others in time. Now perhaps you will go in to Mrs. Brodrick?'
The familiar new-born baby cry rang in his ear, taking him back to those other times, to the birth of Molly at East Grove. How proud and anxious and excited he had been. And Kitty's in London. The nurse was in a corner, murmuring to the new little one. She brought the baby out of the cot and showed the child to him.
'Such a pity about the foot,' she whispered. 'We aren't going to say anything about it to Mrs.
Brodrick.'
Henry heard her in a dream. He did not know what she was saying. He went over and knelt beside the bed, taking Katherine's hand and kissing the fingers.
She opened her eyes and touched his head. He did not say anything. He went on kissing the fingers. The nurse took the baby out of the room, and the fitful cry disappeared along the passage. Henry tried to pray, but no words came to his lips. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could ask. Her hands were so cold, he wanted to warm them. This seemed to him more important than anything else, that he should warm her hands. He kissed them again and again, and held them against his cheek, and then inside his vest, against his heart.
She smiled then.
'I can feel your heart,' she said; 'it's throbbing, like an engine in a ship.'
'Are you warmer?' he asked.
'Yes,' she said. 'I would like to leave my hand there always.'
He went on kneeling there, and presently, about six in the morning, the workmen came walking along the drive below the castle, whistling and talking, the gravel scrunching under their boots. Somebody went and told them to go away.
It was Tom Callaghan who did everything. He took all responsibility upon his shoulders. He kept the children at Heathmount, out of Henry's way.
Then Herbert came over, and took them back with him to Lletharrog, the nurse and the baby as well as the older children and their governess. It was Tom who remembered about Ardmore, and he remembered too the hymns that Katherine had loved best, and her favourite flowers. Henry saw and heard nothing.
The only thing for which he gave orders himself was to stop all building on the house. He spoke to the men himself. He was quite calm, and knew what to say. He gave every one of them a sum of money, and shook hands with each, and thanked them. And they took away the bricks, and the cement, and the ladders, and all the paraphernalia of building, and did not return.
The architect went back to England, leaving the roll of plans with Henry. He put them away in his desk and locked it. He never looked at them again.
He went down to Heathmount and stayed with Tom, and then, after a few weeks, he became restless. It was no use, he said, every part of Doonhaven held a memory that gave him no peace. He would have to go away. He would let Clonmere, perhaps for a number of years.
'I don't think I should do that,' said Tom gently. 'You must remember the children. It's their home, and they are devoted to it Molly is twelve now, Hal ten, and Kitty seven. It's an age when children feel things. Let them keep their home.
Memories to children are precious, and not bitter. You must always remember that.'
'They will have to come alone then,' said Henry. 'I can't live there. There's no meaning in anything.
Life is finished, that's all there is to it.'
'I know, old fellow,' said Tom. 'But if you would try to accept it, surrender to it, you would find the pain easier to bear. It's only going to add to suffering if you build up resentment against it. And that is what you are doing now, dear boy, it is indeed.'
'I build up resentment against nothing and no one,' said Henry, 'except myself. You see, Tom, I killed her. That is something that I can never forget, or forgive. I killed her.'
'No, Henry, you must not think that. Katherine was not strong. I have talked about it all to McKay, and to Armstrong too. She had not been well for years, there were definite signs of internal disorder that could never have been cured.'
'You are being kind to me, Tom, but it's no use.
This last baby should never have been born. I knew it. And I would not let myself think about it because I loved her so much… Very well. We won't talk about these things again. Anyway, we shan't have the chance. I'm going away.'
'Yes, Henry, I think you should go away, for a little while. But don't forget this place is your home, and the home of your children. And we are always here when you want us.'
'You're my greatest friend, Tom. Sometimes I think the only true friend I've ever had-was 'Where will you go, old fellow? What will you do?'
'I don't know. I have no plans. I want to go somewhere where I shall not be reminded of her every second of the day.'
Tom tried to reason with him, but Henry would not listen. No argument, no gentleness, no patience, nothing did any good. Already the harsh lines of sorrow began to show on his face. The warm, carefree smile, that when it came lit up his eyes and the whole of his expression, was a thing of the past. When Henry smiled now it had a twist in it that was bitterness concealed.
'Don't you see,' said Tom, in a final attempt to break down the great wall of bitterness, 'that every day you are taking yourself farther from Katherine, instead of drawing nearer to her? She will be with you all the time, if you will only forgive yourself and open your heart.'
'Of course I see,' said Henry, despair in his face, spreading out his hands in futility. 'She has been dead now nearly two months; she belongs to the past, the past that can never be recovered. There is no other argument. I can't open my heart. I have none. She took it with her when she died.'
'No, Henry.'
'Yes, Tom Yes…'
Henry left Doonhaven in the middle of February, and went to London. He stayed there for a few weeks, and then travelled abroad He went to Italy and Greece. France was at war with Prussia, and he was unable to visit his mother. She preferred to stay in the south, she wrote, and risk the consequences, rather than return at the present time.
Conditions were difficult though; she wanted more money… He wrote her a large cheque. It did not seem to matter any more. Her extravagance failed to worry him. If she wanted to take the money and throw it down the nearest sewer she could do it, if it gave her any pleasure. Good luck to her for snatching what trivial happiness she could find.
He wished that he could be equally successful.
Italy and Greece proved a distraction. He met people he had not met before, and they helped, because they knew nothing of his life. He found that if he lunched or dined with comparative strangers and talked a lot it prevented him from thinking about Katherine.
He went back to London in May and bought a house in Lancaster Gate, and when he had settled down, and made some sort of routine for himself, lunching and dining out frequently, and seeing many friends, old and new, he sent for the children. It seemed to him that he could bear them again, and to have them about the house would make another distraction.
The bustle of their arrival made a strange excitement. The two cabs driving to the front-door, and Herbert, bless him, getting out with the usual twinkle in his eye and a broad smile on his face. There was Molly, grown in a few months beyond recognition, and Kitty, very leggy, with two front teeth missing, and Hal, rather white in the face and serious, looking up at him with large eyes. Miss Frost and a pile of luggage, the nurse and the baby Lizette. Molly threw her arms round his neck.
'Father darling, I am so glad to see you.'
And Kitty and Hal also thrust themselves against him, eager and anxious. It made a warmth, a queer glow for which he was unprepared, and then everybody was talking at once, and wanting to see the rooms. The house, that had been silent and a little dreary, was enveloped. The children with their youth and vitality took possession. They ran upstairs to see the schoolroom, with all the curiosity of youth, their feet stamping overhead, and Herbert and Henry sat down in the drawing-room to tea.
'They're such dears,' said Herbert, 'all three of them, and the baby too. We are going to miss them sadly.
