Whither Thou Goest Part 22

The General thought for a moment or two before he spoke. He had indulged every whim, forestalled every wish of his dear wife. He had done the same with his daughter since the day when he had found himself a widower, and they had been all in all to each other.

He smiled a little sadly. "I am afraid we old men become a sad burden on our dutiful children, exact too much from them," he said presently.

"Lady Mary would love to be near Guy, and she cannot leave her father.

And you, my poor little girl, are in the same plight."

Isobel laid her soft cheek against his. "Oh, Daddy, dearest Daddy, it is not very kind to say that. However great my love for Guy, it can never supersede my love for you."

The General patted her head fondly. "Ah, my dear, the curse of a small family; we have always been all too much to each other." Then he spoke briskly; he waited to make her happier than she was.

"I see no reason, though, why we could not go to Madrid together. We could do it by easy stages, and, by gad, Madrid would be a change. I am very fond of Eastbourne, but we have had a good bit of it. I think I will go and see our old Doctor Jones to-morrow."

But Isobel would not hear of it. Her father had suffered from heart affection in his youth. During the last five years it had become very acute. He must live a quiet, well-ordered life, avoid any undue exertion. His daughter had gathered from Dr Jones that the General's life held by a very frail thread. The summons might come at any moment.

Nevertheless, General Clandon was round at the doctor's door by ten o'clock the next morning. He was bent upon falling in with Isobel's desire.

The doctor stared at him. He had always been summoned to the General's house; not half a dozen times had his patient come to him.

"What's up?" he inquired tersely. "The heart not troubling you more than usual, I hope?"

To look at General Clandon, as he stood in the surgery, a fine upstanding figure of a man, you would have said he was free from all human ailments. n.o.body could have guessed that he carried in that stalwart frame the seeds of a mortal disease that, at any moment, might lay him low.

"No, no more than usual. But yes, I think the palpitations are a little more frequent the last week or two."

"Let me run the rule over you." Doctor Jones produced his stethoscope.

"Why didn't you send for me before?"

"Just a moment, my good old friend, before you begin. Isobel particularly wants to go to Spain for reasons you can guess--her fiance's there. I can't let her go without me, unless I could lay my hands upon a suitable chaperon. I want you to tell me if you will give me permission to go with her myself. I should take the journey in easy stages, of course."

There was a very wistful look in the old man's eyes as he uttered the last words; it seemed as if he were pleading for permission to gratify his daughter's wish.

"Isobel, of course, won't hear of it, after what you have told me; she did not know I was coming here. But if you could give your sanction, it would make us both very happy," he added hastily, as he began to unb.u.t.ton his coat.

Jones had been an army doctor, and he was very sympathetic. It was very pathetic, this poor old father with almost two feet in the grave, begging a little further respite from death.

"I will see what we can do, as soon as I have examined you," he said kindly. "If it is humanly possible for you to go, I will let you go, for Isobel's sake."

The examination was a searching and lengthy one. When it was finished, Doctor Jones laid down his stethoscope with a little sigh.

"My dear General, it is impossible. You are a brave man, you have faced death more than once on the battlefield, and you have always asked me to tell you the truth. If you undertake that voyage, you are committing suicide."

"You don't give me very long then?" asked the General quietly. The doctor shrugged his shoulders and turned his head away. He could not quite put it in words.

"You have had some extra excitement lately? Great inroads have been made since I last examined you."

"Yes," answered General Clandon quietly, "there has been a good deal of excitement lately."

It was true. The uncertain position of Isobel as regards her engagement, the hurried visit to Ticehurst Park, the danger overhanging Guy Rossett had agitated him very much.

He returned home very crestfallen. He had hoped against hope for the doctor's favourable verdict. He had longed to be able to say to her: "It is all right, I will take you to Spain myself."

But in the face of those grave words it was impossible to say it. It would be no benefit to her to take her out, and die before they got to the end of the journey.

Isobel met him in the hall of their pretty little home, half villa, half cottage.

"Why, where in the world have you been?" she cried, "running away at this early hour of the morning?"

They lived such an intimate and domestic life, that it was almost a point of honour to give notice of each other's movements.

The General was a bad dissembler. He blurted it all out at once.

"To tell you the truth, I wanted to take you out to Spain. I went round to see Jones, to learn what he said about it. He forbids it."

She looked at him anxiously. Yes, he seemed to have aged even the last week. A spasm of reproach shot through her that she had not been quicker to notice his failing health. Guy had usurped her thoughts too much.

"But I don't think it will be difficult to arrange. I can soon get hold of some female dragon, some elderly chaperon who will take you."

The girl's eyes filled with tears. Not for the first time did she appreciate that unselfish parental love, the love that gives everything, and asks so little in return.

She kissed him very tenderly. "No, no, a thousand times no, you kindest of all kind fathers. Until you get well and strong again, I would not leave you for a thousand lovers."

He patted her hand. He was the most unselfish of men, but it pleased him very much to hear her say that much. The stranger who had come into her life was not going to oust the old father from his place in her heart.

"We have been so much to each other, little girl, since your dear mother died, have we not?" he asked gently.

"More than so much," she whispered back. "Oh, more than so much. We have been everything to each other." At that moment even her lover was almost forgotten. A few hours later, she stole out of the house, and called on the doctor.

"My father is worse," she said impetuously, when she entered the consulting-room.

Doctor Jones looked very grave. "My dear child, he is as bad as he can be. I have warned you before. The end may come at any moment."

"And yet it only seems yesterday that he was out shooting--of course I know it is months ago--and when he came back, I used to ask him if he was tired, and he always told me he never felt more fit in his life.

And a big, strong man in appearance! A few weeks ago he did not look his age."

"It is frequently the way with this particular disease," was the doctor's reply. "They hang on for years, with a sort of spurious energy, and then, all of a sudden, they go--snap."

"Will he suffer much, do you think?" asked Isobel, bravely keeping back the tears.

"Don't trouble yourself about that. He will go out like the snuff of a candle. Take my word for it, he will not suffer."

He accompanied her to the door; he had become very attached to the pair--the charming girl devoted to her father, the elderly man who wors.h.i.+pped his daughter.

"Keep a brave heart, my child. It may come to-night, to-morrow. He is worse than I thought." And three days after that interview with the kindly doctor the end came.

The housemaid went into his room with his morning cup of tea. The poor old General was lying on his side, his face quite placid. But the girl knew that the pallor on it was the hue of death. She ran sobbing to Isobel's room.

"Miss, miss! Come at once to the General." Isobel guessed immediately what that summons meant. She sprang out of bed and went to her father's room. One glance at the white, placid face confirmed her worst fears.

She sent the frightened girl for the doctor. He came, and was able to ease her mind in one respect--her beloved father had died peacefully, without a struggle.

The charming little home which had sheltered her for so many years was a house of mourning. She thought tearfully of his loving kindness, of the many self-sacrifices he had made to give her some small comfort, some little luxury. Even from a devoted husband, would she ever have such a disinterested love as that?--the love that gives all and asks nothing.