“Goodbye.”
She felt glad he was going, and still more glad to hear her husband’s
voice calling her from the yard.
“There’s Ben. Must you really be going, Peter?”
“Yes—I must.”
He walked out of the room, and she followed him—both meeting Ben on the
doorstep. Young Godfrey was surprised to see his elder brother-in-law—he
had made up his mind that Peter would never come to Fourhouses. He was
still more surprised at his abstracted greeting.
“Hullo, Godfrey. Glad to see you—that’s a fine mare. Jenny, will you
tell them to bring my horse round?”
“Yes.... Carter! Mr. Alard’s horse.... Peter can’t stay any longer, Ben.
I told him you’d be sorry.”
“I’m sure I’m very sorry, Sir”—he blushed at his slip into deference,
but was quite unable to say “Peter”—“Is Mrs. Alard doing well?” he asked
clumsily.
“Very well, thank you.”
“I hope you’ll come and see us again soon,” said Jenny—“I’d like to show
you the house.”
“Yes, I’ll come,” he returned absently, and went to meet his horse,
which was being led to him across the yard.
§ 18
The sun was still high as Peter rode back through the crosscountry lanes
to Starvecrow. The days were lingering now, and the fields were
thickening for May. In the hay-fields the young crops were already
marking their difference from the pastures with a rust of sorrel and a
gilding of buttercups, and the hedges were losing their traceried
outline in smothers of vetch and convolvulus.
Peter mechanically noted the progress of the winter sowings on Scragoak,
Stonelink, and other farms he passed. These were all dependencies of
Alard, and their welfare was bound up with Conster. Pleasant, homely
places, their sprawling picturesqueness made up for any want of repair
to all but the eye of his father’s agent. Peter saw the needs of most of
them—rebuilding, rethatching, redraining—and his mind, mechanically and
from force of habit, deplored the impossibility of taking action. The
position seemed quite hopeless, for he could do nothing now, and things
would be even worse at his father’s death, when the weight of
death-duties and the pressure of mortgage holders would probably choke
out the little life there was left in the Alard estates. But even this
ultimate foreboding was only mechanical—his real emotions, his most
vital pains, were all centred in himself.
He had spoken truly when he told Jenny that he could not bear the sight
of Fourhouses. He could not even bear the thought of it. When he thought
of that quiet, ancient house, with its bricked floors and wide, sunny
spaces, with its humming kitchen fire and salt-riddled beam-work—above
all when he thought of it as the home of loving hearts and the peace
which follows daring—he felt unendurably the contrast of what he had
made of Starvecrow. It was what Starvecrow used to be—it was what
Starvecrow might have been ... for even if he had renounced the place he
loved for the woman he loved, Starvecrow would have still gone on being
the same, either as the home of another agent, or—if his father had
really fulfilled his threat of selling it—the home of some honest farmer
like Ben Godfrey, a man who would not only live in it but possess it,
and give it back the yeoman dignity it had lost.
Starvycrow—Starvycrow.
What was it now? What had he made it? It was a small country house,
perfectly furnished and appointed, with a set of model buildings
attached. It was the home of a burnt-out love, of the husks of marriage,
of a husband and wife whose hearts were foes and whose souls were
strangers, of lost illusions, of dead hopes, and wasted sacrifices. That
was what it was now. That was what he had made it.
He remembered words which long ago he had spoken to Stella.... “Places
never change—they are always the same. Human beings may change, but
places never do.” Those words were untrue—places can change, do
change—Starvecrow had changed, he had changed it. While Stella, the
woman, had not changed. She was still the same—the dear, the lovely ...
and the unchanged, unchanging Stella might have been his instead of this
changed Starvecrow. He had sacrificed the substance of life to a dream,
a shadow, which without the substance must go up in smoke. He had sold
his birth-right for a morsel of bread—or rather he had given away his
bread for the sake of an inheritance in the clouds, which he could never
hold.
