“and all talk died, as in a grove all song
beneath the shadow of some bird of prey;
then a long silence came upon the hall,
and modred thought, ‘the time is hard at hand.’”
“in the shaken trees the chill stars shake.
hush! heard you a horse tread as you spake,
little brother?”
that night the wind shifted to the south-west, and the storm that came thundering in from the atlantic was the worst i had known since i came to durrus. the rain had been coming down in furious floods ever since sunset, and as the night darkened in, the wind dashed it against my window{198} till i thought the sashes must give way. the roaring of the storm in the trees never ceased, and once or twice, through the straining and lashing of the branches, i heard the crash of a falling bough. the house was full of sounds. the rattling of the ill-fitting windows, the knocking of the picture-frames against the walls of the corridor, the loud drip of water from a leak in the skylight into a bath placed to catch it in the hall. somewhere in the house a door was banging incessantly. it maddened me to hear it, more especially now, when i was trying to determine by the sound if the door which had just been opened was that of willy’s room. he surely must be in the house on a night like this; and yet his door had been open, and his room dark, when i had passed it on my way up to bed an hour ago.
since he had left me in the plantation{199}—left me sitting there in stunned horror, with the rain beating down through the laurels upon me—i had not seen or heard anything of him. he had gone without another word of explanation, without saying anything to qualify that last speech, or that could give any clue to the cause of it. it was all dark, inexplicable. i could only sit over my fire in impotent anxiety, my brain toiling with confused surmises, and my heart heavy with apprehension.
i think i never was as fond of willy, or as truly unhappy about him, as now, when i had just received from him a slight, the idea even of which i should a few months ago have laughed at. i did not care about my own point of view—i even forgot it, in my consuming desire to find out the reason of willy’s mysterious behaviour during the last two days. nothing that had gone before threw any light upon the problem,{200} unless, indeed, michael brian’s threat that night of the bonfire had had some incredibly sinister meaning. no, there was no adequate solution; but the bellowing of the wind in the chimney, and the sliding clatter of a slate falling down the roof, brought home to me the one tangible fact that he was still out of the house, at twelve o’clock on the wildest night of the year.
the next day was sunday. the storm raged steadily on, putting all possibility of going to church out of the question. the shutters on the western side of the house were all closed, and i sat in the semi-darkness of the library, trying to read, and looking from time to time through the one unshuttered window out on to the gravel sweep. broken twigs and pieces torn from the weather-slated walls were strewed over the ground. a great sycamore had fallen{201} across the drive a little below the house, and the other trees swung and writhed as if in despair at the long stress of the gale.
roche came in and out of the room on twenty different pretexts during the day, and made each an occasion for ventilating some new theory to explain willy’s absence. i was kneeling on the window-seat, looking out into the turmoil, as the wind hurried the black rain-clouds across the sky, and the gloomy daylight faded into night, when he came into the room again.
“there’s a great dhraught from that window, miss,” he remarked. “you’d be best let me shut the shutthers. you’ll see no sign of masther willy this day, unless he’s coming by the last thrain.”
“why, what makes you think that?” i asked eagerly.
“well, miss, the postman’s just afther{202} being here, and he said there was one that saw him at the station at moycullen last night.”
“at the station—moycullen!” i repeated, in bewilderment. “was he going away?”
“he was, miss. sure he was seen getting into the thrain, though the dear knows where he was going!”
“have you told the master that he was seen there?”
“i did, miss. sure he’s asking for him the whole day. he’s very unaisy in his mind. he’s roaming, roaming through the house all the day, and he’s give ordhers to have his dinner sent to his own room. he wasn’t best pleased when he found masther willy had locked up the room that’s next your own, and twice, an’ i coming upstairs, i seen him sthriving to open the door.”
“master willy did that to prevent moll{203} getting in there,” i explained. “i will tell the master so myself.”
“don’t say a word to him, miss, good nor bad,” said roche, shaking his knotted forefinger at me expressively. “he’ll forget—he’ll forget——” he sniffed significantly, and, as if to prevent himself from saying any more, he shuffled out of the room.
but willy did not come by the last train; indeed, the storm was still too violent for any one to travel. i lay awake the greater part of the night, filled with feverish fears and fancies. several times i could have been sure that i heard some one wandering about the house, and once i thought there was a shaking and pushing at the locked door of the room next to mine.
