by Bram Stoker
“And the Captain is such a nice man. He’s just a wee bit too grave. I think he must be a widower.” Aunt Judy made no immediate reply, but after some more conversation she said to the stewardess:
“I think I will get up Mrs. O’Brien. Perhaps a chair on deck in the sunshine will be better for me than staying down here. And, after all, if I have to die it will be better to die in the open than in a bed the size of a coffin!”
When Joy rejoined her father in the Chart-room she said to the Captain: “That stewardess of yours is a dear!” He warmly acquiesced: “She is really a most capable person; and all the ladies whom she attends grow to be quite fond of her. She is always kind and cheery and hearty and makes them forget that they are ill or afraid. When I took command of the Cryptic I asked the company to let her come with me.”
“And quite right too, Captain. That brogue of hers is quite wonderful!” “It is indeed. But, my dear young lady, its very perfection makes me doubt it. It is so thick and strong and ready, and the way she twists words into its strength and makes new ones to suit it give me an idea at times that it is partly put on. I sometimes think it is impossible that any one can be so absolutely and imperatively Irish as she is. However, it serves her in good stead; she can say, without offence, whatever she chooses in her own way to any one. She is a really clever woman and a kind one; and I have the greatest respect for her.” When Aunt Judy was left alone with the stewardess, she asked: “Who is Lord Athlyne? — What kind of man is he? Where does he live?” “Where does he live? — Why everywhere! In Athlyne for one, but a lot iy other places as well, He was brought up at the Casde where the’ ould Earrl always lived afther he lift Parlimint; and whin he was a boy he was the wildest young dare-devil iver ye seen. Faix, the County Roscommon itself wasn’t big enough for him. When he was a young man he wint away shootin’ lions and tigers and elephants and crockodiles and such like. Thin he wint into th’ army an began to setde down. He has a whole lot ay different houses, and he goes to them all be times. He says that no man has a right to be an intire absentee landlord — even when he’s livin’ in his own house!”
“But what sort of man is he personally?” she asked persistendy. The Irishwoman’s answer was direct and comprehensive:
“The bist!”
“How do you know that?”
“An’ how do I know it! Anm’t I a Roscommon woman, borrn, an’ wan ay the tinants? Wouldn’t that be enough? But that’s only the beginnin’. Shure wasn’t I his fosthermother, God bless him! Wasn’t he like me own child when I tuk him to me breast whin his poor mother died the day he was borrn. Ah, Miss Hayes there’s nothin’ ye don’t know about the child ye have given suck to. More, betoken, than if he was yer own child; for he might be thinkin’ too much of him an puttin’ the bist consthruction on ivery little thing he iver done, just because he was yer own. Troth I didn’t want any tellin’ about Athlyne. The sweetest wean that iver a woman nursed; the dndherest hearted, wid the wee little hands upon me face an his rosebud ay a mouth puttin’ up to me for a kiss! An’ yit the pride ay him; more’n a King on his throne. An’ th’ indepindince! Him wantin’ to walk an’ run before he was able to shtand. An’ ordherin’ about the pig an’ the gandher, let alone the dog. Shure the masterfullest man-child that iver was, and the masterfullest man that is. Sorra wan like him in the whole wide wurrld!”
“You seem to love him very much,” said Miss Hayes with grave approval.
“In coorse I do! An’ isn’t it me own boy that was his fosther brother that loves him too. Whin the Lard wint out to fight the Boors, Mick wint wid him as his own body man until he was invalided home wid a bad knee; an’ him a coachman now an’ doin’ nothin’ but take his wages; And whin he kem to Liverpool to say good-bye when the Cryptic should come in I tould him to take care of his Masther. ‘Ay ye don’t,’ sez I, ‘ye’re no son iy mine, nor iy yer poor dear father, rest his sowl! Kape betune him an’ any bullet that’s comin’ his way’ I sez. An’ wid that he laughed out loud in me face. That’s good, mother,’ sez he, ‘an iy coorse I’d be proud to; but I’d like to set eyes on the man that’d dar to come betune Athlyne an’ a bullet, or to prevint him cutdn’ slices from aff iy the Boors wid his big cav-a-lary soord,’ he sez. ‘Begob,’ he sez, t’would be worse nor fightin’ the Boors themselves to intherfere wid him whin he’s set on his way!’”
