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.