“go from me. yet i know that i shall stand
henceforward in thy shadow.”
i do not often get a headache, but the one which woke me next morning seemed determined to bring my average of pain up to the level of that of less fortunate people. all day long it pressed like a burning cap over my head, till my pillow felt as if it were a block of wood, and the thin chinks of light that came through the closed shutters cut my eyes like the blades of knives. the infrequent sounds in the quiet house—the far-off shutting of a{112} door, the knocking of the housemaid’s broom against the wainscot in the corridor, or an occasional footstep in the hall—all jarred upon my aching brain as if it had lost some accustomed shelter, and the blows of sound struck directly upon its bruised nerves.
the wretchedness of the day before had given way to the supremacy of physical suffering. i lay in my darkened room, thinking of nothing except how best to endure the passing of the slow hours. once, as the clock in the hall struck three, i was conscious of some association connected with the sound, and remembered that this was the hour at which i should have been starting for mount prospect.
but it had all lost reality. even the horror of that scene with my uncle and willy in the drawing-room had been for the time obliterated, wiped out by the pain,{113} of which it had partly been the cause. all that i felt was that some trouble surely was there, and, though in abeyance for to-day, it was already in possession of to-morrow, and of many to-morrows.
when, on the next morning, after breakfast in bed, i made my way downstairs, i felt as if a long time had gone by since i had crossed the hall. the house was cold and deserted. i dreaded meeting my uncle, but i saw no one; there was not even a dog to wish me good morning. in the drawing-room, the fire had only just been lighted; the blinds were drawn to the top of the windows, showing the various layers of dust in the room, from the venerable accumulation under the piano, to the lighter and more recent coating on the tables. i went straight to the writing-table, and, regardless of the cheerless glare from the sheet of grey sea, i began a letter to aunt jane.{114}
upstairs, in the early hours of the morning, it had seemed an easy and not disagreeable thing to do—to write and tell her that my irish visit was over, and that, as soon as her answer had come, i should be ready to start for america. but when the letter was closed and directed, i sat looking at it for a long time, feeling that i had done something akin to making my will. the best part of my life was over; into these past three months had been crushed its keenest happiness and unhappiness, and this was what they had amounted to. they had none the less now to fall into the background, and soon would have no more connection with my future life than if they had never been.
i had convinced myself so thoroughly that by writing to aunt jane i had closed this epoch in my life, that when, a few minutes afterwards, willy came into the{115} room, i was almost surprised to find that he was as awkward and constrained as when i had seen him last.
“oh! i didn’t know you were in here, theo,” he said apologetically, stopping short half-way across the room. “i only came in to look for a pen.”
“come in, willy,” i answered, with an appearance of ease which was the result of the high, unemotional standpoint on which i had taken up my position. “i have just finished my letter-writing.”
“i hope your head’s all right to-day? the governor was asking after you yesterday,” he said, rolling his cap in his hands, and looking at the ground. “he was very sorry to hear your headache was so bad.”
i knew that he was trying, as well as he could, to apologize for his father’s outbreak and its too obvious cause.
“that was very kind of him,” i made{116} haste to answer. “my headache is quite well. i was thinking of going out, as it looks as if the east wind had gone.”
“yes, it’s a nice day. i dare say it would do you good to go out.”
nothing could have made me feel more plainly the break that had come in what had been such “a fair fellowship” than his making no offer to come with me, and i realized with sharp regret that i had done well in writing that letter to aunt jane.
willy turned to leave the room.
“i wanted to tell you about this letter,” i said. “i have just written to aunt jane to say that i am going back to america in about a fortnight.”
his back had been towards me when i began to speak, but he faced round with an exclamation of astonishment.
“what! going away? why are you doing that?{117}”
his face was red with surprise, and he had forgotten his shyness.
“i thought uncle dominick would have told you. i spoke to him a couple of days ago.”
“he never said so to me. on the contrary——” willy stopped. “i mean, he didn’t give me the least idea you were going.”
“for all that, i am afraid i must go. i have been here an immense time already,” i said, finding some difficulty in maintaining an easy and conventional tone.
