An Irish Cousin; vol. 2/2

It was Friday afternoon, two days since the evening when Nugent had driven me away from Durrus to Garden Hill. The sun was shining into Miss Burke’s drawing-room, and through the window I caught occasional glimpses of Miss Burke herself in her garden, examining the hotbed, standing with arms akimbo to direct the operations of the garden boy, or ejecting an errant Plymouth Rock, that had daringly flown over the fuchsia hedge into the garden from the yard.

“Do you remember that afternoon when you said good-bye to Willy out there?” I said, looking round at Nugent, as Miss Burke slammed the garden gate on the intruder. “I was there by the henhouse all the time.”

“Yes, I knew you were—I was watching you out of the window while I was being talked to by Miss Croly.”

“Then why did you say what you did about America to Willy? You must have known I could hear.”

“I wanted you to hear. I thought then that you had treated me very badly. In fact, I am not at all sure that I don’t think so still.”

I left the window in which we were standing, and went back to the armchair which Mrs. Barrett had once so abundantly filled.

“I want to ask you something,” I said; “what was it—why—I mean, what made you write me that letter?”

“Because, under the circumstances, it was about the only thing for me to do”—in a tone which told of past indignation. “I was warned off!”

“I never warned you,” I said, trying to appear absorbed in studying the figures on the Japanese screen that I was holding.

“No, I dare say you did not; but it came to pretty nearly the same thing when you got your uncle to do it for you.”

“I! I never did anything of the kind!”

“But your uncle himself told me——” he began, and stopped.

“Told you what?” I said, sitting bolt upright.

“Well,” he answered reluctantly, “that last day I was at Durrus—after the ball, you know—your uncle sent for me, and he told me you were engaged to Willy.”

“I engaged to Willy!” I cried hotly. “How could he have——”

The words died on my lips; I could not now dispute about anything Uncle Dominick had said.

“He said more than that,” said Nugent, coming and standing over me; “he said he thought—he was pretty sure, in fact—that you wanted me to know it” (reddening at the recollection), “and so then, of course——”

It was a hard thing to hear. The falsehood had come near spoiling both our lives, and with the thought of it the remembrance of the time that was over came like a wave about me—the wretchedness and bewilderment, the heart-ache and the hidden strivings with it, the effort for Willy’s sake. I looked up into the troubled blue eyes that were fixed on mine, and, with such a reaction from pain as comes seldom in a life, I stretched out both my hands.

“Oh, Nugent,” I said, calling him by his name for the first time, “why did you believe it?”

He took hold of my hands, and knelt down beside me. “I think,” he said, in a low voice, “because I loved you so much.”

I could not now say more than this, even to Nugent. Uncle Dominick had only been buried this morning, and all that had happened that last afternoon was still fresh in my mind. They had recovered his body from the bog hole the same night, after long searching, and a telegram had been sent to try and catch Willy before he started. But it had been too late; he and Anstey had sailed for Melbourne a few hours before the telegram had gone, and now a second message had been sent to Melbourne to await his arrival there. There had been very few at the funeral, Nugent said; he and his father, and old Mr. McCarthy, the solicitor, and Dr. Kelly, who had conducted the inquest, were, with the Durrus servants, the only people there.

“They went by the old road across the bog,” he said, in answer to a question from me. “It was a lovely morning, just like spring. I looked at Poul-na-coppal as we walked past, and you can see at once that something unusual has happened there. The banks are all muddy and trampled, and the heather and bog myrtle that used to grow round it are torn and broken down. You wouldn’t know it.”

“Not know Poul-na-coppal! I wish I could think I should ever forget it.”

“They had had the mausoleum opened,” Nugent went on. “I can just remember seeing it open before, when I was six years old, and they took me to old Theodore’s funeral—by way of a treat. It’s an awful old place.”

“Oh, Nugent,” I said, “was Moll Hourihane there?”

“No, I hear she has gone off her head altogether, and just sits by the fire and says ‘Gibber’ all the time—or words to that effect.”

“Nonsense!”

“Well, that is what your friend Tom told me. I was quite glad to hear that she was turning into a good conventional idiot, after all.”

“Was old Brian there?”

“Yes; he had the cheek to ask me if I knew who was to get the property. He is as ill-conditioned an old ruffian as I ever saw. I told him that till the will was read, no one knew anything about it.”

“I hope your father went up to the house to hear it,” I said, with an uneasy recollection of my uncle’s threat to disinherit Willy in my favour.

