ROBIN

 BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT

 AUTHOR OF "THE SHUTTLE" "THE SECRET GARDEN" "THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE OF COOMBE" ETC. 

 NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS

 COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT

 COPYRIGHT, 1921, 1922, BY THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY

 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

THE YEARS BEFORE

Outline Arranged by Hamilton Williamson

from

_THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE OF COOMBE_

In the years when Victorian standards and ideals began to dance anincreasingly rapid jig before amazed lookers-on, who presently foundthemselves dancing as madly as the rest--in these years, there lived inMayfair, in a slice of a house, Robert Gareth-Lawless and his lovelyyoung wife. So light and airy was she to earthly vision and sodiaphanous the texture of her mentality that she was known as "Feather. "

The slice of a house between two comparatively stately mansions in the"right street" was a rash venture of the honeymoon. 

Robert--well born, irresponsible, without resources--evolved a carefullydetailed method of living upon nothing whatever, of keeping out of theway of duns, and telling lies with aptness and outward gaiety. But ayear of giving smart little dinners and going to smart big dinners endedin a condition somewhat akin to the feat of balancing oneself on theedge of a sword. 

Then Robin was born. She was an intruder and a calamity, of course. Thata Feather should become a parent gave rise to much wit of light weightwhen Robin was exhibited in the form of a bundle of lace. 

It was the Head of the House of Coombe who asked:

"What will you do with her?"

"Do?" Feather repeated. "What is it people 'do' with babies? I don'tknow. I wouldn't touch her for the world. She frightens me. "

Coombe said:

"She is staring at me. There is antipathy in her gaze. " He stared backunwaveringly also, but with a sort of cold interest. 

"The Head of the House of Coombe" was not a title to be found in Burkeor Debrett. It was a fine irony of the Head's own. The peerage recordedhim as a marquis and added several lesser attendant titles. 

To be born the Head of the House is a weighty and awe-inspiringthing--one is called upon to be an example. 

"I am not sure what I am an example of--or to, " he said, on oneoccasion, in his light, rather cold and detached way, "which is why I attimes regard myself in that capacity with a slightly ribald lightness. "

A reckless young woman once asked him:

"Are you as wicked as people say you are?"

"I really don't know. It is so difficult to decide, " he answered. "Perhaps I am as wicked as I know how to be. And I may have painfullimitations or I may not. "

He had reached the age when it was safe to apply to him that vague term"elderly, " and marriage might have been regarded as imperative. But hehad remained unmarried and seemed to consider his abstinence entirelyhis own affair. 

Courts and capitals knew him, and his opportunities were such as gavehim all ease as an onlooker. He saw closely those who sat with knitbrows and cautiously hovering hand at the great chess-board which isformed by the map of Europe. 

As a statesman or a diplomat he would have gone far, but he had been toomuch occupied with Life as an entertainment, too self-indulgent for workof any order. Having, however, been born with a certain type of brain, it observed and recorded in spite of him, thereby adding flavour andinterest to existence. But that was all. 

Texture and colour gave him almost abnormal pleasure. For this reason, perhaps, he was the most perfectly dressed man in London. 

It was at a garden-party that he first saw Feather. When his eyes fellupon her, he was talking to a group of people and he stopped speaking. Some one standing quite near him said afterwards that he had, for asecond or so, became pale--almost as if he saw something whichfrightened him. He was still rather pale when Feather lifted her eyes tohim. But he had not talked to her for fifteen minutes before he knewthat there was no real reason why he should ever again lose his colourat the sight of her. He had thought, at first, there was. 

This was the beginning of an acquaintance which gave rise to muchargument over tea-cups regarding the degree of Coombe's interest in her. Remained, however, the fact that he managed to see a great deal of her. Feather was guilelessly doubtless concerning him. She was quite surethat he was in love with her, and very practically aware that the moremen of the class of the Head of the House of Coombe who came in and outof the slice of a house, the more likely the dwellers in it were to getgood invitations and continued credit. 

The realisation of these benefits was cut short. Robert, amazingly andunnaturally, failed her by dying. He was sent away in a hearse and thetiny house ceased to represent hilarious little parties. 

Bills were piled high everywhere. The rent was long overdue and must bepaid. She had no money to pay it, none to pay the servants' wages. 

"It's awful--it's awful--it's awful!" broke out between her sobs. 

From her bedroom window--at evening--she watched "Cook, " the smartfootman, the nurse, the maids, climb into four-wheelers and be drivenaway. 

"They're gone--all of them!" she gasped. "There's no one left in thehouse. It's empty!"

Then was Feather seized with a panic. She had something like hysterics, falling face downward upon the carpet and clutching her hair until itfell down. She was not a person to be judged--she was one of theunexplained incidents of existence. 

The night drew in more closely. A prolonged wailing shriek tore throughthe utter soundlessness of the house. It came from the night-nursery. Itwas Robin who had wakened and was screaming. 

"I--I _won't_!" Feather protested, with chattering teeth. "I won't! I_won't_!"

She had never done anything for the child since its birth. To reach hernow, she would be obliged to go out into the dark--past Robert'sbedroom--_the_ room. 

"I--I couldn't--even if I wanted to!" she quaked. "I daren't! Idaren't! I wouldn't do it--for a _million pounds_!"

The screams took on a more determined note. She flung herself on herbed, burrowing her head under the coverings and pillows she dragged overher ears to shut out the sounds. 

 * * * * *

Feather herself had not known, nor in fact had any other human beingknown why Lord Coombe drifted into seeming rather to follow her about. But there existed a reason, and this it was, and this alone, whichcaused him to appear--the apotheosis of exquisite fitness in form--ather door. 

He listened while she poured it all forth, sobbing. Her pretty hairloosened itself and fell about her in wild but enchanting disorder. 

"I would do anything--_any one_ asked me, if they would take care ofme. "

A shuddering knowledge that it was quite true that she would do anythingfor any man who would take care of her produced an effect on him nothingelse would have produced. 

"Do I understand, " he said, "that you are willing that _I_ shouldarrange this for you?"

"Do you mean--really?" she faltered. "Will you--will you--?"

Her uplifted eyes were like a young angel's brimming with crystal dropswhich slipped--as a child's tears slip--down her cheeks. 

 * * * * *

The florist came and refilled the window-boxes of the slice of a housewith an admirable arrangement of fresh flowers. It became anestablished fact that the household had not fallen to pieces, and itsfrequenters gradually returned to it, wearing, indeed, the air of peoplewho had never really remained away from it. 

As a bird in captivity lives in its cage and, perhaps, believes it to bethe world, Robin lived in her nursery. She was put to bed and taken up, she was fed and dressed in it, and once a day she was taken out of itdownstairs and into the street. That was all. 

It is a somewhat portentous thing to realise that a newborn humancreature can only know what it is taught. To Robin the Lady Downstairswas merely a radiant and beautiful being of whom one might catch aglimpse through a door, or if one pressed one's face against the windowpane at the right moment. On the very rare occasions when the Ladyappeared on the threshold of the day-nursery, Robin stood and staredwith immense startled eyes and answered in a whisper the banal littlequestions put to her. 

So she remained unaware of mothers and unaware of affection. She neverplayed with other children. Andrews, her nurse--as behooved one employedin a house about which there "was talk" bore herself with a lofty andexclusive air. 

"My rule is to keep myself to myself, " she said in the kitchen, "and tolook as if I was the one that would turn up noses, if noses was to beturned up. There's those that would snatch away their children if I letRobin begin to make up to them. "

But one morning, when Robin was watching some quarrelsome sparrows, anold acquaintance surprised Andrews by appearing in the Gardens andengaged her in a conversation so delightful that Robin was forgotten tothe extent of being allowed to follow her sparrows round a clump ofshrubbery out of sight. 

It was while she watched them that she heard footsteps that stopped nearher. She looked up. A big boy in Highland kilts and bonnet and sporanwas standing by her. He spread and curved his red mouth, then began torun and prance round in a circle, capering like a Shetland pony toexhibit at once his friendliness and his prowess. After a minute or twohe stopped, breathing fast and glowing. 

"My pony in Scotland does that. His name is Chieftain. I'm called Donal. What are you called?"

"Robin, " she answered, her lips and voice trembling with joy. He was sobeautiful. 

They began to play together while Andrews' friend recounted intimatedetails of a country house scandal. 

Donal picked leaves from a lilac bush. Robin learned that if you laid aleaf flat on the seat of a bench you could prick beautiful patterns onthe leaf's greenness. Donal had--in his rolled down stocking--a littledirk. He did the decoration with the point of this while Robin lookedon, enthralled. 

Through what means children so quickly convey to each other the entirehistory of their lives is a sort of occult secret. Before Donal wastaken home, Robin knew that he lived in Scotland and had been brought toLondon on a visit, that his other name was Muir, that the person hecalled "mother" was a woman who took care of him. He spoke of her quiteoften. 

"I will bring one of my picture-books to-morrow, " he said grandly. "Canyou read at all?"

"No, " answered Robin, adoring him. "What are picture books?"

"Haven't you any?" he blurted out. 

She lifted her eyes to the glowing blueness of his and said quitesimply, "I haven't anything. "

His old nurse's voice came from the corner where she sat. 

"I must go back to Nanny, " he said, feeling, somehow, as if he had beenrunning fast. "I'll come to-morrow and bring _two_ picture books. "

He put his strong little eight-year-old arms round her and kissed herfull on the mouth. It was the first time, for Robin. Andrews did notkiss. There was no one else. 

"Don't you like to be kissed?" said Donal, uncertain because she lookedso startled and had not kissed him back. 

"Kissed, " she repeated, with a small caught breath. "Ye--es. " She knewnow what it was. It was being kissed. She drew nearer at once and liftedup her face as sweetly and gladly as a flower lifts itself to the sun. "Kiss me again, " she said, quite eagerly. And this time, she kissed too. When he ran quickly away, she stood looking after him with smiling, trembling lips, uplifted, joyful--wondering and amazed. 

The next morning Andrews had a cold and her younger sister Anne wascalled in to perform her duties. The doctor pronounced the cold serious, and Andrews was confined to her bed. Hours spent under the trees readingwere entirely satisfactory to Anne. And so, for two weeks, thesoot-sprinkled London square was as the Garden of Eden to Donal andRobin. 

In her fine, aloof way, Helen Muir had learned much in her stays inLondon and during her married life--in the exploring of foreign citieswith her husband. She was not proud of the fact that in the event of thedeath of Lord Coombe's shattered and dissipated nephew her son wouldbecome heir presumptive to Coombe Court. She had not asked questionsabout Coombe. It had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seenFeather by chance. She was to see her again--by Feather's intention. 

With Donal prancing at her side, Mrs. Muir went to the Gardens to meetthe child Nanny had described as "a bit of witch fire dancing--with hercolour and her big silk curls in a heap, and Donal staring at her like ayoung man at a beauty. "

Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already deepin the mystery of "Lady Audley. "

"There she is!" cried Donal, as he ran to her. "My mother has come withme. This is Robin, mother! This is Robin. "

Her exquisiteness and physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something notunlike a slight shock. Oh! No wonder, since she was like that. Shestooped and kissed the round cheek delicately. She took the little handand they walked round the garden, then sat on a bench and watched thechildren "make up" things to play. 

A victoria was driving past. Suddenly a sweetly hued figure spoke to thecoachman. "Stop here, " she said. "I want to get out. "

Robin's eyes grew very round and large and filled with a worshippinglight. 

"It is, " she gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!"

Feather floated near to the seat and paused, smiling. "Where is yournurse, Robin?" she asked. 

"She is only a few yards away, " said Mrs. Muir. 

"So kind of you to let Robin play with your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless. "

There was a little silence, a delicate little silence. 

"I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once, " added Feather, unperturbed andsmiling brilliantly. "I saw your portrait at the Grovenor. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Muir, gently. 

"I wanted very much to see your son; that was why I came. "

"Yes, " still gently from Mrs. Muir. 

"Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer thatthe two little things have made friends too. I didn't know. "

She bade them good-bye and strayed airily away. 

And that night Donal was awakened, was told that "something" hadhappened, that they were to go back to Scotland. He was accustomed to doas he was told. He got out of bed and began to dress, but he swallowedvery hard. 

"I shall not see Robin, " he said in a queer voice. "She won't find mewhen she goes behind the lilac bushes. She won't know why I don't come. "Then, in a way that was strangely grown up: "She has no one but me toremember. "

 * * * * *

The next morning a small, rose-coloured figure stood still for so longin the gardens that it began to look rigid and some one said, "I wonderwhat that little girl is waiting for. "

A child has no words out of which to build hopes and fears. Robin couldonly wait in the midst of a slow dark rising tide of something she hadno name for. Suddenly she knew. He was _gone_! She crept under theshrubbery. She cried, she sobbed. If Andrews had seen her she would havesaid she was "in a tantrum. " But she was not. Her world had been tornaway. 

 * * * * *

Five weeks later Feather was giving a very little dinner in the slice ofa house. There was Harrowby, a good looking young man with dark eyes, and the Starling who was "emancipated" and whose real name was MissMarch. The third diner was a young actor with a low, veiledvoice--Gerald Vesey--who adored and understood Feather's clothes. 

Over coffee in the drawing-room Coombe joined them just at the momentthat Feather was "going to tell them something to make them laugh. "

"Robin is in love!" she cried. "She is five years old and she has beendeserted and Andrews came to tell me she can neither eat nor sleep. Thedoctor says she has had a shock. "

Coombe did not join in the ripple of laughter, but he looked interested. 

"Robin is a stimulating name, " said Harrowby. "_Is_ it too late to letus see her?"

"They usually go to sleep at seven, I believe, " remarked Coombe, "but ofcourse I am not an authority. "

Robin was not asleep, though she had long been in bed with her eyesclosed. She had heard Andrews say to her sister Anne:

"Lord Coombe's the reason. She does not want her boy to see or speak tohim, so she whisked him back to Scotland. "

"Is Lord Coombe as bad as they say?" put in Anne, with bated breath. 

"As to his badness, " Robin heard Andrews answer, "there's some thatcan't say enough against him. It's what he is in this house that doesit. She won't have her boy playing with a child like Robin. "

Then--even as there flashed upon Robin the revelation of her ownunfitness--came a knock at the door. 

She was taken up, dressed in her prettiest frock and led down the narrowstairway. She heard the Lady say:

"Shake hands with Lord Coombe. "

Robin put her hand behind her back--she who had never disobeyed sinceshe was born!

"Be pretty mannered, Miss Robin my dear, " Andrews instructed, "and shakehands with his Lordship. "

Each person in the little drawing-room saw the queer flame in thechild-face. She shrilled out her words:

"Andrews will pinch me--Andrews will pinch me! But--No--No!"

She kept her hands behind her back and hatred surged up in her soul. 

In spite of her tender years, the doctor held to the theory that Robinhad suffered a shock; she must be taken away to be helped by the bracingair of the Norfolk coast. Before she went, workmen were to be seencoming in and out of the house. When she returned to London, she was ledinto rooms she had never been in before--light and airy rooms withpretty walls and furniture. 

It was "a whim of Coombe's, " as Feather put it, that she should nolonger occupy the little dog-kennels of nurseries, so these newapartments had been added in the rear. A whim of his also that Andrews, whose disciplinary methods included pinching, should be dismissed andreplaced by Dowson, a motherly creature with a great deal of commonsense. Robin's lonely little heart opened to her new nurse, who becamein time her "Dowie. "

It was Dowson who made it clear to Lord Coombe, at length, that Robinhad reached the age when she needed a governess, and it was he who saidto Feather a few days later:

"A governess will come here to-morrow at eleven o'clock. She is aMademoiselle Vallé. She is accustomed to the education of youngchildren. She will present herself for your approval. "

"What on earth can it matter?" Feather cried. 

"It does not matter to you, " he answered. "It chances for the time beingto matter to _me_. "

Mademoiselle Vallé was an intelligent, mature French woman, with apeculiar power to grasp an intricate situation. She learned to love thechild she taught--a child so strangely alone. As time went on she cameto know that Robin was to receive every educational advantage, everyinstruction. In his impersonal, aloof way Coombe was fixed in hisintention to provide her with life's defences. As she grew, graceful asa willow wand, into a girlhood startlingly lovely, she learned modernlanguages, learned to dance divinely. 

And all the while he was deeply conscious that her infant hatred had notlessened--that he could show her no reason why it should. 

There were black hours when she was in deadly peril from a human beast, mad with her beauty. Coombe had almost miraculously saved her, but herdetestation of him still held. 

Her one thought--her one hope--was to learn--learn, so that she mightmake her own living. Mademoiselle Vallé supported her in this, andCoombe understood. 

 * * * * *

In one of the older London squares there was a house upon the broaddoorsteps of which Lord Coombe stood oftener than upon any other. Theold Dowager Duchess of Darte, having surrounded herself with almostroyal dignity, occupied that house in an enforced seclusion. She was aconfirmed rheumatic invalid, but her soul was as strong as it was manyyears before, when she had given its support to Coombe in his unbearablehours. She had poured out her strength in silence, and in silence he hadreceived it. She saved him from slipping over the verge of madness. 

But there came a day when he spoke to her of this--of the one woman hehad loved, Princess Alixe of X----:

"There was never a human thing so transparently pure, and she was thepossession of a brute incarnate. She shook with terror before him. Hekilled her. "

"I believe he did, " she said, unsteadily. "He was not received here atCourt afterward. "

"He killed her. But she would have died of horror if he had not struckher a blow. I saw that. I was in attendance on him at Windsor. "

"When I first knew you, " the Duchess said gravely. 

"There was a night--I was young--young--when I found myself face to facewith her in the stillness of the wood. I went quite mad for a time. Ithrew myself face downward on the earth and sobbed. She knelt and prayedfor her own soul as well as mine. I kissed the hem of her dress andleft her standing--alone. "

After a silence he added:

"It was the next night that I heard her shrieks. Then she died. "

The Duchess knew what else had died: the high adventure of youth and joyof life in him. 

On a table beside her winged chair were photographs of two women, who, while obviously belonging to periods of some twenty years apart, were inface and form so singularly alike that they might have been the sameperson. One was the Princess Alixe of X---- and the other--Feather. 

"The devil of chance, " Coombe said, "sometimes chooses to play tricks. Such a trick was played on me. "

It was the photograph of Feather he took up and set a strangequestioning gaze upon. 

"When I saw this, " he said, "this--exquisitely smiling at me in a sunnygarden--the tomb opened under my feet and I stood on the brink ofit--twenty-five again. "

He made clear to her certain facts which most persons would haveironically disbelieved. He ended with the story of Robin. 

"I am determined, " he explained, "to stand between the child and whatwould be inevitable. Her frenzy of desire to support herself arises fromher loathing of the position of accepting support from me. I sympathisewith her entirely. "

"Mademoiselle Vallé is an intelligent woman, " the Duchess said. "Sendher to me; I shall talk to her. Then she can bring the child. "

And so it was arranged that Robin should be taken into the house in theold fashioned square to do for the Duchess what a young relative mighthave done. And, a competent person being needed to take charge of thelinen, "Dowie" would go to live under the same roof. 

Feather's final thrust in parting with her daughter was:

"Donal Muir is a young man by this time. I wonder what his mother woulddo now if he turned up at your mistress' house and began to make love toyou. " She laughed outright. "You'll get into all sorts of messes butthat would be the nicest one!"

 * * * * *

The Duchess came to understand that Robin held it deep in her mind thatshe was a sort of young outcast. 

"If she consorted, " she thought, "with other young things and sharedtheir pleasures she would forget it. "

She talked the matter over with her daughter, Lady Lothwell. 

"I am not launching a girl in society, " she said, "I only want to helpher to know a few nice young people. I shall begin with your children. They are mine if I am only a grandmother. A small dinner and a smalldance--and George and Kathryn may be the beginning of an interestingexperiment. "

 * * * * *

The Duchess was rarely mistaken. The experiment was interesting. ForGeorge--Lord Halwyn--it held a certain element of disaster. It was hewho danced with Robin first. He had heard of the girl who was a sort ofsublimated companion to his grandmother. He had encountered companionsbefore. This one, as she flew like a blown leaf across the floor andlaughed up into his face with wide eyes produced a new effect and was anew kind. 

He led her to the conservatory. He was extremely young and his fleetingemotions had never known a tight rein. An intoxicating hot-house perfumefilled his nostrils. Suddenly he let himself go and was kissing the warmvelvet of her slim little neck. 

"You--you--you've spoiled everything in the world!" she cried. "Now"--with a desolate, horrible little sob--"now I can only goback--_back_. " She spoke as if she were Cinderella and he had made theclock strike twelve. Her voice had absolute grief in it. 

"I say, "--he was contrite--"don't speak like that. I beg pardon. I'llgrovel. Don't-- Oh, Kathryn! Come here!"

This last because his sister had suddenly appeared. 

Kathryn bore Robin away. Boys like George didn't really matter, shepointed out, though of course it was bad manners. She had been kissedherself, it seemed. As they walked between banked flowers she added:

"By the way, somebody important has been assassinated in one of theBalkan countries. Lord Coombe has just come in and is talking it overwith grandmamma. "

As they neared the entrance to the ballroom she paused with a new kindof impish smile. 

"The very best looking boy in all England, " she said, "is dancing withSara Studleigh. He dropped in by chance to call and grandmamma made himstay. His name is Donal Muir. He is Lord Coombe's heir. Here he comes. Look!"

He was now scarcely two yards away. Almost as if he had been called heturned his eyes toward Robin and straight into hers theylaughed--straight into hers. 

The incident of their meeting was faultlessly correct; also, when LadyLothwell appeared, she presented him to Robin as if the brief ceremonywere one of the most ordinary in existence. 

They danced for a time without a word. She wondered if he could not feelthe beating of her heart. 

"That--is a beautiful waltz, " he said at last, as if it were a sort ofemotional confidence. 

"Yes, " she answered. Only, "Yes. "

Once round the great ballroom, twice, and he gave a little laugh andspoke again. 

"I am going to ask you a question. May I?"

"Yes. "

"Is your name Robin?"

"Yes. " She could scarcely breathe it. 

"I thought it was. I hoped it was--after I first began to suspect. I_hoped_ it was. "

"It is--it is. "

"Did we once play together in a garden?"

"Yes--yes. "

Back swept the years, and the wonderful happiness began again. 

 * * * * *

In the shining ballroom the music rose and fell and swelled again intoecstasy as he held her white young lightness in his arm and they swayedand darted and swooped like things of the air--while the old Duchess andLord Coombe looked on almost unseeing and talked in murmurs ofSarajevo. 

ROBIN

CHAPTER I

It was a soft starlit night mystically changing into dawn when DonalMuir left the tall, grave house on Eaton Square after the strangelyenchanted dance given by the old Dowager Duchess of Darte. A certainimpellingness of mood suggested that exercise would be a good thing andhe decided to walk home. It was an impellingness of body as well asmind. He had remained later than the relative who had by chance beenresponsible for his being brought, an uninvited guest, to the party. TheDuchess had not known that he was in London. It may also be accepted asa fact that to this festivity given for the pleasure of Mrs. Gareth-Lawless' daughter, she might not have chosen to assume theresponsibility of extending him an invitation. She knew something of hismother and had sometimes discussed her with her old friend, Lord Coombe. She admired Helen Muir greatly and was also much touched by certainaspects of her maternity. What Lord Coombe had told her of the meetingof the two children in the Gardens, of their innocent child passion ofattraction for each other, and of the unchildlike tragedy their enforcedparting had obviously been to both had at once deeply interested andmoved her. Coombe had only been able to relate certain surface incidentsconnected with the matter, but they had been incidents not easy toforget and from which unusual things might be deduced. No! She wouldnot have felt prepared to be the first to deliberately throw these twoyoung people across each other's paths at this glowing moment of theirearly blooming--knowing as she did Helen Muir's strongly anxious desireto keep them apart. 

She had seen Donal Muir several times as the years had passed and hadnot been blind to the physical beauty and allure of charm the rest ofthe world saw and proclaimed with suitable adjectives. When the intimatefriend who was his relative appeared with him in her drawing-room andshe found standing before her, respectfully appealing for welcome with adelightful smile, this quite incomparably good-looking young man, shewas conscious of a secret momentary disturbance and a recognition of thefact that something a shade startling had happened. 

"When a thing of the sort occurs entirely without one's aid and ratheragainst one's will--one may as well submit, " she said later to LordCoombe. "Endeavouring to readjust matters is merely meddling with Fateand always ends in disaster. As an incident, I felt there was a hint init that it would be the part of wisdom to leave things alone. "

She had watched the two dancing with a kind of absorption in her gaze. She had seen them go out of the room into the conservatory. She hadknown exactly when they had returned and, seeing the look on their youngfaces, had understood why the eyes of the beholders followed them. 

When Lord Coombe came in with the ominous story of the assassination atSarajevo, all else had been swept from her mind. There had been place inher being for nothing but the shock of a monstrous recognition. She hadbeen a gravely conscious looker-on at the slow but never ceasing growthof a world peril for too many years not to be widely awake to each signof its development. 

"Servia, Russia, Austria, Germany. It will form a pretext and a clearroad to France and England, " Lord Coombe had said. 

"A broad, clear road, " the Duchess had agreed breathlessly--and, whileshe gazed before her, ceased to see the whirl of floating and flutteringbutterfly-wings of gauze or to hear the music to whose measure theyfluttered and floated. 

But no sense of any connection with Sarajevo disturbed the swing of thefox trot or the measure of the tango, and when Donal Muir walked outinto the summer air of the starlit street and lifted his face, becausealready a faint touch of primrose dawn was showing itself on the easternsky, in his young world there was only recognition of a vague tumult ofheart and brain and blood. 

"What's the matter?" he was thinking. "What have I been doing-- Whathave I been saying? I've been like a chap in a dream. I'm not awakeyet. "

All that he had said to the girl was a simple fact. He had exaggeratednothing. If, in what now seemed that long-ago past, he had not been asturdy, normal little lad surrounded by love and friendliness, with hisdays full of healthy play and pleasure, the child tragedy of their beingtorn apart might have left ugly marks upon his mind, and lurked there, amorbid memory. And though, in time, rebellion and suffering had diedaway, he had never really forgotten. Even to the cricket-playing, larking boy at Eton there had now and then returned, with queersuddenness, recollections which gave him odd moments of resurrectedmisery. They passed away, but at long intervals they came back andalways with absolute reality. At Oxford the intervals had been longerbut a certain picture was one whose haunting never lost its clearness. It was a vision of a colour-warm child kneeling on the grass, her eyesuplifted, expressing only a lonely patience, and he could actually hearher humble little voice as she said:

"I--I haven't anything. " And it always roused him to rage. 

Then there was the piteous break in her voice when she hid her eyes withher arm and said of her beast of a mother:

"She--doesn't _like_ me!"

"Damn! Damn!" he used to say every time the thing came back. "Oh!damn!--damn!" And the expletive never varied in its spontaneity. 

 * * * * *

As he walked under the primrose sky and breathed in the faint fragrantstir of the freshening morning air, he who had always felt joyously thesense of life knew more than ever before the keen rapture of living. Thespringing lightness of his own step as it rang on the pavement was partof it. It was as though he were still dancing and he almost feltsomething warm and light in his arm and saw a little head of dark silknear his breast. 

Throughout his life he had taken all his joys to his closest companionand nearest intimate--his mother. Theirs had not been a common lifetogether. He had not even tried to explain to himself the harmony andgaiety of their nearness in which there seemed no separation of years. She had drawn and held him to the wonder of her charm and had been thefine flavour of his existence. It was actually true that he had so farhad no boyish love affairs because he had all unconsciously been in lovewith the beautiful completeness of her. 

Always when he returned home after festivities, he paused for a momentoutside her bedroom door because he so often found her awake and waitingto talk to him if he were inclined to talk--to listen--to laughsoftly--or perhaps only to say good-night in her marvel of a voice--amarvel because its mellow note held such love. 

This time when, after entering the house and mounting the stairs hereached her door, he found it partly open. 

"Come in, " he heard her say. "I went to sleep very early and awakenedhalf an hour ago. It is really morning. "

She was sitting up in a deep chair by the window. 

"Let me look at you, " she said with a little laugh. "And then kiss meand go to bed. "

But even the lovely, faint early light revealed something to her. 

"You walk like a young stag on the hillside, " she said. "You don't wantto go to sleep at all. What is it?"

He sat on a low ottoman near her and laughed a little also. 

"I don't know, " he answered, "but I'm wide awake. "

The English summer dawn is of a magical clear light and she could seehim well. She had a thrilled feeling that she had never quite knownbefore what a beautiful thing he was--how perfect and shining fair inhis boy manhood. 

"Mother, " he said, "you won't remember perhaps--it's a queer thing thatI should myself--but I have never really forgotten. There was a child Iplayed with in some garden when I was a little chap. She was a beautifullittle thing who seemed to belong to nobody--"

"She belonged to a Mrs. Gareth-Lawless, " Helen interpolated. 

"Then you do remember?"

"Yes, dear. You asked me to go to the Gardens with you to see her. AndMrs. Gareth-Lawless came in by chance and spoke to me. "

"And then we had suddenly to go back to Scotland. I remember you wakenedme quite early in the morning--I thought it was the middle of thenight. " He began to speak rather slowly as if he were thinking it over. "You didn't know that, when you took me away, it was a tragedy. I hadpromised to play with her again and I felt as if I had deserted herhideously. It was not the kind of a thing a little chap usuallyfeels--it was something different--something more. And to-night itactually all came back. I saw her again, mother. "

He was so absorbed that he did not take in her involuntary movement. 

"You saw her again! Where?"

"The old Duchess of Darte was giving a small dance for her. Hallowe tookme--"

"Does the Duchess know Mrs. Gareth-Lawless?" Helen had a sense ofbreathlessness. 

"I don't quite understand the situation. It seems the little thinginsists on earning her own living and she is a sort of companion andsecretary to the Duchess. Mother, she is just the same!"

The last words were a sort of exclamation. As he uttered them, therecame back to her the day when--a little boy--he had seemed as though hewere speaking as a young man might have spoken. Now he was a young man, speaking almost as if he were a little boy--involuntarily revealing hisexaltation. 

As she had felt half frightened years before, so she felt whollyfrightened now. He was not a little boy any longer. She could not sweephim away in her arms to save him from danger. Also she knew more of theeasy, fashionably accepted views of the morals of pretty Mrs. Gareth-Lawless, still lightly known with some cynicism as "Feather. " Sheknew what Donal did not. His relationship to the Head of the House ofCoombe made it unlikely that gossip should choose him as the exact youngman to whom could be related stories of his distinguished relative, Mrs. Gareth-Lawless and her girl. But through the years Helen Muir hadunavoidably heard things she thought particularly hideous. And here thechild was again "just the same. "

"She has only grown up. " His laugh was like a lightly indrawn breath. "Her cheek is just as much like a rose petal. And that wonderful littlelook! And her eyelashes. Just the same! Do girls usually grow up likethat? It was the look most. It's a sort of asking and giving--both atonce. "

There it was! And she had nothing to say. She could only sit and look athim--at his beautiful youth all alight with the sudden flame of thatwhich can set a young world on fire and sweep on its way either carryingdevastation or clearing a path to Paradise. 

His own natural light unconsciousness was amazing. He only knew that hewas in delightful high spirits. The dancing, the music, the earlymorning were, he thought, accountable for it. 

She bent forward to kiss his cheek and she patted his hand. 

"My dear! My dear!" she said. "How you have enjoyed your evening!"

"There never was anything more perfect, " with the light laugh again. "Everything was delightful--the rooms, the music, the girls in theirpretty frocks like a lot of flowers tossed about. She danced like a bitof thistledown. I didn't know a girl could be so light. The back of herslim little neck looks as fine and white and soft as a baby's. I am soglad you were awake. Are you sure you don't want to go to sleep again?"suddenly. 

"Not in the least. Look at the sun beginning to touch the tips of thelittle white clouds with rose. That stir among the leaves of the planetrees is the first delicious breath of the morning. Go on and tell meall about the party. "

"It's a perfect time to talk, " he laughed. 

And there he sat and made gay pictures for her of what he had seen anddone. He thought he was giving her mere detail of the old Duchess'dance. He did not know that when he spoke of new tangos, of flowers, ofmusic and young nymphs like tossed blossoms, he never allowed her for amoment to lose sight of Mrs. Gareth-Lawless' girl. She was the lightfloating over his vision of the happy youth of the assembly--she was thecentre--the beginning and the ending of it all. 

CHAPTER II

If some uncomplex minded and even moderately articulate man or woman, living in some small, ordinary respectable London house and going abouthis or her work in the customary way, had been prompted by chance uponJune 29th, 1914, to begin to keep on that date a day-by-day diary of hisor her ordinary life, the effects of huge historic events, as revealedby the every-day incidents to be noted in the streets, to be heard inhis neighbours' houses as well as among his fellow workers, to be readin the penny or half-penny newspapers, would have resulted--if therecord had been kept faithfully and without any self-conscious sense ofaudience--between 1914 and 1918 in the gradual compiling of a humandocument of immense historical value. Compared with it, the diaries ofDefoe and Pepys would pale and be flavourless. But it must have beenbegun in June, 1914, and have been written with the casualness of thatcommonplace realism which is the most convincing realism of all. It istrue that the expression of the uncomplex mind is infrequentlyarticulate, but the record which would bring home the clearest truthwould be the one unpremeditatedly depicting the effect produced upon thewholly unprepared and undramatic personality by the monstrous drama, asthe Second Deluge rose for its apparent overwhelming, carrying upon itsflood old civilisations broken from anchor and half submerged as theytossed on the rising and raging waves. Such a priceless treasure asthis might have been the quite unliterary and unromantic diary ofany--say, Mr. James Simpson of any house number in any respectable sidestreet in Regents Park, or St. Johns Wood or Hampstead. One can easilyimagine him, sitting in his small, comfortable parlour and bending overhis blotting-pad in unilluminated cheerful absorption after his day'swork. It can also without any special intellectual effort be imaginedthat the record might have begun with some such seemingly unpropheticentry as follows:--

"June 29th, 1914. I made up my mind when I was at the office to-day thatI would begin to keep a diary. I have thought several times that Iwould, and Harriet thinks it would be a good thing because we shouldhave it to refer to when there was any little dispute about dates andthings that have happened. To-night seemed a good time because there issomething to begin the first entry with. Harriet and I spent part of theevening in reading the newspaper accounts of the assassination of theAustrian Archduke and his wife. There seems to be a good deal ofexcitement about it because he was the next heir to the Austrian throne. The assassination occurred in Bosnia at a place called Sarajevo. Crawshaw, whose desk is next to mine in the office, believes it willmake a nice mess for the Bosnians and Servians because they have beenrather troublesome about wanting to be united into one country insteadof two, and called Greater Serbia. That seems a silly sort of reason forthrowing bombs and killing people. But foreigners have a way of thinkingbombs settle everything. Harriet brought out her old school geographyand we looked up Sarajevo on the map of Austria-Hungary. It was hard tofind because the print was small and it was spelt Saraievo--without anyj in it. It was just on the line between Bosnia and Servia and thegeography said it was the chief city in Bosnia. Harriet said it was aqueer thing how these places on maps never seemed like real places whenyou looked them up and just read their names and yet probably the peoplein them were as real to themselves as we were, and there were streets inthem as real as Lupton Street where we were sitting, finding them on themap on the sitting-room table. I said that bombs were pretty real thingsand the sound of this one when it exploded seemed to have reached a longway to judge from the newspapers and the talk in London. Harriet said myputting it like that gave her a queer feeling--almost as if she hadheard it and it had made her jump. Somehow it seemed something like itto me. At any rate we sat still a minute or two, thinking it over. ThenHarriet got up and went into the kitchen and made some nice toastedcheese for our supper before we went to bed. "

Men of the James Simpson type were among the many who daily passedCoombe House on their way to and from their office work. Some of them nodoubt caught sight of Lord Coombe himself as he walked or drove throughthe entrance gates. Their knowledge of him was founded upon rumouredstories, repeated rather privately among themselves. He was a greatswell and there weren't many shady things he hadn't done and didn't knowthe ins and outs of, but his remoteness from their own lives renderedthese accepted legends scarcely prejudicial. The perfection of hisclothes, and his unusual preservation of physical condition and goodlooks, also his habit of the so-called "week-end" continental journeys, were the points chiefly recalled by the incidental mention of his name. 

If James Simpson, on his way home to Lupton Street with his friendCrawshaw, chanced to see his lordship's car standing before his door afew days after the bomb throwing in Sarajevo, he might incidentally havereferred to him somewhat in this wise:--

"As we passed by Coombe House the Marquis of Coombe came out and gotinto his car. There were smart leather valises and travelling things init and a rug or so, as if he was going on some journey. He is a finelooking man for one that's lived the life he has and reached his age. Idon't see how he's done it, myself. When I said to Crawshaw that itlooked as if he was going away for the week end, Crawshaw said thatperhaps he was taking Saturday to Monday off to run over to talk to theKaiser and old Franz Josef about the Sarajevo business, and he mighttelephone to the Czar about it because he's intimate with them all, andthe whole lot seem to be getting mixed up in the thing and writingletters and sending secret telegrams. It seems to be turning out, asCrawshaw said it would, into a nice mess for Servia. Austria is makingit out that the assassination really was committed to stir up trouble, and says it wasn't done just by a crazy anarchist, but by a secretsociety working for its own ends. Crawshaw came in to supper and wetalked it all over. Harriet gave us cold beef and pickled onions andbeer, and we looked at the maps in the old geography again. We got quiteinterested in finding places. Bosnia and Servia (it's often spelledSerbia) are close up against Austria-Hungary, and Germany and Russia areclose against the other side. They can get into each other's countrieswithout much travelling. I heard to-day that Russia will have to helpServia if she has a row with Austria. Crawshaw says that will giveGermany the chance she's been waiting for and that she will try to getthrough Belgium to England. He says she hates England. Harriet began tolook pale as she studied the map and saw how little Belgium was and thatthe Channel was so narrow. She said she felt as if England had beensilly to let herself get so slack and she almost wished she hadn'tlooked at the geography. She said she couldn't help thinking how awfulit would be to see the German army marching up Regent Street and campingin Hyde Park, and who in goodness' name knew what they might do topeople if they hated England so? She actually looked as if she wouldhave cried if Crawshaw and I hadn't chaffed her and made her laugh bytelling her we would join the army; and Crawshaw began to shoulder armswith the poker and I got my new umbrella. "

In this domesticated and almost comfortable fashion did the greatesttragedy the human race has known since the beginning of the worldgradually prepare its first scenes and reveal glimpses of itself, as thecurtain of Time was, during that June, slowly raised by the hand ofFate. 

This is not what is known as a "war story. " It is not even a story ofthe War, but a relation of incidents occurring amidst and resulting fromthe strenuousness of a period to which "the War" was a background socolossal that it dwarfed all events, except in the minds of those forwhom such events personally shook and darkened or brightened the world. Nothing can dwarf personal anguish at its moment of highest power; tothe last agony and despairing terror of the heart-wrung the cataclysmof earthquake, tornado, shipwreck is but the awesome back drop of thescene. 

Also--incidentally--the story is one of the transitions in, andconvulsive changes of, points of view produced by the convulsion itselfwhich flung into new perspective the whole surface of the earth and theraces existing upon it. 

The Head of the House of Coombe had, as he said, been born at once tooearly and too late to admit of any fixed establishment of tastes andideals. His existence had been passed in the transition from one era toanother--the Early Victorian, under whose disappearing influences he hadspent his youth; the Late Victorian and Edwardian, in whose more rapidlychanging atmosphere he had ripened to maturity. He had, during thistransition, seen from afar the slow rising of the tidal wave of theSecond Deluge; and in the summer days of 1914 he heard the first lowroaring of its torrential swell, and visualised all that theoverwhelming power of its bursting flood might sweep before it and buryforever beneath its weight. 

He made seemingly casual crossings of the Channel and journeys whichwere made up of the surmounting of obstacles, and when he returned, brought with him a knowledge of things which it would have been unwiseto reveal carelessly to the general public. The mind of the generalpublic had its parallel, at the moment, in the temperature of a patientin the early stages of, as yet, undiagnosed typhoid or any other fever. Restless excitement and spasmodic heats and discomforts prompted andruled it. Its tendency was to nervous discontent and suspiciousfearfulness of approaching, vaguely formulated, evils. These risings oftemperature were to be seen in the very streets and shops. People weretalking--talking--talking. Ordinary people, common people, all kinds ofclasses. The majority of them did not know what they were talkingabout; most of them talked either uneducated, frightened or blusteringnonsense, but everybody talked more or less. Enormous numbers ofnewspapers were bought and flourished about, or pored over anxiously. Numbers of young Germans were silently disappearing from their places inshops, factories and warehouses. That was how Germany showed herreadiness for any military happening. Her army was already trained andcould be called from any country and walk in life. A mysterious unheardcommand called it and it was obliged to obey. The entire male populationof England had not been trained from birth to regard itself as animmense military machine, ready at any moment for action. The JamesSimpson type of Englishman indulged in much discussion of the pros andcons of enforced military training of youth. Germany's well knowncontempt of the size and power of the British Army took on an aspectwhich filled the James Simpsons with rage. They had not previouslythought of themselves as martial, because middle-class England wassatisfied with her belief in her strength and entire safety. Of courseshe was safe. She always had been. Britannia Rules the Waves and theJames Simpsons were sure that incidentally she ruled everything else. But as there stole up behind the mature Simpsons the hauntingrealization that, if England was "drawn in" to a war, it would be theyoung Simpsons who must gird their loins and go forth to meet Goliath inhis armour, with only the sling and stone of untrained youth and valouras their weapon, there were many who began to feel that eveninconvenient drilling and discipline might have been good things. 

"There is something quite thrilling in going about now, " said Feather toCoombe, after coming in from a shopping round, made in her new electricbrougham. "One doesn't know what it is, but it's in the air. You see itin people's faces. Actually shop girls give one the impression of justhaving stopped whispering together when you go into a place and ask forsomething. A girl who was trying on some gloves for me--she was a thingirl with prominent watery eyes--had such a frightened look, that I saidto her, just to see what she would say--'I wonder what would happen tothe shops if England got into war?' She turned quite white and answered, 'Oh, Madam, I can't bear to think of it. My favourite brother's asoldier. He's such a nice big fellow and we're so fond of him. And he'salways talking about it. He says Germany's not going to let England keepout. We're so frightened--mother and me. ' She almost dropped a big tearon my glove. It _would_ be quite exciting if England did go in. "

"It would, " Coombe answered. 

"London would be crowded with officers. All sorts of things would haveto be given for them--balls and things. "

"Cannon balls among other things, " said Coombe. 

"But we should have nothing to do with the cannon balls, thankgoodness, " exhilaration sweeping her past unpleasant aspects. "One wouldbe sorry for the Tommies, of course, if the worst came to the worst. ButI must say army and navy men are more interesting than most civilians. It's the constant change in their lives, and their having to meet somany kinds of people. "

"In actual war, men who are not merely 'Tommies' actually take part, "Coombe suggested. "I was looking at a ball-room full of them the nightafter the news came from Sarajevo. Fine, well-set-up youngsters dancingwith pretty girls. I could not help asking myself what would havehappened to them before the German army crossed the Channel--if theywere not able to prevent the crossing. And what would happen to thegirls after its crossing, when it poured over London and the rest ofEngland in the unbridled rage of drunken victory. "

He so spoke because beneath his outward coldness he himself felt asecret rage against this lightness which, as he saw things, had itsparallel in another order of trivial unawareness in more importantplaces and larger brains. Feather started and drew somewhat nearer tohim. 

"How hideous! What do you mean! Where was the party?" she asked. 

"It was a small dance given by the Duchess, very kindly, for Robin, " heanswered. 

"For Robin!" with open eyes whose incredulity held irritation. "The oldDuchess giving parties to her 'useful companion' girl! What nonsense!Who was there?" sharply. 

"The young fellows who would be first called on if there was war. Andthe girls who are their relatives. Halwyn was there--and young Dormerand Layton--they are all in the army. The cannon balls would be for themas well as for the Tommies of their regiments. They are spirited ladswho wouldn't slink behind. They'd face things. "

Feather had already forgotten her moment's shock in another thought. 

"And they were invited to meet Robin! Did they dance with her? Did shedance much? Or did she sit and stare and say nothing? What did shewear?"

"She looked like a very young white rose. She danced continually. Therewas always a little mob about her when the music stopped. I do not thinkshe sat at all, and it was the young men who stared. The only dance shemissed--Kathryn told her grandmother--was the one she sat out in theconservatory with Donal Muir. "

At this Feather's high, thin little laugh broke forth. 

"He turned up there? Donal Muir!" She struck her hands lightly together. "It's too good to be true!"

"Why is it too good to be true?" he inquired without enthusiasm. 

"Oh, don't you see? After all his mother's airs and graces and runningaway with him when they were a pair of babies--as if Robin had theplague. I was the plague--and so were you. And here the old Duchessthrows them headlong at each other--in all their full bloom--into eachother's arms. I did not do it. You didn't. It was the stuffiest oldfemale grandee in London, who wouldn't let _me_ sweep her frontdoor-steps for her--because I'm an impropriety. "

She asked a dozen questions, was quite humorous over the picture shedrew of Mrs. Muir's consternation at the peril her one ewe lamb had beenled into by her highly revered friend. 

"A frightfully good-looking, spoiled boy like that always plungesheadlong into any adventure that attracts him. Women have always madelove to him and Robin will make great eyes, and blush and look at himfrom under her lashes as if she were going to cry with joy--like Alicein the Ben Bolt song. She'll 'weep with delight when he gives her asmile and tremble with fear at his frown. ' His mother can't stop it, however furious she may be. Nothing can stop that sort of thing when itonce begins. "

"If England declares war Donal Muir will have more serious things to dothan pursue adventures, " was Coombe's comment. He looked serious himselfas he said the words, because they brought before him the bodilystrength and beauty of the lad. He seemed suddenly to see him again ashe had looked when he was dancing. And almost at the same moment he sawother scenes than ball-rooms and heard sounds other than those drawnforth by musicians screened with palms. He liked the boy. He was not hisson, but he liked him. If he had been his son, he thought--! He had beenthrough the monster munition works at Essen several times and he hadheard technical talks of inventions, the sole reason for whose presencein the world was that they had the power to blow human beings intounrecognisable, ensanguined shreds and to tear off limbs and catapultthem into the air. He had heard these powers talked of with a sense ofnatural pride in achievement, in fact with honest and cheerful selfgratulation. 

He had known Count Zeppelin well and heard his interesting explanationof what would happen to a thickly populated city on to which bombs weredropped. 

But Feather's view was lighter and included only such things as shefound entertaining. 

"If there's a war the heirs of great families won't be snatched atfirst, " she quite rattled on. "There'll be a sort of economising in thatsort of thing. Besides he's very young and he isn't in the Army. He'dhave to go through some sort of training. Oh, he'll have time! Andthere'll be so much emotion and excitement and talk about partingforever and 'This may be the last time we ever meet' sort of thing thatevery boy will have adventure--and not only boys. When I warned Robin, the night before she went away, I did not count on war or I could havesaid more--"

"What did you warn her of?"

"Of making mistakes about the men who would make love to her. I warnedher against imagining she was as safe as she would be if she were adaughter of the house she lived in. I knew what I was talking about. "

"Did she?" was Coombe's concise question. 

"Of course she did--though of course she pretended not to. Girls alwayspretend. But I did my duty as a parent. And I told her that if she gotherself into any mess she mustn't come to me. "

Lord Coombe regarded her in silence for a moment or so. It was one ofthe looks which always made her furious in her small way. 

"Good morning, " he said and turned his back and walked out of the room. Almost immediately after he had descended the stairs she heard the frontdoor close after him. 

It was the kind of thing which made her feel her utter helplessnessagainst him and which enraged all the little cat in her being. Sheactually ground her small teeth. 

"I was quite right, " she said. "It's her affair to take care of herself. Would he want her to come to _him_ in any silly fix? I should like tosee her try it. "

CHAPTER III

Robin sat at the desk in her private room and looked at a key she heldin her hand. She had just come upon it among some papers. She had put itinto a narrow lacquered box when she arranged her belongings, after sheleft the house in which her mother continued to live. It was the keywhich gave entrance to the Gardens. Each householder possessed one. Shealone knew why she rather timidly asked her mother's permission to keepthis one. 

"One of the first things I seem to remember is watching the gardenersplanting flowers, " Robin had said. "They had rows of tiny pots withgeraniums and lobelia in them. I have been happy there. I should like tobe able to go in sometimes and sit under the trees. If you do notmind--"

Feather did not mind. She herself was not in the least likely to beseized with a desire to sit under trees in an atmosphere heavy withnursemaids and children. 

So Robin had been allowed to keep the key and until to-day she had notopened the lacquer box. Was it quite by accident that she had found it?She was not quite sure it was and she was asking herself questions, asshe sat looking at it as it lay in her palm. 

The face of the whole world had changed since the night when she had satamong banked flowers and palms and ferns, and heard the splashing of thefountain and the sound of the music and dancing, and Donal Muir's voice, all at the same time. That which had happened had made everybody andeverything different; and, because she lived in this particular houseand saw much of special people, she realised that the growing shudderin the life about her was only the first convulsive tremor of anearthquake. The Duchess began to have much more for her to do. Shecalled on her to read special articles in the papers, and to make notesand find references. Many visitors came to the house to discuss, toplan, to prepare for work. A number of good-looking, dancing boys hadbegun to come in and out in uniform, and with eager faces and abusinesslike military air which oddly transformed them. The recalcitrantGeorge was more transformed than any of the rest. His eyes looked almostfierce in their anxious intensity, his voice had taken on a somewhathard defiant ring. It could not be possible that he had ever done thatsilly thing by the fountain and that she had splashed him from head tofoot. It was plain that there were young soldiers who were straining atleashes, who were restless at being held back by the bindings of redtape, and who every hour were hearing things--true or untrue--whichfilled them with blind fury. As days passed Robin heard some of thesethings--stories from Belgium--which caused her to stare straight beforeher, blanched with horror. It was not only the slaughter andhelplessness which pictured itself before her--it was stories halfhinted at about girls like herself--girls who were trapped andoverpowered--carried into lonely or dark places where no one could hearthem. Sometimes George and the Duchess forgot her because she was soquiet--people often forgot everything but their excitement andwrath--and every one who came in to talk, because the house had become acentre of activities, was full of new panics or defiances or rumours ofhappenings or possibilities. 

The maelstrom had caught Robin herself in its whirling. She realisedthat she had changed with the rest. She was no longer only a girl whowas looked at as she passed along the street and who was beginning to behappy because she could earn her living. What was every girl in thesedays? How did any girl know what lay before her and those who protectedthe land she lived in? What could a girl do but try in some way tohelp--in any way to help the fight and the fighters. She used to lieawake and think of the Duchess' plans and concentrate her thought on themastering of details. There was no hour too early or too late to findher ready to spring to attention. The Duchess had set her preparationsfor future possibilities in train before other women had quite begun tobelieve in their existence. Lady Lothwell had at first laughed quitegaily at certain long lists she found her mother occupied with--thoughthis, it is true, was in early days. 

But Robin, even while whirled by the maelstrom, could not cease thinkingcertain vague remote thoughts. The splashing of fountains among flowers, and the sound of music and dancing were far away--but there was an echoto which she listened unconsciously as Donal Muir did. Something shegave no name to. But as the, as yet unheard, guns sent forth vibrationswhich reached far, there rose before her pictures of columns of marchingmen--hundreds, thousands, young, erect, steady and with cleareyes--marching on and on--to what--to what? Would _every_ man go? Wouldthere not be some who, for reasons, might not be obliged--or able--orready--until perhaps the, as yet hoped for, sudden end of the awfulthing had come? Surely there would be many who would be too young--orwhose youth could not be spared because it stood for some power thenation needed in its future. 

She had taken out and opened the lacquered box while thinking thesethings. She was thinking them as she looked at the key in her hand. 

"It is not quiet anywhere now, " she said to herself. "But there will besome corner under a tree in the Gardens where it will _seem_ quiet ifone sits quite still there. I will go and try. "

There were very few nursemaids with their charges in the place when shereached it about an hour later. 

The military element filling the streets engendered a spirit of cautionwith regard to nursemaids in the minds of their employers. Even thosewho were not young and good-looking were somewhat shepherded. The two orthree quite elderly ones in the Gardens cast serious glances at the girlwho walked past them to a curve in the path where large lilac bushes andrhododendrons made a sort of nook for a seat under a tree. 

They could not see her when she sat down and laid her book beside her onthe bench. She did not even open it, but sat and looked at the greeneryof the shrubs before her. She was very still, and she looked as if shesaw more than mere leaves and branches. 

