IN WHICH TERRY FINDS A DEAD MAN
Terry arrived a little before midnight, having made the difficult
cross-country journey from the Curragh, looking so troubled and unhappy
that his mother's heart was soft over him as when he was the little boy
she remembered.
He bent his six foot of height to kiss her, and his voice was husky as
he asked how his father was.
"He is asleep, thank God," she answered. "He came to himself for a
little time while I was out this afternoon. Reilly, who is invaluable,
a real staff, tells me it is healthy sleep now, not unconsciousness."
"Imagine Reilly!" said Terry, with a sigh of immense relief. "You poor
darling! to think of your having to bear it alone! The Colonel was so
decent about leave. He told me not to come back till you could do
without me. A son's not as good as a daughter. Still, I'm better than
nothing, aren't I, darling?"
"You are better than any one," his mother said, caressing his smooth
young cheeks.
"You should have wired for Eileen. What's that selfish minx doing?
Making up with the lakh of rupees, I suppose?"
"Do you know I never remembered Eileen," she said, and laughed for the
first time since the accident. Her heart had lifted suddenly with an
irrational, joyful hope.
She wanted to get Terry to bed and a night's sleep before he knew
anything about Stella's illness. In the morning the girl might be
better. Terry looked very weary. He explained to her with a half-shy
laugh what terrible imaginings had been his companions on the railway
journey.
"By Jove, darling," he said, "I never want an experience like it again.
And how the train dragged! I felt like trying to push it along with
something inside me all the time till I was as tired as though I had
been really pushing it. At one place the train stopped in the middle
of a bog--some one had pulled the communication cord--and the guard and
the fireman ran along the carriages, using frightful language, only to
pull out seven drunken men going home from a fair, in charge of one
small boy who was sober. He was explaining that he couldn't wake them
up at the last station, and that as soon as they came awake they pulled
the cord. 'Go on out o' that now, ye ould divil!' said the guard
giving a kick to the last of them. I assure you I didn't feel inclined
to laugh, even then, darling, though it was so ridiculous!"
She pressed him to eat, but he was too weary to eat much; and she
vetoed his seeing his father before morning, being afraid that the
strange pallor on the face of the sick man would frighten the boy.
She got him off at last, unwillingly, but out of consideration for her
weariness. She was going to bed, she said; Reilly was taking the night
watch. She had not slept all the preceding night. He had not asked
about Stella, although several times she had thought he was about to
ask. She hoped he would not ask. How was she to answer him if he did?
She said good-night to him in his warm fire-lit room, feeling the
sweetness and comfort of having him there again despite all the
trouble: and, half-way to the door, she was stopped by the question she
had dreaded.
"Mother, have you seen Stella?"
"You shall see her to-morrow," she answered, and hurried away, feeling
dreadfully guilty because she imagined the light of joy in his young
face.
Despite all her troubles she slept soundly, the sleep of
dead-tiredness: and when she awoke it was half-past seven. She could
hear the maid in the drawing-room below her lighting the fire. It was
still grey, but there were indications of a beautiful sunrise in the
long golden-yellow light that was breaking in the sky: and a robin was
singing.
She did not feel inclined to lie on. She was refreshed and
strengthened for the many difficulties of the day before her. She got
up, dressed and went down to the sick-room. Reilly was just coming out
with a scuttle-full of ashes: he had been "doing" the grate and
lighting the fire. He had expressed a wish that there might be as few
intruders in the sick-room as possible.
"The thing is to keep him quiet, m'lady," he had said. "They are
well-meaning girls"--referring to the maids--"but as like as not they'd
drop the fire-irons just when he was in a beautiful sleep."
Reilly looked quite cheerful; and Lady O'Gara began to think that the
flat side-whiskered face had something very pleasant about it after
all. He did not wait for her to make inquiries.
"He's doing nicely, m'lady," he said. "He's been awake and asked for
your ladyship."
"Oh!" she said with a catch of the breath, "you should have called me."
"He'd have been asleep before your ladyship could have come. Sleep's
the best of all medicine."
She had her breakfast and relieved Reilly. Somewhere about ten o'clock
Terry opened the door and peeped in.
"Come!" she beckoned to him.
