Part 39 (1/2)

Then there had been the mystery of old Taylor's death in the house in Belgrave Street, and quite recently the mystery of the mummified remains, both of which events had again brought Rutland indirectly into the limelight of publicity, the Thorolds and myself being Rutland people.

Now, to cap everything, came this ”Siege of Houghton Park,” to which the newspapers, one and all, accorded the place of honour in their columns.

It was the ”story of the day.” This final ignominy would give Rutland's smug respectability its deathblow. Never again, would its county families be able to rear their proud heads and look contemptuously down upon the families of other counties and mentally e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e--”We thank thee, O Lord, that we are not as these publicans.” Henceforth, proud and exclusive Rutland would bear the brand of Cain, or what ”the county”

deemed just as bad--the brand of Public Notoriety. Yes, there is amazing sn.o.bbishness, even yet, in our rural districts. Yet there is also still some sterling British broad-mindedness--the old English gentleman, happily, still survives.

Faulkner had asked me to go to a theatre with him. He knew, he said, he could not ask Vera, with her father so ill, but Violet de Coudron would be there. He would try to get a fourth, as he had a box. There was no good in moping, he ended, sensibly enough.

I returned to King Street to dress, intending to telephone first, to the hospital, to inquire for Sir Charles. On the table, in my sitting-room, a telegram awaited me. Somehow I guessed it must be from Vera in her distress, and hurriedly tore it open--

”Father sinking fast,” it ran, ”and beseeching for you to come to him.

Come at once. Most urgent--Vera.”

I rang for my man. The telegram had been awaiting me about half-an-hour, he said.

Telling him to telephone to the hospital, to say I was on my way, and also to Faulkner, to tell him I couldn't go to the theatre, I hurried down the stairs, dashed out into the street, and hailed the first taxi I met.

Was the actual truth at last to be revealed?

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

A STRANGE TRUTH IS TOLD.

I went straight up to the side-ward in the hospital where Thorold lay, the hall-porter, in his gla.s.s-box, having nodded me within. At the door of the ward I met the sister, in her blue gown.

”I am so glad you have come, Mr. Ashton!” she exclaimed. ”He wants so much to see you, and I fear he has not long to live.”

The dark-eyed woman, with the medal on her breast, seemed genuinely distressed. Thorold, for some reason, had always attracted women. I think it was his sympathetic nature that drew women to him.

I waited in the corridor. Suddenly Vera came out, a handkerchief saturated with antiseptic before her mouth, to avoid infection.

Her face was pale and drawn, her eyes red from weeping. On seeing me, she began to sob bitterly; then she buried her face in her hands.

I did my best to comfort her, though it was a hard task. At last she spoke--”Go in to him--go in to him now, dear,” she exclaimed broken-heartedly. ”He wants you alone--quite alone.”

The invalid was quite conscious when I entered, a handkerchief similar to Vera's having been given me by a nurse. He was propped up with pillows into almost a sitting posture. The other bed in the side-ward was unoccupied, for it was being used for isolation. After what I had been told, I was surprised at his appearance, for he struck me as looking better than when I had last seen him. A faint smile of welcome flickered upon his lips as he recognised me. Then he grew serious.

Without speaking, he indicated a chair beside the bed. I drew it near, and seated myself.

”We are quite alone?” he whispered, looking slowly about the room.

”n.o.body is listening--eh? n.o.body can hear us?”

”n.o.body,” I answered quickly. A lump rose in my throat. It was dreadful to see him like that. Yet, even then, I could hardly realise I was so soon to lose my valued and dearest friend, who had been such a striking figure in the hunting-field.

He put out his thin hand--oh, how his arm had shrunk in those few days!--and let it rest on mine. It felt damp and cold. It chilled me.

The moisture of death seemed already to be upon it.

”Listen, d.i.c.k, my boy,” he said very feebly. ”I have much to tell you, and--and very little time to tell it in. But you are going to marry Vera, so it--so it's only right that you should know. Ah, yes, I can trust you,” he said, guessing the words I had been about to utter. ”I know--oh, yes, I know that what I say to _you_ won't make any difference to our long friends.h.i.+p. But even if it should,” he said, grimly, ”it wouldn't matter--now we are so very soon to part.”

I felt the wasted hand grip more firmly upon my wrist.

”I have known you for half your life, my boy,” he said, after a pause, ”and I'll tell you this. There is no man I know, whom I would sooner Vera married, than yourself. You have your faults, but--but you will be good to her, always good to her. Ah! I know you will, and that is as much as any woman should expect. And Gwen is glad, too, that you are going to marry Vera. But now, d.i.c.k, there is this thing I must tell you. I--I should not rest after death, if I died without your knowing.”