Gambler — 04 - Part 2, Chapters 4 through 6

"Do you happen to know if this is a Reynolds?"

he said to Gallagher, rising and crossing the room.

CHAPTER IV

To the last day of his life, that evening, with its horde of harassing and unfamiliar sensations, remained stamped upon Milbanke's mind; and not least among the unpleasant recollections was the visit of Molyneaux, and the dinner at which he himself unwillingly played host.

It may have been that his usually placid susceptibilities had undergone a strain that rendered him over sensitive; but whatever the cause, the atmosphere diffused by the great man jarred upon him.

In his eyes, it seemed little short of callous that one who had just passed sentence of death upon his patient could so far remain unmoved as to partake with relish of the dinner set before him, and comment with affable appreciation upon the quality of the patient's wines.

Milbanke spoke little during the course of that meal.

Try as he might to enact the part entrusted to him, his thoughts persistently wandered to the room upstairs, with its doomed sufferer and its anxious watchers, as yet mercifully ignorant of the verdict that had been pronounced.

But if the host was silent, the guests made conversation.

Gallagher was assiduous in his attentions to the man who, in his eyes, stood for the attainment of all ambition; and Molyneaux--under the unlooked-for stimulus of good, if homely food and wines that even as an epicure he admitted to be remarkable--was graciously pleased to accept the homage of his humble colleague, and to display a suave glimpse of the polished wit for which he was noted in society.

His expressions of regret were perfectly genuine when at last the sound of wheels on the gravel of the drive broke in upon his discourse, and Gallagher deprecatingly drew out his watch.

"The way of the world, Mr. Milbanke!"

he murmured as he rose.

"Our pleasantest acquaintances end the soonest.

I must wish you good-bye--with many thanks for your delightful hospitality.

So far as our poor friend is concerned," he added, in a correctly altered tone, "Doctor Gallagher may be relied upon to do everything.

In a case like this, where physical pain is recurrent and violent, we can only have recourse to narcotics.

We have already allayed the suffering consequent on my examination and you may rely upon some hours of calm; for any subsequent contingency Doctor Gallagher has my instructions.

Of course, if you wish me to have one more glimpse at him before I go----" But Milbanke, who had also risen, held out his hand mechanically.

"Oh no," he said quietly.

"No, thank you!

I don't think we will trouble you any further.

It has been a great satisfaction to have obtained your--your opinion."

Molyneaux waved his hand magnanimously.

"Do not mention it!"

he murmured.

"My regret is deep that I have been of so little avail.

Good-bye again, Mr. Milbanke!

It has been an honour as well as a pleasure to meet you."

He smiled blandly, and added the last remark as Gallagher solicitously helped him into his furlined travelling coat.

Then, still suavely genial, he passed out of the dining-room towards the hall door.

Gallagher hurried after him, but, in passing Milbanke, he paused.

"I'll be back in an hour, Mr. Milbanke," he said.

"I'm just going as far as Carrigmore with Doctor Molyneaux to get an additional supply of morphia."

Milbanke nodded silently, and in his turn stepped into the hall.

When the two men had entered the waiting vehicle, when Molyneaux had waved a courtly farewell and the coachman had gathered up the reins, he turned and slowly began to mount the stairs.

Instantly his foot touched the landing, Mrs. Asshlin darted from the shadowy corridor.

"What news?"

she asked agitatedly.

"Oh, Mr. Milbanke, what news?

The suspense has been dreadful."

Her voice trembled.

Tears came very easily to Mrs. Asshlin, and her habitual attitude of mourning had heretofore irritated Milbanke.

But now her thin face and faded black garments came as a curiously welcome contrast to the bland affluence, the genial, complacent superiority of Molyneaux.

He turned to her with a feeling of warmth.

"Forgive my delay, Mrs. Asshlin!"

he said gently.

"One is never in a hurry to impart bad news.

Doctor Molyneaux holds out no hope--not a shadow of hope."

There was a pause; then Mrs. Asshlin made a tragic gesture.

"Oh, the children!"

she murmured.

"The poor, poor children!

What will become of them?"

"The children will be provided for," Milbanke said hastily.

Then, without giving her time for question or astonishment, he went on again: "Don't say anything of this to Clodagh," he enjoined.

"She must have these last hours in peace."

"Certainly--certainly!

Poor Denis!

Poor Denis!

I always said he would have an unfortunate end.

But go in and see him, Mr. Milbanke.

Clodagh is in the room."

