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.