He came and stood beside her looking down at the bandaged head and pale
unconscious face. The deadly pallor of yesterday had passed. A slight
colour had come to the cheeks, driving away the blue shadows.
Tears filled the boy's eyes as he looked, and his mother loved him for
the sensibility.
She went out with him into the corridor to speak. There was so much
she had to tell him that could not be told in a moment or two.
"I shall be off duty by three o'clock," she said. "Can you wait till
then?"
"I suppose I couldn't ... they wouldn't want me at Inch? I have
written to Stella and she has not answered."
"She has not been very well. I will tell you about it. Only be
patient, dear boy. I must not stay away from your father too long."
"Very well," he said resignedly. "I'll take out Shot and we'll pot at
rabbits--a long way from the house, darling. It's good to be here,
anyhow."
"It's good to have you," she said gratefully.
He had not taken up what she said about Stella's not being well, and
she was glad of that. Stella had not been at her best when he left.
She might have alarmed him and set him to asking questions which she
would have found it difficult to parry.
Twice during the morning hours, while she sat in the clean well-ordered
room, with its bright fire and its sudden transformation to a
sick-room, she was called to the door. Once it was to interview Patsy
Kenny. He had brought word that Susan had spoken to him from the
window of Waterfall Cottage and had said that Miss Stella was no worse.
Patsy was to watch by Sir Shawn for the afternoon and evening: so much
had been conceded to him.
She was expecting the doctor when another summons came--this time it
was Sir Felix Conyers, who came tip-toeing along the corridor since she
could not go downstairs to him.
"I'm terribly sorry for this dreadful accident, Lady O'Gara," he said.
She noticed with a wondering gratitude that Sir Felix was quite pale.
"I've only just heard it. The whole countryside will be shocked. Such
a popular man as Sir Shawn, such a good landlord and fine specimen of a
country gentleman. Upon my word, I'm sorry."
She saw that he was, and she put out her fair be-ringed hand and took
his, pressing it softly.
"Thank you, Sir Felix," she said. "I know you feel for us and I am
very grateful. Thank God, it is not as bad as it might have been. My
husband is sleeping quietly. The doctor is quite pleased."
"Thank God for that," said Sir Felix, echoing her. "He'll be back
amongst us again in no time. I came to tell you as soon as I could
that the ruffian Fury brought to me the other night has disappeared.
The effects of the drink worn off, I said to Fury, and gave him a sharp
touch-up about too much zeal. The fellow walks like a dancing-master,
and talks picking his words to conceal want of education. I pity the
men under him, I do indeed. I'm really sorry, Lady O'Gara, that I
troubled you with that cock and bull story the other night. I don't
anticipate that we'll hear any more about it."
"I'm glad my husband was not troubled with it," she said, and left her
hand in the kind gentleman's: he was wringing it hard, so that the
rings hurt her, but she would not have betrayed it for worlds.
A few more expressions of sympathy and of a desire to help and Sir
Felix was gone. She was left to her watch once more.
The house seemed extraordinarily quiet. The clock in the corridor
ticked away, marking the flight of time. Now and again a coal fell
from the fire on to the hearth, or some one came to know if anything
was wanted. Mary O'Gara, usually so full of energy, was content to sit
watching her husband's face on the pillow. Sir Felix's visit had
brought her a certain relief. She could put that worry away from
her--for the time. If the man had disappeared he had probably good
reasons for disappearing. Perhaps he would not come back. He might be
frightened of the thing he had done. Anyhow, she was grateful for so
much relief; and if Shawn was going to live she felt that she could
endure all other troubles.
After a time she remembered something--something that must be done.
Mrs. Comerford must be told about Stella. Perhaps the anger had died
down in her by this time, leaving her chilled and miserable, as Mary
O'Gara remembered her in the old days after some violent scene with
Terence.
She went to the writing-table in the room and wrote a note. She had
just placed it in its envelope when the doctor came and she gave it to
the servant who showed him up; bidding her give it to Patsy Kenny to be
sent to Inch by a special messenger.
The doctor was well satisfied with Sir Shawn's condition. While he
examined him the patient opened his eyes. How dark they looked in the
white face! They rested on the doctor with recognition, then passed on
to his wife, and he smiled.
"Have I ... been very troublesome?" he asked. "I remember ... now ...
that brute, Spitfire ... always was a brute...."
