirl it outwards and onwards. Miss Jyvecote betrayed her disappointment in various artless ways when Father Maurice arrived at the castle without the artist. “I’m sorry you didn’t fetch him along bon gré mal gré, father,” said Mrs. Jyvecote, “as papa goes to Yorkshire next week, and Juey can talk of no person but Mr. Brown.”
Miss Jyvecote blushed rosy red as she exclaimed: “What nonsense, mamma! You have been speaking a good deal more about him than I have. You rave over his sketch.”
“I think it immense.” Mrs. Jyvecote affected art, and talked from the pages of the Art Journal by the yard. “His aerial perspective is full of filmy tone, and his near foreground is admirably run in, while his sense of color would appear to me to be supreme.”
“Come, until I show you where I have hung it,” exclaimed Miss Juey, leading the priest up a winding stair into a turret chamber fitted up with that exquisite taste which a refined girl evolves like an atmosphere.
“You have really hung my guest most artistically. And such a frame! Where on earth did you get it?”
“I—I sent to Dublin for it—to Lesage’s, in Sackville Street.”
“I have no patience with the fellow for not coming over to see this joyous place,” said the priest, “and I really can’t understand his refusal.”
Miss Juey couldn’t understand it either, but held her peace.
According to Murty Mulligan’s veterinary opinion, the pony was still unfit to travel.
“It’s meself that’s watchin’ her like a magpie forninst a marrabone; but she is dawny still, the crayture! an’ it wud be a sin for to ax her to thravel for a cupple o’ days more, anyhow, your riverince.”
“Why, her knees are quite well, Murty.”
“But she’s wake, sir—as wake as Mrs. Clancy’s tay on the third wettin’—an’ I’m afeard for to thrust her; more betoken, yer riverince”—in a low, confidential tone—“she’s gettin’ a bellyful av the finest oats in the barony, that will stand to her bravely while she’s raisin’ her winther coat.”
Mr. Brown asked Father Maurice a considerable number of questions anent his visit, and was particularly anxious in reference to the departure of Mr. Jyvecote.
“He told me himself that he would leave Westport to-morrow by the night train for Dublin, in order to catch the early boat that leaves Kingston for Holyhead.”
Upon the following morning the artist, slinging his knapsack across his back, started in the direction of the Glendhanarrahsheen valley.
“I want to make a few sketches of the coast scenery about May Point,” he observed.
“There is better scenery in the Foil Dhuv, about two miles farther on; and, bless my heart! you’ll be quite close to Moynalty Castle, and why not go in and see their pictures, your own especially, in such a grand gilt Dublin frame?”
Simple priest! Artful artist!
It was a delightful morning that was shining over Monamullin as the artist quitted it en route to—May Point, of course. The sea, like a great sleeping monster, lay winking at the sun, and but one solitary ship was visible away in the waste—a brown speck in a flood of golden haze. If young gentlemen would only put the single “why?” to themselves in starting upon such expeditions, it might save them many a heartache; but they will not. Any other query but this one. What a talisman that small word in every effort of our lives!
Brown felt unaccountably joyous and brave, charmed with the present, and metaphorically snapping his fingers at the future. A morning walk by the deep and dark blue ocean summons forth this sensation. You bound upon air; champagne fills your veins; all the ills the flesh is heir to are forgotten, all the phantoms of care and sorrow are laid “a full fifty fathom by the lead.”
It is a glorious seed-time, when every thought bears luscious fruit.
He travels merrily onward, now humming a barcarolle, now whistling a fragment of a bouffe, until he reaches the gloomy defile known as the Valley of Glendhanarrahsheen. A turn of the sylvan sanded road brings him in sight of the lordly turrets of Moynalty; another turn, and lo! he comes upon no less a personage than Miss Jyvecote, who, with her married sister, a Mrs. Travers, are driving in the direction whence he had come. Juey was Jehu, and almost pulled the ponies upon their haunches on perceiving our hero.
“This is a condescension, Mr. Brown,” she said, presenting him to her sister. “Will you take a seat?”
“Thanks, no; I am about to ascend that mountain yonder,” pointing vaguely in the direction of the range known as the Twelve Pins.
“Then we shall expect you to luncheon at two o’clock.”
“I’m afraid not. I purpose returning by the other road.”
“What road? There is no other road.”
“Across country.”
“Then you do not intend honoring us with a visit?” Her tone was vexed, if not haughty.
