She did not move. He called her a little louder, then a third and a fourth time, but still she gave no kind of answer. His heart stood still with a vague fear, and, scarcely knowing what he expected to see, he went close and gently lifted some of the brown hair that fell in confusion over her shoulder. She was fast asleep. Her head still rested upon Royal's shaggy curls, one arm was thrown round him, and the little face looked so white upon its rough black pillow that Murtagh bent very close before he could feel sure that she was only asleep. Then he could hardly have explained the relief that he felt. He thought he would go and get Nessa to come before she wakened again, so he left her and went towards the house.
But the day was far from finished yet; there was worse to come.
As he got down into the pleasure ground he was met by Rosie, her face swollen and stained with crying.
"Oh, Murtagh!" she exclaimed. "Where have you been all day? I've been hunting for you everywhere to tell you. Poor Frankie's dead; it came by the telegraph to-day."
She burst out crying again as she spoke, but Murtagh did not. He looked at her blankly as though he did not take in the sense of the words, and then he said, "What?"
"Frankie's dead," she repeated, "and they never thought it would be so sudden."
"Where's Nessa?" said poor Murtagh, with a confused, bewildered feeling that she would somehow contradict this.
"In the drawing-room," replied Rosie, and she turned and followed Murtagh.
"Don't you want to cry, Murtagh?" she asked curiously, after a minute. "Bobbo is crying so, poor fellow, up in his own room. It is so dreadful, too, isn't it, to think—" Here her tears overpowered her again and she spoke no more.
At the drawing-room door Murtagh was met by Nessa. He could not speak, and she, seeing that he knew all, just put her arms round him and kissed him tenderly.