Milbanke silently acquiesced, and moved slowly down the corridor.

At the door of her father's room, he found Nance still patiently watchful.

He paused, arrested by his new sense of obligation, and looked down into the upturned, wistful little face.

"What are you doing here, Nance?"

he asked kindly.

She made a valiant attempt to conjure up her pretty, winning smile, but her lips began to tremble.

"I don't know!"

she said shyly and softly; then in a sudden burst of confidence she stepped close to him.

"Clo doesn't like me to go in," she murmured.

"She thinks it makes me sad to see father; and I don't know where to go.

I'd be in Hannah's way in the kitchen, and I don't like being with Aunt Fan, and--and I'm frightened to be by myself.

There's a horrid sort of feel in the house."

Her dark blue eyes searched Milbanke's face appealingly; and with a sensation of pity and protection, he stooped and took one of her cold, limp hands.

"You may come in," he said gently.

"It is very lonely out here.

I think we can make Clodagh understand."

Without hesitation her fingers closed round his in a movement of confidence and gratitude, and together they passed into the room where Asshlin lay peacefully under the influence of the narcotic administered by Molyneaux.

By Gallagher's orders the nurse--who had been deprived of her necessary rest in the morning--had retired to her room again in preparation for the night, and only Clodagh was in attendance.

Having quietly closed the door, Milbanke halted hesitatingly, expecting a flood of questions.

But to his intense surprise she did not even glance in his direction.

She sat motionless and pale, her eyes on her father's face, her attitude stiff and almost defiant.

He wondered for a moment whether, by the power of instinct, she had divined Molyneaux's verdict, or whether, through some source unknown to him, the news of it had already reached her.

With a sense of trepidation, he tightened his fingers round Nance's small hand, and drew her silently into a corner of the room.

For more than an hour the three watchers sat regarding their patient.

No one attempted to speak--no one appeared to have anything to say.

Once or twice Mrs. Asshlin flitted agitatedly in and out of the room, but none of them took heed of her presence.

Occasionally a clock struck in the silent house or a cinder fell from the fire, causing them all to start nervously.

But, except for these interruptions, the quiet was preternatural.

It was with a throb of relief at his heart that Milbanke at last caught the sound of Gallagher's horse trotting up the avenue, and knew by the shutting of the hall door that the doctor had entered the house.

He walked into the sick-room a few minutes later, and with a casual nod to all present, moved at once to the bed.

Bending over Asshlin, he felt his pulse, then glanced significantly at Milbanke, who had risen on his entrance.

"I think we must inject a stimulant," he said.

"The pulse is a little weak."

With a faint sound of consternation Clodagh stood up.

"Oh, he's not worse?"

she said.

"Doctor Gallagher, he's not worse?"

Gallagher looked at her, and his expression changed.

The distress of a pretty girl is always difficult to resist.

"No, Miss Asshlin," he said kindly.

"No. You see, he has gone through a lot.

We must expect him to be weak."

Clodagh looked relieved, though the alarm still lingered in her eyes.

"Of course," she said.

"Yes, of course.

Is there anything I can do?"

Gallagher glanced at her again.

"Well," he said quietly, "perhaps you will call the nurse for me?

There's no real need for her, but it is just as well we should have her on the spot."

Again Clodagh's eyes darkened with apprehension, but she made no remark.

Signalling to Nance to follow her, she left the room.

As the two girls disappeared, Gallagher bent again over Asshlin, making another rapid examination; then once more he glanced up at Milbanke.

"He may not last the night," he said below his breath.

"Molyneaux expected that it wouldn't be a long business, but we didn't look for the change so soon as this."

Milbanke did not alter his position.

"You'll stay on, of course?"

he said mechanically.

"Yes.

Oh yes, I'll stay on!"

As he said the last word Clodagh reappeared.

"The nurse will be here in a minute," she said in a steady voice.

The unrelaxed, monotonous vigil lasted until two o'clock; then, as Asshlin showed a disposition to rally, the doctor asserted his authority, and dismissed Mrs. Asshlin, Nance, and Milbanke for a much-needed rest--Clodagh alone refusing to leave the room.

Though he would not have admitted it, the command came as a boon to Milbanke.

His long and arduous journey, coupled with the strain and excitement of the day and evening, had culminated in intense weariness;

and when Gallagher's order came, it would have been a superhuman effort to offer any protest.

Reaching his room, he took off his boots, and, partially undressing, threw himself upon his bed.

How many hours he slept the deep sleep of utter exhaustion he did not know.

His first effort at awaking consciousness was a thrill of nervous fright that made him sit up in bed, aware with a sudden shock that some one was knocking imperatively on his door and calling him by name in low, agitated tones.

"Mr. Milbanke!

Mr. Milbanke!

Wake, please!

Quick!

Mr. Milbanke!"

He stared into the darkness for an instant in dazed apprehension; then he slid out of bed, fumbling blindly for his dressing-gown.

"Coming!"

he called.

"Coming!"

Having found the garment, he crossed the room stumblingly, thrusting his arms into the sleeves as he went.

Opening the door, he realised the situation with a sick sinking of the heart.

Clodagh stood in the corridor with a blanched face, holding a candle in her shaking hand.

"Oh, come, please!"

she exclaimed.

"Come quick!"

Without a word he stepped forward, and the two hurried down the passage.

In the sick-room the fire was glowing and additional candles had been lighted.

For a second Milbanke paused at the door; then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the access of light, the scene became clear to him.

On the bed lay Asshlin, his head partly propped up by pillows, his eyes wide, his breath coming in slow, difficult gasps; Gallagher was moving about the room with more quickness and deftness than the Englishman could have believed possible; Mrs. Asshlin, unnerved, and yet fascinated, leaned upon the end of the bed; while Nance--crying silently--followed the nurse to and fro in dazed, half-comprehending fear; and Hannah, the household factotum, crouched behind the door, weeping and murmuring inarticulate prayers.

The picture turned Milbanke cold.

With an instinctive gesture he paused, with the intention of shielding it from Clodagh's sight.

But at the very moment that he turned towards her, a convulsion shook the dying man.

He half-lifted himself in bed, his eyes staring wildly; as Gallagher rushed forward, a faint sound escaped him, his head fell forward, and his body collapsed in the doctor's arms.

There was a breathless, appalled silence--a silence that seemed to extend over years.

At last Gallagher looked up.

"It's all over," he said in a hushed voice.

For a minute no one spoke, no one moved.

It seemed as if the whole room was petrified.

Then Gallagher quietly laid the body back upon the pillows, and as though the action broke the spell, Clodagh gave a sudden sharp cry and ran forward to the bed.

CHAPTER V

The three days that followed Asshlin's death resolved themselves into so many hours of gloom and confusion, that found their culmination in the funeral ceremony.

To Irishmen of every class, a funeral is invested with an almost symbolic importance, and a solemn consideration is bestowed upon its most minute details.

And Milbanke, deeply imbued with the horror and suddenness of the whole disaster, was filled with a growing astonishment at the numberless preliminaries--the amount of precedence and prestige requiring consideration--before one poor human body could be hidden away.

But he rose dutifully to the occasion and proved himself unfailingly patient and conscientious in every emergency, from the first repugnant interview with the undertaker to the woeful breakfast, partaken of in the early hours of the funeral morning, with the curtains drawn across the dining-room windows and the candles in the massive silver sconces shedding an unnatural light upon the table laden with eatables.

The guests who partook of this meal were men of varied and interesting types; but whatever their characteristic differences, it was remarkable that the same air of responsibility and solemnity inspired them all.

It did not matter that many of them had been personal enemies of the dead man; that many, with that jealous distrust of unconventionality that reigns in Ireland, had markedly drawn away from him in the last ten years of his life; death had obliterated everything.

Asshlin's eccentricities, his lawlessness, his contempt for the little world in which he lived were all forgotten.

He was one of themselves--deserving, in death at least, the same consideration that the county had bestowed upon his father, his grandfather, and those who had gone before them.

The faces of these men were unfamiliar to Milbanke, though each on entering the dining-room shook him cordially and sympathetically by the hand.

The meal was partaken of almost in silence; and it was with obvious relief that, one after another, the members of the party rose from table and passed into the darkened hall, and from thence to the sweep of gravelled drive that fronted the house, where the less privileged of those who had come to do Asshlin honour lounged singly or in groups.

The funeral was timed to start at nine; but the concourse of mourners--well accustomed to the delays inevitable on such an occasion--evinced no sigh of impatience when half-past nine, and then ten arrived, and no move had yet been made.

But all things come to those who understand the art of patience.

At a quarter past ten a thrill galvanised the lethargic crowd; and with the recognition of the great moment for which they waited, the men began to jostle each other and push forward towards the house, while all hats were respectively removed.

A faint murmur of admiration and awe went up from the gathering as the great brass-bound coffin was borne solemnly through the door and laid upon the open bier.