After a few minutes she got up slowly and went to a tall bush of lilac. She plucked several leaves and carried them back to her bench, somewhatas if she were a girl moving in a dream. Then, with a tiny shadow of asmile, she took a long pin from under the lapel of her coat and, leaningforward, began to prick out a pattern on the leaf she had laid on thewooden seat. She was in the midst of doing it--had indeed decorated twoor three--when she found herself turning her head to listen tosomething. It was a quick, buoyant marching step--not a nursemaid's, nota gardener's, and it was coming towards her corner as if withintention--and she suddenly knew that she was listening as if theintention concerned herself. This was only because there arepsychological moments, moods, conditions at once physical and mentalwhen every incident in life assumes the significance ofintention--because unconsciously or consciously one is _waiting_. 

Here was a crisp tread somehow conveying a suggestion of familiar happyeagerness. The tall young soldier who appeared from behind the clump ofshrubs and stood before her with a laughing salute had evidently comehurriedly. And the hurry and laughter extraordinarily brought back theDonal who had sprung upon her years ago from dramatic ambush. It wasDonal Muir who had come. 

"I saw you from a friend's house across the street, " he said. "Ifollowed you. "

He made no apology and it did not even cross her mind that apology wasconventionally necessary. He sat down beside her and his effect--thoughit did not express itself physically--was that of one who was breathingquickly. The clear blueness of his gaze seemed to enfold and cover her. The wonderfulness of him was the surrounding atmosphere she had felt asa little child. 

"The whole world is rocking to and fro, " he said. "It has gone mad. Weare all mad. There is no time to wait for anything. "

"I know! I know!" she whispered, because her pretty breast was risingand falling, and she had scarcely breath left to speak with. 

Even as he looked down at her, and she up at him, the colour andlaughter died out of him. Some suddenly returning memory brought a blackcloud into his eyes and made him pale. He caught hold of both her handsand pressed them quite hard against his bowed face. He did not kiss thembut held them against his cheek. 

"It is terrible, " he said. 

Without being told she knew what he meant. 

"You have been hearing new horrible things?" she said. What she guessedwas that they were the kind of things she had shuddered at, feeling herblood at once hot and cold. He lifted his face but did not release herhands. 

"At my friend's house. A man had just come over from Holland, " he shookhimself as if to dismiss a nightmare. "I did not come here to say suchthings. The enormous luck of catching sight of you, by mere chance, through the window electrified me. I--I came because I was catapultedhere. " He tried to smile and managed it pretty well. "How could I staywhen--there you were! Going into the same garden!" He looked round himat the greenness with memory awakening. "It's the same garden. Theshrubs have grown much bigger and they have planted some new ones--butit is the same garden. " His look came back to her. "You are the sameRobin, " he said softly. 

"Yes, " she answered, as she had always answered "yes" to him. 

"You are the same little child, " he added and he lifted her hands again, but this time he kissed them as gently as he had spoken. "God! I'mglad!" And that was said softly, too. He was not a man of thirty orforty--he was a boy of twenty and his whole being was vibrating with theearthquake of the world. 

That he vaguely recognised this last truth revealed itself in his nextwords. 

"It would have taken me six months to say this much to you--to get thisfar--before this thing began, " he said. "I daren't have run after you inthe street. I should have had to wait about and make calls and ask forinvitations to places where I might see you. And when we met we shouldhave been polite and have talked all round what we wanted to say. Itwould have been cheek to tell you--the second time we met--that youreyes looked at me just as they did when you were a little child. Ishould have had to be decently careful because you might have felt shy. You don't feel shy now, do you? No, you don't, " in caressing convictionand appeal. 

"No--no. " There was the note of a little mating bird in the repeatedword. 

This time he spread one of her hands palm upward on his own larger one. He looked down at it tenderly and stroked it as he talked. 

"It is because there is no time. Things pour in upon us. We don't knowwhat is before us. We can only be sure of one thing--that it may bedeath or wounds. I don't know when they'll think me ready to be sentout--or when they'll be ready to send me and other fellows like me. ButI shall be sent. I am sitting in a garden here with you. I'm a youngchap and big and strong and I love life. It is my duty as a man to goand kill other young chaps who love it as much as I do. And they must dotheir best to kill me, 'Gott strafe England, ' they're saying inGermany--I understand it. Many a time it's in me to say, 'Gott strafeGermany. '"

He drew in his breath sharply, as if to pull himself together, and wasstill a moment. The next he turned upon her his wonderful boy's smile. Suddenly there was trusting appeal in it. 

"You don't mind my holding your hand and talking like this, do you? Youreyes are as soft as--I've seen fawns cropping among the primroses witheyes that looked like them. But yours _understand_. You don't mind mydoing this?" he kissed her palm. "Because there is no time. "

Her free hand caught at his sleeve. 

"No, " she said. "You're going--you're _going_!"

"Yes, " he answered. "And you wouldn't hold me back. "

"No! No! No! No!" she cried four times, "Belgium! Belgium! Oh! Belgium!"And she hid her eyes on his sleeve. 

"That's it--Belgium! There has been war before, but this promises fromthe outset to be something else. And they're coming on in theirmillions. We have no millions--we have not even guns and uniformsenough, but we've got to stop them, if we do it with our bare hands andwith walls of our dead bodies. That was how Belgium held them back. CanEngland wait?"

"You can't wait!" cried Robin. "No man can wait. "

How he glowed as he looked at her!

"There. That shows how you understand. See! That's what draws me. That'swhy, when I saw you through the window, I had to follow you. It wasn'tonly your lovely eyes and your curtains of eyelashes and because you area sort of rose. It is you--you! Whatsoever you said, I should know themeaning of, and what I say you will always understand. It's as if weanswered each other. That's why I never forgot you. It's why I waked upso when I saw you at the Duchess'. " He tried to laugh, but did not quitesucceed. "Do you know I have never had a moment's real rest since thatnight--because I haven't seen you. "

"I--" faltered Robin, "have wondered and wondered--where you were. "

All the forces of nature drew him a little nearer to her--though thegardener who clumped past them dully at the moment only saw aparticularly good-looking young soldier, apparently engaged in agreeableconversation with a pretty girl who was not a nursemaid. 

"Did you come here because of that?" he asked with frank anxiety. "Doyou come here often and was it just chance? Or did you come because youwere wondering?"

"I didn't exactly know--at first. But I know now. I have not been heresince I went to live in Eaton Square, " she gave back to him. Oh! howgood and beautiful his asking eyes were! It was as he drew even a littlenearer that he saw for the first time the pricked lilac leaves lying onthe bench beside her. 

"Did you do those?" he said suddenly quite low. "Did you?"

"Yes, " as low and quite sweetly unashamed. "You taught me--when weplayed together. "

The quick emotion in his flushing face could scarcely be described. 

"How lovely--how _lovely_ you are!" he exclaimed, almost under hisbreath. "I--I don't know how to say what I feel--about your remembering. You little--little thing!" This last because he somehow strangely sawher five years old again. 

It was a boy's unspoiled, first love making--the charming outburst ofyoung passion untrained by familiar use to phrases. It was like therising of a Spring freshet and had the same irresistible power. 

"May I have them? Will you give them to me with your own little hand?"

The happy glow of her smiling, as she picked them up and laid them, oneby one, on his open extended palm, was as the glow of the smiling ofyoung Eve. The dimples playing round her mouth and the quiver of herlashes, as she lifted them to laugh into his eyes, were an actual peril. 

"Must I give you the pin too?" she said. 

"Yes--everything, " he answered in a sort of helpless joy. "I would carrythe wooden bench away with me if I could. But they would stop me at thegate. " They were obliged to treat something a little lightly becauseeverything seemed tensely tremulous. 

"Here is the pin, " she said, taking it from under the lapel of her coat. "It is quite a long one. " She looked at it a moment and then ended in awhisper. "I must have known why I was coming here--because, you see, Ibrought the pin. " And her eyelashes lifted themselves and made theircircling shadows again. 

"Then I must have the pin. And it will be a talisman. I shall have alittle flat case made for the leaves and the sacred pin shall hold ittogether. When I go into battle it will keep me safe. Bullets andbayonets will glance aside. " He said it, as he laid the treasure away inhis purse, and he did not see her face as he spoke of bullets andbayonets. 

"I am a Highlander, " he said next and for the moment he looked as if hesaw things far away. "In the Highlands we believe more than most peopledo. Perhaps that's why I feel as if we two are not quite like otherpeople, --as if we had been something--I don't know what--to each otherfrom the beginning of time--since the 'morning stars first sangtogether. ' I don't know exactly what that means, or how stars sing--butI like the sound of it. It seems to mean something I mean though I don'tknow how to say it. " He was not in the least portentous or solemn, buthe was the most strongly feeling and _real_ creature she had ever heardspeaking to her and he swept her along with him, as if he had indeedbeen the Spring freshet and she a leaf. "I believe, " here he began tospeak slowly as if he were thinking it out, "that there wassomething--that meant something--in the way we two were happy togetherand could not bear to be parted--years ago when we were nothing butchildren. Do you know that, little chap as I was, I never stoppedthinking of you day and night when we were not playing together. I_couldn't_!"

"Neither could I stop thinking, " said Robin. "I had dreams about seeingyour eyes looking at me. They were blue like clear water in summer. Theywere always laughing. I always _wanted_ them to look at me! They--theyare the same eyes now, " in a little rush of words. 

Their blueness was on hers--in the very deeps of their upliftedliquidity. 

"God! I'm _glad_!" his voice was on a hushed note. 

There has never been a limner through all the ages who has pictured--atsuch a moment--two pairs of eyes reaching, melting into, lost in eachother in their human search for the longing soul drawing together humanthings. Hand and brush and colour cannot touch That which Is and MustBe--in its yearning search for the spirit which is its life on earth. Yet a boy and girl were yearning towards it as they sat in mere mortalform on a bench in a London square. And neither of them knew more thanthat they wondered at and adored the beauty in each other's eyes. 

"I didn't know what a little chap I was, " he said next. "I'd had asplendid life for a youngster and I was big for my age and ramping withhealth and strength and happiness. You seemed almost a baby to me, but--it was the way you looked at me, I think--I wanted to talk to you, and please you and make you laugh. You had a red little mouth with deepdimples that came and went near the corners. I liked to see themtwinkle. "

"You told me, " she laughed, remembering. "You put the point of yourfinger in them. But you didn't hurt me, " in quick lovely reassuring. "You were not a rough little boy. "

"I wouldn't have hurt you for worlds. I didn't even know I was cheeky. The dimples were so deep that it seemed quite natural to poke atthem--like a sort of game. "

"We laughed and laughed. It _was_ a sort of game. I sat quite still andlet you make little darts at them, " Robin assisted him. "We laughed likesmall crazy things. We almost had child hysterics. "

The dimples showed themselves now and he held himself in leash. 

"You did everything I wanted you to do, " he said, "and I suppose thatmade me feel bigger and bigger. "

"_I_ thought you were big. And I had never seen anything so wonderfulbefore. You knew everything in the world and I knew nothing. Don't youremember, " with hesitation--as if she were almost reluctant to recallthe memory of a shadow into the brightness of the moment--"I told youthat I had nothing--and nobody?"

All rushed back to him in a warm flow. 

"That was it, " he said. "When you said that I felt as if some one hadinsulted and wronged something of my own. I remember I felt hot andfurious. I wanted to give you things and fight for you. I--caught you inmy arms and squeezed you. "

"Yes, " Robin answered. 

"It was because of--that time when the morning stars first sangtogether, " he answered smiling, but still as _real_ as before. "Itwasn't a stranger child I wanted to take care of. It was some one Ihad--belonged to--long--long and long. I'm a Highlander and I know it'strue. And there's another thing I know, " with a sudden change almost toboyish fierceness, "you are one of the things I'm going to face cannonand bayonets for. If there were nothing else and no one else in England, I should stand on the shore and fight until I dropped dead and the wholeHun mass surged over me before they should reach you. "

"Yes, " whispered Robin, "I know. "

They both realised that the time had come when they must part, and whenhe lifted again the hand nearest to him, it was with the gesture of onewho had reached the moment of farewell. 

"It's our garden, " he said. "It's the _same_ garden. Just because thereis no time--may I see you here again? I can't go away without knowingthat. "

"I will come, " she answered, "whenever the Duchess does not need me. Yousee I belong to nobody but myself. "

"I belong to people, " he said, "but I belong to myself too. " He paused asecond or so and a strange half puzzled expression settled in his eyes. "It's only fair that a man who's looking the end of things straight inthe face should have something for himself--to himself. If it's only aheavenly hour now and then. Before things stop. There's such a lot oflife--and such a lot to live for--forever if one could. And a smash--ora crash--or a thrust--and it's over! Sometimes I can hardly get hold ofit. "

He shook his head as he rose and stood upright, drawing his splendidyoung body erect. 

"It's only fair, " he said. "A chap's so strong and--and ready forliving. Everything's surging through one's mind and body. One can't goout without having _something_--of one's own. You'll come, won'tyou--just because there's no time? I--I want to keep looking into youreyes. "

"I want you to look into them, " said Robin. "I'll come. "

He stood still a moment looking at her just as she wanted him to look. Then after a few more words he bent low and kissed her hands and thenstood straight again and saluted and went away. 

CHAPTER IV

There was one facet of the great stone of War upon which many strangethings were written. They were not the things most discussed orconsidered. They were results--not causes. But for the stress of mental, spiritual and physical tempest-of-being the colossal background of stormcreated, many of them might never have happened; but the consequences oftheir occurrence were to touch close, search deep, and reach far intothe unknown picture of the World the great War might leave in fragmentswhich could only be readjusted by centuries of time. 

The interested habit of observation of, and reflection on, her kindwhich knew no indifferences, in the mind of the Duchess of Darte, awakened by stages to the existence of this facet and to the moment ofthe writings thereupon. 

"It would seem almost as if Nature--Fate--had meant to give a newimpulse to the race--to rouse human creatures to new moods, to thrustthem into places where they see new things. Men and women are beingdragged out of their self-absorbed corners and stirred up and shaken. Emotions are being roused in people who haven't known what a realemotion was. Middle-aged husbands and wives who had sunk intocomfortable acceptance of each other and their boys and girls are beingdragged out of bed, as it were, and wakened up and made to stand ontheir feet and face unbelievable possibilities. If you have boys oldenough to be soldiers and girls old enough to be victims--your lifemakes a sort of _volte face_ and everyday, worldly comforts andsuccesses or little failures drop out of your line of sight, and changetheir values. Mothers are beginning to clutch at their sons; and evenself-centred fathers and selfish pretty sisters look at their malerelatives with questioning, with a hint of respect or even awe in it. Perhaps the women feel it more than the men. Good-looking, light-minded, love-making George has assumed a new aspect to his mother and toKathryn. They're secretly yearning over him. He has assumed a new aspectto me. I yearn over him myself. He has changed--he has suddenly grownup. Boys are doing it on every hand. "

"The youngest youngster vibrates with the shock of cannon firing, eventhough the sound may not be near enough to be heard, " answered Coombe. "We're all vibrating unconsciously. We are shuddering consciously at thethings we hear and are mad to put a stop to, before they go further. "

"Innocent little villages full of homes torn and trampled under foot andburned!" the Duchess almost cried out. "And worse things thanthat--worse things! And the whole monstrosity growing more huge andthrowing out new and more awful tentacles every day. "

"Every hour. No imagination has yet conceived what it may be. "

"That is why the poor human things are clutching at each other, andfinding values and attractions where they did not see them before. Colonel Marion and his wife were here yesterday. He is a stout man overfifty and has a red face and prominent eyes. His wife has been sooccupied with herself and her children that she had almost forgotten heexisted. She looked at and listened to him as if she were a bride. "

"I have seen changes of that sort myself, " said Coombe. "He is morealive himself. He has begun to be of importance. And men like him havebeen killed already--though the young ones go first. "

"The young ones know that, and they clutch the most frantically. That iswhat I am seeing in young eyes everywhere. Mere instinct makes itso--mere uncontrollable instinct which takes the form of a sort ofdesperateness at facing the thousand chances of death before they havelived. They don't know it isn't actual fear of bullets and shrapnel. Sometimes they're afraid it's fear and it makes them sick at themselvesand determined to grin and hide it. But it isn't fear--it's furiousNature protesting. "

"There are hasty bridals and good-bye marriages being made in allranks, " Coombe put in. "They are inevitable. "

"God help the young things--those of them who never meet again--andperhaps, also, some of those who do. The nation ought to take care ofthe children. If there is a nation left, God knows they will be needed, "the Duchess said. "One of my footmen who 'joined up' has revealed anunsuspected passion for a housemaid he used to quarrel with, and whoseemed to detest him. I have three women in my household who havesoldier lovers in haste to marry them. I shall give them my blessing andtake care of the wives when they are left behind. One can be served byold men and married women--and one can turn cottages into smallorphanages if the worst happens. "

There was a new vigour in her splendid old face and body. 

"There is a reason now why I am the Dowager Duchess of Darte, " she wenton, "and why I have money and houses and lands. There is a reason why Ihave lived when it sometimes seemed as if my usefulness was over. Thereare uses for my money--for my places--for myself. Lately I have foundmyself saying, as Mordecai said to Esther, 'Who knowest whether thou artnot come to the kingdom for such a time as this. ' A change is takingplace in me too. I can do more because there is so much more to do. Ican even use my hands better. Look at them. "

She held them out that he might see them--her beautiful old-ivoryfingers, so long stiffened by rheumatism. She slowly opened and shutthem. 

"I can move them more--I have been exercising them and having themrubbed. I want to be able to knit and sew and wait on myself and perhapson other people. Because I have been a rich, luxurious old woman it hasnot occurred to me that there were rheumatic old women who were forcedto do things because they were poor--the things I never tried to do. Ihave begun to try. "

She let her hands fall on her lap and sat gazing up at him with a ratherstrange expression. 

"Do you know what I have been doing?" she said. "I have been praying toGod--for a sort of miracle. In their terror people are beginning to asktheir Deity for things as they have never done it before. We are most ofus like children waking in horror of the black night and shrieking forsome one to come--some one--any one! Each creature cries out to his ownDeity--the God his own need has made. Most of us are doing it insecret--half ashamed to let it be known. We are abject things. Mothersand fathers are doing it--young lovers and husbands and wives. "

"What miracle are you asking for?"

"For power to do things I have not done for years. I want to walk--tostand--to work. If under the stress of necessity I begin to do allthree, my doctors will say that mental exaltation and will power havecaused the change. It may be true, but mental exaltation and will powerare things of the soul not of the body. Anguish is actually forcing meinto a sort of practical belief. I am trying to 'have faith even as agrain of mustard seed' so that I may say unto my mountain, 'Remove henceto yonder place and it shall be removed. '"

"'The things which I do, ye shall do also and even greater things thanthese shall ye do. '" Coombe repeated the words deliberately. "I heard anearnest middle-aged dissenter preach a sermon on that text a few daysago. "

"What?"--his old friend leaned forward. "Are _you_ going to hearsermons?"

"I am one of the children, I suppose. Though I do not shriek aloud, probably something shrieks within me. I was passing a small chapel andheard a singular voice. I don't know exactly why I went into the place, but when I sat down inside I felt the tension of the atmosphere at once. Every one looked anxious or terrified. There were pale faces and stonyor wild eyes. It did not seem to be an ordinary service and voices keptbreaking out with spasmodic appeals, 'Almighty God, look down on us!''Oh, Christ, have mercy!' 'Oh, God, save us!' One woman in black wasrocking backwards and forwards and sobbing over and over again, 'Oh, Jesus! Jesus! Oh, Lord Jesus!'"

"Part of her body and soul was lying done to death in some field--or bysome roadside, " said the Duchess. "She could not pray--she could onlycry out. I can hear her, 'Oh, Lord Jesus!'"

Later came the morning when the changed George came to say good-bye. Hewas wonderfully good-looking in his khaki and seemed taller and moresquare of jaw. He made a few of the usual young jokes which wereintended to make things cheerful and to treat affectionate fearslightly, but his good-natured blue eye held a certain deadly quiet inits depths. 

His mother and Kathryn were with him, and it was while they wereabsorbed in anxious talk with the Duchess that he walked over to whereRobin sat and stood before her. 

"Will you come into the library and let me say something to you? I don'twant to go away without saying it, " he put it to her. 

The library was the adjoining room and Robin rose and went with himwithout any comment or question. Already the time had come whenformalities had dropped away and people did not ask for trivialexplanations. The pace of events had become too rapid. 

"There are a lot of chances when a man goes out--that he won't comeback, " he said, still standing after she had taken a place in thewindow-seat he guided her to. "There are not as many as one's friendscan't help thinking--but there are enough to make him feel he'd like toleave things straight when he goes. What I want you to let me say is, that the minute I had made a fool of myself the night of the dance, Iknew what an ass I had been and I was ready to grovel. "

Robin's lifted face was quite gentle. Suddenly she was thinkingself-reproachingly, "Oh, poor boy--poor boy!"

"I flew into a temper and would not let you, " she answered him. "It_was_ temper--but there were things you didn't know. It was not yourfault that you didn't. " The square, good-natured face flushed withrelief, and George's voice became even slightly unsteady. 

"That's kind of you, " he said, "it's _kind_ and I'm jolly grateful. Things mean a lot just now--with all one's people in such a state andtrying so pluckily to hide it. I just wanted to make sure that you knewthat _I_ knew that the thing only happened because I was a silly idiotand for no other reason. You will believe me, won't you, and won'tremember it if you ever remember me?"

"I shall remember you--and it is as if--that had never happened at all. "

She put out, as she got up, such a kind hand that he grasped it almostjoyously. 

"You have made it awfully easy for me. Thank you, Miss Lawless. " Hehesitated a second and then dropped his voice. "I wonder if I dare--Iwonder if it would be cheek--and impudence if I said something else?"

"Scarcely anything seems cheek or impudence now, " Robin answered withsimple sadness. "Nothing ordinary seems to matter because _everything_is of so much importance. "

"I feel as if what I wanted to say was one of the things that _are_important. I don't know what--older people--or safe ones--would thinkabout it, but--" He broke off and began again. "To _us_ young ones whoare facing-- It's the only big thing that's left us--in our bit of thepresent. We can only be sure of to-day--"

"Yes--yes, " Robin cried out low. "Only to-day--just to-day. " She evenpanted a little and George, looking into her eyes, knew that he mightsay anything, because for a reason she was one of the girls who in thishour could understand. 

"Perhaps you don't know where our house is, " he said quite quickly. "Itis one of those in the Square--facing the Gardens. I might have playedwith you there when I was a little chap--but I don't think I did. "

"Nobody did but Donal, " she said, quickly also. How did she know that hewas going to say something to her about Donal?

"I gave him the key to the Gardens that day, " he hurried on. "I was atthe window with him when he saw you. I understood in a minute when I sawhis face and he'd said half a dozen words to me. I gave him my key. Hehas got it now. " He actually snatched at both her hands and grippedthem. It was a _grip_ and his eyes burned through a sort of suddenmoisture. "We can't stay here and talk. But I couldn't _not_ say it! Oh, I say, be _good_ to him! You would, if he had only a day to live becausesome damned German bullet had struck him. You're life--you'reyoungness--you're _to-day_! Don't say 'No' to _anything_ he asks ofyou--for God's sake, don't. "

"I'd give him my heart in his two hands, " gasped Robin. "I couldn't givehim my soul because it was always his. "

"God take care of the pair of you--and be good to the rest of us, "whispered George, wringing her hands hard and dropping them. 

That was how he went away. 

A few weeks later he was lying, a mangled object, in a field inFlanders. One of thousands--living, laughing, good as honest bread isgood; the possible passer-on of life and force and new thinking for newgenerations--one of hundreds of thousands--one of millions before theend came--nice, healthy, normal-minded George, son and heir of a houseof decent nobles. 

CHAPTER V

And still youth marched away, and England seemed to swarm with soldiersand, at times, to hear and see nothing but marching music and marchingfeet, though life went on in houses, shops, warehouses and offices, andnew and immense activities evolved as events demanded them. Many of thenew activities were preparations for the comfort and care of soldierswho were going away, and for those who would come back and would needmore care than the others. Women were doing astonishing work andrevealing astonishing power and determination. The sexes mingled with abusinesslike informality unknown in times of peace. Lovely girls went inand out of their homes, and from one quarter of London to anotherwithout question. They walked with a brisk step and wore the steadyexpression of creatures with work in view. Slim young war-widows were tobe seen in black dresses and veiled small hats with bits of white crapeinside their brims. Sometimes their little faces were awful to behold, but sometimes they wore a strained look of exaltation. 

The Dowager Duchess of Darte was often absent from Eaton Square. She wasunderstood to be proving herself much stronger than her friends hadsupposed her to be. She proved it by doing an extraordinary amount ofwork. She did it in her house in Eaton Square--in other people's houses, in her various estates in the country, where she prepared her villagersand tenants for a future in which every farm house and cottage must beas ready for practical service as her own castle or manor house. DarteNorham was no longer a luxurious place of residence but a potentialhospital for wounded soldiers; so was Barons Court and the beautiful oldDower House at Malworth. 

Sometimes Robin was with her, but oftener she remained at Eaton Squareand wrote letters and saw busy people and carried out lists of orders. 

It was not every day or evening that she could easily find time to goout alone and make her way to the Square Gardens and in fact it was notoften to the Gardens she went. There were so many dear places wheretrees grew and made quiet retreats--all the parks and heaths and greensuburbs--and everywhere pairs walked or sat and talked, and were franklyso wholly absorbed in the throb of their own existences that they had nointerest in, or curiosity concerning, any other human beings. 

"Ought I to ask you to come and meet me--as if you were a littlehousemaid meeting her life-guardsman?" Donal had said feverishly thesecond time they met. 

A sweet flush ran up to the roots of her hair and even showed itself onthe bit of round throat where her dress was open. 

"Yes, you ought, " she answered. "There are no little housemaids andlife-guardsmen now. It seems as if there were only--people. "

The very sound of her voice thrilled him--everything about her thrilledhim--the very stuff her plain frock was made of, the small hat she wore, her way of moving or quiet sitting down near him, but most of all thelift of her eyes to his--because there was no change in it and the eyesexpressed what they had expressed when they had first looked at him. Itwas a thing which moved him to-day exactly as it had moved him when hewas too young to explain its meaning and appeal. It was the lovely faithand yearning acceptance of him as a being whose perfection could not bequestioned. There was in it no conscious beguiling flattery orappraisement--it was pure acceptance and sweet waiting for what he hadto give. He sometimes found himself trembling with his sense of itssimple unearthliness. 

Few indeed were the people who at this time were wholly normal. Thewhole world seemed a great musical instrument, overstrung and giving outpreviously unknown harmonies and inharmonies. Amid the thunders of greatcrashing discords the individual note was almost unheard--but theindividual note continued its vibrations. 

The tone which expressed Donal Muir--in common with many others of hisage and sex--was a novel and abnormal one. His being no longer sang thehealthy human song of mere joy in life and living. A knowledge ofcruelty and brutal force, of helplessness and despair, grew in him dayby day. Causes for gay good cheer and laughter were swept away, leavingin their places black facts and needs to gaze at with hard eyes. 

"Do you see how everything has _stopped_--how nothing can go on?" hesaid to Robin on their second meeting in the Gardens. "The things weused to fill our time and amuse ourselves with--dancing and tennis andpolo and theatres and parties--how jolly and all right they were intheir day, but how futile they seem just now. How could one even standtalk of them! There is only one thing. "

The blue of his eyes grew dark. 

"It is as if a gigantic wall were piling itself up between us and Life, "he went on. "That is how I see it--a wall piling itself higher everyhour. It's built of dead things and maimed and tortured ones. It'sbuilding itself of things you can't speak of. It stands between all theworld and living--mere living. We can't go on till we've stormed it andbeaten it down--or added our bodies to it. If it isn't beaten down itwill rise to heaven itself and shut it out--and that will be the end ofthe world. " He shook his head in sudden defiant bitterness. "If it can'tbe beaten down, better the world _should_ come to an end. "

Robin put out her hand and caught his sleeve. 

"It will be beaten down, " she cried. "You--_you_--and others like you--"

"It will be, " he said. "And it's because, when men read the day's news, almost every single one of them feels something leaping up in him thatseems strong enough to batter it to earth single-handed. "

But he gently put out his own hand and took in it the slim gloved oneand looked down at it, as if it were something quite apart andwonderful--rather as if hands were rare and he had not often seen onebefore. 

There was much sound of heavy traffic on the streets. The lumbering ofarmy motor trucks and vans, the hurry of ever-passing feet and vehicles, changed the familiar old-time London roar, which had been as that of lowand distant thunder, into the louder rumbling of a storm which had drawnnearer and was spending its fury within the city's streets themselves. Just at this moment there arose the sound of some gigantic loaded thing, passing with unearthly noises, and high above it pierced the shrillingof fifes. 

Robin glanced about the empty garden. 

"The noise seems to shut us in. How deserted the Gardens look. I feel asif we were in another world. We are shut in--and shut out, " shewhispered. 

He whispered also. He still looked down at the slim gloved hand as if ithad some important connection with the moment. 

"We have so few minutes together, " he said. "And I have thought of somany things I must say to you. I cannot stop thinking about you. I thinkof you even when I am obliged to think of something else at the sametime. I am in a sort of tumult every moment I am away from you. " Hestopped suddenly and looked up. "I am speaking as if I had been with youa score of times. I haven't, you know. I have only seen you once sincethe dance. But it is as if we had met every day--and it's true--I am ina sort of tumult. I think thousands of new things and I feel as if I_must_ tell you of them all. "

"I--think too, " said Robin. Oh! the dark dew of her imploring eyes! Oh!the beat of the little pulse he could actually see in her soft barethroat. He did not even ask himself what the eyes implored for. They hadalways looked like that--as if they were asking to be allowed to behappy and to love all kind things on earth. 

"One of the new things I cannot help thinking about--it's a queer thingand I must tell you about it. It's not like me and yet it's thestrongest feeling I ever had. Since the War has changed everything andeverybody, all one's feelings have grown stronger. I never was furiousbefore--and I've been furious. I've felt savage. I've raged. And thething I'm thinking of is like a kind of obsession. It's this--" hecaught her hands again and held her face to face with him. "I--I want tohave you to myself, " he exclaimed. 

She did not try to move. She only gazed at him. 

"Nobody else _has_ me--at all, " she answered. "No one wants me. "

The colour ran up under his fine skin. 

"What I mean is a little different. Perhaps you mayn't understand it. Iwant this--our being together in this way--our understanding andtalking--to be something that belongs to _us_ and to no one else. It'stoo sudden and wonderful for any one but ourselves to understand. Nobodyelse _could_ understand it. Perhaps we don't ourselves--quite! But Iknow what it does to _me_. I can't bear the thought of other peoplespoiling the beauty of it by talking it over and looking on. " Heactually got up and began to walk about. "Oh, I _ought_ to havesomething of my own--before it's all over--I ought! I want this miracleof a thing--for my own. "

He stopped and stood before her. 

"My mother is the most beloved creature in the world. I have always toldher everything. She has always cared. I don't know why I have not toldher about--this--but I haven't and I don't want to--now. That is part ofthe strange thing. I do not want to tell her--even the belovedest womanthat ever lived. I want it for myself. Will you let me have it--will youhelp me to keep it?"

"Like a secret?" said Robin in her soft note. 

"No, not a secret. A sort of sacred, heavenly unbelievable thing we owntogether. "

"I understand, " was Robin's answer. "It does not seem strange to me. Ihave thought something like that too--almost exactly like. "

It did not once occur to them to express, even to themselves, in anycommon mental form the fact that they were "in love" with each other. The tide which swept them with it had risen ages before and bore them onits swelling waves as though they were leaves. 

"No one but ourselves will know that we meet, " she went on further. "Imay come and go as I like in these hurried busy hours. Even Lady Kathrynis as free as if she were a shop girl. It is as you said before--thereis no time to be curious and ask questions. And even Dowie has beenobliged to go to her cousin's widow whose husband has just been killed. "

Shaken, thrilled, exalted, Donal sat down again and talked to her. Together they made their plans for meeting, as they had done whenAndrews had slackened her guard. There was no guard to keep watch onthem now. And the tide rose hour by hour. 

CHAPTER VI

Aunts and cousins and more or less able relatives were largely drawn onin these days of stress and need, and Dowie was an efficient person. Thecousin whose husband had been killed in Belgium, leaving a young widowand two children scarcely younger and more helpless than herself, had norelation nearer than Dowie, and had sent forth to the good woman afrantic wail for help in her desolation. The two children were, ofcourse, on the point of being added to by an almost immediatelyimpending third, and the mother, being penniless and prostrated, hadremembered the comfortable creature with her solid bank account ofsavings and her good sense and good manners and knowledge of a worldlarger than the one into which she had been born. 

"You're settled here, my lamb, " Dowie had said to Robin. "It's more likeyour own home than the other place was. You're well and safe and busy. Imust go to poor Henrietta in Manchester. That's my bit of work, itseems, and thank God I'm able to do it. She was a fine girl in a fineshop, poor Henrietta, and she's not got any backbone and her childrenare delicate--and another coming. Well, well! I do thank God that youdon't need your old Dowie as you did at first. "

Thus she went away and in her own pleasant rooms in the big house, nowso full of new activities, Robin was as unwatched as if she had been ayoung gull flying in and out of its nest in a tall cliff rising out ofthe beating sea. 

Her early fever of anxiety never to lose sight of the fact that she wasa paid servitor had been gradually assuaged by the delicate adroitnessof the Duchess and by the aid of soothing time. While no duty or servicewas forgotten or neglected, she realised that life was passed in anagreeable freedom which was a happy thing. Certain hours and days wereabsolutely her own to do what she chose with. She had never asked forsuch privileges, but the Duchess with an almost imperceptible adjustmenthad arranged that they should be hers. Sometimes she had taken Dowieaway on little holidays to the sea side, often she spent hours inpicture galleries or great libraries or museums. In attendance on theDuchess she had learned to know all the wonders and picturesqueness ofher London and its environments, and often with Dowie as her companionshe wandered about curious and delightful places and, pleased as achild, looked in at her kind at work or play. 

While nations shuddered and gasped, cannon belched forth, thunder andflaming, battleships crashed together and sudden death was almost asunintermitting as the ticking of the clock, among the thousands ofpairing souls and bodies drawn together in a new world where for thetime being all sound was stilled but the throb of pulsing hearts, theremoved with the spellbound throng one boy and girl whose dream of beingwas a thing of entrancement. 

Every few days they met in some wonderfully chosen and always quietspot. Donal knew and loved the half unknown remote corners of the olderLondon too. There were dim gardens behind old law courts, bits of mellowold enclosures and squares seemingly forgotten by the world, there werethe immensities of the great parks where embowered paths and cornerswere at certain hours as unexplored as the wilderness. When the Duchesswas away or a day of holiday came, there were, more than once, a fewhours on the river where, with boat drawn up under enshrouding trees, green light and lapping water, sunshine and silence, rare swans sailingserenely near as if to guard them made the background to the thrill ofheavenly young wonder and joy. 

It was always the same. Each pair of eyes found in the beauty of theother the same wonder and, through that which the being of eachexpressed, each was shaken by the same inward thrill. Sometimes theysimply sat and gazed at each other like happy amazed children scarcelyable to translate their own delight. Their very aloofness from theworld--its unawareness of their story's existence made for theperfection of all they felt. 

"It could not be like this if any one but ourselves even _knew_, " Donalsaid. "It is as if we had been changed into spirits and human beingscould not see us. "

There was seldom much leisure in their meetings. Sometimes they had onlya few minutes in which to exchange a word or so, to cling to eachother's hands. But even in these brief meetings the words that were saidwere food for new life and dreams when they were apart. And the tiderose. 

But it did not overflow until one early morning when they met in agorse-filled hollow at Hampstead, each looking at the other pale andstricken. In Robin's wide eyes was helpless horror and Donal knew toowell what she was going to say. 

"Lord Halwyn is killed!" she gasped out. "And four of his friends! Weall danced the tango together--and that new kicking step!" She began tosob piteously. Somehow it was the sudden memory of the almost comickicking step which overwhelmed her with the most gruesome sense ofawfulness--as if the world had come to an end. 

"It was new--and they laughed so! They are killed!" she cried beatingher little hands. He had just heard the same news. Five of them! And hehad heard details she had been spared. 

He was as pale as she. He stood before her quivering, hot and cold. Until this hour they had been living only through the early growingwonder of their dream; they had only talked together and exquisitelyyearned and thrilled at the marvel of every simple word or hand-touch orglance, and every meeting had been a new delight. But now suddenly thebeing of each shook and called to the other in wild need of the nearernearness which is comfort and help. It was early--early morning--theheath spread about them wide and empty, and at that very instant askylark sprang from its hidden nest in the earth and circled upward toheaven singing as to God. 

"They will take _you_!" she wailed. "_You--you!_" And did not know thatshe held out her arms. 

But he knew--with a great shock of incredible rapture and tempestuousanswering. He caught her softness to his thudding young chest and kissedher sobbing mouth, her eyes, her hair, her little pulsing throat. 

"Oh, little love, " he himself almost sobbed the words. "Oh, littlelovely love!"

She melted into his arms like a weeping child. It was as if she hadalways rested there and it was mere Nature that he should hold andcomfort her. But he had never heard or dreamed of the possibility ofsuch anguish as was in her sobbing. 

"They will take you!" she said. "And--you danced too. And I must nothold you back! And I must stay here and wait and wait--and _wait_--untilsome day--! Donal! Donal!"

He sat down with her amongst the gorse and held her on his knee as ifshe had been six years old. She did not attempt to move but crouchedthere and clung to him with both hands. She remembered only onething--that he must go! And there were cannons--and shells singing andscreaming! And boys like George in awful heaps. No laughing face as ithad once looked--all marred and strange and piteously lonely as theylay. 

It took him a long time to calm her terror and woe. When at last he hadso far quieted her that her sobs came only at intervals she seemed toawaken to sudden childish awkwardness. She sat up and shyly moved. "Ididn't mean--I didn't know--!" she quavered. "I am--I am sitting on yourknee like a baby!" But he could not let her go. 

"It is because I love you so, " he answered in his compelling boy voice, holding her gently. "Don't move--don't move! There is no time to thinkand wait--or care for anything--if we love each other. We _do_ love eachother, don't we?" He put his cheek against hers and pressed it there. "Oh, say we do, " he begged. "There is no time. And listen to the skylarksinging!"

The butterfly-wing flutter of her lashes against his cheek as shepressed the softness of her own closer, and the quick exquisiteindrawing of her tender, half-sobbing childish breath were unspeakablylovely answering things--though he heard her whisper. 

"Yes, Donal! Donal!" And again, "Donal! Donal!"

And he held her closer and kissed her very gently again. And they satand whispered that they loved each other and had always loved each otherand would love each other forever and forever and forever. Poor enraptchildren! It has been said before, but they said it again and yet again. And the circling skylark seemed to sing at the very gates of God'sheaven. 

So the tide rose to its high flowing. 

CHAPTER VII

The days of gold which linked themselves one to another with strangedawns of pearl and exquisite awakenings, each a miracle, the gemmednight whose blue darkness seemed studded with myriads of new stars, thenoons whose heats or rains were all warm scents of flowers and fragrantmists, wrought themselves into a chain of earthly beauty. The hour inwhich the links must break and the chain end was always a faint spectreveiled by kindly mists which seemed to rise hour by hour to soften andhide it. 

But often in those days did it occur that the hurrying and changingvisitors to the house in Eaton Square, glancing at Robin as she satwriting letters, or as she passed them in some hall or room, foundthemselves momentarily arrested in an almost startled fashion by themere radiance of her. 

"She is lovelier every time one turns one's head towards her, " theStarling said--the Starling having become a vigorous worker and theDuchess giving welcome to any man, woman or child who could be countedon for honest help. "It almost frightens me to see her eyes when shelooks up suddenly. It is like finding one's self too close to a star. Astar in the sky is all very well--but a star only three feet away fromone is a kind of shock. What has happened to the child?"

She said it to Gerald Vesey who between hours of military training washelping Harrowby to arrange a matinee for the benefit of the Red Cross. Harrowby had been rejected by the military authorities on account ofdefective sight and weak chest but had with a promptness unexpected byhis friends merged himself into unprominent, useful hard work whichfrequently consisted of doing disagreeable small jobs men of his typegenerally shied away from. 

"Something has happened to her, " answered Vesey. "She has the flight ofa skylark let out of a cage. Her moving is flight--not ordinary walking. I hope her work has kept her away from--well, from young gods andthings. "

"The streets are full of them, " said Harrowby, "marching to defy deathand springing to meet glory--marching not walking. Young Mars and Ajaxand young Paris with Helen in his eyes. She might be some youngster'sHelen! Why do you hope her work has kept her away?"

Vesey shook his Greek head with a tragic bitterness. 

"Oh! I don't know, " he groaned. "There's too much disaster piled highand staring in every one of their flushing rash young faces. On they gowith their heads in the air and their hearts thumping, and hoping andrefusing to believe in the devil and hell let loose--and the whole thingstares and gibbers at them. "

But each day her eyes looked larger and more rapturously full ofheavenly glowing, and her light movements were more like bird flight, and her swiftness and sweet readiness to serve delighted and touchedpeople more, and they spoke oftener to and of her, and felt actually athought uplifted from the darkness because she was like pure light'sself. 

Lord Coombe met her in the street one evening at twilight and he stoppedto speak to her. 

"I have just come from Darte Norham, " he said to her. "The Duchessasked me to see you personally and make sure that you do not miss Dowietoo much--that you are not lonely. "

"I am very busy and am very well taken care of, " was her answer. "Theservants are very attentive and kind. I am not lonely at all, thank you. The Duchess is very good to me. "

Donal evidently knew nothing of her reasons for disliking Lord Coombe. She could not have told him of them. He did not dislike his relativehimself and in fact rather liked him in spite of the frigidity hesometimes felt. He, at any rate, admired his cold brilliance of mind. Robin could not therefore let herself detest the man and regard him asan enemy. But she did not like the still searching of the grey eyeswhich rested on her so steadily. 

"The Duchess wished me to make sure that you did not work tooenthusiastically. She desires you to take plenty of exercise and if youare tired to go into the country for a day or two of fresh air and rest. She recommends old Mrs. Bennett's cottage at Mersham Wood. The place isquite rustic though it is near enough to London to be convenient. Youmight come and go. "

"She is too kind--too kind, " said Robin. "Oh! _how_ kind to think of melike that. I will write and thank her. "

The sweet gratitude in her eyes and voice were touching. She could notspeak steadily. 

"I may tell her then that you are well taken care of and that you arehappy, " the grey eyes were a shade less cold but still searching andsteady. "You look--happy. "

"I never was so happy before. Please--please tell her that when youthank her for me, " was Robin's quite yearning little appeal. She heldout her hand to him for the first time in her life. "Thank you, LordCoombe, for so kindly delivering her beautiful message. "

His perfect manner did not record any recognition on his part of thefact that she had done an unexpected thing. But as he went on his way hewas thinking of it. 

"She is very happy for some reason, " he thought. "Perhaps the rush andexcitement of her new work exalts her. She has the ecstasied air of alovely child on her birthday--with all her world filled with petting andbirthday gifts. "

The Duchess evidently extended her care to the extent of sending specialmessages to Mrs. James, the housekeeper, who began to exercise amotherly surveillance over Robin's health and diet and warmly toadvocate long walks and country visits to the cottage at Mersham Wood. 

"Her grace will be really pleased if you take a day or two while she'saway. She's always been just that interested in those about her, Miss, "Mrs. James argued. "She wouldn't like to come back and find you lookingtired or pale. Not that there's much danger of that, " quite beamingly. "For all your hard work, I must say you look--well, you look as I'venever seen you. And you always had a colour like a new-picked rose. "

The colour like a new-picked rose ran up to the rings of hair on thegirl's forehead as if she were made a little shy. 

"It is because her grace has been so good--and because every one is sokind to me, " she said. "Kindness makes me happy. "

She was so happy that she was never tired and was regarded as a youngwonder in the matter of work and readiness and exactitude. Her accounts, her correspondence, her information were always in order. When she tookthe prescribed walks and in some aloof path or corner met the strong, slim khaki-clad figure, they walked or stood or sat closely side by sideand talked of many things--though most of all they dwelt on one. Shecould ask Donal questions and he could throw light on such things asyoung soldiers knew better than most people. She came into closetouch--a shuddering touch sometimes it was--with needs and factsconcerning marchings and trenches and attacks and was therefore able tovisualise and to speak definitely of necessities not always understood. 

"How did you find that out?" little black-clad Lady Kathryn asked herone day. "I wish I had known it before George went away. "

"A soldier told me, " was her answer. "Soldiers know things we don't. "

"The world is made of soldiers now, " said Kathryn. "And one is alwaystalking to them. I shall begin to ask them questions about small thingslike that. "

It was the same morning that as they stood alone together for a fewminutes Kathryn suddenly put her hand upon Robin's shoulder. 

"You never--_never_ feel the least angry--when you remember aboutGeorge--the night of the dance, " she pleaded shakily. "Do you, Robin?You couldn't _now_! Could you?"

Tears rushed into Robin's eyes. 

"Never--never!" she said. "I always remember him--oh, quite differently!He----" she hesitated a second and began again. "He did something--sowonderfully kind--before he went away--something for me. That is what Iremember. And his nice voice--and his good eyes. "

"Oh! he _was_ good! He was!" exclaimed Kathryn in a sort of despairingimpatience. "So many of them are! It's awful!" And she sat down in thenearest chair and cried hopelessly into her crushed handkerchief whileRobin tried to soothe--not to comfort her. There was no comfort tooffer. And behind the rose tinted mists her own spectre merely pretendedto veil itself. 

 * * * * *

When she lay in bed at night in her quiet room she often lay awake longand long for pure bliss. The world in which people were near--_near_--toone another and loved each other, the world Donal had always belonged toeven when he was a little boy, she now knew and lived in. There was noloneliness in it. If there was pain or trouble some one who loved youwas part of it and you, and so you could bear it. All the radiantmornings and heavenly nights, all the summer scents of flowers or hay orhedges in bloom, or new rain on the earth, were things felt just as thatother one felt them and drew in their delights--exactly in the same way. Once in the night stillness of a sweet dark country lane she had stoodin the circle of Donal's arm, her joyous, warm young breast against hisand they had heard together the singing of a nightingale in a thicket. 

"Let us stand still, " he had whispered close to her ear. "Let us notspeak a word--not a word. Oh! little lovely love! Let us only_listen_--and be happy!"

Almost every day there were marvels like this. And when they were apartshe could not forget them but walked like a spirit strayed on to earthand unknowing of its radiance. This was why people glanced at hercuriously and were sometimes vaguely troubled. 

CHAPTER VIII

The other woman who loved and was loved by him moved about her world inthese days with a face less radiant than the one people turned to lookat in the street or in its passing through the house in Eaton Square. Helen Muir's eyes were grave and pondered. She had always known of thesometime coming of the hour in which would rise the shadow--to him acloud of rapture--which must obscure the old clearness of vision whichhad existed between them. She had been too well balanced of brain toallow herself to make a tragedy of it or softly to sentimentalise ofloss. It was mere living nature that it should be so. He would be asalways, a beloved wonder of dearness and beauty when his hour came andshe would look on and watch and be so cleverly silent and delicatelydetached from his shy, aloof young moods, his funny, dear involuntarysecrets and reserves. But at any moment--day or night--at any elateemotional moment _ready_!

She had the rare accomplishment of a perfect knowledge of _how to wait_, and to wait--if necessary--long. When the first golden down had shownitself on his cheek and lip she had not noticed it too much and when hisgolden soprano voice began to change to a deeper note and annoyed himwith its uncertainties she had spared him awkwardness by making him feelthe transition a casual natural thing, instead of a personal andcharacteristic weakness. She had loved every stage of innocence andignorance and adorable silliness he had passed through and he had growncloser to her through the medium of each, because nothing in life wasso clear as her lovely wiseness and fine perceptive entirety of sympathyand poise. 

"I never have to explain really, " he said more than once. "You wouldunderstand even if I were an idiot or a criminal. And you'd understandif I were an archangel. "

With a deep awareness she knew that, when she first realised that theshadow was rising, it would be different. She would have to watch itwith an aloofness more delicate and yet more warmly sensitive than anyother. In the days when she first thought of him as like one who islistening to a far-off sound, it seemed possible that in the clamour oflouder echoes this one might lose itself and at last die away even frommemory. It was youth's way to listen and youth's way to find it easy toforget. He heard many reverberations in these days and had much reasonfor thought and action. He thought a great deal, he workedenergetically, he came and went, he read and studied, he obeyed ordersand always stood ready for new ones. Her pride in his vigorousinitiative and practical determination was a glowing flame in her heart. He meant to be no toy soldier. 

As she became as practical a worker as he was, they did much togetherand made plans without ceasing. When he was away she was always doingthings in which he was interested and when he returned he always broughtto her suggestions for new service or the development of the old. But asthe days passed and became weeks she knew that the far-off sound wasstill being listened to. She could not have told how--but she knew. Andshe saw the beloved dearness and beauty growing in him. He came into thehouse each day in his khaki as if khaki were a shining thing. When helaughed, or sat and smiled, or dreamed--forgetting she was there--hervery heart quaked with delight in him. Another woman than Robin countedover his charms and made a tender list of them, wondering at each one. As a young male pheasant in mating time dons finer gloss and brilliancyof plumage, perhaps he too bloomed and all unconscious developed addedcolour and inches and gallant swing of tread. As people turned halfastart to look at Robin bending over her desk or walking about amongthem in her modest dress, so also did they turn to look after him as hewent in springing march along the streets. 

"Some day he will begin to tell me, " Helen used to say to herself atnight. "He may only _begin_--but perhaps it will be to-morrow. "

It was not, however, to-morrow--or to-morrow. And in the midst of hiswork he still listened. As he sat and dreamed he listened and sometimeshe was very deep in thought--sitting with his arms folded and his eyestroubled and questioning of the space into which he looked. The time wasreally not very long, but it began to seem so to her. 

"But some day--soon--he will tell me, " she thought. 

 * * * * *

One afternoon Donal walked into a room where a number of well-dressedwomen were talking, drinking tea and knitting or crocheting. It hadbegun already to be the fashion for almost every woman to carry on herarm a work bag and produce from its depths at any moment without warningsomething she was making. In the early days the bag was usually highlydecorated and the article being made was a luxury. Only a few seriousand pessimistic workers had begun to produce plain usefulness and inthis particular Mayfair drawing-room "the War" as yet seemed to presentitself rather as a dramatic and picturesque social asset. A number ofgood-looking young officers moved about or sat in corners being pettedand flirted with, while many of the women had the slightly elatedexcitement of air produced in certain of their sex by the markedpreponderance of the presence of the masculine element. It was a thingwhich made for high spirits and laughs and amiable semi-caressing chaff. The women who in times of peace had been in the habit of referring totheir "boys" were in these days in great form. 

Donal had been taken to the place by an amusement-loving acquaintancewho professed that a special invitation made it impossible to pass bywithout dropping in. The house was Mrs. Erwyn's and had alreadyattracted attention through the recent _débuts_ of Eileen and Winifredwho had grown up very pretty and still retained their large, curiouseyes and their tendency to giggle musically. 

In very short and slimly alluring frocks they were assisting theirmother in preparing young warriors for the seat of war by giving themchocolate in egg-shell cups and little cakes. Winifred carried a coralsatin work-bag embroidered with carnations and was crocheting a silknecktie peculiarly suited to fierce onslaught on the enemy. 

"Oh!" she gasped, clutching in secret at Eileen's sleeve when Donalentered the room. "There he is! Jack said he would make him come! Just_look_ at him!"

"Gracious!" ejaculated Eileen. "I daren't look! It's not safe!"

They looked, however, to their irresistible utmost when he came to makehis nice, well-behaved bow to his hostess. 

"I love his bow, " Eileen whispered. "It is such a beautiful _tall_ bow. And he looks as good as he is beautiful. "

"Oh! not _good_ exactly!" protested Winifred. "Just _sweet_--as if hethinks you are quite as nice as himself. "

He was taken from one group to another and made much of and flatteredquite openly. He was given claret cup and feathery sandwiches and askedquestions and given information. He was chattered to and whispered aboutand spent half an hour in a polite vortex of presentation. He was not ashighly entertained as his companion was because he was thinking ofsomething else--of a place which seemed incredibly far away from Londondrawing-rooms--even if he could have convinced himself that it existedon the same earth. The trouble was that he was always thinking of thisplace--and of others. He could not forget them even in the midst of anyclamour of life. Sometimes he was afraid he forgot where he was andmight look as if he were not listening to people. There were momentswhen he caught his breath because of a sudden high throb of his heart. How could he shut out of his mind that which seemed to _be_ hismind--his body--the soul of him!

It was at a moment when he was thinking of this with a sudden sense ofdisturbance that a silver toned voice evidently speaking to himattracted his attention. 

The voice was of silver and the light laugh was silvery. 

"You look as if you were not thinking of any of us, " the owner said. 

He turned about to find himself looking at one of the prettiest of thefilmily dressed creatures in the room. Her frock was one of the briefestand her tiny heels the highest and most slender. The incredible foot andankle wore a flesh silk stocking so fine that it looked as though theywere bare--which was the achievement most to be aspired to. Every atomof her was lovely and her small deep-curved mouth and pure large eyeswere like an angel's. 