Now, he had quitted Monamullin with no other intention than that of proceeding straight to the castle, and yet he replies in the negative. Let those better versed in the mysteries of the human heart than I am analyze his motives. I shall not endeavor to do so.
“Don’t you think you are acting rather shabbily?” she said, preparing to resume her drive.
He laughed.
“Au plaisir, then!” And with a stately salutation, courteous enough but nothing more, she swept onwards.
He watched the phaeton go whirling along the white road and disappear round a huge fern-covered boulder, and his vexation with himself grew intolerable.
“What an ass, what a brute I have been! What could I have been thinking about? Was I asleep or mad? Invited to the house, I actually refuse to pay the stereotyped visit. Why a counter-jumper would know better. How charming she looked! And that delicious blush when she met me! She seemed really pleased, too. What can she think of me? My chance is gone.”
He seated himself on the stump of a felled tree in his favorite attitude, having lighted his pipe.
“Might I thrubble yer honner for a thrifle o’ light or a bit of a match?” asked a passing peasant.
“With pleasure; take a dozen!”
The man looked puzzled; he had never seen wax vestas till now.
“They look mighty dawny, yer honner.”
“Do you belong to the castle?” asked our hero. Somehow or other the castle and its inmates were ever uppermost in his thoughts now.
“Yis, sir.”
“Is Mr. Jyvecote at home?”
“No, yer honner. I met him this mornin’ at Billy’s Bridge, makin’ hard for Westport.”
The cards all in his favor, and he wouldn’t play his hand! What did it mean? Would he go up to the castle, and, announcing himself to the châtelaine, pay that visit which conventionality demanded? No; he had swung into another current, and he would not alter his course. It was better as it was—ay, far better. And there came a sort of desolate feeling upon him, smiting him drearily like a dull ache. Had he seen the last of her? Was his life henceforth to be unlighted by the radiance of her presence? Here, in the mystic silence of Glendhanarrahsheen, came the revelation. Here did his own secret surprise him. He had allowed the image of this fair young girl to twine itself around his heart, till he now felt as if he could fling aside pride, reserve, past and future, just to hear her voice once more, to feel the tender pressure of her tiny hand.
And so he sat there dreaming, and fighting with his dreams, until his tobacco “gave out,” and until, shaking himself together, he summoned a supreme effort to help him on his road.
“It won’t do to be caught skulking here,” he thought.
The soft white shingle drawn from the brown-black waters of the lake muffle the sound of approaching wheels, and, ere he can return to a coign of vantage, the phaeton flashes past.
I have already stated that my hero was a young gentleman of warm temper, great energy, and prone to sudden impulses and unconsidered actions, and on this occasion he was true to his nature, for he shouted “Stop!” with the authoritative tone of a post-captain on a quarter-deck.
Miss Jyvecote pulled up.
The artist, glowing with a fierce excitement, plunged down the road and came up to the vehicle.
“Miss Jyvecote,” he pants, his handsome face flushed, his eyes flashing, “I don’t want you to think me a brute. I do not know why I acted so rudely this morning. I left Monamullin on purpose to come and visit you. Father Maurice says that open confession is good for the soul. You have it now. Do, please do forgive me.”
“Hand and glove,” she exclaims, holding out her coquettishly-gloved hand.
He jumped into the back seat, and, in a flutter of joyous commotion, was whirled to the grand entrance of the castle.
“You must first come and see my picture, Mr. Brown,” exclaimed Miss Jyvecote, leading the way to the turret chamber.
There was a courteous flattery in this that caused the heart of the artist to swell in admiring gratitude.
Later on they visited the gardens and the conservatories, tasting green figs and toying with luscious bunches of bursting grapes; and by and by came the presentation to Mrs. Jyvecote, who complimented him in pre-Raphaelite terms upon his greens, grays, opals, and blues.
“We want some one to continue the fascinating pages of Hook,” she said, “and I feel assured, Mr. Brown, that next year’s Academy will see you ‘on the line.’”
After luncheon they repaired to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Travers indulged in chromatic fireworks upon a superb Erard piano; and when she had risen the artist seated himself unasked, and sang a little love-song of Shelley’s in a baritone that would have pushed Mr. Santley a l’outrance. Song was one of Mr. Brown’s gifts, and his voice was cultivated to perfection. A deep, rich voice, sweet, sad words, with perfect enunciation of every syllable—ma foi, there are moments, and there are moments, and this was one of the latter in the life of Julia Jyvecote.
