"No, no, Conal dear, but don't try to talk now."
"I've been hard on you—Deirdre—But you won't think ill of me. It's the way men are made—and I didn't understand how it was with you—and Davey—not till that night in the hut. If I hadn't brought trouble between you—you might forgive me."
"Conal, Conal," Deirdre sobbed, the tears streaming over her face. "You're dear to me, yourself—dear in your own way. Haven't you always been—and I haven't been good to you—always. My heart's breaking to hear you talk like this."
She bent over and kissed him.
Conal opened his eyes. The mellow light of serene happiness had drifted into them. They rested on her face as though they were loath to leave it. His long fingers were knotted about her hands.
"I'm happier than ever I was in my life, Deirdre, darling," he whispered. She had to stoop over him to catch the words on his lips, so faint and hoarsely uttered they were, as though the thoughts left him without his lips having power to form them. "Never expected to put my head on your knees—hold your hand—like this. It would never have happened, if I'd lived, so it's good to die. You'll look after Ginger—'ginger for pluck'—dear old devil—never 've got here—but for her. And Sally—good old Sally—not a cattle mong' Like her—countryside."
The ghost of a smile flitted over his lips.
"If only—"
Recollection of McNab came, banishing the peaceful happiness from his face. His eyes blazed. There was a momentary struggle for breath and he fell back fighting for life. Then, on a long sigh, he was still.
Deirdre tried the brandy again. She called him. She felt for his heart. His head was very heavy on her knees. She stared down on the finely chiselled features, so still, upraised before her. Her tears rained over them. The quiet was unbroken but for Steve's crying like a child.