"I believe you remember me!" she said after a second or so in which theyheld each other's gaze and Donal knew he began to flush slowly. 

"Yes, " he answered. "I do--now I have looked again. You were--The LadyDownstairs. "

She flung out the silver laugh again. 

"After all these years! After one has grown old and withered andwrinkled--and has a grown-up daughter. "

He answered with a dazzling young-man-of-the-world bow and air. He hadnot been to Eton and Oxford and touched the outskirts of two or threeLondon seasons, as a boy beauty and a modest Apollo Belvidere in histeens, without learning a number of pleasant little ways. 

"You are exactly as you were the morning you came into the Gardensdressed in crocuses and daffodils. I thought they were daffodils andcrocuses. I said so to my mother afterwards. "

He did not like her but he knew how her world talked to her. And hewanted to hear her speak--The Lady Downstairs--who had not "liked" thesoft-eyed, longing, warm little lonely thing. 

"All people say of you is entirely true, " she said. "I did not believeit at first but I do now. " She patted the seat of the small sofa she haddropped on. "Come and sit here and talk to me a few minutes. Girls willcome and snatch you away presently but you can spare about threeminutes. "

He did as he was told and wondered as he came nearer to the shellfineness of her cheek and her seraphic smile. 

"I want you to tell me something about my only child, " she said. 

He hoped very much that he did not flush in his sometimes-troublesomeblond fashion then. He hoped so. 

"I shall be most happy to tell you anything I have the honour ofknowing, " he answered. "Only ask. "

"You would be capable of putting on a touch of Lord Coombe's littlestiff air--if you were not so young and polite, " she said. "It was LordCoombe who told me about the old Duchess' dance--and that you tangoed orswooped--or kicked with my Robin. He said both of you did itbeautifully. "

"Miss Gareth-Lawless did--at least. "

He was looking down and so did not chance to see the look of a littlecat which showed itself in her quick side glance. 

"She is not my Robin now. She belongs to the Dowager Duchess ofDarte--for a consideration. She is one of the new little females who areobstinately determined to earn an honest living. I haven't seen her formonths--perhaps years. Is she pretty?" The last three words came outlike the little cat's pounce on a mouse. Donal even felt momentarilystartled. 

But he remained capable of raising clear eyes to hers and saying, "Shewas prettier than any one else at the Duchess' house that night. Farprettier. "

"Have you never seen her since?"

This was a pounce again and he was quite aware of it. 

"Yes. "

Feather gurgled. 

"That was really worthy of Lord Coombe, " she said. "I wasn't beingpushing, really, Mr. Muir. If any one asks you your intentions it willbe the Dowager--not little Miss Gareth-Lawless' mother. I neverpretended to chaperon Robin. She might run about all over London withoutmy asking any questions. I am afraid I am not much of a mother. I am notin the least like yours. "

"Like mine?" He wondered why his mother should be so suddenly draggedin. 

She laughed with a bright air of being much entertained. 

"Do you remember how Mrs. Muir whisked you away from London the dayafter she found out that you were playing with my vagabond of aRobin--unknowing of your danger? There was a mother for you! It nearlykilled my little pariah. "

She rose and held out her hand. 

"I have not really had my three minutes, but 'I must not detain you anylonger, ' as Royal Highnesses say. I must go. "

"Why?" he ejaculated with involuntary impatience. 

"Because Eileen Erwyn is standing with her back markedly turned towardsus, pretending to talk. I know the expression of her little ears and shehas just laid them back close to her head, which means business. Why doyou all at once look _quite_ like Lord Coombe?" Perhaps he did look atrifle like his relative. He had risen to his feet. 

"I was not aware that I was whisked away from London, " he said. 

"I was, " with pretty impudence. "You were bundled back to Scotlandalmost before daylight. Lord Coombe knew about it. We laughed immenselytogether. It was a great joke because Robin fainted and fell into themud, or something of the sort, when you didn't turn up the next morning. She almost pined away and died of grief, tiresome little thing! I toldyou Eileen was preparing to assault. Here she is! Hordes of girls willnow advance upon you. So glad to have had you even for a few treasuredseconds. _Good_ afternoon. "

CHAPTER IX

It was not a long time before he had left the house, but it seemed longand as if he had thought a great many rather incoherent things before hehad reached the street and presently parted from his gay acquaintanceand was on his way to his mother's house where she was spending a week, having come down from Scotland as she did often. 

He walked all the way home because he wanted movement. He also wantedtime to think things over because the intensity of his own mood troubledhim. It was new for him to think much about himself, but lately he hadfound himself sometimes wondering at, as well as shaken by, emotionalmental phases through which he passed. A certain moving fancy alwaysheld its own in his thoughts--as a sort of background to them. It was inhis feeling that he was in those weeks a Donal Muir who was unknown andunseen by the passing world. No one but himself--and Robin--could knowthe meaning, the feeling, the nature of this Donal. It was as if helived in a new Dimension of whose existence other people did not know. He could not have explained because it would not have been understood. He could vaguely imagine that effort at explanation would end--evenbegin--by being so clumsy that it would be met by puzzled or unbelievingsmiles. 

To walk about--to sleep--to awaken surrounded by rarefied light and airin which no object or act or even word or thought wore its past familiarmeaning, or to go about the common streets, feeling as though somehowone were apart and unseen, was a singular thing. Having had a youthfilled with quite virile pleasures and delightful emotions--and to belifted above them into other air and among other visions--was, he toldhimself, like walking in a dream. To be filled continually with onethought, to rebel against any obstacle in the path to one desire, andfrom morning until night to be impelled by one eagerness for some momentor hour for which there was reason enough for its having place in themovings of the universe, if it brought him face to face with what hemust stand near to--see--hear--perhaps touch. 

It was because of the world's madness, because of the human fear andweeping everywhere, because of the new abysses which seemed to yawnevery day on every side, that both soul and senses were so abnormallyoverstrung. He was overwhelmed by exquisite compassions in his thoughtsof Robin, he was afraid for her youngness, her sweetness, the innocentdefencelessness which was like a child's. He was afraid of his own youngrashness and the entrancement of the dream. The great lunging chariot ofWar might plunge over them both. 

But never for one moment could he force himself to regret or repent. Boys in their twenties already lay in their thousands on the fields overthere. And she would far, far rather remember the kind hours and knowthat they were hidden in his heart for him to remember as he died--if hedied! She had lain upon his breast holding him close and fast and shehad sobbed hard--hard--but she had said it again and again and over andover when he had asked her. 

It was this aspect of her and things akin to it which had risen in hisincoherent thoughts when he was manoeuvering to get away from thedrawing-room full of chattering people. He knew himself overwhelmedagain by the exquisite compassion because the thing Mrs. Gareth-Lawlesshad told him had brought back all the silent anguish of impotentchildish rebellion the morning when he had been awakened before the day, and during the day when he had thought his small breast would burst asthe train rushed on with him--away--away!

And Robin had told him the rest--sitting one afternoon in the same chairwith him--a roomy, dingy red arm-chair in an old riverside inn wherethey had managed to meet and had spent a long rainy day together. Shehad told him--in a queer little strained voice--about the waiting--andwaiting--and waiting. And about the certainty of her belief in hiscoming. And the tiny foot which grew numb. And the slow lump climbing inher throat. And the rush under the shrubs--and the beating hands--andcries--and of the rose dress and socks and crushed hat covered with mud. She had not been piteous or dramatic. She had been so simple that shehad broken his heart in two and he had actually hidden his face in herhair. 

"Oh! Donal, dear. You're crying!" she had said and she had broken downtoo and for a few seconds they had cried together rocking in eachother's arms, while the rain streamed down the window panes andbeautifully shut them in, since there are few places more enclosing thanthe little, dingy private parlour of a remote English inn on aceaselessly rainy day. 

It had all come back before he reached the house in Kensington whosewindows looked into the thick leaves of the plane trees. And at the sametime he knew that the burning anger which kept rising in him was perhapsundue and not quite fair. But he was thinking it had _not_ been merecruel chance--it could have been helped--it need never have been! Ithad been the narrow cold hard planning of grown-up people who knew thatthey were powerful enough to enforce any hideous cruelty on creatureswho had no defence. He actually found his heated mind making a statementof the case as wild as this and its very mercilessness of phrase checkedhim. The grown-up person had been his mother--his long-beloved--and hewas absolutely calling her names. He pulled himself up vigorously andwalked very fast. But the heat did not quite die down and other thoughtssurged up in spite of his desire to keep his head and be reasonablycalm. There _had_ been a certain narrowness in the tragic separation oftwo happy children if the only reason for it had been that the mother ofone was a pretty, frivolous, much gossiped about woman belonging to arather too rapid set. And if it had been a reason then, how would itpresent itself now? What would happen to an untouched dream if argumentand disapproval crashed into it? If his first intensely passionateimpulse had been his desire to save it even from the mere touch ofordinary talk and smiling glances because he had felt that they wouldspoil the perfect joy of it, what would not open displeasure andopposition make of the down on the butterfly's wing--the bloom on thepeach? It was not so he phrased in his thoughts the things whichtormented him, but the figures would have expressed his feeling. What ifhis mother were angry--though he had never seen her angry in his lifeand could only approach the idea because he had just found out that shehad once been cruel--yes, it had been cruel! What if Coombe actuallychose to interfere. Coombe with his unmoving face, his perfection ofexact phrase and his cold almost inhuman eye! After all the matterconcerned him closely. 

"While Houses threaten to crumble and Heads may fall into the basketthere are things we must remember until we disappear, " he had said notlong ago with this same grey eye fixed on him. "I have no son. IfMarquisates continue to exist you will be the Head of the House ofCoombe. "

What would _he_ make of a dream if he handled it? What would there beleft? Donal's heart burned in his side when he recalled Feather'simpudent little laugh as she had talked of her "vagabond Robin, " her"small pariah. " He was a boy entranced and exalted by his first passionand because he was a sort of young superman it was not a common one, though it shared all the unreason and impetuous simplicities of the mostrudimentary of its kind. He could not think very calmly or logically;both the heaven and the earth in him swept him along as with the rush ofthe spheres. It was Robin who was foremost in all his thoughts. It wasbecause she was so apart from all the world that it had seemed beautifulto keep her so in his heart. She had always been so aloof a littlecreature--so unclaimed and naturally left alone. Perhaps that was whyshe had retained through the years the untouched look which he hadrecognised even at the dance, in the eyes which only waited exquisitelyfor kindness and asked for love. No one had ever owned her, no onereally knew her--people only saw her loveliness--no one knew her buthimself--the little beautiful thing--his own--his _own_ little thing!Nothing on earth should touch her!

Because his thinking ended--as it naturally always did--in suchthoughts as these last, he was obliged to turn back when he saw theplane trees and walk a few hundred feet in the opposite direction togive himself time. He even turned a corner and walked down anotherstreet. It was just as he turned that poignant chance brought him faceto face with a girl in deep new mourning with the border of white crępein the brim of her close hat. Her eyes were red and half-closed withrecent crying and she had a piteous face. He knew what it all meant andinvoluntarily raised his hand in salute. He scarcely knew he did it andfor a second she seemed not to understand. But the next second she burstout crying and hurriedly took out her handkerchief and hid her face asshe passed. One of the boys lying on the blood-wet mire in Flanders, wasDonal's bitter thought, but he had had his kind hours to recall at thelast moment--and even now she had them too. 

Helen Muir from her seat at the window looking into the thick leafage ofthe trees saw him turn at the entrance and heard him mount the steps. The days between them and approaching separation were growing shorterand shorter. She thought this every morning when she awakened andrealised anew that the worst of it all was that neither knew how shortthey were and that the thing which was to happen would be sudden--asdeath is always sudden however long one waits. He had never reached eventhat _beginning_ of the telling--whatsoever he had to tell. Perhaps itwas coming now. She had tried to prepare herself by endeavouring toimagine how he would look when he began--a little shy--even a littlelovably awkward? But his engaging smile--his quite darling smile--wouldshow itself in spite of him as it always did. 

But when he came into the room his look was a new one to her. It wasnot happy--it was not a free look. There was something like troubledmental reservation in it--and when had there ever been mentalreservation between them? Oh, no--that must not--must not be _now_! Notnow!

He sat down with his cap in his hand as if he had forgotten to lay itaside or as if he were making a brief call. 

"What has happened, Donal?" she said. "Have you come to tell me that--?"

"No, not that--though that may come any moment now. It is somethingelse. "

"What else?"

"I don't know how to begin, " he said. "There has never been anythinglike this before. But I must know from you that a--silly woman--has notbeen telling me spiteful lies. She is the kind of woman who would sayanything it amused her to say. "

"What was it she said?"

"I was dragged into a house by Clonmel. He said he had promised to dropin to tea. There were a lot of people. Mrs. Gareth-Lawless was there andbegan to talk to me. "

"Why did you think she might be telling you spiteful lies?"

"That is it, " he broke out miserably impetuous. "Perhaps it may all seemchildish and unimportant to you. But you have always been perfect. Youwere the one perfect being. I have never doubted you--"

"Do you doubt me now?"

"Perhaps no one but myself could realise that a sort of sore spot--yes, a sore spot--was left in my mind for years because of a wretched thingwhich happened when I was a child. _Did_ you deliberately take me backto Scotland so suddenly that early morning? Was it a thing which couldhave been helped?"

"I thought not, Donal. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps I was right. "

"Was it because you wanted to separate me from a child I was fond of?"

"Yes. "

"And your idea was that because her mother was a flighty woman with badtaste and the wrong surrounding her poor little girl would contaminateme?"

"It was because her mother was a light woman and all her friends werelike her. And your affection for the child was not like a child'saffection. "

"No, it wasn't, " he said and he leaned forward with his forehead in hishands. 

"I wanted to put an end to it before it was too late. I saw nothing butpain in it for you. It filled me with heart-broken fear to think of thegirl such a mother and such a life would make. "

"She was such a little thing--" said Donal, "--such a tender mite of athing! She's such a little thing even now. "

"Is she?" said Helen. 

Now she knew he would not tell her. And she was right. Up to thatafternoon there had always been the chance that he would. Night afternight he had been on the brink of telling her of the dream. Only as thebeauty and wonder of it grew he had each day given himself another day, and yet another and another. But he had always thought the hour wouldcome and he had been sure she would not grudge him a moment he had heldfrom her. Now he shut everything within himself. 

"I wish you had not done it. It was a mistake, " was all he said. Suddenly he felt thrown back upon himself, heartsick and cold. For thefirst time in his life he could not see her side of the question. Theimpassioned egotism of first love overwhelmed him. 

"You met her on the night of the old Duchess' dance, " Helen said. 

"Yes. "

"You have met her since?"

"Yes. "

"It is useless for older people to interfere, " she said. "We have lovedeach other very much. We have been happy together. But I can do nothingto help you. Oh! Donal, my own dear!"

Her involuntary movement of putting her hand to her throat was a piteousgesture. 

"You are going away, " she pleaded. "Don't let anything come betweenus--not _now_! It is not as if you were going to stay. When you comeback perhaps--"

"I may never come back, " he answered and as he said it he saw again thewidowed girl who had hurried past him crying because he had saluted her. And he saw Robin as he had seen her the night before--Robin who belongedto no one--whom no one missed at any time when she went in or out--whocould come and go and meet a man anywhere as if she were the only littlesoul in London. And yet who had always that pretty, untouched air. 

"I only wanted to be sure. It was a mistake. We will never speak of itagain, " he added. 

"If it was a mistake, forgive it. It was only because I could not hearthat your life should not be beautiful. These are not like other days. Oh! Donal my dear, my dear!" And she broke into weeping and took him inher arms and he held her and kissed her tenderly. But whatsoeverhappened--whatsoever he did he knew that if he was to save and hold hisbliss to the end he could not tell her now. 

CHAPTER X

Mrs. Bennett's cottage on the edge of Mersham Wood seemed to Robin whenshe first saw it to be only a part of a fairy tale. It is true that onlyin certain bits of England and in pictures in books of fairy tales didone see cottages of its kind, and in them always lived with theirgrandmothers--in the fairy stories as Robin remembered--girls who wouldin good time be discovered by wandering youngest sons of fairy storykings. The wood of great oaks and beeches spread behind and at each sideof it and seemed to have no end in any land on earth. It nestled againstits primćval looking background in a nook of its own. Under the broadbranches of the oaks and beeches tall ferns grew so thick that theyformed a forest of their own--a lower, lighter, lacy forest wherefoxglove spires pierced here and there, and rabbits burrowed and sniffedand nibbled, and pheasants hid nests and sometimes sprang up rockettingstartlingly. Birds were thick in the wood and trilled love songs, ortwittered and sang low in the hour before their bedtime, filling thetwilight with clear adorable sounds. The fairy-tale cottage waswhitewashed and its broad eaved roof was thatched. Hollyhocks stood inhaughty splendour against its walls and on either side its path. Thelatticed windows were diamond-paned and their inside ledges filled withflourishing fuchsias and trailing white campanula, and mignonette. Thesame flowers grew thick in the crowded blooming garden. And there werenests in the hawthorn hedge. And there was a small wicket gate. 

When Robin caught sight of it she wondered--for a moment--if she weregoing to cry. Only because it was part of the dream and could be nothingelse--unless one wakened. 

On the tiny porch covered with honeysuckle in bloom, a little, old fairywoman was sitting knitting a khaki sock very fast. She wore a cleanprint gown and a white apron and a white cap with a frilled border. Shehad a stick and a nutcracker face and a pair of large iron bowedspectacles. She was so busy that she did not seem to hear Robin as shewalked up the path between the borders of pinks and snapdragons, butwhen she was quite close to her she glanced up. 

Robin thought she looked almost frightened when she saw her. She got upand made an apologetic curtsey. 

"Eh!" she ejaculated, "to think of me not hearing you. I do beg yourpardon, Miss, I do that. I was really waiting here to be ready for you. "

"Thank you. Thank you, Mrs. Bennett, " Robin answered in a sweet hurry toreassure her. "I hope you are very well. " And she held out her hand. 

Mrs. Bennett had only been shocked at her own apparent inattention toduty. She was not really frightened and her nutcracker face illuminateditself with delighted smiles. 

"I don't hear very well at the best of times, " she said. "And I've got abit of a cold. Just worry, Miss, just worry it is--along of this 'erewar and my grandsons going marching off every few days seems like. Dick, that's the youngest as was always my pet, he's the last and he'll be offany minute--and these is his socks. "

Robin actually picked up a sock and patted it softly--with a childishquiver of her chin. It seemed alive. 

"Yes, yes!" she said. "Oh! dear! Oh! dear!"

Mrs. Bennett winked tears out of her eyes hastily. 

"Me being hard of hearing is no excuse for me talking about myself firstthing. Dick, he's an Englishman--and they're all Englishmen--and it'sEnglishmen that's got to stand up and do their duty--same as they did atWaterloo. " She swallowed valiantly the lump in her throat. "Her gracewrote to me about you, Miss, with her own kind hand. She said thecottage was so quiet and pretty you wouldn't mind it being little--andme being a bit deaf. "

"I shall mind nothing, " said Robin. She raised her voice and tried tospeak very distinctly so as to make sure that the old fairy woman wouldhear her. "It is the most beautiful cottage I ever saw in my life. It islike a cottage in a fairy story. "

"That's what the vicar says, Miss, my dear, " was Mrs. Bennett's cheerfulreply. "He says it ought to be hid some way because if the cheaptrippers found it out they'd wear the life out of me with pestering meto give 'em six-penny teas. They'd get none from me!" quite fiercely. "Her grace give it to me her own self and it's on Mersham land and not alawyer on earth could put me out. "

She became quite active and bustling--picking a spray of honeysuckle anda few sprigs of mignonette from near the doorway and handing them toRobin. 

"Your room's full of 'em, " she said, "them and musk and roses. You'llsleep and wake in the midst of flowers and birds singing and beeshumming. And I can give you rich milk and home-baked bread, God blessyou! You _are_ welcome. Come in, my pretty dear--Miss. "

The girl came down from London to the cottage on the wood's edge severaltimes during the weeks that followed. It was easy to reach and toobeautiful and lone and strange to stay away from. The War ceased wherethe wood began. Mrs. Bennett delighted in her and, regarding the Duchessas a sort of adored deity, would have served her lodger on bended kneeif custom had permitted. Robin could always make her hear, and she satand listened so tenderly to her stories of her grandsons that there grewup between them an absolute affection. 

"And yet we don't see each other often, " the old fairy woman had said. "You flit in like, and flit away again as if you was a butterfly, Ithink sometimes when I'm sitting here alone. When you come to stayyou're mostly flitting about the wood and I only see you bit by bit. ButI couldn't tell you, Miss, my dear, what it's like to me. You do lovethe wood, don't you? It's a fairy place too--same as this is. "

"It's all fairy, Mrs. Bennett, " Robin said. "Perhaps I am a fairy toowhen I am here. Nothing seems quite earthly. "

She bent forward suddenly and took the old face in her hands and kissedit. 

"Eh! I shouldn't wonder, " the old fairy woman chuckled sweetly. "I usedto hear tales of fairies in Devonshire in my young days. And you do looklike something witched--but you've been witched for happiness. Babieslook that way for a bit sometimes--as if they brought something withthem when they come to earth. "

"Yes, " answered Robin. "Yes. "

It was true that she only flitted in and out, and that she spent hoursin the depths of the wood, and always came back as if from fairy land. 

Once she had a holiday of nearly a week. She came down from town oneafternoon in a pretty white frock and hat and white shoes and with anair of such delicate radiance about her that Mrs. Bennett would haveclutched her to her breast, but for long-ago gained knowledge of therespect due to those connected with great duchesses. 

"Like a new young bride you look, my pretty dear--Miss, " she cried outwhen she first saw her as she came up the path between the hollyhocks inthe garden. "God's surely been good to you this day. There's somethinglike heaven in your face. " Robin stood still a moment looking like thelight at dawn and breathing with soft quickness as if she had come inhaste. 

"God has been good to me for a long time, " she said. 

 * * * * *

In the deep wood she walked with Donal night after night when thestillness was like heaven itself. Now and then a faint rustle among theferns or the half awakened movement and sleepy note of a bird in theleaves slightly stirred the silence, but that was all. Lances ofmoonlight pierced through the branches and their slow feet made no soundupon the thick moss. Here and there pale foxglove spires held up theirlate blossoms like flower spirits in the dim light. 

Donal thought--the first night she came to him softly through theferns--that her coming was like that of some fair thing not of earth--avision out of some old legend or ancient poem of faëry. But he marchedtowards her, soldierly--like a young Lohengrin whose silver mail hadchanged to khaki. There was no longer war in the world--there never hadbeen. 

"I brought it with me, " he said and took her close in his arms. For afew minutes the wood seemed more still than before. 

"Do you hear my heart beat?" he said at last. 

"I feel it. Do you hear mine?" she whispered. 

"We love each other so!" he breathed. "We love each other so!"

"Yes, " she answered. "Yes. "

Did every one who saw him know how beautiful he was? Oh his smile thatloved her so and made her feel there was no fear or loneliness left onearth! He was so tall and straight and strong--a young soldier statue!When he laughed her heart always gave a strange little leap. It was sucha lovely sound. His very hands were beautiful--with long, strong smoothfingers and smooth firm palms. Oh! Donal! Donal! And while she smiled asa little angel might smile, small sobs of joy filled her throat. 

They sat together among the ferns, close side by side. He showed her thething he had brought with him. It was a very slender chain of gold witha plain gold ring hung on it. He put the chain around her neck butslipped the ring on her finger and kissed it again and again. 

"Wear it when we are together, " he whispered. "I want to see it. Itmakes you mine as much as if I had put it on in a church with a hugeorgan playing. "

"I should be yours without it, " answered Robin. "I _am_ yours. "

"Yes, " he whispered again. "You are mine. And I am yours. It always wasso--since the morning stars sang together. "

CHAPTER XI

"There are more women than those in Belgium who are being swept over bythe chariots of war and trampled on by marching feet, " the Duchess ofDarte said to a group of her women friends on a certain afternoon. 

The group had met to work and some one had touched on a woeful littleservant-maid drama which had painfully disclosed itself in herhousehold. A small, plain kitchen maid had "walked out" in triumphantecstasy with a soldier who, a few weeks after bidding her good-bye, hadbeen killed in Belgium. She had been brought home to her employer'shouse by a policeman who had dragged her out of the Serpentine. An oldstory had become a modern one. In her childish ignorance and terror ofher plight she had seen no other way, but she had not had courage toface more than very shallow water, with the result of finding herselfmerely sticking in the mud and wailing aloud. 

"The policeman was a kind-hearted, sensible fellow, " said the relator ofthe incident. "He had a family of his own and what he said was 'Shelooked such a poor little drowned rat of a thing I couldn't make up mymind to run her in, ma'am. This 'ere war's responsible for a lot morethan what the newspapers tell about. Young chaps in uniform having tobrace up and perhaps lying awake in the night thinking over what theevening papers said--and young women they've been sweet-heartin'with--they get wild, in a way, and cling to each other and feeldesperate--and he talks and she cries--and he may have his head blownoff in a week's time. And who wonders that there's trouble. ' Do you knowhe actually told me that there were a number of girls he was keeping awatch on. He said he'd begun to recognise a certain look in their eyeswhen they walked alone in the park. He said it was a 'stark, frightenedlook. ' I didn't know what he meant, but it gave me a shudder. "

"I think I know, " said the Duchess. "Poor, wretched children! Thereought to be a sort of moratorium in the matter of social laws. The oldrules don't hold. We are facing new conditions. This is a thing forwomen to take in hand, practically, as they are taking in hand otherwork. It must be done absolutely without prejudice. There is no time tolecture or condemn or even deplore. There is only time to try to healwounds and quiet maddening pain and save life. "

Lady Lothwell took the subject up. 

"In the country places and villages, where the new army is swarming tobe billeted, the clergymen and their wives are greatly agitated. Even intimes of peace one's vicar's wife tells one stories in shocked whispersof 'immorality'--though the rustic mind does not seem to regard it asparticularly immoral. An illegal baby is generally accepted with simpleresignation or merely a little fretful complaint even in quite decentcottages. It is called--rather prettily, I think--'a love child' and thenicer the grandparents are, the better they treat it. Mrs. Gracey, thewife of our rector at Mowbray Wells told me a few days ago that she andher husband were quite in despair over the excited, almost lawless, holiday air of the village girls. There are so many young men about anduniforms have what she calls 'such a dreadful effect. ' Giddy andunreliable young women are wandering about the lanes and fields withstranger sweethearts at all hours. Even girls who have been goodSunday-school scholars are becoming insubordinate. She did not in theleast mean to be improperly humorous--in fact she was quite tragic whenshe said that the rector felt that he ought to marry, on the spot, everyrambling couple he met. He had already performed the ceremony in anumber of cases when he felt it was almost criminally rash and idiotic, or would have been in time of peace. "

"That was what I meant by speaking of the women who were being sweptover by the chariot of war, " said the Duchess. "It involves issues thewomen who can think must hold in their minds and treat judicially. Onecannot moralise and be shocked before an advancing tidal wave. It hasalways been part of the unreason and frenzy of times of war. When Deathis near, Life fights hard for itself. It does not care who or what itstrikes. "

 * * * * *

The tidal wave swept on and the uninitiated who formed the mass ofhumanity in every country in the world, reading with feverish anxietyalmost hourly newspaper extras every day, tried to hide a secret fearthat no one knew what was really happening or could trust to theabsolute truth of any spoken or published statement. The exultant hopeof to-day was dashed to-morrow. The despair of the morning was lightenedby gleams of hope before night closed, and was darkened and lightenedagain and again. Great cities and towns aroused themselves from ahalf-somnolent belief in security. Village by village England awakenedto what she faced in common with an amazed and half incredulous world. The amazement and incredulity were founded upon a certain mistakenbelief in a world predominance of the laws of decency and civilisation. The statement of piety and morality that the world in question was abad one, filled with crime, had somehow so far been accepted with aguileless reservation in the matter of a ruling majority whose lapsesfrom virtue were at least not openly vaunted treachery, blows struck atany unprepared back presenting itself, merciless attacks on innocenceand weakness, and savage gluttings of lust, of fury, with exultant pćansof self-glorification and praise of a justly applauding God. Before suchnovelty of onslaught the British mind had breathless moments of feelingitself stupid and incapably aghast. But after its first deep draughts ofthe cup of staggering the nation braced up a really muscular back andstood upon hard, stout legs and firm feet, immovable and fixed on solidBritish earth. 

Incompetent raw troops gathered from fields, shops and desks, halftrained, half clad, half armed, according to pessimistic report, faredforth across the narrow Channel and did strangely competent things--thisbeing man's way when in dire moments needs must be. Riff-raff exalteditself and also died competently enough. The apparently aimless maleoffspring of the so-called useless rich and great died competentlyenough with the rest. The Roll of Honour raked fore and aft. Theyoungsters who had tangoed best and had shone in _cabarets_ were sweptaway as grass by scythes. 

"Will any one be left?" white Robin shuddered, clinging to Donal in thewood at night. "Every day there are new ones. Almost every one who hasgone! Kathryn says that no one--_no one_ will ever come back!"

"Hush--sh! Hush--sh!" whispered Donal. "Hush--sh! little lovely love!"And his arms closed so tightly around her that she could for a fewmoments scarcely breathe. 

The Duchess had much work for her to do and was glad to see that thegirl looked well and untired. When she was at home in Eaton Square hergrace was even more strict about the walks and country holidays than shehad been when she was away. 

"Health and strength were never so much needed, " she said. "We must keepour bodies in readiness for any test or strain. "

This notwithstanding, there was at last a morning when Robin looked asthough she had not slept well. It was so unusual a thing that theDuchess spoke of it. 

"I hope you have not been sitting up late at your work?" she said. 

"No. Thank you, " Robin answered. "I went to bed last night at teno'clock. "

The Duchess looked at her seriously. Never before had she seen her witheyes whose misted heaviness suggested tears. Was it possible that thereseemed something at once strained and quivering about her mouth--as ifshe were making an effort to force the muscles to hold it still. 

"I hope you would tell me if you had a headache. You must, you know, mydear. "

Robin's slight movement nearer to her had the air of being almostinvoluntary--as if it were impelled by an uncontrollable yearning to bea little near _something_--some one. The strained and quivering look waseven more noticeable and her lifted eyes singularly expressed somethingshe was trying to hold back. 

"Thank you--indeed!" she said. "But it isn't headache. It is--things Icould not help thinking about in the night. "

The Duchess took her hand and patted it with firm gentleness. 

"You mustn't, my dear. You must try hard _not_ to do it. We shall be ofno use if we let our minds go. We must try to force ourselves into asort of deafness and blindness in certain directions. I am trying--withall my might. "

"I know I must, " Robin answered not too steadily. "I must--more thanmost people. I'm not brave and strong. I'm weak and cowardly--cowardly. "Her breath caught itself and she went on quickly, "Work helps more thananything else. I want to _work_ all the time. Please may I begin theletters now?"

She was bending over her desk when Lord Coombe came in earlier than washis custom. The perfection of his dress, his smooth creaselessness andquiet harmony of color and line seemed actually to add to the aged lookof his face. His fine rigidity was worn and sallowed. After his greetingphrases he stood for a space quite silent while the Duchess watched himas if waiting. 

"He has gone?" she said presently. She spoke in quite a low voice, butit reached Robin's desk. 

"Yes. At dawn. The suddenness and secrecy of these goings add to thepoignancy of them. I saw him but he did not see me. I found out the hourand made an effort. He is not my boy, but I wanted to _look_ at him. Itwas perhaps for the last time. Good God! What a crime!"

He spoke low himself and rather quickly and with a new tone in hisvoice--as if he had been wrenched and was in pain. 

"I am not in a heroic mood. I was only sick and furious when I watchedthem go by. They were a handsome, clean-built lot. But he stood out--thefinest among them. His mere beauty and strength brought hideousthoughts into one's mind--thoughts of German deviltries born of hell. "

Robin was looking at her hand which had stopped writing. She could notkeep it still. She must get up and go to her own rooms. Would her kneesshake under her like that when she tried to stand on her feet? The lowtalking went on and she scarcely heard what was said. She and Donal hadalways known this was coming; they had known it even the first day theyhad talked together in the Garden. The knowledge had been the spectrealways waiting hidden at some turn in the path ahead. That was why theyhad been so frightened and desperate and hurried. They had clungtogether and shut their eyes and caught at the few hours--the fewheavenly hours. He had said it would come suddenly. But she had notthought it would be as sudden as this. Last night a soldier had broughta few wild, passionate blotted lines to her. Yes, they had been blottedand blistered. She pushed her chair back and began to rise from it. 

There had been a few seconds of dead silence. Lord Coombe had beenstanding thinking and biting his lip. "He is gone!" he said. "_Gone!_"

They did not notice Robin as she left the room. Outside the door shestood in the hall and looked up the staircase piteously. It looked solong and steep that she felt it was like a path up a mountain. But shemoved towards the bottom step and began to climb stair by stair--stairby stair--dragging at the rail of the balustrade. 

When she reached her room she went in and shut the door. She fell downupon the floor and sat there. Long ago his mother had taken him awayfrom her. Now the War had taken him. The spectre stood straight in thepath before her. 

"It was such a short time, " she said, shaking. "And he is gone. And thefairy wood is there still--and the ferns!--All the nights--always!"

And what happened next was not a thing to be written about--though atthe time the same thing was perhaps at that very hour happening inhouses all over England. 

CHAPTER XII

The effect of something like unreality produced in the mind of themature and experienced by a girl creature, can only be equaled by theintensity of the sense of realness in the girl herself. That centre ofthe world in which each human being exists is in her case morepoignantly a centre than any other. She passes smiling or serious, athing of untried eyes and fair unmarked smoothness of texture, andonlookers who have lived longer than she know that the unmarkeduntriedness is a sign that so far "nothing" has happened in her life andin most cases believe that "nothing" is happening. They are quite surethey know--long after the thing has ceased to be true. The surface ofher is so soft and fair, and its lack of any suggestion of abysses orchasms seems to make them incredible things. But the centre of the worldcontains all things and when one is at the beginning of life and seesthem for the first time they assume strange proportions. It enters aroom, it talks lightly or sweetly, it whirls about in an airy dance, this pretty untested thing; and, among those for whom the belief in thereality of strange proportions has modified itself through longexperience, only those of the thinking habit realise that at any momentthe testing--the marking with deep scores may begin or has perhaps begunalready. At eighteen or twenty a fluctuation of flower-petal tint whichmay mean an imperfect night can signify no really important cause. Whatcould eighteen or twenty have found to think about in night watches? Butin its centre of the world as it stands on the stage with the curtainrolling up, those who have lived longer--so very long--are only the dimaudience sitting in the shadowy auditorium looking on at passionatelyreal life with which they have really nothing whatever to do, becausewhat they have seen is past and what they have learned has lost itsimportance and meaning with the changing of the years. The lying awakeand tossing on pillows--if lying awake there is--has its cause in _real_joys--or griefs--not in things atrophied by time. So it seems on thestage, in the first act. If the curtain goes down on anguish and despairit seems equally the pitiless truth that it can never rise again; theplay is ended; the lights go out forever; the theatre crumbles to dust;the world comes to an end. But the dim audience sitting in the shadow donot generally know this. 

To those who came in and out of the house in Eaton Square the figuresitting at the desk writing letters or taking orders from the Duchesswas that of the unconsidered and unreal girl. Among the changing groupsof women with intensely absorbed and often strained faces thekind-hearted observing ones were given to noticing Robin and speaking toher almost affectionately because she was so attractive an object aswell as so industriously faithful to her work. Girls who wereJacqueminot-rose flushed and who looked up to answer people with eyeslike an antelope's were not customarily capable of concentrating theirattention entirely upon brief letters of request and lists ofnecessaries for hospitals and comfort kits. This type was admitted to befrequently found readier for service in the preparation ofentertainments "for the benefit of"--more especially when such benefitstook the form of dancing. But the Duchess' little Miss Lawless came andwent on errands, wasting no time. She never forgot things or was slackin any way. Her antelope eyes expressed a kind of yearning eagerness todo all she could without a moment's delay. 

"She works as if it were a personal thing with her, " Lady Lothwell oncesaid thoughtfully. "I have seen girls wear that look when they are warbrides or have lovers or brothers at the front. "

But she remained to the world generally only a rather specially lovelyspecimen of the somewhat unreal young being with whom great agonies andterrors had but little to do. 

On a day when the Duchess had a cold and was obliged to remain in herroom Robin was with her, writing and making notes of instruction at herbedside. In the afternoon a cold and watery sun making its way throughthe window threw a chill light on her as she drew near with some papersin her hand. It was the revealing of this light which made the Duchesslook at her curiously. 

"You are not quite as blooming as you were, my child, " she said. "Abouttwo months ago you were particularly blooming. Lady Lothwell and LordCoombe and several other people noticed it. You have not been takingyour walks as regularly as you did. Let me look at you. " She took herhand and drew her nearer. "No. This will not do. "

Robin stood very still. 

"How could _any_ one be blooming!" broke from her. 

"You are thinking about things in the night again, " said the Duchess. 

"Yes, " said Robin. "Every night. Sometimes all night. "

The Duchess watched her anxiously. 

"It's so--lonely!" There was a hint of hysteric breakdown in theexclamation. "How can I--_bear_ it!" She turned and went back to herwriting table and there she sat down and hid her face, trembling in anextraordinary way. 

"You are as unhappy as that?" said the Duchess. "And you are _lonely_?"

"All the world is lonely, " Robin cried--not weeping, only shaking. "Everything is left to itself to suffer. God has gone away. "

The Duchess trembled a little herself. She too had hideously feltsomething like the same thing at times of late. But this soft shakingthing--! There shot into her mind like a bolt a sudden thought. Was thissomething less inevitable--something more personal? She wondered whatwould be best to say. 

"Even older people lose their nerve sometimes, " she decided on at last. "When you said that work was the greatest help you were right. Work--andas much sleep as one can get, and walking and fresh air. And we musthelp each other--old and young. I want you to help _me_, child. I needyou. "

Robin stood up and steadied herself somehow. She took up a letter in ahand not yet quite still. 

"Please need me, " she said. "Please let me do everything--anything--andnever stop. If I never stop in the day time perhaps I shall sleep betterat night. "

As there came surging in day by day bitter and cruel waves of warnews--stories of slaughter by land and sea, of massacre in simpleplaces, of savagery wrought on wounded men and prisoners in ahydrophobia of hate let loose, it was ill lying awake in the darkremembering loved beings surrounded by the worst of all the world hasever known. Robin was afraid to look at the newspapers which her veryduties themselves obliged her to familiarise herself with, and she couldnot close her ears. With battleship raids on harmless coast towns, planned merely to the end of the wanton killing of such unconsideredtrifles of humanity as little children and women and men at theirevery-day work, the circle of horror seemed to draw itself in closely. 

Zeppelin raids leaving fragments of bodies on pavements and brokenthings under fallen walls, were not so near as the women who draggedthemselves back to their work with death in their faces writtenlarge--the death of husband or son or lover. These brought realitiesclose indeed. 

"I don't know how he died, " one of them said to the Duchess. "I don'tknow how long it took him to die. I don't want to be told. I am glad heis dead. Yes, I am glad. I wish the other two were dead too. I'm notsplendid and heroic. I thought I was at first, but I couldn't keep itup--after I heard about Mrs. Foster's boy. If I believed there wasanything to thank, I should say 'Thank God I have no more sons. '"

That night Robin lay in the dark thinking of the dream. Had there been adream--or had it only been like the other things one dreamed about?Sometimes an eerie fearfulness beset her vaguely. If there were letterseach day! But letters belonged to a time when rivers of blood did notrun through the world. She sat up in bed and clasped her hands round herknees gazing into the blackness which seemed to enclose and shut her in. It _had_ been true! She could see the wood and the foxglove spirespiercing the ferns. She could hear the ferns rustle and the little birdsounds and stirrings. And oh! she could hear Donal whispering. "Can youhear my heart beat?"

He had said it over and over again. His heart seemed to be so big and tobeat so strongly. She had thought it was because he was so big andmarvellous himself. It had been rapture to lay her cheek and ear againsthis breast and listen. Everything had been so still. They had been sostill--so still themselves for pure joy in their close, close nearness. Yes, the dream had been true. But here she sat in the dark andDonal--where was Donal? Where millions of men were marching, marching--only to kill each other--thinking of nothing but killing. Donal too. He must kill. If he were a brave soldier he must only thinkof killing and not be afraid because at any moment he might be killedtoo. She clutched her knees and shuddered, feeling her forehead growdamp. Donal killing a man--perhaps a boy like himself--a boy who mighthave a dream of his own! How would his blue eyes look while he waskilling a man? Oh! No! No! No! Not Donal!

With her forehead still damp and her hands damp also she found herselfgetting out of bed and walking up and down in the dark. She was wringingher hands and sobbing. She must not think of things like these. She mustshut them out of her mind and think only of the dream. It had beentrue--it had! And then the strange thought came to her that out of allthe world only he and she had known of their dreaming. And if he nevercame back--! (Oh! please, God, let him come back!) no one need everknow. It was their own, own dream and how could she bear to speak of itto any one and why should she? He had said he wanted to have this onething of his very own before his life ended--if it was going to end. Ifit ended it would be his sacred secret and hers forever. She might liveto be an old woman with white hair and no one would ever guess thatsince the morning stars sang together they two had belonged to eachother. 

Night after night she lay awake with thoughts like these. Through thewaiting days she began to find an anguished comfort in the feeling thatshe was keeping their secret for him and that no one need ever know. More than once she went on quietly with her writing when people stoodnear her and spoke of him and his regiment, which every one wasinterested in because he was so handsome and so young and new to theleading of men. There were rumours that he must have been plunged intofierce fighting though definite news did not come through without delay. 

"Boys like that, " she heard. "They ought to be kept at home. All thegreatest names will be extinct. And they are the splendid, silly oneswho expose themselves most. Young Lord Elphinstowe a week ago--the lastof his line! Scarcely a fragment of him to put together. " There werewomen who had a hysterical desire to talk about such things and makegruesome pictures even of slightly founded stories. But when she heardthem she did not even lift her eyes from her work. 

One marked feature of their meetings--though they themselves had notmarked it--had been that they had never talked of the future. It hadbeen as though there were no future. To live perfectly through the fewhours--even for the one hour or half hour they could snatch--was allthat they could plan and hope for. Could they meet to-morrow in thisplace or that? When they met were they quite safe and blissfully alone?The spectre had always been waiting and they had always been trying toforget it. Each meeting had seemed so brief and crowded and breathlesslysweet. 

Only a boy and a girl could have so lost sight of all but their hour andperhaps also only this boy and girl, because their hour had struck at atime when all futures seemed to hold only chances that at any momentmight come to an end. 

"Do you hear my heart beat? There is no time--no time!" these two thingshad been the beginning, the middle and the end. 

Sometimes Robin went and sat in the Gardens and one day in coming outshe met her mother whom she had not seen for months. Feather had beenexultingly gay and fashionably patriotic and she was walking round thecorner to a meeting to be held at her club. The khaki colouring of hercoat and brief skirt and cap added to their military air with pipingsand cords and a small upright feather of scarlet. She wore a badge and ajewelled pin or so. She was about to pass Robin unrecognised but took asecond glance at her and stopped. 

"I didn't know you, " she exclaimed. "What is the matter?"

"Nothing--thank you, " Robin answered pausing. 

"Something _is_! You are losing your looks. Is your mistress working youto death?"

"The Duchess is very kind indeed. She is most careful that I don't dotoo much. I like my work more every day. "

Feather took her in with a sharp scrutinising. She seemed to look herover from her hat to her shoes before she broke into her queer littlecritical laugh. 

"Well, I can't congratulate her on the result. You are thin. You've lostyour colour and your mouth is beginning to drag at the corners. " And shenodded and marched away, the high heels of her beautiful small brownboots striking the pavement with a military click. 

As she had dressed in the morning Robin had wondered if she was mistakenin thinking that the awful nights had made her look different. 

If there had been letters to read--even a few lines such as are all asoldier may write--to read over and over again, to hide in her breastall day, to kiss and cry over and lay her cheek upon at night. Such asmall letter would have been such a huge comfort and would have made thedream seem less far away. But everybody waited for letters--and waitedand waited. And sometimes they went astray or were lost forever andpeople were left waiting. 

CHAPTER XIII

But there were no letters. And she was obliged to sit at her desk in thecorner and listen to what people said about what was happening, and nowand then to Lord Coombe speaking in low tones to the Duchess of hisanxiety and uncertainty about Donal. Anxiety was increasing on everyside and such of the unthinking multitude as had at last ceased tobelieve that one magnificent English blow would rid the earth ofGermany, had begun to lean towards belief in a vision of German millionsadding themselves each day to other millions advancing upon France, Belgium, England itself, a grey encroaching mass rolling forward andever forward, overwhelming even neutral countries until not only Europebut the whole world was covered, and the mailed fist beat its fragmentsinto such dust as it chose. Even those who had not lost their heads andwho knew more than the general public, wore grave faces because theyfelt they knew too little and could not know more. Coombe's face washard and grey many days. 

"It seems as if one lost them in the flood sometimes, " Robin heard himsay to the Duchess. "I saw his mother yesterday and could give her nodefinite news. She believes that he is where the worst fighting is goingon. I could not tell her he was not. "

As, when they had been together, the two had not thought of any future, so, now Robin was alone, she could not think of any to-morrow--perhapsshe would not. She lived only in the day which was passing. She rose, dressed and presented herself to the Duchess for orders; she did thework given her to do, she saw the day gradually die and the lightslighted; she worked as long as she was allowed to do so--and then theday was over and she climbed the staircase to her room. 

Sometimes she sat and wrote letters to Donal--long yearning letters, butwhen they were written she tore them into pieces or burned them. If theywere to keep their secret she could not send such letters because therewere so many chances that they would be lost. Still there was a hopelesscomfort in writing them, in pouring out what she would not have writteneven if she had been sure that it would reach him safely. No girl wholoved a man who was at the Front would let him know that it seemed as ifher heart were slowly breaking. She must be brave--brave! But she wasnot brave, that she knew. The news from the Front was worse every day;there were more women with awful faces; some workers had dropped out andcame no more. One of them who had lost three sons in one battle had dieda few days after the news arrived because the shock had been too greatfor her strength to endure. There were new phases of anguish on allsides. She did all she was called on to do with a secret passion ofeagerness; each smallest detail was the sacred thing. She begged theDuchess to allow her to visit and help the mothers of sons who werefighting--or wounded or missing. That made her feel nearer to things shewanted to feel near to. When they cried or told her stories, she couldunderstand. When she worked she might be doing things which mightsomehow reach Donal or boys like Donal. 

Howsoever long her life was she knew one thing would never be blottedout by time--the day she went down to Mersham Wood to see Mrs. Bennett, whose three grandsons had been killed within a few days of each other. She had received the news in one telegram. There was no fairy wood anylonger, there were only bare branched trees standing holding out nakedarms to the greyness of the world. They looked as if they wereprotesting against something. The grass and ferns were brown and soddenwith late rains and there were no hollyhocks and snapdragons in thecottage garden--only on either side of the brick path dead brown stalks, some of them broken by the wind. Things had not been neatly cut down andburned and swept away. The grandsons had made the garden autumn-tidyevery year before this one. 

The old fairy woman sat on a clean print-covered arm chair by a verysmall fire. She had a black print dress on and a black shawl and a blackribbon round her cap. Her Bible lay on a little table near her but itwas closed. 

"Don't get up, please, Mrs. Bennett, " Robin said when she lifted thelatch and entered. 

The old fairy woman looked at her in a dazed way. 

"I'm so eye-dimmed with crying that I can scarcely see, " she said. 

Robin came to her and knelt down on the hearth. 

"I'm your lodger, " she faltered, "who--who used to love the fairy woodso. "

She had not known what she would say when she spoke first but she hadcertainly not thought of saying anything like this. And she certainlyhad not known that she would suddenly find herself overwhelmed by arising tidal wave of unbearable woe and drop her face on to the oldwoman's lap with wild sobbing. She had not come down from London to dothis--but away from the world--in the clean, still little cottage roomwhich seemed to hold only grief and silence and death the wave rose andbroke and swept her with it. 

Mrs. Bennett only gave herself up to the small clutching hands and satand shivered. 

"No one--will come in--will they?" Robin was gasping. "There is no oneto hear, is there?"

"No one on earth, " said the old fairy woman. "Quiet and loneliness areleft if there's naught else. "

What she thought it would be hard to say. The blow which had come to herat the end of a long life had, as it were, felled her as a tree mighthave been felled in Mersham Wood. As the tree might have lain for ashort time with its leaves still seeming alive on its branches so sheseemed living. But she had been severed from her root. She listened tothe girl's sobbing and stroked her hair. 

"Don't be afraid. There's no one left to hear but the walls and the baretrees in the wood, " she said. 

Robin sobbed on. 

"You've a kind heart, but you're not crying for me, " she said next. "You've a black trouble of your own. There's few that hasn't these days. And it's worse for the young that's got to live through it and after it. When Mary Ann comes to see after me to-morrow morning I may be lyingdead, thank God. But you're a child. " The small clutching hands clutchedmore piteously because it was so true--so true. Whatsoever befell therewere all the long, long years to come--with only the secret left and theawful fear that sometime she might begin to be afraid that it was not areal thing--since no one had ever known or ever would know and since shecould never speak of it or hear it spoken of. 

"I'm so afraid, " she shuddered at last in a small low voice. "I'm so_lonely_!" The old fairy woman's stroking hand stopped short. 

"Is there--anything--you'd like to tell me--anything in the world?" sheasked tremulously. "There's nothing I'd mind. "

The pretty head on her lap shook itself to and fro. 

"No! No! No! No!" the small choked voice gave out. "Nothing--nothing!Nothing. That's why it's so lonely. "

As she had waited alone through the night in her cradle, as she hadwatched the sparrows on the roofs above her in the nursery, as she hadplayed alone until Donal came, so it was her fate to be alone now. 

"But you came away from London because there were too many people thereand you wanted to be in a place where there was nothing but an emptycottage and an old woman. Some would call it lonelier here. "

"The wood is here--the fairy wood!" she cried and her sobbing brokeforth tenfold more bitterly. 

Mrs. Bennett had seen in her day much of the troubles of others and manyof the things she had seen had been the troubles of women who wereyoung. Sometimes it had been possible to help them, sometimes it hadnot, but in any case she had always known that help could be given onlyif one asked careful questions. The old established rules with regard toone's behaviour in connection with duchesses and their belongings hadstrangely faded away since the severing of her root as all things onearth had faded and lost consequence. She remembered no rules as shebent her head over the girl and almost whispered to her. 

"I won't ask no questions after this one, Miss dear, " she said quaking. "But was there ever--a young gentleman--in the wood?"

"No! No! No! No!" four times again Robin cried it. "Never! Never!" Andshe lifted her face and let her see it white and streaming and with eyeswhich desperately defied and as they defied implored for love and aidand mercy. 

The old fairy woman's nutcracker mouth trembled. It mumbled patheticallybefore she was able to control it. She knew she had heard this kind ofthing before though in cases with which great ladies had nothingwhatever to do. And at the same time there was something in this casethat was somehow different. 

"I don't know what to say or do, " she faltered helplessly. "With theworld like this--we've got to try to comfort each other--and we don'tknow how. "

"Let me come into your arms, " said Robin like a child. "Hold me and letme hold you. " She crept near and folding soft arms about the old figurelaid her cheek against the black shawl. "Let us cry. There's nothing foreither of us to do but cry until our hearts break in two. We are allalone and no one can hear us. "

"There's naught but the wood outside, " moaned the old fairy woman. 

The voice against the shawl was a moan also. 

"Perhaps the wood hears us--perhaps it hears. Oh! me! Oh! me!"

 * * * * *

When she reached London she saw that there were excited groups of peopletalking together in the streets. Among them were women who were crying, or protesting angrily or comforting others. But she had seen the samething before and would not let herself look at people or hear anythingshe could shut her ears against. Some new thing had happened, perhapsthe Germans had taken some important town and wreaked their vengeance onthe inhabitants, perhaps some new alarming move had been made anddisaster stared the Allies in the face. She staggered through the crowdsin the station and did not really know how she reached Eaton Square. 

Half an hour later she was sitting at her desk quiet and neat in herhouse dress. She had told the Duchess all she could tell her of hervisit to old Mrs. Bennett. 

"We both cried a good deal, " she explained when she saw her employerlook at her stained eyes. "She keeps remembering what they were likewhen they were babies--how rosy and fat they were and how they learnedto walk and tumbled about on her little kitchen floor. And then how bigthey grew and how fine they looked in their khaki. She says the worstthing is wondering how they look now. I told her she mustn't wonder. Shemustn't think at all. She is quite well taken care of. A girl calledMary Ann comes in three times a day to wait on her--and her daughtercomes when she can but her trouble has made her almost wander in hermind. It's because they are _all_ gone. When she comes in she forgetseverything and sits and says over and over again, 'If it had only beenTom--or only Tom and Will--or if it had been Jem--or only Jem andTom--but it's Will--and Jem--and Tom, '--over and over again. I am not atall sure I know how to comfort people. But she was glad I came. "

When Lord Coombe came in to make his daily visit he looked rigidindeed--as if he were stiff and cold though it was not a cold night. 