He sang Gounod’s Ave Maria as that sublime hymn has been rarely sung in a drawing-room—sang it with a religious fervor, and with a simple intensity of feeling that wrought its own magic. He felt his success, and smiled gravely to himself as he bent over the instrument, playing the closing chords ever so softly, until note after note fainted in sheer melody.
He was asked for Annabel Lee—for “that love that was more than love”—but refused. He possessed Tom Moore’s secret, and, having produced the desired effect, faded out like his own last notes. Mrs. Jyvecote tackled him upon art, Mrs. Travers upon music, and Miss Jyvecote was silent. Somehow or other in talking to her he was stupid and confused, while in conversing with the others he was at his best.
Pressed on all sides to stop for dinner and remain the night, he could scarcely refuse, although pleading dress and the probable anxiety of his host. The first point was settled by a declaration upon the part of his entertainers that it would be a treat to sit down in morning toilettes; the second by the despatching of a boy to Monamullin. Mr. Brown resigned himself to his fate and went with the stream.
How beautiful Miss Jyvecote looked in the mild radiance of the wax-lights which lit up the rooms at night—wax-lights everywhere—in the hands of Ninive dancing-girls, Dresden shepherdesses, oxidized silver sconces, and girandoles of quaint and cunning design. What rapture in being seated beside her, engaged in turning over the pages of a superb photographic album too heavy for her dainty lap, and resting upon his knees!
Why does he start and turn pale?
Why does Miss Jyvecote gaze at him, and with a merry laugh exclaim:
“Why, Mr. Brown, this photo is the very image of you.”
Beneath the photograph were the words:
“To Jasper Jyvecote from Ernest Noel.”
“Three days away from me! Why, it appeared three weeks,” exclaimed Father Maurice, as the artist returned to the cosy cottage of the amber thatch and snow-white walls. “I knew you would appreciate the Jyvecotes, and I felt that they would appreciate you. Have you taken any sketches?”
“One, the lake of Glendhanarrahsheen, which I mean to finish; and then, padre, I must say adios to Monamullin for many a long day.”
“Tut, tut, tut, man! we can’t do without you,” said the priest; “and mind you, Mr. Brown, I’m sure the ladies at Moynalty would have their likenesses done, and give you a good deal of money for them, too—probably as much as five pounds apiece.”
“Five pounds apiece,” thought the artist, “and Millais getting two thousand guineas for a single portrait!”
“And I’m delighted to tell you, my dear friend, that your O’Connell has already got you a job. Mr. Muldoon—you might have noticed his shop nearly opposite the chapel, a most flourishing concern—is anxious to have his likeness done, and will have his wife and mother painted also, as well as his five children and his collie; and if his maiden aunt comes over from Castlebar he’ll throw her in, provided you can draw her chaise. So I think,” added Father Maurice triumphantly, “I have been doing good business for you in your absence.”
“Splendid, my valued host! But before I can touch these commissions I must finish the lake.”
“Of course, of course; there’s no hurry. But, mind you, Muldoon is ready money, and all you young fellows in the world require a little of that—not that you want it here,” he cried hastily, lest his guest might suppose that anything was required of him; “but when you take a day in Westport, or perhaps as far as Sligo, you’ll want many little things that couldn’t be had here for all the gold in the Bank of Ireland.”
The three days Mr. Brown had spent at Moynalty completely riveted the fetters which might have been easily burst ere the iron had grown cold. He endeavored to persuade himself that this visit was a mere romantic episode in the career of an artist—a thing to be talked of in the sweet by-and-by, and to be remembered as a delightful halting-place in the onward journey. He tried to fling dust in his mind’s eye, and but succeeded in closing the eye to everything save the glorious inviting present. He floated on from day to day in a sort of temporary elysium—why call it a fool’s paradise?—so tranquil that it was impossible pain or sorrow could be its outcome. An intimacy sprang up in this wild, strange, isolated place that a decade of London seasons could never have brought to ripeness, and he felt in the entourages of the palatial dwelling as though he was in his own old home. He rode, walked, boated, drew, and sang with Julia Jyvecote. She, too, would seem to live in the present, in the subtle, delicious consciousness of being appreciated—ay, and liked. The small chance of ever enjoying a repetition of his visit lent a peculiar charm to every circumstance, and forbade those questionings as to who’s who with which the favored ones of fortune probe the antecedents of the standers at the gates which enclose the upper ten thousand.
