GOOD-BYE.
“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 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 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 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 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. “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 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. 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
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 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.”
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.
“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.”
[Illustration: text decoration]
[Illustration: text decoration]