He sat down by the Duchess and took a telegram from his pocket. Glancingup at him, Robin was struck by a whiteness about his mouth. He did notspeak at once. It was as though even his lips were stiff. 

"It has come, " he said at last. "Killed. A shell. " The Duchess repeatedhis words after him. Her lips seemed stiff also. 

"Killed. A shell. "

He handed the telegram to her. It was the customary officiallysympathetic announcement. She read it more than once. Her hands began totremble. But Coombe sat with face hidden. He was bowed like an old man. 

"A shell, " he said slowly as if thinking the awful thing out. "That Iheard unofficially. " Then he added a strange thing, dragging the wordsout. "How could that--be blown to atoms?"

The Duchess scarcely breathed her answer which was as strange as hisquestioning. 

"Oh! How _could_ it!"

She put out her shaking hand and touched his sleeve, watching his faceas if something in it awed her. 

"You _loved_ him?" She whispered it. But Robin heard. 

"I did not know I had loved anything--but I suppose that has been it. His physical perfection attracted me at first--his extraordinarycontrast to Henry. It was mere pride in him as an heir and successor. Afterwards it was a _beautiful_ look his young blue eyes had. Beautifulseems an unmasculine word for such a masculine lad, but no other wordexpresses it. It was a sort of valiant brightness and joy in living andbeing friends with the world. I saw it every time he came to talk to me. I wished he were my son. I even tried to think of him as my son. " Heuttered a curious low sound like a sudden groan, "My son has beenkilled. "

 * * * * *

When he was about to leave the house and stood in the candle-lightedhall he was thinking of many dark things which passed unformedly throughhis mind and made him move slowly. He was slow in his movements as theelderly maid servant assisted him to put on his overcoat, and he was asslowly drawing on his gloves when his eyes--slow also--travelled up thestaircase and stopped at the first landing, where he seemed to see anindefinite heap of something lying. 

"Am I mistaken or is--something--lying on the landing?" he said to thewoman. 

The fact that he was impelled to make the inquiry seemed to him part ofhis abnormal state of mind. What affair of his after all were curiouslydropped bundles upon his hostess' staircase? But--

"Please go and look at it, " he added, and the woman gave him a troubledlook and went up the stairs. 

He himself was only a moment behind her. He actually found himselffollowing her as if he were guessing something. When the maid cried out, he vaguely knew what he had been guessing. 

"Oh!" the woman gasped, bending down. "It's poor little Miss Lawless!Oh, my lord, " wildly after a nearer glance, "She looks as if she wasdead!"

CHAPTER XIV

"Now no one will ever know. "

Robin waking from long unconsciousness found her mind saying this beforeconsciousness which was clear had actually brought her back to theworld. 

"Now no one will ever know--ever. "

She seemed to have been away somewhere in the dark for a very long time. She was too tired to try to remember what had happened before she beganto climb the staircase, which grew steeper and longer as she draggedherself from step to step. But in the back of her mind there was oneparticular fact she knew without trying to remember how she learned it. A shell had fallen somewhere and when it had burst Donal was "blown toatoms. " How big were atoms--how small were they? Several times when shereached this point she descended into the abyss of blackness and faintedagain, though people were doing things to her and trying to keep herawake in ways which troubled her greatly. Why should they disturb her sowhen sinking into blackness was better?

"Now no one will ever know. "

She was lying in her bed in her own room. Some one had undressed her. Itwas a nice room and very quiet and there was only a dim light burning. It was a long time before she came back, after one of the descents intothe black abyss, and became slowly aware that Something was near herbed. She did not actually see it because at first she could not havelifted or turned her eyes. She could only lie still. But she knew thatit was near her and she wished it were not. At last--by degrees itceased to be a mere _thing_ and evolved into a person. It was a man whowas holding her wrist and watching her quietly and steadily--as if hehad been doing it for some time. No one else was in the room. The peoplewho had been disturbing her by doing things had gone away. 

"Now, " she whispered dragging out word after word, "no onewill--ever--ever know. " But she was not conscious she had said it evenin a whisper which could be heard. She thought the thing had only passedagain through her mind. 

"Donal! Blown--to--atoms, " she said in the same way. "How small is--anatom?" She was sinking into the blackness again when the man dropped herwrist quickly and did something to her which brought her back. 

"Don't!" she moaned. "Please--don't. "

But he would not let her go. 

 * * * * *

Perhaps days and nights passed--or perhaps only one day and night beforeshe found herself still lying in her bed but feeling somehow more awakewhen she opened her eyes and found the same man sitting close to herholding her wrist again. 

"I am Dr. Redcliff, " he said in a quiet voice. "You are much better. Iwant to ask you some questions. I will not tire you. "

He began to ask her questions very gently as if he did not wish to alarmor disturb her. She had been found in a dead faint lying on the landing. She had remained unconscious for an abnormally long time. When she hadbeen brought out of one faint she had fallen into another and this hadhappened again and again. The indication was that she had been struckdown by some shock. In examining her he had found that she wasunderweight. He wished to discover if she had been secretly working toolate at night in her deep interest in what she was doing. What exactlyhad her diet been? Had she taken enough exercise in the open air? Howhad she slept? The Duchess was seriously anxious. 

They were the questions doctors always asked people except that heseemed more desirous of being sure of the amount of exercise she hadtaken than about anything else. He was specially interested in the timeswhen she had been in the country. She was obliged to tell him she hadalways been alone. He thought it would have been better if she had hadsome companion. Once when he was asking her about her visits to Mrs. Bennett's cottage the blackness almost engulfed her again. But he waswatching her very closely and perhaps seeing her turn white--gave hersome stimulant in time. He had a clever face which was not unkind, butshe wished that it had not had such a keenly watchful look. More thanonce the watchfulness tired her and she closed her eyes because she didnot want him to look into them--as if he were asking questions whichwere not altogether doctors' questions. 

When he left her and went downstairs to talk to the Duchess he asked agood many quiet questions again. He was a man whose intense interest inhis profession did not confine itself wholly to its scientific aspect. An extraordinarily beautiful child swooning into death was not a merepathological incident to him. And he knew many strange things broughtabout by the abnormal conditions of war. He himself was conscious ofbeing overstrung with the rest of a tormented world. 

He knew of Mrs. Gareth-Lawless and he had heard more stories of herhousehold, her loveliness and Lord Coombe than he had time to remember. He had, of course, heard the unsavoury rumours of the child who wasbeing brought up for some nefarious object. As he knew Lord Coomberather well he did not believe stories about him which went beyond acertain limit. Not until he had talked to the Duchess for some time didhe discover that the hard-smitten child lying half-lifeless in her bedwas the very young heroine of the quite favourite scandal. The knowledgegave him furiously to think. It was Coombe who had interested theDuchess in her. The Duchess had no doubt taken her under her protectionfor generously benign reasons. He pursued his questioning delicately. 

"Has she had any young friends? She seems to have taken her walks aloneand even to have gone into the country by herself. "

"The life of the young people in its ordinary sense of companionship andamusement has been stopped by the War. There may be some who go on inthe old way but she has not been one of them, " the Duchess said. 

"Visits to old women in remote country places are not stimulatingenough. Has she had _no_ companions?"

"I tried--" said the Duchess wearily. She was rather pale herself. "Thenews of the Sarajevo tragedy arrived on the day I gave a small dance forher--to bring some young people together. " Her waxen pallor became evenmore manifest. "How they danced!" she said woefully. "What living thingsthey were! Oh!" the exclamation broke forth at a suddenly overwhelmingmemory. "The beautiful boy--the splendid lad who was blown to atoms--thenews came only yesterday--was there dancing with the rest!"

Dr. Redcliff leaned forward slightly. 

"To hear that _any_ boy has been blown to atoms is a hideous thing, " hesaid. "Who brought the news? Was Miss Lawless in the room when it wasbrought?"

"I think so though I am not sure. She comes in and goes out veryquietly. I am afraid I forgot everything else. The shock was a greatone. My old friend Lord Coombe brought the news. The boy would havesucceeded him. We hear again and again of great families becomingextinct. The house of Coombe has not been prolific. The War has takenits toll. Donal Muir was the last of them. One has felt as though it wasof great importance that--that a thing like that should be carried on. "She began to speak in a half-numbed introspective way. "What does itmatter really? Only one boy of thousands--perhaps hundreds of thousandsbefore it is over? But--but it's the youngness--the power--the potentialmeaning--wasted--torn--scattered in fragments. " She stopped and satquite still, gazing before her as though into space. 

"She is very young. She has been absorbed in war work and living in ahighly charged atmosphere for some time. " Dr. Redcliff said presently, "If she knew the poor lad--"

"She did not really know him well, though they had met as children. Theydanced together that night and sat and talked in the conservatory. Butshe never saw him again, " the Duchess explained. 

"It might have been too much, even if she did not know him well. We mustkeep her quiet, " said Dr. Redcliff. 

Very shortly afterwards he rose and went away. 

An hour later he was sitting in a room at Coombe House alone with LordCoombe. It was the room in which Mademoiselle Vallé had found hislordship on the night of Robin's disappearance. No one knew now whereMademoiselle was or if she were still alive. She had been living withher old parents in a serene Belgian village which had been destroyed bythe Germans. Black tales had been told of which Robin had been allowedto hear nothing. She had been protected in many ways. 

Though they had not been intimates the two men knew each other well. Toeach individually the type of the other was one he could understand. Itwas plain to Lord Coombe that Redcliff found his case of rather specialinterest, which he felt was scarcely to be wondered at. As he himselfhad seen the too slender prostrate figure and the bloodless small facewith its curtain of lashes lying too heavily close to the cold cheek, hehad realised that their helpless beauty alone was enough to arrest morethan ordinary attention. She had, as the woman had cried out, looked asif she were dead, and dead loveliness is a reaching power. 

Dr. Redcliff spoke of her thoughtfully and with a certain gentleness. Heat first included her with many other girls, the changes in whosemethods of life he had been observing. 

"The closed gates in their paths are suddenly thrown open for thembecause no one has to lock and unlock them, " he said. "It producescurious effects. The light-minded ones take advantage of the fact andfind dangerous amusement in it sometimes. The serious ones go about thework they have taken in hand. Miss Lawless is, I gather, one of thethinking and feeling ones and has gone about a great deal. "

"Yes. The Duchess has tried to save her from her own ardour, but perhapsshe has worked too steadily. "

"Has the Duchess always known where she has gone and what people she hasseen?"

"That would have been impossible. She wished her to feel free and if wehad not wished it, one can see that it would not have been possible tostand guard over her. Neither was it necessary. "

But he began to listen with special attention. There awakened in hismind the consciousness that he was being asked questions which suggestedan object. The next one added to his awakening sense of the thing. 

"Her exercise and holidays were always taken alone?" Redcliff said. 

"The Duchess believed so. "

"She has evidently been living under a poignant strain and some ghastlyshock has struck her down. I think she must have been in the room whenyou brought the news of young Muir's terrible death. "

"She was, " said Coombe. "I saw her and then forgot. "

"I thought so, " Redcliff went on. "She cried out several times, 'Blownto atoms--atoms! Donal!' She was not conscious of the cries. "

"Are you sure she said 'Donal'?" Coombe asked. 

"Quite sure. It was that which set me thinking. I have thought a greatdeal. She has touched me horribly. The mere sight of her was enough. There is desolation in her childlikeness. "

Lord Coombe sat extremely still. The room was very silent till Redcliffwent on in dropped voice. 

"There was another thing she said. She whispered it brokenly word byword. She did not know that, either. She whispered, 'Now--no one--willever--know--ever. '"

Lord Coombe still sat silent. What he was thinking could not be read inhis face but being a man of astute perception and used to the study offaces Dr. Redcliff knew that suddenly some startling thought had leapedwithin him. 

"You were right to come to me, " he said. "What is it you--suspect?"

That Dr. Redcliff was almost unbearably moved was manifest. He was not aman of surface emotions but his face actually twitched and he hastilygulped something down. 

"She is a heartbreakingly beautiful thing, " he said. "She has beenleft--through sheer kindness--in her own young hands. They were tooyoung--and these are hours of cataclysm. She knows nothing. She does notknow that--she will probably have a child. "

CHAPTER XV

The swiftness of the process by which the glowing little Miss Lawless, at whom people had found themselves involuntarily looking so often, changed from a rose of a girl into something strangely like a smallwaxen image which walked, called forth frequent startled comment. Shewas glanced at even oftener than ever. 

"Is she going into galloping consumption? Her little chin has grownquite pointed and her eyes are actually frightening, " was an earlyobservation. But girls who are going into galloping consumption coughand look hectic and are weaker day by day and she had no cough, nor wasshe hectic and, though it was known that Dr. Redcliff saw herfrequently, she insisted that she was not ill and begged the Duchess tolet her go on with her work. 

"But the _done-for_ woe in her face is inexplicable--in a girl who hashad no love affairs and has not even known any one who could haveflirted with her and ridden away. The little thing's _done for_. Itcries out aloud. I can't bear to look at her, " one woman protested. 

"I shall send her away if she does not improve, " the Duchess said. "Sheshall go to some remote place in the Highlands and she shall not beallowed to remember that there is a war in the world. If I can manage tosend her old nurse Dowie with her she will stand guard over her like anold shepherd. "

She also had been struck by the look which had been spoken of as"done-for. " Girls did not look like that for any common reason. Sheasked herself questions and with great care sat on foot a gradual anddelicate cross-examination of Robin herself. But she discovered noreason common or uncommon for the thing she recognised each time shelooked at her. It was inevitable that she should talk to Lord Coombe butshe met in him a sort of barrier. She could not avoid seeing that he waspreoccupied. She remotely felt that he was turning over in his mindsomething which precluded the possibility of his giving attention toother questions. 

"I almost feel as if your interest in her had lapsed, " she said at last. 

"No. It has taken a--an entirely new form, " was his answer. 

It was when his glance encountered hers after he said this that eachregarded the other with a slow growing anxiousness. Something came tolife in each pair of eyes and it was something disturbed and reluctant. The Duchess spoke first. 

"She has had no companions, " she said painfully. "The War put an end towhat I thought I might do for her. There has been _nobody_. "

"At present it is a curious fact that in one sense we know very littleof each other's lives, " he answered. "The old leisurely habit ofobserving details no longer exists. As Redcliff said in speaking ofher--and girls generally--all the gates are thrown wide open. "

The Duchess was very silent for a space before she made her reply. 

"Yes. "

"You do not know her mother?"

"No. "

"Two weeks ago she gave me something to reflect on. Her feeling for herdaughter is that of a pretty cat-like woman for something enraginglyyounger than herself. She always resented her. She was infuriated byyour interest in her. She said to me one afternoon, 'I hope the Duchessis still pleased with her companion. I saw her to-day in Bond Street andshe looked like a housemaid I once had to dismiss rather suddenly. I amglad she is in her grace's house and not in mine. '"

After a few seconds--

"_I_ am glad she is in my house and not in hers, " the Duchess said. 

"After I had spoken to her at some length and she had quite lost hertemper, she added 'You evidently don't know that she has been meetingDonal Muir. He told me so himself at the Erwyn's. I asked him if he hadseen her since the dance and he owned that he had--and then was cross athimself for making the slip. I did not ask him how _often_ he had mether. He would not have told me. But if he met her once he met her asoften as he chose. ' She was not lying when she said it. I know her. Ihave been thinking constantly ever since. " There was a brief silencebetween them; then he proceeded. "Robin worshipped him when she was amere baby. They were very beautiful together on the night of the dance. She fainted on the stairway after hearing of his death. She had beencrawling up to hide herself in her room, poor child! It is one of thetragedies. Perhaps you and I together--"

The Duchess was seeing again the two who had come forth shining from theconservatory. She continued to see them as Lord Coombe went on speaking, telling her what Dr. Redcliff had told him. 

 * * * * *

On her part Robin scarcely understood anything which was happeningbecause nothing seemed to matter. On the morning when the Duchess toldher that Dr. Redcliff wished to see her alone that fact mattered aslittle as the rest. She was indifferently conscious that the Duchessregarded her in an anxious kind way, but if she had been unkind insteadof kind that would have meant nothing. There was only room for one thingin the world. She wondered sometimes if she were really dead--as Donalwas--and did not know she was so. Perhaps after people died they walkedabout as she did and did not understand that others could not see themand they were not alive. But if she were dead she would surely seeDonal. 

Before she went to Dr. Redcliff the Duchess took her hand and held itclosely in both her own. She looked at her with a curious sort ofpitifulness--as if she were sorry. 

"My poor child, " she said. "Whatsoever he tells you don't be frightened. Don't think you are without friends. I will take care of you. "

"Thank you, " she said. "I don't think anything would frighten me. Nothing seems frightening--now. " After which she went into the roomwhere Dr. Redcliff was waiting for her. 

 * * * * *

The Duchess sat alone and thought deeply. What she thought of chieflywas the Head of the House of Coombe. She had always known that more thanprobably his attitude towards a circumstance of this sort would not evenremotely approach in likeness that of other people. His point of viewwould detach itself from ordinary theories of moralities andimmoralities. He would see with singular clearness all sides of theincident. He would not be indignant, or annoyed or embarrassed. He hadhad an interest in Robin as a creature representing peculiar lovelinessand undefended potentialities. Sometimes she had felt that this had evenverged on a tenderness of which he was himself remotely, if at all, conscious. Concerning the boy Donal she had realised that he feltsomething stronger and deeper than any words of his own had at any timeexpressed. He had believed fine things of him and had watched himsilently. He had wished he had been his own flesh and blood. Perhaps hehad always felt a longing for a son who might have been his companion aswell as his successor. Who knew whether a thwarted paternal instinctmight not now be giving him such thinking to do as he might have done ifDonal Muir had been the son of his body--dead on the battlefield butleaving behind him something to be gravely considered? What would a manthink--what would a man _do_ under such circumstances?

"One might imagine what some men would do--but it would depend entirelyupon the type, " she thought. "What he will do will be different. Itmight seem cold; it might be merely judicial--but it might besurprising. "

She was quite haunted by the haggard look of his face as he hadexclaimed:

"I wish to God I had known him better! I wish to God I had talked to himmore!"

What he had done this morning was to go to Mersham Wood to see Mrs. Bennett. There were things it might be possible to learn by amiable andcarefully considered expression of interest in her loss and loneliness. Concerning such things as she did not already know she would learnnothing from his conversation, but concerning such things as she hadbecome aware of he would learn everything without alarming her. 

"If those unhappy children met at her cottage and wandered about inMersham Wood together the tragedy is understandable. "

The Duchess' thinking ended pityingly because just at this time it wasthat Robin opened the door and stood looking at her. 

It seemed as though Dr. Redcliff must have talked to her for a longtime. But she had on her small hat and coat and what the Duchess seemedchiefly to see was the wide darkness of her eyes set in a face suddenlypinched, small and snow white. She looked like a starved baby. 

"Please, " she said with her hands clasped against her chest, "please--may I go to Mersham Wood?"

"To--Mersham Wood, " the Duchess felt aghast--and then suddenly a floodof thought rushed upon her. 

"It is not very far, " the little gasping voice uttered. "I must go, please! Oh! I must! Just--to Mersham Wood!"

Something almost uncontrollable rose in the Duchess' throat. 

"Child, " she said. "Come here!"

Robin went to her--oh, poor little soul!--in utter obedience. As shedrew close to her she went down upon her knees holding up her hands likea little nun at prayer. 

"_Please_ let me go, " she said again. "Only to Mersham Wood. "

"Stay here, my poor child and talk to me, " the Duchess said. "The timehas come when you must talk to some one. "

"When I come back--I will try. I--I want to ask--the Wood, " said Robin. She caught at a fold of the Duchess' dress and went on rapidly. 

"It is not far. Dr. Redcliff said I might go. Mrs. Bennett is there. Sheloves me. "

"Are you going to talk to Mrs. Bennett?"

"No! No! No! No! Not to any one in the world. "

Hapless young creatures in her plight must always be touching, but hertouchingness was indescribable--almost unendurable to the ripe agedwoman of the world who watched and heard her. It was as if she knewnothing of the meaning of things--as if some little spirit had been tornfrom heaven and flung down upon the dark earth. One felt that one mustweep aloud over the exquisite incomprehensible remoteness of her. And itwas so awfully plain that there was some tragic connection with the Woodand that her whole soul cried out to it. And she would not speak to anyone in the world. Such things had been known. Was the child's brainwavering? Why not? All the world was mad was the older woman's thought, and she herself after all the years, had for this moment no sense ofbalance and felt as if all old reasons for things had been swept away. 

"If you will come back, " she said. "I will let you go. "

After the poor child had gone there formulated itself in her mind thethought that if Lord Coombe and Mrs. Bennett met her together someclarity might be reached. But then again she said to herself, "Oh why, after all, should she be asked questions? What can it matter to the restof the woeful world if she hides it forever in her heart?"

And she sat with drooped head knowing that she was tired of livingbecause some things were so helpless. 

CHAPTER XVI

The Wood was gradually growing darker. It had been almost brilliantduring a part of the afternoon because the bareness of the branches letin the wintry sun. There were no leaves to keep it out and there hadbeen a rare, chill blue sky. All seemed cold blue sky where it was notbrown or sodden yellow fern and moss. The trunks of the trees lookedstark and the tall, slender white stems of the birches stood out hereand there among the darker growth like ghosts who were sentinels. It wasalways a silent place and now its stillness seemed even added to by theone sound which broke it--the sound of sobbing--sobbing--sobbing. 

It had been going on for some time. There had stolen through the narrowtrodden pathway a dark slight figure and this had dropped upon theground under a large tree which was one of a group whose branches hadmade a few months ago a canopy of green where birds had built nests andwhere one nightingale had sung night after night to the moon. 

Later--Robin had said to herself--she would go to the cottage, and shewould sit upon the hearth and lay her head on Mrs. Bennett's knee andthey would cling together and sob and talk of the battlefields and theboys lying dead there. But she had no thought of saying any other thingto her, because there was nothing left to say. She had said nothing toDr. Redcliff; she had only sat listening to him and feeling her eyeswidening as she tried to follow and understand what he was saying insuch a grave, low-toned cautious way--as if he himself were almostafraid as he went on. What he said would once have been strange andwonderful, but now it was not, because wonder had gone out of theworld. She only seemed to sit stunned before the feeling that now thedream was not a sacred secret any longer and there grew within her, asshe heard, a wild longing to fly to the Wood as if it were a livinghuman thing who would hear her and understand--as if it would be likearms enclosing her. Something would be there listening and she couldtalk to it and ask it what to do. 

She had spoken to it as she staggered down the path--she had cried outto it with wild broken words, and then when she heard nothing she hadfallen down upon the earth and the sobbing--sobbing--had begun. 

"Donal!" she said. "Donal!" And again, "Donal!" over and over. Butnothing answered, for even that which had been Donal--with the heavenlylaugh and the blue in his gay eyes and the fine, long smooth hands--hadbeen blown to fragments in a field somewhere--and there was nothinganywhere. 

 * * * * *

She had heard no footsteps and she was sobbing still when a voice spokeat her side--the voice of some one standing near. 

"It is Donal you want, poor child--no one else, " it said. 

That it should be this voice--Lord Coombe's! And that amazing as it wasto hear it, she was not amazed and did not care! Her sobbing ceased sofar as sobbing can cease on full flow. She lay still but for lowshuddering breaths. 

"I have come because it is Donal, " he said. "You told me once that youhad always hated me. Hatred is useless now. Don't feel it. "

But she did not answer. 

"You probably will not believe anything I say. Well I must speak to youwhether you believe me or not. "

She lay still and he himself was silent. His voice seemed to be a suddenthing when he spoke. 

"I loved him too. I found it out the morning I saw him march away. "

He had seen him! Since she had looked at his beautiful face this man hadlooked at it!

"You!" She sat up on the earth and gazed, swaying. So he knew he couldgo on. 

"I wanted a son. I once lay on the moss in a wood and sobbed as you havesobbed. _She_ was killed too. "

But Robin was thinking only of Donal. 

"What--was his face like? Did you--see him near?"

"Quite near. I stood on the street. I followed. He did not see me. Hesaw nothing. "

The sobbing broke forth again. 

"Did--did his eyes look as if he had been crying? He did cry--he did!"

The Head of the House of Coombe showed no muscular facial sign ofemotion and stood stiffly still. But what was this which leaped scaldingto his glazed eyes and felt hot?

"Yes, " he answered huskily. "I saw--even as he marched past--that hiseyes were heavy and had circles round them. There were other eyes likehis--some were boys' eyes and some were the eyes of men. They held theirheads up--but they had all said 'Good-bye'--as he had. "

The Wood echoed to a sound which was a heart-wrung wail and she droppedforward on the moss again and lay there. 

"He said, 'Oh, let us cry--together--together! Oh little--lovely love'!"

She who would have borne torment rather than betray the secret of thedream, now that it could no longer be a secret lay reft of all butmemories and the wild longing to hold to her breast some shred which washer own. He let her wail, but when her wailing ceased helplessly he bentover her. 

"Listen to me, " he said. "If Donal were here he would tell you tolisten. You are a child. You are too young to know what has come uponyou--both. "

She did not speak. 

"You were both too young--and you were driven by fate. If he had beenmore than a boy--and if he had not been in a frenzy--he would haveremembered. He would have thought--"

Yes--yes! She knew how young! But oh, what mattered youth--orthought--or remembering! Her small hand beat in soft impatience on theground. 

He was--strangely--on one knee beside her, his head bent close, and inhis voice there was a new strong insistence--as if he would not let heralone-- Oh! Donal! Donal!

"He would have remembered--that he might leave a child!"

His voice was almost hard. She did not know that in his mind was amemory which now in secret broke him--a memory of a belief which was athing he had held as a gift--a certain faith in a clear young highnessand strength of body and soul in this one scion of his house, which evenin youth's madness would have _remembered_. If the lad had been his ownson he might have felt something of the same pang. 

His words brought back what she had heard Redcliff say to her earlier inthe day--the thing which had only struck her again to the earth. 

"It--will have--no father, " she shuddered. "There is not even a grave. "

He put his hand on her shoulder--he even tried to force her to lift herhead. 

"It _must_ have a father, " he said, harshly. "Look at me. It _must_. "

Stupefied and lost to all things as she was, she heard something in hisharshness she could not understand and was startled by. Her smallstarved face stared at him piteously. There was no one but herself leftin the world. 

"There is no time--" he broke forth. 

"He said so too, " she cried out. "There was no time!"

"But he should have remembered, " the harsh voice revealed more than heknew. "He could have given his child all that life holds that men callhappiness. How could even a lad forget! He loved you--you loved him. Ifhe had married you--"

He stopped in the midst of the words. The little starved face stared athim with a kind of awfulness of woe. She spoke as if she scarcely knewthe words she uttered, and not, he saw, in the least as if she weredefending herself--or as if she cared whether he believed her or not--oras if it mattered. 

"Did you--think we were--not married?" the words dragged out. 

Something turned over in his side. He had heard it said that hearts didsuch things. It turned--because she did not care. She knew what love anddeath were--what they _were_--not merely what they were called--and lifeand shame and loss meant nothing. 

"Do you know what you are saying?" he heard the harshness of his voicebreak. "For God's sake, child, let me hear the truth. "

She did not even care then and only put her childish elbows on her kneesand her face in her hands and wept and wept. 

"There was--no time, " she said. "Every day he said it. He knew--he_knew_. Before he was killed he wanted _something_ that was his own. Itwas our secret. I wanted to keep it his secret till I died. "

"Where, " he spoke low and tensely, "were you married?"

"I do not know. It was a little house in a poor crowded street. Donaltook me. Suddenly we were frightened because we thought he was to goaway in three days. A young chaplain who was going away too was hisfriend. He had just been married himself. He did it because he was sorryfor us. There was no time. His wife lent me a ring. They were young tooand they were sorry. "

"What was the man's name?"

"I can't remember. I was trembling all the time. I knew nothing. Thatwas like a dream too. It was all a dream. "

"You do not remember?" he persisted. "You were married--and have noproof. "

"We came away so quickly. Donal held me in his arm in the cab because Itrembled. Donal knew. Donal knew everything. "

He was a man who had lived through tragedy but that had been long ago. Since then he had only known the things of the world. He had seenstruggles and tricks and paltry craftiness. He had known of women caughtin traps of folly and passion and weakness and had learned how terrortaught them to lie and shift and even show abnormal cleverness. Aboveall he knew exactly what the world would say if a poor wretch of a girltold a story like this of a youngster like Donal--when he was no longeron earth to refute it. 

And yet if these wild things were true, here in a wintry wood she sat adesolate and undefended thing--with but one thought. And in that whichwas most remote in his being he was conscious that he was for the momentrelieved because even worldly wisdom was not strong enough to overcomehis desire to believe in a certain thing which was--that the boy wouldhave played fair even when his brain whirled and all his fierce youthbeset him. 

As he regarded her he saw that it would be difficult to reach her mindwhich was so torn and stunned. But by some method he must reach it. 

"You must answer all the questions I ask, " he said. "It is for Donal'ssake. "

She did not lift her face and made no protest. 

He began to ask such questions as a sane man would know must be answeredclearly and as he heard her reply to each he gradually reached therealisation of what her empty-handed, naked helplessness confronted. That he himself comprehended what no outsider would, was due to hismemories of heart-wrung hours, of days and nights when he too had beenunable to think quite sanely or to reason with a normal brain. Youth isa remorseless master. He could see the tempest of it all--the hours ofheaven--and the glimpses of hell's self--on whose brink the two hadstood clinging breast to breast. With subtle carefulness he slowlygleaned it all. He followed the rising of the tide which at first hadborne them along unquestioning. They had not even asked where they weregoing because the way led through young paradise. Then terror hadawakened them. There had come to them the news of death day afterday--lads they knew and had seen laughing a few weeks before--Halwyn, Meredith, Jack or Harry or Phil. A false rumour of a sudden order to theFront and they had stood and gazed into each other's eyes in a fatefulhour. Robin did not know of the picture her disjointed, sobbed-forthsentences and words made clear. Coombe could see the lad as he stoodbefore her in this very Wood and then went slowly down upon his kneesand kissed her small feet in the moss as he made his prayer. There hadbeen something rarely beautiful in the ecstasy of his tenderness--andshe had given herself as a flower gives itself to be gathered. Sheseemed to have seen nothing, noted nothing, on the morning of the madmarriage, but Donal, who held her trembling in his arms as they drovethrough the crowded streets in the shabby neighbourhood she had neverseen before, to the house crowded between others all like itself. Shehad actually not heard the young chaplain's name in her shyness andtremor. He would scarcely have been an entity but for the one movingfact that he himself had just hastily married a girl he adored and mustleave, and so sympathised and understood the stress of their hour. Ontheir way home they had been afraid of chance recognition and had triedto shield themselves by sitting as far back as possible in the cab. 

"I could not think. I could not see. It was all frightening--andunreal. "

She had not dreamed of asking questions. Donal had taken care of her andtried to help her to be less afraid of seeing people who might recogniseher. She had tilted her hat over her face and worn a veil. She had gonehome to Eaton Square--and then in the afternoon to the cottage atMersham Wood. 

They had not written letters to each other. Robin had been afraid andthey had met almost every day. Once Lord Coombe thought himself on thetrack of some clue when she touched vaguely on some paper Donal hadmeant to send her and had perhaps forgotten in the haste and pressure ofthe last few hours because his orders had been so sudden. But there wasno trace. There had been something he wished her to have. But if thishad meant that his brain had by chance cleared to sane reasoning and hehad, for a few moments touched earth and intended to send her some proofwhich would be protection if she needed it--the moment had been too lateand, at the last, action had proved impossible. And Death had come sosoon. It was as though a tornado had swept him out of her arms anddashed him broken to earth. And she was left with nothing because sheasked nothing--wanted nothing. 

The obviousness of this, when he had ended his questioning and exhaustedhis resources, was a staggering thing. 

"Do you know, " he said grimly, after it was all over, "--that no onewill believe you?"

"Donal knew, " she said. "There is no one--no one else. "

"You mean that there is no one whose belief or disbelief would affectyou?"

The Wood was growing darker still and she had ceased crying and satstill like a small ghost in the dim light. 

"There never _was_ any one but Donal, you know, " she said. To all therest of the world she was as a creature utterly unawake and to a man whowas of the world and who had lived a long life in it the contemplationof her was a strange and baffling thing. 

"You do not ask whether _I_ believe you?" he spoke quite low. 

The silence of the darkening wood was unearthly and her dropped wordscarcely stirred it. 

"No. " She had never even thought of it. 

He himself was inwardly shaken by his own feeling. 

"I will believe you if--you will believe me, " was what he said, asingular sharp new desire impelling him. 

She merely lifted her face a little so that her eyes rested upon him. 

"Because of this tragic thing you must believe me. It will be necessarythat you should. What you have thought of me with regard to your motheris not true. You believed it because the world did. Denial on my partwould merely have called forth laughter. Why not? When a man who hasmoney and power takes charge of a pretty, penniless woman and pays herbills, the pose of Joseph or Galahad is not a good one for him. Mystatement would no more have been believed than yours will be believedif you can produce no proof. What you say is what any girl might say inyour dilemma, what I should have said would have been what any man mighthave said. But--I believe you. Do you believe _me_?"

She did not understand why suddenly--though languidly--she knew that hewas telling her a thing which was true. It was no longer of consequencebut she knew it. And if it was true all she had hated him for so longhad been founded on nothing. He had not been bad--he had only _looked_bad and that he could not help. But what did that matter, either? Shecould not feel even sorry. 

"I will--try, " she answered. 

It was no use as yet, he saw. What he was trying to deal with was in anew Dimension. 

He held out his hands and helped her to her feet. 

"The Wood is growing very dark, " he said. "We must go. I will take youto Mrs. Bennett's and you can spend the night with her. "

The Wood was growing dark indeed. He was obliged to guide her throughthe closeness of the undergrowth. They threaded their way along thenarrow path and the shadows seemed to close in behind them. Before theyreached the end which would have led them out into the open he put hishand on her shoulder and held her back. 

"In this Wood--even now--there is Something which must be saved fromsuffering. It is helpless--it is blameless. It is not you--it is notDonal. God help it. "

He spoke steadily but strangely and his voice was so low that it wasalmost a whisper--though it was not one. For the first time she feltsomething stir in her stunned mind--as if thought were wakening--fear--avague quaking. Her wan small face began to wonder and in the darkroundness of her eyes a question was to be seen like a drowned thingslowly rising from the deeps of a pool. But she asked no question. Sheonly waited a few moments and let him look at her until she said at lastin a voice as near a whisper as his own. 

"I--will believe you. "

CHAPTER XVII

He was alone with the Duchess. The doors were closed, and the world shutout by her own order. She leaned against the high back of her chair, watching him intently as she listened. He walked slowly up and down theroom with long paces. He had been doing it for some time and he had toldher from beginning to end the singular story of what had happened whenhe found Robin lying face downward on the moss in Mersham Wood. 

This is what he was saying in a low, steady voice. 

"She had not once thought of what most women would have thought ofbefore anything else. If I were speaking to another person than yourselfI should say that she was too ignorant of the world. To you I will saythat she is not merely a girl--she is the unearthly luckless embodimentof the pure spirit of Love. She knew only worship and the rapt giving ofgifts. Her unearthliness made him forget earth himself. Folly andmadness of course! Incredible madness--it would seem to most people--adecently intelligent lad losing his head wholly and not regaining hissenses until it was too late to act sanely. But perhaps not quiteincredible to you and me. There must have been days which seemed tohim--and lads like him--like the last hours of a condemned man. In themidst of love and terror and the agony of farewells--what time was therefor sanity?"

"You _believe_ her?" the Duchess said. 

"Yes, " impersonally. "In spite of the world, the flesh and the devil. Ialso know that no one else will. To most people her story will seem athing trumped up out of a fourth rate novel. The law will not listen toit. You will--when you see her unawakened face. "

"I have seen it, " was the Duchess' interpolation. "I saw it when shewent upon her knees and prayed that I would let her go to Mersham Wood. There was something inexplicable in her remoteness from fear and shame. She was only woe's self. I did not comprehend. I was merely a baffledold woman of the world. Now I begin to see. I believe her as you do. Theworld and the law will laugh at us because we have none of the acceptedreasons for our belief. But I believe her as you do--absurd as it willseem to others. "

"Yes, it will seem absurd, " Coombe said slowly pacing. "But here sheis--and here _we_ are!"

"What do you see before us?" she asked of his deep thought. 

"I see a helpless girl in a dark plight. As far as knowledge of how todefend herself goes, she is as powerless as a child fresh from anursery. She lives among people with observing eyes already noting thechange in her piteous face. Her place in your house makes her a centreof attention. The observation of her beauty and happiness has beengood-natured so far. The observation will continue, but in time itscharacter will change. I see that before anything else. "

"It is the first thing to be considered, " she answered. 

"The next--" she paused and thought seriously, "is her mother. PerhapsMrs. Gareth-Lawless has sharp eyes. She said to you something rathervulgarly hideous about being glad her daughter was in my house and notin hers. "

"Her last words to Robin were to warn her not to come to her for refuge'if she got herself into a mess. ' She is in what Mrs. Gareth-Lawlesswould call 'a mess. '"

"It is what a good many people would call it, " the Duchess said. "Andshe does not even know that her tragedy would express itself in a merevulgar colloquialism with a modern snigger in it. Presently, poor child, when she awakens a little more she will begin to go about looking like alittle saint. Do you see that--as I do?"

She thought he did and that he was moved by it though he did not say so. 

"I am thinking first of her mother. Mrs. Gareth-Lawless must see andhear nothing. She is not a criminal or malignant creature, but her lightmalice is capable of playing flimsily with any atrocity. She has notbrain enough to know that she can be atrocious. Robin can be protectedonly if she is shut out of the whole affair. She was simply speaking thetruth when she warned the girl not to come to her in case of need. "

"For a little longer I can keep her here, " the Duchess said. "As shelooks ill it will not be unnatural that the doctor should advise me tosend her away from London. It is not possible to remember anything longin the life we live now. She will be forgotten in a week. That part ofit will be simple. "

"Yes, " he answered. "Yes. "

He paced the length of the room twice--three times and said nothing. Shewatched him as he walked and she knew he was going to say more. She alsowondered what curious thing it might be. She had said to herself thatwhat he said and did would be entirely detached from ordinary or archaicviews. Also she had guessed that it might be extraordinary--perhaps asextraordinary as his long intimacy with Mrs. Gareth-Lawless. Was there apossibility that he was going to express himself now?

"But that is not all, " he said at last and he ended his pondering walkby coming nearer to her. He sat down and touched the newspapers lying onthe table. 

"You have been poring over these, " he said, "and I have been doing thesame thing. I have also been talking to the people who know things andto those who ought to know them but don't. Just now the news is worseeach day. In the midst of the roar and thunder of cataclysms to talkabout a mere girl 'in trouble' appears disproportionate. But because ourworld seems crumbling to pieces about us she assumes proportions of herown. I was born of the old obstinate passions of belief in certainestablished things and in their way they have had their will of me. Lately it has forced itself upon me that I am not as modern as I haveprofessed to be. The new life has gripped me, but the old has not let mego. There are things I cannot bear to see lost forever without astruggle. "

"Such as--" she said it very low. 

"I conceal things from myself, " he answered, "but they rise and confrontme. There were days when we at least believed--quite obstinately--in anumber of things. "

"Sometimes quite heroically, " she admitted. "'God Save the Queen' in itslong day had actual glow and passion. I have thrilled and glowed myselfat the shouting song of it. "

"Yes, " he drew a little nearer to her and his cold face gained a slightcolour. "In those days when a son--or a grandson--was born to the headof a house it was a serious and impressive affair. "

"Yes. " And he knew she at once recalled her own son--and George inFlanders. 

"It meant new generations, and generations counted for decent dignity aswell as power. A farmer would say with huge pride, 'Me and mine haveworked the place for four generations, ' as he would say of the owner ofthe land, 'Him and his have held it for six centuries. ' Centuries andgenerations are in danger of no longer inspiring special reverence. Itis the future and the things to be which count. "

"The things to be--yes, " the Duchess said and knew that he was drawingnear the thing he had to say. 

"I suppose I was born a dogged sort of devil, " he went on almost in amonotone. "The fact did not manifest itself to me until I came to thetime when--all the rest of me dropped into a bottomless gulf. Thatperhaps describes it. I found myself suddenly standing on the edge ofit. And youth, and future, and belief in the use of hoping and realenjoyment of things dropped into the blackness and were gone while Ilooked on. If I had not been born a dogged devil I should have blown mybrains out. If I had been born gentler or kinder or more patient Ishould perhaps have lived it down and found there was something left. Aman's way of facing things depends upon the kind of thing he was born. Iwent on living _without_--the rest of myself. I closed my mouth and notonly my mouth but my life--as far as other men and women were concerned. When I found an interest stirring in me I shut another door--that wasall. Whatsoever went on did it behind a shut door. "

"But there were things which went on?" the Duchess gently suggested. 

"In a hidden way--yes. That is what I am coming to. When I first sawMrs. Gareth-Lawless sitting under her tree--" He suddenly stopped. "No, "harshly, "I need not put it into words to _you_. " Then a pause as if forbreath. "She had a way of lifting her eyes as a very young angelmight--she had a quivering spirit of a smile--and soft, deep curledcorners to her mouth. You saw the same things in the old photograph youbought. The likeness was--Oh! it was hellish that such a resemblancecould be! In less than half an hour after she spoke to me I had shutanother door. But I was obliged to go and _look_ at her again and again. The resemblance drew me. By the time her husband died I knew her wellenough to be sure what would happen. Some man would pick her up andthrow her aside--and then some one else. She could have held nothinglong. She would have passed from one hand to another until she wastossed into the gutter and swept away--quivering spirit of a smile andall of it. I could not have shut any door on that. I prevented it--andkept her clean--by shutting doors right and left. I have watched overher. At times it has bored me frightfully. But after a year orso--behind another door I had shut the child. "

"Robin? I had sometimes thought so, " said the Duchess. 

"I did not know why exactly. It was not affection or attraction. It wasa sort of resentment of the beastly unfairness of things. The bottomlessgulf seemed to yawn in her path when she was nothing but a baby. Everything was being tossed into it before she had taken a step. I beganto keep an eye on her and prevent things--or assist them. It was morefury than benevolence, but it has gone on for years--behind the shutdoor. "

"Are you quite sure you have been entirely free from all affection forher?" The Duchess asked the question impersonally though with a degreeof interest. 

"I think so. I am less sure that I have the power to feel what is called'affection' for any one. I think that I have felt something nearer itfor Donal--and for you--than for any one else. But when the child talkedto me in the wood I felt for the first time that I wished her to knowthat my relation to her mother was not the reason for her hating mewhich she had believed. "

"She shall be made to understand, " said the Duchess. 

"She must, " he said, "_because of the rest_. "

The last four words were, as it were, italicised. Now, she felt, she wasprobably about to hear the chief thing he had been approaching. So shewaited attentively. 

"Behind a door has been shut another thing, " he said and he endeavouredto say it with his usual detached rigidity of calm, but did not whollysucceed. "It is the outcome of the generations and the centuries atpresent diminishing in value and dignity. The past having had its willof me and the present and future having gripped me--if I had had ason--"

As if in a flash she saw as he lingered on the words that he wasspeaking of a thing of which he had secretly thought often and much, though he had allowed no human being to suspect it. She had notsuspected it herself. In a secretive, intense way he had passionatelydesired a son. 

"If you had had a son--" she repeated. 

"He would have stood for both--the past and the future--at thebeginning of a New World, " he ended. 

He said it with such deliberate meaning that the magnitude of hispossible significance caused her to draw a sudden breath. 

"Is it going to be a New World?" she said. 

"It cannot be the old one. I don't take it upon myself to describe thekind of world it will be. That will depend upon the men and women whobuild it. Those who were born during the last few years--those who areabout to be born now. "

Then she knew what he was thinking of. 

"Donal's child will be one of them, " she said. 

"The Head of the House of Coombe--if there is a Head who startsfair--ought to have quite a lot to say--and do. Howsoever black thingslook, " obstinately fierce, "England is not done for. At the worst noreal Englishman believes she can be. She _can't_! You know the oldsaying, 'In all wars England loses battles, but she always wins one--thelast one. ' She always will. Afterwards she must do her bit for the NewWorld. "

CHAPTER XVIII

This then was it--the New World and the human creatures who were tobuild it, the unborn as well as those now in their cradles or totteringin their first step on the pathway leading to the place of building. Yethe himself had no thought of there being any touch of heroic splendourin his way of looking at it. He was not capable of drama. Behind hisshut doors of immovability and stiff coldness, behind his cynic habit oftreating all things with detached lightness, the generations and thecenturies had continued their work in spite of his modernity. HisBritish obstinacy would not relinquish the long past he and his hadseemed to _own_ in representing it. He had loved one woman, and oneonly--with a love like a deep wound; he had longed for a son; he hadstubbornly undertaken to protect a creature he felt life had treatedunfairly. The shattering of the old world had stirred in him a powerfulinterest in the future of the new one whose foundations were yet to belaid. The combination of these things might lead to curiousdevelopments. 

They sat and talked long and the developments were perhaps more unusualthan she had imagined they might be. 

"If I had been able to express the something which approached affectionwhich I felt for Donal, he would have found out that my limitations werenot deliberately evil proclivities, " was one of the things he said. "Oneday he would have ended by making a clean breast of it. He was afraid ofme. I suspect he was afraid of his mother--fond as they were of eachother. I should have taken the matter in hand and married the pair ofthem at once--quietly if they preferred it, but safely and sanely. Godknows I should have comprehended their wish to keep a roaring world outof their paradise. It _was_ paradise!"

"How you believe her!" she exclaimed. 

"She is not a trivial thing, neither was he. If I did _not_ believe herI should know that he _meant_ to marry her, even if fate played themsome ghastly trick and there was not time. Another girl's consciousnessof herself might have saved her, but she had no consciousness but his. If--if a son is born he should be what his father would have been aftermy death. "

"The Head of the House, " the Duchess said. 

"It is a curious thing, " he deliberated, "that now there remains nopossible head but what is left of myself--it ceases to seem the merepompous phrase one laughed at--the Head of the House of Coombe. Here I, of all men, sit before you glaring into the empty future and demandingone. There ought to have been more males in the family. Only four werekilled--and we are done for. "

"If you had seen them married before he went away--" she began. 

He rose to his feet as if involuntarily. He looked as she had never seenhim look before. 

"Allow me to make a fantastic confession to you, " he said. "It will opendoors. If all were as the law foolishly demands it should be--if shewere safe in the ordinary way--absurdly incredible or not as thestatement may seem--I should now be at her feet. "

"At her feet!" she said slowly, because she felt herself facing actualrevelation. 

"Her child would be to me the child of the son who ought to have beenborn to me a life time ago. God, how I have wanted him! Robin would seemto be what another Madonna-like young creature might have been if shehad been my wife. She would not know that she was a little saint on analtar. She would be the shrine of the past and the future. In myinexpressive way I should be worshipping before her. That her possibleson would rescue the House of Coombe from extinction would have meantmuch, but it would be a mere detail. Now you understand. "

Yes. She understood. Things she had never comprehended and had notexpected to comprehend explained themselves with comparative clearness. He proceeded with a certain hard distinctness. 

"The thing which grips me most strongly is that this one--who is one ofthose who have work before them--shall not be handicapped. He shall notbegin life manacled and shamed by illegitimacy. He shall begin it withthe background of all his father meant to give him. The law of Englandwill not believe in his claims unless they can be proven. She can provenothing. I can prove nothing for her. If she had been a little femalecostermonger she would have demanded her 'marriage lines' and clung tothem fiercely. She would have known that to be able to flaunt them inthe face of argument was indispensable. "

"She probably did not know that there existed such documents, " theDuchess said. "Neither of the pair knew anything for the time but thatthey were wild with love and were to be torn apart. "

"Therefore, " he said with distinctness even clearer and harder, "shemust possess indisputable documentary evidence of marriage before thechild is born--as soon as possible. "

"Marriage!" she hesitated aghast. "But _who_ will--?"

"I, " he answered with absolute rigidity. "It will be difficult. It mustbe secret. But if it can be done--when his time comes the child can lookhis new world in the face. He will be the Head of the House of Coombewhen it most needs a strong fellow who has no cause to fear anything andwho holds money and power in his hands. "

"You propose to suggest that she shall marry _you_?" she put it to him. 

"Yes. It will be the devil's own job, " he answered. "She has not begunto think of the child yet--and she has abhorred me all her life. To herthe world means nothing. She does not know what it can do to her and shewould not care if she did. Donal was her world and he is gone. But youand I know what she does not. "

"So this is what you have been thinking?" she said. It was indeed anunarchaic point of view. But even as she heard him she realised that itwas the almost inevitable outcome--not only of what was at the momenthappening to the threatened and threatening world, but of his singularlysecretive past--of all the things he had hidden and also of all thethings he had professed not to hide but had baffled people with. 

"Since the morning Redcliff dropped his bomb I have not been able tothink of much else, " he said. "It was a bomb, I own. Neither you nor Ihad reason for a shadow of suspicion. My mind has a trick of draggingback to me a memory of a village girl who was left as--as she is. Shesaid her lover had married her--but he went away and never came back. The village she lived in was a few miles from Coombe Keep and she gavebirth to a boy. His childhood must have been a sort of hell. When otherboys had rows with him they used to shout 'Bastard' after him in thestreet. He had a shifty, sickened look and when he died of measles atseven years old no doubt he was glad of it. He used to run crying to hiswretched mother and hide his miserable head in her apron. "

"It sounds unendurable, " the Duchess said sharply. 

"I can defy the world as she cannot, " he said with dangerous calm. "Ican provide money for her. She may be hidden away. But only one thingwill save her child--Donal's child--from being a sort of outcast andlosing all he should possess--a quick and quiet marriage which will putall doubt out of the question. "

"And you know perfectly well what the general opinion will be withregard to yourself?"

"Damned well. A debauched old degenerate marrying the daughter of hismistress because her eighteen years attracts his vicious decrepitude. Myabsolute indifference to that, may I say, can not easily be formulated. _She_ shall be spared as much as possible. The thing can be kept secretfor years. She can live in entire seclusion. No one need be told until Iam dead--or until it is necessary for the boy's sake. By that timeperhaps changes in opinion will have taken place. But now--as is the cryof the hour--there is no time. She said that Donal said it too. " Hestood still for a few moments and looked at the floor. "But as I said, "he terminated, "it will be the devil's own job. When I first speak toher about it--she will almost be driven mad. "

CHAPTER XIX

Robin had spent the night at the cottage and Mrs. Bennett had been verygood to her. They had sat by the fire together for a long time and hadtalked of the dead boys on the battlefield, while Robin's head hadrested against the old fairy woman's knee and the shrivelled hand hadstroked and patted her tremulously. It had been nearing dawn when thegirl went to bed and at the last Mrs. Bennett had held on to her dressand asked her a pleading question. 

"Isn't there anything you'd like me to do for you--anything on earth, Miss, dear? Sometimes there's things an old woman can do that young onescan't. If there was anything you'd like to tell me about--that I couldkeep private--? It'd be as safe with me as if I was a dumb woman. And itmight just happen that--me being so old--I might be a help some way. "She was giving her her chance, as in the course of her long life she hadgiven it to other poor girls she loved less. One had to make ways andopen gates for them. 

But Robin only kissed her as lovingly as a child. 

"I don't know what is going to happen to me, " she said. "I can't thinkyet. I may want to ask you to let me come here--if--if I am frightenedand don't know what to do. I know you would let me come and--talk toyou--?"

The old fairy woman almost clutched her in enfolding arms. Her answerwas a hoarse and trembling whisper. 

"You come to me, my poor pretty, " she said. "You come to me day ornight--_whatsoever_. I'm not so old but what I can do anything--you wantdone. "

The railroad journey back to London seemed unnaturally long because herbrain began to work when she found herself half blindly gazing at thecountry swiftly flying past the carriage window. Perhaps the anxiousnessin Mrs. Bennett's face had wakened thought in connecting itself withLord Coombe's words and looks in the wood. 

When the door of the house in Eaton Square opened for her she wasconscious of shrinking from the sympathetic eyes of the war-substitutedwoman-servant who was the one who had found her lying on the landing. She knew that her face was white and that her eyelids were stained andheavy and that the woman saw them and was sorry for her. 

The mountain climb of the stairs seemed long and steep but she reachedher room at last and took off her hat and coat and put on her housedress. She did it automatically as if she were going downstairs to herwork, as though there had been no break in the order of her living. 