In silence Milbanke and young Laurence Asshlin took their places as chief mourners, and with the inevitable confusion and uncertainty of such a moment, the crowd of men and vehicles formed up behind them, the horses under the bier moved slowly forward, and the body of Denis Asshlin passed for the last time down the avenue and through the gates of Orristown.

The funeral over, Milbanke walked back from Carrigmore alone.

The servants, who had followed their master to his resting-place in the old graveyard, had remained in the village to enjoy the importance that the occasion lent them; young Asshlin had disappeared at the conclusion of the burial service; while the daughters and sister-in-law of the dead man--in accordance with the custom of the country--had remained secluded in their own rooms at Orristown, appearing neither at the breakfast nor the funeral.

In a house of death, the hours that succeed the burial are, if possible, even more melancholy than those that precede it.

The sensations of awe and responsibility have been dispersed, but as yet it is impossible to resume the commonplace routine of life.

As Milbanke passed through the gateway and walked up the drive, ploughed into new furrows by the long procession of cars that had followed the coffin, he was deeply sensitive to this impression; and it fell upon him afresh with a chill of desolation as he entered the door, still standing open, and moved slowly across the deserted hall.

In the dining-room the curtains had been drawn back and the candles extinguished; but the daylight seemed to fall tardily and unnaturally upon the room after its three days' exclusion.

He stood for a moment looking at the debris of the breakfast that had not yet been removed, at the disarray of the chairs that had been hurriedly vacated; then, with a fresh and poignant sense of loss and loneliness, he turned hastily and walked out of the room.

In the hall he attempted to pause afresh; but the sound of muffled sobbing from the upper portion of the house sent him incontinently forth into the open.

With an overwhelming desire for human fellowship--for any companionship in this abode of desolation, he passed without consideration of his dignity round the corner of the house in the direction of the stable-yard.

He walked calmly, but there was a pucker of anxiety on his usually placid brow--an expression of concern, apart from actual sorrow, in his tightly set lips.

To the most casual observer it would have been obvious that something weighed upon his mind.

Still moving with his habitual precision, he entered the yard by the arched gateway, picking his way between the scattered array of rubbish, food, and implements that encumbered the ground.

When he appeared, a dozen rough or glossy heads were thrust out of kennels or outhouses, as the dogs accorded him a noisy welcome; but paying only partial heed to their demonstrations, he passed on to the vast coach-house, with the vague hope that some labourer connected with the farm or stables might possibly have been left behind in the general exodus.

But here again he was doomed to disappointment.

The coach-house, with its walls festooned with rotting harness, its ghostly row of cumbersome antiquated vehicles, was as empty of human presence as the yard itself.

Conscious of the isolation that hung over the place--disproportionately aware of his own aimlessness, he stood uncertain in what direction to turn.

For the moment, the household had no need of him; there were no legal formalities to succeed the funeral, Asshlin having left no will;

and of personal duties he had none to claim his attention.

He stood by the coach-house door woefully undecided as to his next move, when all at once relief came to him from the most unexpected quarter of the outbuildings.

One of the dairy windows was opened sharply, and a head was thrust through the aperture.

"Wisha, what is it you're doin' there, sir?"

a voice demanded kindly.

"Sure that ould yard is no fit place for you!"

Turning hastily, Milbanke saw the broad, plain face of Hannah; her small eyes red, her rough cheeks stained with weeping.

"Why, Hannah!"

he exclaimed, "what are you doing here?

I thought you were at the funeral."

Hannah passed the back of her hand across her eyes.

"Wisha, what would I be doin' at it?"

she demanded huskily.

"Sure I don't know what they do be seein' in funerals at all."

Milbanke glanced up with interest, recognising the originality of the remark.

"Why, you and I are of the same opinion," he said.

"The Celtic delight in the obsequies of a friend has been puzzling me for the last three days----" Then he paused suddenly, conscious of Hannah's fixed regard.

"That is," he substituted quickly--"that is, I have been wondering, like you, what they see in it."

Hannah's small, observant eyes did not waver in their scrutiny.

"You've been wonderin' about somethin', sure enough!"

she said.

"I seen it meself every time I'd be carryin' in the dinner or doin' a turn for the poor corpse.

God be good to him this holy and blessed day!"

Again she wiped her eyes.

"But 'tisn't wonderin' alone that's at you," she added more briskly.

"'Tis some other thing that's lyin' heavy on your mind.

I seen it meself at every hand's turn."

