“Ah! very naturally; but, upon my soul, I think it was as much his own fault as any one else’s. He never could get on with his own family, you know. There was your poor father, now—the dearest fellow in the world—my greatest friend—though, of course, he was a good deal older than I,” O’Neill threw in parenthetically,—“he never hit it off with him. He hasn’t spoken to me for years past because I backed up Owen when he got into trouble with his father; and there was that other business about Owen’s funeral—a hole and corner affair—no one given any notice about it, the poor dear fellow buried in Cork as if he were a pauper!” O’Neill paused, and blew his nose with indignant vigour. “But all that’s neither here nor there,” he resumed; “all I mean to say is, that Dominick was not the man to make the best of a young fellow. That poor boy Willy never got a chance. He was brought up, as you might say, among the common people; and, now I come to think of it, we did hear something of this girl before—but that was before you came, you know. Ahem!”—he cleared his throat—“it really is most incomprehensible.”
“I am afraid I must say good-bye, O’Neill,” I said hurriedly, each of his words giving me a fresh stab; “and I do not know if I shall see you again, as I am going away on Saturday. I am going back to America.”
O’Neill looked as aghast as was possible for a person of his complexion.
“That’s the worst news I have heard yet. How can you treat us so cruelly?” he said gallantly. “You come over and break all our hearts, and then off you go, and leave us to mend them as best we can.”
“I hope it is not as bad as all that,” I said, with a sickly smile. “I won’t say good-bye to you now; I am sure I shall see you again before I go—perhaps at Miss Burke’s to-morrow.” And I rode quickly away, without heeding the farewell words that he shouted after me.
To say the truth, I could not face another good-bye, even with O’Neill, and I trotted home at a good pace along the muddy road, doing my best to outstrip the associations that every fresh turn in its familiar windings called up.
There was a note for me on the hall table when I arrived.
“Miss Burke left it herself, miss,” said Roche, “and she hopes you’ll send over an answer this afternoon. She wanted to see the masther, but sure he’s not able to see any one—and no wondher, faith, no wondher!”
The note was written on the small coquettish paper, with a golden “Mimi,” engrossed on the corner, which was affected by Miss Burke, and her good-natured, untidy handwriting had sprawled over all four sides of the sheet. She said that she “heard that Willy was gone,” and, without making any further comment, she asked me if I would come and stay with them for as long or as short a time as I might wish. She hoped I would come to-morrow, if possible, as it was their “at home” day, and I might meet a few friends; and she remained, mine most affectionately, Mary Burke.
I considered the matter. It certainly would be a relief to get away from Durrus and its horrible silence and forsakenness, even for a night or two. To-day was Tuesday; I did not start till Saturday. If I went over to Garden Hill to-morrow afternoon, timing my arrival so as to evade the “few friends,” I could stay there till Friday morning. I knew it would make no difference to my uncle; I could tell him about it when I saw him at dinner: and I sent a note telling Miss Burke that I should be very glad to go over to her to-morrow afternoon. But I did not see my uncle at dinner.