by Alex Stuart
"Deirdre—" A hand touched hers and she looked up into Alan's concerned face. He said gently: "He's all right, you know. Honestly. It's just his collarbone and he may be a bit shocked but there's nothing to worry about."
"Isn't there?" She could only stare at him.
"Of course there isn't. Look, give me Marigold. I'll get the vet and see to things for you—you go with young Dwight. I think he'll want you with him. My car's in the drive, use it to run him back to the house, if it would help. It might be as well to put him to bed or tuck him up on a sofa until the doctor arrives. They'll send a Service chap over from Barminster—Major Haines will see to it."
"I—yes, all right." Deirdre relinquished Marigold's reins to him. But she fondled the mare's soft nose before leaving her. "Oh, poor Marigold! Poor baby!"
"Paddy and I will take care of her," Alan promised.
"Thank you. Thank you so much. You"—her eyes met his—"you're always so kind to me. And you're always here when I—when I need help."
A spasm of pain flickered across Alan's face. "Am I?" he answered brusquely. "Well, I'm glad, I've tried to be. But I won't overdo it. Your cavalier is in no state to object now, but it's conceivable that he might when he recovers, don't you think? And about this evening—Dwight obviously won't be able to take you dancing in the circumstances, will he? But you don't have to make any excuses for refusing my invitation. Forget it—I quite understand."
Somehow Deirdre managed to blink back tears which started to her eyes; somehow she managed to answer him. It was all too evident that he had misunderstood her feelings for Dwight, but she couldn't explain now, there wasn't anything she could say, and Dwight, conscious again, was calling to her… Fergus was urging her to go to him: even Dan, normally the most phlegmatic of men, was saying in a low, shaken voice: "Say, Deirdre, the kid needs you."
She forced herself to smile, to leave Alan and go and kneel by Dwight's side. He gripped her hand hard.
"Oh, gosh, Deirdre, I'm sorry about this. Is Cavalier all right—and Petitioner?" He struggled into a sitting position, regarding her anxiously. "I was every sort of a heel, I know it, I oughtn't to have gone racing ahead like I did. And then to put the tin hat on it, I have to go and bust my collarbone and ruin everyone's afternoon. Oh, gee, I just don't know what you must think of me."
"Don't worry about that," Deirdre told him, "let me see if I can fix your arm comfortably for you. And then we'll get you to the house."
With Fergus's assistance, she fashioned the sleeve of Dwight's sweater into a rough sling to support his injured arm and he was able to walk, unaided, back to the house. Here he submitted, not without protest, to being laid full length on the study sofa, with a blanket over him and Deirdre and Bridget in attendance.
Bridget was in her element with an invalid to care for: she bustled in with hot-water bottles, ignoring Dwight's disgusted plea that he might be sick but he wasn't that sick, so help him.
"Ach now, Mr. Dwight, sure you don't know how bad you are, do you? You'll not know, till the doctor's seen you. Move over a little, and let me put this bottle at your back. 'Tis your back gets chilled when you're shocked— they taught us that at the first-aid classes during the war. And now I'll make you some tea. Strong, hot and sweet. And you've to drink every last drop of it, so you have."
Dwight sighed in resignation, but left alone with Deirdre, he made it quite clear that he was willing to play the invalid so long as she sat with him and allowed him to hold her hand.
"Say, Deirdre"—he pulled her down beside him—"don't rush away. I want to talk to you."
"Oh, but"—the last thing she wanted to do was to talk to Dwight just then—"I ought to go and find Dan, make sure he's sending for the doctor."
"He's sending for the doctor, don't worry."
"And there are the horses—Marigold. I'll have to see that she's all right—"
"Horses!" Dwight's resentment was in his eyes. "Is that all you ever think of, your horses?"
"Well—"
"And me lying here, practically at death's door? Don't you care about me?"
Deirdre laughed. "Don't be silly, of course I do! But you're not at death's door, you've only broken your collarbone."
"Bridget, doesn't think I've only broken my collarbone," Dwight objected, making a plea for sympathy.
"Oh, all right. I'll wait till Bridget comes back with your tea, then."