The eyes grew vague again and closed, but the lips kept their faint
smile.
"He'll sleep a lot," said the doctor. "Much the best thing for him
too. He had run himself down even before the accident. He'll be able
to talk more presently."
He had taken her out to the corridor before he told the latest, most
sensational news.
"I found a new nurse by the little girl's bedside this morning," he
said. "Apparently she is the lady who occupied the Cottage--Mrs. Wade.
The patient seems wonderfully improved. Hardly any fever; she kept
watching her new nurse as though she dreaded letting her out of her
sight."
"Ah--that is good!"
There was another lightening of the heaviness of Lady O'Gara's heart.
Some mothers in her place might have had an unacknowledged feeling that
Stella's death would not be altogether the worst solution of a
difficult situation. It would have been easy to think with a kindly
pity of how much better it would be for the poor child without a name
to drift quietly out on the great sea. Not so Lady O'Gara. Her whole
being had been in suffering for the suffering of this young thing who
had crept into her heart. Now she was lifted up with the thought of
Stella coming back to life and health. For the rest it was in the
future. With God be the future!
Terry was late for lunch. Patsy Kenny had begged and prayed to be
allowed to help in "lookin' after the master," so he took the afternoon
watch, setting Lady O'Gara free to be with her son. It was not like
Terry to be late for lunch. He was a very good trencherman and had
always been the first to laugh at his own appetite. But to-day he did
not come. His mother waited, turning over the newspapers which came
late to Castle Talbot. He must have gone farther afield than he had
intended. She was not nervous. What was there to be nervous about?
Terry had forgotten in the joy of rabbiting that the luncheon hour was
gone by: that was all.
At last he came, almost simultaneously with a wild idea in his mother's
head that he might have wandered towards Waterfall Cottage and somehow
discovered that Stella was there.
She got up quite cheerfully when she saw him.
"You are late, dear boy," she said. Her heart had gone up because so
many good things had happened this morning. Shawn was better and had
recognized her. The wretch who would have hurt him in the secret
places of his heart had gone on farther. Stella was doing well. It
was always the way with her to be irrationally hopeful. Many and many
a time she had had to ask herself why, on some particular day, she was
feeling particularly happy, and had had to trace back the cause to
something so small that even she had forgotten it. The founts of
happiness in her were very quick to flow.
"There is a cold game pie here," she said, "and there is some curry
which I have sent down to keep warm. Also there is pressed beef and a
cold pheasant on the sideboard. I suggest that you begin with the
curry and go on to the other things."
He did not answer her, but sat down with a weary air. She looked at
him in quick alarm. He was not looking well.
"What is the matter, Terry?" she asked anxiously.
"Oh, nothing, darling, to make you look so frightened. Only I have had
a rather gruesome experience. I found a dead man, and such an ugly
one!"
"A dead man!"
"Yes--just by old Hercules O'Hart's tomb. The place will have twice as
bad a name now."
"What sort of a man?"
"Oh, a tramp, apparently. He appeared to have fallen from the Mount.
He might have been running in the dark and shot out violently over the
edge. From the look of him I should say he had broken his neck. You
know how thick the moss is there under the trees. You would not think
the fall could have hurt him, but he is stone-dead. I didn't want him
brought here so I ran off and got some men who are building a Congested
Districts Board house on the Tubber road to lift him. The body is in
the stable belonging to the pub. There will have to be an inquest, I
suppose, and I shall have to give evidence. A beastly bore." He began
to cut himself a slab out of the game pie absent-mindedly.
"Terry," she said, "I think I know the man. He has been about here
lately. Patsy would know. If he is the man I think, he is the husband
of Susan Horridge, the little woman at the South lodge."
"Oh--that Patsy's so sweet on! He was a bad lot, wasn't he? A brute
to that poor little woman and the delicate child. He didn't look a
nice person."
He gave a fastidious little shudder.
"We're too squeamish," he said. "It comes of the long Peace. I've
sent word to Costello. I suppose I'll have to appear at the inquest.
They say a wise man never found a dead man. No one would accuse me of
being wise."
A queer thought came to her. If Shawn had not been lying as he was,
helpless, might not he have been suspected of a hand in the death of
the man who had made such charges against him?