Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 62: what you’re looking at

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

52 was the only gintleman, and, glory be: to God, I put them together! ““Ts it yerself, says I, ‘that’s break- * a woman’s heart—Heaven spoil ye?’ “Didn’t he stand thremblin’ by the chair, leanin’ his hand on the table. ‘How breakin’ a woman’s heart?’ says he, troubledlike. “Don’t tell me ye don’t love her,’ says I; ‘she’s made for nothin’ else, shure. Isn’t she sits here cryin’ her beautiful eyes out by the table?’ . “What do ye mean at all?’ says he, half smilin’, half thremblin’, like ashamed he was of himself. “‘*T mean none but herself,’ I told him plain and clear, ‘Miss Celia Mait- land.’ ““Miss Maitland?’ says he, and he looked more manfullike then; ‘do ye know her?’ “To I know her, is it? Amn’t she prayin’ for me these seven Fridays for my heart’s desire?’ “Then, shure, Mrs. Schmidt, if I didn’t think he was goin’ to fall where he stood, he looked so strange at me. God Almighty, I thought he was goin’ to cry before me eyes. ““T do love her, says he, and then axes me, ‘do ye?’ “Well, that is neither here nor there to a man,’ I answered him, ‘but I don’t mind tellin’ ye that if ever an angel got out of paradise when St. Peter wasn’t lookin’, she was the girl!’ “Saints of God, didn’t he get up and kiss me on both me cheeks, and sort of hold me, lookin’ like a wild man, mut- terin’.” It was Mrs. Schmidt who heard them coming up the stairs. She told Bridgit Moreen, and Bridgit Moreen, usually hospitality itself, put her hand on the German woman’s shoulder, half pushing her: ‘Now go up to the next floor, dear; it’s more elegant that I should see them alone.” The two entered together the tene- ment room, through whose windows, for many years, Bridgit had looked on the East River and watched the boats navigated, starting on their journeys and returning. AINSLEE’S By her spotless table she received her visitors. They stood before her side by side. She put out one kind, old hand, her old voice, in its rich brogue, heartily tender—triumphant. ‘The Lord love ye, miss, darlint, but it’s heart glad I am.” “Tell her, Celia,” said Lord Farrell. Celia took Bridgit’s hand as though the worn, old hand were sacred; she kissed it; a few tears fell on it. Celia looked at Farrell through her tears. She shook her head. “No, you must tell her.” Bridgit laughed sweetly. “Don’t mind tellin’; shure, I could read it with me eyes shut.” Lord Farrell took her other hand. “You thought you knew me when I came in an hour ago?” “TI did that,” smiled the old woman, nodding. . “Well,” said Farrell, and his voice shook, “you were right, you knew the lover. Don’t you ever wear spectacles, Mrs. Moreen?” There was something as he spoke, now she heard it, something rich and deep in his voice; now. it awakened way down in her memory a resonance; she heard it, she heard it again, and far back in her brain and heart the tone echoed. Celia had placed a chair for her. Mrs. Moreen sank down in it. From her pocket she took a pair of spectacles, put them on, and lifted her eyes, thus aided, to the tall figure of the man who stood near her. Lord Farrell still held her hand; he patted it gently. “Now,” he said, “it is a long way that leads back, isn’t it? But look at me; did you ever see anybody like me in your life?” They saw her catch her breath and lift her worn, old hand to her eyes, as if she would shade them from a light that might blind her forever. “Saints of God!” she murmured, and said it again, for it was a prayer to her. “Saints of God, is it my little boy ye are?” Farrell knelt at her knees. She put her hands on his shoulders, scanning the com G vOOK (C@)