To every one but Asshlin, the dinner that evening was a strain. But the silence or the uneasiness of the others was powerless to damp his enthusiasm. His appetite was tremendous; and as he ate plentifully and swallowed glass after glass of sherry, his excitement and his spirits rose. With the ardour of the born sportsman, he recounted again and again the details of the day's hunt—dwelling lovingly on the behaviour of the dogs and horses, and the prowess of his own mount in particular. Finally, he rose from the table with a flushed face, though a perfectly steady gait, and, crossing the room, pulled the long bell-rope that hung beside the fireplace.
"Now for our night, James!" he cried. "Now for my revenge!
"Clear the table, Burke," he added, as the old man appeared in answer to the summons. "Get out the cards, and bring enough candles to light us all to glory!" He gave a boisterous laugh; and, turning with a touch of bravado, stood facing the picture of his great-grandfather.
Instinctively, as he turned his back upon the party, little Nance drew nearer to her sister, and Clodagh glanced at Milbanke.
As their eyes met, he involuntarily stiffened his small, spare figure, and with a quick, nervous manner nodded towards the door.
For a moment Clodagh hesitated, her fear for her father's self-control dominated by her native interest in an encounter; then Nance decided the matter by plucking hurriedly at her sleeve.
"Don't stop, Clo!" she whispered almost inaudibly, her small, expressive face puckered with anxiety—"don't stop! I'm frightened."
The appeal was instantly effective. Clodagh rose at once, and with one arm passed reassuringly round the child's shoulder, slipped silently from the room.
For some moments after the two had departed, Asshlin retained his position: and Milbanke, intently watchful of his tall figure, held himself nervously in hand for the coming encounter. At last, when the cloth had been removed, the candles renewed, and the cards placed upon the table, Asshlin turned—his face flushed with anticipation.
"That's good!" he exclaimed. "That's good! With a bottle of port and a pack of cards a man could be happy in Hades! Not that I'm forgetting the good comrade that gives a flavour to the combination, James. Not that I'm forgetting that."
His smile had much of the charm, his voice much of the warmth that had marked them long ago, as he drew his chair to the table and picked up the cards.
Milbanke straightened himself in his seat.
"Come along, man! Draw up!—draw up to the table! What shall it be? Euchre again? Are you agreeable to the same stakes?" Asshlin talked on, heedless of the strangely unresponsive demeanour of his guest.
As he ceased to speak, however, Milbanke took the plunge he had been contemplating all day. In the silence of the room, broken only by the faint, comfortable hissing of the peat in the fireplace and the rustling of the cards as Asshlin mechanically shuffled them, he pulled his chair forward and laid his clasped hands on the table.
"Denis," he said in his thin, quiet voice, "I am sorry—very sorry to disappoint you, but I cannot play."
Asshlin paused in the act of shuffling and laid the cards down.
"What in the name of fortune are you talking about?" he asked. His tone was indulgent and amused; it was evident that the meaning in the other's words had not definitely reached him.
"It is not a joke," Milbanke interposed quickly. "I cannot—I do not intend to play."
Then for the first time a shadow of comprehension crossed Asshlin's face—but it was only a shadow. With a boisterous laugh, he leant forward and filled the empty glasses that stood upon the table, pushing one across to Milbanke.
"Have a drop of port, man!" he cried. "Twill give you courage to cut."
He lifted and drained his own glass, and setting it back upon the table, refilled it.
But Milbanke remained immovable. His thin hands were still clasped, his pale face looked anxious.
"Go on, James! You're not afraid of a drop of wine?" Again Asshlin laughed, but this time there was an unpleasant ring audible in his voice.
Mechanically Milbanke lifted his glass to his lips.
"No," he said with embarrassed deprecation, "no, I'm more afraid of your displeasure. I—I'm exceedingly sorry to disappoint you."
But once more his host laughed.
"Nonsense, man! I know your little scruples and your little conscience, and I'm not scared of either. Never meet the devil half way! He covers the ground too quickly as it is." He caught up the cards again, and forming them into a pack, held them out. "Cut!" he said laconically.
Milbanke drew back, and his lips came together, in a thin line.
"Come on! Cut!"
The colour of Asshlin's face became a shade deeper.
Still the other sat rigidly still.
For a moment their eyes held each other; then suddenly the blood surged into Asshlin's neck and face.
"Do you mean to say that you refuse to play?" he asked slowly. "That you refuse to give me my revenge?"
Milbanke met the attack unsteadily.
"My dear Denis——"
But before the words had left his lips, Asshlin flung the cards upon the table with a force that sent a score of them flying across the room.
"And may I ask you for your reasons?" he demanded with alarming calm.
Milbanke fenced.
"I do not wish to play."
"And I don't wish to be treated as a fool."
The other altered his attitude.