“That’s loyal stock! He’s a Man, that son of yours!” said Miss Judy enthusiastically, forgetting her semi-cynical role of old maid in the ardour of the moment. The stewardess seeing that she had a good listener went on:
“And ‘tis the thoughtful man he is. He niver writes to me, bekase he knows well I can’t read. But he sends me five pounds every Christmas. On me birthday ne gey me this, Lord love him!” She took a gold watch from her bosom and showed it with pride.
When she was dressed, Miss Hayes looked into the Library; and finding it empty took down the “de Brett,” well thumbed by American use. Here is what she saw on looking up “Athlyne.”
ATHLYNE EARL OF FITZGERALD
Calinus Patrick Richard Westerna Hardy Mowbray Fitz-Gerald 2nd Earl of Athlyne (in the Peerage of the United Kingdom). 2nd Viscount Roscommon (in the Peerage of Ireland). 30th Baron Ceann-da-Shail (in the Peerage of Scotland), b. 6 June 1875 s. 1886 ed. Eton and University of Dublin; is D. L. for Counties of Ross and Roscommon: J. P. for Counties of Wilts, Ross and Roscommon.
Patron of three livings: — Raphoon, New Sands, and Politore.
Seats. Ceann-da-Shail Casde and Casde of Elandonan in Ross-shire, Athlyne Casde C. Roscommon. Travy Manor, Gloucestershire and The Rock Beach, Cornwall, &c. &c. Town Residence. 40 St. James’s Square S. W.
Clubs. Reform. Marlborough. United Service. Naval and Military. Garick. Arts Bath &c.
Predecessors. Sir Calinus FitzGerald — descended from Calinus FitzGerald the first of the name setded in Rossshire, to which he came from Ireland in the XII century — was created by Robert the Bruce Baron Ceann-da-Shail, 1314, and endowed with the Casde of Elandonan (Gift of the King) as the reward of a bold rally of the Northern troops at Bannockburn. Before his death in 1342 he built for himself a strongly fortified Casde on the Island of Ceann-da-Shail (from which his estate took its name) celebrated from time immemorial for a wonderful spring of water. The Barony has been held in direct descent with only two breaks. The first was in 1642 when direct male issue having failed through the death of the only son of Calinus the XXth Baron the Peerage and estates reverted to Robert Calinus e. s. of James, 2nd s. of Robert XVIII Baron. The second was in 1826 when, again through the early decease of an only son, the Barony reverted to Robert e. s. of Malcolm 2nd s. of Colin XXVII Baron. The father of this heritor, Malcolm FitzGerald, had settled in Ireland in 1782. There he had purchased a great estate fronting on the River Shannon in Roscommon on which he had built a casde, Athlyne. Malcolm FitzGerald entered the Parliament of the United Kingdom in 1805 and sat for 22 years when he was succeeded in Parliamentary honours by his son Robert on his coming of age in 1827. Robert held his seat until the creation of the Viscounty of Roscommon 1870. Three years after his retirement from the House of Commons he was raised to an Earldom — Athlyne.
When she went out on deck she found her niece taking with her father the beef tea which had just been brought round. She did not mention to Colonel Ogilvie the little joke about Lady Athlyne, and strange to say found that Joy to whom a joke or a secret was a matter of fungoid growth, multiplying and irrepressible, had not mentioned it either.
CHAPTER 2
IN ITALY
During the voyage, which had its own vicissitudes, the joke was kept up amongst the three women. The stewardess, seeing that the two ladies only spoke of it in privacy, exemplified that discretion which the Captain had commended. Only once did she forget herself, but even then fortune was on her side. It was during a day when Joy was upset by a spell of heavy weather and had to keep her cabin. In the afternoon her father paid a visit to her; and Mrs. O’Brien in reporting progress to h
im said that “her Ladyship” was now on the road to recovery and would be on deck very shortly. Colonel Ogilvie made quite a lot of the error which he read in his own way. He said to his sister-in-law as they paced the deck together:
“Capital woman that stewardess! There is a natural deference and respect in her manner which you do not always find in people of her class. Will you oblige me, Judy, by seeing, when the voyage is over, that she gets an extra honorarium!” Judy promised, and deftly turned the conversation; she felt that she was on dangerous ground.
