“oh, the little more, and how much it is!

and the little less, and what worlds away!”

“love with bent brows went by,

and with a flying finger swept my lips.”

“no news from willy? i thought you would have been sure to have heard from him.”

“no, uncle dominick; he never even told me he was going,” i replied, with a full consciousness of the emphasis laid on the “you.”

“really! how very strange! i thought master willy seldom did anything nowa{55}days without consulting a certain young lady.”

i went on with my lunch without speaking. these pleasantries on my uncle’s part were not uncommon, and, as there was no mistaking whither they all tended, i hated and dreaded them more every day. in this particular instance, i believed i saw very plainly a real anxiety to find out the state of affairs between willy and me, and i thought it best to hold my tongue. my silence did not discourage uncle dominick.

“i forgot to tell you last night that i met miss burke yesterday,” he said. “she gave me a great deal of news about the ball, and told me that every one said that you and willy were ‘the handsomest couple in the room.’ i told her that as far as one of you was concerned i could well believe it; and, indeed, willy is not such a bad-looking fellow, after all, eh?{56}”

“i think miss burke herself and willy were a much more striking pair,” i answered, evading the question, and anxious to show him that i disliked the way in which i was for ever bracketed with willy. “oh, by the way, uncle dominick,” i went on, regardless of a conviction that i was saying the wrong thing, “i heard from mr. o’neill this morning. he says that he is coming over here this afternoon, to fetch some music which he left here the other day.”

uncle dominick gave me a sharp look from under his bushy eyebrows. it was one of those unguarded glances which, for the moment, strip the face of all conventional disguises, and lay bare all that is hidden of suspicion and surmise. i noticed suddenly how bloodshot his eyes were, and how very pale he was looking. there was dead silence. by way of appearing un{57}conscious and indifferent, i took out of my pocket nugent’s letter, and began to read it; but i felt in every fibre that my uncle was watching me, and a maddening blush slowly mounted to my forehead, and spread itself even to the tips of my ears. uncle dominick cleared his throat with ominous severity, and pushed back his chair from the table.

“at what hour do you expect mr. o’neill?”

if he had asked me at what time in the afternoon i contemplated committing a burglary, he could not have spoken with a more concentrated disapproval.

“i have not the least idea,” i said, getting up with as much dignity as i could muster. “i suppose about the time people usually come.”

“h’m! i suppose one cannot expect young ladies to be very lucid in their{58} statements about such matters,” he replied, with a singularly unpleasant smile.

“i suppose not,” i retorted obstinately.

“well, i suppose one must only expect him when he comes,” said my uncle, with a return of suavity, as distasteful to me as his former manner. i called the dogs away from their assiduous polishing of the plates on which they had had their dinners, and left him to finish his wine alone.

“how detestable he can be when he likes!” i thought, seating myself before the drawing-room fire. “i wonder why he dislikes nugent so much? i don’t suppose it can be on account of willy; after all, there is really no reason for that.” my cheeks were still hot, and i put my hands over them, looking through my fingers into the fire. “if uncle dominick is going to make himself unpleasant in this kind of way, i shall have to go back to{59} america, no matter what willy thinks about it.”

my ideas as to leaving durrus were still as hazy as they had been yesterday morning at the old graveyard, and this was a fresh complication. i had, however, made up my mind on one point—until i saw willy again, i would settle nothing. that was at least definite; and so was the fact which at this moment occurred to me—that i should break down in one of the more difficult of the violin accompaniments if i did not practise it before nugent came. i gave the fire an impatient poke, and, mentally throwing my reflections into it, went over to the piano.

i had said to my uncle that i supposed nugent would come at the usual time, but i was forced to the conclusion that his views on the subject differed from those of most people. teatime came, and, after{60} waiting till the tea was becoming bitter, and the buttered toast half congealed, i partook of it in solitude. i began to wonder if it were possible that he could have made a mistake about the day, and again taking out his letter, i read it over. the clear, forcible handwriting was not that of a person who made mistakes, and it set forth plainly the fact that on this afternoon the writer intended to come and see me, and would come as early as he could. the sprawling minute-hand of the ormolu clock was now well on its way towards half-past five; something must have happened to prevent him from coming, unless, indeed, he had forgotten all about it. i did not think it likely that he would forget, but the possibility was not a pleasant one. i sat in the cheery light of the fire until the minute-hand had passed the illegibly ornamental figure{61} which marked the half-hour, and, feeling a good deal more disappointed and put out than i cared to own to myself, i was going to ring for the lamp and settle down to a book, when i heard the sound of quick trotting, and the light run of a dog-cart’s wheels on the avenue.

