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."

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.