Lady Connie Part 42

Douglas made another agonised appeal, and the grey face quivered. A whisper pa.s.sed the lips.

"It's best, Duggy--poor Duggy! Kiss me, old boy. Tell your mother--that young man--prayed for me. She'll like to--know that. My love--"

The last words were spoken with a great effort; and the breaths that followed grew slower and slower as the vital tide withdrew itself. Once more the eyes opened, and Douglas saw in them the old affectionate look.

Then the lips shaped themselves again to words that made no sound; a shudder pa.s.sed through the limbs--their last movement.

Douglas knelt on, looking closely into his father's face, listening for the breath that came no more. He felt rather than saw that Radowitz had moved still further away.

Two or three deep sobs escaped him--involuntary, almost unconscious.

Then he pulled himself together. His mother? Who was to tell her?

He went to call Radowitz, who came eagerly.

"My father is dead," said Falloden, deadly pale, but composed. "How long have you been here?"

"About half an hour. When I arrived he was in agonies of pain. I gave him brandy, and he revived a little. Then I wanted to go for help, but he begged me not to leave him alone. So I could only shout and wave my handkerchief. The pains came back and back--and every time he grew weaker. Oh, it was _angina_. I have seen it before--twice. If I had only had some nitrite of amyl! But there was nothing--nothing I could do." He paused, and then added timidly, "I am a Catholic; I said some of our prayers."

He looked gravely into Falloden's face. Falloden's eyes met his, and both men remembered--momentarily--the scene in Marmion Quad.

"We must get him down," said Falloden abruptly. "And there is my mother."

"I would help you to carry him, of course; but--you see--I can't."

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Douglas knelt, looking into his father's face, and Radowitz moved farther away_]

His delicate skin flushed deeply. Falloden realised for the first time the sling across his shoulder and the helpless hand lying in it. He turned away, searching with his eyes the shadows of the valley. At the moment, the spot where they stood was garishly illuminated by the rapidly receding light, which had already left the lower ground. The gra.s.s at their feet, the rocks, the stream, the stretches of heather were steeped and drenched in the last rays of sun which shot upon them in a fierce concentration from the lower edge of a great cloud. But the landmarks below were hard to make out--for a stranger's eyes.

"You see that cottage--where the smoke is?"

Radowitz a.s.sented.

"You will find a keeper there. Send him with three or four men."

"Yes--at once. Shall I take a message to the house?"

Radowitz spoke very gently. The red-gold of his hair, and his blue eyes, were all s.h.i.+ning in the strange light. But he was again as pale as Falloden himself. Douglas drew out a pencil, and a letter from his pocket. He wrote some words on the envelope, and handed it to Radowitz.

"That's for my mother's maid. She will know what to do. She is an old servant. I must stay here."

Radowitz rushed away, leaping and running down the steep side of the hill, his white s.h.i.+rt, crossed by the black sling, conspicuous all the way, till he was at last lost to sight in the wood leading to the keeper's cottage.

Falloden went back to the dead man. He straightened his father's limbs and closed his eyes. Then he lay down beside him, throwing his arm tenderly across the body. And the recollection came back to him of that hunting accident years ago--the weight of his father on his shoulders--the bitter cold--the tears which not all his boyish scorn of tears could stop.

His poor mother! She must see Radowitz, for Radowitz alone could tell the story of that last half hour. He must give evidence, too, at the inquest.

_Radowitz_! Thoughts, ironic and perverse, ran swarming through Falloden's brain, as though driven through it from outside. What a nursery tale!--how simple!--how crude! Could not the G.o.ds have devised a subtler retribution?

Then these thoughts vanished again, like a cloud of gnats. The touch of his father's still warm body brought him back to the plain, tragic fact.

He raised himself on his elbow to look again at the dead face.

The handsome head with its grizzled hair was resting on Radowitz's coat.

Falloden could not bear it. He took off his own, and gently subst.i.tuted it for the other. And as he laid the head down, he kissed the hair and the brow. He was alone with his father--more alone than he ever would be again. There was not a human step or voice upon the moor. Night was coming rapidly on. The stream rushed beside him. There were a few cries of birds--mostly owls from the woods below. The dead man's face beside him was very solemn and quiet. And overhead, the angry sunset clouds were fading into a dim and star-strewn heaven, above a world sinking to its rest.

The moon was up before Radowitz came back to the little rectory on the other side of the moor. Sorell, from whose mind he was seldom absent, had begun to worry about him, was in fact on the point of setting out in search of him. But about nine o'clock he heard the front gate open and jumping down from the low open window of the rectory drawing-room he went to meet the truant.

Radowitz staggered towards him, and clung to his arm.

"My dear fellow," cried Sorell, aghast at the bay's appearance and manner--"what have you been doing to yourself?"

"I went up the moor for a walk after tea--it was so gorgeous, the clouds and the view. I got drawn on a bit--on the castle side. I wasn't really thinking where I was going. Then I saw the park below me, and the house.

And immediately afterwards, I heard a groaning sound, and there was a man lying on the ground. It was Sir Arthur Falloden--and he died--while I was there." The boy's golden head dropped suddenly against Sorell. "I say, can't I have some food, and go to bed?"

Sorell took him in and looked after him like a mother, helped by the kind apple-faced rector, who had heard the castle news from other sources also, and was greatly moved.

When Otto's exhaustion had been fed and he was lying in his bed with drawn brows, and no intention or prospect of going to sleep, Sorell let him tell his tale.

"When the bearers came, I went down with them to the castle, and I saw Lady Laura"--said the boy, turning his head restlessly from side to side. "I say, it's awful--how women cry! Then they told me about the inquest--I shall have to go to-morrow--and on the way home I went to see Lady Connie. I thought she ought to know."

Sorell started.

"And you found her?"

"Oh, yes. She was sitting in the garden."

There was a short silence. Then Otto flung up his left hand, caught a gnat that was buzzing round his head, and laughed--a dreary little sound.

"It's quite true--she's in love with him."

"With Douglas Falloden?"

Otto nodded.

"She was awfully cut up when I told her--just for him. She didn't cry of course. Our generation doesn't seem to cry--like Lady Laura. But you could see what she wanted."

"To go to him?"

"That's it. And of course she can't. My word, it is hard on women!

They're hampered such a lot--by all their traditions. Why don't they kick 'em over?"

"I hope she will do nothing of the kind," said Sorell with energy. "The traditions may just save her."

Otto thought over it.

"You mean--save her from doing something for pity that she wouldn't do if she had time to think?"

Sorell a.s.sented.