“i know i’m very late,” said nugent, as he shook hands with me, “and i meant to be very early, but it wasn’t my fault. i am sure you are going to tell me that the tea is cold, but i don’t care; i prefer it with the chill just off.”

“then you will be gratified,” i said, pouring it out. “i began to think you were not coming, and was repenting that i had wasted half an hour in practising that awful accompaniment of braham’s.”

“did you really do that? it was very good of you. i did my best to get away early, but i had to stay and see captain{62} forster off. i can’t say that he seemed to appreciate the attention, as he was playing billiards with connie up to the last minute. i was very sorry afterwards that i had been such a fool as to lose the whole afternoon on his account.”

“i think you might have left him in connie’s hands,” i said, sociably beginning upon a second edition of tea.

“i want to know if you are all right again,” said nugent, looking at me scrutinizingly. “i thought you seemed awfully played out the day before yesterday.”

“did i?” i said. “i wasn’t in the least—i mean i was very tired, but that was all.”

“you scarcely spoke to me all the way over here. i don’t know if you generally treat people like that when you are very tired.”

“no,” i said; “when i know people well enough, i am simply cross.{63}”

“that means that you don’t know me very well.”

“no, i don’t think i do,” i said, with unpremeditated truthfulness. “by the way, is it true that you are all going away from clashmore soon? you said something about it in your letter.”

“yes; i believe they are all off next week,” he replied; “but i think i shall stay on here for a bit. i don’t want to go away just now.”

i was on the point of saying that i was very glad to hear he was going to stay, but stopped myself, and said instead that i should have thought he would find it rather dreary by himself.

“i don’t expect i shall,” he answered. “i shall ask you to let me come over here very often. you know, we agreed at clashmore that you were to take my music in hand, and teach me to count.{64}”

“if i try to do that, we shall certainly have plenty of occupation,” i said, laughing at the prospect with a foolish enjoyment.

“all right, so much the better”—looking at me and laughing too. “by the way, connie wants to know if you will ride over to mount prospect with her and me the day after to-morrow, to pay our respects after the dance.”

“i shall be very glad,” i answered; “i have not had a ride for a long time. should you mind ringing the bell? we shall want the lamps for the piano.”

“i should mind very much,” he said, without moving from the substantial armchair in which he was sitting. “i think it would be a much better scheme to sit over the fire instead. you were in such an extraordinary hurry to get away from clashmore the day before yesterday, that{65} you did not give me time for more than half the smart things i had prepared to say about the jackson-crolys’ dance.”

“very well,” i said, dragging out a little old-fashioned, glass-beaded footstool, and settling myself comfortably with my feet on it in front of the fire. “you can begin now, and say them all one after the other, and by the time you have got through i shall have got my smile ready.”

“you are very hard upon me. you should remember that my bon-mots are exceedingly fragile flowers—kind of hothouse exotics—and they require the most sympathetic attention. you ought to try to encourage native talent, even if it does not come up to your american standard of humour.”

“i don’t know exactly what that is,” i replied; “but i assure you that that dance does not require any embellishments. the{66} only thing needful in describing it is the solid truth.”

“you must not fancy that all our county cork entertainments are on the mount prospect pattern,” he said, a little anxiously. “i dare say you think we are all savages, but we don’t often have a war-dance like that.”

“well,” i said, checking an inclination to sigh as the thought crossed my mind, “i shall always be glad that i saw at least one before i went back to america.”

he got up and put down his cup; then, drawing his unwieldy chair closer to me before sitting down, “but you are not thinking of going back to america?” he said slowly.

“oh! well, of course i shall have to go back sooner or later,” i replied, as airily as i could. “i do not mean to spend my whole life here.{67}”

“don’t you?” he said, in a low voice, leaning forward and trying to intercept my eyes, as i looked straight before me into the fire. “i wish you would tell me if you really mean that.”

