THE SICK WATCHERS
Patsy had told the truth. Sir Shawn was not dead. Whether he was
going to live was another matter.
Patsy had brought back Dr. Costello with unhoped for speed. The doctor
had just come in from a case and had only to get what he thought he
might need and come as fast as his motor-bicycle would carry him. He
was a kind, competent doctor who might have had a wider field for his
ambition than this lonely bog country. One of the big Dublin doctors
had said to a patient: "Haven't you got Costello at Killesky? I don't
know why he wastes himself there. It is very lucky for you since you
need not trouble to be coming up to me."
It was a comfort to the poor woman's desolation to see the pitying
capable face.
"Patsy has told me all about it as we came along," he said in the slow
even voice that had quieted many a terrified heart. "I got him to
leave his bicycle at my place and come back with me in the side car.
The horse broke his back in the bog, I believe. Better the horse than
the man. Is there any one here who will help me to undress him?"
"The butler valets my husband," Lady O'Gara replied. "He was with an
invalid before he came to us, and he was highly recommended for his
skill and gentleness in nursing. I did not think then that we should
have need of these qualifications."
"The very man I want. Can you send him?"
As she turned away he put his hand on her arm. The pale smile with
which she had spoken touched the man who was accustomed to but not
hardened by human suffering.
"It is not as bad as it seems," he said. "I think he will recover
consciousness presently. He must have been thrown rather violently."
She went away somewhat comforted. Outside the door she found Patsy
seated on a chair, his head fallen in his hands. Shot was sitting by
him, his nose on Patsy's knee. They looked companions in suffering.
"The doctor is hopeful," she said, with a hand on Patsy's shoulder.
"Go down and tell Reilly to come. The doctor wants him."
The flat-faced, soft-footed Reilly was to prove indeed in those sad
days and nights an untold help and comfort. Patsy watched him
curiously and enviously, going and coming, as he would, in and out the
sick-room.
Absorbed as she was Lady O'Gara noticed that sick look of jealousy on
Patsy's face. She herself was content to sit by her husband's bed and
let others do the useful serviceable things, unless when by the
doctor's orders she went out of doors for a while.
"We don't want him to open his eyes on a white face he doesn't know.
The better you look, my Lady, the better it will be for him," said Dr.
Costello.
The afternoon after the accident a watery sun had come out in fitful
gleams. It had been raining and blowing for some hours. There was
still no sign of returning consciousness in the sick man. Sir Shawn's
face looked heavy and dull on the pillow, where he lay as motionless as
though he were already dead.
"Concussion, not fracture," said the doctor, lifting an eyelid to look
at the unseeing eye. "He will come to himself presently."
And so saying he had sent her out to walk, bidding her exercise the dog
as well as herself, for Shot was a heartbreak in these days, lying
about and sighing, a creature ill at ease.
"So long as he does not howl," she said piteously, "I do not mind. I
could not bear him to howl."
"Dogs howl for the discomfort of themselves or their human friends,"
said the doctor. "You are not superstitious, Lady O'Gara?"
"Oh, no," she said, huddling in her fur cloak with a little shiver.
"You must believe in God or the Devil. If in God you can't admit the
Devil, who is the father of superstition as well as of lies."
"Oh, I know, I know," she said. "But, just now, I cannot bear to hear
a dog howl."
On the hall table she found a telegram from Terry. He hoped to be with
her by eleven o'clock.
The news from Terry turned her thoughts to Stella. For twenty-four
hours she had not remembered Stella. Terry would ask first for his
father and next for Stella.
She would go and ask for Stella. She turned back from the path that
led to the South lodge, remembering that the gate was locked.
Patsy would have the key. She went in search of him, accompanied by
the melancholy Shot and the two Poms, rescued from the kitchen regions,
to which they had been banished because of their inane habit of barking
with or without reason. She was grateful to the Poms, now that she was
out of hearing of the sick-room, for the manner in which they leaped
upon her and filled the air with their clamorous joy. There was
nothing ominous about their yapping.
Patsy came to meet her as she entered the stableyard. The small neat
figure had a disconsolate air. Patsy's eyes were red, his hair rumpled.