His old hopes and his old fears had died together. Neither the fact that
his newborn child was a girl, nor the final defection of Gervase the
heir-apparent could make him hold his breath for Alard. These things had
not killed his dreams, as once he had thought, but had merely shown that
they were dead. The thought of his father’s death, which could not now
be far off, and his own succession to the property, with all the freedom
and power it would bring, no longer stirred his flagging ambition. When
he became Sir Peter he could probably save the House of Alard in spite
of death-duties and mortgagees. Without restrictions, master of his own
economies, he could put new life into the failing estate—or at least he
could nurse and shelter it through its difficult times till the days
came when the government _must_ do something to set the Squires on their
legs again.... But the thought had no power to move him—indeed Alard
hardly seemed worth saving. It was a monster to which he had sacrificed
his uttermost human need. Gervase had been a wise man, after all. And
Jenny ... Jenny had done what Peter might have done. He and Stella might
now have been together in some wide farmhouse, happy, alive and free.
This child might have been her child.... Oh, how could he have been so
blind? He had not known how much he really loved her—he had thought she
was just like other women he had loved, and that he could forget her.
She would go away, and she would manage at last to forget him; but he
who stayed behind would never be able to forget her. He would live on
and on, live on her memory—the memory of her touch and voice, her narrow
shining eyes, her laughter and her kisses—live on and on until even
memory grew feeble, and his heart starved, and died.
Riding over the farms between Leasan and Vinehall it suddenly struck him
how easily he might turn aside and go to see Stella. She had promised
that she would see him again before she went away. Should he go now and
ask her to redeem that promise? Should he go and plead with her as he
had never pleaded before? She could still save him—she could still be to
him what she might have been. In one mad moment he saw himself and
Stella seeking love’s refuge at the other end of the country, in some
far, kindly farm in Westmoreland or Cornwall. Vera would divorce him—she
would be only too glad to get her freedom—and by the time he became Sir
Peter Alard he would have lived the scandal down. Stella still loved
him—she was awake, alive, and passionate—she had none of the scruples
and conventions, reserves and frigidities which keep most women
moral—she had only her religion to stand between them, and Peter did not
think much of that. A collection of dreams, traditions and prohibitions
could not stand before his pleading—before the pleading of her own
heart. He had not really pleaded with her yet....
For a moment he reined in his horse, hesitating at the mouth of the
little lane which twists through the hollows of Goatham and Doucegrove
towards Vinehall. But the next minute he went on again, driven by a
question. What had he to offer Stella in exchange for all that he
proposed to take from her?—What had he to give her in exchange for her
father, her home, her good name, her peace of mind? The answer was quite
plain—he had nothing but himself. And was he worth the sacrifice? Again
a plain answer—No. He was worn, tired, disillusioned, shop-soiled, no
fit mate for the vivid woman whom some hidden source of romance seemed
to keep eternally young. Even suppose he could, by storming and
entreaty, bend her to his desire, he would merely be bringing her to
where he stood today. A few years hence she might stand as he stood
now—looking back on all she had lost.... He would not risk bringing her
to that. Three years ago he had sacrificed her to his desires—he had
made her suffer.... It would be a poor atonement to sacrifice her
again—to another set of desires. The least he could do for her was to
let her follow her own way of escape—to let her go ... though still he
did not know how he was to live without her.
§ 19
When he reached home he went upstairs to see Vera. Her mother and Rose
were with her, and they were having tea.
“Hullo!” said his wife—“Where have you been all day?”
“I lunched over at Becket’s House—Fuller asked me to stay. And in the
afternoon I went to see Jenny.”
He had not meant to tell them, but now he suddenly found he had done so.
Vera lifted her eyebrows.
“Oh. So you’ve forgiven her at last. I think you might have told me
before you went there. I want to thank her for writing to me, and you
could have saved me the fag of a letter. She’ll think it odd my not
sending any message.”
“I’m sorry, but I never thought of going till I found myself over
there.”
“And how is Jenny?” asked Rose.
“She seemed very well.”
“And happy?”
“Yes—and happy.”
“Is she still living like the wife of a working-man, with only one
maid?”
“No, not like the wife of a working-man, who doesn’t keep even one maid,
but like the wife of a well-to-do farmer, which she is.”
“You needn’t bite my head off, Peter,” said Rose.