when i awoke next morning, i found that the wind had been at length beaten down by a deluge of rain, which was descending in a grey continuous flood, as if{204} it never meant to stop. the day dragged wearily on. roche had spoken truly in saying that uncle dominick was uneasy and restless. it seemed to me that he never stopped walking about the house. i heard him constantly moving backwards and forwards, from the library to his own study, and every now and then the sound of his footsteps in willy’s room overhead would startle me for an instant into wondering if willy had come home.
the long waiting and suspense had got on my nerves, and the gloom and silence made the house seem like a prison. i could neither read nor play the piano. i was debarred from even the society of pat and jinny, as, on the first day of the storm, their muddy footmarks in the hall had made my uncle angrily order their exile to the stable. i almost looked forward to dinner-time. i should then at least have{205} occupation, and a certain amount of society, for half an hour, and there was something usual and conventional about it which would be a rest after the tension and loneliness of the day.
rather to my surprise, i found my uncle standing in the hall when i came downstairs to dinner.
“what a terrible day this has been!” he said, as he offered me his arm. “this rain makes the air so oppressive,” he sighed, “and i have a great deal to trouble me.”
he helped me to soup, and, having done so, got up and walked over to the fireplace.
“i have no appetite at all,” he said. “i suppose it is caused by loss of sleep, but i really have a positive distaste for food.”
he turned his back to me, and leaned his forehead against the high mantelshelf, while i went on with my dinner as well as{206} i could. after a little time, however, he came back to the table.
“dear me! i am forgetful of my duties! will you not take a glass of wine? you must be tired after your long drive in the snow from carrickbeg.” mentioning a station between cork and moycullen.
i stared. “but i have not been out to-day.”
he put his hand to his head. “how forgetful i am!” he said hastily. “but the fact is, i am so upset by anxiety about willy that i do not know what i am saying.”
“then, have you heard that willy is at carrickbeg?” i asked excitedly.
“no, my dear, no,” he said, shaking his head two or three times; “i know nothing about him. i confused carrickbeg with moycullen. till a few years ago, carrickbeg was our nearest station, and in those days travellers did not arrive here till one{207} o’clock in the morning—one o’clock on a cold snowy morning.” he slowly repeated to himself, with a shudder.
i felt very sorry to see how unhinged he was by what he had gone through, and i tried to persuade him to eat something, but without success. he poured himself out a glass of port, and, having drunk it, again left his chair and stood by the fire, fidgeting with a trembling hand with the objects on the mantelshelf. dinner was soon over, and, not liking to leave uncle dominick, i drew a chair over to the fire and sat down. he did not seem to notice me, but began to pace up and down the room, stopping now and then by one of the windows as if listening for sounds outside; but the noisy splashing of the water that fell from a broken eaveshoot on to the gravel, was all that was to be heard.
“there!” he said at last, in a whisper;{208} “do you hear the wheels? do you hear them coming?”
i jumped up and listened too. “no, i can hear nothing.”
“i did hear them,” he said positively. “i know they are beginning.”
i could not understand what he meant, but i went to the nearest window, and was beginning to unbar the shutters, when there came a loud ring at the hall-door bell.
“i told you he was coming,” my uncle said. “i must get out some brandy for him after his long drive in the snow.”
the hall door was opened, and i heard roche’s voice raised excitedly, and then the rustle of a mackintosh being thrown off. i ran to the door, and, opening it, met willy coming into the room.
his face was all wet with rain, and his hair was hanging in damp points on his{209} forehead. he took my outstretched hand and shook it, and, without answering my incoherent questions, walked past me into the room. my uncle was still standing by the window, holding with one hand to the heavy folds of the red curtain.
“what! willy!” he said, coming forward, and staring at willy with wild eyes in which frightened conjecture slowly steadied into reassurance. “was it you who drove up?” a sort of sob shook his voice. “my dear boy, i am rejoiced to see you; but, good heavens, how wet you are!”—going to the sideboard and pouring out a glass of brandy. “here, you must drink this at once.”
“i don’t want it,” said willy; “i don’t want anything.”
he stood still looking at his father, who, from some cause or other, was shaking in every limb.{210}
“how did you get up to the house, willy?” i interposed. “did you know of the tree that was blown across the avenue?”
“they told me of it below at the lodge, and i walked from the corner,” he answered. “i’ve got something to say to you, sir,” he went on, addressing his father. “you needn’t go away, theo; you might as well hear it too.”
uncle dominick lifted the glass of brandy to his lips, and swallowed it at a gulp.
“well, my dear boy,” he said, with a smile, and in a stronger voice, “let us hear what you have got to say.”
“it’s easy told,” willy said, putting his hands into his pockets. “i went up to cork on saturday night, and anstey brian followed me this morning, and i married her there.”
