they have arrived at their destination, Henry or I will state, through you, what you are prepared to do for their benefit. My reason for this, of course, it will be perfectly superfluous for me to tell you, as you will see at once the advisability of not perpetrating a scandal by the presence of the parties in the place where such scandal occurred. Your absence, however, will conduce most of all to the proposed arrangement. I am every hour more confirmed that you ought to remain away for some time.
Believe me, dear Johnnie, Yours ever, William Armstrong.
How glad they must all be, thought Johnnie, in the secrecy of their hearts, to be rid of him, and what a fine, noble exit he was making, running away from responsibility like a rat, leaving other people to clear up the mess he had made. He was certainly heroic, was Captain John Brodrick, late of Clonmere Castle, Doonhaven. And here was the gem of them all, here was the scrap from his aunt Eliza.
My dear Johnnie, Do not make me unhappy in talking as if there was anything to forgive between us, as I assure you most solemnly there is nothing on earth that would give me greater delight than to promote your happiness in every way. I suspect that your affections are concerned in some way at the moment, causing you to write as you have done, and I only wish that the lady whom you honour, whoever she is, could reciprocate your feelings, for all our sakes. I know not how to thank you sufficiently for making me a present of able100, and also for the loan of the 300 I had from you previously. I have always considered you the kindest and most honourable of my nephews, and the longer I live the more reason I have to do so. My dear love to you, and my sincere thanks for all your kindness.
Your affectionate aunt, Eliza, Johnnie laughed. The kindest and most honourable of all her nephews… He picked up the bunch of letters, and threw them in a corner of the cabin.
Someone tapped on his door.
'If you want to stretch your legs ashore, sir, the last boat is just due to leave,' called the steward. 'She will be bringing the pilot aboard shortly after eleven, and you could return with him.'
Johnnie glanced round the lonely, dingy cabin that was to be his home for the next forty-eight hours.
'Thank you,' he said. 'I shall take advantage of it.'
The lights of Slane beckoned across the water, and Johnnie, his hands deep in his ulster pockets, thought of the one letter he had not written, therefore receiving no answer in return.
What could he have said to her that was not better expressed by his silence? Since that morning when he had looked at her in the library, and she had understood, and had gone from the room, they had not been alone together. The day had passed, and the night, and nothing more was said; and in the morning she had gone. They had all departed-Henry, and Katherine, and Bill Eyre, and his godfather-and the words he had wished to speak were never uttered, the help he yearned to ask for would never be given. Captain John Brodrick.
Destination London…
He wondered, standing there on the quay-side, whether she was sitting now in the drawing-room at East Grove. Perhaps she was playing the piano, and Henry was lying in his chair before the fire, listening to her. He began to walk, heedless of his direction.
And staring straight in front of him, brushing the people from the pavements as he was wont to do, he found himself presently standing before her house, with no knowledge of how he had reached it. The curtains were drawn across the windows, and a chink of light came from the shutters.
He stood there, his hands in his pockets, looking at the door. A cab passed along the street, and in the distance he could still hear the muffled river noises-a whistle, the clanging of a bell. He went forward and lifted the knocker on the door. In a few minutes it was opened by Thomas, who peered at him through the darkness without recognition.
'Is Mrs. Brodrick at home?' said Johnnie.
Then Thomas gave a start, and opened the door wider.
'I didn't see it was you, sir,' he said apologetically. 'No, I'm afraid Mr. and Mrs. Henry have gone out to dinner.'
'Never mind,' said Johnnie, 'it doesn't matter.'
'Would you care to come in and wait, sir? They may not be home until after ten. There's a nice fire in the drawing-room.'
Johnnie hesitated. Even here, standing on the threshold, the peace of the house enfolded him, the kindliness, the warmth.
'Perhaps I will, Thomas,' he said slowly.
The man showed him into the drawing-room and withdrew, shutting the door behind him, first turning up the lamps and poking the fire.
Johnnie went and sat in Henry's chair.
Opposite him was Katherine's chair where she had sat before she went out to dinner, because on the chintz cover was the imprint of where she had been. There was her needlework on the low stool before the fire, and a book she had been reading. In the corner of the chair was a little white woolly lamb. She must have been sitting with her baby daughter on her lap, showing her the lamb, while Henry, in the chair where Johnnie sat now, leant back and watched them both. Then the nurse would have come down and taken the child up to bed, and Katherine, moving on to the stool to have the warmth of the fire, would take her needlework and talk to Henry, ask him questions about his day. Then they would go upstairs to their room and dress for dinner, Henry grumbling a little, perhaps, because of the inconvenience of turning out, but content enough at heart because he always enjoyed himself wherever he went, on all occasions.
Katherine would wear the white gown she had worn that night at Clonmere, and before leaving the house she would look into the drawing-room a moment to see that the lamps had been turned down and that the guard was before the fire. He could see her standing there by the door, the light in the hall shining in her hair, her cloak about her shoulders, and she would leave behind her something of herself, fragrant, indefinable, the blessed peace of her presence that he felt now, as he sat there, in the chair that was not his… But it was not any use sitting there, because he had to go away, he had to go to the ship and across the water and not return again, perhaps, for months, for years. It was no use sitting there in this house that did not belong to him.
He got up, and looked for the last time about the room. He touched the piano that was hers, the keys where her fingers had rested. He went over to her desk and saw the neatness of it, the stack of smooth white paper, the little scarlet pen. He wanted something of hers to take with him, and on a sudden impulse he picked up the small black leather volume that was lying on the top of the desk. It was a copy of the New Testament. He put it in his pocket, and going out into the hall, he lifted his coat and his hat from the chair where Thomas had placed them. The hall was deserted. Thomas had gone back to the kitchen.
The grandfather clock ticked slowly in its corner.
It was five minutes to nine. Two hours before the pilot boat would return to the ship. Johnnie opened the front door and again stood looking up and down the empty street. There were other places in Slane where there would be warmth and comfort, places where he might forget the dark, dreary cabin of the Princess Victoria and the grim finality of the labels on his luggage, 'Captain John Brodrick. Destination London.' A little wind blew round the corner of the street, and the door of Henry's house shut behind him with a slam. Farewell to Slane. Farewell to his country. Johnnie laughed, thinking once more of Aunt Eliza's letter, and turning his coat collar up against the wind, and pulling his hat over his eyes, he began to walk up the street towards the city.
It was to East Grove that the police came, two days afterwards. They arrived while Henry and Katherine were having breakfast, and the inspector asked to speak privately to Mr. Brodrick. Henry came out into the hall immediately, leaving Katherine in the dining-room.
'You are a relative, I believe, sir, of Captain Brodrick?' said the man.
'I am his brother,' said Henry. 'Is anything the matter?'
The inspector explained to him, in brief words, what had happened. Henry went with him at once.
They were narrow and dark and not of great attraction, the back streets of Slane, and the house to which the inspector brought him was grey, with a cheap, garish look about the beaded curtains at the window. A frightened- faced woman was waiting for them in the hall.
'It's not my fault,' she began, on sight of Henry. 'I've never had anything happen in my house like this before, and you know it, Mr. Sweeny. You can't get me into trouble about it.'
Her voice was shrill and nervous. The inspector bade her hold her tongue. He led Henry upstairs to a bedroom on the second floor, and taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door. The room was in disorder. Johnnie's