“Your tea’s in the drawing-room,” said Vera—“I asked Weller to put it
there ready for you when you came in. Nurse thinks it would be too much
of a crowd if you had it up here. Besides, I know you’d rather be
alone.”
Peter rose from his seat at the bedside.
“All right—I’ll go downstairs.”
“I didn’t mean now, you old silly,” said Vera, pulling at his coat.
“Hang it all, I haven’t seen you the whole day.”
Peter looked down at her hopelessly—at her large, swimming brown eyes,
at her face which seemed mysteriously to have coarsened without losing
any of its beauty, at the raven-black braids of her hair that showed
under her lace nightcap, and last of all at her mouth—full, crimson,
satisfied, devouring.... He became suddenly afraid—of her, with this
additional need of him, this additional hold on him, which her
motherhood had brought—and of himself, because he knew now that he hated
her, quite crudely and physically hated her.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay—I’ve got rather a headache ... and I’m going
out directly to pot rabbits.”
“That’s an odd cure for a headache,” said Vera. She looked hurt and
angry, and he felt a brute to have upset her at such a time. But he
could not help it—he had to go, and moved towards the door.
“Aren’t you going to take any notice of your little daughter?” purred
Mrs. Asher—“Baby dear, I don’t think your daddy’s very proud of you. He
hasn’t been near you since breakfast.”
Speechlessly Peter went to the cradle and gazed down on the little
wizened face. His heart felt hard; not one pang of fatherhood went
through it. “You little sheeny—you little Yid”—he said to the baby in
his heart.
“Isn’t she a darling?” his mother-in-law breathed into his neck—“isn’t
she a love? Do you know, Vera thinks now that Miriam would do better
than Rachel—it goes better with Alard.”
Peter did not think that either went particularly well with Alard, but
he said nothing. Wasn’t there a Jewish name which meant “The glory is
departed from my house”?
He kissed the baby and went out, thankful to have escaped kissing the
mother.
Some truth-loving providence had insisted on afflicting him with the
headache he had claimed as an excuse for not sitting with Vera. His head
ached abominably as he went into the drawing-room where his tea was
laid. The firelight ruddied the white walls, the silver and the
furniture, where comfort and cretonne were skilfully blended with oak
and antiquity. His thoughts flew back to the evening when he and Vera
had first come into this room on their return from their honeymoon. He
had thought it beautiful then—though even then he had realised it was
not the right room for Starvecrow. It used to be one of the kitchens,
and in the old days when he had first known it, had had a bricked floor
and a big range, like the kitchen at Fourhouses. Tonight he hated it—it
was part of the processes which had changed Starvecrow out of
recognition. He rang the bell impatiently. He would have his tea carried
into the office. That was the room which had altered least.
Even here there were changes, but they were of his own choice and
making—he had planned them long before his marriage. The furniture of
Greening’s day—the pitch-pine desk and cane-seated chairs—had been
impossible; he had always meant to get a good Queen Anne bureau like
this one, and some gate-backed chairs like these. There was nothing
un-farmlike in this plainly furnished office, with its walls adorned
with scale-maps and plans of fields and woods, and notices of auctions
and agricultural shows.
Nevertheless today he found himself wishing he had it as it used to be.
He would like to see it as it used to be—as Stella used to see it, when
she came in fresh and glowing on a winter’s afternoon, to sit beside the
fire ... he could almost feel her cold cheek under his lips....
Then for one moment he saw it as it used to be. For an instant of
strangeness and terror he saw the old scratched desk, with Greening’s
files and account-books upon it, saw Greening’s book-shelves, with their
obsolete agricultural treatises—saw the horse-hair armchair and the two
other chairs with the cane seats, and the picture-advertisement of
Thorley’s cake on the wall.... He stood stock still, trembling—and then
suddenly the room was itself again, and it didn’t even seem as if it had
altered.... But he felt dreadfully queer. He hurried to the door and
went out through the passage into the little grass space at the back.
God! he must be ill. What a fright he’d had! Suppose the hallucination
had continued a moment longer, should he have seen Stella come into the
room, unbuttoning her fur collar, her face all fresh with the wind?...
