§ 22

The night wore on, and Sir John was still alive. Nobody thought of going to bed, but after a time Doris, Mary and Rose went upstairs to the greater warmth of their father’s dressing-room. Here through the open door they could see the firelight leaping on the bedroom ceiling, and hear the occasional hushed voices of the nurse and Dr. Mount. Lady Alard sat by the fire, mute and exhausted. For the first time that they could remember she gave her family the impression of being really ill. Speller made tea, cocoa and soup on the gas-ring in the dressing-room. Hot drinks were at once a distraction and a stimulant. The night seemed incredibly long—nobody spoke above whispers, though every now and then Rose would say—“There’s no good whispering—he wouldn’t hear us even if we shouted.”

“I do hope he really is unconscious,” said Doris.

“Dr. Mount says he is.”

“But how can he know? He knows Father can’t speak, but he doesn’t know he can’t hear us.”

“I expect there are signs he can tell by.”

“The last words he ever spoke were said to me. That’ll be something comforting to remember.... But oh, it was dreadful finding him like that! I do hope it hadn’t lasted long ... that he hadn’t been like that for a long time, all alone....”

Doris bowed her head into her hands and sobbed loudly. As she sat there, crouched over the fire, her face with the merciful powder and colour washed off by tears, all haggard and blotched, and the make-up of her eyes running down her cheeks, her hair tumbling on her ears, and revealing the dingy brown roots of its chestnut undulations—she looked by far the most stricken of the party, more even than the sick man, who but for his terrible breathing lay now in ordered calm.

A clock in the house struck three.

“I wonder when we’ll hear about Peter,” whispered Rose.

“I’m surprised we haven’t heard already,” said Mary—“They must have gone all over the Starvecrow land by now.”

“Um....” said Rose, “that seems to point to his not being anywhere about the place.” Then she added—“I wonder if Gervase will come. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he didn’t.”

“I should. They’d never keep him back when his father’s dying.”

“Well—why isn’t he here? He’s known about it for over six hours.”

“I shouldn’t think there were any trains running now. It’s not so easy as all that to come from Brighton.”

Rose relapsed into silence. After a time she said—

“Religion is a great consolation at a time like this.”

“Do you think we ought to send for Mr. Williams to come and see Father?” choked Doris.

“No—of course not. What good could he do? Poor Sir John’s quite unconscious.”

“But he may be able to hear. How do you know he can’t? Perhaps he would like to hear Mr. Williams say a prayer or a hymn.”

“My dear Doris, I tell you he doesn’t know a thing, so what’s the good of dragging poor Mr. Williams out of his bed at three o’clock in the morning? I had no patience with the people who did that sort of thing to George. Sir John couldn’t understand anything, and if he did he’d be furious, so it doesn’t seem much good either way. When I said religion was a consolation I was thinking of Mary.”

“And why of me?” asked Mary.

“Well, I often think you’d be happier if you had some sort of religion. You seem to me to lead such an aimless life.”

“Of course I’d be happier. Most people are happier when they believe in something. Unfortunately I never was taught anything I could or cared to believe.”

“Mary! How can you say that, when poor George....”

She broke off as the door opened and Jenny suddenly appeared.

“Hullo, Jenny!” cried Doris—“have you come back?—Have they found Peter?”

Jenny did not speak. She shut the door behind her, and stood with her back against it. Her face was white and damp. It was evidently raining, and wet strands of hair were plastered on her cheeks.

“Is Dr. Mount in there?” she asked.

“Yes—but Jenny ... Peter!...”

“I must see Dr. Mount first.”

“Who’s that asking for me?”

The doctor came in from the next room; at the sight of Jenny he shut the communicating door.

“I want to speak to you, Dr. Mount. Will you come with me?”

“Jenny, you really can’t treat us like this,” cried Mary, “you must tell us what’s happened. Is Peter hurt?”

“Yes—he’s downstairs.”

“Is he dead?” cried Doris, springing to her feet.

Again Jenny did not speak. She bowed her head into her hands and wept silently.

A dreadful silence filled the little room. Even Doris was perfectly quiet.

“I’ll come down,” said Dr. Mount.

“So’ll I,” said Doris.

“No,” said Jenny, “you mustn’t see him.”

“Why not?”

“He’s—he’s been dreadfully injured—part of his head....”

She stopped and shuddered. Dr. Mount pushed quietly past her to the door.

“I think I’d better go down alone. Your husband and the men are down there—I can get all the information I want from them.”

Jenny came forward to the fire and flopped into the chair Doris had left. Her clothes were wet and her boots muddy—it must be raining hard.

“I’d better tell you what happened,” she said brokenly—“The men—some from here and some from Starvecrow—found Peter lying on the Tillingham marshes about half a mile below the Mocksteeple. His dog was watching beside him, and he’d been shot through the head.”

“Murdered,” gasped Doris.

“No—I don’t think so for a moment.”

“It was an accident, of course,” said Mary.

“I wish I could think that. But the men seemed to think—my husband too—that it was his own doing.”

“His own doing! Suicide!” cried Doris—“How could they imagine such a thing?”

“From the way he was lying, and the position of the gun, and the nature of the injuries. That’s why I was so anxious for Dr. Mount to see him and give an expert opinion.”

“Is there any chance of his being still alive?”

“Not the slightest. His head is nearly entirely blown away.”

“Oh, Jenny, don’t!—it’s dreadful!”

“Yes it’s dreadful, but I’m afraid it’s true.”

“But whatever could have made him kill himself?” moaned Doris—“He’d nothing on his mind—he was perfectly happy ... it couldn’t have been because the baby was a girl.”

“Peter may have had troubles that we don’t know of,” said Rose.

“He must have,” said Jenny, “though I don’t think for a minute they were of the kind you’ve been suspecting.”

“I don’t see what other kind they could be.”

“It may have been something to do with the estate.”

“He’d never have killed himself for that. If anything had gone wrong there, it was more than ever his duty to keep alive.”

“Well, there’s no good us arguing here about what he did it for—if he really did do it. The question is—who is going to tell Mother?”

“Oh, Jenny....”

They looked at each other in consternation.