Judith Hayes called herself an old maid, not believing it to be true; but all the same there was in her make-up a distinctive trait of it: the manner in which she regarded a romance. Up to lately, romance however unlikely or improbable, had a personal bearing; it did not occur to her that it might not drift in her direction. But now she felt unconsciously that such romance must have other objective than herself. The possibility, therefore, of a romance for Joy whom she very sincerely loved was a thing to be cherished. She could see, as well as feel, that her niece by keeping it a secret from her father had taken the matter with at least a phase of seriousness. This alone was sufficient to feed her own imaginings; and in the glow her sympathies quickened. She had instinctively at the beginning determined not to spoil sport; now it became a conscious intention.
Mrs. O’Brien, too, in her own way helped to further the matter. She felt that she had a good audience for her little anecdotes of the child whose infancy she had fostered, and towards whom in his completed manhood she had a sort of almost idolatrous devotion. Seeing the girl so sympathetic and listening so patiently, she too began to see something like the beginnings of a fact. And so the game went merrily on.
The telegrams at Queenstown were not very reassuring, and Colonel Ogilvie and his party pressed on at once to Sorrento whence his wife had moved on the completion of her series of baths at Ischia. Naturally the whole of the little party was depressed, until on arrival they found Mrs. Ogilvie, who was something of a valetudinarian, much better than they expected. The arrival of her husband and daughter and sister seemed to complete her cure; she brightened up at once, and even after a few days began to enjoy herself.
One day after lunch as she drove along the road to Amalfi with Judith and Joy — the Colonel was lazy that day and preferred to sit on the terrace over the sea and smoke — she began to ask all the details of the journey. Judy who had not had a chance of speaking alone with safety began to tell the little secret. Her method of commencement was abrupt, and somewhat startling to the convalescent:
“We’ve got a husband for Joy, at last’”
“Gracious!” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “What do you mean, Judy? Is this one of your pranks?”
“Prank indeed!” she answered back, tossing her head. “A real live lord! A belted Earl if you please — whatever that may mean.”
“Is this true, Joy?” said her mother beaming anxiously on her — if such a combination is understandable. Joy took her hand and stroked it lovingly:
“Do you think, Mother dear, that if there was such a thing I should leave you all this time in ignorance of it. It is only a jest made up by the stewardess who attended us on the Cryptic. Aunt Judy seems to have taken it all in; I think dear you had better ask her, she seems to know all about it — which is certainly more than I do.”
“And how did this common woman dare to jest on such a subject. I don’t think Judy that this would have happened had I been with her myself!”
“Oh my dear, get off that high horse. There’s nothing to be alarmed about. The stewardess — who is a most worthy and attentive person — ”
“She is a dear!” interrupted Joy.
“ — took such a fancy to Joy that she said there was only ‘wan’ in all the world who was worthy of her — a young nobleman to whom she had been foster-mother. It was certainly meant as a very true compliment, and I am bound to say that if the young man merits a hundredth part of all she said of him there’s certainly no cause of offence in the mere mentioning his name.”
“What is his name?” There was a shade of anxiety in the mother’s voice.
“Lord Athlyne!”
“The Earl of Athlyne!” said Joy speaking without thought Then she turned quickly away to hide her blushing.
“I — I — I really don’t understand!” said Mrs. Ogilvie, looking around helplessly. Then with the shadow of a shade of annoyance in her voice she went on:
“I really think that in a serious matter of this kind I should have been consulted. But I seem not to count for anything any more. Colonel Ogilvie has not even mentioned the matter to me. I think I ought to have some say in anything of importance relating to my little girl.”
“Lord bless the woman!” said Aunt Judy throwing up her hands and lifting her eyes. “Sally dear don’t you comprehend that this was all a joke. We never saw this young Lord, never heard of him till the stewardess mentioned him; and as for him he doesn’t know or care whether there is such a person in the world as Joy Ogilvie — ” The mother interrupted hotly — it seemed want of respect to her child:
“Then he ought to care. I’d like to know who he is to consider himself so high and mighty that even my little girl isn’t... Oh! I have no patience with him.”