He went round to the front of the house, and fetched his hat and
overcoat and gun. He’d go out after the rabbits, as he’d said. There
were too many of them, and he’d promised Elias ... anyhow he couldn’t
stand the house. He whistled for Breezy, and the spaniel ran out to him,
bounding and whimpering with delight. The sky was turning faintly green
at the rims. The dusk was near.
He passed quickly through the yard. From the open doorway of the
cowhouse came cheerful sounds of milking, and he could see his cows
standing in shafts of mote-filled sunlight. The cowhouse had been
enlarged and modernised—Starvecrow could almost now be called a model
farm. But he knew that the place wanted to be what it was in the old
days—before his wife’s money had been spent on it. It was not only he
who was dissatisfied with the changes—Starvecrow itself did not like
them. He knew that tonight as he walked through the barns.... Starvecrow
had never been meant for a well-appointed country house, or a model
farm. It ought to have been, like Fourhouses, the home of happy lovers.
It was meant to be a home.... It was not a home now—just a place where
an unhappy man and woman lived, desiring, fleeing, mistrusting, failing
each other. He could have made it a home—brought Stella to it somehow,
some day, at last. Perhaps—seeing his father’s condition, that day would
not have been far off now.... But like everything else, Starvecrow had
been sacrificed to Alard. He had sacrificed it—he had betrayed the
faithful place. He saw now that he had betrayed not only himself, not
only Stella, but also Starvecrow.
Starvycrow—Starvycrow.
Peter walked quickly, almost running, from the reproach of Starvycrow.
§ 20
At about seven o’clock that evening a message came up from Conster, and
as Peter was still out, it was brought to Vera. It was marked
“immediate,” so she opened it.
“Who brought this, Weller?”
“The gardener’s boy, Ma’am.”
“Tell him Mr. Alard is out at present, but I’ll send him over as soon as
he comes home——Sir John’s had another stroke,” she told her mother.
“Oh, my dear! How dreadful—I wish you hadn’t opened the letter. Shocks
are so bad for you.”
“It wasn’t a shock at all, thanks. I’ve been expecting it for weeks.
Besides, one really can’t want the poor old man to live much longer. He
was getting a perfect nuisance to himself and everybody, and if he’d
lived on might have done some real damage to the estate. Now Peter may
just be able to save it, in spite of the death-duties.”
“But, my dear, he isn’t dead yet!” cried Mrs. Asher, a little shocked.
She belonged to a generation to which the death of anybody however old,
ill, unloved or unlovely, could never be anything but a calamity.
“He’s not likely to survive a second stroke,” said Vera calmly. “I’m
sorry for the poor old thing, but really it’s time he went. And I want
Peter to come into the estate before he’s quite worn out and embittered.
It’s high time he was his own master—it’ll pull him together again—he’s
been all to pieces lately.”
“And it’ll quite settle the Stella Mount business,” she added secretly
to herself.
The next hour passed, and Weller came up to ask if she should bring in
the dinner.
“What _can_ have happened to Peter!” exclaimed Vera.
“I daresay he met the messenger on his way back, and went straight to
Conster.”
“Then it was very inconsiderate of him not to send me word. Yes, Weller,
bring the dinner up here. You’ll have it with me, won’t you, Mother, as
Peter isn’t in?”
They were eating their fruit when Weller came in with another “Urgent.”
It was from Doris, and ran—
“Hasn’t Peter come back yet? Do send him over at once whenever he
does. Father is dying. Dr. Mount does not expect him to last the
night. We have wired to Jenny and Mary and even Gervase. Do send Peter
along. He ought to be here.”
“How exactly like Doris to write as if we were deliberately keeping
Peter away! _I_ don’t know where he is. Doris might realise that I’m the
last person who’d know.”
Her hands were trembling, and she whimpered a little as she crushed up
the note and flung it across the room into the fireplace.
“Don’t be upset, Vera darling. Nothing could possibly have happened to
him—we should have heard. He’s probably accepted a sudden invitation to
dinner, the same as he did to lunch.”
“I know nothing’s happened to him—I’m not afraid of that. I know where
he is....”