"My dear Denis, you surely acknowledge the right of free will? I do not wish to play cards, and therefore beg to be excused. What could be simpler?"
His manner was slightly perturbed, his speech hasty. There was the suggestion of a sleeping volcano in his host's unnatural calm.
In the silence that followed, Asshlin lifted his glass and emptied it slowly.
"I don't know about that," he said as he set it down. "There are unwritten codes that all the free will in the world won't dispose of. One of them is that a gentleman who wins at cards cannot refuse his opponent the satisfaction of his revenge. But perhaps the etiquette has changed since my time."
His manner was still controlled, but his eyes glittered.
Milbanke cleared his throat.
"My dear Asshlin," he said, "we are surely friends of too long standing to split hairs in this fashion. What is this revenge that you talk of? Nothing—a myth—an imaginary justification of honour."
A quick sound of contempt escaped Asshlin.
"And what is every code and every sentiment in the world but an outcome of imagination?" he cried. "What is it but imagination that herds us off from the beasts? I'm satisfied to call it imagination. It tells me that I was worsted last night, and that I'm capable of better things if I try my luck again. I'm satisfied to follow its promptings—and demand my revenge!"
For a while Milbanke sat miserable and undecided; then under the goad of the other's eyes, he did an ill-judged thing. Fumbling nervously for his letter-case, he rose from his seat and walked across to the fireplace.
"There is nothing for you to revenge," he said agitatedly. "There was no play last night. It's cancelled. I cancel it."
With tremulous haste, he pulled out the letter-case, extricated Asshlin's cheque, and dropped it into the fire.
There was a pause—a pause of tremendous moment—in which he stood aghast at his own deed. Then Asshlin turned on him, his face purple and convulsed with rage.
"You dare to insult me? You dare to insult me in my own house? You dare to imply that it was the money—the damned money, that I wanted to win back?"
Milbanke looked up sharply.
"Good God, no!" he exclaimed with unwonted vehemence. "Such a thought never entered my mind."
"Then what's the meaning of all this? What is it all driving at?"
Asshlin's hard, handsome face was contorted by passion and his hands shook.
"Nothing. It's driving at nothing. It is simply that I do not wish to play."
"And why not?" He suddenly rose, his great body towering above the other's. "Why not? By God, I'll have an answer!"
"There is no answer."
"No answer? We'll see about that. Who's been lying to you about me? Who's been carrying scandals about me? Out with it!—out with it!"
Then unexpectedly Milbanke's trepidation forsook him. He suddenly straightened himself.
"No one," he answered.
"No one? Are you quite sure?"
"No-one!"
"Then what do you mean by this? What do you mean by meddling in my affairs?"
He took a menacing step forward.
Two men, both dressed in evening clothes, are standing and facing each other.
With a fierce gesture he took another step forward.
Milbanke stood firm.
"I have my reasons," he said quietly.
"Your reasons, have you?" Asshlin laughed harshly. "Then I'll have my answer. What do you mean by it?"
For a second the older man remained silent and unmoved; then a light gleamed in his colourless eyes.
"All right!" he said. "You shall have it. Perhaps it is as well. I came here expecting to see the boy I had known grown into a genial, hospitable, honourable gentleman; instead, I find him an undisciplined, tyrannical egotist."
He said it quickly in a rush of unusual vehemence. All his anticipations, all his suspicions, and their subsequent justification—coupled with the new sense of protection towards the children of his early friend—found voice in these words.
"You are an egotist, Denis," he repeated distinctly. "A weak, worthless egotist—not fit to have children—not fit to have a friend——"
Asshlin stared at him for a moment in speechless surprise; then indignation surmounted every other feeling. With a fierce gesture he took another step forward, his eyes blazing, his hand menacingly clenched.
"How—how dare you?" he stammered. "How dare you? By God, if you were a bigger man I'd—I'd——"
He paused, choked by his fury.
"I know—I know. But I'm not afraid of you. I'm not to be bullied into subjection."
Milbanke's temper, difficult to rouse, was stirred at last. He gave his host glance for glance.
"You realise what you have said?" Asshlin's dark face was distorted, his voice came unsteadily.
"Yes. I regret that I have to say it, but I do not regret saying it. It is wholesome for a man to hear the truth."
"Oh, it's wholesome to hear the truth, is it?"
"Yes; and I won't see you go to pieces for want of a word. You are a man with obligations, and you are neglecting your obligations. There are other things in life besides cards and horses——"
Asshlin suddenly threw back his head.
"By God, you're right!" he cried. "And the other things are a damn sight worse. I'd put a good horse before a self-righteous preacher any day."
Milbanke's usually pallid face flushed.
"You mean that for me?" he asked quietly.
Asshlin shrugged his shoulders.