But as she was fastening the little hooks and buttons her stunned brainwent on with the thought to which it had begun to awaken in the train. Since the hour when she had fallen unconscious on the landing she hadnot seemed to think at all. She had only _felt_ things which had nothingto do with the real world. 

There was a fire in the grate and when the last button was fastened shesat down on a seat before it and looked into the redness of the coals, her hands loosely clasped on her knee. She sat there for several minutesand then she turned her head and looked slowly round the room. She didit because she was impelled by a sense of its emptiness--by the factthat she was quite alone in it. There was only herself--only Robin init. 

That was her first feeling--the aloneness--and then she thought ofsomething else. She seemed to feel again the hand of Lord Coombe on hershoulder when he held her back in the darkened wood and she could hearhis almost whispered words. 

"In this Wood--even now--there is Something which must be saved fromsuffering. It is helpless--it is blameless. It is not you--it is notDonal--God help it. "

Then she was not alone--even as she sat in the emptiness of the room. She put up her hands and covered her face with them. 

"What--will happen?" she murmured. But she did not cry. 

The deadliness of the blow which had stupefied her still left her barelyconscious of earthly significances. But something of the dark mistinesswas beginning to lift slowly and reveal to her vague shadows and shapes, as it were. If no one would believe that she was married to Donal, thenpeople would think that she had been the kind of girl who is sent awayfrom decent houses, if she is a servant, and cut off in awful disgracefrom her family and never spoken to again, if she belongs to the upperclasses. Books and Benevolent Societies speak of her as "fallen" and"lost. " Her vision of such things was at once vague and primitive. Ittook the form of pathetic fictional figures or memories of some hushedrumour heard by mere chance, rather than of anything more realistic. Shedropped her hands upon her lap and looked at the fire again. 

"Now I shall be like that, " she said listlessly. "And it does notmatter. Donal knew. And I do not care--I do not care. "

"The Duchess will send me away, " she whispered next. "Perhaps she willsend me away to-day. Where shall I go!" The hands on her lap began totremble and she suddenly felt cold in spite of the fire. The sound of aknock on the door made her start to her feet. The woman who had lookedsorry for her when she came in had brought a message. 

"Her grace wishes to see you, Miss, " she said. 

"Thank you, " Robin answered. 

After the servant had gone away she stood still a moment or so. 

"Perhaps she is going to tell me now, " she said to the empty room. 

 * * * * *

Two aspects of her face rose before the Duchess as the girl entered theroom where she waited for her with Lord Coombe. One was that which hadmet her glance when Mademoiselle Vallé had brought her charge on herfirst visit. She recalled her impression of the childlikeness whichseemed all the dark dew of appealing eyes, which were like a young doe'sor a bird's rather than a girl's. The other was the star-like radianceof joy which had swept down the ballroom in Donal's arms with dancingwhirls and swayings and pretty swoops. About them had laughed andswirled the boys now lying dead under the heavy earth of Flemish fields. And Donal--!

This face looked small and almost thin and younger than ever. The eyeswere like those of a doe who was lost and frightened--as if it heardquite near it the baying of hounds, but knew it could not get away. 

She hesitated a moment at the door. 

"Come here, my dear, " the Duchess said. 

Lord Coombe stood by a chair he had evidently placed for her, but shedid not sit down when she reached it. She hesitated again and lookedfrom one to the other. 

"Did you send for me to tell me I must go away?" she said. 

"What do you mean, child?" said the Duchess. 

"Sit down, " Lord Coombe said and spoke in an undertone rapidly. "Shethinks you mean to turn her out of the house as if she were akitchen-maid. "

Robin sat down with her listless small hands clasped in her lap. 

"Nothing matters at all, " she said, "but I don't know what to do. "

"There is a great deal to do, " the Duchess said to her and she did notspeak as if she were angry. Her expression was not an angry one. Shelooked as if she were wondering at something and the wondering wasalmost tender. 

"We know what to do. But it must be done without delay, " said LordCoombe and his voice reminded her of Mersham Wood. 

"Come nearer to me. Come quite close. I want--" the Duchess did notexplain what she wanted but she pointed to a small square ottoman whichwould place Robin almost at her knee. Her own early training had been ofthe statelier Victorian type and it was not easy for her to deal freelywith outward expression of emotion. And here emotion sprang at herthroat, so to speak, as she watched this childish thing with thefrightened doe's eyes. The girl had been an inmate of her house formonths; she had been kind to her and had become fond of her, but theyhad never reached even the borders of intimacy. 

And yet emotion had seized upon her and they were in the midst ofstrange and powerful drama. 

Robin did as she was told. It struck the Duchess that she always did asshe was told and she spoke to her hoping that her voice was notungentle. 

"Don't look at me as if you were afraid. We are going to take care ofyou, " she said. 

But the doe's eyes were still great with hopeless fearfulness. 

"Lord Coombe said--that no one would believe me, " Robin faltered. "Hethought I was not married to Donal. But I was--I was. I _wanted_ to bemarried to him. I wanted to do everything he wanted me to do. We lovedeach other so much. And we were afraid every one would be angry. And somany were killed every day--and before he was killed--Oh!" with a sharplittle cry, "I am glad--I am glad! Whatever happens to me I am _glad_ Iwas married to him before he was killed!"

"You poor children!" broke from the Duchess. "You poor--poor mad youngthings!" and she put an arm about Robin because the barrier built bylack of intimacy was wholly overthrown. 

Robin trembled all over and looked up in her face. 

"I may begin to cry, " she quavered. "I do not want to trouble you bybeginning to cry. I must not. "

"Cry if you want to cry, " the Duchess answered. 

"It will be better, " said Lord Coombe, "if you can keep calm. It isnecessary that you should be calm enough to think--and understand. Willyou try? It is for Donal's sake. "

"I will try, " she answered, but her amazed eyes still yearninglywondered at the Duchess. Her arm had felt almost like Dowie's. 

"Which of us shall begin to explain to her?" the Duchess questioned. 

"Will you? It may be better. "

They were going to take care of her. She was not to be turned into thestreet--though perhaps if she were turned into the street without moneyshe would die somewhere--and that would not matter because she would bethankful. 

The Duchess took one of her hands and held it on her knee. She lookedkind still but she was grave. 

"Do not be frightened when I tell you that most people will _not_believe what you say about your marriage, " she said. "That is because itis too much like the stories other girls have told when they were introuble. It is an easy story to tell when a man is dead. And in Donal'scase so much is involved that the law would demand proofs which couldnot be denied. Donal not only owned the estate of Braemarnie, but hewould have been the next Marquis of Coombe. You have not remembered thisand--" more slowly and with a certain watchful care--"you have been toounhappy and ill--you have not had time to realise that if Donal has ason--"

She heard Robin's caught breath. 

"What his father would have inherited he would inherit also. Braemarniewould be his and in his turn he would be the Marquis of Coombe. It isbecause of these important things that it would be said that it would beimmensely to your interest to insist that you were married to Donal Muirand the law would not allow of any shade of doubt. "

"People would think I wanted the money and the castles--for myself?"Robin said blankly. 

"They would think that if you were a dishonest woman--you wanted all youcould get. Even if you were not actually dishonest they would see youwould want it for your son. You might think it ought to be his--whetherhis father had married you or not. Most women love their children. "

Robin sat very still. The stunned brain was slowly working for itself. 

"A child whose mother seems bad--is very lonely, " she said. 

"It is not likely to have many friends. "

"It seems to belong to no one. It _must_ be unhappy. If--Donal's motherhad not been married--even he would have been unhappy. "

No one made any reply. 

"If he had been poor it would have made it even worse. If he hadbelonged to nobody and had been poor too--! How could he have borne it!"

Lord Coombe took the matter up gently, as it were removing it from theDuchess' hands. 

"But he had everything he wished for from his birth, " he said. "He wasalways happy. I like to remember the look in his eyes. Thank God forit!"

"That beautiful look!" she cried. "That beautiful laughing look--as ifall the world were joyful!"

"Thank God for it, " Coombe said again. "I once knew a wretched villageboy who had no legal father though his mother swore she had beenmarried. His eyes looked like a hunted ferret's. It was through beingshamed and flouted and bullied. The village lads used to shout 'Bastard'after him. "

It was then that the baying of the hounds suddenly seemed at hand. Thelarge eyes quailed before the stark emptiness of the space they gazedinto. 

"What shall I do--what shall I do?" Robin said and having said it shedid not know that she turned to Lord Coombe. 

"You must try to do what we tell you to do--even if you do not wish todo it, " he said. "It shall be made as little difficult for you as ispossible. "

The expression of the Duchess as she looked on and heard was a changingone because her mind included so many aspects of the singular situation. She had thought it not unlikely that he would do something unusual. Could anything much more unusual have been provided than that a man, whohad absolute splendour of rank and wealth to offer, should for strangereasons of his own use the tact of courts and the fine astuteness ofdiplomatists in preparing the way to offer marriage to a penniless, friendless and disgraced young "companion" in what is known as"trouble"? It was because he was himself that he understood what he wasdealing with--that splendour and safety would hold no lure, thatprotection from disgrace counted as nothing, that only one thing hadexistence and meaning for her. And even as this passed through her mind, Robin's answer repeated it. 

"I will do it whether it is difficult or not, " she said, "but--" sheactually got up from her ottoman with a quiet soft movement and stoodbefore them--not a defiant young figure, only simple and elementallysweet-- "I am not ashamed, " she said. "I am not ashamed and _I_ do notmatter at all. "

There was that instant written upon Coombe's face--so far at least ashis old friend was concerned--his response to the significance of this. It was the elemental thing which that which moved him required; it waswhat the generations and centuries of the house of Coombe required--aprimitive creature unashamed and with no cowardice or weak vanitylurking in its being. The Duchess recognised it in the brief moment ofalmost breathless silence which followed. 

"You are very splendid, child, " he said after it, "though you are not atall conscious of it. "

"Sit down again. " The Duchess put out a hand which drew Robin stillnearer to her. "Explain to her now, " she said. 

Robin's light soft body rested against her when it obeyed. It respondedto more than the mere touch of her hand; its yielding was to somethingwhich promised kindness and even comfort--that something which Dowie andMademoiselle had given in those days which now seemed to have belongedto another world. But though she leaned against the Duchess' knee shestill lifted her eyes to Lord Coombe. 

"This is what I must ask you to listen to, " he said. "We believe whatyou have told us but we know that no one else will--without legal proof. We also know that some form may have been neglected because all was donein haste and ignorance of formalities. You can give no clue--theordinary methods of investigation are in confusion as the whole countryis. This is what remains for us to face. _You_ are not ashamed, but ifyou cannot prove legal marriage Donal's son will know bitterhumiliation; he will be robbed of all he should possess--his life willbe ruined. Do you understand?"

"Yes, " she answered without moving her eyes from his face. She seemed tohim again as he stood before her in the upper room of Lady Etynge'shouse when, in his clear aloof voice, he had told her that he had cometo save her. He had saved her then, but now it was not she who neededsaving. 

"There is only one man who can give Donal's child what his father wouldhave given him, " he went on. 

"Who is he?" she asked. 

"I am the man, " he answered, and he stood quite still. 

"How--can you do it?" she asked again. 

"I can marry you, " his clear, aloof voice replied. 

"You!--You!--You!" she only breathed it out--but it was a cry. 

Then he held up his hand as if to calm her. 

"I told you in the wood that hatred was useless now and that your reasonfor hating me had no foundation. I know how you will abhor what Isuggest. But it will not be as bad as it seems. You need not even endurethe ignominy of being known as the Marchioness of Coombe. But when I amdead Donal's son will be my successor. It will not be held against himthat I married his beautiful young mother and chose to keep the matter asecret. I have long been known as a peculiar person given to arrangingmy affairs according to my own liking. The Head of the House ofCoombe"--with an ironic twitch of the mouth--"will have the law on hisside and will not be asked for explanations. A romantic story will addto public interest in him. If your child is a daughter she will beprotected. She will not be lonely, she will have friends. She will haveall the chances of happiness a girl naturally longs for--all of them. Because you are her mother. "

Robin rose and stood before him as involuntarily as she had risenbefore, but now she looked different. Her hands were wrung together andshe was the blanched embodiment of terror. She remembered thingsFräulein Hirsh had said. 

"I could not marry you--if I were to be killed because I didn't, " wasall she could say. Because marriage had meant only Donal and the dream, and being saved from the world this one man had represented to her girlmind. 

"You say that because you have no doubt heard that it has been rumouredthat I have a depraved old man's fancy for you and that I have alwayshoped to marry you. That is as false as the other story I denied. I amnot in love with you even in an antediluvian way. You would not marry mefor your own sake. That goes without saying. But I will repeat what Isaid in the Wood when you told me you would believe me. There isSomething--not you--not Donal--to be saved from suffering. "

"That is true, " the Duchess said and put out her hand as before. "Andthere is something longer drawn out and more miserable than meredying--a dreary outcast sort of life. We know more about such thingsthan you do. "

"You may better comprehend my action if I add a purely selfish reasonfor it, " Coombe went on. "I will give you one. I do not wish to be thelast Marquis of Coombe. "

He took from the table a piece of paper. He had actually made notes uponit. 

"Do not be alarmed by this formality, " he said. "I wish to spare words. If you consent to the performance of a private ceremony you will not berequired to see me again unless you yourself request it. I have a quietplace in a remote part of Scotland where you can live with Dowie to takecare of you. Dowie can be trusted and will understand what I tell her. You will be safe. You will be left alone. You will be known as a youngwidow. There are young widows everywhere. "

Her eyes had not for a moment left his. By the time he had ended theylooked immense in her thin and white small face. Her old horror of himhad been founded on a false belief in things which had not existed, buta feeling which has lasted almost a lifetime has formed for itself anatmosphere from whose influence it is not easy to escape. And he stoodnow before her looking as he had always looked when she had felt him tobe the finely finished embodiment of evil. But--

"You are--doing it--for Donal, " she faltered. 

"You yourself would be doing it for Donal, " he answered. 

"Yes. And--I do not matter. "

"Donal's wife and the mother of Donal's boy or girl matters very much, "he gave back to her. He did not alter the impassive aloofness of hismanner, knowing that it was better not to do so. An astute nervespecialist might have used the same method with a patient. 

There was a moment or so of silence in which the immense eyes gazedbefore her almost _through_ him--piteously. 

"I will do anything I am told to do, " she said at last. After she hadsaid it she turned and looked at the Duchess. 

The Duchess held out both her hands. They were held so far apart that itseemed almost as if they were her arms. Robin swept towards the broadfootstool but reaching it she pushed it aside and knelt down laying herface upon the silken lap sobbing soft and low. 

"All the world is covered with dead--beautiful boys!" her sobbing said. "All alone and dead--dead!"

CHAPTER XX

No immediate change was made in her life during the days that followed. She sat at her desk, writing letters, referring to notes and lists andanswering questions as sweetly and faithfully as she had always donefrom the first. She tried to remember every detail and she also tried tokeep before her mind that she must not let people guess that she wasthinking of other things--or rather trying not to think of them. It wasas though she stood guard over a dark background of thought, of whichothers must know nothing. It was a background which belonged to herselfand which would always be there. Sometimes when she lifted her eyes shefound the Duchess looking at her and then she realised that the Duchessknew it was there too. 

She began to notice that almost everybody looked at her in a kindlyslightly troubled way. Very important matrons and busy excited girls whoran in and out on errands had the same order of rather evasive glance. 

"You have no cough, my dear, have you?" more than one amiable grand ladyasked her. 

"No, thank you--none at all, " Robin answered and she was nearly alwayspatted on the shoulder as her questioner left her. 

Kathryn sitting by her desk one morning, watching her as she wrote anote, suddenly put her hand out and stopped her. 

"Let me look at your wrist, Robin, " she said and she took it between herfingers. 

"Oh! What a little wrist!" she exclaimed. "I--I am sure Grandmamma hasnot seen it. Grandmamma--" aloud to the Duchess, "_Have_ you seenRobin's wrist? It looks as if it would snap in two. "

There were only three or four people in the room and they were allintimates and looked interested. 

"It is only that I am a little thin, " said Robin. "Everybody is thinnerthan usual. It is nothing. "

The Duchess' kind look somehow took in those about her in her answer. 

"You are too thin, my dear, " she said. "I must tell you frankly, Kathryn, that you will be called upon to take her place. I am going tosend her away into the wilds. The War only ceases for people who aresent into wild places. Dr. Redcliff is quite fixed in that opinion. People who need taking care of must be literally hidden away in cornerswhere war vibrations cannot reach them. He has sent Emily Clare away andeven her friends do not know where she is. "

Later in the day Lady Lothwell came and in the course of a few minutesdrew near to her mother and sat by her chair rather closely. She spokein a lowered voice. 

"I am so glad, mamma darling, that you are going to send poor littleMiss Lawless into retreat for a rest cure, " she began. "It's so tactlessto continually chivy people about their health, but I own that I canscarcely resist saying to the child every time I see her, 'Are you anybetter today?' or, 'Have you any cough?' or, 'How is your appetite?' Ihave not wanted to trouble you about her but the truth is we all findourselves talking her over. The point of her chin is growing actuallysharp. What is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless doing?" curtly. 

"Giving dinners and bridge parties to officers on leave. Robin neversees her. "

"Of course the woman does not want her about. She is too lovely forofficers' bridge parties, " rather sharply again. 

"Mrs. Gareth-Lawless is not the person one would naturally turn to forsympathy in trouble. Illness would present itself to her mind as a sortof outrage. " The Duchess herself spoke in a low tone and her eyeswandered for a moment or so to the corner where Robin sat among herpapers. 

"She is a sensitive child, " she said, "and I have not wanted to alarmher by telling her she must give up the work her heart is in. I haveseen for some time that she must have an entire holiday and that shemust leave London behind her utterly for a while. Dr. Redcliff knows ofthe right remote sort of place for her. It is really quite settled. Shewill do as I advise her. She is very obedient. "

"Mamma, " murmured Lady Lothwell who was furtively regarding Robinalso--and it must be confessed with a dewy eye--"I suppose it is becauseI have Kathryn--but I feel a sort of pull at my heart when I rememberhow the little thing _bloomed_ only a few months ago! She was radiantwith life and joy and youngness. It's the contrast that almost frightensone. Something has actually gone. Does Doctor Redcliff think--_Could_she be going to die? Somehow, " with a tremulous breath, "one alwaysthinks of death now. "

"No! No!" the Duchess answered. "Dr. Redcliff says she is not in realdanger. Nourishment and relaxed strain and quiet will supply what sheneeds. But I will ask you, Millicent, to explain to people. I am tootired to answer questions. I realise that I have actually begun to lovethe child and I don't want to hear amiable people continuouslysuggesting the probability that she is in galloping consumption--andproposing remedies. "

"Will she go soon?" Lady Lothwell asked. 

"As soon as Dr. Redcliff has decided between two heavenly littleplaces--one in Scotland and one in Wales. Perhaps next week or a weeklater. Things must be prepared for her comfort. "

Lady Lothwell went home and talked a little to Kathryn who listened withsympathetic intelligence. 

"It would have been better not to have noticed her poor little wrists, "she said. "Years ago I believe that telling people that they looked illand asking anxiously about their symptoms was regarded as a form ofaffection and politeness, but it isn't done at all now. "

"I know, mamma!" Kathryn returned remorsefully. "But somehow there wassomething so pathetic in her little thin hand writing so fast--and theway her eyelashes lay on a sort of hollow of shadow instead of a softcheek-- I took it in suddenly all at once-- And I almost burst outcrying without intending to do it. Oh, mamma!" throwing out her hand toclutch her mother's, "Since--since George--! I seem to cry so suddenly!Don't--don't you?"

"Yes--yes!" as they slipped into each other's arms. "We alldo--everybody--everybody!"

Their weeping was not loud but soft. Kathryn's girl voice had a lowviolin-string wail in it and was infinitely touching in its innocentlove and pity. 

"It's because one feels as if it _couldn't_ be true--as if he _must_ besomewhere! George--good nice George. So good looking and happy and sillyand dear! And we played and fought together when we were children. Oh!To _kill_ George--George!"

When they sat upright again with wet eyes and faces Kathryn added, "And he was only _one_! And that beautiful Donal Muir who danced withRobin at Grandmamma's party! And people actually _stared_ at them, theylooked so happy and beautiful. " She paused and thought a moment. "Do youknow, mamma, I couldn't help believing he would fall in love with her ifhe saw her often--and I wondered what Lord Coombe would think. But henever did see her again. And now--! You know what they said about--noteven _finding_ him!"

"It is better that they did not meet again. If they had it would be easyto understand why the poor girl looks so ill. "

"Yes, I'm glad for her that it isn't that. That would have been muchworse. Being sent away to quiet places to rest might have been no good. "

"But even as it is, mamma is more anxious I am sure than she likes toown to herself. You and I must manage to convey to people that it isbetter not even to verge on making fussy inquiries. Mamma has too manyburdens on her mind to be as calm as she used to be. "

It was an entirely uncomplicated situation. It became understood thatthe Duchess had become much attached to her companion as a result of hersweet faithfulness to her work. She and Dr. Redcliff had taken her incharge and prepared for her comfort and well-being in the most completemanner. A few months would probably end in a complete recovery. Therewere really no special questions even for the curious to ask and no onewas curious. There was no time for curiosity. So Robin disappeared fromher place at the small desk in the corner of the Duchess' sitting roomand Kathryn took her place and used her pen. 

CHAPTER XXI

In the front window of one of the row of little flat-faced brick houseson a narrow street in Manchester, Dowie sat holding Henrietta's new babyupon her lap. They were what is known as "weekly" houses, their rentbeing paid by the week and they were very small. There was a parlourabout the size of a compartment in a workbox, there was a still smallerroom behind it which was called a dining room and there was a diminutivekitchen in which all the meals were eaten unless there was "company totea" which in these days was almost unknown. Dowie had felt it verysmall when she first came to it from the fine spaces and heights of thehouse in Eaton Square and found it seemingly full of very small childrenand a hysterically weeping girl awaiting the impending arrival of onewho would be smaller than the rest. 

"You'll never stay here, " said Henrietta, crying and clutching theuntidy half-buttoned front of her blouse. "You come straight fromduchesses and grandeur and you don't know how people like us live. Howcan you stand us and our dirt, Aunt Sarah Ann?"

"There needn't be dirt, Henrietta, my girl, " said Dowie with quiteuncritical courage. "There wouldn't be if you were yourself, poor lass. I'm not a duchess, you know. I've only been a respectable servant. AndI'm going to see you through your trouble. "

Her sober, kindly capableness evolved from the slovenly little house andthe untended children, from the dusty rooms and neglected kitchen thekind of order and neatness which had been plain to see in Robin's morefortune-favoured apartment. The children became as fresh and neat asRobin's nursery self. They wore clean pinafores and began to behavetidily at table. 

"I don't know how you do it, Aunt Sarah Ann, " sighed Henrietta. But shewashed her blouse and put buttons on it. 

"It's just seeing things and picking up and giving a touch here andthere, " said Dowie. She bought little comforts almost every day andHenrietta was cheered by cups of hot tea in the afternoon and foundherself helping to prepare decent meals and sitting down to them withappetite before a clean tablecloth. She began to look better andrecovered her pleasure in sitting at the front window to watch thepeople passing by and notice how many new black dresses and bonnets wentto church each Sunday. 

When the new baby was born there was neither turmoil nor terror. 

"Somehow it was different from the other times. It seemed sort ofnatural, " Henrietta said. "And it's so quiet to lie like this in acomfortable clean bed, with everything in its place and nothing upset inthe room. And a bright bit of fire in the grate--and a tidy, swept-uphearth--and the baby breathing so soft in his flannels. "

She was a pretty thing and quite unfit to take care of herself even ifshe had had no children. Dowie knew that she was not beset bysentimental views of life and that all she wanted was a warm andcomfortable corner to settle down into. Some masculine creature would besure to begin to want her very soon. It was only to be hoped that youthand flightiness would not descend upon her--though three children mightbe supposed to form a barrier. But she had a girlish figure and her hairwas reddish gold and curly and her full and not too small mouth was redand curly also. The first time she went to church in her little widow'sbonnet with the reddish gold showing itself under the pathetic littlewhite crępe border, she was looked at a good deal. Especially was shelooked at by an extremely respectable middle-aged widower who had been afriend of her dead husband's. His wife had been dead six years, he had acomfortable house and a comfortable shop which had thriven greatlythrough a connection with army supplies. 

He came to see Henrietta and he had the good sense to treat Dowie as ifshe were her mother. He explained himself and his circumstances to herand his previous friendship for her nephew. He asked Dowie if sheobjected to his coming to see her niece and bringing toys to thechildren. 

"I'm fond of young ones. I wanted 'em myself. I never had any, " he saidbluntly. "There's plenty of room in my house. It's a cheerful place withgood solid furniture in it from top to bottom. There's one room we usedto call 'the Nursery' sometimes just for a joke--not often. I choked upone day when I said it and Mary Jane burst out crying. I could do withsix. "

He was stout about the waist but his small blue eyes sparkled in his redface and Henrietta's slimness unromantically but practically approved ofhim. 

One evening Dowie came into the little parlour to find her sitting uponhis knee and he restrained her when she tried to rise hastily. 

"Don't get up, Hetty, " he said. "Your Aunt Sarah Ann'll understand. We've had a talk and she's a sensible woman. She says she'll marry me, Mrs. Dowson--as soon as it's right and proper. "

"Yes, we've had a talk, " Dowie replied in her nice steady voice. "He'llbe a good husband to you, Henrietta--kind to the children. "

"I'd be kind to them even if she wouldn't marry me, " the stout loveranswered. "I want 'em. I've told myself sometimes that I ought to havebeen the mother of six--not the father but the mother. And I'm notjoking. "

"I don't believe you are, Mr. Jenkinson, " said Dowie. 

 * * * * *

As she sat before the window in the scrap of a parlour and held thesleeping new baby on her comfortable lap, she was thinking of this andfeeling glad that poor Jem's widow and children were so well providedfor. It would be highly respectable and proper. The ardour of Mr. Jenkinson would not interfere with his waiting until Henrietta's weedscould be decorously laid aside and then the family would be joyfullyestablished in his well-furnished and decent house. During his probationhe would visit Henrietta and bring presents to the children andunostentatiously protect them all and "do" for them. 

"They won't really need me now that Henrietta's well and cheerful andhas got some one to make much of her and look after her, " Dowiereflected, trotting the baby gently. "I can't help believing her gracewould take me on again if I wrote and asked her. And I should be nearMiss Robin, thank God. It seems a long time since--"

She suddenly leaned forward and looked up the narrow street where thewind was blowing the dust about and whirling some scraps of paper. Shewatched a moment and then lifted the baby and stood up so that shemight make more sure of the identity of a tall gentleman she sawapproaching. She only looked at him for a few seconds and then she leftthe parlour quickly and went to the back room where she had been awareof Mr. Jenkinson's voice rumbling amiably along as a background to herthoughts. 

"Henrietta, " she said, "his lordship's coming down the street and he'scoming here. I'm afraid something's happened to Miss Robin or her grace. Perhaps I'm needed at Eaton Square. Please take the baby. "

"Give him to me, " said Jenkinson and it was he who took him with quitean experienced air. 

Henrietta was agitated. 

"Oh, my goodness! Aunt Sarah Ann! I feel all shaky. I never saw alord--and he's a marquis, isn't it? I shan't know what to do. "

"You won't have to do anything, " answered Dowie. "He'll only say whathe's come to say and go away. "

She went out of the room as quickly as she had come into it because sheheard the sound of the cheap little door knocker. She was pale withanxiety when she opened the door and Lord Coombe saw her troubled lookand understood its reason. 

"I am afraid I have rather alarmed you, Dowie, " he said as he steppedinto the narrow lobby and shook hands with her. 

"It's not bad news of her grace or Miss Robin?" she faltered. 

"I have come to ask you to come back to London. Her grace is well butMiss Robin needs you, " was what he said. 

But Dowie knew the words did not tell her everything she was to hear. She took him into the parlour for which she realised he was much tootall. When she discreetly closed the door after he had entered, he saidseriously, "Thank you, " before he seated himself. And she knew that thismeant that they must be undisturbed. 

"Will you sit down too, " he said as she stood a moment waitingrespectfully. "We must talk together. "

She took a chair opposite to him and waited respectfully again. Yes, hehad something grave on his mind. He had come to tell her something--toask her questions perhaps--to require something of her. Her superiorshad often required things of her in the course of her experience--suchthings as they would not have asked of a less sensible and reliablewoman. And she had always been ready. 

When he began to talk to her he spoke as he always did, in a tone whichsounded unemotional but held one's attention. But his face had changedsince she had last seen it. It had aged and there was somethingdifferent in the eyes. That was the War. Since the War began so manyfaces had altered. 

During the years in the slice of a house he had never talked to her verymuch. It was with Mademoiselle he had talked and his interviews with herhad not taken place in the nursery. How was it then that he seemed toknow her so well. Had Mademoiselle told him that she was a woman to betrusted safely with any serious and intimate confidence--that beinggiven any grave secret to shield, she would guard it as silently anddiscreetly as a great lady might guard such a thing if it were personalto her own family--as her grace herself might guard it. That he knewthis fact without a shadow of doubt was subtly manifest in every word hespoke, in each tone of his voice. There was strange dark trouble toface--and keep secret--and he had come straight to her--Sarah AnnDowson--because he was sure of her and knew her ways. It was her _ways_he knew and understood--her steadiness and that she had the kind ofmanners that keep a woman from talking about things and teach her how tokeep other people from being too familiar and asking questions. And heknew what that kind of manners was built on--just decent faithfulnessand honest feeling. He didn't say it in so many words, of course, but asDowie listened it was exactly as if he said it in gentleman's language. 

England was full of strange and cruel tragedies. And they were not alltragedies of battle and sudden death. Many of them were near enough toseem even worse--if worse could be. Dowie had heard some hints of themand had wondered what the world was coming to. As her visitor talked herheart began to thump in her side. Whatsoever had happened was no secretfrom her grace. And together she and his lordship were going to keep ita secret from the world. Dowie could scarcely have told what phrase orword at last suddenly brought up before her a picture of the nursery inthe house in Mayfair--the feeling of a warm soft childish body pressedclose to her knee, the look of a tender, dewy-eyed small face and thesound of a small yearning voice saying:

"I want to _kiss_ you, Dowie. " And so hearing it, Dowie's heart criedout to itself, "Oh! Dear Lord!"

"It's Miss Robin that trouble's come to, " involuntarily broke from her. 

"A trouble she must be protected in. She cannot protect herself. " For afew seconds he sat and looked at her very steadily. It was as though hewere asking a question. Dowie did not know she was going to rise fromher chair. But for some reason she got up and stood quite firmly beforehim. And her good heart went thump-thump-thump. 

"Your lordship, " she said and in spite of the thumping her voiceactually did not shake. "It was one of those War weddings. And perhapshe's dead. "

Then it was Lord Coombe who left his chair. 

"Thank you, Dowie, " he said and before he began to walk up and down thetiny room she felt as if he made a slight bow to her. 

She had said something that he had wished her to say. She had removedsome trying barrier for him instead of obliging him to help her to crossit and perhaps stumbling on her way. She had neither stumbled norclambered, she had swept it away out of his path and hers. That wasbecause she knew Miss Robin and had known her from her babyhood. 

Though for some time he walked to and fro slowly as he talked she sawthat it was easier for him to complete the relation of his story. But asit proceeded it was necessary for her to make an effort to recallherself to a realisation of the atmosphere of the parlour and the narrowstreet outside the window--and she was glad to be assisted by theamiable rumble of Mr. Jenkinson's voice as heard from the back room whenshe found herself involuntarily leaning forward in her chair, vaguelyconscious that she was drawing short breaths, as she listened to what hewas telling her. The things she was listening to stood out from abackground of unreality so startling. She was even faintly tormented byshadowy memories of a play she had seen years ago at Drury Lane. AndDrury Lane incidents were of a world so incongruously remote from thehouse in Eaton Square and her grace's clever aquiline ivory face--andhis lordship with his quiet bearing and his unromantic and elderly, tired fineness. And yet he was going to undertake to do a thing whichwas of the order of deed the sober everyday mind could only expect fromthe race of persons known as "heroes" in theatres and in books. And hewas noticeably and wholly untheatrical about it. His plans were those ofa farseeing and practical man in every detail. To Dowie the workingperfection of his preparations was amazing. They included everycontingency and seemed to forget nothing and ignore no possibility. Hehad thought of things the cleverest woman might have thought of, he hadachieved effects as only a sensible man accustomed to power andobedience could have achieved them. And from first to last he keptbefore Dowie the one thing which held the strongest appeal. In herhelpless heartbreak and tragedy Robin needed her as she needed no oneelse in the world. 

"She is so broken and weakened that she may not live, " he said in theend. "No one can care for her as you can. "

"I can care for her, poor lamb. I'll come when your lordship's ready forme, be it soon or late. "

"Thank you, Dowie, " he said again. "It will be soon. "

And when he shook hands with her and she opened the front door for him, she stood and watched him, thinking very deeply as he walked down thestreet with the wind-blown dust and scraps of paper whirling about him. 

CHAPTER XXII

In little more than two weeks Dowie descended from her train in theLondon station and took a hansom cab which carried her through thefamiliar streets to Eaton Square. She was comforted somewhat by the merefamiliarity of things--even by the grade of smoke which seemed in someway to be different from the smoke of Manchester's cotton factorychimneys--by the order of rattle and roar and rumble, which had ahomelike sound. She had not felt at home in Manchester and she had notfelt quite at home with Henrietta though she had done her duty by her. Their worlds had been far apart and daily adjustment to circumstances isnot easy though it may be accomplished without the betrayal of anyoutward sign. His lordship's summons had come soon, as he had said itwould, but he had made it possible for her to leave in the little housea steady and decent woman to take her place when she gave it up. 

She had made her journey from the North with an anxiously heavy heart inher breast. She was going to "take on" a responsibility which includedelements previously quite unknown to her. She was going to help to hidesomething, to live with a strange secret trouble and while she did somust wear her accustomed, respectable and decorous manner and aspect. Whatsoever alarmed or startled her, she must not seem to be startled oralarmed. As his lordship had carried himself with his usual bearing, spoken in his high-bred calm voice and not once failed in thenaturalness of his expression--even when he had told her the wholestrange plan--so she must in any circumstances which arose and in anydifficult situation wear always the aspect of a well-bred and trainedservant who knew nothing which did not concern her and did nothingwhich ordinary domestic service did not require that she should do. Shemust always seem to be only Sarah Ann Dowson and never forget. Butdelicate and unusual as this problem was, it was not the thing whichmade her heart heavy. Several times during her journey she had beenobliged to turn her face towards the window of the railway carriage andaway from her fellow passengers so that she might very quickly andfurtively touch her eyes with her handkerchief because she did not wantany one to see the tear which obstinately welled up in spite of herefforts to keep it back. 

She had heard of "trouble" in good families, had even been related toit. She knew how awful it was and what desperate efforts were made, whatdesperate means resorted to, in the concealment of it. And how difficultand almost impossible it was to cope with it and how it seemed sometimesas if the whole fabric of society and custom combined to draw attentionto mere trifles which in the end proved damning evidence. 

And it was Miss Robin she was going to--her own Miss Robin who had neverknown a child of her own age or had a girl friend--who had been cut offfrom innocent youth and youth's happiness and intimacies. 

"It's been one of those poor mad young war weddings, " she kept saying toherself, "though no one will believe her. If she hadn't been so ignorantof life and so lonely! But just as she fell down worshipping that dearlittle chap in the Gardens because he was the first she'd everseen--it's only nature that the first beautiful young thing her own agethat looked at her with love rising up in him should set it rising inher--where God had surely put it if ever He put love as part of life inany girl creature His hand made. But Oh! I can _see_ no one willbelieve her! The world's heart's so wicked. I know, poor lamb. Her Dowieknows. And her left like this!"

It was when her thoughts reached this point that the tear would gatherin the corner of her eye and would have trickled down her cheek if shehad not turned away towards the window. 

But above all things she told herself she must present only Dowie's facewhen she reached Eaton Square. There were the servants who knew nothingand must know nothing but that Mrs. Dowson had come to take care of poorMiss Lawless who had worked too hard and was looking ill and was to besent into the country to some retreat her grace had chosen because itwas far enough away to allow of her being cut off from war news andwork, if her attendants were faithful and firm. Every one knew Mrs. Dowson would be firm and faithful. Then there were the ladies who wentin and out of the house in these days. If they saw her by any chancethey might ask kind interested questions about the pretty creature theyhad liked. They might inquire as to symptoms, they might ask where shewas to be taken to be nursed. Dowie knew that after she had seen Robinherself she could provide suitable symptoms and she knew, as she knewhow to breathe and walk, exactly the respectful voice and manner inwhich she could make her replies and how natural she could cause it toappear that she had not yet been told their destination--her grace beingstill undecided. Dowie's decent intelligence knew the methods of herclass and their value when perfectly applied. A nurse or a young lady'smaid knew only what she was told and did not ask questions. 

But what she thought of most anxiously was Robin herself. His lordshiphad given her no instructions. Part of his seeming to understand her wasthat he had seemed to be sure that she would know what to say and whatto leave unsaid. She was glad of that because it left her free to thinkthe thing over and make her own quiet plans. She drew more than onetremulous sigh as she thought it out. In the first place--little MissRobin seemed like a baby to her yet! Oh, she _was_ a baby! Little MissRobin just in her teens and with her childish asking eyes and her softchildish mouth! Her a young married lady and needing to be taken careof! She was too young to be married--if it was ever so! And ifeverything had been done all right and proper with wedding cake andveil, orange blossoms and St. George's, Hanover Square, she still wouldhave been too young and would have looked almost cruelly like a child. And at a time such as this Dowie would have known she was one to betreated with great delicacy and tender reserve. But as it was--a littleshamed thing to be hidden away--to be saved from the worst of fates forany girl--with nothing in her hand to help her--how would it be wisestto face her, how could one best be a comfort and a help?

How the sensible and tender creature gave her heart and brain to herreflections! How she balanced one chance and one emotion againstanother! Her conclusion was, as Coombe had known it would be, drawn fromthe experience of practical wisdom and an affection as deep as theexperience was broad. 

"She won't be afraid of Dowie, " she thought, "if it's just Dowie thatlooks at her exactly as she always did. In her little soul she may befrightened to death but if it's only Dowie she sees--not askingquestions or looking curious and unnatural, she'll get over it and knowshe's got something to hold on to. What she needs is something she canhold on to--something that won't tremble when she does--and that looksat her in the way she was used to when she was happy and safe. What Imust do with her is what I must do with the others--just look and talkand act as Dowie always did, however hard it is. Perhaps when we getaway to the quiet place we're going to hide in, she may begin to want totalk to me. But not a question do I ask or look until she's ready toopen her poor heart to me. "

 * * * * *

She had herself well under control when she reached her destination. Shehad bathed her face and freshened herself with a cup of hot tea at thestation. She entered the house quite with her usual manner and wasgreeted with obvious welcome by her fellow servants. They had missed herand were glad to see her again. She reported herself respectfully toMrs. James in the housekeeper's sitting room and they had tea again anda confidential talk. 

"I'm glad you could leave your niece, Mrs. Dowson, " the housekeepersaid. "It's high time poor little Miss Lawless was sent away fromLondon. She's not fit for war work now or for anything but lying in bedin a quiet place where she can get fresh country air and plenty of fresheggs, and good milk and chicken broth. And she needs a motherly womanlike you to watch her carefully. "

"Does she look as delicate as all that?" said Dowie concernedly. 

"She'll lie in the graveyard in a few months if something's not done. I've seen girls look like her before this. " And Mrs. James said italmost sharply. 

But even with this preparation and though Lord Coombe had spokenseriously of the state of the girl's health, Dowie was not ready toencounter without a fearful sense of shock what she confronted a littlelater when she went to Robin's sitting room as she was asked to. 

When she tapped upon the door and in response to a faint sounding "Comein" entered the pretty place, Robin rose from her seat by the fire andcame towards her holding out her arms. 

"I'm so glad you came, Dowie dear, " she said, "I'm _so_ glad. " She putthe arms close round Dowie's neck and kissed her and held her cheekagainst the comfortable warm one a moment before she let go. "I'm so_glad_, dear, " she murmured and it was even as she felt the arms closeabout her neck and the cheek press hers that Dowie caught her breath andheld it so that she might not seem to gasp. They were such thin frailarms, the young body on which the dress hung loose was only a shadow ofthe round slimness which had been so sweet. 

But it was when the arm released her and they stood apart and looked ateach other that she felt the shock in full force while Robin continuedher greetings. 

"Did you leave Henrietta and the children quite well?" she was saying. "Is the new baby a pretty one?"

Dowie had not been one of those who had seen the gradual development ofthe physical change in her. It came upon her suddenly. She had left ayoung creature all softly rounded girlhood, sweet curves and life glowand bloom. She found herself holding a thin hand and looking into atransparent, sharpened small face whose eyes were hollowed. The silk ofthe curls on the forehead had a dankness and lifelessness which almostmade her catch her breath again. Like Mrs. James she herself had morethan once had the experience of watching young creatures slip into whatthe nurses of her day called "rapid decline" and she knew all thepiteous portents of the early stages--the waxen transparency ofsharpened features and the damp clinging hair. These two last were toher mind the most significant of the early terrors. 

And in less than five minutes she knew that the child was not going totalk about herself and that she had been right in making up her own mindto wait. Whatsoever the strain of silence, there would be no speech now. The piteous darkness of her eye held a stillness that washeart-breaking. It was a stillness of such touching endurance ofsomething inevitable. Whatsoever had happened to her, whatsoever wasgoing to happen to her, she would make no sound. She would outwardly beaffectionate, pretty-mannered Miss Robin just as Dowie herself wouldgive all her strength to trying to seem to be nothing and nobody butDowie. And what it would cost of effort to do it well!

When they sat down together it was because she drew Robin by the thinlittle hand to an easy chair and she still held the thin hand when shesat near her. 

"Henrietta's quite well, I'm glad to say, " she answered. "And the baby'sa nice plump little fellow. I left them very comfortable--and I think intime Henrietta will be married again. "

"Married again!" said Robin. "Again!"

"He's a nice well-to-do man and he's fond of her and he's fond ofchildren. He's never had any and he's always wanted them. "

"Has he?" Robin murmured. "That's very nice for Henrietta. " But therewas a shadow in her eyes which was rather like frightened bewilderment. 

Dowie still holding the mere nothing of a hand, stroked and patted itnow and then as she described Mr. Jenkinson and the children and thelife in the house in Manchester. She wanted to gain time and commonplacetalk helped her. 

"She won't be married again until her year's up, " she explained. "Andit's the best thing she could do--being left a young widow with childrenand nothing to live on. Mr. Jenkinson can give her more than she's everhad in the way of comforts. "

"Did she love poor Jem very much?" Robin asked. 

"She was very much taken with him in her way when she married him, "Dowie said. "He was a cheerful, joking sort of young man and girls likeHenrietta like jokes and fun. But they were neither of them romantic andit had begun to be a bit hard when the children came. She'll be verycomfortable with Mr. Jenkinson and being comfortable means beinghappy--to Henrietta. "

Then Robin smiled a strange little ghost of a smile--but there were nodimples near it. 

"You haven't told me that I am thin, Dowie, " she said. "I know I amthin, but it doesn't matter. And I am glad you kissed me first. Thatmade me sure that you were Dowie and not only a dream. Everything hasbeen seeming as if it were a dream--everything--myself--everybody--evenyou--_you_!" And the small hand clutched her hard. 

A large lump climbed into Dowie's throat but she managed it bravely. 

"It's no use telling people they're thin, " she answered with stout goodcheer. "It doesn't help to put flesh on them. And there are a good manyyoung ladies working themselves thin in these days. You're just one ofthem that's going to be taken care of. I'm not a dream, Miss Robin, mydear. I'm just your own Dowie and I'm going to take care of you as I didwhen you were six. "

She actually felt the bones of the small hand as it held her own stillcloser. It began to tremble because Robin had begun to tremble. Butthough she was trembling and her eyes looked very large and frightened, the silence was still deep within them. 

"Yes, " the low voice faltered, "you will take care of me. Thank you, Dowie dear. I--must let people take care of me. I know that. I am likeHenrietta. "

And that was all. 

 * * * * *

"She's very much changed, your grace, " Dowie said breathlessly when shewent to the Duchess afterwards. There had been no explanation or goinginto detail but she knew that she might allow herself to be breathlesswhen she stood face to face with her grace. "Does she cough? Has shenight sweats? Has she any appetite?"

"She does not cough yet, " the Duchess answered, but her grave eyes wereas troubled as Dowie's own. "Doctor Redcliff will tell you everything. He will see you alone. We are sending her away with you because you loveher and will know how to take care of her. We are very anxious. "

"Your grace, " Dowie faltered and one of the tears she had forced backwhen she was in the railway carriage rose insubordinately and rolleddown her cheek, "just once I nursed a young lady who--looked as she doesnow. I did my best with all my heart, the doctors did their best, everybody that loved her did their best--and there were a good many. Wewatched over her for six months. "

"Six months?" the Duchess' voice was an unsteady thing. 

"At the end of six months we laid her away in a pretty countrychurchyard, with flowers heaped all over her--and her white little handsfull of them. And she hadn't--as much to contend with--as Miss Robinhas. "

And in the minute of dead silence which followed more tears fell. No onetried to hold them back and some of them were the tears of the oldDuchess. 

CHAPTER XXIII

There are old and forgotten churches in overgrown corners of Londonwhose neglected remoteness suggests the possibility of anyecclesiastical ceremony being performed quite unobserved except by theparties concerned in it. If entries and departures were discreetlyarranged, a baptismal or a marriage ceremony might take place almost asin a tomb. A dark wet day in which few pass by and such as pass areabsorbed in their own discomforts beneath their umbrellas, offers acuriously entire aloofness of seclusion. In the neglected graveyardsabout them there is no longer any room to bury any one in the damp blackearth where the ancient tombs are dark with mossy growth and mould, heavy broken slabs slant sidewise perilously, sad and thin cats prowl, and from a soot-blackened tree or so the rain drops with hollow, plashing sounds. 

The rain was so plashing and streaming in rivulets among the mounds andstones of the burial ground of one of the most ancient and forgottenlooking of such churches, when on a certain afternoon there came to thenarrow soot-darkened Vicarage attached to it a tall, elderly man whowished to see and talk to the Vicar. 

The Vicar in question was an old clergyman who had spent nearly fiftyyears in the silent, ecclesiastical-atmosphered small house. He was anunmarried man whose few relatives living in the far North of Englandwere too poor and unenterprising to travel to London. His days werespent in unsatisfactory work among crowded and poverty-stricken humancreatures before whom he felt helpless because he was an unpractical oldOxford bookworm. He read such services as he held in his dim church, toempty pews and echoing hollowness. He was nevertheless a deeply thinkingman who was a gentleman of a scarcely remembered school; he was apeculiarly silent man and of dignified understanding. Through the longyears he had existed in detached seclusion in his corner of his worldaround which great London roared and swept almost unheard by him in hisremoteness. 

When the visitor's card was brought to him where he sat in his dingy, book-packed study, he stood--after he had told his servant to announcethe caller--gazing dreamily at the name upon the white surface. It was astately name and brought back vague memories. Long ago--very long ago, he seemed to recall that he had slightly known the then bearer of it. Hehimself had been young then--quite young. The man he had known was deadand this one, his successor, must by this time have left youth behindhim. What had led him to come?

Then the visitor was shown into the study. The Vicar felt that he was aman of singular suggestions. His straight build, his height, hiscarriage arrested the attention and the clear cut of his cold face heldit. One of his marked suggestions was that there was unusual lack ofrevelation in his rather fine almond eye. It might have revealed muchbut its intention was to reveal nothing but courteous detachment fromall but well-bred approach to the demand of the present moment. 

"I think I remember seeing you when you were a boy, Lord Coombe, " theVicar said. "My father was rector of St. Andrews. " St. Andrews was theNorman-towered church on the edge of the park enclosing Coombe Keep. 

"I came to you because I also remembered that, " was Coombe's reply. 

Their meeting was a very quiet one. But every incident of life wasquiet in the Vicarage. Only low sounds were ever heard, only almostsoundless movements made. The two men seated themselves and talkedcalmly while the rain pattered on the window panes and streaming downthem seemed to shut out the world. 

What the Vicar realised was that, since his visitor had announced thathe had come because he remembered their old though slight acquaintance, he had obviously come for some purpose to which the connection formed asort of support or background. This man, whose modernity of bearing andexternals seemed to separate them by a lifetime of experience, clearlybelonged to the London which surrounded and enclosed his own silenceswith civilised roar and the tumult of swift passings. On the surface thesmall, dingy book-crammed study obviously held nothing this outer worldcould require. The Vicar said as much courteously and he glanced roundthe room as he spoke, gently smiling. 

"But it is exactly this which brings me, " Lord Coombe answered. 

With great clearness and never raising the note of quiet to which thewalls were accustomed, he made his explanation. He related no incidentsand entered into no detail. When he had at length concluded thepresentation of his desires, his hearer knew nothing whatever, save whatwas absolutely necessary, of those concerned in the matter. Utterlydetached from all curiosities as he was, this crossed the Vicar's mind. There was a marriage ceremony to be performed. That only the contractingparties should be aware of its performance was absolutely necessary. That there should be no chance of opportunity given for question orcomment was imperative. Apart from this the legality of the contract wasall that concerned those entering into it; and that must be assuredbeyond shadow of possible doubt. 

In the half-hidden and forgotten old church to which the Vicarage wasattached such a ceremony could obviously be performed, and to anincumbent detached from the outer world, as it were, and one who wascapable of comprehending the occasional gravity of reasons for silence, it could remain so long as was necessary a confidence securely guarded. 

"It is possible, " the Vicar said at the end of the explanation. "I haveperformed the ceremony before under somewhat similar circumstances. "

A man of less breeding and with even normal curiosities might have madethe mistake of asking innocent questions. He asked none except such asrelated to the customary form of procedure in such matters. He did not, in fact, ask questions of himself. He was also fully aware that LordCoombe would have given no answer to any form of inquiry. The marriagewas purely his own singular affair. It was he himself who chose in thisway to be married--in a forgotten church in whose shadowy emptiness theevent would be as a thing brought to be buried unseen and unmarked byany stone, but would yet be a contract binding in the face and courts ofthe world if it should for any reason be exhumed. 

When he rose to go and the Vicar rose with him, there was a moment ofpause which was rather curious. The men's eyes met and for a few momentsrested upon each other. The Vicar's were still and grave, but there wasa growth of deep feeling in them. This suggested a sort of profoundhuman reflection. 

Lord Coombe's expression itself changed a shade. It might perhaps besaid that his eyes had before this moment scarcely seemed to holdexpression. 

"She is very young, " he said in an unusual voice. "Inthis--holocaust--she needs protection. I can protect her. "

"It is a holocaust, " the Vicar said, "--a holocaust. " And singularly thewords seemed an answer. 

 * * * * *

On a morning of one of London's dark days when the rain was againsplashing and streaming in rivulets among the mounds and leaning andtumbling stones of the forgotten churchyard, there came to the churchthree persons who if they had appeared in more frequented edifices wouldhave attracted some attention without doubt, unnoticeably as they weredressed and inconspicuous as was their manner and bearing. 

They did not all three present themselves at the same time. First thereappeared the tall elderly man who had visited and conferred with theVicar. He went at once to the vestry where he spent some time with theincumbent who awaited him. 

Somewhat later there stepped through the little arched doorway arespectable looking elderly woman and a childlike white-faced girl in aclose black frock. That the church looked to them so dark as to bealmost black with shadows was manifest when they found themselves insidepeering into the dimness. The outer darkness seemed to have crowdeditself through the low doorway to fill the groined arches with gloom. 

"Where must we go to, Dowie?" Robin whispered holding to the warm, stoutarm. 

"Don't be timid, my dearie, " Dowie whispered back. "His lordship will beready for us now we've come. "

His lordship was ready. He came forward to meet them and when he did so, Robin knew--though he seemed to be part of the dimness and to come outof a dream--that she need feel no further uncertainties or fears. Thatwhich was to take place would move forward without let or hindrance toits end. That was what one always felt in his presence. 

In a few minutes they were standing in a part of the church which wouldhave seemed darker than any other shadow-filled corner but that a dimlight burned on a small altar and a clergyman whose white vestments madehim look wraithlike and very tall waited before it and after a fewmoments of solemn silence began to read from the prayer book he held inhis hand. 

There were strange passings and repassings through Robin's mind as shemade her low responses--memories of the hours when she had asked herselfif she were still alive--if she were not dead as Donal was, but walkingabout without having found it out. It was as though this must be truenow and her own voice and Lord Coombe's and the clergyman's only ghosts'voices. They were so low and unlike real voices and when they floatedaway among the shadows, low ghastly echoes seemed to float with them. 

"I will, " she heard herself say, and also other things the clergymantold her to repeat after him and when Lord Coombe spoke she couldscarcely understand because it was all like a dream and did not matter. 