"How is he?" he asked.
"There is no change. The doctor is not alarmed."
"Ah, well, that's good so far. Master Terry'll be comin'; that's
better. I'll be meetin' him at the late train?"
"How did you know?" she asked surprised; "the telegram has only just
come."
"The gorsoon that brought it spread the news along the road. We was
the last to hear it."
"Oh, of course," she said listlessly.
He looked at her anxiously.
"There'll be no use to trouble the master about that blackguard's lies?"
"No fear of that," she answered. "Nothing to hurt or harm him shall
enter that room."
"Sure God's good always!" Patsy said reverently.
She went on to ask him for the key of the South lodge.
"Wait a minit, m'lady," he said, "I'll come wid you."
She waited while he fetched the key. He came back swinging it on his
finger.
"I never seen a quieter little lad thin that Georgie," he said. "He's
very fond o' the books. I don't know how I'll give him back to his
mother at all. He's great company for me."
They went on, past the house and into the path that led to the South
lodge.
Out of sight of the house Patsy suddenly stopped, and nodded his head
towards where the boundary wall of Castle Talbot ran down to the O'Hart
property.
"It never rains but it teems," he said. "I was waitin' about to see
you. There's trouble down there."
His pointing finger indicated the direction of the Waterfall Cottage.
"What's the matter?" she asked in quick alarm.
"It's little Miss Stella. She strayed away last night. Susan didn't
miss her till the mornin'. She found her just inside the gates of the
demesne--by old Lizzie's lodge. She was soaked wid rain an' in a dead
faint. I wonder Susan ventured with that blackguard about. She
brought Miss Stella to and helped or carried her back. She's wanderin'
like in her mind ever since, the poor little lady."
"Give me the key," Lady O'Gara said. "Go back and bring Dr. Costello."
"It was what I was venturin' to recommend," said Patsy, giving her the
key.
She went on quickly, a new cause for trouble oppressing her. She had
not waited to ask questions of Patsy.... Was Stella very ill? What
had happened to the poor child? How was she going to tell Terry?
These were some of the questions that hammered at her ears as she
hurried on as fast as her feet could carry her.
She was at the South lodge before she remembered the dogs. Shot might
be trusted to be quiet, but the Poms, in a strange house, would bark
incessantly. She shut the gate between them and her, leaving it
unlocked for the doctor. Their shrill protests followed her as she
went down the road.
She stood by the gable-end of the house and called up to the window,
open at the top, which she knew to be that of Stella's room. While she
waited expectantly, she became aware of a low voice talking very
quickly in a queer monotonous way. Susan came to the window and looked
out above the lace blind. She made a signal that she would open the
gate and disappeared.
Lady O'Gara went on to the gate and saw Susan coming down the little
avenue. Susan, dropping the curtsey which had doubtless been the meed
of the Squire's lady, opened the gate for her.
"I'm troubled about the poor young lady, m'lady," she said, jerking her
thumb backwards towards the cottage. "I wish her mother'd come back.
She do keep callin' for her, somethink pitiful."
"Leave the gate open, Susan; I expect the doctor immediately."
"I'm sorry for your own trouble, m'lady," Susan said. "I hope Sir
Shawn's doin' nicely now?"
"There is no change yet. But the doctor seems confident."
"There: I _am_ pleased," said Susan.
They went back to the little house, Susan explaining and apologizing.
She did not know how she had come to sleep so soundly. She supposed it
must have been because she'd been sleeping the fox's sleep, keeping one
eye open on Miss Stella, for several nights past, till she was fair
worn out. Still, she didn't ought to have done it.
As they stood by the end of the little brass bed on which Stella lay,
tossing in fever, she told the rest of the tale--how she had awakened
with the first glimmer of dawn and realized that she had slept the
night through; how, going to Stella's room she had missed her; how she
had searched house and garden in a frenzy without finding any traces of
her; finally she had discovered that the gate stood open.
"I declare to goodness, m'lady," said Susan. "I never even thought of
Baker when I went out to look for her. After all, if Georgie was safe,
there isn't much more he could do to me than he's done. I don't know
why it was I turned in at old Lizzie's cottage, an' there I found the
poor lamb up against the door, for all the world as though she'd tried
to get in and dropped where she was. She've been talking ever since of
some one follerin' her. And then she calls out for her mother to come.
