“LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST.”
“‘Uncover ye his face,’ she said;
‘Oh, changed in little space!’”
“When Pity could no longer look on Pain.”
“Faith, I don’t know anny more than yourself, miss. ’Twas twelve o’clock
last night when he come home, and Tom says the mare was in such a sweat
when he brought her in that he thought she’d never stop breaking out in
the stable.”
“Where has he been all the morning? Did he breakfast long before I did?”
“It wasn’t half-past seven, miss, when he was downstairs calling for a
cup of tay from the servants’ breakfast, and, afther he taking it, he
went out of the house,” Roche answered, rising stiffly from his knees
after he had swept up and replenished the drawing-room grate.
“It is very curious,” I said to myself, going over to the window and
looking out on the lawn, where the dogs were engaged in a long,
unsatisfactory wrangle over a duck’s claw. “I wonder what has become of
him?”
“Miss Theo,” began Roche, impressively, depositing his coal-scuttle in
the middle of the floor, “I don’t like the way Masther Willy is, and
that’s the thruth. Maggie told me he wasn’t in his bed last night at
all; and Tom was saying he had a face on him that would frighten you
when he ordhered the horse yesterday.”
Something in Roche’s manner implied reproach and inquiry, and I felt
obliged to defend myself. “There was nothing the matter with him when I
saw him last, yesterday morning.”
“Is that so, miss?” said Roche, picking up his coal-scuttle preparatory
to leaving the room. “Well, miss, maybe I’m only an owld fool afther
all, but there’s things going on I don’t like.”
Luncheon came, and again I had to eat it in no better company than my
own. I began to feel seriously troubled about Willy, and finally put on
my things and went round to the yard to see if I could hear anything
about him there. He had been in the stables early that morning, to see
the mare get her feed, Mick told me, and he thought he had seen him, a
while ago, going round the shrubberies towards the plantation.
There had been sharp, sleety showers all the morning, and one of them
now began to fall so heavily that I had to take refuge in a stable
while it lasted. I watched it impatiently, as it whipped the surface of
the puddles about the yard and drove the fowls to the friendly shelter
of the coach-house, and at the first signs of its abating I started for
the plantation to look for Willy. By the time I reached the front of the
house, the shower was quite over, and was driving out to sea. A wet
gleam of sunlight shone on the trees, making every branch and twig show
with pale distinctness against the bank of purple cloud behind; a
pilot-boat was beating in to Durrusmore Harbour in the teeth of the cold
south-easterly wind; the curlews screamed fitfully as they flew inland
over my head, and I was weatherwise enough by this time to know that a
storm was not far off.
The shrubberies were chilly and dripping, and their narrow walks were
covered with soaking withered leaves, but they were sheltered from the
wind. I hurried along them, not very certain of where I was going, or
what my exact intention in looking for Willy was. I had come to the
place where I had once left the path to gather ferns by the stream, and
was beginning to realize the absurdity of expecting to find him here,
half an hour at least since Mick had seen him, when, at the angle where
the two paths meet, I came suddenly upon him.
He was sitting on a tumble-down old rustic seat, with his elbows on his
knees, and his face hidden in his hands.
“Willy!” I cried, starting forward, “what is the matter? Are you ill?”
He raised his head, and looked at me vacantly, and for the moment I felt
almost as great a shock as if I had seen him lying dead there; if he
had been dead, his whole look could hardly be more changed than it was
now. A bluish-grey pallor had taken the place of his usually fresh
colouring; his eyes were sunk in dark hollows, but the lids were red;
and I saw, with a shame at surprising them there, the traces of tears on
his cheeks.
“I’m all right,” he answered, turning his face away without getting up;
“please don’t stay here, Theo. It’s only that my head’s pretty bad.”
A small brown book was lying on the seat beside him, and he put it into
the pocket of his coat while he was speaking. I was too bewildered to
move.
“You’d better go in,” he said again; “it’s awfully cold and wet for you
to be out here.”
The feeling that I was prying upon his trouble, whatever it was, made me
take a few undecided steps away from him; but, looking back, I saw that
he had again relapsed into his old position, and with an uncontrollable
impulse I came back.
“I won’t go away, Willy,” I said, sitting down beside him; “I can’t
leave you here like this. Won’t you tell me what it is that is troubling
you?”
He neither lifted his head nor spoke, but I could hear the quick
catchings of his breath. A thrust of sharp pity pierced my heart.
“Do tell me what it is, Willy,” I repeated, careless of the break in my
voice, putting one hand on his shoulder, and trying with the other to
draw one of his from his face.
He was trembling all over, and when I touched him he started and let his
hand fall, but he turned still further from me.
“Don’t,” he said huskily. “You can’t do any good; nothing can----”
“What do you mean?” I said, horror-struck at the settled despair in his
voice. “What has happened to you?”
“It’s no use your asking me questions,” he answered more calmly. “I tell
you there’s nothing the matter with me.”
“I don’t believe you” I said. “Something _has_ happened to you since
yesterday morning. Is it anything that I have done? Is it my fault in
any way?”
“No, it is not your fault.” He stood up, and went on wildly, without
looking at me, “But I wish I had died before you came to Durrus! I wish
I was in the graveyard out there this minute! I wish the whole scheming,
infernal crew were in hell--I wish----”
“Oh, stop, Willy!” I cried--“stop! You are frightening me!”
He had been standing quite still, but he had flung out his clenched hand
at every sentence, and his grey eyes were fixed and dilated.
“I don’t know what I’m saying; I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said,
sitting down again beside me. “I had no right to say that--about wishing
I was dead before you came. Your coming here was the best thing ever
happened to me in my life. I’ll always thank God for giving me the
chance of loving you; and no matter what happens, I always will love
you--always--always----”
He caught my hand as if he were going to draw me towards him, but,
checking himself, he let it fall with a groan.
“It’s all over now,” he said. “Everything’s gone to smash.”
A rush of wind shivered through the laurels, and shook a quick rattle of
drops from the shining leaves.
“Why should it all be over? Why should not it begin again?”
I said it firmly, but it seemed to me as if I were listening to some one
else speaking.
“What do you mean?” He stared at me.
“I mean that perhaps I made a mistake,” I said, beginning to
hesitate--“that perhaps, that night at Mount Prospect, I was wrong in
what I said to you----”
“You’re humbugging me!” he said fiercely, without taking his eyes from
my face. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Yes, I do know,” I answered, still with that feeling that another
person was speaking for me. “I’ve thought about it before now, and I
thought perhaps, if you would forgive----”
“Forgive! I don’t understand you. Do you mean to say you would marry
me?”
“Yes.”
He looked at me stupidly, and staggered to his feet as if he were drunk.
“I’m having a fine time of it!” he said, with a loud harsh laugh. “She
says she’ll have me after all, and I’ve got to say ‘No, thank you!’”
He swayed a little as he stood opposite to me, and then, falling on his
knees, he laid his head on my lap, and broke into a desperate sobbing.
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