“Then if you know ...”
“He’s with Stella Mount,” and Vera hid her face in the pillow, sobbing
hysterically.
Mrs. Asher tried to soothe her, tried to make her turn over and talk
coherently, but with that emotional abandonment which lay so close to
her mental sophistication, she remained with her face obstinately
buried, and sobbed on. Her mother had heard about Stella Mount, chiefly
from Rose, but had never given the idea much credit. She did not credit
it now. But to pacify Vera she sent over a carefully worded message to
Dr. Mount’s cottage, asking that if Mr. Peter Alard was there he should
be told at once that he was wanted over at Conster.
The boy came back with the reply that Mr. Alard was not at Vinehall, and
had not been there that day. Everyone but the maid was out—Dr. Mount at
Conster Manor and Miss Mount in church.
“That proves nothing,” said Vera—“he needn’t have met her at the house.”
“But if she’s in church——”
“How do we know she’s in church? She only left word with the maid that
she’s gone there——” and Vera’s sobs broke out again until the nurse
begged her to calm herself for the sake of the child. Which she promptly
did, for she was a good mother.
§ 21
At Conster all the family was by now assembled, with the exception of
Peter and Gervase. Ben Godfrey had brought Jenny over from Fourhouses,
and Mary had motored from Hastings; Rose was there too, with a
daughter’s privileges. They were all sitting in the dining-room over a
late and chilly meal. They had been upstairs to the sick-room, where the
prodigals had entered unforbidden, for Sir John knew neither sheep nor
goat. His vexed mind had withdrawn itself to the inmost keep of the
assaulted citadel, in preparation for its final surrender of the
fortress it had held with such difficulty of late.
“There is no good saying that I expect him to recover this time,” Dr.
Mount had said. “I will not say it is impossible—doctors are shy of
using that word—but I don’t expect it, and, in view of his former
condition which would be tremendously aggravated by this attack, I don’t
think anyone can hope it.”
“Will it be long?” asked Doris, in a harsh, exhausted voice.
“I don’t think it will be longer than forty-eight hours.”
Doris burst into tears. Her grief was, the family thought, excessive.
All her life, and especially for the last three months, her father had
victimised her, browbeaten her, frustrated her, humiliated her—she had
been the scapegoat of the revolted sons and daughters—and yet at his
death she had tears and a grief which none of the more fortunate could
share.
“I found him—it was I who found him”—she sobbed out her story for the
dozenth time. “I came into the study with his hot milk—Wills has refused
to bring it ever since poor Father threw it in his face—and I saw him
sitting there, and he looked funny, somehow. I knew something was
wrong—he was all twisted up and breathing dreadfully.... And I said
‘Father, is anything the matter?—aren’t you feeling well?’ And he just
managed to gasp ‘Get out.’ Those were the last words he uttered.”
Sir John had not been put to bed in his attic-bedroom, the scene of his
ignoble tea-making, but in his old room downstairs, leading out of Lady
Alard’s. She and the nurse were with him now while the others were at
supper. She had a conviction that her husband knew her, as he made
inarticulate sounds of wrath when she came near. But as he did the same
for the nurse, the rest of the family were not convinced.
“When _is_ Peter coming?” groaned Doris—“I really call it heartless of
him to keep away.”
“But he doesn’t know what’s happened,” soothed Jenny—“he’ll come
directly he’s heard.”
“I can’t understand what he’s doing out at this hour. It’s too late for
any business, or for shooting—where can he have gone?”
“You’ll be getting an answer to your second message soon,” said Ben
Godfrey.
“I daresay Peter thought he’d have his dinner first,” continued Doris—“I
expect he thought it didn’t matter and he could come round afterwards.”
“I don’t think that’s in the least likely,” said Mary.
“Then why doesn’t he come?—he can’t be out at this hour.”
“He must be out—or he would have come.”
“It’s not so very late,” said Jenny, “only just after nine.”
“He may have gone out to dinner somewhere,” said Rose.
“Yes, that’s quite possible,” said Jenny—“he may have gone somewhere on
business and been asked to stay—or he may have met someone when he was
out.”