Once or twice I thought I heard her callin' Master Terry to come and
save her. I can't tell whether she was frightened or whether she
fancied it. But she do cry out, poor little soul, in mortal terror of
some one or something."
Standing there by the foot of the bed Lady O'Gara's heart went out in
tenderness to the sick girl as though she was her own little daughter.
What maze of terror had she passed through, whether in dreams or
reality, that had brought that look to her face? While they watched
Stella got up on her elbow and peered into the corners of the room with
a terrible expression. She struggled violently for a moment as though
held in a monstrous grip. Then she fell back on her pillow, exhausted.
There came a knocking at the door. The doctor. In a few seconds Dr.
Costello was in the room with his invaluable air of never being
flurried, of there being no need for flurry. He did not even express
surprise, though he must have felt it, at seeing Stella there, nor at
the state in which he found her.
"I shall explain to you presently," Lady O'Gara said, "why she is here
instead of at Inch. Mrs. Comerford has quarrelled with her."
"Ah," said the doctor, getting out his clinical thermometer. "It has
been her bane, poor lady, that difficult temper. Years have not
softened it apparently."
"But for all that she has a noble nature," Lady O'Gara said. "This
will be a terrible grief to her."
"If they have fallen out I should not recommend her presence here when
Miss Stella returns to herself," the doctor said quietly. "She must be
kept very quiet. Evidently she has had a bad shock of some kind,
following on a strained condition of the nerves."
After his examination Lady O'Gara told him something of Stella's case.
He did not ask for more than he was told. He did not even show
surprise at hearing that Stella had a mother living.
"Ah," he said, "if her mother's face could be the first thing for her
eyes to rest upon when she comes out of that bad dream, it would do a
good deal to restore her sanity."
"Unfortunately we do not know where the mother is," Lady O'Gara said
sorrowfully.
"I will give the patient something to keep her quiet to-night," the
doctor went on. "Perhaps you could send some one over to my house for
the medicine."
"Patsy Kenny will go."
"Now let me take you back to the house. It is growing dusk. Is there
any one you could send to stay with Mrs. ... Mrs. ...?"
"Susan Horridge. Oh, yes. I can send Margaret McKeon, my maid. She
never talks."
The doctor gave no indication of any curiosity as to why no talking
made Margaret McKeon a suitable person for this emergency. The world
was full of odd things, even such a remote bit of it as lay about
Killesky. The place buzzed with gossip. Every one in it knew already
the story of the charge made by the drunken tramp against Sir Shawn
O'Gara. It had reached Dr. Costello at an early stage in its progress.
He remembered the death of Terence Comerford and the gossip of that
time. In his own mind he was piecing the story together: but he was
discretion itself. No one should be the wiser for him.
He was on his way home, having left Lady O'Gara safely at her own door,
when he did something that very nearly ran the bicycle with the
side-car into the bog. Patsy, his passenger, merely remarked calmly:
"A horse 'ud have more sinse than this hijeous thing."
The doctor, piecing together the details of the old tragedy to explain
the new, had had an illumination as blinding as the flash of lightning
widen reveals a whole countryside for a moment before it falls again to
impenetrable blackness.
"By Jove," he had said to himself, "Stella is Terry's daughter. And
the woman at Waterfall Cottage--they will talk even though I don't
encourage them--is Bridyeen Sweeney that was. I wonder some of them
didn't chance on that."
He murmured excuses to Patsy for the peril he had narrowly escaped.
"She answers to my hand like a horse," he said. "That time I was
dreaming and I pulled her a bit too suddenly."
As he got out at his own door he said something half aloud; being a
solitary bachelor man he had got into a trick of talking to himself.
"I did hear that boy of the O'Garas' was sweet on her," he said. "My
word, what a pretty kettle of fish!"
"I beg your pardon, doctor?" said Patsy.
"Oh nothing, nothing. I was wool-gathering. Come in and wait; I'll
have the medicine ready in less than no time."