"If you like," he said. "If the cap fits——" For a moment Milbanke said nothing; then once again he straightened his small, thin figure.
"Very well, Denis," he said, "I quite understand. With your permission I will say good-bye to you now, and to-morrow morning I will catch the earliest train from Muskeere."
He looked at his host steadily. Then, through the temper that still mastered him, a twinge of regret, a sense of parting and loss obtruded themselves. With all his intolerable faults, Asshlin still stood within the halo and glamour of the past.
"Denis!" he exclaimed suddenly.
But the appeal was made too late. Uncontrollable fury—the one power which could efface his sense of hospitality—possessed Asshlin. His pulses pounded; his senses were blurred. With a seething consciousness of insult and injury, he turned again upon his guest.
"You can go to hell for all I care!" he cried savagely.
For a second Milbanke continued to look at him; then without a word he turned, crossed the room, and passed into the hall.
PART II
CHAPTER I
It was on a windy March morning three years after his summarily ended visit to Ireland, that James Milbanke stood in the bedroom of his London flat. A perturbed frown puckered his forehead and he held an open letter in his hand.
Outside, the dark sky and cold searching breeze proclaimed the raw English spring; inside, the partly dismantled walls of the room, the emptied drawers and wardrobe, the trunks, bags, and rugs standing ready strapped, all suggested another and more inviting climate. Milbanke was bound for the south.
Three months earlier he had come to the momentous conclusion that a solitary life in London—spent no matter how comfortably—becomes a colourless and somewhat empty thing after a thirty-three years' experience. He had his club and his friends, but he was not a clubman born, and friends must be very intimate to be all-sufficing. The restlessness that sometimes unexpectedly attacks the middle-aged bachelor had fallen upon him. The suggestion that he craved new surroundings and new fields of interest had been slow in coming, and his acceptance of it had been slow. But steadily and inevitably it had grown into his consciousness, maturing almost against his will, until at last the day had dawned on which he had admitted to himself that a change was indispensable. The subsequent events had followed in natural order. His hobby had urged him to leave his own country for one richer in association; the damp cold of the English winter, coupled with the chilled blood of advancing age, had inclined him to the idea of Southern Europe. The result of his triple suggestion was that he stood in his room on that spring morning in the last stages of preparation for a journey to Italy.
He stood there, with the discomfort of packing pleasantly accomplished, and his belongings neatly surrounding him; yet his attitude and expression were those of a man who is faced by an unlooked-for difficulty. With a nervous gesture, he shook out the letter that he held, and began to read it hastily for the fourth time. It was a long letter, written in a careless, almost boyish hand on thin paper, and bore the address of "Orristown, Ireland." It was dated two days earlier, and began:
"Dear Mr. Milbanke,—"You will be very much surprised to get this, but I write for father, not for myself. He had a bad accident yesterday while out riding, and is terribly hurt and ill. The doctor from Carrigmore is with him all the time, and my aunt—as well as Nance and I; so he is well cared for. But he seems to get worse instead of better, and we are dreadfully frightened about him."There is one thing he constantly craves for—and that is to see you. Ever since that night, three years ago, when you and he quarrelled and you went away, I think he has been fretting about you. Of course, he has never spoken of it, but I don't think he has ever forgotten that he treated you badly."This morning he talked a great deal about the time when you and he were young together; so much so, that I asked him if he would like to see you. The moment I spoke his face lighted up, but then at once it clouded over again, and he muttered something about never giving any man the chance of refusing him a favour."Dear Mr. Milbanke asking you to come here, but I feel differently. I would risk anything a hundred times over on the chance of bringing you to him. And if you are in London, please do come, if only for one night. Don't refuse, for he is very, very bad. Any time you send me a telegram, the trap can meet you either at Muskeere or Dunhaven."This is a dreadful letter, but I have been up all night, and scarcely know what I am writing."Answer as soon as possible,"Yours,"Clodagh Asshlin."
"Dear Mr. Milbanke,—
"You will be very much surprised to get this, but I write for father, not for myself. He had a bad accident yesterday while out riding, and is terribly hurt and ill. The doctor from Carrigmore is with him all the time, and my aunt—as well as Nance and I; so he is well cared for. But he seems to get worse instead of better, and we are dreadfully frightened about him.
"There is one thing he constantly craves for—and that is to see you. Ever since that night, three years ago, when you and he quarrelled and you went away, I think he has been fretting about you. Of course, he has never spoken of it, but I don't think he has ever forgotten that he treated you badly.
"This morning he talked a great deal about the time when you and he were young together; so much so, that I asked him if he would like to see you. The moment I spoke his face lighted up, but then at once it clouded over again, and he muttered something about never giving any man the chance of refusing him a favour.