“I have not the least doubt he did—in fact, I believe McCarthy asked him to do so; but as I knew it could be of no special interest to any one but Willy, I came right on here. It seemed to me as if I would prefer it.”

Miss Mimi’s gardening occupied her till nearly tea time; at least it was not till then that we heard her voice reverberating in the hall.

“See now, Joanna, be sure and put plenty of butter on the toast, and don’t wet the tea till I ring the bell. The mistress and Miss Bessie will be home from Moycullen soon, and”—in a lower voice—“there’s Miss Sarsfield and Mr. O’Neill in the drawing-room.”

Here there came a ring at the bell.

“Mercy on us! who’s this?” exclaimed Miss Burke; “and me in me awful old gardening clothes!”

We heard her hastily retreat into the room opposite, and then, in a muffled voice, issue her directions.

“Say I’m not at home, Joanna, and Miss Sarsfield’s not able to see any one!”

“Good woman,” murmured Nugent.

The door was opened, and Joanna’s steadfast assertions that “all the ladies were out of home,” were reassuringly audible; but the next instant we heard Miss Mimi emerge from her refuge, and shamelessly betray her confederate.

“Don’t mind Joanna, O’Neill! Come in, come in! I never thought it was you!”

“How do you do, Miss Burke?” said O’Neill; “I am glad you are not as inhospitable as Joanna!” Here followed an apologetic giggle from Joanna, and O’Neill continued. “And how is your guest? Better, I hope.”

“Oh, the poor child! She was awfully bad yesterday; she never lifted her head from the pillow all day. I think some one was greatly disappointed when he came to inquire! But come in and see her; she’s in the drawing-room.”

O’Neill’s manner when he came in, was, I at once felt, somewhat shorn of its usual intimate devotedness, and I discerned in it a certain striving after a paternal tone. He shook my hand with a pressure and a shake of his head, that were meant to convey at once a facetious reproach and forgiving congratulation, and as soon as possible took advantage of the cover afforded to him by Miss Burke’s appropriate witticisms, and, after a word or two, left my side. Miss Mimi’s exuberant enthusiasm soon became a trifle wearying to the objects of it, and although O’Neill gallantly seconded her, I think he was as glad as either Nugent or I when the return of Mrs. Burke and Miss Bessie, and the arrival of tea, caused a diversion.

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.

I had been rapidly forming various schemes of escape, but I was spared having to carry out any of them by the timely intervention of Joanna, who at this juncture appeared at the door and announced that “Misther Roche had brought over Miss Sarsfield’s luggages from Durrus, and would be thankful to speak to her in the hall.”

As I crossed the room, Nugent followed me.

“What’s the matter?” he whispered. “You look regularly tired out.”

“I am going to speak to Roche,” I answered. “Will you come with me?”

The first object that I saw in the hall was the Saratoga trunk which I had packed for America, and my other luggage was blocking up the narrow passage. The sight of the big trunk recalled to me the day that I had packed it, and a sudden thought of Willy’s parcel came to me. He had said that I was not to open it till after his father’s death, but that then, for his own sake, he would like me to see it. Perhaps it would throw some light on all these mysteries that had thickened round me since I had made the experiment of this visit to Ireland. I could hardly wait to talk to poor old Roche, and to listen to his lamentations over the downfall of the Durrus family. I was burning to open my trunk and see what must be, as far as Willy was concerned, the final word on the subject. At last Roche had said all he had to say. I sent him down to the kitchen to have a consolatory cup of tea with Joanna, and then, with Nugent’s help, I eagerly unbuckled the heavy straps and unlocked my trunk. There, on the top of all, lay my habit, and, with a very shaking hand, I drew out of its folds the little brown paper parcel.

We took it into the dining-room, where we should be free from interruption.

“Will you open it?” I said, sitting down by the table, and trying to prepare myself for whatever fresh revelation was coming.

Nugent cut the string and took the paper off.

“It’s a book of some kind,” he said, sitting down beside me. “It looks like a diary. And here is a letter for you, from Willy, I suppose.”

“Give it to me,” I said breathlessly. “And will you see what the book is about?”

The letter was a long one, and was written from Foley’s Hotel, Cork.

CHAPTER X.

LEX TALIONIS.

“I can’t make this out,” he said. “It is a diary of your father’s for the year 185—, and the curious thing is that it seems from it that he died at Durrus instead of in Cork.”

“Here,” I said helplessly, handing him the letter, “read this, and tell me what it all means.”

He put the diary into my hand, but half drew it back again.

“You ought not to look at it,” he said. “You’re not fit to stand all this trouble.”