Once she turned so cold and white and trembled so that Dowie made aninvoluntary movement towards her, but Lord Coombe's quiet firmness heldher swaying body and though the clergyman paused a moment the tremblingpassed away and the ceremony went on. She had begun to tremble becauseshe remembered that the other marriage had seemed like a dream inanother world than this--a world which was so alive that she hadtrembled and thrilled with exquisite living. And because Donal knew howfrightened she was he had stood so close to her that she had felt thedear warmness of his body. And he had held her hand quite tight when hetook it and his "I will" had been beautiful and clear. And when he hadput on the borrowed ring he had drawn her eyes up to the blue tarn ofhis own. Donal was killed! Perhaps the young chaplain had been killedtoo. And she was being married to Lord Coombe who was an old man and didnot stand close to her, whose hand scarcely held hers at all--but whowas putting on a ring. 

Her eyes--her hunted young doe's eyes--lifted themselves. Lord Coombemet them and understood. Strangely she knew he understood--that he knewwhat she was thinking about. For that one moment there came into hiseyes a look which might not have been his own, and vaguely she knew thatit held strange understanding and he was sorry for her--and for Donaland for everything in the world. 

CHAPTER XXIV

The little feudal fastness in the Highlands which was called DarreuchCastle--when it was mentioned by any one, which was rarely--had beenlittle more than a small ruin when Lord Coombe inherited it as anunconsidered trifle among more imposing and available property. It hadindeed presented the aspect not so much of an asset as of an entirelyuseless relic. The remote and--as far as record dwelt on him--obviouslyunnotable ancestor who had built it as a stronghold in an almostunreachable spot upon the highest moors had doubtlessly had picturesquereasons for the structure, but these were lost in the dim past andappeared on the surface, unexplainable to a modern mind. Lord Coombehimself had not explained an interest he chose to feel in it, or his ownreasons for repairing it a few years after it came into his possession. He rebuilt certain breaches in the walls and made certain roomssufficiently comfortable to allow of his spending a few nights or weeksin it at rare intervals. He always went alone, taking no servant withhim, and made his retreat after his own mood, served only by the farmerand his wife who lived in charge from year's end to year's end, herdinga few sheep and cultivating a few acres for their own needs. 

They were a silent pair without children and plainly not feeling thelack of them. They had lived in remote moorland places since theirbirth. They had so little to say to each other that Lord Coombesometimes felt a slight curiosity as to why they had married instead ofremaining silent singly. There was however neither sullenness norresentment in their lack of expression. Coombe thought they liked eachother but found words unnecessary. Jock Macaur driving his sheep to foldin the westering sun wore the look of a man not unpleased with life andat least undisturbed by it. Maggy Macaur doing her housework, churningor clucking to her hens, was peacefully cheerful and seemed to ask nomore of life than food and sleep and comfortable work which could bedone without haste. There were no signs of knowledge on her part orJock's of the fact that they were surrounded by wonders of moorland andhillside colour and beauty. Sunrise which leaped in delicate flames ofdawn meant only that they must leave their bed; sunset which lighted themoorland world with splendour meant that a good night's sleep wascoming. 

Jock had heard from a roaming shepherd or so that the world was at warand that lads were being killed in their thousands. One good man hadsaid that the sons of the great gentry were being killed with the rest. Jock did not say that he did not believe it and in fact expressed noopinion at all. If he and Maggy gave credit to the story, they werelittle disturbed by any sense of its reality. They had no neighbours andtheir few stray kinfolk lived at remote distances and were not given tovisits or communications. There had been vague rumours of far away warsin the years past, but they had assumed no more reality than legends. This war was a shadow too and after Jock came home one night andmentioned it as he might have mentioned the death of a cow or the buyingof a moor pony the subject was forgotten by both. 

"His lordship" it was who reminded them of it. He even bestowed upon therumour a certain reality. He appeared at the stout little old castle oneday without having sent them warning, which was unusual. He came to givesome detailed orders and to instruct them in the matter of changes. Hehad shown forethought in bringing with him a selection of illustratednewspapers. This saved time and trouble in the matter of making thesituation clear. The knowledge which conveyed itself to Maggy and Jockproduced the effect of making them even more silent than usual if such acondition were possible. They stared fixedly and listened with respectbut beyond a rare "Hech!" they had no opinion to express. It becameplain that the war was more than a mere rumour-- The lads who had beenblown to bits or bayoneted! The widows and orphans that were left! Someof the youngest of the lads had lost their senses and married youngthings only to go off to the ill place folk called "The Front" and leavethem widows in a few days' or weeks' time. There were hundreds of bitsof girls left lonely waiting for their bairns to come into theworld--Some with scarce a penny unless friends took care of them. Therewas a bit widow in her teens who was a distant kinswoman of hislordship's, and her poor lad was among those who were killed. He hadbeen a fine lad and he would never see his bairn. The poor young widowhad been ill with grief and the doctors said she must be hidden away insome quiet place where she would never hear of battles or see anewspaper. She must be kept in peace and taken great care of if she wasto gain strength to live through her time. She had no family to watchover her and his lordship and an old lady who was fond of her had takenher trouble in hand. The well-trained woman who had nursed her as achild would bring her to Darreuch Castle and there would stay. 

His lordship had been plainly much interested in the long time past whenhe had put the place in order for his own convenience. Now he seemedeven more interested and more serious. He went from room to room with agrave face and looked things over carefully. He had provided himselfwith comforts and even luxuries before his first coming and they hadbeen of the solid baronial kind which does not deteriorate. It was alittle castle and a forgotten one, but his rooms had beauty and had notbeen allowed to be as gloomy as they might have been if stone walls andblack oak had not been warmed by the rich colours of tapestry andpictures which held light and glow. But other things were coming fromLondon. He himself would wait to see them arrive and installed. TheMacaurs wondered what more the "young leddy" and her woman could wantbut took their orders obediently. Her woman's name was Mrs. Dowson andshe was a quiet decent body who would manage the household. That theyoung widow was to be well taken care of was evident. A doctor was toride up the moorland road each day to see her, which seemed a greatprecaution even though the Macaurs did not know that he had consented tolive temporarily in the locality because he had been well paid to do so. Lord Coombe had chosen him with as discreet selection as he had used inhis choice of the vicar of the ancient and forsaken church. A ratheryoung specialist who was an enthusiast in his work and as ambitious ashe was poor, could contemplate selling some months of his time for valuereceived if the terms offered were high enough. That silence anddiscretion were required formed no objections. 

 * * * * *

The rain poured down on the steep moorland road when the carriage slowlyclimbed it to the castle. Robin, seeming to gaze out at the soddenheath, did not really see it because she was thinking of Dowie who satsilently by her side. Dowie had taken her from the church to the stationand they had made the long journey together. They had talked very littlein the train though Dowie had been tenderly careful and kind. Robin knewshe would ask no questions and she dully felt that the blows which werefalling on everybody every day must have stunned her also. What sheherself was thinking as she seemed to gaze at the sodden heather was athing of piteous and helpless pain. She was achingly wondering whatDowie was thinking--what she knew and what she thought of the girl shehad taken such care of and who was being sent away to be hidden in aruined castle whose existence was a forgotten thing. The goodrespectable face told nothing but it seemed to be trying to keep itselffrom looking too serious; and once Robin had thought that it looked asif Dowie might suddenly have broken down if she would have allowedherself but she would not allow herself. 

The truth was that the two or three days at Eaton Square had been veryhard for Dowie to manage perfectly. To play her accepted part before herfellow servants required much steady strength. They were all fond of"poor little Miss Lawless" and had the tendency of their class todiscuss and dwell upon symptoms with sympathetic harrowingness ofdetail. It seemed that all of them had had some friend or relative whohad "gone off in a quick decline. It's strange how many young peopledo!" A head housemaid actually brought her heart into her throat oneafternoon by saying at the servants' hall tea:

"If she was one of the war brides, I should say she was just like mycousin Lucy--poor girl. She and her husband were that fond of each otherthat it was a pleasure to see them. He was killed in an accident. Shewas expecting. And they'd been that happy. She went off in threemonths. She couldn't live without him. She wasn't as pretty as MissLawless, of course, but she had big brown eyes and it was the way theylooked that reminded me. Quick decline always makes people's eyes lookbig and--just as poor little Miss Lawless does. "

To sit and eat buttered toast quietly and only look normally sad andslowly shake one's head and say, "Yes indeed. I know what you mean, MissTompkins, " was an achievement entitled to much respect. 

The first night Dowie had put her charge to bed and had seen the faintoutline under the bedclothes and the sunken eyes under the pale closedlids whose heaviness was so plain because it was a heaviness which hadno will to lift itself again and look at the morning, she could scarcelybear her woe. As she dressed the child when morning came and saw thedelicate bones sharply denoting themselves, and the hollows in neck andthroat where smooth fairness had been, her hands almost shook as shetouched. And hardest of all to bear was the still, patient look in theenduring eyes. She was being patient--_patient_, poor lamb, and only Godhimself knew how she cried when she was left alone in her white bed, thedoor closed between her and all the house. 

"Does she think I am wicked?" was what was passing through Robin's mindas the carriage climbed the moor through the rain. "It would break myheart if Dowie thought I was wicked. But even that does not matter. Itis only _my_ heart. "

In memory she was looking again into Donal's eyes as he had looked intohers when he knelt before her in the wood. Afterwards he had kissed herdress and her feet when she said she would go with him to be married sothat he could have her for his own before he went away to be killed. 

It would have been _his_ heart that would have been broken if she hadsaid "No" instead of whispering the soft "Yes" of a little mating bird, which had always been her answer when he had asked anything of her. 

When the carriage drew up at last before the entrance to the castle, theMacaurs awaited them with patient respectful faces. They saw the "decentbody" assist with care the descent of a young thing the mere lift ofwhose eyes almost caused both of them to move a trifle backward. 

"You and Dowie are going to take care of me, " she said quiet and low andwith a childish kindness. "Thank you. "

She was taken to a room in whose thick wall Lord Coombe had opened awindow for sunlight and the sight of hill and heather. It was a roomwarm and full of comfort--a strange room to find in a little feudalstronghold hidden from the world. Other rooms were near it, ascomfortable and well prepared. One in a tower adjoining was hung withtapestry and filled with wonderful old things, uncrowded and harmoniousand so arranged as to produce the effect of a small retreat for rest, the reading of books or refuge in stillness. 

When Robin went into it she stood for a few moments looking abouther--looking and wondering. 

"Lord Coombe remembers everything, " she said very slowly at last, "--everything. He remembers. "

"He always did remember, " said Dowie watching her. "That's it. "

"I did not know--at first, " Robin said as slowly as before. "I do--now. "

In the evening she sat long before the fire and Dowie, sewing near her, looked askance now and then at her white face with the lost eyes. It wasDowie's own thought that they were "lost. " She had never before seenanything like them. She could not help glancing sideways at them as theygazed into the red glow of the coal. What was her mind dwelling on? Wasshe thinking of words to say? Would she begin to feel that they were farenough from all the world--remote and all alone enough for words not tobe sounds too terrible to hear even as they were spoken?

"Oh! dear Lord, " Dowie prayed, "help her to ease her poor, timid youngheart that's so crushed with cruel weight. "

"You must go to bed early, my dear, " she said at length. "But why don'tyou get a book and read?"

The lost eyes left the fire and met hers. 

"I want to talk, " Robin said. "I want to ask you things. "

"I'll tell you anything you want to know, " answered Dowie. "You're onlya child and you need an older woman to talk to. "

"I want to talk to you about--_me_, " said Robin. She sat straight in herchair, her hands clasped on her knee. "Do you know about--me, Dowie?"she asked. 

"Yes, my dear, " Dowie answered. 

"Tell me what Lord Coombe told you. "

Dowie put down her sewing because she was afraid her hands would tremblewhen she tried to find the proper phrase in which to tell as briefly asshe could the extraordinary story. 

"He said that you were married to a young gentleman who was killed atthe Front--and that because you were both so young and hurried and upsetyou perhaps hadn't done things as regular as you thought. And that youhadn't the papers you ought to have for proof. And it might take toomuch time to search for them now. And--and--Oh, my love, he's a goodman, for all you've hated him so! He won't let a child be born withshame to blight it. And he's given you and it--poor helplessinnocent--his own name, God bless him!"

Robin sat still and straight, with clasped hands on her knee, and hereyes more lost than before, as she questioned Dowie remorselessly. Therewas something she must know. 

"He said--and the Duchess said--that no one would believe me if I toldthem I was married. Do _you_ believe me, Dowie? Would Mademoisellebelieve me--if she is alive--for Oh! I believe she is dead! Would you_both_ believe me?"

Dowie's work fell upon the rug and she held out both her comfortablenursing arms, choking:

"Come here, my lamb, " she cried out, with suddenly streaming eyes. "Comeand sit on your old Dowie's knee like you used to do in the nursery. "

"You _do_ believe me--you _do_!" As she had looked in the nurserydays--the Robin who left her chair and was swept into the well knownembrace--looked now. She hid her face on Dowie's shoulder and clung toher with shaking hands. 

"I prayed to Jesus Christ that you would believe me, Dowie!" she cried. "And that Mademoiselle would come if she is not killed. I wanted you to_know_ that it was true--I wanted you to _know_!"

"That was it, my pet lamb!" Dowie kept hugging her to her breast "We'dboth of us know! We know _you_--we do! No one need prove things to us. We _know_!"

"It frightened me so to think of asking you, " shivered Robin. "When youcame to Eaton Square I could not bear it. If your dear face had lookeddifferent I should have died. But I couldn't go to bed to-night withoutfinding out. The Duchess and Lord Coombe are very kind and sorry for meand they say they believe me--but I can't feel sure they really do. Andnobody else would. But you and Mademoiselle. You loved me always and Iloved you. And I prayed you would. "

Dowie knew how Mademoiselle had died--of the heap of innocent villagepeople on which she had fallen bullet-riddled. But she said nothing ofher knowledge. 

"Mademoiselle would say what I do and she would stay and take care ofyou as I'm going to do, " she faltered. "God bless you for asking mestraight out, my dear! I was waiting for you to speak and praying you'ddo it before I went to bed myself. I couldn't have slept a wink if youhadn't. "

For a space they sat silent--Robin on her knee like a child droopingagainst her warm breast. Outside was the night stillness of the moor, inside the night stillness held within the thick walls of stone roomsand passages, in their hearts the stillness of something which yetwaited--unsaid. 

At last--

"Did Lord Coombe tell you who--he was, Dowie?"

"He said perhaps you would tell me yourself--if you felt you'd like meto know. He said it was to be as you chose. "

Robin fumbled with a thin hand at the neck of her dress. She drew fromit a chain with a silk bag attached. Out of the bag she took first asmall folded package. 

"Do you remember the dry leaves I wanted to keep when I was so little?"she whispered woefully. "I was too little to know how to save them. Andyou made me this tiny silk bag. "

Dowie's face was almost frightened as she drew back to look. There wasin her motherly soul the sudden sense of panic she had felt in thenursery so long ago. 

"My blessed child!" she breathed. "Not that one--after all that time!"

"Yes, " said Robin. "Look, Dowie--look. "

She had taken a locket out of the silk bag and she opened it and Dowielooked. 

Perhaps any woman would have felt what she felt when she saw the facewhich seemed to laugh rejoicing into hers, as if Life were such asupernal thing--as if it were literally the blessed gift of God as allthe ages have preached to us even while they have railed at the burdenof living and called it cruel nothingness. The radiance in the eyes'clearness, the splendid strength and joy in being, could have builtthemselves into nothing less than such beauty as this. 

Dowie looked at it in dead silence, her breast heaving fast. 

"Oh! blessed God!" she broke out with a gasp. "Did they kill--that!"

"Yes, " said Robin, her voice scarcely more than a breath, "Donal. "

CHAPTER XXV

Dowie put her to bed as she had done when she was a child, feeling as ifthe days in the nursery had come back again. She saw gradually die outof the white face the unnatural restraint which she had grieved over. Ithad suggested the look of a girl who was not only desolate but afraidand she wondered how long she had worn it and what she had been mostafraid of. 

In the depths of her comfortable being there lay hidden a maternalpleasure in the nature of her responsibility. She had cared for youngmothers before, and that she should be called to watch over Robin, whosechild forlornness she had rescued, filled her heart with a glowing. Asshe moved about the room quietly preparing for the comfort of the nightshe knew that the soft dark of the lost eyes followed her and that itwas not quite so lost as it had looked in the church and on theirsingularly silent journey. 

When her work was done and she turned to the bed again Robin's arms wereheld out to her. 

"I want to kiss you, Dowie--I want to kiss you, " she said with just theyearning dwelling on the one word, which had so moved the good soul longago with its innocent suggestion of tender reverence for some sacredrite. 

Dowie hurriedly knelt by the bedside. 

"Never you be frightened, my lamb--because you're so young and don'tknow things, " she whispered, holding her as if she were a baby. "Neveryou let yourself be frightened for a moment. Your own Dowie's here andalways will be--and Dowie knows all about it. "

"Until you took me on your knee to-night, " very low and in brokenphrases, "I was so lonely. I was as lonely as I used to be in the oldnursery before you and Mademoiselle came. Afterwards--" with a shudder, "there were so many long, long nights. There--always--will be so many. One after every day. I lie in my bed in the dark. And there is_Nothing_! Oh! Dowie, _let_ me tell you!" her voice was a sweet longingwail. "When Donal came back all the world was full and shining and warm!It was full. There was no loneliness anywhere. We wanted nothing buteach other. And when he was gone there was only emptiness! And I was notalive and I could not think. I can scarcely think now. "

"You'll begin to think soon, my lamb, " Dowie whispered. "You've gotsomething to think of. After a while the emptiness won't be so big andblack. "

She ventured it very carefully. Her wise soul knew that the Emptinessmust come first--the awful world-old Emptiness which for anendless-seeming time nothing can fill-- And all smug preachers of theclaims of life and duty must be chary of approaching those who standdesolate gazing into it. 

"I could only _remember_, " the broken heart-wringing voice went on. "Andit seemed as if the remembering was killing me over and over again-- Itis like that now. But in the Wood Lord Coombe said somethingstrange--which seemed to make me begin to think a little. Only it waslike beginning to try to write with a broken arm. I can't go on--I canonly think of Donal-- And be lonely--lonely--lonely. "

The very words--the mere sound of them in her own ears made her voicetrail away into bitter helpless crying--which would not stop. It was theawful weeping of utter woe and weakness whose convulsive sobs go on andon until they almost cease to seem human sounds. Dowie's practicalknowledge told her what she had to face. This was what she had guessedat when she had known that there had been crying in the night. Meresoothing of the tenderest would not check it. 

"I had been lonely--always-- And then the loneliness was gone. Andthen--! If it had never gone--!"

"I know, my dear, I know, " said Dowie watching her with practised, anxious eye. And she went away for a few moments and came back with anunobtrusive calming draught and coaxed her into taking it and sat downand prayed as she held the little hands which unknowingly beat upon thepillow. Something of her steadiness and love flowed from her through herown warm restraining palms and something in her tender steady voicespoke for and helped her--though it seemed long and long before thecruelty of the storm had lessened and the shadow of a body under thebed-clothes lay deadly still and the heavy eyelids closed as if theywould never lift again. 

Dowie did not leave her for an hour or more but sat by her bedside andwatched. Like this had been the crying in the night. And she had beenalone. 

 * * * * *

As she sat and watched she thought deeply after her lights. She did notthink only of the sweet shattered thing she so well loved. She thoughtmuch of Lord Coombe. Being a relic of a class which may be regarded asforever extinct, her views on the subject of the rights andresponsibilities of rank were of an unswerving reverence verging on thefeudal. Even in early days her perfection of type was rare. To herunwavering mind the remarkable story she had become a part of was almostaugust in its subjection of ordinary views to the future of a greathouse and its noble name. With the world falling to pieces and greathouses crumbling into nothingness, that this one should be rescued fromthe general holocaust was a deed worthy of its head. But where was thereanother man who would have done this thing as he had done it--remainingtotally indifferent to the ignominy which would fall upon his memory inthe years to come when the marriage was revealed. That the explanationof his action would always be believed to be an unseemly and shamefulone was to her respectable serving-class mind a bitter thing. That itwould always be contemptuously said that a vicious elderly man hadeducated the daughter of his mistress, that he might marry her and leavean heir of her blooming youth, was almost worse than if he had beenknown to have committed some decent crime like honest murder. Even theservants' hall in the slice of a house, discussing the ugly whisper hadsomewhat revolted at it and thought it "a bit too steep even for thesetimes. " But he had plainly looked the whole situation in the face andhad made up his mind to do what he had done. He hadn't cared forhimself; he had only cared that the child who was to be born should behis legitimatised successor and that there should remain after him aHead of the House of Coombe. That such houses should have heads tosucceed to their dignities was a simple reverential belief of Dowie'sand--apart from all other feeling--the charge she had undertaken wore toher somewhat the aspect of a religious duty. His lordship was as one whohad a place on a sort of altar. 

"It's because he's so high in his way that he can bear it, " was herthought. "He's so high that nothing upsets him. He's abovethings--that's what he is. " And there was something else too--somethingshe did not quite follow but felt vaguely moved by. What was happeningto England came into it--and something else that was connected withhimself in some way that was his own affair. In his long talk with herhe had said some strange things--though all in his own way. 

"Howsoever the tide of war turns, men and women will be needed as theworld never needed them before, " was one of them. "This one smallunknown thing I want. It will be the child of my old age. I _want_ it. Her whole being has been torn to pieces. Dr. Redcliff says that shemight have died before this if her delicate body had not been strongerthan it looks. "

"She has never been ill, my lord, " Dowie had answered, "--but she is illnow. "

"Save her--save _it_ for me, " he broke out in a voice she had neverheard and with a face she had never seen. 

That in this plainly overwrought hour he should allow himself a momentof forgetfulness drew him touchingly near to her. 

"My lord, " she said, "I've watched over her since she was five. I knowthe ways young things in her state need to have about them to give themstrength and help. Thank the Lord she's one of the loving ones and if wecan hold her until she--wakes up to natural feelings she'll begin to tryto live for the sake of what'll need her--and what's his as well ashers. "

Of this she thought almost religiously as she sat by the bedside andwatched. 

CHAPTER XXVI

The doctor rode up the climbing moorland road the next morning and paida long visit to his patient. He was not portentous in manner and he didnot confine his conversation to the subject of symptoms. He howeverincluded something of subtle cross examination in his friendly talk. Thegirl's thinness, her sometimes panting breath and the hollow eyes madelarger by the black ring of her lashes startled him on first sight ofher. He found that the smallness of her appetite presented to Dowie agrave problem. 

"I'm trying to coax good milk into her by degrees. She does her best. But she can't eat. " When they were alone she said, "I shall keep herwindows open and make her rest on her sofa near them. I shall try to gether to walk out with me if her strength will let her. We can go slowlyand she'll like the moor. If we could stop the awful crying in thenight-- It's been shaking her to pieces for weeks and weeks-- It's thekind that there's no checking when it once begins. It's beyond her poorbit of strength to hold it back. I saw how hard she tried--for my sake. It's the crying that's most dangerous of all. "

"Nothing could be worse, " the doctor said and he went away with a graveface, a deeply troubled man. 

When Dowie went back to the Tower room she found Robin standing at awindow looking out on the moorside. She turned and spoke and Dowie sawthat intuition had told her what had been talked about. 

"I will try to be good, Dowie, " she said. "But it comes--it comesbecause--suddenly I know all over again that I can never _see_ him anymore. If I could only _see_ him--even a long way off! But suddenly itall comes back that I can never _see_ him again--Never!"

Later she begged Dowie not to come to her in the night if she heardsounds in her room. 

"It will not hurt you so much if you don't see me, " she said. "I'm usedto being by myself. When I was at Eaton Square I used to hide my facedeep in the pillow and press it against my mouth. No one heard. But noone was listening as you will be. Don't come in, Dowie darling. Pleasedon't!"

All she wanted, Dowie found out as the days went by, was to be quiet andto give no trouble. No other desires on earth had been left to her. Herlife had not taught her to want many things. And now--:

"Oh! please don't be unhappy! If I could only keep you from beingunhappy--until it is over!" she broke out all unconsciously one day. Andthen was smitten to the heart by the grief in Dowie's face. 

That was the worst of it all and sometimes caused Dowie's desperate hopeand courage to tremble on the brink of collapse. The child was thinkingthat before her lay the time when it would be "all over. "

A patient who held to such thoughts as her hidden comfort did not giveherself much chance. 

Sometimes she lay for long hours on the sofa by the open window butsometimes a restlessness came upon her and she wandered about the emptyrooms of the little castle as though she were vaguely searching forsomething which was not there. Dowie furtively followed her at adistance knowing that she wanted to be alone. The wide stretches of themoor seemed to draw her. At times she stood gazing at them out of awindow, sometimes she sat in a deep window seat with her hands lyinglistlessly upon her lap but with her eyes always resting on the farthestline of the heather. Once she sat thus so long that Dowie crept out ofthe empty stone chamber where she had been waiting and went and stoodbehind her. At first Robin did not seem conscious of her presence butpresently she turned her head. There was a faintly bewildered look inher eyes. 

"I don't know why--when I look at the edge where the hill seems toend--it always seems as if there might be something coming from theplace we can't see--" she said in a helpless-sounding voice. "We canonly see the sky behind as if the world ended there. But I feel as ifsomething might be coming from the other side. The horizon always lookslike that--now. There must be so much--where there seems to be nothingmore. I want to go. "

She tried to smile a little as though at her own childish fancifulnessbut suddenly a heavy shining tear fell on her hand. And her head droppedand she murmured, "I'm sorry, Dowie, " as if it were a fault. 

The Macaurs watched her from afar with their own special order of silentinterest. But the sight of the slowly flitting and each day fraileryoung body began to move them even to the length of low-utteredexpression of fear and pity. 

"Some days she fair frights me passing by so slow and thin in her bitblack dress, " Maggy said. "She minds me o' a lost birdie flutteringabout wi' a broken wing. She's gey young she is, to be a widowwoman--left like that. "

The doctor came up the moor road every day and talked more to Dowie thanto his patient. As the weeks went by he could not sanely be hopeful. Dowie's brave face seemed to have lost some of its colour at times. Sheasked eager questions but his answers did not teach her any new thing. Yet he was of a modern school. 

"There was a time, Mrs. Dowson, " he said, "when a doctor believed--orthought he believed--that healing was carried in bottles. For thinkingmen that time has passed. I know very little more of such a case as thisthan you know yourself. You are practical and kind and watchful. You aredoing all that can be done. So am I. But I am sorry to say that it seemsas if only a sort of miracle--! If--as you said once--she would 'wakeup'--there would be an added chance. "

"Yes, sir, " Dowie answered. "If she would. But it seems as if her mindhas stopped thinking about things that are to come. You see it in herface. She can only remember. The days are nothing but dreams to her. "

Dowie had written weekly letters to Lord Coombe in accordance with hisrequest. She wrote a good clear hand and her method was as clear as hercalligraphy. He invariably gathered from her what he most desired toknow and learned that her courageous good sense was plainly to becounted upon. From the first her respectful phrases had not attempted toconceal from him the anxiety she had felt. 

"It was the way she looked and that I hadn't expected to see such achange, that took the strength out of me the first time I saw her. Andwhat your lordship had told me. It seemed as if the two things togetherwere too much for her to face. I watch over her day and night though Itry to hide from her that I watch so close. If she could be made to eatsomething, and to sleep, and not to break her little body to pieces withthose dreadful fits of crying, there would be something to hold on to. But I shall hold on to her, my lord, whether there is anything to holdon to or not. "

He knew she would hold on but as the weeks passed and she faithfullytold him what record the days held he saw that in each she felt that shehad less and less to grasp. And then came a letter which plainly couldnot conceal ominous discouragement in the face of symptoms not to bedenied--increasing weakness, even more rapid loss of weight, and lesssleep and great exhaustion after the convulsions of grief. 

"It couldn't go on and not bring on the worst. It is my duty to warnyour lordship, " the letter ended. 

For she had not "wakened up" though somehow Dowie had gone on from dayto day wistfully believing that it would be only "Nature" that sheshould. Dowie had always believed strongly in "Nature. " But at lastthere grew within her mind the fearsome thought that somehow the verylook of her charge was the look of a young thing who had done withNature--and between whom and Nature the link had been broken. 

There were beginning to be young lambs on the hillside and Jock Macaurwas tending them and their mothers with careful shepherding. Once ortwice he brought a newborn and orphaned one home wrapped in his plaidand it was kept warm by the kitchen fire and fed with milk by Maggy towhom motherless lambs were an accustomed care. 

There was no lamb in his plaid on the afternoon when he startled Dowieby suddenly appearing at the door of the room where she sat sewing-- Itwas a thing which had never happened before. He had kept as closely tohis own part of the place as if there had been no means of egress fromthe rooms he and Maggy lived in. His face sometimes wore an anxious lookwhen he brought back a half-dead lamb, and now though his plaid wasempty his weather-beaten countenance had trouble in it--so much troublethat Dowie left her work quickly. 

"I was oot o' the moor and I heard a lamb cryin', " he said uncertainly. "I thought it had lost its mither. It was cryin' pitifu'. I searched an'couldna find it. But the cryin' went on. It was waur than a lamb'scry--It was waur--" he spoke in reluctant jerks. "I followed until Icam' to it. There was a cluster o' young rowans with broom and gorsethick under them. The cryin' was there. It was na a lamb cryin'. It wasthe young leddy--lyin' twisted on the heather. I daurna speak to her. Itwas no place for a man body. I cam' awa' to ye, Mistress Dowson. You an'Maggy maun go to her. I'll follow an' help to carry her back, if ye needme. "

Dowie's colour left her. 

"I thought she was asleep on her bed, " she said. "Sometimes she slipsaway alone and wanders about a bit. But not far and I always follow her. To-day I didn't know. "

 * * * * *

The sound like a lost lamb's crying had ceased when they reached her. The worst was over but she lay on the heather shut in by the littlethicket of gorse and broom--white and with heavily closed lids. She hadnot wandered far and had plainly crept into the enclosing growth forutter seclusion. Finding it she had lost hold and been overwhelmed. Thatwas all. But as Jock Macaur carried her back to Darreuch, Dowie followedwith slow heavy feet and heart. They took her to the Tower room and laidher on her sofa because she had faintly whispered. 

"Please let me lie by the window, " as they mounted the stone stairs. 

"Open it wide, " she whispered again when Macaur had left them alone. 

"Are you--are you short of breath, my dear?" Dowie asked opening thewindow very wide indeed. 

"No, " still in a whisper and with closed eyes. "But--when I am not sotired--I want to--look--"

She was silent for a few moments and Dowie stood by her side and watchedher. 

"--At the end of the heather, " the faint voice ended its sentence aftera pause. "I feel as if--something is there. " She opened her eyes, "Something--I don't know what. 'Something. ' Dowie!" frightened, "Areyou--crying?"

Dowie frankly and helplessly took out a handkerchief and sat down besideher. She had never done such a thing before. 

"You cry yourself, my lamb, " she said. "Let Dowie cry a bit. "

CHAPTER XXVII

And the next morning came the "waking up" for which Dowie had so longwaited and prayed. But not as Dowie had expected it or in the way shehard thought "Nature. "

She had scarcely left her charge during the night though she hadpretended that she had slept as usual in an adjoining room. She stole inand out, she sat by the bed and watched the face on the pillow andthanked God that--strangely enough--the child slept. She had not daredto hope that she would sleep, but before midnight she became still andfell into a deep quiet slumber. It seemed deep, for she ceased to stirand it was so quiet that once or twice Dowie became a little anxious andbent over her to look at her closely and listen to her breathing. But, though the small white face was always a touching sight, it was nowhiter than usual and her breathing though low and very soft wasregular. 

"But where the strength's to come from the good God alone knows!" wasDowie's inward sigh. 

The clock had just struck one when she leaned forward again. What shesaw would not have disturbed her if she had not been overstrung by longanxiety. But now--after the woeful day--in the middle of the night withthe echo of the clock's solitary sound still in the solitary room--inthe utter stillness of moor and castle emptiness she was startled almostto fright. Something had happened to the pitiful face. A change had comeover it--not a change which had stolen gradually but a change which wasactually sudden. It was smiling--it had begun to smile that pretty smilewhich was a very gift of God in itself. 

Dowie drew back and put her hand over her mouth. "Oh!" she said "Can shebe--going--in her sleep?"

But she was not going. Even Dowie's fright saw that in a few momentsmore. Was it possible that a mist of colour was stealing over thewhiteness--or something near colour? Was the smile deepening and growingbrighter? Was that caught breath something almost like a little sob of alaugh--a tiny ghost of a sound more like a laugh than any other sound onearth?

Dowie slid down upon her knees and prayed devoutly--clutching at therobe of pity and holding hard--as women did in crowds nearly twothousand years ago. 

"Oh, Lord Jesus, " she was breathing behind the hands which hid herface--"if she can dream what makes her smile like that, let her go on, Lord Jesus--let her go on. "

When she rose to her chair again and seated herself to watch it almostawed, it did not fade--the smile. It settled into a still radiance andstayed. And, fearful of the self-deception of longing as she was, Dowiecould have sworn as the minutes passed that the mist of colour had beenreal and remained also and even made the whiteness a less deathly thing. And there was such a naturalness in the strange smiling that it radiatedactual peace and rest and safety. When the clock struck three and therewas no change and still the small face lay happy upon the pillow Dowieat last even felt that she dare steal into her own room and lie down fora short rest. She went very shortly thinking she would return in half anhour at most, but the moment she lay down, her tired eyelids dropped andshe slept as she had not slept since her first night at Darreuch Castle. 

 * * * * *

When she wakened it was not with a start or sense of anxiety eventhough she found herself sitting up in the broad morning light. Shewondered at her own sense of being rested and really not afraid. Shetold herself that it was all because of the smile she had left onRobin's face and remembered as her own eyes closed. 

She got up and stole to the partly opened door of the next room andlooked in. All was quite still. Robin herself seemed very still but shewas awake. She lay upon her pillow with a long curly plait trailing overone shoulder--and she was smiling as she had smiled in hersleep--softly--wonderfully. "I thank God for that, " Dowie thought as shewent in. 

The next moment her heart was in her throat. 

"Dowie, " Robin said and she spoke as quietly as Dowie had ever heard herspeak in all their life together, "Donal came. "

"Did he, my lamb?" said Dowie going to her quickly but trying to speakas naturally herself. "In a dream?"

Robin slowly shook her head. 

"I don't think it was a dream. It wasn't like one. I think he was here. God sometimes lets them come--just sometimes--doesn't he? Since the Warthere have been so many stories about things like that. People used tocome to see the Duchess and sit and whisper about them. Lady MaureenDarcy used to go to a place where there was a woman--quite a poorwoman--who went into a kind of sleep and gave her messages from herhusband who was killed at Ličge only a few weeks after they weremarried. The woman said he was in the room and Lady Maureen was quitesure it was true because he told her true things no one knew butthemselves. She said it kept her from going crazy. It made her quitehappy. "

"I've heard of such things, " said Dowie, valiantly determined to keepher voice steady and her expression unalarmed. "Perhaps they are true. Now that the other world is so crowded with those that found themselvesthere sudden--perhaps they are crowded so close to earth that they tryto speak across to the ones that are longing to hear them. It might be. Lie still, my dear, and I'll bring you a cup of good hot milk to drink. Do you think you could eat a new-laid egg and a shred of toast?"

"I will, " answered Robin. "I _will_. "

She sat up in bed and the faint colour on her cheeks deepened and spreadlike a rosy dawn. Dowie saw it and tried not to stare. She must not seemto watch her too fixedly--whatsoever alarming thing was happening. 

"I can't tell you all he said to me, " she went on softly. "There was toomuch that only belonged to us. He stayed a long time. I felt his armsholding me. I looked into the blue of his eyes--just as I always did. Hewas not dead. He was not an angel. He was Donal. He laughed and made melaugh too. He could not tell me now where he was. There was a reason. But he said he could come because we belonged to each other--because weloved each other so. He said beautiful things to me--" She began tospeak very slowly as if in careful retrospection. "Some of them werelike the things Lord Coombe said. But when Donal said them they seemedto go into my heart and I understood them. He told me things aboutEngland--needing new souls and new strong bodies--he loved England. Hesaid beautiful--beautiful things. "

Dowie made a magnificent effort to keep her eyes clear and her lookstraight. It was a soldierly thing to do, for there had leaped into hermind memories of the fears of the great physician who had taken chargeof poor young Lady Maureen. 

"I am sure he would do that--sure of it, " she said without a tremor inher voice. "It's only things like that he's thought of his whole lifethrough. And surely it was love that brought him back to you--both. "

She wondered if she was not cautious enough in saying the last word. Buther fear was a mistake. 

"Yes--_both_, " Robin gave back with a new high bravery. "Both, " sherepeated. "He will never be dead again. And I shall never be dead. WhenI could not think, it used to seem as if I must be--perhaps I wasbeginning to go crazy like poor Lady Maureen. I have come alive. "

"Yes, my lamb, " answered Dowie with fine courage. "You look it. We'llget you ready for your breakfast now. I will bring you the egg andtoast--a nice crisp bit of hot buttered toast. "

"Yes, " said Robin. "He said he would come again and I know he will. "

Dowie bustled about with inward trembling. Whatsoever strange thing hadhappened perhaps it had awakened the stunned instinct in thegirl--perhaps some change had begun to take place and she _would_ eatthe bit of food. That would be sane and healthy enough in any case. Thetest would be the egg and the crisp toast--the real test. Sometimes apatient had a moment of uplift and then it died out too quickly to dogood. 

But when she had been made ready and the tray was brought Robin ate thesmall breakfast without shrinking from it, and the slight colour did notdie away from her cheek. The lost look was in her eyes no more, hervoice had a new tone. The exhaustion of the night before seemedmysteriously to have disappeared. Her voice was not tired and sheherself was curiously less languid. Dowie could scarcely believe theevidence of her ears when, in the course of the morning, she suggestedthat they should go out together. 

"The moor is beautiful to-day, " she said. "I want to know it better. Itseems as if I had never really looked at anything. "

One of the chief difficulties Dowie often found she was called upon tobrace herself to bear was that in these days she looked so patheticallylike a child. Her small heart-shaped face had always been rather like ababy's, but in these months of her tragedy, her youngness at timesseemed almost cruel. If she had been ten years old she could scarcelyhave presented herself to the mature vision as a more touching thing. Itseemed incredible to Dowie that she should have so much of life andsuffering behind and before her and yet look like that. It was not onlythe soft curve and droop of her mouth and the lift of her eyes--therewas added to these something as indescribable as it was heart-moving. Itwas the thing before which Donal--boy as he was--had trembled with loveand joy. He had felt its tenderest sacredness when he had knelt beforeher in the Wood and kissed her feet, almost afraid of his own voice whenhe poured forth his pleading. There were times when Dowie was obliged tohold herself still for a moment or so lest it should break down herdetermined calm. 

It was to be faced this morning when Robin came down in her soft felthat and short tweed skirt and coat for walking. Dowie saw Mrs. Macaurstaring through a window at her, with slightly open mouth, as ifsuddenly struck with amazement which held in it a touch of shock. Dowieherself was obliged to make an affectionate joke. 

"Your short skirts make such a child of you that I feel as if I wastaking you out to walk in the park, and I must hold your hand, " shesaid. 

Robin glanced down at herself. 

"They do make people look young, " she agreed. "The Lady Downstairslooked quite like a little girl when she went out in them. But it seemsso long since I was little. "

 * * * * *

She walked with Dowie bravely though they did not go far from theCastle. It happened that they met the doctor driving up the road whichtwisted in and out among the heath and gorse. For a moment he lookedstartled but he managed to control himself quickly and left his dogcartto his groom so that he might walk with them. His eyes--at once graveand keen--scarcely left her as he strolled by her side. 

When they reached the Castle he took Dowie aside and talked anxiouslywith her. 

"There is a change, " he said. "Has anything happened which might haveraised her spirits? It looks like that kind of thing. She mustn't do toomuch. There is always that danger to guard against in a case of suddenmental stimulation. "

"She had a dream last night, " Dowie began. 

"A dream!" he exclaimed disturbedly. "What kind of dream?"

"The dream did it. I saw the change the minute I went to her thismorning, " Dowie answered. "Last night she looked like a dyingthing--after one of her worst breakdowns. This morning she lay therepeaceful and smiling and almost rosy. She had dreamed that she saw herhusband and talked to him. She believed it wasn't a common dream--thatit wasn't a dream at all. She believes he really came to her. "

Doctor Benton rubbed his chin and there was serious anxiety in themovement. Lines marked themselves on his forehead. 

"I am not sure I like that--not at all sure. In fact I'm sure I don'tlike it. One can't say what it may lead to. It would be better not toencourage her to dwell on it, Mrs. Dowson. "

"The one thing that's in my mind, sir, " Dowie's respectfulness actuallywent to the length of hinting at firmness--"is that it's best not to_dis_courage her about anything just now. It brought a bit of naturalcolour to her cheeks and it made her eat her breakfast--which she hasn'tbeen able to do before. They _must_ be fed, sir, " with the seriousnessof experience. "You know that better than I do. "

"Yes--yes. They must have food. "

"She suggested the going out herself, " said Dowie. "I'd thought she'd betoo weak and listless to move. And they _ought_ to have exercise. "

"They _must_ have exercise, " agreed Doctor Benton, but he still rubbedhis chin. "Did she seem excited or feverish?"

"No, sir, she didn't. That was the strange thing. It was me that wasexcited though I kept quiet on the outside. At first it frightened me. Iwas afraid of--what you're afraid of, sir. It was only her _not_ beingexcited--and speaking in her own natural voice that helped me to behaveas sense told me I ought to. She was _happy_--that's what she looked andwhat she was. "

She stopped a moment here and looked at the man. Then she decided to goon because she saw chances that he might, to a certain degree, understand. 

"When she told me that he was not dead when she saw him, she said thatshe was not dead any more herself--that she had come alive. If believingit will keep her feeling alive, sir, wouldn't you say it would be ahelp?"

The Doctor had ceased rubbing his chin but he looked deeply thoughtful. He had several reasons for thoughtfulness in connection with the matter. In the present whirl of strange happenings in a mad war-torn world, circumstances which would once have seemed singular seemed so no longerbecause nothing was any longer normal. He realised that he had been byno means told all the details surrounding this special case, but he hadunderstood clearly that it was of serious importance that this girlishcreature's child should be preserved. He wondered how much more thefinely mannered old family nurse knew than he did. 

"Her vitality must be kept up-- Nothing could be worse than inordinategrief, " he said. "We must not lose any advantage. But she must beclosely watched. "

"I'll watch her, sir, " answered Dowie. "And every order you give I'llobey like clockwork. Might I take the liberty of saying that I believeit'll be best if you don't mention the dream to her!"

"Perhaps you are right. On the whole I think you are. It's not wise topay attention to hallucinations. "

He did not mention the dream to Robin, but his visit was longer thanusual. After it he drove down the moor thinking of curious things. Theagonised tension of the war, he told himself, seemed to be developingnew phases--mental, nervous, psychic, as well as physiological. Whatunreality--or previously unknown reality--were they founded upon? It wascurious how much one had begun to hear of telepathy and visions. Hehimself had been among the many who had discussed the psychopathiccondition of Lady Maureen Darcy, whose black melancholia had beendispersed like a cloud after her visits to a little sewing woman wholived over an oil dealer's shop in the Seven Sisters Road. He also was awar tortured man mentally and the torments he must conceal beneath asteady professional calm had loosened old shackles. 

"Good God! If there is help of any sort for such horrors of despair letthem take it where they find it, " he found himself saying aloud to theemptiness of the stretches of heath and bracken. "The old nurse willwatch. "

 * * * * *

Dowie watched faithfully. She did not speak of the dream, but as shewent about doing kindly and curiously wise things she never lost sightof any mood or expression of Robin's and they were all changed ones. Onthe night after she had "come alive" they talked together in the Towerroom somewhat as they had talked on the night of their arrival. 

A wind was blowing on the moor and making strange sounds as it whirledround the towers and seemed to cry at the narrow windows. By the firethere was drawn a broad low couch heaped with large cushions, and Robinlay upon them looking into the red hollow of coal. 

"You told me I had something to think of, " she said. "I am thinking now. I shall always be thinking. "

"That's right, my dear, " Dowie answered her with sane kindliness. 

"I will do everything you tell me, Dowie. I will not cry any more and Iwill eat what you ask me to eat. I will sleep as much as I can and Iwill walk every day. Then I shall get strong. "

"That's the way to look at things. It's a brave way, " Dowie answered. "What we want most is strength and good spirits, my dear. "

"That was one of the things Donal said, " Robin went on quite naturallyand simply. "He told me I need not be ill. He said a rose was not illwhen a new bud was blooming on it. That was one of the lovely things hetold me. There were so many. "

"It was a beautiful thing, to be sure, " said Dowie. 

To her wholly untranscendental mind, long trained by patent facts andduties, any suggestion of the occult was vaguely ominous. She had spenther early years among people who regarded such things with terror. Inthe stories of her youth those who saw visions usually died or met withcalamity. That their visions were, as a rule, gruesome and included paleand ghastly faces and voices hollow with portent was now a supportingrecollection. "He was not dead. He was not an angel. He was Donal, "Robin had said in her undoubting voice. And she had stood the test--thatreal test of earthly egg and buttered toast. Dowie was a sensible andexperienced creature and had been prepared before the doctor'ssuggestion to lose no advantage. If the child began to sleep and eat herfood, and the fits of crying could be controlled, why should she not beallowed to believe what supported her? When her baby came she'd forgetless natural things. Dowie knew how her eyes would look as she bent overit--how they would melt and glow and brood and how her childish mouthwould quiver with wonder and love. Who knew but that the Lord himselfhad sent her that dream to comfort her because she had always been sucha loving, lonely little thing with nothing but tender goodness in herwhole body and soul? She had never had an untender thought of anybodybut for that queer dislike to his lordship-- And when you came to thinkof what had been forced into her innocent mind about him, whowondered?-- And she was beginning to see that differently too, in thesestrange days. She was nothing now but softness and sorrow. It seemedonly right that some pity should be shown to her. 

Dowie noticed that she did not stay up late that night and that when shewent to bed she knelt a long time by her bedside saying her prayers. Oh!What a little girl she looked, Dowie thought, --in her white night gownwith her long curly plait hanging down her back tied with a blue ribbon!And she to be the mother of a child--that was no more than one herself!

When all the prayers were ended and Dowie came back to the room to tuckher in, her face was marvellously still-looking and somehow remotelysweet as if she had not quite returned from some place of wonderfulcalm. 

She nestled into the softness of the pillow with her hand under hercheek and her lids dropped quietly at once. 

"Good night, Dowie dear, " she murmured. "I am going to sleep. "

To sleep in a moment or so Dowie saw she went--with the soft suddennessof a baby in its cradle. 

But it could not be said that Dowie slept soon. She found herself lyingawake listening to the wind whirling and crying round the tower. Thesound had something painfully human in it which made her conscious of ashivering inward tremor. 

"It sounds as if something--that has been hurt and is cold and lonelywants to get in where things are human and warm, " was her troubledthought. 

It was a thought so troubled that she could not rest and in spite of herefforts to lie still she turned from side to side listening in anabnormal mood. 

"I'm foolish, " she whispered. "If I don't get hold of myself I shalllose my senses. I don't feel like myself. Would it be too silly if I gotup and opened a tower window?"

She actually got out of her bed quietly and crept to the tower room andopened one. The crying wind rushed in and past her with a soft coldsweep. It was not a bitter wind, only a piteous one. 

"It's--it's come in, " she said, quaking a little, and went back to herbed. 

When she awakened in the morning she realised that she must have fallenasleep as quickly as Robin had, for she remembered nothing after herhead had touched the pillow. The wind had ceased and the daylight foundher herself again. 

"It was silly, " she said, "but it did something for me as silliness willsometimes. Walls and shut windows are nothing to them. If he came, hecame without my help. But it pacified the foolish part of me. "

She went into Robin's room with a sense of holding her breath, but firmin her determination to breathe and speak as a matter of fact womanshould. 

Robin was standing at her window already dressed in the short skirt andsoft hat. She turned and showed that her thin small face was radiant. 

"I have been out on the moor. I wakened just after sunrise, and I hearda skylark singing high up in the sky. I went out to listen and say myprayers, " she said. "You don't know what the moor is like, Dowie, untilyou stand out on it at sunrise. "

She met Dowie's approach half way and slipped her arms round her neckand kissed her several times. Dowie had for a moment quailed before athought that she looked too much like a young angel, but her arms heldclose and her kisses were warm and human. 

"Well, well!" Dowie's pats on her shoulder took courage. "That's a goodsign--to get up and dress yourself and go into the open air. It wouldgive you an appetite if anything would. "

"Perhaps I can eat two eggs this morning, " with a pretty laugh. "Wouldn't that be wonderful?" and she took off her hat and laid it asideon the lounge as if she meant to go out again soon. 

Dowie tried not to watch her too obviously, but she could scarcely keepher eyes from her. She knew that she must not ask her questions at therisk of "losing an advantage. " She had, in fact, never been one of thewomen who must ask questions. There was however something eerie inremembering her queer feeling about the crying of the wind, silly thoughshe had decided it to be, and something which made it difficult to goabout all day knowing nothing but seeing strange signs. She had beenmore afraid for Robin than she would have admitted even to herself. Andwhen the girl sat down at the table by the window overlooking the moorand ate her breakfast without effort or distaste, it was far from easyto look quite as if she had been doing it every morning. 

Then there was the look in her eyes, as if she was either listening tosomething or remembering it. She went out twice during the day and shecarried it with her even when she talked of other things. Dowie saw itspecially when she lay down on the big lounge to rest. But she did notlie down often or long at a time. It was as though she was no longerunnaturally tired and languid. She did little things for herself, movingabout naturally, and she was pleased when a messenger brought flowers, explaining that his lordship had ordered that they should be sent everyother day from the nearest town. She spent an hour filling crystal bowlsand clear slim vases with them and the look never left her. 

But she said nothing until she went out with Dowie at sunset. They onlywalked for a short time and they did not keep to the road but went on tothe moor itself and walked among the heath and bracken. After a littlewhile they sat down and gave themselves up to the vast silence with hereand there the last evening twitter of a bird in it. The note made thestillness greater. The flame of the sky was beyond compare and, aftergazing at it for a while, Dowie turned a slow furtive look on Robin. 

But Robin was looking at her with clear soft naturalness--loving anduntroubled and kindly sweet. 

"He came back, Dowie. He came again, " she said. And her voice was stillas natural as the good woman had ever known it. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

But even after this Dowie did not ask questions. She only watched morecarefully and waited to be told what the depths of her being mostyearned to hear. The gradually founded belief of her careful prosaiclife prevented ease of mind or a sense of security. She could not becertain that it would be the part of wisdom to allow herself to feelsecure. She did not wish to arouse Doctor Benton's professional anxietyby asking questions about Lady Maureen Darcy, but, by a clever andadroitly gradual system of what was really cross examination which didnot involve actual questions, she drew from him the name of the womanwho had been Lady Maureen's chief nurse when the worst seemed impending. It was by fortunate chance the name of a woman she had once known wellduring a case of dangerous illness in an important household. Sheherself had had charge of the nursery and Nurse Darian had liked herbecause she had proved prompt and intelligent in an alarming crisis. They had become friends and Dowie knew she might write to her and askfor information and advice. She wrote a careful respectful letter whichrevealed nothing but that she was anxious about a case she had temporarycharge of. She managed to have the letter posted in London and theanswer forwarded to her from there. Nurse Darian's reply was generouslyfull for a hard-working woman. It answered questions and was friendly. But the woman's war work had plainly led her to see and reflect upon theopening up of new and singular vistas. 

"What we hear oftenest is that the whole world is somehow changing, " sheended by saying. "You hear it so often that you get tired. But something_is_ happening--something strange-- Even the doctors find themselvesfacing things medical science does not explain. They don't like it. Isometimes think doctors hate change more than anybody. But thecleverest and biggest ones talk together. It's this looking at a thinglying on a bed alive and talking perhaps, one minute--and _gone out_ thenext, that sets you asking yourself questions. In these days a nurseseems to see nothing else day and night. You can't make yourself believethey have gone far-- And when you keep hearing stories about them comingback--knocking on tables, writing on queer boards--just any way so thatthey can get at those they belong to--! Well, I shouldn't be sure myselfthat a comforting dream means that a girl's mind's giving away. Ofcourse a nurse is obliged to watch--But Lady Maureen found_something_--And she _was_ going mad and now she is as sane as I am. "

Dowie was vaguely supported because the woman was an intelligent personand knew her business thoroughly. Nevertheless one must train one's eyesto observe everything without seeming to do so at all. 

Every morning when the weather was fine Robin got up early and went outon the moor to say her prayers and listen to the skylarks singing. 

"When I stand and turn my face up to the sky--and watch one going higherinto heaven--and singing all the time without stopping, " she said, "Ifeel as if the singing were carrying what I want to say with it. Sometimes he goes so high that you can't see him any more-- He's noteven a little speck in the highest sky-- Then I think perhaps he hasgone in and taken my prayer with him. But he always comes back. Andperhaps if I could understand he could tell me what the answer is. "

She ate her breakfast each day and was sweetly faithful to her promiseto Dowie in every detail. Dowie used to think that she was like a childwho wanted very much to learn her lesson well and follow every rule. 

"I want to be good, Dowie, " she said once. "I should like to be verygood. I am so _grateful_. "

Doctor Benton driving up the moor road for his daily visits made carefulobservation of every detail of her case and pondered in secret. Thealarming thinness and sharpening of the delicate features was he saw, actually becoming less marked day by day; the transparent hands wereless transparent; the movements were no longer languid. 

"She spends most of the day out of doors when the weather's decent, "Dowie said. "She eats what I give her. And she sleeps. "

Doctor Benton asked many questions and the answers given seemed toprovide him with food for reflection. 

"Has she spoken of having had the dream again?" he inquired at last. 

"Yes, sir, " was Dowie's brief reply. 

"Did she say it was the same dream?"

"She told me her husband had come back. She said nothing more. "

"Has she told you that more than once?"

"No, sir. Only once so far. "

Doctor Benton looked at the sensible face very hard. He hesitated beforehe put his next question. 

"But you think she has seen him since she spoke to you? You feel thatshe might speak of it again--at almost any time?"

"She might, sir, and she might not. It may seem like a sacred thing toher. And it's no business of mine to ask her about things she'd perhapsrather not talk about. "

"Do you think that she believes that she sees her husband every night?"

"I don't know _what_ I think, sir, " said Dowie in honourable distress. 

"Well neither do I for that matter, " Benton answered brusquely. "Neitherdo thousands of other people who want to be honest with themselves. Physically the effect of this abnormal fancy is excellent. If this goeson she will end by being in a perfectly normal condition. "

"That's what I'm working for, sir, " said Dowie. 

Whereupon Dr. Benton went away and thought still stranger and deeperthings as he drove home over the moor road which twisted through theheather. 

 * * * * *

The next day's post delivered by Macaur himself brought as it did weeklya package of books and carefully chosen periodicals. Robin had, beforethis, not been equal even to looking them over and Dowie had arrangedthem neatly on shelves in the Tower room. 

To-day when the package was opened Robin sat down near the table onwhich they were placed and began to look at them. 

Out of the corner of her eye as she arranged books decorously on a shelfDowie saw the still transparent hand open first one book and thenanother. At last it paused at a delicately coloured pamphlet. It was thelast alluring note of modern advertisement, sent out by a firm whichmade a specialty of children's outfits and belongings. It came from anelect and expensive shop which prided itself on its dainty presentationof small beings attired in entrancing garments such as might have beendesigned for fairies and elves. 

"If she begins to turn over the pages she'll go on. It'll be justNature, " Dowie yearned. 

The awakening she had thought Nature would bring about was not like theperilous miracle she had seen take place and had watched tremulouslyfrom hour to hour. Dreams, however much one had to thank God for them, were not exactly "Nature. " They were not the blessed healing andstrengthening she felt familiar with. You were never sure when theymight melt away into space and leave only emptiness behind them. 

"But if she would wake up the other way it would be healthy--justhealthy and to be depended upon, " was her thought. Robin turned over theleaves in no hurried way. She had never carelessly turned over theleaves of her picture books in her nursery. As she had looked at herpicture books she looked at this one. There were pages given to thetiniest and most exquisite things of all, and it was the illustrationsof these, Dowie's careful sidelong eye saw she had first been attractedby. 

"These are for very little--ones?" she said presently. 

"Yes. For the new ones, " answered Dowie. 

There was moment or so of silence. 

"How little--how little!" Robin said softly. She rose softly and went toher couch and lay down on it. She was very quiet and Dowie wondered ifshe were thinking or if she were falling into a doze. She wished she hadlooked at the pamphlet longer. As the weeks had gone by Dowie had evensecretly grieved a little at her seeming unconsciousness of certaintender things. If she had only looked at it a little longer. 

 * * * * *

"Was there a sound of movement in the next room?"

The thought awakened Dowie in the night. She did not know what the hourwas, but she was sure of the sound as soon as she was fully awake. Robinhad got up and was crossing the corridor to the Tower room. 

"Does she want something? What could she want? I must go to her. "

She must never quite lose sight of her or let her be entirely out ofhearing. Perhaps she was walking in her sleep. Perhaps the dream-- Dowiewas a little awed. Was he with her? In obedience to a weird impulse shealways opened a window in the Tower room every night before going tobed. She had left it open to-night. 

It was still open when she entered the room herself. 

There was nothing unusual in the aspect of the place but that Robin wasthere and it was just midnight. She was not walking in her sleep. Shewas awake and standing by the table with the pamphlet in her hand. 

"I couldn't go to sleep, " she said. "I kept thinking of the littlethings in this book. I kept seeing them. "

"That's quite natural, " Dowie answered. "Sit down and look at them abit. That'll satisfy you and you'll sleep easy enough. I must shut thewindow for you. "

She shut the window and moved a book or so as if such things wereusually done at midnight. She went about in a quiet matter-of-fact waywhich was even gentler than her customary gentleness because in thesedays, while trying to preserve a quite ordinary demeanour, she felt asthough she must move as one would move in making sure that one would notstartle a bird one loved. 

Robin sat and looked at the pictures. When she turned a page and lookedat it she turned it again and looked at it with dwelling eyes. Presentlyshe ceased turning pages and sat still with the book open on her lap asif she were thinking not only of what she held but of something else. 

When her eyes lifted to meet Dowie's there was a troubled wondering lookin them. 

"It's so strange--I never seemed to think of it before, " the words cameslowly. "I forgot because I was always--remembering. "

"You'll think now, " Dowie answered. "It's only Nature. "

"Yes--it's only Nature. "

The touch of her hand on the pamphlet was a sort of caress--it was atouch which clung. 

"Dowie, " timidly. "I want to begin to make some little clothes likethese. Do you think I can?"

"Well, my dear, " answered Dowie composedly--no less so because it waspast midnight and the stillness of moor and deserted castle rooms waslike a presence in itself. "I taught you to sew very neatly before youwere twelve. You liked to do it and you learned to make beautiful smallstitches. And Mademoiselle taught you to do fine embroidery. She'dlearned it in a convent herself and I never saw finer work anywhere. "

"I did like to do it, " said Robin. "I never seemed to get tired ofsitting in my little chair in the bay window where the flowers grew, andmaking tiny stitches. "

"You had a gift for it. Not all girls have, " said Dowie. "Sometimes whenyou were embroidering a flower you didn't want to leave it to take yourwalk. "

"I am glad I had a gift, " Robin took her up. "You see I want to makethese little things with my own hands. I don't want them sent up fromLondon. I don't want them bought. Look at this, Dowie. "

Dowie went to her side. Her heart was quickening happily as it beat. 

Robin touched a design with her finger. 

"I should like to begin by making that, " she suggested. "Do you thinkthat if I bought one for a pattern I could copy it?"

Dowie studied it with care. 

"Yes, " she said. "You could copy it and make as many more as you liked. They need a good many. "

"I am glad of that, " said Robin. "I should like to make a great many. "The slim fingers slid over the page. "I should like to make thatone--and that--and that. " Her face, bent over the picture, wore itstouching _young_ look thrilled with something new. "They are so_pretty_--they are so pretty, " she murmured like a dove. 

"They're the prettiest things in the world, " Dowie said. "There neverwas anything prettier. "

"It must be wonderful to make them and to know all the time you areputting in the tiny stitches, that they are for something little--andwarm--and alive!"

"Those that have done it never forget it, " said Dowie. Robin lifted herface, but her hands still held the book with the touch which clung. 

"I am beginning to realise what a strange life mine has been, " she said. "Don't you think it has, Dowie? I haven't known things. I didn't knowwhat mothers were. I never knew another child until I met Donal in theGardens. No one had ever kissed me until he did. When I was older Ididn't know anything about love and marrying--really. It seemed onlysomething one read about in books until Donal came. You and Mademoisellemade me happy, but I was like a little nun. " She paused a moment andthen said thoughtfully, "Do you know, Dowie, I have never touched ababy?"

"I never thought of it before, " Dowie answered with a slightly caughtbreath, "but I believe you never have. "

The girl leaned forward and her own light breath came a shade morequickly, and the faint colour on her cheek flickered into a sweeter warmtone. 

"Are they very soft, Dowie?" she asked--and the asking was actually awistful thing. "When you hold them do they feel very light--andsoft--and warm? When you kiss them isn't it something like kissing alittle flower?"

"That's what it is, " said Dowie firmly as one who knows. "A baby that'sloved and taken care of is just nothing but fine soft lawns and whitedowniness with the scent of fresh violets under leaves in the rain. "

A vaguely dreamy smile touched Robin's face and she bent over thepictures again. 

"I felt as if they must be like that though I had never held one, " shemurmured. "And Donal--told me. " She did not say when he had told her butDowie knew. And unearthly as the thing was, regarded from herstandpoint, she was not frightened, because she said mentally toherself, what was happening was downright healthy and no harm could comeof it. She felt safe and her mind was at ease even when Robin shut thelittle book and placed it on the table again. 

"I'll go to bed again, " she said. "I shall sleep now. "

"To be sure you will, " Dowie said. 

And they went out of the Tower room together, but before she followedher Dowie slipped aside and quietly opened the window. 

CHAPTER XXIX

Coombe House had been transformed into one of the most practical nursinghomes in London. The celebrated ballroom and picture gallery were filledwith cots; a spacious bedroom had become a perfectly equipped operatingroom; nurses and doctors moved everywhere with quiet swiftness. Thingswere said to be marvellously well done because Lord Coombe himself heldreins which diplomatically guided and restrained amateurishness andemotional infelicities. 

He spent most of his time, when he was in the house, in the room on theentrance floor where Mademoiselle had found him when she had come to himin her search for Robin. 

He had faced ghastly hours there as the war news struck its hideousvariant note from day to day. Every sound which rolled through thestreet had its meaning for him, and there were few which were notterrible. They all meant inhuman struggle, inhuman suffering, inhumanpassions, and wounds or death. He carried an unmoved face and awell-held head through the crowded thoroughfares. The men in the cots inhis picture gallery and his ballroom were the better for the outwardcalm he brought when he sat and talked to them, but he often hid a madfury in his breast or a heavy and sick fatigue. 

Even in London a man saw and heard and was able, if he had animagination, to visualise too much to remain quite normal. He had seenwhat was left of strong men brought back from the Front, men who couldscarcely longer be counted as really living human beings; he had talkedto men on leave who had a hideous hardness in their haggard eyes and whodid not know that they gnawed at their lips sometimes as they told thethings they had seen. He saw the people going into the churches andchapels. He sometimes went into such places himself and he always foundthere huddled forms kneeling in the pews, even when no service was beingheld. Sometimes they were men, sometimes women, and often they writhedand sobbed horribly. He did not know why he went in; his going seemedonly part of some surging misery. 

He heard weird stories again and again of occult happenings. He had beentold all the details of Lady Maureen's case and of a number of othercases somewhat resembling it. He was of those who have advanced throughexperience to the point where entire disbelief in anything is not easy. This was the more so because almost all previously accepted laws hadbeen shaken as by an earthquake. He had fallen upon a new sort of bookdrifting about. He had had such books put into his hands byacquaintances, some of whom were of the impressionable hysteric order, but many of whom were as analytically minded as himself. He found muchof such literature in the book shops. He began to look over the bestwritten and ended by reading them with deep attention. He was amazed todiscover that for many years profoundly scientific men had beenseriously investigating and experimenting with mysteries unexplainableby the accepted laws of material science. They had discussed, argued andwritten grave books upon them. They had been doing all this before anysociety for psychical research had founded itself and the intention ofnew logic was to be scientific rather than psychological. They hadwritten books, scattered through the years, on mesmerism, hypnosis, abnormal mental conditions, the powers of suggestion, even unexploreddimensions and in modern days psychotherapeutics. 

"What has amazed me is my own ignorance of the prolonged and seriousnature of the investigation of an astonishing subject, " he said intalking with the Duchess. "To realise that analytical minds have beendoing grave work of which one has known nothing is an actual shock toone's pride. I suppose the tendency would have been to pooh-pooh it. Thecheap, modern popular form is often fantastic and crude, but thereremains the fact that it all contains truths not to be explained by therules we have always been familiar with. "

The Duchess had read the book he had brought her and held it in herhands. 

"Perhaps the time has come, in which we are to learn the new ones, " shesaid. 

"Perhaps we are being forced to learn them--as a result of ourpooh-poohing, " was his answer. "Some of us may learn that clear-cutdisbelief is at least indiscreet. "

Therefore upon a certain morning he sat long in reflection over a letterwhich had arrived from Dowie. He read it a number of times. 

 * * * * *

"I don't know what your lordship may think, " Dowie said and he felt sheheld herself with a tight rein. "If I may say so, it's what's going tocome out of it that matters and not what any of us think of it. So farit seems as if a miracle had happened. About a week ago she wakened inthe morning looking as I'd been afraid she'd never look again. There wasactually colour in her thin little face that almost made it look not sothin. There was a light in her eyes that quite startled me. She lay onher bed and smiled like a child that's suddenly put out of pain. Shesaid--quite quiet and natural--that she'd seen her husband. She said hehad _come_ and talked to her a long time and that it was not a dream, and he was not an angel--he was himself. At first I was terrified by adreadful thought that her poor young mind had given way. But she had nofever and she was as sweet and sensible as if she was talking to herDowie in her own nursery. And, my lord, this is what does matter. Shesat up and _ate her breakfast_ and said she would take a walk with me. And walk she did--stronger and better than I'd have believed. She had acup of tea and a glass of milk and a fresh egg and a slice of hotbuttered toast. That's what I hold on to, my lord--without any thinking. I daren't write about it at first because I didn't trust it to last. Butshe has wakened in the same way every morning since. And she's eaten thebits of nice meals I've put before her. I've been careful not to put herappetite off by giving her more than a little at a time. And she's sleptlike a baby and walked every day. I believe she thinks she sees CaptainMuir every night. I wouldn't ask questions, but she spoke of it onceagain to me. 

"Your obedient servant, SARAH ANN DOWSON. "

Lord Coombe sat in interested reflection. He felt curiously upliftedabove the rolling sounds in the street and the headlines of the pile ofnewspapers on the table. 

"If it had not been for the tea and egg and buttered toast she wouldhave been sure the poor child was mad. " He thought it out. "An egg and aslice of buttered toast guarantee even spiritual things. Why not? We arematerial creatures who have only material sight and touch and taste toemploy as arguments. I suppose that is why tables are tipped, andbanjos fly about for beginners. It's because we cannot see other things, and what we cannot see-- Oh! fools that we are! The child said he wasnot an angel--he was himself. Why not? Where did he come from?Personally I believe that he _came_. "

CHAPTER XXX

"It was Lord Coombe who sent the book, " said Robin. 

She was sitting in the Tower room, watching Dowie open the packageswhich had come from London. She herself had opened the one which heldthe models and she was holding a tiny film of lawn and fine embroideryin her hands. Dowie could see that she was quite unconscious that sheloosely held it against her breast as if she were nursing it. 

"It's his lordship's way to think of things, " the discreet answer cameimpersonally. 

Robin looked slowly round the small and really quite wonderful room. 

"You know I said that, the first night we came here. "

"Yes?" Dowie answered. 

Robin turned her eyes upon her. They were no longer hollowed, but theystill looked much too large. 

"Dowie, " she said. "He _knows_ things. "

"He always did, " said Dowie. "Some do and some don't. "

"He _knows_ things--as Donal does. The secret things you can't talkabout--the meaning of things. "

She went on as if she were remembering bit by bit. "When we were in theWood in the dark, he said the first thing that made my mind begin tomove--almost to think. That was because he _knew_. Knowing things madehim send the book. "

The fact was that he knew much of which it was not possible for him tospeak, and in passing a shop window he had been fantastically arrestedby a mere pair of small sleeves--the garment to which they belongedhaving by chance so fallen that they seemed to be tiny arms holdingthemselves out in surrendering appeal. They had held him a moment or sostaring and then he had gone into the shop and asked for theircatalogue. 

"Yes, he knew, " Dowie replied. 

A letter had been written to London signed by Dowie and the models andpatterns had been sent to the village and brought to the castle by JockMacaur. Later there had come rolls of fine flannel and lawn, withgossamer thread and fairy needles and embroidery floss. Then the sewingbegan. 

Doctor Benton had gradually begun to look forward to his daily visitswith an interest stimulated by a curiosity become eager. The most casuallooker-on might have seen the change taking place in his patient day byday and he was not a casual looker-on. Was the improvement to be reliedupon? Would the mysterious support suddenly fail them?

"What in God's name should we do if it did?" he broke out unconsciouslyaloud one day when Dowie and he were alone together. 

"If it did what, sir?" she asked. 

"If it stopped--the dream?"

Dowie understood. By this time she knew that, when he asked questions, took notes and was professionally exact, he had ceased to think of Robinmerely as a patient. She had touched him in some unusual way which haddrawn him within the circle of her innocent woe. He was under the spellof her pathetic youngness which made Dowie herself feel as if they werewatching over a child called upon to bear something it was unnatural fora child to endure. 

"It won't stop, " she said obstinately, but she lost her ruddy colourbecause she was not sure. 

But after the sewing began there grew up within her a sort of courage. A girl whose material embodiment has melted away until she has worn theaspect of a wraith is not restored to normal bloom in a week. But whatDowie seemed to see was the lamp of life relighted and the firstflickering flame strengthening to a glow. The hands which fittedtogether on the table in the Tower room delicate puzzles in bits of lawnand paper, did not in these days tremble with weakness. Instead of thelost look there had returned to the young doe's eyes the pretty trustingsmile. The girl seemed to smile as if to herself nearly all the time, Dowie thought, and often she broke into a happy laugh at her own smallblunders--and sometimes only at the sweet littleness of the things shewas making. 

One fact revealed itself clearly to Dowie, which was that she had lostall sense of the aspect which the dream must wear to others thanherself. This was because there had been no others than Dowie who haduttered no suggestion of doubt and had never touched upon the subjectunless it had been first broached by Robin herself. She had hidden herbewilderment and anxieties and had outwardly accepted the girl's ownacceptance of the situation. 

Of the incident of the sewing Lord Coombe had been informed later withother details. 

"She sits and sews and sews, " wrote Dowie. "She sewed beautifully evenbefore she was out of the nursery. I have never seen a picture of alittle saint sewing. If I had, perhaps I should say she looked like it. "

Coombe read the letter to his old friend at Eaton Square. 

There was a pause as he refolded it. After the silence he added as outof deep thinking, "I wish that I could see her. "

"So do I, " the Duchess said. "So do I. But if I were to go to her, questioning would begin at once. "

"My going to Darreuch would attract no attention. It never did after thefirst year. But she has not said she wished to see me. I gave my word. Ishall never see her again unless she asks me to come. She does not needme. She has Donal. "

"What do you believe?" she asked. 

"What do _you_ believe?" he replied. 

After a moment of speculative gravity came her reply. 

"As without proof I believed in the marriage, so without proof I believethat in some mysterious way he comes to her--God be thanked!"

"So do I, " said Coombe. "We are living in a changing world and newthings are happening. I do not know what they are, but they shake meinwardly. "

"You want to see her because--?" the Duchess put it to him. 

"Perhaps I am changing with the rest of the world, or it may be thatinstincts which have always been part of me have been shaken to thesurface of my being. Perhaps I was by nature an effusively affectionateand domestic creature. I cannot say that I have ever observed any signsof the tendency, but it may have lurked secretly within me. "

"It caused you to rescue a child from torment and watch over itshelplessness as if it had been your own flesh and blood, " interposed theDuchess. 

"It may have been. Who knows? And now the unnatural emotional upheavalof the times has broken down all my artificialities. I feel old andtired--perhaps childish. Shrines are being torn down and blown to piecesall over the world. And I long for a quite simple shrine to cleanse mysoul before. A white little soul hidden away in peace, and sittingsmiling over her sewing of small garments is worth making a pilgrimageto. Do you remember the childish purity of her eyelids? I want to seethem dropped down as she sews. I want to _see_ her. "

"Alixe--and her children--would have been your shrine. " The Duchessthought it out slowly. 

"Yes. "

He was the last of men to fall into an unconventional posture, but hedropped forward in his seat, his elbows on his knees, his forehead inhis hands. 

"If she lives and the child lives I shall long intolerably to see them. As her mother seemed to live in Alixe's exquisite body without its soul, so Alixe's soul seems to possess this child's body. Do I appear to betalking nonsense? Things without precedent have always been supposed tobe nonsense. "

"We are not so sure of that as we used to be, " commented the Duchess. 

"I shall long to be allowed to be near them, " he added. "But I may goout of existence without seeing them at all. I gave my word. "

CHAPTER XXXI

After the first day of cutting out patterns from the models and finelysewing tiny pieces of lawn together, Dowie saw that, before going to herbedroom for the night, Robin began to gather together all she had doneand used in doing her work. She had ordered from London one of thepretty silk-lined lace-frilled baskets women are familiar with, and sheneatly folded and laid her sewing in it. She touched each thing withfingers that lingered; she smoothed and once or twice patted something. She made exquisitely orderly little piles. Her down-dropped white lidsquivered with joy as she did it. When she lifted them to look at Dowieher eyes were like those of a stray young spirit. 

"I am going to take them into my room, " she said. "I shall take themevery night. I want to keep them on a chair quite near me so that I canput out my hand and touch them. "

"Yes, my lamb, " Dowie agreed cheerfully. But she knew she was going tohear something else. And this would be the third time. 

"I want to show them to Donal. " The very perfection of her naturalnessgave Dowie a cold chill, even while she thanked God. She had shiveredinwardly when she had opened the Tower room window, and so she shiverednow despite her serene exterior. A simple unexalted body could not butthink of those fragments which were never even found. And she, standingthere with her lips and eyes smiling, just like any other radiant girlmother whose young husband is her lover, enraptured and amazed by thisnew miracle of hers!

Robin touched her with the tip of her finger. 

"It can't be only a dream, Dowie, " she said. "He's too real. I am tooreal. We are too happy. " She hesitated a second. "If he were here atDarreuch in the daytime--I should not always know where he had been whenhe was away. Only his coming back would matter. He can't tell me nowjust where he comes from. He says 'Not yet. ' But he comes. Every night, Dowie. "

 * * * * *

Every day she sewed in the Tower room, her white eyelids drooping overher work. Each night the basket was carried to her room. And each dayDowie watched with amazement the hollows in her temples and cheeks andunder her eyes fill out, the small bones cover themselves, the thinnedthroat grow round with young tissue and smooth with satin skin. Her hairbecame light curled silk again; the faint colour deepened into theJacqueminot glow at which passers by had turned to look in the streetwhen she was little more than a baby. But she never talked of the dream. The third time was the last for many weeks. 

Between Doctor Benton and Dowie there grew up an increased reserveconcerning the dream. Never before had the man encountered an experiencewhich so absorbed him. He was a student of the advanced order. He alsohad seen the books which had fallen into the hands of Coombe--some thework of scientific men--some the purely commercial outcome of the needof the hour written by the jackals of the literary profession. He wouldhave been ready to sit by the bedside of his patient through the nightwatching over her sleep, holding her wrist with fingers on her pulse. Even his most advanced thinking involuntarily harked back to pulse andtemperature and blood pressure. The rapidity of the change taking placein the girl was abnormal, but it expressed itself physically as well asmentally. How closely involved physiology and psychology were after all!Which was which? Where did one end and the other begin? Where was theline drawn? Was there a line at all? He had seen no chances for theapparently almost dying young thing when he first met her. She could nothave lived through what lay before her. She had had a dream which shebelieved was real, and, through the pure joy and comfort of it, the lifeforces had begun to flow through her being and combine to build actualfirm tissue and supply blood cells. The results were physical enough. The inexplicable in this case was that the curative agency was that shebelieved that her husband, who had been blown to atoms on the battlefield, came to her alive each night--talked with her--held her in warmarms. Nothing else had aided her. And there you were--thrown uponoccultism and what not!

He became conscious that, though he would have been glad to questionDowie daily and closely, a certain reluctance of mind held him back. Also he realised that, being a primitive though excellent woman, Dowieherself was secretly awed into avoidance of the subject. He believedthat she knelt by her bedside each night in actual fear, but faithfullypraying that for some months at least the dream might be allowed to goon. Had not he himself involuntarily said, "She is marvellously well. We have nothing to fear if this continues. "

It did continue and her bloom became a thing to marvel at. And not herbloom alone. Her strength increased with her blooming until no one couldhave felt fear for or doubt of her. She walked upon the moor withoutfatigue, she even worked in a garden Jock Macaur had laid out for herinside the ruined walls of what had once been the castle's banquet hall. So much of her life had been spent in London that wild moor and sky andthe growing of things thrilled her. She ran in and out and to and frolike a little girl. There seemed no limit to the young vigour thatappeared day by day to increase rather than diminish. 

"It's a wonderful thing and God be thankit, " said Mrs. Macaur. 

Only Dowie in secret trembled sometimes before the marvel of her. AsDoctor Benton had imagined, she prayed forcefully. 

"Lord, forgive me if I am a sinner--but for Christ's sake don't take thestrange thing away from her until she's got something to hold on to. What would she do-- What could she!"

Robin came into the Tower room on a fair morning carrying her prettybasket as she always did. She put it down on its table and went andstood a few minutes at a window looking out. The back of her neck, Dowierealised, was now as slenderly round and velvet white as it had beenwhen she had dressed her hair on the night of the Duchess' dance. Dowiedid not know that its loveliness had been poor George's temporaryundoing; she only thought of it as a sign of the wonderful change. Ithad been waxen pallid and had shown piteous hollows. 

She turned about and spoke. 

"Dowie, dear, I am going to write to Lord Coombe. "

Dowie's heart hastened its beat and she herself being conscious of thefact, hastened to answer in an unexcited manner. 

"That'll be nice, my dear. His lordship'll be glad to get the good newsyou can give him. "

She asked herself if she would not perhaps tell her something--somethingwhich would make the fourth time. 

"Perhaps he's asked her to do it, " she thought. 

But Robin said nothing which could make a fourth time. After she hadeaten her breakfast she sat down and wrote a letter. It did not seem along one and when she had finished it she sent it to the post by JockMacaur. 

 * * * * *

There had been dark news both by land and sea that day, and Coombe hadbeen out for many hours. He did not return to Coombe House until late inthe evening. He was tired almost beyond endurance, and his fatigue wasnot merely a thing of muscle and nerve. After he sat down it was sometime before he even glanced at the letters upon his writing table. 

There were always a great many and usually a number of them wereaddressed in feminine handwriting. His hospital and other war workbrought him numerous letters from women. Even their most impatientmasculine opponents found themselves admitting that the women were beingamazing. 

Coombe was so accustomed to opening such letters that he felt nosurprise when he took up an envelope without official lettering upon it, and addressed in a girlish hand. Girls were being as amazing as olderwomen. 

But this was not a letter about war work or Red Cross efforts. It wasRobin's letter. It was not long and was as simple as a school girl's. She had never been clever--only exquisite and adorable, and never dullor stupid. 

"Dear Lord Coombe, "You were kind enough to say that you would come to see me when I askedyou. Please will you come now? I hope I am not asking you to take a longjourney when you are engaged in work too important to leave. If I amplease pardon me, and I will wait until you are less occupied. 

"Robin. "

That was all. Coombe sat and gazed at it and read it several times. Thething which had always touched him most in her was her simple obedienceto the laws about her. Curiously it had never seemed insipid--only asort of lovely desire to be in harmony with all near her--things andpeople alike. It had been an innocent modesty which could not expressrebellion. Her lifelong repelling of himself had been her one variationfrom type. Even that had been quiet except in one demonstration of herbabyhood when she had obstinately refused to give him her hand. WhenFate's self had sprung upon her with a wild-beast leap she had only lainstill and panted like a young fawn in the clutch of a lion. She had onlythought of Donal and his child. He remembered the eyes she had lifted tohis own when he had put the ring on her finger in the shadow-filled oldchurch--and he had understood that she was thinking of the warm younghand clasp and the glow of eyes she had looked up into when love andyouth had stood in his place. 

The phrasing of the letter brought it all back. His precision of mindand resolve would have enabled him to go to his grave without havinglooked on her face again--but he was conscious that she was an integralpart of his daily thought and planning and that he longed inexpressiblyto see her. He sometimes told himself that she and the child had becomea sort of obsession with him. He believed that this was because Alixehad shown the same soft obedience to fate, and the same look in hersorrowful young eyes. Alixe had been then as she was now--but he had notbeen able to save her. She had died and he was one of the few abnormalmale creatures who know utter loneliness to the end of life because ofutter loss. He knew such things were not normal. It had seemed thatRobin would die, though not as Alixe did. If she lived and he mightwatch over her, there lay hidden in the back of his mind a vague feelingthat it would be rather as though his care of all detail--his power topalliate--to guard--would be near the semblance of the tenderness hewould have shown to Alixe. His old habit of mind caused him to call itan obsession, but he admitted he was obsessed. 

"I want to _see_ her!" he thought. 

CHAPTER XXXII

Many other thoughts filled his mind on his railroad journey to Scotland. He questioned himself as to how deeply he still felt the importance ofthere coming into the racked world a Head of the House of Coombe, howstrongly he was still inspired by the centuries old instinct that aHouse of Coombe must continue to exist as part of the bulwarks ofEngland. The ancient instinct still had its power, but he was curiouslyawakening to a slackening of the bonds which caused a man to specialise. It was a reluctant awakening--he himself had no part in the slackening. The upheaval of the whole world had done it and of the world Englandherself was a huge part--small, huge, obstinate, fighting England. Bereft of her old stately beauties, her picturesque splendours of habitand custom, he could not see a vision of her, and owned himself desolateand homesick. He was tired. So many men and women were tired--worn outwith thinking, fearing, holding their heads up while their hearts werelead. When all was said and done, when all was over, what would the newEngland want--what would she need? And England was only a part. Whatwould the ravaged world need as it lay--quiet at last--in ruinsphysical, moral and mental? He had no answer. Wiser men than he had noanswer. Only time would tell. But the commonest brain cells in thethickest skull could argue to the end which proved that only men andwomen could do the work to be done. The task would be one for gods, ordemigods, or supermen--but there remained so far only men and women toface it--to rebuild, to reinspire with life, to heal unearthly gapingwounds of mind and soul. Each man or woman born strong and given thechance to increase in vigour which would build belief in life andliving, in a future, was needed as breath and air are needed--even suchan one as in the past would have wielded a sort of unearned sceptre as aHead of the House of Coombe. A man born a blacksmith, if he were oflike quality, would meet equally the world's needs, but each would bedoing in his way his part of that work which it seemed to-day onlydemigod and superman could fairly confront. 

There was time for much thinking in long hours spent shut in a railroadcarriage and his mind was, in these days, not given to letting him rest. 

He had talked with many men back from the Front on leave and he hadalways noted the marvel of both minds and bodies at the relief fromstrain--from maddening noise, from sights of death and horror, from theneeds of decency and common comfort and cleanliness which had becomeunheard of luxury. London, which to the Londoner seemed caught in thetumult and turmoil of war, was to these men rest and peace. 

Coombe felt, when he descended at the small isolated station and stoodlooking at the climbing moor, that he was like one of those who had leftthe roar of battle behind and reached utter quiet. London was a world'swidth away and here the War did not exist. In Flanders and in France itfilled the skies with thunders and drenched the soil with blood. Buthere it was not. 

The partly rebuilt ruin of Darreuch rose at last before his view high onthe moor as he drove up the winding road. The space and the blue skyabove and behind it made it seem the embodiment of remote stillness. Nothing had reached nor could touch it. It did not know that greenfields and deep woods were strewn with dead and mangled youth and all ithad meant of the world's future. Its crumbled walls and remaining greytowers stood calm in the clear air and birds' nests were hidden safelyin their thick ivy. 

Robin was there and each night she believed that a dead man came to hera seeming living being. He was not like Dowie, but his realisation ofthe mystery of this thing touched his nerves as a wild unexplainablesound heard in the darkness at midnight might have done. He wondered ifhe should see some look which was not quite normal in her eyes and hearsome unearthly note in her voice. Physically the effect upon her hadbeen good, but might he not be aware of the presence of some mentalsign?

"I think you'll be amazed when you see her, my lord, " said Dowie, whomet him. "I am myself, every day. "

She led him up to the Tower room and when he entered it Robin wassitting by a window sewing with her eyelids dropped as he had picturedthem. The truth was that Dowie had not previously announced him becauseshe had wanted him to come upon just this. 

Robin rose from her chair and laid her bit of sewing aside. For a momenthe almost expected her to make the little curtsey Mademoiselle hadtaught her to make when older people came into the schoolroom. Shelooked so exactly as she had looked before life had touched her. Therewas very little change in her girlish figure; the child curve of hercheek had returned; the Jacqueminot rose glowed on it and her eyes wereliquid wonders of trust. She came to him holding out both hands. 

"Thank you for coming, " she said in her pretty way. "Thank you, LordCoombe, for coming. "

"Thank you, my child, for asking me to come, " he answered and he fearedthat his voice was not wholly steady. 

There was no mystic sign to be seen about her. The only mystery was inher absolutely blooming health and naturalness and in the gentle andclear happiness of her voice and eyes. She was not tired; she was notdragged or anxious looking as he had seen even fortunate young wives andmothers at times. There actually flashed back upon him the morning, months ago, when he had met her in the street and said to himself thatshe was like a lovely child on her birthday with all her gifts abouther. Her radiance had been quiet even then because she was always quiet. 

She led him to a seat near her window and she sat by him. 

"I put this chair here for you because it is so lovely to look out atthe moor, " she said. 

That moved him to begin with. She had been thinking simply and kindly ofhim even before he came. He had always been prepared for, waited uponeither with flattering attentions or ceremonial service, but the quietpretty things mothers and sisters and wives did had not been part of hislife and he had always noticed and liked them and sometimes wonderedthat most men received them with a casual air. This small thing alonecaused the roar he had left behind to recede still farther. 

"I was afraid that you might be too busy to come, " she went on. "Yousee, I remembered how important the work was and that there are thingswhich cannot wait for an hour. I could have waited as long as you toldme to wait. But I am so _glad_ you could come!"

"I will always come, " was his answer. "I have helpers who could bewholly trusted if I died to-night. I have thought of that. One must. "

She hesitated a moment and then said, "I am quite away here as youwanted me to be. I see it was the only thing. I read nothing, hearnothing. London--the War--" her voice fell a little. 

"They go on. Will you be kind to me and help me to forget them for awhile?" He looked through the window at the sky and the moor. "They arenot here--they never have been. The men who come back will do anythingto make themselves forget for a little while. This place makes me feelthat I am a man who has come back. "

"I will do anything--everything--you wish me to do, " she said eagerly. "Dowie wondered if you would not want to be very quiet and not bereminded. I--wondered too. "

"You were both right. I want to feel that I am in another world. Thisseems like a new planet. "

"Would you--" she spoke rather shyly, "would you be able to stay a fewdays?"

"I can stay a week, " he answered. "Thank you, Robin. "

"I am so glad, " she said. "I am so glad. "

So they did not talk about the War or about London, though she inquiredabout the Duchess and Lady Lothwell and Kathryn. 

"Would you like to go out and walk over the moor?" she asked after ashort time. "It's so scented and sweet, and darling things scurry about. I don't think they are really frightened, because I try to walk softly. Sometimes there are nests with eggs or soft little things in them. "

They went out together and walked side by side, sometimes on the windingroad and sometimes through the heather. He found himself watching everystep she made and keeping his eye on the path ahead of them to makesure she would avoid roughness or irregularities. In some inner part ofhis being there remotely worked the thought that this was the way inwhich he might have walked side by side with Alixe, watching over eachstep taken by her sacred little feet. 

The day was a wonder of peace and relaxation to him. Farther andfarther, until lost in nothingness, receded the roar and the tenselystrung sense of waiting for news of unbearable things. As they went onhe realised that he need not even watch the path before her because sheknew it so well and her step was as light and firm as a young roe's. Hervery movements seemed to express the natural physical enjoyment ofexercise. 

He knew nothing of her mind but that Mademoiselle had told him that shewas intelligent. They had never talked together and so her mentality wasan unexplored field to him. She did not chatter. She said freshpicturesque things about life on the moor, about the faithful silentMacaurs, about Dowie, and now and then about something she had read. Sheshowed him beauties and small curious things she plainly loved. Itstruck him that the whole trend of her being lay in the direction ofbeing fond of people and things--of loving and being happy, --and evenmerry if life had been kind to her. Her soft laugh had a naturally merrynote. He heard it first when she held him quite still at her side asthey watched the frisking of some baby rabbits. 

There was a curious relief in realising, as the hours passed, that herold dislike and dread of him had melted into nothingness like a mistblown away in the night. She was thinking of him as if he were somemature and wise friend who had always been kind to her. He need notrigidly watch his words and hers. She was not afraid of him at all;there was no shrinking in her eyes when they met his. If Alixe had had adaughter who was his own, she might have lifted such lovely eyes to him. 

They lunched together and Dowie served them with deft ability and anexpression which Coombe was able to comprehend the at once watchful anddirecting meaning of. It directed him to observation of Robin's appetiteand watched for his encouraged realisation of it as a supporting fact. 

He went to his own rooms in the afternoon that she might be alone andrest. He read an old book for an hour and then talked with the Macaursabout the place and their work and their new charge. He wanted to hearwhat they were thinking of her. 

"It's wonderful, my lord!" was Mrs. Macaur's repeated contribution. "Shecame here a wee ghost. She frighted me. I couldna see how she could gothrough what's before her. I lay awake in my bed expectin' Mrs. Dowie toca' me any hour. An' betwixt one night and anither the change cam. She'sa well bairn--for woman she isna, puir wee thing! It's a wonder--awonder--a wonder, my lord!"

When he saw Dowie alone he asked her a question. 

"Does she know that you have told me of the dream?"

"No, my lord. The dream's a thing we don't talk about. She's onlymentioned it three times. It's in my mind that she feels it's too sacredto be made common by words. "

He had wondered if Robin had been aware of his knowledge. After Dowie'sanswer he wondered if she would speak to him about the dream herself. Perhaps she would not. It might be that she had asked him to come toDarreuch because her thought of him had so changed that she hadrealised something of his grave anxiety for her health and a gentleconsideration had made her wish to give him the opportunity to see herface to face. Perhaps she had intended only this. 

"I want to see her, " he had said to himself. The relief of the mereseeing had been curiously great. He had the relief of sinking, as itwere, into the deep waters of pure peace on this new planet. In thisrealisation every look at the child's face, every movement she made, every tone of her voice, aided. Did she know that she soothed him? Didshe intend to try to soothe? When they were together she gave him afeeling that she was strangely near and soft and warm. He had felt it onthe moor. It was actually as if she wanted to be quieting to him--almostas if she had realised that he had been stretched upon a mental rackwith maddening tumult all around him. It was part of her pretty thoughtof him in the matter of the waiting chair and he felt it very sweet. 

But she had had other things in her mind when she had asked him to come. This he knew later. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

After they had dined they sat together in the long Highland twilightbefore her window in the Tower room where he had found her sitting whenhe arrived. Her work basket was near her and she took a piece of sheerlawn from it and began to embroider. And he sat and watched her drawdelicate threads through the tiny leaves and flowers she was making. Sohe might have watched Alixe if she had been some unroyal girl given tohim in one of life's kinder hours. She seemed to draw near out of theland of lost shadows as he sat in the clear twilight stillness andlooked on. As he might have watched Alixe. 

The silence, the paling daffodil tints of the sky, the non-existence ofany other things than calm and stillness seemed to fill his whole beingas a cup might be filled by pure water falling slowly. She said nothingand did not even seem to be waiting for anything. It was he who firstbroke the rather long silence and his voice was quite low. 

"Do you know you are very good to me?" he said. "How did you learn to beso kind to a man--with your quietness?"

He saw the hand holding her work tremble a very little. She let it fallupon her knee, still holding the embroidery. She leaned forward slightlyand in her look there was actually something rather like a sort of timidprayer. 

"Please let me, " she said. "Please let me--if you can!"

"Let you!" was all that he could say. 

"Let me try to help you to rest--to feel quiet and forget for just alittle while. It's such a small thing. And it's all I can ever _try_ todo. "

"You do it very perfectly, " he answered, touched and wondering. 

"You have been kind to me ever since I was a child--and I did not know, "she said. "Now I know, because I understand. Oh! _will_ you forgive me?_Please_--will you?"

"Don't, my dear, " he said. "You were a baby. _I_ understood. Thatprevented there being anything to forgive--anything. "

"I ought to have loved you as I loved Mademoiselle and Dowie. " Her eyesfilled with tears. "And I think I hated you. It began with Donal, " in asoft wail. "I heard Andrews say that his mother wouldn't let him know mebecause you were my mother's friend. And then as I grew older--"

"Even if I had known what you thought I could not have defended myself, "he answered, faintly smiling. "You must not let yourself think of it. Itis nothing now. "

The hand holding the embroidery lifted itself to touch her breast. Therewas even a shade of awe of him in her eyes. 

"It is something to me--and to Donal. You have never defended yourself. You endure things and endure them. You watched for years over anignorant child who loathed you. It was not that a child's hatred is ofimportance--but if I had died and never asked you to forgive me, howcould I have looked into Donal's eyes? I want to go down on my knees toyou!"

He rose from his chair, and took in his own the unsteady hand holdingthe embroidery. He even bent and lightly touched it with his lips, withhis finished air. 

"You will not die, " he said. "And you will not go upon your knees. Thankyou for being a warm hearted child, Robin. "

But still her eyes held the touch of awe of him. 

"But what I have spoken of is the least. " Her voice almost broke. "Inthe Wood--in the dark you said there was something that must be savedfrom suffering. I could not think then--I could scarcely care. But youcared, and you made me come awake. To save a poor little child who wasnot born, you have done something which will make people believe youwere vicious and hideous--even when all this is over forever and ever. And there will be no one to defend you. Oh! What shall I do!"

"There are myriads of worlds, " was his answer. "And this is only one ofthem. And I am only one man among the myriads on it. Let us be veryquiet again and watch the coming out of the stars. "

In the pale saffron of the sky which was mysteriously darkening, sparkslike deep-set brilliants were lighting themselves here and there. Theysat and watched them together for long. But first Robin murmuredsomething barely above her lowest breath. Coombe was not sure that sheexpected him to hear it. 

"I want to be your little slave. Oh! Let me!"

CHAPTER XXXIV

This was what she had been thinking of. This had been the meaning of thetender thought for him he had recognised uncomprehendingly in her look:it had been the cause of her desire to enfold him in healing and restfulpeace. When he had felt that she drew so close to him that they werescarcely separated by physical being, it was because she had suddenlyawakened to a new comprehension. The awakening must have been a suddenone. He had known at the church that it had taken all her last remnantof strength to aid her to lay her cold hand in his and he had seenshrinking terror in her eyes when she lifted them to his as he put onher wedding ring. He had also known perfectly what memory had beset herat the moment and he had thrown all the force of his will into the lookwhich had answered her--the look which had told her that he understood. Yes, the awakening must have been sudden and he asked himself how it hadcome about--what had made all clear?

He had never been a mystic, but during the cataclysmic hours throughwhich men were living, many of them stunned into half blindness and thenshocked into an unearthly clarity of thought and sight, he had come uponpreviously unheard of signs of mysticism on all sides. Peopletalked--most of them blunderingly--of things they would not havementioned without derision in pre-war days. Premonitions, dreams, visions, telepathy were not by any means always flouted with raucouslaughter and crude witticisms. Even unorthodox people had begun to holdtentatively religious views. 

Was he becoming a mystic at last? As he walked by Robin's side on themoor, as he dined with her, talked with her, sat and watched her at hersewing, more than ever each hour he believed that her dream was noordinary fantasy of the unguided brain. She had in some strange wayseen Donal. Where--how--where he had come from--where he returned aftertheir meeting--he ceased to ask himself. What did it matter after all ifsouls could so comfort and sustain each other? The blessedness of it wasenough. 

He wondered as Dowie had done whether she would reveal anything to himor remain silent. There was no actual reason why she should speak. Noremotest reference to the subject would come from himself. 

It was in truth a new planet he lived on during this marvel of a week. The child was wonderful, he told himself. He had not realised that afeminine creature could be so exquisitely enfolding and yet leave a manso wholly free. She was not always with him, but her spirit was so nearthat he began to feel that no faintest wish could form itself within hismind without her mysteriously knowing of its existence and realising itwhile she seemed to make no effort. She did pretty things for him andher gladness in his pleasure in them touched him to the core. He alsoknew that she wished him to see that she was well and strong and nevertired or languid. There was, perhaps, one thing she could do for him andshe wanted to prove to him that he might be sure she would not fail him. He allowed her to perform small services for him because of the dearnessof the smile it brought to her lips--almost a sort of mothering smile. It was really true that she wanted to be his little slave and he hadimagination enough to guess that she comforted herself by saying thething to herself again and again; childlike and fantastic as it was. 

She taught him to sleep as he had not slept for a year; she gave himback the power to look at his food without a sense of being repelled;she restored to him the ability to sit still in a chair as though itwere meant to rest in. His nerves relaxed; his deadly fatigue left him;and it was the quiet nearness of Robin that had done it. He felt youngerand knew that on his return to London he should be more inclined todisbelieve exaggerated rumours than to believe them. 

On the evening before he left Darreuch they sat at the Tower windowagain. She did not take her sewing from its basket, but sat very quietlyfor a while looking at the purple folds of moor. 

"You will go away very early in the morning, " she began at last. 

"Yes. You must promise me that you will not awaken. "

"I do not waken early. If I do I shall come to you, but I think I shallbe asleep. "

"Try to be asleep. "

He saw that she was going to say something else--something not connectedwith his departure. It was growing in her eyes and after a silent momentor so she began. 

"There is something I want to tell you, " she said. 

"Yes?"

"I have waited because I wanted to make sure that you could believe it. I did not think you would not wish to believe it, but sometimes thereare people who _cannot_ believe even when they try. Perhaps once Ishould not have been able to believe myself. But now--I _know_. Andto-night I feel that you are one of those who _can_ believe. "

She was going to speak of it. 

"In these days when all the forces of the world are in upheaval peopleare learning that there are many new things to be believed, " was hisanswer. 

She turned towards him, extending her arms that he might see her well. 

"See!" she said, "I am alive again. I am alive because Donal came backto me. He comes every night and when he comes he is not dead. Can youbelieve it?"

"When I look at you and remember, I can believe anything. I do notunderstand. I do not know where he comes from--or how, but I believethat in some way you see him. "

She had always been a natural and simple girl and it struck him that hermanner had never been a more natural one. 

"_I_ do not know where he comes from, " the clearness of a bell in hervoice. "He does not want me to ask him. He did not say so but I know. When he is with me we know things without speaking words. We only talkof happy things. I have not told him that--that I have been unhappy andthat I thought that perhaps I was really dead. He made me understandabout you--but he does not know anything--else. Yes--" eagerly, eagerly, "you are believing--you are!"

"Yes--I am believing. "

"If everything were as it used to be--I should see him and talk to himin the day time. Now I see him and talk to him at night instead. Yousee, it is almost the same thing. But we are really happier. We areafraid of nothing and we only tell each other of happy things. We knowhow wonderful everything is and that it was _meant_ to be like that. Youdon't know how beautiful it is when you only think and talk about joyfulthings! The other things fly away. Sometimes we go out onto the moortogether and the darkness is not darkness--it is a soft lovely thing asbeautiful as the light. We love it--and we can go as far as we likebecause we are never tired. Being tired is one of the things that hasflown away and left us quite light. That is why I feel light in the dayand I am never tired or afraid. I _remember_ all the day. "

As he listened, keeping his eyes on her serenely radiant face, he askedhimself what he should have been thinking if he had been a psychopathicspecialist studying her case. He at the same time realised that apsychopathic specialist's opinion of what he himself--LordCoombe--thought would doubtless have been scientifically disconcerting. For what he found that he thought was that, through some mysteriouslybeneficent opening of portals kept closed through all the eons of time, she who was purest love's self had strangely passed to places wherevision revealed things as they were created by that First Intention--ofwhich people sometimes glibly talked in London drawing-rooms. He had notseen life so. He was not on her plane, but, as he heard her, he for thetime believed in its existence and felt a remote nostalgia. 

"Dowie is very brave and tries not to be frightened, " she went on; "butshe is really afraid that something may happen to my mind. She thinks itis only a queer dream which may turn out unhealthy. But it is not. It isDonal. "

"Yes, it is Donal, " he answered gravely. And he believed he was speakinga truth, though he was aware of no material process of reasoning bywhich such a conclusion could be reached. One had to overleap gaps--evenabysses--where material reasoning came to a full stop. One could onlyargue that there might be yet unknown processes to be revealed. Mereearthly invention was revealing on this plane unknown processes year byyear--why not on other planes?

"I wanted to tell you because I want you to know everything about me. Itseems as if I belong to you, Lord Coombe, " there was actual sweetpleading in her voice. "You watched and made my life for me. I shouldnot have been this Robin if you had not watched. When Donal came back hefound me in the house you had taken me to because I could be safe in it. Everything has come from you. . . . I am yours as well as Donal's. "

"You give me extraordinary comfort, dear child, " he said. "I did notknow that I needed it, but I see that I did. Perhaps I have longed forit without knowing it. You have opened closed doors. "

"I will do anything--everything--you wish me to do. I will _obey_ youalways, " she said. 

"You are doing everything I most desire, " he answered. 

"Then I will try more every day. "

She meant it as she had always meant everything she said. It was herinnocent pledge of faithful service, because, understanding at last, shehad laid her white young heart in gratitude at his feet. No living mancould have read her more clearly than this one whom half Europe hadsecretly smiled at as its most finished debauchée. When she took herpretty basket upon her knee and began to fold its bits of lawndelicately for the night, he felt as if he were watching some stainlessacolyte laying away the fine cloths of an altar. 

Though no one would have accused him of being a sentimentalist or anemotional man, his emotions overpowered him for once and swept doubt ofemotion and truth into some outer world. 

 * * * * *

The morning rose fair and the soft wind blowing across the gorse andheather brought scents with it. Dowie waited upon him at his earlybreakfast and took the liberty of indulging in open speech. 

"You go away looking rested, my lord, " she respectfully ventured. "Andyou leave us feeling safe. "

"Quite safe, " he answered; "she is beautifully well. "

"That's it, my lord--beautifully--thank God. I've never seen a youngthing bloom as she does and I've seen many. "

The cart was at the door and he stood in the shadows of the hall when aslight sound made him look up at the staircase. It was an ancientwinding stone descent with its feudal hand rope for balustrade. Robinwas coming down it in a loose white dress. Her morning face waswonderful. It was inevitable that he should ask himself where she hadcome from--what she had brought with her unknowing. She looked like awhite blossom drifting from the bough--like a feather from a dove's wingfloating downward to earth. But she was only Robin. 

"You awakened, " he reproached her. 

She came quite near him. 

"I wanted to awake. Donal wanted me to. "

She had never been quite so near him before. She put out a hand and laidit on the rough tweed covering his breast. 

"I wanted to see you. Will you come again--when you are tired? I shallalways be here waiting. "

"Thank you, dear child, " he answered. "I will come as often as I canleave London. This is a new planet. "

He was almost as afraid to move as if a bird had alighted near him. 

But she was not afraid. Her eyes were clear pools of pure light. 

"Before you go away--" she said as simply as she had said it to Dowieyears before, "--may I kiss you, Lord Coombe? I want to kiss you. "

His old friend had told him the story of Dowie and it hadextraordinarily touched him though he had said but little. And now itrepeated itself. He had never seen anything so movingly lovely in hislife as her sweet gravity. 

She lifted her slight arms and laid them around his neck as she kissedhim gently, as if she had been his daughter--his own daughter anddelight--whose mother might have been Alixe. 

CHAPTER XXXV

"It was the strangest experience of my existence. It seemed suddenly tochange me to another type of man. "

He said it to the Duchess as he sat with her in her private room atEaton Square. He had told her the whole story of his week at Darreuchand she had listened with an interest at moments almost breathless. 

"Do you feel that you shall remain the new type of man, or was it only atemporary phase?" she inquired. 

"I told her that I felt I was living on a new planet. London is the oldplanet and I have returned to it. But not as I left it. Something hascome back with me. "

"It must have seemed another planet, " the Duchess pondered. "Thestillness of huge unbroken moors--no war--no khaki in sight--utter peaceand remoteness. A girl brought back to life by pure love, drawing aspirit out of the unknown to her side on earth. "

"She is like a spirit herself--but that she remains Robin--in anextraordinary new blooming. "

"Yes, she remains Robin. " The Duchess thought it out slowly. "Not oncedid she disturb you or herself by remembering that you were herhusband. "

"A girl who existed on the old planet would have remembered, and Ishould have detested her. To her, marriage means only Donal. The form wewent through she sees only as a supreme sacrifice I made for the sake ofDonal's child. If you could have heard her heart-wrung cry, 'There willbe no one to defend you! Oh! What shall I do!'"