"Dear Mr. Milbanke asking you to come here, but I feel differently. I would risk anything a hundred times over on the chance of bringing you to him. And if you are in London, please do come, if only for one night. Don't refuse, for he is very, very bad. Any time you send me a telegram, the trap can meet you either at Muskeere or Dunhaven.
"This is a dreadful letter, but I have been up all night, and scarcely know what I am writing.
"Answer as soon as possible,
"Yours,
"Clodagh Asshlin."
Milbanke scanned the letter to the last line; then, as he reached the signature, the inertia that had pervaded his mind was suddenly dispersed. His own shock of sorrow and dismay, his own interrupted plans faded from his consideration; and in their place rose the picture of a great white house on the lonely Irish coast; of a sick—perhaps a dying—man; of two frightened children and a couple of faithful, inefficient servants. With an energy he had not evinced for years he crossed the room, stumbling over straps and parcels, and rang the bell with imperative haste.
When a surprised maid appeared at the door he turned to her with unwonted excitement.
"I have a telegram to send," he said; "one that must go at once."
The rest of that day, with its suddenly altered plans, its long railway journey from Paddington to New Milford, and its stormy night crossing from the latter point to the town of Waterford, was too beset with haste and confusion to contain any definite recollections for Milbanke. It was not until he had taken his seat at eight o'clock next morning in the small and leisurely train that transports passengers from Waterford to the seaport of Dunhaven that he found time to realise the significance of his journey; and not until he descended from his carriage at this latter station and was greeted by old Burke, the Orristown retainer, that he fully appreciated the gravity of the incident that had occasioned it.
There was no change apparent in Burke's familiar face save the gloom that overhung his expression. But this was obvious to Milbanke at a first glance.
"You're welcome, sir!" were his opening words; then the underlying bent of his thoughts found vent. "'Tis a sorrowful house you'll be findin'," he added in a subdued voice.
Milbanke glanced up sharply from the rug he was unstrapping.
"How is he?" he asked. "Not worse?"
Burke shook his head.
"'Twouldn't be wishin' for me to give you the bad word——" he began deprecatingly.
"Then he is bad?"
The old man pursed up his lips.
"Ah, I'm in dread 'tis for his long home he's bound," he said reluctantly. "Glory be to God an' His Holy Ways! But 'tis of thim two poor children that I do be thinkin'."
But Milbanke's mind was occupied with his first words.
"But how is he?" he demanded. "What is the injury? Has he an efficient doctor?"
Again Burke shook his head.
"Docthors?" he said dubiously. "Wisha, I don't put much pass on docthors! not but what they say Docthor Gallagher from Carrigmore is a fine hand wid the knife. But, sure, when the Almighty takes the notion to break every bone in a man's body, 'tisn't for the like of docthors to be settin' up to mend them."
With this piece of pessimistic philosophy, he picked up Milbanke's bags and rug, and guided him through the small station into the open, where the Orristown trap stood waiting in a downpour of rain.
He imparted little more information during the long drive, and Milbanke had to sit under his dripping umbrella with as much patience as he could muster while they ploughed forward over an execrable road.
The gateway of Orristown, when at last it was reached, looked mouldy and forlorn in the chilly damp of the atmosphere; and as they plunged up the avenue at the usual reckless pace, a perfect torrent of rain-drops deluged them from the intersecting branches of the trees. Yet despite the gloom and the discomfort, a thrill of something like pleasure filled Milbanke as a whiff of pure, cold air brought the scent of the sea to his nostrils, and the turn of the avenue showed the square house, white and massive against the grey sky.
But he was given little time to indulge in the pleasure of reminiscence, for instantly the trap drew up, the hall door was thrown open, showing a face and figure that sent everything but the moment and the business in hand far from his mind.
It was Clodagh who stood there waiting to greet him—Clodagh, curiously changed and grown in the three years that had passed since their last meeting. In place of the spirited, unformed child that he remembered, Milbanke saw a very young girl, whose boyishness of figure had disappeared in slight feminine curves, whose bright, fearless eyes had softened into uncommon beauty.
With a glow of relief lighting up her face, she stepped forward as the horse halted, and, heedless of the rain that fell on her uncovered head, laid one hand on the shaft of the trap.
"Oh, it's good of you!—it's good of you!" she exclaimed. "We can never forget it."
Then the colour flooded her cheeks, and her eyes filled.
"Oh, he's so bad!" she added. "It's so terrible to see him—so terrible."
She looked up with alarm and impotence into Milbanke's face.
But it was not the guest, but old Burke who found words to calm her fear and grief. Leaning down from his seat, he laid a rough hand on her shoulder.
"Whist now, Miss Clodagh!" he said softly—"whist now! Sure God is good. While there's life there's hope. Don't be believin' anythin' else. Sure, what is he but a young man yet?"
