LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

been,” she said, speaking very fast, in a high unnatural voice: “I am afraid I have given you a great deal of trouble. I don’t remember much about last night, excepting that they said Michael had been killed. Has Michael really been killed, do you think? And will they give me details? Surely I have a right to know details. Nothing can alter the fact that I was Michael’s wife, can it? Do go to breakfast, Maggie. There is nothing gained by standing there, smiling, and saying you do not want any breakfast. Everybody wants breakfast at nine o’clock in the morning. I should want breakfast, if Michael had not been killed. Tell her she ought to have breakfast, Sir Deryck. I believe she has been up all night. It is such a comfort to have her. She is so brave and bright; and so full of sympathy.”

      “She is very brave,” said the doctor; “and you are right as to her need of breakfast. Go down-stairs for a little while, Mrs. O’Mara. I will stay with Lady Ingleby.”

      She moved obediently to the door; but Sir Deryck reached it before her. And the famous London specialist held the door open for the sergeant’s young widow, with an air of deference such as he would hardly have bestowed upon a queen.

      Then he came back to Lady Ingleby. His train left in three-quarters of an hour. But his task here was not finished. She had slept; but before he dare leave her, she must weep.

      “Where is Peter?” inquired the excited voice from the bed. “He always barks to be let out, in the morning; but I have heard nothing of him yet.”

      “He was exhausted last night, poor little chap,” said the doctor. “He could scarcely walk. I carried him up, myself; and put him on the bed in the next room. The coat was still there, I wrapped him in it. He licked my hand, and lay down, content.”

      “I want to see him,” said Lady Ingleby. “Michael loved him. He seems all I have left of Michael.”

      “I will fetch him,” said the doctor.

      He went into the adjoining room, leaving the door ajar. Myra heard him reach the bed. Then followed a long silence.

      “What is it?” she called at last. “Is he not there? Why are you so long?”

      Then the doctor came back. He carried something in his arms, wrapped in the old shooting jacket.

      “Dear Lady Ingleby,” he said, “little Peter is dead. He must have died during the night, in his sleep. He was lying just as I left him, curled up in the coat; but he is quite cold and stiff. Faithful little heart!” said the doctor, with emotion, holding his burden, tenderly.

      “What!” cried Myra, with both arms outstretched. “Peter has died, because Michael is dead; and I – I have not even shed a tear!” She fell back among the pillows in a paroxysm of weeping.

      The doctor stood by, silently; uncertain what to do. Myra’s sobs grew more violent, shaking the bed with their convulsive force. Then she began to shriek inarticulately about Michael and Peter, and to sob again, with renewed violence.

      At that moment the doctor heard the horn of a motor-car in the avenue; then, almost immediately, the clang of the bell, and the sounds of an arrival below. A look of immense relief came into his face. He went to the top of the great staircase, and looked over.

      The Honourable Mrs. Dalmain had arrived. The doctor saw her tall figure, in a dark green travelling coat, walk rapidly across the hall.

      “Jane!” he said. “Jeanette! Ah, I knew you would not fail us! Come straight up. You have arrived at the right moment.”

      Jane looked up, and saw the doctor standing at the top of the stairs; something wrapped in an old coat, held carefully in his arms. She threw him one smile of greeting and assurance; then, wasting no time in words, rapidly pulled off her coat, hat, and fur gloves, flinging them in quick succession to the astonished butler. The doctor only waited to see her actually mounting the stairs. Then, passing through Lady Ingleby’s room, he laid Peter’s little body back on his dead master’s bed, still wrapped in the old tweed coat.

      As he stepped back into Lady Ingleby’s room, closing the door between, he saw Jane Dalmain kneel down beside the bed, and gather the weeping form into her arms, with a gesture of immense protective tenderness.

      “Oh Jane,” sobbed Lady Ingleby, as she hid her face in the sweet comfort of that generous bosom; “Oh Jane! Michael has been killed! And little Peter died, because Michael was dead. Little Peter died, and I had not even shed a tear!”

      The doctor passed quickly out, closing the door behind him. He did not wait to hear the answer. He knew it would be wise, and kind, and right. He left his patient in safe hands. Jane was there, at last. All would be well.

      CHAPTER V

      LADY INGLEBY’S REST-CURE

      From the moment when the express for Cornwall had slowly but irrevocably commenced to glide away from the Paddington platform; when she had looked her last upon Margaret O’Mara’s anxious devoted face, softly framed in her simple widow’s bonnet; when she had realised that her somewhat original rest-cure had really safely commenced, and that she was leaving, not only her worries, but her very identity behind her – Lady Ingleby had leaned back with closed eyes in a corner of her reserved compartment, and given herself up to quiet retrospection.

      The face, in repose, was sad – a quiet sadness, as of regret which held no bitterness. The cheek, upon which the dark fringe of lashes rested, was white and thin having lost the tint and contour of perfect health. But, every now and then, during those hours of retrospection, the wistful droop of the sweet expressive mouth curved into a smile, and a dimple peeped out unexpectedly, giving a look of youthfulness to the tired face.

      When London and, its suburbs were completely left behind, and the summer sunshine blazed through the window from the clear blue of a radiant June sky, Lady Ingleby leaned forward, watching the rapid unfolding of country lanes and hedges; wide commons, golden with gorse; fir woods, carpeted with blue-bells; mossy banks, overhung with wild roses, honeysuckle, and traveller’s-joy; the indescribable greenness and soft fragrance of England in early summer; and, as she watched, a responsive light shone in her sweet grey eyes. The drear sadness of autumn, the deadness of winter, the chill uncertainty of spring – all these were over and gone. “Flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come,” murmurs the lover of Canticles; and in Myra Ingleby’s sad heart there blossomed timidly, flowers of hope; vague promise of future joy, which life might yet hold in store. A blackbird in the hawthorn, trilled gaily; and Myra softly sang, to an air of Garth Dalmain’s, the “Blackbird’s Song.”

      “Wake, wake,

      Sad heart!

      Rise up, and sing!

      On God’s fair earth, ’mid blossoms blue.

      Fresh hope must ever spring.

      There is no room for sad despair,

      When heaven’s love is everywhere.”

      Then, as the train sped onward through Wiltshire, Somerset, and Devon, Lady Ingleby felt the mantle of her despondence slipping from her, and reviewed the past, much as a prisoner might glance back into his dark narrow cell, from the sunlight of the open door, as he stood at last on the threshold of liberty.

      Seven months had gone by since, on that chill November evening, the news of Lord Ingleby’s death had reached Shenstone. The happenings of the weeks which followed, now seemed vague and dreamlike to Myra, just a few events standing out clearly from the dim blur of misery. She remembered the reliable strength of the doctor; the unselfish devotion of Margaret O’Mara; the unspeakable comfort of Jane’s wholesome understanding tenderness. Then the dreaded arrival of her mother; followed, immediately, according to promise, by the protective advent of Georgina, Duchess of Meldrum; after which, tragedy and comedy walked hand in hand; and the silence of mourning was enlivened by the “Hoity-toity!” of the duchess, and the indignant sniffs of Mrs. Coller-Cray.

      Later on, details of Lord Ingleby’s death came to hand, and his widow had to learn that he had fallen – at the attempt upon Targai, it is true – but the victim of an accident; losing his life, not at the hands of the savage enemy, but through

Скачать книгу