From the accident of the photograph he was playfully christened Sir Everard, and it became a matter of amused astonishment how readily he accepted the title and how unvaryingly he responded to a call upon the name.
He quitted Moynalty in a strange whirl of conflicting thought.
“May we not hope to see you in London, Mr. Brown?” said Mrs. Jyvecote, graciously coming upon the terrace to bid him adieu. “We go over in April, and our address is 91 Bruton Street, Mayfair. I know how sorry Mr. Jyvecote will be to have missed you, especially as he arrives here to-morrow; and I am also confident that he would be anxious to serve you—although,” she added, with a caressing courtesy, “a gentleman of Mr. Brown’s gifts requires no poor service such as we could render him.”
“How long do you remain in Monamullin, Mr. Brown?” asked Mrs. Travers.
“Until I finish a sketch of the lake here which Miss Jyvecote intends to honor me by accepting.”
“Oh! then we shall see much more of you.”
“I am compelled to raise the drawbridge and drop the portcullis upon the hope, Mrs. Travers. My working-drawing is here, and—”
“Then if Mohammed will not come to the mountain, the mountain must come to Mohammed. I’ll drive my sister over to service next Sunday, and see how the priest, the painter, and the picture are getting on.”
It was a great wrench to the artist to tear himself away, and the sans adieux that fluttered after him on the evening breeze seemed sad and mournful. Was the barrier between Mr. Jyvecote and himself utterly impassable? Could it not be bridged over? He could not assume the initiative. He would see Jyvecote and his whole race in—Yokohama first; and yet what would he not do to gain the love of the youngest daughter of the house! Anything, everything. Pshaw! any chance of wooing and winning such a girl should be through the medium of his title, his position, and by passing beneath the yoke of society. What sheer folly to think of her from the stand-point upon which he had been admitted to her father’s house! As the artist he was patronized, as the baronet he could be placed; and yet to win her as the artist would just be one of those triumphs which lay within the chances occasionally vouchsafed by the rosy archer. She had been silent, reserved, and had seemed shy of him. She spoke much of a man in the Guards, a chum of her brother Jasper; possibly this Guardsman was the man.
In musings such as these did Mr. Brown pursue his work, and the picture came to life beneath his glowing hands. The canvas, with all the necessary et cæteras, had arrived from Dublin, the good priest marvelling considerably at the pecuniary resources of his guest. “His little all,” he thought, “and he’s going to make it a present to my sweet parishioner.”
But a great surprise was in store for Father Maurice.
Mr. Brown had issued instructions to his London friend to forward the Stations of the Cross, free of all carriage, to the Rev. Maurice O’Donnell, P.P., Monamullin, Ballynaveogin, County Mayo.
This order was promptly complied with, and a lovely autumnal evening beheld the whole village, curs and all, turn out to speculate upon the nature of the contents of four gigantic wooden cases which were deposited in the little garden attached to the priest’s cottage. It were utterly useless to endeavor to describe the furore occasioned by the opening the boxes; the excitement rose to a pitch never realized in Monamullin since the occasion of the visit of the Archbishop of Tuam—the Lion of the Fold of Juda. Father Maurice fairly wept for joy; Mrs. Clancy insisted upon doing the Stations there and then; and as each picture was brought to light, from the folds of wrappers as numerous as those surrounding the body of an Egyptian mummy, a hum of admiration was raised by the assembled and reverential multitude. The good priest, never guessing the source from whence the splendid gift had emanated, endeavored to trace it to Miss Jyvecote—a belief which Mr. Brown sedulously sustained—and Father Morris, full of the idea, chanted whole litanies in her praises, scarcely ever ceasing mention of her.
“I’ll drive over to-morrow and tender her my most devoted gratitude. I’ll offer up Masses for her. I’ll—”
“She will be here to-morrow, father. Mrs. Travers is to drive her over. Don’t you think we ought to see about hanging the Stations? It will please her immensely to see them in their places in the church.”
A hanging committee was appointed and the work of suspending the pictures carried into instant execution. The mouldy little edifice was soon ablaze with gilding and glorious coloring, which, alas! but seemed to display its general dinginess more glaringly.