"That's true, Burke—that's true!" Clodagh exclaimed quickly. "Won't you come in, Mr. Milbanke?" she added. "You know how welcome you are."
Once inside the hall, she turned to him quickly and confidingly.
"I can never forget that you've done this," she said. "It's a really, really generous thing. But all my mind is full of father. You can understand, can't you?"
Her agitation, her alarm, her evident helplessness in presence of a contingency never previously faced, all touched him deeply. His tone was low and gentle as he responded.
"I understand perfectly—perfectly," he said. "Poor Denis! Poor Denis! How did the thing occur?"
"Oh, just an accident—just an accident. About six months ago he took a fancy for riding late at night. He used to ride for miles along the most dangerous paths of the cliff. I knew it wasn't safe; I said so over and over again. But you know father!" She gave a little hopeless shake of her head. "On Monday night he saddled one of the young horses at about ten o'clock, and went out by himself. It came to twelve and he hadn't returned. Then we began to get uneasy, and at one o'clock we started to look for him. After a search all along the cliff, we found him wedged between two of the upper ledges of the rocks, terribly—terribly hurt." She shuddered palpably at the recollection. "We didn't know—we don't know even now—quite how it happened. But we think the horse must have lost his footing and fallen over the cliff, throwing father; for the poor thing was found dead on the shingle next morning. 'Twas a miracle that father escaped with his life, but he's terribly injured."
She paused again, as though the subject was too painful to be pursued.
Milbanke looked at her compassionately.
"Has he had proper medical advice?" he asked.
"Oh yes! Doctor Gallagher from Carrigmore has done everything, and we have a trained nurse from Waterford."
"That's right. I must have a talk with the doctor. But how is Denis now? Will he know me, do you think?"
"Oh yes! Ever since the first night he has been quite conscious. He expects you. He's longing to see you."
"Then may I go to him?"
Clodagh nodded; and, turning, led the way silently up the remembered staircase. On the landing, the recollection of their curious interview on his first night at Orristown recurred forcibly to Milbanke. He glanced at his guide to see if it had any place in her mind; but her thoughts were evidently full of other things. With a quick gesture that enjoined silence, she led him down the corridor, upon which rough fibre mats had been strewn to deaden sound.
With that peculiar sensation of awe that serious illness always engenders, he tip-toed after her, a sense of apprehensive depression growing upon him with every step. As they neared the end of the passage, a door opened noiselessly, and two figures emerged from a darkened room. The taller of the two—a pale, emaciated woman, dressed in mourning—was unknown to him; but a glance told him that the latter was little Nance, grown to pretty, immature girlhood.
On catching sight of him, she drew back with a passing touch of the old shyness; but, conquering it almost directly, she came forward and shook hands in silence. In the momentary greeting, he saw that her vivacious little face was red and marred by tears; but before he had time for further observation Clodagh touched his arm.
"My aunt, Mrs. Asshlin!" she whispered.
Milbanke bowed, and Mrs. Asshlin extended her hand.
"We meet on a sad occasion, Mr. Milbanke," she murmured in a low, querulous voice. "My poor brother-in-law was always such a rash man. But with some people, you know, there is no such thing as remonstrating. Even this morning when Mr. Curry, our rector from Carrigmore, came to have a little talk with him, he was barely polite; and it was only yesterday that we dared to tell him that Doctor Gallagher insisted on having a nurse. Now, what can you do with a patient like that?"
Milbanke murmured something vaguely unintelligible; and Clodagh stirred impatiently.
"Did you give him the medicine, Aunt Fan?" she asked.
"I did; but with great difficulty. My brother-in-law has always been averse to medical aid," she explained to Milbanke.
"He's never had any need of it," Clodagh whispered sharply. "Will you come, Mr. Milbanke? He's quite alone. The nurse is resting."
With great dignity Mrs. Asshlin moved away.
"I shall ask Hannah to get me a cup of tea, Clodagh," she murmured. "I get such a headache from a sick-room."
Without replying, Clodagh turned again to Milbanke.
"He's not to get excited," she whispered. "And mind—mind—don't say that you think him looking badly."
She paused and laid her fingers lightly on his arm; then with a swift movement, she stepped forward, drawing him with her into the big, darkened room with its sense of preternatural quiet, and its pungent, suggestive smell of drugs and antiseptic dressings.
CHAPTER II
With a strange blending of curiosity and shrinking, Milbanke obeyed the pressure of Clodagh's hand, and moved forward into the room. The cold March daylight was partly excluded by drawn blinds, but a glow from the fire played upon the walls and the high four-post bedstead.
With the same mingling of curiosity and dread, his eyes fell at once upon this prominent article of furniture and remained fixed there in doubt and incredulity. For the moment his senses refused to acknowledge that the feverish, haggard face that stared at him from the pillows was the face of Asshlin—Asshlin, tyrannical, passionate, greedy of life.
