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 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.