There was no mistake then—Maurice had been successful! But why were these men standing out in the inhospitable night? What was going on in the silent brilliantly lighted huts? What subtle note of regret had my ears caught in the low spoken words?
Dimly, amidst the press of overpowering emotions that surged upon me, I apprehended that something was wrong. Fear crept into me, numbing my limits and detaining my feet: but still I stumbled on up the winding path.
There were lights in all the huts, as though some one had been searching in each. Doubtless Maurice had gone from one to the other looking for me. What an ironical trick of Fate that, after awaiting him every moment of every hour since he left, in the very moment of his triumph I should be absent!
There were men in the dining-room hut; but some instinct guided my feet to the drawing-room, through whose half-closed doors I heard the murmur of voices—and again, in the timbre of those voices, came the suggestion of trouble—pain—loss. I knew full well now that something was wrong. Something had gone hideously awry: and I feared, I feared!
At last I found courage to press open the door.
The heavy odour of a drug came out like a presence to meet me, and mingling with it, piercing through it to my inmost senses, was some other scent that brought terror and dismay. A dimness came over my eyes, so that I could not distinguish any of the faces about me. I saw only the prone figure lying against pillows on the couch that had been dragged to the middle of the room.
It seemed to me there were many red flowers spread about that couch, and on the doctor’s hands, and on his shirt sleeves. It was the scent of them that had met me at the door, piercing my senses—the strange pungent scent of the red flowers of death. Around me in the quiet room I heard some curt words gently spoken.
“It is Mrs Stair... just in time... clear the room... nothing more can be done.”
“Deirdre,”—a faint whisper dragged my leaden feet forward, and I went blindly towards the couch, my arms outstretched. The crimson roses of my cloak joined all the other crimson roses spread everywhere.
All was very still. No sound in the room but the echoes of softly departing feet, and a laboured, puffing sound like the panting of some far-off train climbing a steep hill. Yet there were no trains in Matebeleland. After a little while I knew that the sound was there beside me on the couch. When the mists cleared away from my eyes I looked into the face of the dying man.