“My poor little altar may hide its diminished head,” said Father Maurice mournfully, brightening up, however, as he added: “But, sure, I’ll soon have Miss Jyvecote’s beautiful altar-cloth.”
The “castle people” arrived upon the following morning and were escorted by the artist to the church.
“You have come over upon an interesting occasion, Miss Jyvecote,” he said; “Father Maurice has received an anonymous gift of a set of Stations of the Cross, and he thinks that you can tell him something about them.”
Great was the astonishment of the simple priest when Miss Jyvecote disclaimed all knowledge of the presentation.
“Why, father, you must think me as rich as Miss Burdett-Coutts,” she cried. “These beautiful works of art have cost hundreds of pounds. Mr. Brown here will tell you how much they cost,” turning to that gentleman. How often a stray shot hits home! Mr. Brown had the receipted bill in his pocket at that particular moment.
“They are French,” he said, evading the question.
“Consequently more expensive, n’est ce pas?”
“They are not badly done.”
“They are on the borderland of high art, Mr. Brown. Why do you pooh-pooh them?”
Poor Father Maurice was fairly nonplussed. All his guesses anent the donor fell short, while his surmises died from sheer inanition. It could not be the cardinal. Might it be little Micky O’Brien, that ran away to sea and was now coming home a rich man? or Paudheen Rafferty, who was a thriving grocer in Dublin? For the first time in his life the parish priest of Monamullin felt uneasy, if not unhappy. What did it portend? Who could possibly take so serious an interest in the affairs of his little parish? Mr. Malachi Bodkin might have done so in the olden time, but the famine of ‘48 left him barely able to keep up Corriebawn. Sir Marmaduke Blake was a scamp who racked his tenants and spent his money in debauchery.
“I suppose I shall learn some day,” sighed the priest. “I must be patient, but I wish it was to-day.”
After luncheon—Father Maurice’s breakfast—the artist and Miss Jyvecote strolled along the shore. The sun seemed to shine with a certain sadness, the gray ocean to moan as if in pain, and the shadow of the “we shall not meet again” to hang over Julia and her companion as they seated themselves in a secluded nook surrounded by huge rocks—a spot in which the world seemed to cease suddenly.
“And so you think of leaving?” she said after a long silence, during which she drew eccentric circles in the sand with the tip of her parasol.
“My kismet says ‘yes,’ Miss Jyvecote.”
“Does your kismet say whither?”
“It points to that little village on the Thames called London.”
“We go to London next month, en route to Egypt. My sister Gussie—you never met her—who has been in Italy with my uncle, is recommended Egypt for her chest. Papa received letters yesterday.”
“How long do you think you will remain in London?”
“Only a day or two.”
“Might I hope to see you?”
“Why not? Our address is 91 Bruton Street, Mayfair.”
“Is—is Mr. Delmege, of the Guards, going to Egypt?”
She looked gravely at him, full into his eyes, as she replied, somewhat coldly:
“Not that I am aware of.”
His heart gave one great bound, as though a dull, dead weight had been suddenly removed.
“I hope to see your handicraft on the walls of the Academy when we return.”
“Sabe Dios!” he said, clasping his knees with his hands, and gazing out across the moaning sea.
“If you try you will succeed.”
“I have a very poor opinion of my own power of success in anything. I am colorless, purposeless.”
“Neither one nor the other. You have a noble profession, a glorious talent, and Father Maurice says you have a good heart. With three such friends as companions life is a garden of flowers.”
“And yet till within the last few days I have found it but a desert.”
Then silence fell upon both.
“Father Maurice will miss you dreadfully,” she murmured. She was very pale, and her dark eyes turned upon him with mournful earnestness. “He has become so much attached to you; and the poor little altar will miss your artistic grouping of the flowers. Do you know,” she added, “I shall say an Ave Maria when I visit the little church, and for your conversion?”
“Is that a promise, Miss Jyvecote?”
“It is.”
“Will you also”—he stopped suddenly short, and dug his heel into the sand.
“The shay is waitin’ for ye, Miss Jewel, and Missis Thravers is roarin’ murdher,” cried Murty Mulligan, thrusting his shock head between a cleft in the rocks.
Brown sprang to his feet and offered Miss Jyvecote his arm. Neither spoke during the walk to the cottage. “If you should hear of me through your brother, do not think ill of me,” he whispered, as he handed her into the phaeton.
“What do you mean?” she asked in as low a tone.
“Promise me that you will not forget Brown, the poor artist.”
