Part 20 (2/2)

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 pa.s.sed 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 c.u.mbersome 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, a.s.shlin 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 pa.s.sed 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 subst.i.tuted 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. G.o.d 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 s.p.a.ce 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 a.s.shlin 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 ap.r.o.n and held it out.

”G.o.d 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.

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