'Time enough for all that in the morning,' said Tom Callaghan 'Let's get the poor fellow to the surgery.'
What a damnable end to the evening, thought Henry, as the carriage with its miserable burden rattled down the hill into Doonhaven, And why, of all people, must it have been Jack Donovan, returned from America, who chose to end his life in such a fashion? If only he could have run into somebody else's carriage. Henry had not the slightest pity for the fellow, he was a scoundrel in every sense, and the world was well rid of him, but for anyone to be killed in this way, beneath his horses and his carriage, and especially after the celebration that had taken place that evening, was painful and disturbing, It was not his fault, it was not anyone's fault except Jack Donovan's himself, but that was not the point. The thing had happened. And it brought back the past and so much distress that was best forgotten. '
It was some time after midnight when Henry and his brothers returned to Clonmere. The body of Jack Donovan had been taken to the surgery and the doctor summoned. He must have died instantly, the doctor said, and certainly Tim could be absolved from all blame, for it was obvious that the dead man had been drinking. The doctor promised to go himself in the morning and break the news to Jack Donovan's cousin Pat, and Tom Callaghan also announced his intention of doing the same.
'There's no need for you to concern yourself in the matter, old fellow,' he said to Henry. 'I'm the Rector of this place, and I'm used to this sort of thing, even if the Donovans don't belong to my church. You have a big house-party on your hands, and it's your duty to look after them.'
The castle was hushed and silent in the moonlight.
Only a pinprick of light from their bedroom warned Henry that Katherine was awake and waiting for him. He was afraid she would be very much grieved at what had happened. Damn Jack Donovan, he thought angrily, even if he was dead. His brothers went up to bed, but Henry remained below, wondering whether he should make up some story to Katherine or not. It would be useless, though; he had never lied to her. He stood by the front door gazing out across the creek to Hungry Hill.
It lay in shadow now, and the moon, shining high above Doon Island, seemed pale and cold. Fifty years ago his grandfather must have stood here, with his future before him and the agreement for the mines in his pocket. And fifty years hence, what? His own grandson, a son of Hal's perhaps, with this same moon looking down upon Clonmere, and the creek, and the scarred, blank face of Hungry Hill?
He turned and went indoors, and climbed the stairs softly to Katherine's room. She was sitting up in bed waiting for him, her long dark hair in two plaits like a child. She looked pale and anxious.
'I am sure the man is dead,' she said at once. 'I felt it, directly you told me to come home.'
'Yes,' he said, 'he is dead.'
He told her a little more about it: how they had gone to the surgery, and roused the doctor, and then, when she asked the man's name, he hesitated, having some intuition that the name would make her unhappy, as indeed it made him unhappy too.
'It was Jack Donovan,' he said at last.
'It seems he had returned from America.'
She said very little, and he went and undressed, and when he came back she had blown out the candles and was lying in darkness.
He held her close to him, and when he kissed her eyes he found they were wet with tears.
'Don't think about it,' he said; 'it was a wretched unfortunate thing to happen, but the doctor said he died instantly. He was a hopeless fellow, you know that, and would only have made trouble in the district if he had settled down here again. Please, dear one, don't think about it any more.'
'It's not that,' she said. 'I'm not crying for Jack Donovan.'
'What is it, then?' he said. 'Won't you tell me?'
She said nothing for a moment, and then, putting her arms round him, she said: 'I cried just now because I remembered Johnnie, and how lost and unhappy he was. I might have done so much more for him than I did.'
'That's absurd,' said Henry. 'What more could you have possibly done?'
It was Jack Donovan, of course, who had brought back the old tragedy. Johnnie had been dead nearly twelve years, and Katherine had never mentioned him before. And here she was, lying in his arms, with the tears running down her cheeks. He was aware, for the first time in his life, of a queer pang of jealousy. It was disturbing, strange, that Katherine, his beloved wife, so calm always, so patient and reserved, should weep like a little child for his dead brother, after all these years.
'It's that damned accident,' he said, 'it's been a shock to you. I wish to God it could have been avoided… Katherine darling, you do love me, don't you? More than anyone else, more than the children, more than Hal?'
The great supper up at the mines, the cheering and the clapping, the celebrations of the day, and the sudden horror of the accident on the way home were all forgotten in his sudden longing for reassurance. If he doubted Katherine he doubted everything. There was no faith, no hope, no meaning in life at all.
'You do love me?' he said. 'Don't you…
Don't you?'
Henry decided against taking a house for the season in London that year. For one thing, both doctors, the new man and old Uncle Willie, said that it would be too much for Katherine. And the other reason was that Henry wished to superintend the work upon the castle. For his secret, announced to the family during the celebrations in March, was no more than this, that he had been in consultation with a well-known architect, who, at his request, had drawn up plans for an entire new front to the castle.
'How my father and all the aunts ever crammed into the rooms cannot imagine,' he said. 'Aunt Eliza has told me that they never could invite people to stay in my grandfather's time'
He smiled down at his wife, unrolling the plan the architect had given him, as excited as a child with a new toy.
'Now admit, dearest,' he said, 'that this new wing, where you and I and our guests shall live, is really very imposing.'
Katherine smiled, and took the plan in her hands.
'It's like a palace,' she said. 'What are we going to do with all those rooms?'
'Don't you think the idea of a grand entrance hall is rather fine?' he said eagerly. 'I've always felt rather ashamed of our small hall, scarcely more than a passage, when I've been to Andriff and other places. What about this staircase? Magnificent, isn't it? Of course, I shall buy some really good pictures for the gallery. We'll go out to Florence and Rome next winter, and really spread ourselves.
Now this is what will please you most. Look, the boudoir, all for you, between our bedroom and the spare room on the corner. And the little balcony leading from it, over the big front door. Here is my dressing-room, facing the woods. But tell me that you like the boudoir? It was my idea entirely.'
Katherine lifted her hand and touched his cheek.
'Of course I like it,' she said. 'It's quite true, I've always wanted a little room of my own, where I can write my letters and not be disturbed.'
'And you will have such a view,' he said excitedly, 'the best view in the castle, right away across the creek to Hungry Hill. You see, dear one, if you are not feeling strong your breakfast can be brought to you in the boudoir, and you will only have to walk through from your bedroom. These new rooms will have the sun the whole day long. At the moment we lose it, in winter, almost directly after luncheon. I dare say that is why you often look so pale.'
He rolled the parchment back and drew forth another, more technical, showing the construction of the new roof and the chimneys.
'This won't interest you so much,' he said, 'but I like the way he introduces the little turrets and towers. They are like the pictures of the chateaux on the Loire.'
Katherine watched him from her sofa. He was so eager, so impulsive. This rebuilding of the castle would fill his thoughts for the coming months to the exclusion of everything else. She was glad of it, for that reason only. It would mean he would not have the time to worry about her…
'And how long is it all going to take?' she asked.
'Just under a year before everything is finished,' he said. 'It means workmen about the place for a long time, I'm afraid. You won't mind, will you? Or would you rather we went across and spent the summer with Aunt Eliza in Lletharrog? The doctors couldn't object to that.'
'No,' said Katherine, 'no, I don't want to leave Clonmere again.'