In the hours of agony that he had passed through, the sick man's features had become shrunken, causing his eyes to stare forth preternaturally large and restless; his hair had been cropped close, to allow of the dressing of a wound over the temple, and the tight white bandages lent a strange and unfamiliar appearance to his finely shaped head. With a sick sensation, Milbanke went slowly forward.
The patient made no attempt to move as he drew near the bed, but his feverishly bright glance seemed to devour his face.
"Here he is, father!" Clodagh exclaimed softly and eagerly. "Here's Mr. Milbanke! Now, aren't you happy? He's not able to move," she explained, turning to the guest. "It gives him terrible agony to stir."
Milbanke had reached the bed; and with a sensation of awkwardness and impotence impossible to describe, he stood looking down upon Asshlin.
"My poor Denis!" he said. "My poor, poor friend! This is a bad business; I had no idea——"
Then he paused confusedly, remembering Clodagh's warning.
"But we'll see you laughing at it all before we're much older," he added, in awkward haste to make amends.
A gleam of something like irony crossed Asshlin's watchful eyes.
"I'm done for this time, James!" he said feebly. "I suppose I've had my day, and, like every other dog, must answer to the whistle. I don't complain! I'm getting more than my deserts in seeing you again. You're as welcome as the flowers in——"
His voice failed.
"I know—I know! Don't trouble! Don't try to speak!" Milbanke bent over him anxiously.
But Asshlin glanced back.
"Ah, but that's what I must do, James!" he said sharply. "That's what I want you for. I have something that must be said."
Milbanke turned to Clodagh.
"Is it right of him to excite himself?" he asked in distress. "If it's anything that you reproach yourself with, Denis——"
But Asshlin interrupted with a weak echo of his old intolerance.
"Send Clo away!" he said. "There's something I want to say."
Again Milbanke looked helplessly at Clodagh, but her eyes were fixed passionately on her father's face.
"He'll excite himself more if we cross him," she said hesitatingly. "I think I'd better go."
Still Milbanke hesitated.
"But the doctor?" he hazarded. "If the doctor insists on quiet——"
She glanced at him quickly, her clear eyes brimming.
"Oh, I don't know!" she exclaimed; "I can't cross him—I can't cross him! He's wanted you so badly."
She turned quickly towards the bed.
"Father," she said tenderly, "won't you promise not to talk much? Won't you promise to take care?"
For answer, Asshlin looked up, meeting her glance.
"I'll promise, child—I'll promise. Run away now—and God bless you!" He added the expressive native phrase in a suddenly lowered voice.
Clodagh bent quickly and kissed his hot, drawn face with passionate affection; then, as if fearing to trust herself, she turned hastily and passed out of the room.
Instantly the two men were alone, Asshlin turned to his guest.
"James," he said agitatedly, "I haven't thought much about the Almighty in these last years; but I give you my word, I have prayed that I might see you before I die."
"My dear Denis, don't! I beg you not to excite yourself. I implore you——"
Asshlin made a harsh sound of impatience.
"Don't waste breath over a dying man," he said roughly. Then, seeing the distress in the other's face, he altered his tone. "Don't take it to heart, James! It's the road we must all travel. They think there's life in me yet, but I know better. You may blindfold a sheep as much as you like, but 'twill know that you're dragging it to the slaughter. I tell you I'm done for—as done for as if the undertaker had measured me for the coffin."
He moved his head slightly and painfully, his feverish glance brightening.
"James," he exclaimed suddenly, "I'm in a terrible position! But 'tisn't death that's troubling me."
"Denis!"
"'Tis true! I'm not frightened of death—I hope I'm man enough to face a natural law. 'Twould have been better if I'd had to face it thirty years ago."
"Denis, don't! I beg you to keep quiet——"
"Quiet? I tell you there's not much quiet for a man like me. 'Tisn't what I'm going to that's troubling me, but what I'm leaving behind. I'll be paying me own score on the other side; but here 'tis others will be paying it for me."
His burning eyes fixed themselves on Milbanke's.
"But, my dear old friend——"
"Don't talk to me, James! Don't waste words on me. I'm broke inside and out. I'm smashed. I'm done for." A spasm of pain, mental and physical, twisted his features. "The weak, worthless egotist has come to the end of his rope!" He tried to laugh.
Milbanke, in deep apprehension, laid his hand lightly on his shoulder.
"Denis," he pleaded, "don't talk like this! Don't torture yourself like this!"
Asshlin groaned.
"'Tis involuntary!" he cried. "'Tis wrung from me. Every time they come into the room—every time I see the tears in their eyes—every time they kiss me, I tell you I taste hell."
"Who?"
"The children. My children." Another spasm crossed his face. "You once told me I was not fit to have children, James—and you were right. By God, you were right!"