There was silence in the carriage. Mrs. Ogilvie had come to the end of her remonstrance, and both the others were afraid to speak. It was all so supremely ridiculous. And vet the mother was taking it all so seriously that respect for her forbade laughter. The road was here steep and the horses were laboriously climbing their way. Presently Judy turned to Joy saving:
“Wouldn’t you like to look at the view from the edge of the cliff?” As she spoke she looked menacingly at her niece who took the hint and got down.
When she was out of earshot and the driver had stopped the horses Judy turned to her sister and said with a quiet, incisive directness quite at variance with all her previous moods:
“Sally dear I want to speak a moment to you quite frankly and, believe me, very earnestly. I know you don’t usually credit me with much earnestness; but this is about Joy, and that is always earnest with me.” All the motherhood in Mrs. Ogilvie answered to the call. She sat up with eager intensity, receptive to the full and without any disturbing chagrin. Judy went on.
“You have been thinking of your little girl’ — and actually speaking of her as such. That is the worst of mothers — their one fault With them time seems to stand still. The world goes flying by them, but in their eyes the child remains the same. Gold hair or black turns to white, wrinkles come, knees totter and steps become unsteady; but the child goes on — still, in the mother’s eyes, dressing dolls and chasing butterflies. They don’t even seem to realise facts when the child puts her own baby into the grandmother’s arms. Look round for a moment where Joy is standing there outlined against that Moorish tower on the edge of the cliff. Tell me what do you see?”
“I see my dear, beautiful little girl!” said the mother faintly.
“Hm!” said Judy defiantly. “That’s not exactly what I see. I agree with the ‘dear’ and “beautiful’; she’s all that and a thousand times more.”
‘Tell me what you do see, Judy!” said the mother in a whisper as she laid a gentle hand imploringly on her sister’s arm. She was trembling slightly. Judy took her hand and stroked it tenderly. “I know!” she said gently “I know. I know!” The mother took heart from her tenderness and said in an imploring whisper “Be gentle with me, Judy. She is all I have; and I fear her passing away from “Not that — not yet at all events!” she answered quickly. “The time is coming no doubt. But it is because we should be ready for it that I want to speak. We at least ought to know the exact truth!”
“The exact truth... Oh Judy...!”
“Don’t be frightened, dear. There is nothing to fear. The truth is all love and goodness. But my dear we are all but mortal after all, and the way to keep right is to think truly.”
“Tell me exactly what you see! Tell me eve
rything no matter how small. I shall perhaps understand better that way!”
Judy paused a while, looking at the young girl lovingly. Then she spoke in a level absent voice as though unconsciously.
“I don’t see a child — now. I see a young woman of twenty, and a fine well-grown young woman at that. Look at her figure, straight and clean as a young pine. Type of figure that is the most alluring of all to men; what the French call fausse matgre. She has great gray eyes as deep as the sky or the sea; eyes that can drag the soul out of a man’s body and throw it down beneath her dainty feet. I may be an old maid; but I know that much anyhow. Her hair is black — that isn’t black, but with a softness that black cannot give. Her skin is like ivory seen in the sunset, Her mouth is like a crimson rosebud. Her teeth are like pearls, and her ears like pink shell. Her head is poised on her graceful neck like a lily on its stem. Her nose is a fine aquiline — that means power and determination. Her forehead can wrinkle — that means thought, and may mean misery. Her hands are long and fine; patrician hands that can endure — and suffer. Sally, there is there the making of a splendid woman and of a noble life; she is not out of her girlhood yet, but she is very near it Ignorance is no use to her. She will understand; and then she will take her own course. She has feeling deep and strong in the very marrow of her bones. Ah! my dear, and she has passion too. Passion that can make or mar. That woman will do anything for love. She can believe and trust. And when she believes and trusts she will hold the man as her master; put him up on a pedestal and be content to sit at his feet and worship — and obey... She...”
Here the mother struck in with surprised consternation “How on earth do you know all this?” Judy turned towards her with a light in her eyes which her sister had never seen there: