"Only that I am leaving the regiment," said Johnnie. "I sent in my papers today."
At once a torrent of questions were flung at him.
What did he mean by it? And surely it was a pity, he had always said the life suited him, and one conventional phrase after the other. Only Edward, the other soldier present, made no comment. And Fanny-Rosa, with sudden intuition, wondered whether Johnnie had been re-quested to leave…
"Oh, I'm fed up with the service," said Johnnie. "All very fat and fine when there's some fighting to do, but to stand about all day on a barrack square is not my idea of amusement. I've had it in my mind to leave for some time. What will I do? I haven't the slightest idea, I shall probably go abroad. Anyway, what the devil does it matter? The fact is, Miss Eyre, I find it rather degrading, and not particularly profitable, to be six-and-twenty years of age with deuced little to live on, waiting for an old man of eighty-four to die and leave me all his money-was The speech made an uncomfortable impression.
His sister blushed. and glanced at her husband. His mother smiled a shade too brightly and began talking rather loudly to Henry about his plans for Christmas.
Only Katherine Eyre appeared unmoved. She looked up at Johnnie, her eyes grave and kindly.
"It is a very difficult position for you," she said, "and must make you feel so unsettled. Don't go abroad, though."
"Why not?" said Johnnie.
"I don't think you would be happy."
"I'm not happy anywhere."
"Whose fault is that?"
"Nobody's. It's my misfortune to be cursed with the nature I have."
"Don't say that. You are really the most kind and generous person. I have often talked about you to Henry.
He is very fond of you."
"Is he? I doubt it."
"You like to make yourself out worse than you are. That's foolishness. You ought to come across the water, and take an interest in your country."
"What has my country ever done for me?"
"It's given you your life, for one thing."
She laughed, and his heart smote him because she had so little knowledge of his true character, his selfishness, his vices, his utter want of principle.
"I've always understood," he said, "that I was a seven months' child. Perhaps that is why I lack all the virtues. And the nicest member of my family died the day I was born, my aunt Jane, who might have made something out of me. She was to have been my godmother. I think you are a little like the portrait of her that hangs in the dining-room at Clonmere."
"I suppose," she said, "that you would not like me for a godmother instead?"
He stared at her suspiciously. What the devil was she driving at? The words would have sounded flirtatious, inviting, from anyone else, or deliberately provoking from an older, clever woman. But from Katherine Eyre they were unique, because they were sincere. She looked at him with her calm brown eyes, and once again she smiled.
"Are you afraid I should play the governess?" she said. "I promise you I would never do that. But if my godson had twists I should want to help him unravel the knots."
Johnnie had forgotten the rest of his family, forgotten the people in the dining-room and the passing waiters, the bustle and confusion. It seemed to him that there was no one but his tortured, angry, resentful self, and the blessed, healing presence of Katherine Eyre.
"You are a very unusual person," he said slowly. "I wish to God I had met you before."
"We are going to see a lot of one another from now on," she said, "so the future will make up for the past. You must come and stay with us in Slane."
Why, wondered Johnnie, was she so gracious to him, so kind, as though it mattered to her what became of him, as though she cared for him in some strange personal way, who had only met him an hour before? If he could think for one moment that there was to be someone in life who would bother about him, help him, smile at him, talk to him, why then there was hope indeed. She had asked him to stay in Slane. Did the Eyres live in Slane? He could not remember. How unusual she was, lacking all ordinary convention, and yet bearing no resemblance to the fluffy little coquettes with whom he amused himself in London. Yes, he would go back to his own country, he would stay with Katherine Eyre and her family in Slane, and perhaps, after he had seen a bit more of her, there would be some purpose in living after all. She would be merciful and kind, and if he shouted, and swore, and drank, and lost his temper, she would forgive him. That was what he needed more than anything in the world. Forgiveness. Mercy.
And now Henry was getting up with a glass in his hand, looking proud and happy. His brother supposed there was to be another toast. And Henry said: "Mother, Fanny, Bill, Johnnie and Edward, I have another announcement to make. Today I am the happiest of men because Katherine has promised to marry me. And the wedding is to be in Slane, in two months' time."
Everyone was smiling, everyone was talking at once, and there was Edward patting Henry on the back, and Fanny leaning across to Katherine Eyre and kissing her, and his mother saying, "But Katherine, my dear, how very delightful," and Bill apologising for two Eyres in their family all within twelve months. Johnnie heard his own voice loud and hearty, saying, "Congratulations, old boy; you deserve to be happy, God bless you," and suddenly the atmosphere became unbearable-the pleasure on all their faces, the quick discussion of plans, the women, all excited and eager, talking about wedding-dresses and bridesmaids and God knows what, and Henry looking across with confidence and pride at this Katherine who was to be his bride, his comfort, his loved one…
"You'll be my best man, old fellow, won't you?" said Henry, and Johnnie pushed back his chair and got to his feet.
"Not on your life," he said rudely. "I don't know how to behave in church; you'd better get Edward, or summon Herbie down from Liverpool, then there'll be two chaps there in dog-collars.
No, I'll stand in the street outside, and throw an old slipper at your carriage as you drive away."
He saw the sudden hurt expression in his brother's eyes, and the inevitable flicker of a question, "What's wrong with Johnnie now?" that he had seen so often before, as a child, as a boy, as a man. It's no good, thought Johnnie; I always hurt people, I always make them unhappy; I spoil every party; it would be much better if I went. I don't belong to this sort of happy family atmosphere anyway.
Let Henry marry his Katherine. He is the right sort of fellow for her. They will make one another happy. And she will give him peace and understanding. As for me, I can make my own peace, in my own way, and if it's black oblivion from a bottle or a tart, what the hell does it matter to anyone?
"Sorry to break the evening," he said, "but the fact is I've just remembered I promised to see someone at nine. And anyway, you'll all enjoy yourselves far better without me." He drew a couple of sovereigns from his pocket and dropped them on his brother's plate. "My dinner," he said.
"Goodnight, mother."
And he walked slowly out of the dining-room, conscious that people were turning to stare at him and one or two were smiling, were raising their eyebrows, and one of them lifted a glass significantly. God damn them, he thought, God damn and blast the whole bloody lot of them.
Mechanically he took his hat and his coat and his cane from the attendant in the vestibule. The rain had ceased and there was a wind now, cutting and cold. He walked down the street; here came three fellows arm-in-arm, walking up the pavement towards him.
He expected them to break apart and give him passage, but either they did not see him or they did not choose to do so, and without hesitation he walked into the midst of them, throwing one into the gutter, and the other against the wall, and the third he elbowed into a lamppost.
"Now go and learn manners, will you?" he cried, and the three, too astonished to retaliate, shouted after him, and one man bellowed out for a policeman, but by the time his call was answered, and a crowd had collected, Johnnie was away down the middle of the road.