“I’ve a strong feeling that it mightn’t be a bad plan to ’phone to
Stella Mount.”
“But Dr. Mount ’phoned there an hour ago, saying he’d be here all night.
She’d have told him then if Peter was there.”
“I think it quite probable that she would not have told him.”
“What exactly do you mean by that, Rose?”
“Mean?—oh, nothing.”
“Then there’s no use talking of such a thing. I’m quite sure that if
Peter had been at the Mounts’, Stella would have sent him over directly
she heard about Father.”
At that moment Wills came into the room with a note for Doris.
“That must be from Starvecrow,” she said, taking it. “Yes, it’s from
Mrs. Asher—‘Peter hasn’t been in yet, and we are beginning to feel
anxious. He told us he was going out to shoot rabbits and one of the
farm men saw him start out with his gun and Breezy. Of course he may
have met someone and gone home with them to dinner. As you have a
’phone, perhaps you could ring up one or two places.”
“We could ring up the Parishes,” said Jenny—“he may have gone there. Or
the Hursts—aren’t they on the ’phone? I don’t think the Fullers are.”
“It’s an extraordinary thing to me,” said Rose, “that he should stop out
like this without at least sending a message to his wife. He might know
how anxious she’d be.”
“Peter isn’t the most thoughtful or practical being on earth. But
there’s no good making conjectures. I’m going to ’phone every place I
can think of.”
Jenny spoke irritably. Rose never failed to annoy her, and she was
growing increasingly anxious about Peter. She had told the others of his
visit that afternoon, but she had not told them of his queer, gruff,
silent manner. Not that she had seen, or saw now, anything sinister in
it, but she could not rid herself of the thought that Peter had been
“queer,” and that to queer people queer things may happen.
The telephone yielded no results. Neither the Parishes nor the Hursts
were harbouring Peter, nor could she hear of him at the Furnace or
Becket’s House, or at the Vinehall solicitor’s, or the garage at Iden,
the final resorts of her desperation. Of course he had friends who were
not on the telephone, but it was now after ten o’clock, and it was
difficult to believe that if he had accepted a casual invitation to dine
he would not have come home or sent word.
“Lord! how ghastly it is,” she cried, as she hung up the receiver for
the last time—“Father dying and Peter disappeared. What _are_ we to do,
Ben?”
“I think we ought to go and have a look for him,” said her husband.
“How?—and who’d go?”
“I’ll get a chap or two from here, and the men at Starvecrow. If he was
only out after conies he wouldn’t have gone far—down to the Bridge, most
likely. We ought to search the fallows.”
“Yes, do go,” said Doris—“it’s the only thing to be done now. I know
something dreadful has happened to him. And perhaps tomorrow he’ll be
Sir Peter Alard....”
She had forgotten that Godfrey was the presumptuous boor who had
disgraced her name. She saw in him only the man of the family—the only
man of the family now.
“I’ll ring for Wills, and he’ll see about lanterns—and perhaps Pollock
would go with you. And Beatup and Gregory know the district well—I’ll
have them sent for from the farm.”
“Reckon I’d better go up to Starvecrow, John Elias would come with me,
and Lambard and Fagge.”
“If you’re going to Starvecrow,” said Jenny, “I’ll go too, and see if I
can do anything for poor Vera. I expect she’s dreadfully worried and
frightened.”
“Don’t go!” cried Doris—“suppose Father died....”
“I can’t see what good I should be doing here. Vera needs me more than
you do.”
“She’s got her mother. And it would be dreadful if Father died while you
were out of the house.”
“Not more dreadful than if I was in it. He doesn’t know me, and wouldn’t
see me if he did.”
“I think you’re very heartless,” and Doris began to cry—“Father might
recover consciousness just before the end and want to forgive you.”
“I don’t think either is the least likely. Come along, Ben.”
Her husband fetched her coat from the hall, and they set out together.
Doris sat on in her chair at the head of the table, sobbing weakly.
“I think this is a terrible thing to have happened. Father and Peter
going together.... It makes me almost believe there isn’t a God.”