“indeed, you haven’t!” he blurted out. “you know you told me you meant to stay on into the spring, and—and you know”—looking steadily over my head out of the window while he spoke—“there’s no reason why——”
“oh yes, there is, willy,” i said, interrupting him. “poor aunt jane has been{118} by herself all this time. i ought not to leave her alone any more.”
“well, and won’t you be leaving us alone too?”—still without changing the direction of his eyes.
“oh! you will be no worse off than you were before i came,” i answered, with the hasty indiscretion of argument.
he did not reply, and i had time to be sorry for my thoughtlessness, before he said, with an assumption of carelessness—
“well, i’m going out now, and i advise you to do the same.” he left the room; but, reopening the door, put his head in—“i say, don’t send that letter,” he said, and shut the door again before i could answer.
i did not meet uncle dominick at lunch. roche told me not to wait for him, as he was not well, and would probably not come in; and i had almost finished my solitary meal before willy appeared. he{119} and i were both more at our ease than we had been at our first meeting that morning. i do not know what had operated in his case, but for myself, i felt more than ever that i had become a different person—a person to whom nothing mattered very much, whose only link with the everyday life of the past and present was a very bitter and humiliating pain.
“i have to go into moycullen this afternoon,” said willy, occupying himself very busily with the carving of the cold beef. “i was wondering if you might care to ride there. the horse wants exercise, and i thought perhaps—you said something about wanting fresh air——”
i did not know how to refuse an invitation so humbly given, although my first inclination had been to do so.
“it is rather a long ride,” i began doubtfully.{120}
“well, you can turn back whenever you like.”
i debated with myself. as i was going away so soon, it could not make much real difference to any one; and uncle dominick had specially asked me not to neglect willy. besides—i could not help it—some faint hope struggled up in my heart that in moycullen i might hear something of the o’neills.
“very well,” i said finally; “i will go with you.”
willy and i had often ridden to moycullen. it was a long ride, but we had established a short cut across the fields at one place which considerably shortened the distance; though experience had shown us that the amount of jumping it involved, and the rough ground to be crossed, did away with any great saving of time. to-day we went in off the road at the usual{121} gap, and as we cantered over the grass to the accustomed spot in each fence, the free stride of the horse, and the tingling of the wind in my cheeks, brought back the old feeling of exultant independence, the last remnant of my headache cleared away, and for the time i even forgot that quiet, incessant aching at my heart.
one or two successful conflicts with his horse had done much to restore willy’s confidence and self-possession.
“it’s a long time since we had a ride now,” he said, after we had come out over a bank on to the road again.
“yes; i was just thinking the same. i am very glad i came out.”
“we must try and get a look at the hounds next week; they meet pretty close—that is to say”—continuing his sentence with something of a jerk—“if you’re not too busy packing for america then.{122}”
i did not answer, and willy said nothing more until we had pulled up into a walk on some rising ground, from which we could see the town of moycullen straggling out of an opening between two hills, its whitewashed houses showing dimly through the blue smoke which lay about it like a lake.
“and did you send that letter, after all?” willy said, in an unconcerned way.
“yes,” i answered; “you know i always write to aunt jane on friday.”
“then you mean to say you are really going back?”
i nodded.
“well, i suppose you know best,” he said coldly.
alaska put her foot on a stone, and stumbled slightly.
“hold up, you confounded fool!” he said, chucking up her head roughly, and digging his spurs in.{123}
the mare reared and plunged, and to steady her we broke into a trot, which brought us into the crooked, crowded streets of moycullen.
it was market-day, and the carts that had come in with their loads of butter, turf, fowls, and old women blocked our way in every direction. i remained on my horse’s back while willy went off about his business, and for the next half-hour i only caught glimpses of him, doubling round the immovable groups of talkers, and eluding the beggars with practised skill as he dived in and out of the little shops. willy’s satisfaction and confidence in the warehouses of moycullen, and the amount of shopping which he contrived to do there, had always been a matter of fresh surprise to me.
beggars pestered me; little boys exasperated me by offers to hold blackthorn,{124} regardless of the fact that i was on his back; and women clustered round me on the pavement and discussed my lineage and appearance, but i was too dispirited to be much amused by their comments. the glow of my gallop had faded out; i felt cold and tired, and thought that willy had never before been so long over his shopping.
at last he appeared unexpectedly at my horse’s shoulder.
