What did she mean? When she said the word love, did she mean pity? Did she discuss him with Henry when they were alone together, saying, 'Something must be done about him'?
'If you think you can reform me at this late hour you're wasting your time,' he said.
She went over to the window and stared out across the garden.
'This could be such a happy, peaceful house,' she said, 'and you don't allow it to be so. You put your sad, angry thoughts about it.'
'It would be happy and peaceful if you lived here always,' he said, 'instead of coming for one night.'
'You mean,' she said, smiling, 'that my cheerful thoughts would dispel your gloomy ones? I wonder if they would be strong enough.'
Her profile was turned from him again towards the window. That is how I would have her painted, he said to himself, if she were mine comstanding so, with that wrap about her shoulders, and her hair gathered low on the nape of her neck.
'Anyway, you will live here one day,' he said, 'you and Henry, after I am dead. And your portrait will hang on the wall in the dining-room, beside Aunt Jane and the picture of us all as children. Perhaps it will bring back the peace that I have destroyed.'
She looked at him gravely, and he wanted to kneel beside her and hide his face in the folds of her gown like a shame-faced lad.
'You may marry, Johnnie,' she said; 'you may have children.'
Her words stung him to the reality of the present.
Once again he saw the gate-house kitchen, the priest, the weeping Kate.
'Never,' he said violently, 'never, I swear it.'
The horror of his position came upon him with renewed force; he began walking up and down the room, running his hands through his hair.
'I shall have to leave Clonmere,' he said, 'I shall have to get away. I can't possibly stay now this has happened.'
'What has happened, Johnnie?' she said.
He had spoken without thinking, and now he stopped short, flushed, and guilty, and confused. What in heaven's name would she. think of him if she knew what he had been doing these past months, culminating in the present degradation at the gate-house? She would be aghast, revolted. .
'If you have done something you are ashamed of,' she said quietly, 'why don't you ask God to help you?'
He stared at her hopelessly.
'The Almighty has no time for people like me, Katherine,' he said. 'If he did I should not be in the mess I am now.'
And suddenly he was aware, fully and unmistakably, of the great gulf between them, which because of his years of guilt, and vice, and self-indulgence could never be bridged. He saw the gentle pattern of her life, calm, and quiet, and untroubled, believing in God because she was naturally good, naturally free from temptation and trial. She told him, with simplicity, that one day he might marry, not knowing that the only woman he would ever want as a wife would be herself, the only children he could ever bear to hold the children she might have given him. Would he ask God to help him? Yes, if Katherine had taught him how to pray, if Katherine had knelt beside him every night, if Katherine had been the mistress of Clonmere, his wife, his loved one, then indeed there would be peace in his house, and peace in his heart too, and godliness, and joy. Should he tell her? he wondered. Should he risk everything and confess his love, his misery, his shame?
'Katherine,' he said slowly, and came towards her, his hands outstretched, his eyes beseeching, and he saw the sudden understanding in her eyes, the blinding flash of intuition, as she turned white and leant against the wall.
'Why, Johnnie,' she said in wonder, 'why, Johnnie…? And then there was a sudden footstep beneath the window, the crunch of gravel, and the sound of Henry's voice, gay and confident, calling to his wife. She turned, and Went out of the library, leaving him alone. He stood there staring at the place where she had been.
Johnnie sat in the cabin of the Princess Victoria, in Slane harbour, waiting for the steamer to weigh anchor. His manservant had stowed away his trunks and baggage beneath the berth, and had taken himself off to his own quarters. The vessel rocked slightly, and now and again, through the open port-hole, came the mournful hooting from another ship progressing down the harbour. From the deck above came the tramp of feet, and an occasional whistle.
Through the darkness glimmered the lights of Slane.
There was a draught coming from the port-hole, and Johnnie's ulster, hanging on the door, swayed back- Wards and forwards. His light portmanteau, placed on a chair by his servant, slid gently to the cabin floor. The label upon it stared up at the owner. 'Captain Brodrick. Destination London.' And then what? Johnnie shrugged his shoulders. London and beyond…
He had only a hazy recollection of the past few weeks, and an imperfect memory as to how he had got himself upon the Princess Victoria at all. He had written dozens of letters. That was the chief thing that stood out in his mind. He had sat down to his grandfather's desk in the library at Clonmere and written letters to everyone who knew him, letters asking forgiveness of his relatives and friends. Why had he done so? He did not know. He could not remember.
But that the letters had been written and dispatched was as clear as the fact that he was now on board the Princess Victoria, because some of the answers to them lay upon the berth beside him. The vessel, proceeding down-stream, hooted again, mournful, insistent.
Johnnie got up and closed the port-hole, and reached for the flask in his ulster pocket. Five hours until midnight. . And then farewell to Slane, farewell to this country of mist and tears, and away to what future, what ultimate destination, only the Almighty in his heaven knew.
Johnnie picked up one of his letters at random.
It was from his brother-in-law, Bill Eyre, and was written from the parsonage at East Ferry.
My dear John, I thank you from my heart for your most kind and considerate letter, I feel too deeply my own weakness and sins of omission not to pity and pray for you, who are now so greatly tempted. I have not allowed a single day since leaving your house to pass without imploring the Holy Spirit's inspiration and direction for you. God forbid that I should cease to pray for you.
And now, my dear Johnnie, don't think I am taking an unwarrantable liberty in beseeching you by all the mercies of God, by the value of your immortal soul, by all you hope of a future state, by every consideration which is dear to you, to abstain from your soul and body destroyer (drink). Oh, my dear Johnnie, how I tremble, fearing some awful calamity may occur which might bring you to an early and dishonourable grave. No words can express the agony I felt, for your family's sake, during that last visit to Clonmere, when I saw you hastening to an end too dreadful to think of, and observed the fearful excitement under which you laboured at that time. I am sure you will not take offence at anything I have written. My dear Johnnie, commending you to the care of your heavenly Father, and again imploring His grace for you, believe me your most affectionate brother-in-law, Bill Eyre.
Johnnie threw the letter aside, and took another drink from his flask. He picked up a second letter from the pile. This was from Henry.
My very dear Johnnie, I have had a long talk with Uncle Willie Armstrong about you and matters in Doonhaven. The lady may leave this country for America, if Jack Donovan and Father Healey will let her. But I much fear that these two people are playing a very deep game. They want you to marry her, make you a R. c., and get the property into their hands. You may be angry with me for writing this, and you may also be angry when I beg of you, as your brother and friend, to make Jack Donovan and his sister leave the gate-house. I wish he would leave the country, and if not, be out of your sight and out of your way as much as he can. I beg and pray of you not to drink; all will be well if you do not. The many talents God has given you ought not to be thrown away. Give it up, old fellow, and make yourself, and every friend (and they are note few), happy…
There was more of it, but Johnnie put it down, and took up a third. This was from his godfather.
I have seen Kate Donovan, and she is willing to leave the country in a few months' time. There is no evidence at all as to her condition. Donovan professes his willingness to agree to any arrangement it may please you to make with regard to his sister, and I suggest that the next step is for them to quit Doonhaven, and for you to authorize me or your brother to pay their travelling expenses to wherever they think fit to go, and when I hear from them that
