§ 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 His vexed mind had withdrawn itself to the inmost keep of the assaulted citadel, in preparation for its final surrender of the fortress it had held with such difficulty of late.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.