She turned away, quietly, with delicacy; it was as though she had suddenly come upon him in his bath.
He put the bottle away in his desk, and shut the lid.
"Please don't go," he said. "I–I want to talk to you."
She turned round once more, watching him with her grave, kind eyes. What must she think of me? he wondered.
"The day has gone wrong," he said-"my fault, as always. The others have gone shooting without me."
She came over to him, and put her hand on his shoulder.
"What went wrong, Johnnie?" she said. "Can I do anything to help?"
Anything to help… There she stood beside him.
He had only to make one move and she would be in his arms. Katherine, the remote and distant one, with her madonna face, her soothing, gentle hands.
He turned away abruptly.
"No," he said harshly, "you can't help. Why should you? Nobody tan. Why don't you go and join Henry and your brother?"
She did not move. She went on standing there, looking at him.
"You're unhappy," she said, "and when people are unhappy they do foolish things."
He saw her glance at the open drawer from which he had taken the bottle of whisky, and from there towards the gun, propped against his desk.
"Well?" he said aggressively, "what about it?
Wouldn't it be simpler if I put an end to myself?
No one would care."
"There you are mistaken," she said. "Many people would care. Your mother, Henry, your other brothers, and Fanny. All your friends."
"I have no friends," he said.
"I thought I was your friend," she answered.
He did not say anything for a moment. Katherine his friend…
"You have Henry, and your baby, and your home," he said. "Why should you bother about me? I'm not worth it, anyway."
"One does not love people for what they are worth," she said gently. "One loves them for themselves."
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.