"Heck," said Dwight, "I don't want Bridget and I don't want any goshdarned British tea—I want you. Deirdre, don't you get it. I'm crazy about you, I'm—"
"Oh, please, Dwight, don't. Let me go, I—"
Dwight, impeded by his sling, nevertheless managed to get his left arm round her. "I love you, Deirdre, and you know I do. Haven't I made it plain enough? Why, honey, I guess it must be written all over me, in great, big capital letters!"
Deirdre couldn't struggle with him, she was afraid of hurting his arm. But she pleaded: "Dwight, please—you must let me go. Someone will come in and—"
"I don't care if they do, I'm not ashamed of loving you, I'm proud of it. Deirdre, I want to marry you!" His face fell when, managing at last to elude him, Deirdre shook her head.
"I'm sorry, Dwight, but I—I can't marry you. I'm not in love with you, you see. I—well, I'm not. And if anything I did or said led you to think I was, I—I'm sorry for that too. It wasn't intentional. I thought we were just friends."
Dwight got up from the couch, flinging the blanket from him and scattering Bridget's hot-water bottles. He said bitterly:
"Friends, you and me? Oh, no, we're not friends, Deirdre, we could never be just that." He reached for her roughly. "I'd make you care for me, it wouldn't be difficult, if you'd quit thinking about that Carmichael guy and notice me, for a change. When he's around, you don't even see me, do you?"
His accusation was true, Deirdre realized: she couldn't deny it. But Dwight looked so hurt and sorry for himself that her heart melted. "Oh, Dwight dear, don't talk like that. I am sorry, honestly I am."
"Then give me a chance," Dwight begged, "you've never let me kiss you properly yet."
"I—I've never let anyone kiss me—properly, yet," Deirdre confessed, flushing. She made to free her hand from his.
"You haven't?" Dwight's eyes lit up and his one arm moved, tightening about her. "Then, honey, you're going to, right now. And I'm the guy that's going to teach you lesson one!"
Over Deirdre's shoulder, he saw the door begin to open and he grinned. He hoped it was Carmichael. Gosh, how he hoped it was Carmichael! "Deirdre—" he said.
"Deirdre honey—"
Deirdre's lips were cold and stiff under his. She fought against him silently and Dwight, conscious of the fact that whoever was standing in the now open doorway was evidently rooted to the spot with shock or surprise, redoubled his efforts, twisting Deirdre's arm behind her back, so that she cried out in pain. "Dwight! You're hurting. Let me go, let… me… go!"
"No," gritted Dwight, "I won't. Not until you've kissed me. Sean doesn't like Carmichael. Have you thought of that? Have you?"
There was a movement from the door. A hand came out and grasped Dwight firmly by the shoulder. "Am I to take it, Deirdre," Sir Henry Hollis asked acidly, "that you object to this fellow's attentions? Because if you do, there is an American Army ambulance just pulling up outside your front door and I suggest that it might be utilized to remove him!"
Dwight's surprise was equalled by Deirdre's. He released her arm and Sir Henry spun round on his heel, propelling the young pilot in front of him. They crossed the hall in half a dozen rapid strides. "Here," announced Sir Henry coldly, to the smartly uniformed Medical Corpsman who stood with his hand on the bell push, gaping at them, "here is your patient. Take him away, if you please. I understand that he fell off a horse and fractured his collarbone."
The Corpsman grinned. "Yes, sir," he said. "This way, Lieutenant. Easy does it now." He offered Dwight his arm.
Dwight thrust him aside. Scarlet under his tan, he went dow
n the steps and into the waiting ambulance.
Sir Henry closed the door firmly behind him. "I hope," he said to Deirdre, very politely, "you didn't mind my walking in and—er—taking matters into my own hands like that. But I met Carmichael outside in the yard and he told me what had happened. And these young Americans, you know—nice enough boys, of course, but thrusters, the lot of them. Need to be taught a lesson. I think that young fellow has been, myself. Eh? He'll improve."
"Yes," agreed Deirdre faintly, "yes. I—I suppose so."
They stood looking at each other and then Bridget appeared from the kitchen quarters, bearing a laden tray. Her eyes widened at the sight of Sir Henry but she asked pointedly, ignoring him: "Is that Mr. Dwight away, Miss Deirdre? And him without his tea!"
Deirdre said awkwardly: "Yes. The ambulance arrived and he… he went."