“i was thinking that you must be dead for want of your tea. i’ve just ordered some at reardon’s, and you must come and drink it before we go home.”
i assented without much interest, and began to push blackthorn through the crowd. at the hotel i dismounted, and followed willy listlessly into the dark, unsavoury commercial room, the only available apartment in which we could have{125} tea. its sole occupant got up in obedience to a whisper from the boots, and hurriedly conveyed himself and his glass of whiskey and water from the room which had been allotted to him and the gentlemen of his profession, and i sat down at the long oil-cloth-covered table and began to pour out the tea, while willy battered the fire into a blaze. he had evidently made up his mind to be cheerful, but as evidently he was not quite certain as to what to talk about.
i listened with as much intelligence as i could muster to such pieces of news as he had picked up during his shopping, but our conversation gradually slackened, and finally came to a full stop. i slowly drank the contents of my enormous teacup, wondering why it was that at country hotels the bread and butter and the china were alike abnormally thick. i noticed that{126} willy had looked at me undecidedly once or twice during the last few minutes, and at length he said, in a way that showed he had been framing the question for some time—
“i suppose, if you went to america, you’d be coming back again?”
“come back!” i echoed. “no, i do not think there is the least chance of my doing that.”
i had finished my tea, and got up as i spoke.
“then you’ve done with the old country altogether?”
“yes; altogether,” i answered resolutely, turning aside to study one of the oleographs on the walls.
i could not have said another word, but, in a sort of defiance of my own weakness, i began to hum a tune, one that had been in my mind unrecognized all day. now{127} as i hummed it the straining sweetness of the notes of a violin filled my memory, and i knew where and how i had heard it last.
willy said nothing more, but finished his tea, and, getting up, rang the bell and ordered the horses to be brought round. we had to stand for a minute in the doorway while they were coming. a cold wind was springing up with the sunset; the pale yellow light was contending with the newly lighted street-lamps, and over my head a large jet of gas flickered drearily behind the name “reardon” on the fan-light.
“hullo! look at the clashmore wagonette,” willy said suddenly. “it’s coming along now behind that string of turf-carts.”
the turf-carts lumbered slowly down the narrow street, the chestnuts and wagonette{128} having, perforce, to follow at a foot-pace. on the box, sharply outlined against the frosty sky, i saw nugent’s figure, and inside was a huddled mass of furs, which i supposed was madam o’neill. my first instinct was to shrink back into the hall, but it was too late; willy was already taking off his hat, and i bowed mechanically as nugent lifted his, and drove past without speaking.
we rode quickly and steadily homewards through the darkening hills, an occasional word only breaking the silence between us. i had no wish to speak, no wish for anything but to escape from this miserable place, and to forget all that had happened to me since the night when i had first driven along this very road. this was the fulfilment of the foolish, unacknowledged hope which had been my real reason for to-day’s ride. i had met nugent, and could take home with me the certainty{129} that i had made no mistake as to what his letter had meant, and that he, for his part, would be quite sure that i had treated him, and was now treating my cousin, in a manner worthy even of the evil traditions of “american girls.”
it was quite dark when we got to durrus, but, as the gates swung back, i could see that it was anstey who had opened them for us. i rode through a little in advance of willy, who had checked his horse in order to let me go first. i thought i caught the sound of a whispered word or two from anstey, and, with the clang of the closing gate, i distinctly heard willy say in a low voice, “no, i can’t.”
i rode fast up the avenue so that he should not overtake me. i was sick at heart at this confirmation of what my uncle had told me. everything was going wrong. i had spoilt my own life, and{130} now i had to stand by and see willy ruin his, knowing that i had it, perhaps, in my power to save him, and yet feeling incapable of doing so.
when i met uncle dominick at dinner, his manner was more blandly affectionate than i had ever known it, and but for the recollections which his haggard face called up, i should have thought that the scene of two nights ago had been a dream.