“It is scarcely necessary,” she murmured, as she gave him her hand.
There was a blank at the priest’s home when the artist left. Father Maurice missed him sadly—missed his hit at backgammon, his gay gossip, and his cheery company.
“He was a rale gintleman,” said Mrs. Clancy; “he wanted for to give me a goolden soverin—mebbe th’ only wan he had—but I tuk a crukked ha’penny for luck, an’ it’s luck I wish him wherever he goes.”
“He was the nicest man, an’ the nicest-mannered man, I ever seen,” chimed in Murty; “an’ I’m in dhread that I spoke too rough whin he offered me menumeration.”
“He promised to come here next summer, and he will keep his promise,” said the priest.
Mr. Jocelyn Jyvecote was seated in the study at 91 Bruton Street, engaged in perusing the columns of the Times. He had slept well, breakfasted well, and was thoroughly refreshed after his journey, as he had arrived in town from the East upon the previous day.
A servant entered with a card upon a silver salver.
Mr. Jyvecote adjusted his eyeglass and leisurely lifted the tiny bit of pasteboard. “What does this mean?” he cried, letting it fall again. “Is the gentleman waiting?”
“In the ‘all, sir.”
“Show him in.”
A tall, high-bred-looking young man entered. His face was pale and he somewhat nervously stroked a Henri Quatre beard.
“May I ask to what I am indebted for this visit from Sir Everard Noel?” demanded Mr. Jyvecote haughtily.
“I shall explain the purport of my visit in a few words.”
“Pray be seated.”
“Thanks! Mr. Jyvecote, there was bad blood and bitter feud between you and my poor father about the Ottley Farm.”
“You need scarcely remind me of that, Sir Everard.”
“There is bad blood between us, Mr. Jyvecote. You claimed it in right of an old lease that could not be discovered when the case came before the court, and I retain possession of it by law. The last time that we met we met in hot anger, and—and I used expressions for which I am very seriously sorry. So long as that farm is in possession of either of us it will lead to bad feeling, and I came here to-day to tell you what I mean to do about it.”
A somewhat less stern frown appeared upon Mr. Jyvecote’s features as he listened.
“Last autumn accident threw me into the wildest portion of the west of Ireland, a place not unknown to you—Monamullin.”
“It is within seven miles of Moynalty Castle.”
“I am aware of that. I was the guest of one of the purest men that God Almighty ever made—Father Maurice O’Donnell.”
“Your estimate is just, Sir Everard.”
“His soul is in his work, and his simple heart is fragmentarily divided amongst his little flock. I found his church dingy, dilapidated, falling. He is worthy of a better building; he is worthy of anything,” cried the young man enthusiastically.
Mr. Jyvecote bowed assent.
“Well, sir, I purpose selling Ottley Farm, and devoting the proceeds towards building a new church for Father Maurice O’Donnell. I have an offer of three thousand pounds for the farm, and here are the plans, prepared by Mr. Pugin—pure Gothic,” extracting a roll of papers from his pocket and eagerly thrusting them into the hands of the other.
Mr. Jyvecote leisurely surveyed them, while the young man regarded him with the most eager scrutiny. Suddenly flinging them upon the table, Mr. Jyvecote rose, and, taking Sir Everard Noel’s hand, shook it warmly.
“Noel, you are a fine-hearted fellow, and a chivalrous one. There are not ten—pshaw! there are not two men in London who would patch up a feud as you are doing to-day. I am better pleased to see you in this fine form than the acquisition of ten farms. Give the dear old priest his church, and for my daughter’s sake—I am as stanch a Protestant as yourself—I’ll put up an altar. Come up-stairs now, and I’ll present you to her.”
At this particular moment Miss Jyvecote entered the study. Upon perceiving our hero she grew deadly pale and then flushed up to the roots of her hair.
“Mr. Brown,” she said holding out her hand.
“You are mistaken, Juey; this is an old enemy and a new friend—Sir Everard Noel.”
The church was erected at Monamullin and is a perfect gem in its way, the talent of “all the Pugins” being thrown into the design. At its altar Everard Noel received his First Communion, and at its altar he was united to Julia Jyvecote by the proud, happy, and affectionate Father Maurice O’Donnell.
“An’ only for to think o’ me axin’ a rale live baronet for to paint the back doore,” is the constant exclamation of the worthy Mrs. Clancy.