"Ach," wailed Bridget, "and is all this fine tea to be wasted then? Or will the other gentleman be in soon from the stables?"
Sir Henry answered her: "If Miss Deirdre cares to invite me to stay and have tea with her, then all will be well, will it not?" He glanced expectantly at Deirdre who, recovering at last from her numbed astonishment, signed to Bridget to take the tray into the study.
"I—Sir Henry, if you'd like to stay, I—I'd be delighted, of course. But I thought—"
"Never mind what you thought, Deirdre," Sir Henry told her, reddening. "I understand from Penelope—who has just telephoned me from London—that she intends to marry your brother tomorrow morning at a church in Chelsea near your brother's studio. She—er—that is, Penelope has invited my wife and myself to be present. We thought you might wish to come with us. Penelope suggested that we should ask you."
"Oh!" cried Deirdre. "Oh, yes, I should. It—it's very kind of you to ask me to go with you." She was so staggered that she could scarcely believe she wasn't dreaming. A few hours ago Sir Henry had been violently and vociferously opposed to any suggestion of Penelope's marrying Sean. But now…
"Kind?" echoed Sir Henry gruffly. "H'm." He hesitated and Deirdre ventured uncertainly:
"But I did think that you—you objected. I mean—"
Sir Henry smiled suddenly. "There isn't really much point," he said, "in my continuing to—er—to oppose them, since they both seem to have made up their minds. Damn it, they'll marry each other, whether I object or not. Won't they—eh? I don't know how you feel about it, but for myself, I—" He held out his hand and Deirdre took it shyly. "Oh, dash it all, Deirdre, I might as well give in with a good grace, don't you think? And now what about that tea? I confess I could do with a cup."
"It's ready," Deirdre assured him. As they went into the study together, Sir Henry added, with satisfaction. "At least that brother of yours isn't a young puppy like the feller I just threw out. And Carmichael tells me he's shaping pretty well as an artist. That true, eh? Is he any good?"
"Oh, yes," said Deirdre happily, "he's awfully good, Sir Henry. Honestly he is."
"H'm" said Sir Henry, "well, I'm glad of that, anyway." He leaned forward and patted her hand. "He's got an extremely charming sister—and a deuced loyal one! You'll be an acquisition to the family, Deirdre. I'll tell your father so, when I see him. Talking of which, how about your coming along to the hospital with me this evening, eh? Might help to break the ice, don't you think, if we go together?"
Deirdre met his gaze steadily. "Yes," she said, "I think it might, Sir Henry."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was almost nine o'clock when Deirdre returned from her visit to the hospital. She had left Sir Henry there, still talking to her father.
Dennis, all things considered, had. taken their visit—and the news they brought—remarkably well. He had been surprised, of course, and a trifle on his guard with Sir Henry to begin with. But the specialist's report on him had been a good one, he had been promised that he might leave hospital within the next few days, and he was, in consequence, in the best and most exuberant of spirits.
And Dennis Sheridan, at the top of his form, was impossible to resist. Even Deirdre, who was no stranger to his charm, found herself falling under the spell of his gay good humour.
Sir Henry, who had always disliked him on principle but whose knowledge of him had hitherto been slight and superficial, became aware, to his own astonishment, that he was both amusing and intelligent on closer acquaintance—and that, furthermore, he and Dennis spoke the same language. It was a good half-hour before they were able to speak it freely together, but, when Deirdre left them, they were beginning to enjoy themselves—though wild horses would not have dragged this admission from either.
But it had been a strain, Deirdre reflected, as she drove into the yard. The whole day had been a strain and she was tired.
She got out of the car and, leaving the engine running, went to open the garage doors, her feet dragging a little over the cobbles. She would have to make a round of the looseboxes before she could go to bed, see that the horses —in particular, Marigold and Petitioner—were all right, and, if she could find him, have a word with Paddy, too.
Because there was a great deal to arrange for tomorrow. Tomorrow… Sean's wedding day!
From the bottom of her heart she wished him well, but knew a twinge of envy as she recalled on what terms she and Alan had parted that afternoon. She hadn't seen Alan since: Sir Henry had stayed till after six and, when Deirdre had gone to the stables, it was to learn that both Alan and Dan had left.