“I must see it,” I said agitatedly. “Don’t stop me, Nugent.”

He still held my hand, with the book in it.

“Listen!” I said in a whisper. “I have something to tell you.”

I had been burdened longer than I could bear with the dread of the possible meaning of those strange things that my uncle had said in his delirium, and now by the light of Willy’s letter, all these broken sentences were beginning to shape and group themselves into something that could be understood. I did not wait to think, or to try and arrange coherently what I was going to say, but with a feeling of feverish hurry driving me, I told Nugent everything that I could think of that bore in any way on my father’s death. It was not easy to tell, and towards the end of my story my voice began to fail me.

“Never mind, my darling,” he said, putting his arm close round me, “don’t think of it any more.”

“I can’t think of anything else,” I said, unclasping his hand from mine, and putting the letter into it. “Read this.”

He read it, and, without speaking, took up the diary again.

“I believe I understand it all now,” he said. “There is very little in the diary, but there is enough to make it pretty clear what happened. Do you see here; your father got to Cork on the 9th of January, and instead of dying on that day, as is said on the brass in the church, he did not even start for Durrus till the 10th. I will read it to you, and you will understand it for yourself.

“‘January 9.—Arrived in Cork. Felt very ill. Wrote to Helen, also to Dominick, telling him to expect me to-morrow. Weather very cold.

“‘January 10.—Felt too ill to leave by early train. Came by the six o’clock instead. Got to Carrickbeg at nine p.m. Did not see any one I knew. Got outside car. Very cold night; snow. Arrived Durrus one a.m. Found that my father had died this afternoon. Feel very ill myself. Am in my old room over hall-door.

“‘January 11.—Did not get up. Fear I have a touch of pleurisy. Wish Helen were here. D. has only once been in to see me, and there seems to be no one to attend to me. Have asked the woman to light a fire in my room, but she has not done so. D. tells me she is the only servant in the house. He says the property has been nearly ruined in the famine. Must write to Helen to-morrow about coming here.’”

This was the last entry in the book, and Nugent had some difficulty in reading it, as the writing was weak and the ink had faded. The pages were rubbed and soiled, and the leaves were dog’s-eared, but none had been torn out, and, considering its age and the ill-usage it had probably received, the book was in very good condition.

“You see,” Nugent said, when he had finished reading, “your father certainly survived your grandfather, and it is very easy to see why your uncle was anxious for people to believe the contrary. He knew your mother was a long way off, and that there was no one here to ask any inconvenient questions. The famine had made most people leave the country. I believe my father was the only person who made any trouble about it.”

“Yes, yes,” I said excitedly, remembering my meeting with O’Neill on the way home from Rathbarry; “he said something to me about it once. Go on.”

“Well,” went on Nugent, with, as I now think, some pride and pleasure in the office of elucidator, “as a matter of fact, your father probably died on the 11th or 12th, and I must say it looks as if there had been some foul play about it. Your uncle’s object was of course to settle things so as to be able to assert that your father had died before your grandfather, and had been buried in Cork. I haven’t a doubt that he and Moll managed to get his body out through that French window, and that then they carried it between them to Poul-na-coppal, and put it in there, where they knew it would never be found or thought of.”

“Oh, that explains——” I began; but Nugent was now too interested in what he was saying to stop.

“Of course, he may have died naturally, but I am bound to say I don’t think he did. I should say that that old madwoman was quite capable, then, of putting a pillow over a sick man’s face, if she had any reason for doing so——”

“Stop!” I cried, interrupting him. “I remember now that I thought she wanted to do that very thing to me, the night she came into my room.”

Nugent’s clear exposition broke down.

“My darling,” he said, catching me in his arms again, “I don’t know how you ever lived through that awful time, all alone, with no one to stand by you; and to think that if I hadn’t been fool enough to believe that old blackguard——”

“Don’t say anything against him,” I said, rather indistinctly, by reason of my face being hidden in the collar of his coat. “It’s all over now, and I shouldn’t mind anything—only for poor Willy. You must write to him. Tell him that nothing would ever induce me to have Durrus, if it was mine fifty times over; tell him that for my sake he must abide by his father’s will, and not waken up a thing that is over now and done with; tell him that I beg of him to come home again——”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Nugent, lifting my face and looking suspiciously into it. “I believe you cared a great deal more about Willy than you ever did for me.”

“I don’t know why I didn’t,” I answered, midway between laughter and tears. “He was a thousand times nicer to me than you were—but, somehow, I always liked you best.”

THE END.

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