“i certainly do mean it,” i answered, with decision. “and, after all, i do not see that it much matters whether i do or not.”

“why do you say it doesn’t matter?” he said slowly.

“oh, i don’t know,” i answered idiotically.

“but i think you ought to know before you make assertions of that kind,” he persisted. “i dare say there are several people who would think it mattered a good deal.”

he spoke with an intention in his voice that i had never heard before. my heart gave a startled beat. did he mean willy?{68}

“that does not sound at all like what you once said to me. you told me that i was ‘a distinct failure in these parts.’ i should like to know who all these people are who have changed their minds about me,” i said, impelled by a reckless impulse to find out what he had meant.

“don’t you remember my telling you the other night of one person who had changed his mind? have you quite forgotten what i said to you then?”

he was very near to me, so near that he must almost have felt my breath as it quickly came and went. my heart was beating fast enough now—hurrying along at such speed that i could not be sure enough of my voice to speak.

“can you not think of any one to whom it would make a good deal of difference if you went back to america? couldn’t you?” he hesitated. “do{69}n’t you know it would make all the difference in the world to—to me?”

his hand found mine, and, as it closed upon it, i felt in one magical moment that there was but one hand in the world whose touch could send that strange pang of delight to my heart. his eyes lifted mine to them in spite of me. i do not know what he read in them, but in his i thought i saw something quite new—something that made me giddy, and took away my power of speaking.

“don’t you know it?” he whispered. “theo!”

with a feeling that i must say something, i answered, scarcely conscious of what i was saying—

“i do not know. i do not see how it could. we see so little of you. perhaps some people might care. i dare say my uncle and willy would.{70}”

nugent got up abruptly, treading inadvertently on jinny, who was sleeping peacefully on the rug. he took no notice of her resentful shriek, and said, with a sudden change of voice and manner—

“yes, of course—i forgot; naturally they are the people it would make most difference to.” he stooped and patted jinny, who was ostentatiously tending her injured paw. “did i hurt you, jinny? poor little dog!” he said, as if becoming aware for the first time of his offence. then, after a time, “by-the-by, i heard from barrett that willy is in cork. when do you expect him back?”

even before he had spoken, i had realized the impression which my blundering mention of willy must have given; but, in the shock of the discovery which i had just made, i hardly cared. nothing could penetrate to my brain except one{71} thought that mastered it with bewildering force—is it possible that he cares for me? perhaps he fancied, from what i said, that the general gossip about willy and me was true. i could almost have laughed for pleasure that he should mind so much. i looked up at him as he stood by the fire, with its light flickering on his gloomy face, and my self-possession returned to me a little.

“i know absolutely nothing about willy,” i said, with decision. “i have not seen him since the night of the ball, and i have no idea when he is coming home.”

he came a step nearer, and looked at me dubiously; but there was new purpose in his voice as he said—

“then, it is not——”

he stopped at the sound of a footstep outside the door. i recognized it in an instant.{72}

“here is willy!” i gasped, in tones from which i vainly tried to banish the sudden inward despair which possessed me. the door opened, letting in a blaze of light, and willy, followed by roche with a lamp, came into the room.

the necessity of the moment gave me a fictitious courage. pushing back my chair, i jumped up to meet him with an ease and cordiality intended to cover his embarrassment and my own.

“so here you are back, willy! we have been wondering what had become of you.”

he did not look at me as we shook hands, but he answered, in a voice as successfully friendly as my own—

“i was forced to go up to cork on business. i thought i could get down last night, but i couldn’t manage it. how are you, nugent?” he went on stiffly. “you’ll{73} have a pretty wet drive home. it was pouring when i came in.”

nugent at once took the hint thus broadly given.

“yes, i dare say i shall,” he said coolly. “would you order my trap, please?”—turning to roche, who had not yet left the room. “good night, miss sarsfield. does that ride hold good?”

he had taken my hand in his as he said good night, and he still held it with a strong pressure. something weighed down my eyelids—i could not meet his eyes again, and i answered hurriedly—

“yes—oh yes, i hope so! good night.”