“But we’ve no reason to think Peter’s dead,” said Mary—“a dozen other
things may have happened. He may have broken his leg out in the fields
and be unable to get home, in which case the men will soon find him. I
don’t see why you need take for granted that he’s killed.”
“I think it far more likely that he’s gone off with Stella Mount,” said
Rose, relieved of Jenny’s repressing presence.
“Why ever should you think that?” said Mary. “I wasn’t aware that he was
in love with her—now.”
“He’s been in love with her for the last year. Poor Vera’s had a
dreadful time. I’m sure she thinks Peter’s gone with Stella.”
“Really, Rose, you surprise me—and anyhow, Stella answered her father’s
’phone call a short time ago, so she must be at home.”
“She might just have been going to leave when he rang up.”
“Well, the ’phone’s in the next room if you like to give her a call—and
know what to say to her. Personally I should find the enquiry rather
delicate.”
“It won’t do any good my ringing up,” sulked Rose—“if they’re gone we
can’t stop them. If they’ve not gone then Doris is right, and Peter’s
probably killed or something. I don’t know which would be the worst.
It’s dreadful to think of him chucking everything over when if he’d only
waited another hour he’d have heard about Father’s illness. He’d never
have gone if he’d known he was to be Sir Peter so soon.”
“Well, I’d rather he’d gone than was killed,” said Doris—“the other
could be stopped and hushed up—but if he’s dead ... there’s nobody
left.”
“What about Gervase?” asked Mary.
“He’s no good.”
“Surely he’d come out of his convent or whatever it is, if he knew he
had succeeded to the property.”
“I don’t know. Gervase never cared twopence about the property. I don’t
think he’d come out for that.”
“They wouldn’t let him out,” said Rose.
“Is he coming here now?” asked Mary.
“I wired to him when I wired to you and Jenny. But I don’t know whether
he’ll come or not, and anyhow he can’t be here for some time.”
“What time is it?”
“Nearly twelve.”
The three women shivered. The fire had gone out.
§ 22
The night wore on, and Sir John was still alive. Nobody thought of going
to bed, but after a time Doris, Mary and Rose went upstairs to the
greater warmth of their father’s dressing-room. Here through the open
door they could see the firelight leaping on the bedroom ceiling, and
hear the occasional hushed voices of the nurse and Dr. Mount. Lady Alard
sat by the fire, mute and exhausted. For the first time that they could
remember she gave her family the impression of being really ill. Speller
made tea, cocoa and soup on the gas-ring in the dressing-room. Hot
drinks were at once a distraction and a stimulant. The night seemed
incredibly long—nobody spoke above whispers, though every now and then
Rose would say—“There’s no good whispering—he wouldn’t hear us even if
we shouted.”
“I do hope he really is unconscious,” said Doris.
“Dr. Mount says he is.”
“But how can he know? He knows Father can’t speak, but he doesn’t know
he can’t hear us.”
“I expect there are signs he can tell by.”
“The last words he ever spoke were said to me. That’ll be something
comforting to remember.... But oh, it was dreadful finding him like
that! I do hope it hadn’t lasted long ... that he hadn’t been like that
for a long time, all alone....”
Doris bowed her head into her hands and sobbed loudly. As she sat there,
crouched over the fire, her face with the merciful powder and colour
washed off by tears, all haggard and blotched, and the make-up of her
eyes running down her cheeks, her hair tumbling on her ears, and
revealing the dingy brown roots of its chestnut undulations—she looked
by far the most stricken of the party, more even than the sick man, who
but for his terrible breathing lay now in ordered calm.
A clock in the house struck three.
“I wonder when we’ll hear about Peter,” whispered Rose.
“I’m surprised we haven’t heard already,” said Mary—“They must have gone
all over the Starvecrow land by now.”
“Um....” said Rose, “that seems to point to his not being anywhere about
the place.” Then she added—“I wonder if Gervase will come. I shouldn’t
be at all surprised if he didn’t.”
“I should. They’d never keep him back when his father’s dying.”
“Well—why isn’t he here? He’s known about it for over six hours.”
“I shouldn’t think there were any trains running now. It’s not so easy
as all that to come from Brighton.”