“I think I’d do more than that for you,” he said, almost under his breath, and went out of the house.
It was a fine morning, and I finally went for a walk along the cliffs with the dogs. I expected to hear all about Willy’s encounter with Moll at luncheon; but, on my return to the house, I heard, to my surprise, that he had ridden into Moycullen, and would probably not be home for dinner.
The afternoon lagged by. I had tea early, in the hope of shortening it; but the device did not have much success. As the evening clouded in, rain began to beat in large drops against the windows, and the rising wind sighed about the house, and sent puffs of smoke down the drawing-room chimney. I despised myself for the feeling of forsakenness which it gave me; but I could help it no more than I could hinder some apprehensive recollections of Moll’s entry into my room. A childish dread of having all the darkness behind me made me crouch down on the hearthrug, with my back to the fire, and rouse Pat from a satiated slumber to sit on my lap for company. Something about the look of the fire and the sound of the rain was compelling my thoughts back to the afternoon when I sat and waited here for Nugent. I did not try, as I had so often tried before, to drive away those thoughts, or to forget the withheld possibilities of that afternoon. Once more I gave myself over to the fascination of unprofitable remembrances, yielding to myself on the plea that it was to be for the last time. After to-day they would be contraband, made outlaws by the power of a resolution which I had newly come to—a resolution that I had been driven to by the combined forces of pity and sympathy and conscience; but to-day, for one final half-hour, I would allow them to have their way.
Dinner-time came, and with it no appearance of Willy. Uncle Dominick had for some time given up his custom of waiting in the library to take me in to dinner, and Willy and I usually found him sitting by the fire in the dining-room when we went in. To-night, when I came in alone, he remained seated in his chair.
“We may as well give Willy a few moments’ law,” he said. “I hear he rode into Moycullen.”
“He told Tom when he was going that you weren’t to wait dinner for him, sir,” interposed Roche.
“What business could he have that would detain him so late?” said my uncle, slowly rising and taking his place at the table. “Can you throw any light upon this absence, Theo?”
He looked anxious and surprised when I told him that Willy had said nothing to me about it. Several times during dinner he harked back to the same subject, and I was more struck than ever by the nervous uncertainty of his manner, and the strange way in which one idea took possession of his mind. He looked so ill and worn, that before I left the room compassion made me screw up my courage to ask him if he would not sit with me in the drawing-room, instead of going to his own study by himself.
He shook his head. “You are very good, my dear; it is very kind of you to express a wish for my society. But I am much occupied in the evenings—letters to write, accounts to go over. Besides, I am used by this time to being alone—ah yes!” He walked feebly over to the door, and opened it for me to leave the room. “You must forgive me,” he said.
To my amazement, he stooped down as I passed, and, putting his hand on my shoulder, he kissed my forehead.