"Denis, I refuse to listen. I insist—I——"
"Don't bother yourself! 'Tisn't of my damned health I'm thinking."
"Then what is it? What is troubling you?"
"The children—the children. I've been a blackguard, James—a blackguard." He moved his head sharply, regardless of the agony the movement caused. "I tell you I don't care what's before myself. I've always been a reckless fool. But 'tis the children—the children."
"What of the children?"
A sound of mockery and despair escaped Asshlin.
"Ah, you may well ask!" he said—"you may well ask! 'Tis the question I've been putting to myself every hour since they laid me here. You know the world, James. You know what the world will be to two pretty, penniless girls. And they're so unconscious of it all! That's the sting of it. They're so unconscious of it all! They care for me; they cling to me as if I were a good man, and in five years' time they may be cursing the hour they were born." A fresh groan was wrung from him.
A look of apprehension crossed Milbanke's face.
"Oh no, Denis!" he exclaimed quickly. "No. Things can't be as bad as that. Your suffering has told upon your nerves. Things can't be as bad as that."
"They are worse. I tell you these two children will face life without a penny."
"No, no! You exaggerate. Why, even if you were to die they would still have the place. The place must be worth something."
"Ah, if I could only drug my conscience with that thought! But I can't—I can't! Before I'm cold in my grave my creditors will be down on the property like a swarm of rats."
"No, no!"
"Yes! I tell you yes! The children will be homeless as well as penniless."
Milbanke glanced about him in deep perplexity.
"There's your sister-in-law," he hazarded at length.
"Fan?" Asshlin made a contemptuous grimace. "Fan is as poor as a church mouse already. Laurence had nothing to leave her: the Navy beggared him. No, Fan could do nothing for them. And, anyway, she and Clodagh couldn't stand each other for a twelvemonth. You might as well try to blend fire and water. No, there's no way out of it. I'm reaping the whirlwind, James. I'm reaping it with a vengeance."
The fever of his suffering and the excitement of his remorse were burning in his eyes. In the three days of his illness his natural exuberance of mind had been directed towards one point—the tardily aroused knowledge of the future that awaited his children. And the consequence had been a piteous intermingling of realisation and partial delirium. His agony and helplessness were pitiable as he turned to his friend.
"What am I to do, James?" he asked—"what am I to do?"
Milbanke bent over him.
"Denis! Denis!" he pleaded.
"But what am I to do? Advise me while there's time. 'Tis for that I've wanted you. You've always been a good man. What must I do?"
Milbanke tightened his lips.
"You have friends," he said.
"Ah! but how many? And where?"
There was no response for a moment, as Milbanke slowly straightened himself and glanced across the room towards the fire. Then very quietly he turned towards the bed.
"You have one—here," he said in a low voice.
For an instant Asshlin answered nothing; then an odd sound—something between a laugh and a sob—shook him.
"James!" he cried. "James!"
But Milbanke leant forward hastily.
"Not a word!" he said. "Not one word! If thanks are due, it is from me to you. It is not every day that human responsibilities fall to an old bachelor of my age."
Asshlin remained silent. Dissipated, blunted, degenerate though he might be, his native intuition was unimpaired; and in a flash of illumination he saw the grade of nobility, the high point of honour to which this prosaic, unimaginative man had attained in that moment of need. With a pang of acute pain, he freed his uninjured arm and shakingly held out his hand.
"There are no friends like the old friends, James!" he said in a broken voice.
CHAPTER III
Asshlin scarcely spoke again during the early portion of that day. The immense effort of his explanation to Milbanke left him correspondingly weak; though through all his exhaustion, a look of peace and satisfaction was visible in his eyes.
During the whole morning Milbanke remained at his bedside, only leaving the room to partake—at Clodagh's urgent request—of a hurried meal in the deserted dining-room. At twelve o'clock the nurse resumed her duties, and soon afterwards the dispensary doctor from Carrigmore drove over to see his patient. Before he came into the sick-room Milbanke left it; but when—his examination over—he departed with a whispered injunction to the nurse, he found the stranger waiting for him in the corridor.
Milbanke stepped forward as he appeared, and silently motioned him down the passage to his own room, inviting him to enter with a punctilious gesture.
"Doctor Gallagher, I believe?" he said. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Milbanke. I am a very old friend of your patient."
With a slow but friendly gesture, the young man held out his hand.
"Oh, I know all about you!" he said. "I'm glad to make your acquaintance."
His voice, with its marked Irish accent, was soft and pleasant, and his glance was good-natured; but his tanned skin and rough shooting-suit suggested the sportsman rather than the medical practitioner.
Milbanke eyed him quickly.
"Then you won't misunderstand anything I may say?"
Gallagher smiled.