Milbanke started.

This sympathetic onslaught was as disconcerting as it was unexpected.

"I--I won't contradict you, Hannah," he said waveringly.

"No doubt you are right."

For the space of a minute Hannah was profoundly silent; then she broached the subject that had been filling her mind for a day and a half.

"Wisha, now, is it thrue what they do be tellin' me?"

she asked softly and warily--"that you're goin' to be father and mother an' all to thim two poor children?"

Again Milbanke started almost guiltily; then the personal anxiety that mingled with and almost dominated his grief for Asshlin rose irrepressibly in response to the persuasive tones, the kindly human interest and curiosity.

"Yes, Hannah," he said quickly.

"Yes, it is my intention to try and fill my poor friend's place."

The tears welled suddenly into Hannah's eyes, and with an awkward movement she wiped her rough hand in her apron and held it out.

"God Almighty will give it back to you, sir!"

she exclaimed, with impulsive fervour.

Strangely touched by the expression of understanding and appreciation, he responded to the gesture and took her hand.

But instantly she withdrew it.

"Don't be mindin' an ould woman like me, sir," she said deprecatingly.

"'Twas the thought of the children that come over me.

I couldn't help it.

I had the both of thim in me arms before they could cry.

Small wonder me heart would be in thim!

Many's the sad day I put over me, thinkin' what would become of them, wid the poor masther goin' to the bad.

God forgive me for sayin' it!

And sure now 'tis all settled and done for--and the heavth of it off of our minds.

Praise be to God!"

She paused to dry her tears.

"And what would you be thinkin' to do wid thim?"

she asked presently in a new and more personal tone.

Milbanke did not answer at once.

His eyes strayed uneasily from one object in the yard to another, while the frown of perplexity that had puckered his brow since Asshlin's death reappeared more prominently than before.

At last, with a certain expression of puzzled resolution, he looked up and met Hannah's attentive gaze.

"To tell you the truth, Hannah," he said, "that is the precise question I have been asking myself ever since your poor master died."

There was a wait of some seconds while his listener digested the information; then she nodded her head with slow impressiveness.

"I seen it meself," she said again.

"Sure, I seen it as plain as daylight.

'There's somethin' on his mind,' I says to meself.

An' if it isn't the poor masther's death,' I says, 'thin it's nothin' more nor less than the natural feelin's of a single gentleman that finds himself wid two grown daughters.'

" It was characteristic of Milbanke that he did not smile.

He recognised only one fact in the old servant's words--the fact that the state of affairs over which he had been worrying in lonely perplexity had suddenly been accurately, if roughly, voiced by some one else.

He glanced up with quick relief into the round, red face framed in the dairy window.

"Hannah," he said honestly, "your surmise was perfectly correct."

For the first time a smile broke over her tear-stained face.

"I was right thin?

'Tis the children was troublin' you?"

A sharp gleam of inquiry shot from her eyes.

"Yes," he answered simply.

"An' why, now?"

Again her tone changed, the irrepressible undercurrent of native humour, native inquisitiveness and familiarity welling out unconsciously.

"Sure, they're good children."

"I do not doubt it.

I do not doubt it for one moment."

"But they're troublin' you all the same?"

"Well, yes.

Yes, I confess they are troubling me."

"Both of thim?"

she asked innocently.

He hesitated.

"Well, no," he replied artlessly.

"No, not both of them."

"Ah, I thought that same!"

Hannah gave a nod of understanding.

"Sure, 'twas to be tormentin' men she was brought into the world for.

I said so meself the first day I took her into me arms."

"But--but I haven't said anything.

How do you know that it is----?"

"How do I know that it's Miss Clodagh that's botherin' you?

Sure, how do I know that you're standin' before me?

Faith, by the use of me eyesight!

Haven't I seen you lookin' at her and ponderin'--and lookin' at her agin?"

Milbanke's lips tightened, and he drew himself up.

"I should be sorry if any thought I have bestowed on your young mistress----" he began coldly; then suddenly the intense need of help and sympathetic counsel over-balanced dignity.

"Hannah," he said abruptly, "I'm in a terribly awkward position, and that is the simple truth.

My mind is quite at rest about the younger girl.

She is a child--and will be a child for years.

A good school is all she needs.

But with the other it's different--with Clodagh it's different.

Clodagh is no longer a child."

Hannah remained discreetly silent.

"If I had a sister," he went on, "or any friend to whom I could entrust her.

But I have none."

Again Hannah shook her head.