Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 60: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

50 “The while I did,” said the old woman, ‘‘and meself not so high as his heart in anythin’ but love!” “You were married?” The old woman stopped peeling and asked sternly: “Shure, is it a tinker’s daughter with one frock to her back and no coverin’ to her head but the hair the Lord gave her, that the lord of the county would be marryin’, miss?” “Poor Bridgit !’ “Poor, is it!’ said the old woman. “Saints of God, darlint, it’s not when ye are in Jove that ye’re poor! “Our cabin stood at the brink of the downs, and when the Lord had put out the sun, I’d slip off to the shore and find him. And so, miss, honey, winter and summer, for better than nor a year, we cheated the world. Then his father discovered it, and sent him to the far Indies, and he died there, and I never seen him again.” Her hand rested on the pan of po- tatoes in her lap, her old face was lifted to her companion. “Don’t be sayin’ ‘poor Bridgit’ yet, miss, honey, for my child was born.” “Your child!” “With the light of heaven on his head, miss, and the sweet breath of flowers in his little mouth, and he grew so large as to stand at my knee.” She waited so long that Miss Mait- land whispered, “He died, Bridget?’ The old woman started: “Glory be to God! There was no death in that craythure! -He was born of love and life, miss, darlint; that’s not the kind that die. They took him from me when his father died, and the old lord had me put on a ship and sent to the far counthries.”’ Looking at Celia almost fiercely, Bridgit Moreen said: “Now call me that if ye like!” “Call you what, Bridgit?” “Poor! Glory be to God, poor, in- deed!” “And you heard nothing about him all these years?” The old woman shook her head. _ “Them as knew me in Kerry wasn’t to write to me on pain of losin’ their lands and homes; still, wan way or an- AINSLEE’S other, here and there, I’ve had bits of news. They tell me he is the greatest gintleman in Kerry, with a big height like his father’s, and stars in his eyes, I'll be bound.” “And you have never gone back to find him?” The old woman's usually gentle voice slightly raised itself. She spread out her withered hands. “What would I take him—the marks of toil and poverty?* Wouldn't they be fine gifts to bring a great gintleman like him? Would ye have me remind’ him of his nameless birth?” There was a pause. The old woman drew the back of her hand across her eyes and said simply to Miss Maitland: “Now, it’s yerself will be afther tellin’ me your love story, miss, darlint.”’ She had returned from her visit to Bridgit, and her home seemed lonelier than ever. It was her custom to dress for dinner, though, as a rule, she dined alone. She chose on this evening her most becoming dress, lingered a little over her toilet, and, when dinner was announced, went down to the dining room in somewhat of state. As she sat before the table through- out the meal, it seemed to her that she sat with ghosts of what might have been, had she been one of those blessed women who were part of a family, and her imagination filled the empty chairs. Her dinner was a farce, and when, at last, she rose, with relief, she went into the drawing-room. She had hardly seated herself when Lord Far- rell was announced. Celia, as she gave him her hand, was afraid that her eyes would appear as blind to him as they felt, for she could scarcely see him. Farrell held her hand a moment, kissed it, and said: “I’ve come to hear you sing before I “To hear me sing?” “Yes—‘Kerry’—it haunts me, and I want to take away an indelible im- pression of your voice.” | Celia went to the piano and played through the notes of the melody, but did not sing it. (E@) IOOk (F@)