“since there’s no help, come, let us kiss and part.”
“‘not my pain.
my pain was nothing; oh, your poor, poor love,
your broken love!’”
there was dead silence for some seconds, uncle dominick was the first to break it.
“you married her?” he said slowly, the words falling from his lips like drops of acid. “you mean to say she is your wife?”
willy nodded stubbornly.
my uncle stood looking at him, the blood mounting in dark waves to his pale face, till i should scarcely have known him. he{212} made a stammering attempt to speak, and moved some steps forward towards willy, groping with his hands in front of him as if he were blind, before the words came.
“leave the house!” he gasped, in a high, shrill voice—“leave the house!”—swaying as if shaken by the passion that filled him—“you infernal, lying scoundrel, or i will kick you out like a dog!”
he stopped again to take breath, but recovering himself caught at the collar of willy’s coat as if to put his threat into execution.
“you needn’t trouble yourself,” said willy, raising his arm and retreating before his father’s onslaught. “you’ve seen pretty nearly the last of me now; but, whether you like it or no, i’m going to stay here for to-night.”
uncle dominick grasped at the edge of{213} the sideboard to steady himself, his face so dark and swollen that i thought he was going to have a fit.
“stay here!” he roared, the full tide of rage breaking from him with ungoverned savageness. “stay here! i’ll see you damned before you spend another night in this house!”
“now, look here,” said willy, in a hard, overbearing voice, keeping his eyes fixed on his father’s face, “it’ll be the best of your play to keep quiet. i’m going to stay here, and that’s the end of it!”
his insolent manner appeared to cow my uncle. the colour began to fade from his face, and his expression became more controlled, though it was more evil than ever when he spoke next.
“and your bride? may i ask if she has done me the honour of coming here?” he wiped a thin foam from his lower lip{214} with his trembling hand. “or is she perhaps at her father’s residence?”
willy turned his face so that i could not see it. “she’s in cork,” he said.
“i suppose you intend eventually to return here after your honeymoon?” my uncle went on, with a nasty smile, pouring out and drinking another glass of brandy, while he waited for willy’s reply.
“i’ve done with this place for ever,” answered willy steadily, looking straight at his father. “i married anstey brian for a reason that maybe you know as well as i do.”
“what do i know about your reasons for degrading yourself?” interrupted my uncle, dashing his hand down upon the sideboard with a return of his first fury. “i only know one thing about her, and that is, that she and her family shall get no good of their infamous plotting!”—the{215} glasses on the sideboard clashed and rang as he struck it again. “you shall never own a stick or a stone of durrus!” he cried in his harsh, broken voice. “your cousin shall have it all—your cousin shall get everything i have. i will see to that this very night!”
“oh, all right,” willy answered coolly; “the sooner the better. but i may as well tell you that if you went down on your knees to me this minute, i wouldn’t touch a halfpenny, nor the value of one that belonged to you. i’ve money enough to take me to australia, and when i go away to-morrow morning it will be for good and all.”
i had up to this stood by a scared and silent spectator; but now i tried to make my voice heard—
“i won’t have it, uncle dominick,” i said, half choked with my own eagerness.{216} “it is no use leaving it to me; i won’t have your money.”
uncle dominick took no notice of me at all. he had sat down on the chair nearest him, his passion having seemingly exhausted his strength, and his hand on the table beside him shook and twisted as if he had lost all control over its muscles.
willy spoke to me for the first time.
“see here, theo,” he said gently, also ignoring my protest, “you’d better go on upstairs out of this; you can’t do any good here.” he glanced at his father. “do go now, like a good girl; he and i have got things to settle before i go.”
he put his hand on my shoulder, and half pushed me to the door.
“promise you won’t let him do that,” i said, trying to hold the door as he opened it. “tell him i won’t have it.”
he did not answer; but, disengaging{217} my fingers from their grasp of the door, he held them in his for an instant.
“i’ll see you again,” he said; and then shut the door and left me standing outside.
i waited for a long time in the drawing-room, but willy did not come. ten and eleven struck; the fire died out, and the candles on the chimney-piece burned down till the paper which fitted them into their sockets took fire and began to flare smokily. i went out into the hall and listened, but could hear no sound of voices. some one was moving about upstairs. perhaps willy had gone up by the back stairs from the dining-room. perhaps he had changed his mind and did not want to see me after all, i thought, making my way up to my room in unutterable weariness and despondency.
there was a light under his door when i passed, and i stopped uncertainly outside.{218} he was dragging boxes about, and opening and shutting drawers; evidently he was packing. should i call him? this would be my last chance of seeing him, as he was going away by the early train in the morning. but with the thought, the remembrance of anstey fell like a shadow between him and me. what could i say to him if i were to see him? how could i ignore the subject which must be uppermost in both our minds? and yet, how could i bring myself to speak of it? most likely he had felt this same difficulty, and had purposely avoided meeting me.
i went slowly on from his door, and into my own room, trying to realize the impossible thought that i had seen the last of willy. willy, the trusty comrade of many a day’s careless pleasuring; who had taken me out schooling and ferreting, and had ransacked every hedge to cut for me{219} superfluous numbers of the flattest of black-thorns, and the straightest of ash plants—willy, with whom i used to gossip and wrangle and chaff in the easiest of intimacy; who had been, as he himself would have expressed it, the “best playboy” i had ever known. i could not believe in this grim ending, that would have been grotesque, if it had not been so tragical. willy married to anstey brian, and going away for ever to-morrow morning, and going without even saying good-bye!—these were things too hard and too sorry to be taken in easily.
a knock came at my door.
“theo, are you there? could i see you for a minute?”
i opened the door and went out into the corridor. willy was standing there in his shirt-sleeves.
“i heard you coming up,” he began{220} quickly, “and i came to say ‘good-bye.’”
“oh, willy!” i said wretchedly, “are you really going?”
“yes; i’m off by the early train,” he answered. “it’s late now; i won’t keep you up.” he put out his hand to me. “good-bye,” he said.
i took his hand, and held it, unable to say a word.
“good-bye,” he repeated, in a whisper.
“willy,” i cried suddenly, “why did you do it? why did you do it?”
“i can’t tell you—i had to. maybe, some day——” he broke off. “i must go. will you say ‘good-bye’ to me?”
“i will,” i said, carried away by the restrained misery of his voice, and putting my arms round his neck. “you’ve been too good to me—oh, willy, my dear, i’ve brought you nothing but bad luck. good-bye.{221}”
i kissed his cheek—he was my only cousin, and i was never going to see him again—and then i tried to draw myself away from the grasp that was tightening round me, but it was too late.
“i’ll never say ‘good-bye’ to you,” he said fiercely, straining me to him. “i won’t let you go till you tell me if you meant what you said to me in the wood. was it me you cared for, after all?”
“don’t ask me, willy,” i implored. “let me go!”
“i won’t!” he answered, with reckless passion, trying to press his lips against mine.
i put my hands over my face, with a shrinking which told me in a moment the depth of the self-delusion which had carried me to the point of saying i would marry him. he must be told the truth now, no matter what it cost.{222}
“i meant that i was fond of you,” i said; “but i never was in love with you.”
“i see,” he said bitterly. he let me go at once. “then it was nugent, after all.”
i turned away without answering, but at my own door i stopped, and again held out my hand.
“willy,” i said, breaking into tears, “say ‘good-bye.’”
he took my hand again, and kissed it softly; he was crying too.
“god help us both!” he said. “good-bye.”