"Not a bit of it!" he answered nonchalantly. "And what's more, I think I know what it's going to be."
A shade of confusion passed over the Englishman's face. His understanding was still unattuned to the half-shrewd, half-inquisitive tendencies of the Irish mind. With a shadowy suspicion that he was being unobtrusively ridiculed, he became a degree colder.
"I am grieved beyond measure at Mr. Asshlin's condition, Doctor Gallagher," he said, "and it has struck me—it has been suggested to my mind that possibly——" He stopped uncertainly. "That possibly——"
"That perhaps there ought to be another opinion?" Gallagher looked at him complacently. "Well, maybe you're right. 'Tisn't becauseIcondemn him that he shouldn't appeal to a higher court."
Milbanke started.
"Then you think poorly of his chances?"
Gallagher shook his head expressively.
"You despair of him?"
A pang of unexpected grief touched Milbanke. He realised suddenly how distant, vague, and yet how real a part the ideal of his youth had played in his life and thoughts; how deep a niche, unknown to them both, Asshlin had carved for himself. With a sense of loss altogether disproportionate to circumstances, he turned again to the doctor.
"Yes, I should like another opinion," he said quickly. "The best we can get—the best in Ireland. We can't get a man from town sooner than to-morrow, and time is everything. I suppose Dublin is the place to wire to? Not that I am disparaging you," he added. "I feel confident you have done everything."
Gallagher smiled.
"Oh, I'm not taking offence. It's only human nature to think what you do. I'll meet any one you like to name. But he'll say the same as me."
"And that is?"
"That he's done for." Gallagher lowered his voice. "He hasn't the stamina to pull through, even if we could patch him up. He's been undermining that big frame of his for the last ten years. No man nowadays can sit up half the night drinking port without paying heavily for it. Many a time, driving home from a late call, I've seen the light in these windows at three in the morning."
Milbanke pulled out his watch.
"But these Dublin doctors," he said. "Tell me their names."
Gallagher pondered a moment.
"Well, there's Dowden-Gregg and Merrick," he said. "And of course there's Molyneaux. Molyneaux is a magnificent surgeon. If any man in Ireland can make a suggestion, he will. But of course his fee——"
Milbanke interrupted sharply.
"Molyneaux let it be," he said decisively. "Wire for him when you get back to Carrigmore. Wire urgently. The expenses will be my affair. What they may amount to is of no consideration."
A look of involuntary respect crossed Gallagher's face.
"I understand," he said. "I'll wire at once. And you can comfort yourself that you'll have the best opinion in the country."
He nodded genially, the new considerations for Milbanke tinging his usually careless manner; and with an inaudible word of farewell, turned on his heel.
Once alone, Milbanke went in search of Clodagh. He suffered no small trepidation at the thought of communicating his action to her, and he bestowed much silent consideration upon the manner in which he should couch his information. Failing to find her in the house, he wandered out into the grounds. The rain had ceased, and a watery gleam of sunshine was falling on the wet gravel of the drive. Picking his way carefully, he turned in the direction of the yard; but he had scarcely reached it, when Clodagh's clear voice reached him, directing Burke as to some provisions required from Muskeere.
On seeing her guest, she came forward at once. Her face looked brighter and happier than he had seen it since his arrival. Her mercurial nature had responded instantly to the apparent change in Asshlin.
"Oh, isn't it lovely that he's so much better?" she cried. "You must have the gift of healing; it's like as if you had set a charm."
Milbanke made no response.
"Why don't you say something?" she asked quickly. "Don't you think he's better? Doesn't the doctor think he's better?"
Her quick mind sprang like lightning from one conclusion to another.
"Mr. Milbanke," she added, "you're keeping something back! There's something you don't like to say!"
Then at last Milbanke found voice.
"Indeed no, Miss Clodagh. You are wrong—quite wrong, believe me. There is nothing to be alarmed at—nothing. It is only——"
"Only what?"
"Now don't be alarmed! I beg you not to be alarmed!" The sudden whiteness that had overspread her face unnerved him. "It is only that I, as a Londoner, am a little doubtful of your village doctor. A mere prejudice, I know. But Gallagher is broadminded and willing to humour me. And he—I—that is, we both think that another opinion will do no harm. It's nothing to be alarmed at. Nothing, believe me! A mere formality."
But Clodagh's lips had paled. She stood looking at him silently, her large, questioning eyes reminding him disconcertingly of Asshlin's.
"Miss Clodagh," he said again, "don't be alarmed!—don't be alarmed! It's only to satisfy an old sceptic——"
"Oh no, it isn't!" she said suddenly. "Oh no, it isn't! I know—I know quite well. It means that he's going to die."
Her voice caught; and, with a swift movement, she turned and fled out of the yard, leaving Milbanke pained, bewildered, and alarmed.