Soon afterwards, however, he again came up to where I was sitting.
“I want to say a word or two to you, my dear Miss Theo,” he said. I guessed that they would be on the subject which I most dreaded, but which was, I knew, inevitable. “It is about that sad business,” he went on, drawing his chair up to mine; “very deplorable it has all been—very shocking—and so trying for you! And how fortunate that Nugent turned back that evening with Kelly! He says he scarcely knows why he did; but I dare say it is not impossible to imagine his reason!”—with a temporary relapse from the paternal tone. “However, what I wanted to say to you was this; when your uncle’s papers were searched to-day, two wills were found, one of comparatively old standing, in Willy’s favour, and the other—well, you can hardly call it a will—was dated only a few days ago—the first of this month,—it was quite incomplete, neither finished nor signed, but in it it was clear that his intention had been to leave everything he possessed to you. Unluckily, for want of the signature, it is perfectly valueless——” He broke off, and stuck his eye-glass into his eye in order to observe me more intently.
“I am very glad,” I said in a low voice. “I would not have taken it.”
“Well, you see, it was only to be expected that he should want to punish Willy for that outrageous marriage of his. Upon my word, I should have done the same if Nugent had done anything of the kind—or, I may say, if he hadn’t done precisely what he has done!”
I paid no attention to O’Neill’s implied compliment.
“Poor Willy!” I said, more to myself than to him; “no matter what the will had been, I would never have taken what ought to have been his.”
“Ah! that’s all very nice and kind and romantic,” said O’Neill, wagging his head sapiently, “but you ought to remember that your father was the eldest son, and that it was only by what you might call a fluke that he did not inherit. I always thought that it was a wonderful stroke of luck for Dominick, old Theodore’s outliving your father. Why, if Owen had held out a couple of days longer, Durrus would be yours this minute! It certainly was an iniquitous thing,” he went on, in a wheezy, indignant whisper, “that your grandfather never took the trouble to find out anything about Owen—where he was, if he was married and had any children, and all that kind of thing. But not a bit of it! If Owen survived him, well and good, he got the property; but if he didn’t, Dominick was to have it—no reference made to Owen’s possible heirs—nothing! Upon my soul, it puts me in a passion whenever I think of it!”
O’Neill pulled out his handkerchief, and began to polish his heated countenance.
I did not answer. While he was speaking, that idea which had haunted me since my last meeting with my uncle again thrust itself into my mind, and I began to feel that there might have been a motive for such a tragedy as had been shadowed in his ravings. I could not sit here with those loud, cheerful voices round me, and O’Neill’s red, interested face opposite to me. I knew he was expecting me to speak, but I could not find words to do so. It was vain to look to Nugent to interpose, as he was with difficulty holding his own against the combined assault of Mrs. Burke and her two daughters, who were delightedly making him the occasion to parade venerable jests that had seen hard service in many a previous engagement.
“It was a funny thing now, Willy’s marrying that girl. D’ye know had he any notion of his father’s intentions?” began O’Neill again, hitching his chair still closer to mine with the evident intention of starting a long and satisfactory discussion.