Dan had left a note for her, with Paddy. It contained a brief apology for not having waited to bid her good-bye and Dan's cheque for the two horses he was buying. But Alan had left no word. He had simply gone—presumably to his belated rendezvous with the Agricultural Advisory Officer. And the vet hadn't arrived by the time Sir Henry had arranged to leave for the hospital, so that she didn't know, yet, what he had said about Marigold.
Deirdre drove into the garage and, having parked the car, set off wearily on her round of the boxes, a torch to light her way. Cavalier whinnied as she approached his box, nuzzling her gently as she examined him. He seemed none the worse for his tumble and had cleared out his hay rack, so, at all events, his appetite was unimpaired. Petitioner was lying down and she did not disturb him: she gave a cursory glance into two of the other boxes and then, finding all well, went on to Marigold's, which was at the far side of the yard.
It wasn't until she opened it that she realized there was a light burning inside. Alan Carmichael rose from his perch on the manger and smiled at her.
"Hullo, Deirdre," he said, and came towards her, "I waited to tell you about Marigold. I thought you might be worried."
Deirdre's heart quickened its beat. "Oh," she said, "yes, I—I was. Let's go indoors, shall we?"
He fell into step beside her.
"The vet seems to think," he said, as they crossed the darkened yard, "that Marigold's trouble was caused by injury, probably quite a long time ago, when she was a foal. Some foreign body—a thorn, most likely—entered her eye and penetrated the cornea. It would set up an inflammation, very acute whilst it lasted, but not lasting long enough for anyone to notice—if she was out at grass, for example, and not under Paddy's eye in the stable. Ever since then, her sight's been getting worse, because—I'm not an expert but the vet explained it to me—because at the site of the injury the cornea is opaque, it doesn't admit the light. That's why from certain angles, the mare can see: from others, she can't. She's blind in one eye but not in the other. The vision in her good eye—the left, incidentally—seems to have been slightly affected, due, no doubt, to strain. If she'd been a human being, she'd have been cured by wearing glasses. As it is—" He sighed.
"Oh," said Deirdre wretchedly, "you mean, as it is, she can't be cured?"
Alan turned to face her. "Oh, no, it's by no means hopeless. The vet wants to try a corneal graft—in fact, he's very keen to try it, he thinks it would restore her sight almost completely. I gather he'll be over some time within the next day or so to talk to you about it. Corneal gr
afts work miracles on human eyes—so much so that hospitals are starting donor banks, on the same principle as the Blood Banks, you know, for transfusions. Naturally, veterinary science isn't far behind. Your vet is a very up-to-date fellow and he says there'd be no difficulty in obtaining the graft from his training college. In view of Marigold's value, I'm sure it would be worth trying, Deirdre."
"Yes. Oh, yes, indeed it would." The aching anxiety she had felt for Marigold lifted. At least, she thought thankfully, there was a chance. And it was only one eye. Her beloved little mare wasn't totally blind.
As if he had read her thoughts, Alan put in: "Whilst you may never be able to race or hunt her, should the operation not be successful, she isn't in pain and it can't get any worse than it is now. And it was an injury, not disease, so you can breed from her eventually, without the fear of passing anything on to her progeny. She's not lost to the Sheridan Stud—your father will be glad of that, I'm sure."
"Yes, he will," Deirdre agreed. She hesitated and then confided: "You know what I was afraid of? That it was a brain tumour and the vet would say she had to be destroyed. I was absolutely dreading that."
In the darkness, Alan smiled in sympathetic understanding. "That was rather what I thought you were afraid of, Deirdre."
"So you waited" — her heart went out to him gratefully —"you waited to tell me it wasn't?"
"Well"—he touched her arm lightly—"you've more than enough on your plate at the moment, haven't you? I knew you'd sleep a little better tonight for hearing the news about Marigold before you went to bed. And I—perhaps I flatter myself—but I thought I could explain things more clearly than Paddy could." That wasn't strictly the truth but it would suffice, Alan decided.
"It was—it was awfully kind of you." Deirdre glanced up at him shyly. They reached the front of the house and halted, as if by mutual consent. "I always seem to be saying that," she ventured, "thanking you for something you've done for me."
Alan drew a deep, uncertain breath. It was taking more effort than he had believed possible to control his feelings, to keep them hidden from her.
