My uncle hesitated, and drew his hand heavily over his moustache. I saw that it trembled. He sat down in the chair by which I stood, and did not answer. I put my hand on his shoulder.
“Surely he had not quarrelled with you, Uncle Dominick? Or was it that you—that you thought he had behaved too——” I could not finish the sentence.
“No, no, my dear,” he said quickly; “I had no such feelings. I would have done anything in the world for him at that time.” He cleared his throat and continued huskily, “It was Owen who misjudged me, who misconstrued all my efforts on his behalf, who ignored my offers of assistance. I cannot bear to think of what I went through,” he ended hastily, leaving his chair and again walking to the window. It was a French window, and a few stone steps led from it to the grass outside. He opened one door and looked down the drive.
It was getting darker, and the rain came driving in from the sea in ghost-like white clouds, as he stood there motionless, and apparently oblivious of the drops that fell from the roof on his head and shoulders.
“Are you looking out for Willy?” I said at length.
“Oh, Willy! Yes; is he not home yet?” he answered absently, closing the window.
“Is there any portrait of my father in the house?” I asked as he turned towards me, ignoring his remark about Willy in my anxiety to put a question that since my arrival at Durrus I had often wished to ask, and feeling that it might not be easy to find another opportunity of reopening the subject.
“There is one, taken when he was a child; it hangs in the corridor outside your bedroom door.”
“But I think there are two portraits of boys there,” I persisted. “I am afraid I should not know which was his.”
My uncle rose wearily from his seat. “If you wish, I will show it to you now,” he said. “If you will go upstairs, I will follow you in an instant.”