"The stainless little soul of her!" the Duchess exclaimed. "Her worldholds only love and tenderness. Her goodbye to you meant that in herpenitence she wanted to take you into it in the one way she feels mostsacred. She will not die. She will live to give you the child. If it isa son there will be a Head of the House of Coombe. "

"On the new planet one ceases to feel the vital importance of 'houses, '"Coombe half reflected aloud. 

"Even on the old planet, " the Duchess spoke as a woman very tired, "oneis beginning to contemplate changes in values. "

 * * * * *

The slice of a house in Mayfair had never within the memory of man beenso brilliant. The things done in it were called War Work andnecessitated much active gaiety. Persons of both sexes, the majority ofthem in becoming uniform, flashed in and out in high spirits. If youwere a personable and feminine creature, it was necessary to look asmuch like an attractive boy as possible when you were doing War Work. Ifone could achieve something like leggings in addition to a masculine cutof coat, one could swagger about most alluringly. There were numbers ofthings to be done which did not involve frumpish utilitarian costumes, all caps and aprons. Very short skirts were the most utilitarian ofgarments because they were easy to get about in. Smart military littlehats were utilitarian also--and could be worn at any inspiring anglewhich would most attract the passing eye. Even before the War, shapelylegs, feet and ankles had begun to play an increasingly interesting partin the scheme of the Universe--as a result of the brevity of skirts andthe prevalence of cabaret dancing. During the War, as a consequence ofthe War Work done in such centres of activity as the slice of a house inMayfair, these attractive members were allowed opportunities such as theworld had not before contemplated. 

"Skirts must be short when people are doing real work, " Feather said. "And then of course one's shoes and stockings require attention. I'm notalways sure I like leggings however smart they are. Still I often wearthem--as a sort of example. "

"Of what?" inquired Coombe who was present

"Oh, well--of what women are willing to do for their country--in time ofwar. Wearing unbecoming things--and doing without proper food. Thesefood restrictions are enough to cause a revolution. "

She was specially bitter against the food restrictions. If there was onething men back from the Front--particularly officers--were entitled to, it was unlimited food. The Government ought to attend to it. When a mancame back and you invited him to dinner, a nice patriotic thing it wasto restrict the number of courses and actually deny him savouries andentrées because they are called luxuries. Who should have luxuries ifnot the men who were defending England?

"Of course the Tommies don't need them, " she leniently added. "Theynever had them and never will. But men who are officers in smartregiments are starving for them. I consider that my best War Work isgiving as many dinner parties as possible, and paying as littleattention to food restrictions as I can manage by using my wits. "

For some time--in certain quarters even from early days--there had beenflowing through many places a current of talk about America. What wasshe going to do? Was she going to do anything at all? Would it bepossible for her hugeness, her power, her wealth to remain inert in aworld crisis? Would she be content tacitly to admit the truth of oldaccusations of commerciality by securing as her part in the superhumanconflict the simple and unadorned making of money through the direnecessities of the world? There was bitterness, there were sneers, there were vague hopes and scathing injustices born of torment andracking dread. Some few were patiently just, because they knew somethingof the country and its political and social workings and were by chanceof those whose points of view included the powers and significances ofthings not readily to be seen upon the surface of events. 

"If there were dollars to be made out of it, of course America wouldrush in, " was Feather's decision. "Americans never do anything unlessthey can make dollars. I never saw a dollar myself, but I believe theyare made of green paper. It would be very exciting if they did rush in. They would bring so much money and they spend it as if it were water. Ofcourse they haven't any proper army, so they'd have to build one up outof all sorts of people. "

"Which was what we were obliged to do ourselves, by the way, " Coombethrew in as a contribution. 

"But they will probably have stockbrokers and Wall Street men forofficers. Then some of them might give one 'tips' about how to makemillions in 'corners. ' I don't know what corners are but they makeenormities out of them. Starling!" with a hilarious tinkle of a laugh, "you know that appallingly gorgeous house of Cherry Cheston's in PalaceGarden--did she ever tell you that it was the result of a 'tip' a queerChicago man managed for her? He liked her. He used to call her 'CherryRipe' when they were alone. He was big and red and halfboyish--sentimental and half blustering. Cherry _was_ ripe, you know, and he liked the ripe style. I should like to have a Chicago stockbrokerof my own. I wish the Americans _would_ come in!"

The Dowager Duchess of Darte and Lord Coombe had been of those who hadbegun their talk of this in the early days. 

"Personally I believe they will come in, " Coombe had always said. And ondifferent occasions he had added reasons which, combined, formulatedthemselves into the following arguments. "We don't really know much ofthe Americans though they have been buying and selling and marrying usfor some time. Our insular trick of feeling superior has held usmentally aloof from half the globe. But presumably the United States wasfrom the first, in itself, an ideal, pure and simple. It was. It isasinine to pooh-pooh it. A good deal is said about that sort of thing intheir histories and speeches. They keep it before each other and it hashad the effect of suggesting ideals on all sides. Which has resulted inlaying a sort of foundation of men who believe in the ideals and wouldfight for them. They are good fighters and, when the sincere ones begin, they will plant their flag where the insincere and mere politicians willbe forced to stand by it to save their faces. A few louder brays fromBerlin, a few more threats of hoofs trampling on the Star SpangledBanner and the fuse will be fired. An American fuse might turn out anamazing thing--because the ideals do exist and ideals are inflammable. "

This had been in the early days spoken of. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

Harrowby and the rest did not carry on their War Work in the slice of ahouse. It was of an order requiring a more serious atmosphere. Feathersaw even the Starling less and less. 

"Since the Dowager took her up she's far too grand for the likes of us, "she said. 

So to speak, Feather blew about from one place to another. She had neverfound life so exciting and excitement had become more vitally necessaryto her existence as the years had passed. She still lookedextraordinarily youthful and if her face was at times rather marvelousin its white and red, and her lips daring in their pomegranate scarlet, the fine grain of her skin aided her effects and she was dazzlingly inthe fashion. She had never worn such enchanting clothes and never hadseemed to possess so many. 

"I twist my rags together myself, " she used to laugh. "That's my gift. Hélčne says I have genius. I don't mean that I sit and sew. I have alittle slave woman who does that by the day. She admires me and will doanything that I tell her. Things are so delightfully scant and short nowthat you can cut two or three frocks out of one of your oldpetticoats--and mine were never very old. "

There was probably a modicum of truth in this--the fact remained thatthe garments which were more scant and shorter than those of any otherfeathery person were also more numerous and exquisite. Her patrioticentertainment of soldiers who required her special order of support andrecreation was fast and furious. She danced with them at cabarets; shedanced as a nymph for patriotic entertainments, with snow-white barefeet and legs and a swathing of Spring woodland green tulle and leavesand primroses. She was such a success that important personages smiledon her and asked her to appear under undreamed of auspices. Secretlytriumphant though she was, she never so far lost her head as to doanything which would bore her or cause her to appear at less than analluring advantage. When she could invent a particularly unique andinspiring shred of a garment to startle the public with, she danced forsome noble object and intoxicated herself with the dazzle of light andapplause. She found herself strung to her highest pitch of excitement bythe air raids, which in the midst of their terrors had the singulareffect of exciting many people and filling them with an insanerecklessness. Those so excited somehow seemed to feel themselves immune. Feather chattered about "Zepps" as if bombs could only wreak theirvengeance upon coast towns and the lower orders. 

When Lord Coombe definitely refused to allow her to fit up the roof ofthe slice of a house as a sort of luxurious Royal Box from which she andher friends might watch the spectacle, she found among her circleacquaintances who shared her thrills and had prepared places forthemselves. Sometimes she was even rather indecently exhilarated by hersense of high adventure. The fact was that the excitement of theseething world about her had overstrung her trivial being and turned herlight head until it whirled too fast. 

"It may seem horrid to say so and I'm not horrid--but I _like_ the war. You know what I mean. London never was so thrilling--with thingshappening every minute--and all sorts of silly solemn fads swept away sothat one can do as one likes. And interesting heroic men coming andgoing in swarms and being so grateful for kindness and entertainment. One is really doing good all the time--and being adored for it. I own Ilike being adored myself--and of course one likes doing good. I neverwas so happy in my life. "

"I used to be rather a coward, I suppose, " she chattered gaily onanother occasion. "I was horribly afraid of things. I believe the Warand living among soldiers has had an effect on me and made me braver. The Zepps don't frighten me at all--at least they excite me so that theymake me forget to be frightened. I don't know what they do to meexactly. The whole thing gets into my head and makes me want to rushabout and _see_ everything. I wouldn't go into a cellar for worlds. Iwant to _see_!"

She saw Lord Coombe but infrequently at this time, the truth being thather exhilaration and her War Work fatigued him, apart from which hishours were filled. He also objected to a certain raffishness which in anextremely mixed crowd of patriots rather too obviously "swept away sillyold fads" and left the truly advanced to do as they liked. What theyliked he did not and was wholly undisturbed by the circumstances ofbeing considered a rigid old fossil. Feather herself had no need of him. An athletic and particularly well favoured young actor who shared herthrills of elation seemed to permeate the atmosphere about her. He andFeather together at times achieved the effect, between raids, of waitingimpatiently for a performance and feeling themselves ill treated by thelong delays between the acts. 

"Are we growing callous, or are we losing our wits through living atsuch high temperature?" the Duchess asked. "There's a delirium in theair. Among those who are not shuddering in cellars there are some whoseem possessed by a sort of light insanity, half defiance, half excitedcuriosity. People say exultantly, 'I had a perfectly splendid view ofthe last Zepp!' A mother whose daughter was paying her a visit said toher, 'I wish you could have seen the Zepps while you were here. It issuch an experience. '"

"They have not been able to bring about the wholesale disaster Germanyhoped for and when nothing serious happens there is a relieved feelingthat the things are futile after all, " said Coombe. "When the resultsare tragic they must be hushed up as far as is possible to preventpanic. "

 * * * * *

Dowie faithfully sent him her private bulletin. Her first fears of perilhad died away, but her sense of mystification had increased and was moredeeply touched with awe. She opened certain windows every night and feltthat she was living in the world of supernatural things. Robin's eyessometimes gave her a ghost of a shock when she came upon her sittingalone with her work in her idle hands. But supported by the testimony ofsuch realities as breakfasts, long untiring walks and unvarying bloominghealthfulness, she thanked God hourly. 

"Doctor Benton says plain that he has never had such a beautiful caseand one that promised so well, " she wrote. "He says she's as strong as ayoung doe bounding about on the heather. What he holds is that it'snatural she should be. He is a clever gentleman with some wonderfulcomforting new ideas about things, my lord. And he tells me I need notlook forward with dread as perhaps I had been doing. "

Robin herself wrote to Coombe--letters whose tender-heartedcomprehension of what he was doing always held the desire to surroundhim with the soothing quiet he had so felt when he was with her. Whathe discovered was that she had been born of the elect, --the women whoknow what to say, what to let others say and what to beautifully leaveunsaid. Her unconscious genius was quite exquisite. 

Now and then he made the night journey to Darreuch Castle and each timeshe met him with her frank childlike kiss he was more amazed anduplifted by her aspect. Their quiet talks together were wonderful thingsto remember. She had done much fine and dainty work which she showed himwith unaffected sweetness. She told him stories of Dowie andMademoiselle and how they had taught her to sew and embroider. Once shetold him the story of her first meeting with Donal--but she passed overthe tragedy of their first parting. 

"It was too sad, " she said. 

He noticed that she never spoke of sad and dark hours. He was convincedthat she purposely avoided them and he was profoundly glad. 

"I know, " she said once, "that you do not want me to talk to you aboutthe War. "

"Thank you for knowing it, " he answered. "I come here on a pilgrimage toa shrine where peace is. Darreuch is my shrine. "

"It is mine, too, " was her low response. 

"Yes, I think it is, " his look at her was deep. Suddenly but gently helaid his hand on her shoulder. 

"I beg you, " he said fervently, "I _beg_ you never to allow yourself tothink of it. Blot the accursed thing out of the Universe while--you arehere. For you there must be no war. "

"How kind his face looked, " was Robin's thought as he hesitated asecond and then went on:

"I know very little of such--sacrosanct things as mothers and children, but lately I have had fancies of a place for them where there are onlysmiles and happiness and beauty--as a beginning. "

It was she who now put her hand on his arm. "Little Darreuch is likethat--and you gave it to me, " she said. 

CHAPTER XXXVII

Lord Coombe was ushered into the little drawing-room by an extremelyimmature young footman who--doubtless as a consequence of hisimmaturity--appeared upon the scene too suddenly. The War left one onlyservants who were idiots or barely out of Board Schools, Feather said. And in fact it was something suggesting "a scene" upon which Coombe wasannounced. The athletic and personable young actor--entitled uponprogrammes Owen Delamore--was striding to and fro talking excitedly. There was theatrical emotion in the air and Feather, delicately flushedand elate, was listening with an air half frightened, half pleased. Theimmaturity of the footman immediately took fright and the youth turningat once produced the fatal effect of fleeing precipitately. 

Mr. Owen Delamore suddenly ceased speaking and would doubtless haveflushed vividly if he had not already been so high of colour as topreclude the possibility of his flushing at all. The scene, which wasplainly one of emotion, being intruded upon in its midst left himtransfixed on his expression of anguish, pleading and reproachfulprotest--all thrilling and confusing things. 

The very serenity of Lord Coombe's apparently unobserving entrance wasperhaps a shock as well as a relief. It took even Feather two or threeseconds to break into her bell of a laugh as she shook hands with hervisitor. 

"Mr. Delamore is going over his big scene in the new play, " sheexplained with apt swiftness of resource. "It's very good, but itexcites him dreadfully. I've been told that great actors don't letthemselves get excited at all, so he ought not to do it, ought he, LordCoombe?"

Coombe was transcendently well behaved. 

"I am a yawning abyss of ignorance in such matters, but I cannot agreewith the people who say that emotion can be expressed without feeling. "He himself expressed exteriorly merely intelligent consideration of theidea. "That however may be solely the opinion of one benighted. "

It was so well done that the young athlete, in the relief of relaxednerves, was almost hysterically inclined to believe in Feather's adroitstatement and to feel that he really had been acting. He was at leastable to pull himself together, to become less flushed and to sit downwith some approach to an air of being lightly amused at himself. 

"Well it is proved that I am not a great actor, " he achieved. "I can'tcome anywhere near doing it. I don't believe Irving ever did--orCoquelin. But perhaps it is one of my recommendations that I don'taspire to be great. At any rate people only ask to be amused and helpedout just now. It will be a long time before they want anything else, it's my opinion. "

They conversed amiably together for nearly a quarter of an hour beforeMr. Owen Delamore went on his way murmuring polite regrets concerningimpending rehearsals, his secret gratitude expressing itself in specialcourtesy to Lord Coombe. 

As he was leaving the room, Feather called to him airily:

"If you hear any more of the Zepps--just dash in and tell me!--Don'tlose a minute! Just dash!"

When the front door was heard to close upon him, Coombe remarkedcasually:

"I will ask you to put an immediate stop to that sort of thing. "

He observed that Feather fluttered--though she had lightly moved to atable as if to rearrange a flower in a group. 

"Put a stop to letting Mr. Delamore go over his scene here?"

"Put a stop to Mr. Delamore, if you please. "

It was at this moment more than ever true that her light being wasoverstrung and that her light head whirled too fast. This one particularalso overstrung young man had shared all her amusements with her and hadended by pleasing her immensely--perhaps to the verge of inspiring atouch of fevered sentiment she had previously never known. She toldherself that it was the War when she thought of it. She had however notbeen clever enough to realise that she was a little losing her head in away which might not be to her advantage. For the moment she lost itcompletely. She almost whirled around as she came to Coombe. 

"I won't, " she exclaimed. "I won't!"

It was a sort of shock to him. She had never done anything like itbefore. It struck him that he had never before seen her look as shelooked at the moment. She was a shade too dazzlingly made up--she hadcrossed the line on one side of which lies the art which is perfect. Even her dress had a suggestion of wartime lack of restraint in itsstyle and colours. 

It was of a strange green and a very long scarf of an intensely vividviolet spangled with silver paillettes was swathed around her bareshoulders and floated from her arms. One of the signs of her excitementwas that she kept twisting its ends without knowing that she wastouching it. He noted that she wore a big purple amethyst ring--theamethyst too big. Her very voice was less fine in its inflections and ashe swiftly took in these points Coombe recognised that they were theactual result of the slight tone of raffishness he had observed asdenoting the character of her increasingly mixed circle. 

She threw herself into a chair palpitating in one of her rages of alittle cat--wreathing her scarf round and round her wrist and singularlystriking him with the effect of almost spitting and hissing out herwords. 

"I won't give up everything I like and that likes me, " she flung out. "The War has done something to us all. It's made us let ourselves go. It's done something to me too. It's made me less frightened. I won't bebullied into--into things. "

"Do I seem to bully you? I am sorry. "

The fact that she had let herself go with the rest of the world got thebetter of her. 

"You have not been near me for weeks and now you turn up with your airof a grand Bashawe and order people out of my house. You have not beennear me. "

The next instant it was as though she tore off some last shred of mentalveiling and threw it aside in her reckless mounting heat of temper. 

"Near me!" she laughed scathingly, "For the matter of that when have youever been _near_ me? It's always been the same. I've known it for years. As the Yankees say, you 'wouldn't touch me with a ten-foot pole. ' I'msick of it. What did you _do_ it for?"

"Do what?"

"Take possession of me as if I were your property. You never were inlove with me--never for a second. If you had been you'd have marriedme. "

"Yes. I should have married you. "

"There was no reason why you should not. I was pretty. I was young. I'dbeen decently brought up--and it would have settled everything. Why_didn't_ you instead of letting people think I was your mistress when Ididn't count for as much as a straw in your life?"

"You represented more than that, " he answered. "Kindly listen to me. "

That she had lost her head completely was sufficiently manifested by thefact that she had begun to cry--which made it necessary for her to useher handkerchief with inimitable skill to prevent the tears fromencroaching on her brilliant white and rose. 

"If you had been in love with me--" she chafed bitterly. 

"On the morning some years ago when I came to you I made myself clear tothe best of my ability, " he said. "I did not mention love. I told youthat I had no intention of marrying you. I called your attention to whatthe world would assume. I left the decision to you. "

"What could I do--without a penny? Some other man would have had to doit if you had not, " the letting go rushed her into saying. 

"Or you would have been obliged to return to your parents inJersey--which you refused to contemplate. "

"Of course I refused. It would have been mad to do it. And there wereother people who would have paid my bills. "

"Solely because I knew that, I made my proposition. Being much olderthan you I realised that other people might not feel the responsibilitybinding--and permanent. "

She sat up and stared at him. There was no touch of the rancour ofrecrimination in his presentation of detached facts. He _was_ differentfrom the rest. He was always better dressed and the perfection of hisimpersonal manner belonged to a world being swept away. He made Mr. OwenDelamore seem by contrast a bounder and an outsider. But the fact whichhad in the secret places of her small mind been the fly in herointment--the one fact that he had never for a moment cared a straw forher--caused her actually to hate him as he again made it, quite withoutprejudice, crystal clear. It was true that he had more than kept hisword--that he had never broken a convention in his bearing towardsher--that in his rigid way he had behaved like a prince--but she hadbeen dirt under his feet--she had been dirt under his feet! She wantedto rave like a fishwife--though there were no fishwives in Mayfair. 

It was at this very moment of climax that a sudden memory beset her. 

"Rob always said that if a woman who was pretty could see a man oftenenough--again and again--he couldn't _help_ himself--unless there _was_some one else!"

Her last words were fiercely accusing. She quite glared at him a fewseconds, her chest heaving pantingly. 

She suddenly sprang from her sofa and dashed towards a table where apile of photographs lay in an untidy little heap. She threw them aboutwith angrily shaking hands until at last she caught at one and broughtit back to him. 

"There _was_ some one else, " she laughed shrilly. "You were in love withthat creature. "

It was one of the photographs of Alixe such as the Bond Street shop hadshown in its windows. 

She made a movement as if to throw it into the grate and he took it fromher hand, saying nothing whatever. 

"I'd forgotten about it until Owen Delamore reminded me only yesterday, "she said. "He's a romantic thing and he heard that you had been inattendance and had been sent to their castle in Germany. He worked thething out in his own way. He said you had chosen me because I was likeher. I can see now! I _was_ like her!"

"If you had been like her, " his voice was intensely bitter, "I shouldhave asked you to be my wife. You are as unlike her as one human beingcan be to another. "

"But I was enough like her to make you take me up!" she cried furiously. 

"I have neither taken you up nor put you down, " he answered. "Be goodenough never to refer to the subject again. "

"I'll refer to any subject I like. If you think I shall not you aremistaken. It will be worth talking about. An Early Victorian romance isworth something in these days. "

The trend of her new circle had indeed carried her far. He was privatelyappalled by her. She was hysterically, passionately spiteful--almost tothe point of malignance. 

"Do you realise that this is a scene? It has not been our habit toindulge in scenes, " he said. 

"I shall speak about it as freely as I shall speak about Robin, " sheflaunted at him, wholly unrestrained. "Do you think I know nothing aboutRobin? I'm an affectionate mother and I've been making inquiries. She'snot with the Dowager at Eaton Square. She got ill and was sent away tobe hidden in the country. Girls are, sometimes. I thought she would besent away somewhere, the day I met her in the street. She lookedexactly like that sort of thing. Where is she? I demand to know. "

There is nothing so dangerous to others as the mere spitefully malignanttemper of an empty headed creature giving itself up to its own weakfury. It knows no restraint, no limit in its folly. In her fantasticbroodings over her daughter's undue exaltation of position Feather hadmany times invented for her own entertainment little scenes in which shecould score satisfactorily. Such scenes had always included Coombe, theDowager, Robin and Mrs. Muir. 

"I am her mother. She is not of age. I _can_ demand to see her. I canmake her come home and stay with me while I see her through her'trouble, ' as pious people call it. She's got herself into trouble--justlike a housemaid. I knew she would--I warned her, " and her laugh wasactually shrill. 

It was inevitable--and ghastly--that he should suddenly see Robin withher white eyelids dropped over her basket of sewing by the window in theTower room at Darreuch. It rose as clear as a picture on a screen and hefelt sick with actual terror. 

"I'll go to the Duchess and ask her questions until she can't face mewithout telling the truth. If she's nasty I'll talk to the War Workpeople who crowd her house. They all saw Robin and the wide-awake oneswill understand when I'm maternal and tragic and insist on knowing. I'llgo to Mrs. Muir and talk to her. It will be fun to see her face and theDuchess'. "

He had never suspected her of malice such as this. And even in the midstof his ghastly dismay he saw that it was merely the malice of an angrilyspiteful selfish child of bad training and with no heart. There wasnothing to appeal to--nothing to arrest and control. She might repenther insanity in a few days but for the period of her mood she would doher senseless worst. 

"Your daughter has not done what you profess to believe, " he said. "Youdo not believe it. Will you tell me why you propose to do these things?"

She had worked herself up to utter recklessness. 

"Because of _everything_, " she spat forth. "Because I'm in arage--because I'm sick of her and her duchesses. And I'm most sick ofyou hovering about her as if she were a princess of the blood and youwere her Grand Chamberlain. Why don't you marry her yourself--baby andall! Then you'll be sure there'll be another Head of the House ofCoombe!"

She knew then that she had raved like a fishwife--that, even thoughthere had before been no fishwives in Mayfair, he saw one standingshrilling before him. It was in his eyes and she knew it before she hadfinished speaking, for his look was maddening. It enraged her evenfurther and she shook in the air the hand with the big purple amethystring, still clutching the end of the bedizened purple scarf. She wasintoxicated with triumph--for she had reached him. 

"I will! I will!" she cried. "I will--to-morrow!"

"You will not!" his voice rang out as she had never heard it before. Heeven took a step forward. Then came the hurried leap of feet up thenarrow staircase and Owen Delamore flung the door wide, panting:

"You told me to dash in, " he almost shouted. "They're coming! We canrush round to the Sinclairs'. They're on the roof already!"

She caught the purple scarf around her and ran towards him, for at thisnew excitement her frenzy reached its highest note. 

"I will! I will!" she called back to Coombe as she fled out of the roomand she held up and waved at him again the hand with the big amethyst. "I will, to-morrow!"

 * * * * *

Lord Coombe was left standing in the garish, crowded little drawing-roomlistening to ominous sounds in the street--to cries, running feet andmen on fleeing bicycles shouting warnings as they sped at top speed andstrove to clear the way. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII

It was one of the raids which left hellish things behind it--thingshushed with desperate combined effort to restrain panic, but whichblighted the air people strove to breathe and kept men and womenshuddering for long after and made people waken with sharp cries fromnightmares of horror. Certain paled faces belonged to those who had seenthings and would never forget them. Others strove to look defiant andcheerful and did not find it easy. Some tried to get past policemen tocertain parts of the city and some, getting past, returned livid andless adventurous in spirit because they had heard things it was gruesometo hear. Lord Coombe went the next morning to the slice of a house andfound the servants rather hysterical. Feather had not returned, but theywere not hysterical for that reason. She had probably remained at thehouse to which she had gone to see the Zepps. After the excitement wasover, people like the Sinclairs were rather inclined to restorethemselves by making a night of it, so to speak. 

As "to-morrow" had now arrived, Lord Coombe wished to see her on herreturn. He had in fact lain awake thinking of plans of defence but hadso far been able to decide on none. If there had been anything to touch, to appeal to, there might have been some hope, but she had left tasteand fastidiousness scattered in shreds behind her. The War, as she putit, had made her less afraid of life. She had in fact joined the army ofwomen who could always live so long as their beauty lasted. At thebeginning of her relations with Lord Coombe she had belonged in a senseto a world which now no longer existed in its old form. Possibly therewould soon be neither courts nor duchesses and so why should anythingparticularly matter? There were those who were taking cataclysms lightlyand she was among them. If her airy mind chanced to have veered and hertemper died down, money or jewels might induce her to keep quiet if onecould endure the unspeakable indignity of forcing oneself to offerthem. She would feel such an offer no indignity and would probablyregard it as a tremendous joke. But she could no more be trusted than afemale monkey or jackdaw. 

Lord Coombe sat among the gewgaws in the drawing room and waited becausehe must see her when she came in and at least discover if the weathercock had veered. 

After waiting an hour or more he heard a taxi arrive at the front doorand stop there. He went to the window to see who got out of the vehicle. It gave him a slight shock to recognise a man he knew well. He woreplain clothes, but he was a member of the police force. 

He evidently came into the house and stopped in the hall to talk to theimmature footman who presently appeared at the drawing-room door, looking shaken because he had been questioned and did not know what itportended. 

"What is the matter?" Lord Coombe assisted him with. 

"Some one who is asking about Mrs. Gareth-Lawless. He doesn't seemsatisfied with what I tell him. I took the liberty of saying yourlordship was here and perhaps you'd see him. "

"Bring him upstairs. "

It was in fact a man who knew Lord Coombe well enough to be aware thathe need make no delay. 

"It was one of the worst, my lord, " he said in answer to Coombe's firstquestion. "We've had hard work--and the hardest of it was to holdthings--people--back. " He looked hag-ridden as he went on without anypreparation. He was too tired for prefaces. 

"There was a lady who went out of here last night. She was with agentleman. They were running to a friend's house to see things from theroof. They didn't get there. The gentleman is in the hospital deliriousto-day. He doesn't know what happened. It's supposed somethingfrightened her and she lost her wits and ran away. The gentleman triedto follow her but the lights were out and he couldn't find her in thedark streets. The running about and all the noises and crashes sent himrather wild perhaps. Trying to find a frightened woman in the midst ofall that--and not finding her--"

"What ghastly--damnable thing has happened?" Coombe asked with stifflips. 

"It's both, " the man said, "--it's both. "

He produced a package and opened it. There was a torn and stained pieceof spangled violet gauze folded in it and on top was a little cardboardbox which he opened also to show a ring with a big amethyst in it setwith pearls. 

"Good God!" Coombe ejaculated, getting up from his chair hastily, "Oh!Good God!"

"You know them?" the man asked. 

"Yes. I saw them last night--before she went out. "

"She ran the wrong way--she must have been crazy with fright. This--"the man hesitated a second here and pulled himself together, "--this isall that was found except--"

"Good God!" said Lord Coombe again and he walked to and fro rapidly, trying to hold his body rigid. 

"The gentleman--his name is Delamore--went on looking--after the raidwas over. Some one saw him running here and there as if he had gonecrazy. He was found afterwards where he'd fainted--near a woman's handwith this ring on and the piece of scarf in it. He's a strong young chapbut he'd fainted dead. He was carried to the hospital and to-day he'sdelirious. "

"There--was nothing more?" shuddered Coombe. 

"Nothing, my lord. "

 * * * * *

Out of unbounded space embodied nothingness had seemed to float acrossthe world of living things, and into space the nothingness haddisappeared--leaving behind a trinket and a rent scrap of purple gauze. 

CHAPTER XXXIX

Six weeks later Coombe was driven again up the climbing road toDarreuch. There was something less of colour than usual in his face, butthe slightly vivid look of shock observing persons had been commentingupon had died out. As he had travelled, leaning back upon the cushionsof the railway carriage, he had kept his eyes closed for the greaterpart of the journey. When at last he began to open them and look out atthe increasingly beautiful country he also began to look rested andcalm. He already felt the nearing peace of the shrine and added to itwas an immense relaxing and uplift. A girl of a type entirely differentfrom Robin's might, he knew, have made him feel during the past monthsas if he were taking part in a melodrama. This she had wholly saved himfrom by the clear simplicity of her natural acceptance of all things asthey were. She had taken and given without a word. He was, as it were, going home to her now, as deeply thrilled and moved as a totallydifferent type of man might have gone--a man who was simpler. 

The things he might once have been and felt were at work within him. Again he longed to see the girl--he _wanted_ to see her. He was going tothe castle in response to a telegram from Dowie. All was well over. Shewas safe. For the rest, all calamity had been kept from her knowledgeand, as he had arranged it, the worst would never reach her. In courseof time she would learn all it was necessary that she should know of hermother's death. 

When Mrs. Macaur led him to one of his own rooms she glowed red andexpectantly triumphant. 

"The young lady, your lordship--it was wonderfu'!"

But before she had time to say more Dowie had appeared and her face wassmooth and serene to marvellousness. 

"The Almighty himself has been in this place, my lord, " she saiddevoutly. "I didn't send more than a word, because she's like aschoolroom child about it. She wants to tell you herself. " The woman wasquivering with pure joy. 

"May I see her?"

"She's waiting, my lord. "

Honey scents of gorse and heather blew softly through the open windowsof the room he was taken to. He did not know enough of such things to beat all sure what he had expected to see--but what he moved quicklytowards, the moment after his entrance, was Robin lying fair as a wildrose on her pillows--not pale, not tragic, but with her eyes wide andradiant as a shining child's. 

Her smiling made his heart stand still. He really could not speak. Butshe could and turned back the covering to show him what lay in her softcurved arm. 

"He is not like me at all, " was her joyous exulting. "He is exactly likeDonal. "

 * * * * *

The warm, tender breathing, semi-dormant, scarcely sentient-seemingthing might indeed have been the reincarnation of what had in the pastso peculiarly reached bodily perfection. Robin, who mysteriously knewevery line and curve of the new-born body, could point out how each limband feature was an embryonic replica. 

"Though he looks so tiny, he is not really little, " was her lovelyyearning boast. "He is really very big. Dowie has known hundreds ofbabies and they were none of them as big as he is. He is a giant--anangel giant, " burying her face in the soft red neck. 

"It seemed to change me into another type of man, " Coombe once said tothe Duchess. 

The man into whom he had been transformed was he who lived through thenext few days at Darreuch even as though life were a kindly faithfulthing. Many other men, he told himself, must have lived as he did and hewondered if any of them ever forgot it. It was a thing set apart. 

He sat by Robin's side; they talked together; he retired to his ownrooms or went out for a long walk, coming back to her to talk again, orread aloud, or to consider with her the marvel of the small thing by herside, examining curled hands and feet with curious interest. 

"But though they look so little, they are not really, " she always said. "See how long his fingers are and how they taper. And his foot is long, too, and narrow and arched. Donal's was like it. "

"Was, " she said, and he wondered if she might not feel a pang as hehimself did. 

He wondered often and sometimes, when he sat alone in his room at night, found something more than wonder in his mind--something that, if she hadnot forbidden it, would have been fear because of strange things he sawin her. 

He could not question her. He dared not even remotely touch on thedream. She was so well, her child was so well. She was as any youngmother might have been who could be serene in her husband's absencebecause she knew he was safe and would soon return. 

"Is she always as calm?" he once asked Dowie. "Does she never seem to bereminded of what would have been if he were alive?"

Dowie shook her head and he saw that the old anxiousness came back uponher. 

"My lord, she believes he _is_ alive when she sees him. That's whattroubles me even in my thankfulness. I don't understand, God help me! Iwas afraid when she saw the child that it might all come over her againin a way that would do her awful harm. But when I laid the little thingdown by her she just lay there herself and looked at it as if somethingwas uplifting her. And in a few seconds she whispered, 'He is likeDonal. ' And then she said to herself, soft but quite clear, 'Donal, Donal!' And never a tear rose. Perhaps, " hesitating over it, "it's theblessedness of _time_. A child's a wonderful thing--and so is time. Sometimes, " a queer sigh broke from her, "when I've been hard put to itby trouble, I've said to myself, 'Well the Almighty did give us_time_--whatever else he takes away. '"

But Coombe mysteriously felt that it was not merely time which hadcalmed her, though any explanation founded on material reasoning becamemore remote each day. The thought which came to him at times had noconnection with temporal things. He found he was gravely asking himselfwhat aspect mere life would have worn if Alixe had come to him everynight in such form as had given him belief in the absolute reality ofher being. If he had been convinced that he heard the voice of Alixe--ifshe had smiled and touched him with her white hands as she had nevertouched him in life--if her eyes had been unafraid and they had spokentogether "only of happy things"--and had understood as one soul--whatcould the mere days have held of hurt? There was only one possible replyand it seemed to explain his feeling that she was sustained by somethingwhich was not alone the mere blessedness of time. 

He became conscious one morning of the presence of a new expression inher eyes. There was a brave radiance in them and, before, he had knownthat in their radiance there had been no necessity for bravery. He felta subtle but curious difference. 

Her child had been long asleep and she lay like a white dove on herpillows when he came to make his brief good-night visit. She was verystill and seemed to be thinking. Her touch on his arm was as the touchof a butterfly when she at last put out her hand to him. 

"He may not come to-night, " she said. 

He put his own hand over hers and hoped it was done quietly. 

"But to-morrow night?" trusting that his tone was quiet also. It must bequiet. 

"Perhaps not for a good many nights. He does not know. I must not askthings. I never do. "

"But it has been so wonderful that you know--"

On what plane was he--on what plane was she? What plane were theytalking about with such undoubtingness? Heaven be praised his voiceactually sounded natural. 

"I do not know much--except that he is Donal. And I can never feel as ifI were dead again--never. "

"No, " he answered. "Never!"

She lay so still for a few minutes that if her eyes had not been open hewould have thought she was falling asleep. They were so dreamy thatperhaps she was falling asleep and he softly rose to leave her. 

"I think--he is trying to come nearer, " she murmured. "Good-night, dear. "

CHAPTER XL

Ominous hours had come and gone; waves of gloom had surged in andreceded, but never receded far enough. It was as though the rising andfalling of some primćval storm was the background of all thought andlife and its pandemonium of sound foretold the far-off heaving of somevast tidal wave, gathering its unearthly power as it swelled. 

Coombe talking to his close friend in her few quiet hours at EatonSquare, found a support in the very atmosphere surrounding her. 

"The world at war creates a prehistoric uproar, " he said. "The earthcalled out of chaos to take form may have produced some such tempestuouscrash. But there is a far-off glow--"

"You believe--something--I believe too. But the prehistoric darkness anduproar are so appalling. One loses hold. " The Duchess leaned forward hervoice dropping. "What do you know that I do not?"

"The light usually breaks in the East, " Coombe answered. 

"It is breaking in the West to-day. It has always been there and it hasbeen spreading from the first. At any moment it may set the sky aflame. "

For as time had gone on the world had beheld the colossal spectacle of ahuge nation in the melting pot. And, as it was as a nation the compositeresult of the fusion of all the countries of the earth, thebreath-suspended lookers-on beheld it in effect, passionatelycommercial, passionately generous, passionately sordid, passionatelyromantic, chivalrous, cautious, limited, bounded. As American wealth andsympathy poured in where need was most dire, bitterness became silentthrough sheer discretion's sake, when for no more honest reason. As thecommercial tendency expressed itself in readiness and efficiency, sneering condemnation had become less loud. 

"It will happen. It is the result of the ideals really, " Coombe saidfurther. "And it will come to pass at the exact psychological moment. Ifthey had come in at the beginning they would have faced the first fullforce of the monstrous tidal wave of the colossal German belief in itsown omnipotence--and they would have faced it unawakened, unenraged bymonstrosities and half incredulous of the truth. It was not even theirfight then--and raw fighters need a flaming cause. But the tower ofagonies has built itself to its tottering height before their blazingeyes. Now it is their fight because it is the fight of the whole world. Others have borne the first fierce heat and burden of the day, but theywill rush in young and untouched by calamity--bounding, shouting andsinging. They will come armed with all that long-borne horrors andmaddening human fatigue most need. I repeat--it will occur at the exactpsychological moment. They will bring red-hot blood and furiousunbounded courage-- And it will be the end. "

In fact Coombe waited with a tense sensation of being too tightlystrung. He had hours when he felt that something might snap. But nothingmust snap yet. He was too inextricably entangled in the arduous workeven to go to Darreuch for rest. He did not go for weeks. All was wellthere however--marvellously well it seemed, even when he held in mind aletter from Robin which had ended:--

"He has not come back. But I am not afraid. I promised him I would neverbe afraid again. "

In dark and tired hours he steadied himself with a singularhalf-realised belief that she would not--that somehow some strange thingwould be left to her, whatsoever was taken away. It was because he feltas if he were nearing the end of his tether. He had becomehypersensitive to noises, to the sounds in the streets, to the strainand grief in faces he saw as he walked or drove. 

 * * * * *

After lying awake all one night without a moment of blank peace he camedown pale and saw that his hand shook as he held his coffee cup. It wasa livid sort of morning and when he went out for the sake of exercise hefound he was looking at each of the strained faces as if it held someanswer to an unformed question. He realised that the tenseness of bothmind and body had increased. For no reason whatever he was restrung by asense of waiting for something--as if something were going to happen. 

He went back to Coombe House and when he crossed the threshold heconfronted the elderly unliveried man who had stood at his place foryears--and the usually unperturbed face was agitated so nearly to panicthat he stopped and addressed him. 

"Has anything happened?"

"My lord--a Red Cross nurse--has brought"--he was actually quiteunsteady--too unsteady to finish, for the next moment the Red Crossnurse was at his side--looking very whitely fresh and clean and with anice, serious youngish face. 

"I need not prepare you for good news--even if it is a sort of shock, "she said, watching him closely. "I have brought Captain Muir back toyou. "

"You have brought--?" he exclaimed. 

"He has been in one of the worst German prisons. He was left for dead onthe field and taken prisoner. We must not ask him questions. I don'tknow why he is alive. He escaped, God knows how. At this time he doesnot know himself. I saw him on the boat. He asked me to take charge ofhim, " she spoke very quickly. "He is a skeleton, poor boy. Come. "

She led the way to his own private room. She went on talking shorthurried sentences, but he scarcely heard her. This, then, was what hehad been waiting for. Why had he not known? This tremendous thing wasreally not so tremendous after all because it had happened in othercases before-- Yet he had never once thought of it. 

"He would not let his wife or his mother see him until he looked morelike himself, " he heard the Red Cross nurse say as he entered the room. 

Donal was lying stretched at full length on a sofa. He looked abnormallylong, because he was so thin that he was, as the nurse had said, askeleton. His face was almost a death's head, but his blue eyes lookedout of their great hollow sockets clear as tarn water, and with thesmile which Coombe would not have forgotten howsoever long life haddragged out. 

"Be very careful!" whispered the nurse. 

He knew he must be careful. Only the eyes were alive. The body was acollapsed thing. He seemed scarcely breathing, his voice was a thread. 

"Robin!" Coombe caught as he bent close to him. "Robin!"

"She is well, dear boy!" How his voice shook! "I have taken care ofher. "

The light leaped up into the blue for a second. The next the lidsdropped and the nurse sprang forward because he had slipped into a faintso much like death that it might well have rent hope from a looker-on. 

For the next hour, and indeed for many following, there was unflaggingwork to be done. The Red Cross Nurse was a capable, swiftly movingwoman, with her resources at her finger's ends, and her quick wits abouther. Almost immediately two doctors from the staff, in charge of therooms upstairs were on the spot and at work with her. By whatlightning-flashed sentences she conveyed to them, without pausing for asecond, the facts it was necessary for them to know, wasincomprehensible to Coombe, who could only stand afar off and wait, watching the dead face. Its sunken temples, cheeks and eyes, and thesharply carven bone outline were heart gripping. 

It seemed hours before one of the doctors as he bent over the couchwhispered, "The breathing is a little better--"

It was not possible that he should be moved, but the couch was broad anddeeply upholstered and could be used temporarily as a bed. Everyresource of medical science was within reach. Nurse Jones, who had beenon her way home to take a rest, was so far ensnared by unusual interestthat she wished to be allowed to remain on duty. There were other nurseswho could be called on at any moment of either night or day. There weredoctors of indisputable skill who were also fired by the mere histrionicfeatures of the case. The handsome, fortunate young fellow who had beensupposed torn to fragments had by some incomprehensible luck been aidedto drag himself home--perhaps to die of pure exhaustion. 

Was it really hours before Coombe saw the closed eyes weakly open? Butthe smile was gone and they seemed to be looking at something not inthe room. 

"They will come--in, " the words dragged out scarcely to be heard. "Jackson--said--said--they--would. " The eyes dropped again and thebreathing was a mere flutter. 

Nurse Jones was in fact filled with much curiosity concerning andinterest in the Marquis of Coombe. She was a clever and well trainedperson, but socially a simple creature, who in an inoffensive way "loveda lord. " If her work had not absorbed her she could not have kept hereyes from this finely conventional and rather unbending-looking manwho--keeping himself out of the way of all who were in charge of theseemingly almost dead boy--still would not leave the room, and watchedhim with a restrained passion of such feeling as it was not natural tosee in the eyes of men. Marquis or not he had gone through frightfulthings in his life and this boy meant something tremendous to him. If hecouldn't be brought back--! Despite the work her swift eye dartedsideways at the Marquis. 

When at length another nurse took her place and she was going out of theroom, he moved quickly towards her and spoke. 

"May I ask if I may speak to you alone for a few minutes? I have noright to keep you from your rest. I assure you I won't. "

"I'll come, " she answered. What she saw in the man's face was that, because she had brought the boy, he actually clung to her. She had beenclung to many times before, but never by a man who looked quite likethis. There was _more_ than you could see. 

He led her to a smaller room near by. He made her sit down, but he didnot sit himself. It was plain that he did not mean to keep her from herbed--though he was in hard case if ever man was. His very determinationnot to impose on her caused her to make up her mind to tell him all shecould, though it wasn't much. 

"Captain Muir's mother believes that he is dead, " he said. "It is plainthat no excitement must approach him--even another person's emotion. Hewas her idol. She is in London. _Must_ I send for her--or would it besafe to wait?"

"There have been minutes to-day when if I'd known he had a mother Ishould have said she must be sent for, " was her answer. "To-night Ibelieve--yes, I _do_--that it would be better to wait and watch. Ofcourse the doctors must really decide. "

"Thank you. I will speak to them. But I confess I wanted to ask _you_. "How he did cling to her!

"Thank you, " he said again. "I will not keep you. "

He opened the door and waited for her to pass--as if she had been amarchioness herself, she thought. In spite of his desperate eyes hedidn't forget a single thing. He so moved her that she actually turnedback. 

"You don't know anything yet-- Some one you're fond of coming back fromthe grave must make you half mad to know how it happened, " she said. "Idon't know much myself, but I'll tell you all I was able to find out. Hewas light headed when I found him trying to get on the boat. When Ispoke to him he just caught my hand and begged me to stay with him. Hewanted to get to you. He'd been wandering about, starved and hiding. Ifhe'd been himself he could have got help earlier. But he'd been illtreated and had seen things that made him lose his balance. He couldn'ttell a clear story. He was too weak to talk clearly. But I askedquestions now and then and listened to every word he said when herambled because of his fever. Jackson was a fellow prisoner who died ofhemorrhage brought on by brutality. Often I couldn't understand him, buthe kept bringing in the name of Jackson. One thing puzzled me very much. He said several times 'Jackson taught me to dream of Robin. I shouldnever have seen Robin if I hadn't known Jackson. ' Now 'Robin' is a boy'sname--but he said 'her' and 'she' two or three times as if it were agirl's. "

"Robin is his wife, " said Coombe. He really found the support of thedoor he still held open, useful for the moment. 

An odd new interest sharpened in her eyes. 

"Then he's been dreaming of her. " She almost jerked it out--as if insudden illumination almost relief. "He's been dreaming of her--! And itmay have kept him alive. " She paused as if she were asking questions ofher own mind. "I wonder, " dropped from her in slow speculation, "if shehas been dreaming of _him_?"

"He was not dead--he was not an angel--he was Donal!" Robin hadpersisted from the first. He had not been dead. In some incrediblyhideous German prison--in the midst of inhuman horrors and the blacknessof what must have been despair--he had been alive, and had dreamed asshe had. 

Nurse Jones looked at him, waiting. Even if nurses had not been, presumably, under some such bond of honourable secrecy as constrainedthe medical profession, he knew she was to be trusted. Her very looktold him. 

"She did dream of him, " he said. "She was slipping fast down the slopeto death and he caught her back. He saved her life and her child's. Shewas going to have a child. "

They were both quite silent for a few moments. The room was still. Thenthe woman drew her hand with a quick odd gesture across her forehead. 

"Queer things happened in the last century, but queerer ones are goingto happen in this--if people will let them. Doctors and nurses see andthink a lot they can't talk about. They're always on the spot at whatseems to be the beginning and the ending. These black times have openedup the ways. 'Queer things, ' I said, " with sudden forcefulness. "They'renot queer. It's only laws we haven't known about. It's the writing onthe scroll that we couldn't read. We're just learning the alphabet. "Then after a minute more of thought, "Those two--were they particularlyfond of each other--more to each other than most young couples?"

"They loved each other the hour they first met--when they were littlechildren. It was an unnatural shock to them both when they were parted. They seemed to be born mated for life. "

"That was the reason, " she said quite relievedly. "I can understandthat. It's as orderly as the stars. " Then she added with a sudden, strong, quite normal conviction, and her tiredness seemed to drop fromher, "He won't die--that beautiful boy, " she said. "He can't. It's notmeant. They're going on, those three. He's the most splendid human thingI ever handled--skeleton as he is. His very bones are magnificent as helies there. And that smile of his that's deep in the blue his eyes aremade of--it can only flicker up for a second now--but it can't go out. He's safe, even this minute, though you mayn't believe it. "

"I do believe it, " Coombe said. 

And he stood there believing it, when she went through the open door andleft him. 

CHAPTER XLI

It was long before the dropped eyelids could lift and hold themselvesopen for more than a few seconds and long before the eyes wore their oldclear look. The depths of the collapse after prolonged tortures ofstrain and fear was such as demanded a fierce and unceasing fight ofskill and unswerving determination on the part of both doctors andnurses. There were hours when what seemed to be strange, deathly dropsinto abysses of space struck terror into most of those who stood bylooking on. But Nurse Jones always believed and so did Coombe. 

"You needn't send for his mother yet, " she said without flinching. "Youand I know something the others don't know, Lord Coombe. That child andher baby are holding him back though they don't know anything about it. "

It revealed itself to him that her interest in things occult andapparently unexplained by material processes had during the last fewyears intensely absorbed her in private. Her feeling, though intense, was intelligent and her processes of argument were often convincing. Hebecame willing to answer her questions because he felt sure of her. Helent her the books he had been reading and in her hard-earned hours ofleisure she plunged deep into them. 

"Perhaps I read sometimes when I ought to be sleeping, but it restsme--I tell you it _rests_ me. I'm finding out that there's strengthoutside of all this and you can draw on it. It's there waiting, " shesaid. "Everybody will know about its being there--in course of time. "

"But the time seems long, " said Coombe. 

Concerning the dream she had many interesting theories. She was at firstdisturbed and puzzled because it had stopped. She was anxious to findout whether it had come back again, but, like Lord Coombe, she realisedthat Robin's apparent calm must on no account be disturbed. If herhealth-giving serenity could be sustained for a certain length of time, the gates of Heaven would open to her. But at first Nurse Jones askedherself and Lord Coombe some troubled questions. 

It came about at length that she appeared one night, in the room wheretheir first private talk had taken place and she had presented herselfon her way to bed, because she had something special to say. 

"It came to me when I awakened this morning as if it had been told to mein the night. Things often seem to come that way. Do you remember, LordCoombe, that she said they only talked about happy things?"

"Yes. She said it several times, " Coombe answered. 

"Do you remember that he never told her where he came from? And she knewthat she must not ask questions? How _could_ he have told her of thathell--how could he?"

"You are right--quite!"

"I feel sure I am. When he can talk he will tell you--if he remembers. Iwonder how much they remember--except the relief and the blessedhappiness of it? Lord Coombe, I believe as I believe I'm in this room, that when he knew he was going to face the awful risk of trying toescape, he knew he mustn't tell her. And he knew that in crawlingthrough dangers and hiding in ditches he could never be sure of beingable to lie down to sleep and concentrate on sending his soul to her. Sohe told her that he might not come for some time. Oh, lord! If he'd beencaught and killed he could never-- No! No!" obstinately, "even then hewould have got back in some form--in some way. I've got to the point ofbelieving as much as that. He was hers!"

"Yes. Yes. Yes, " was all his slow answer. But there was deep thought ineach detached word and when she went away he walked up and down the roomwith leisurely steps, looking down at the carpet. 

 * * * * *

As many hours of the day and night as those in authority would allow himLord Coombe sat and watched by Donal's bed. He watched from well hiddenanxiousness to see every subtle change recording itself on his being; hewatched from throbbing affection and longing to see at once any tinge ofgrowing natural colour, any unconscious movement perhaps a shadestronger than the last. It was his son who lay there, he told himself, it was the son he had remotely yearned for in his loneliness; if he hadbeen his father watching his sunk lids with bated breath, he would havefelt just these unmerciful pangs. 

He also watched because in the boy's hours of fevered unconsciousness hecould at times catch words--sometimes broken sentences, which threwghastly light upon things past. Sometimes their significance was such asmade him shudder. A condition the doctors most dreaded was one in whichmonstrous scenes seem lived again--scenes in which cruelties andmaddening suffering and despairing death itself rose vividly from thedepth of subconsciousness and cried aloud for vengeance. Sometimes Donalshuddered, tearing at his chest with both hands, more than once he laysobbing until only skilled effort prevented his sobs from becomingchoking danger. 

"It may be years after he regains his strength, " the chief physiciansaid, "years before it will be safe to ask him for detail. On my ownpart I would _never_ bring such horrors back to a man. You may havenoticed how the men who have borne most, absolutely refuse to talk. "

"It's an accursed fool who tries to make them, " broke in one of theyounger men. "There was a fellow who had been pinned up against a barndoor and left to hang there--and a coarse, loud-mouthed lunatic askedhim to describe how it felt. The chap couldn't stand it. Do you knowwhat he did? He sprang at him and knocked him down. He apologizedafterwards and said it was his nerves. But there's not a man who wasthere who will ever speak to that other brute again. "

The man whose name was Jackson seemed to be a clinging memory to theskeleton when its mind wandered in the past Hades. He had been in someway very close to the boy. He had died somehow--cruelly. There had beenblood--blood--and no one would help. Some devil had even laughed. Whenthat scene came back the doctors and nurses held their breath andsilently worked hard. Nothing seemed quite as heart-rending as what hadhappened to Jackson. But there were endless other things to shudder at. 

 * * * * *

So the time passed and Nurse Jones found many times that she must stopat his door on her way to her rest to say, "Don't look like that, LordCoombe. You need not send for his mother yet. "

Then at last--and it had been like travelling for months waterless in adesert--she came in one day with a new and elate countenance. "Mrs. Muiris a quiet, self-controlled woman, isn't she?" she asked. 

"Entirely self-controlled and very quiet, " he answered. 

"Then if you will speak to Dr. Beresford about it I know he will allowher to see Captain Muir for a few minutes. And, thank God, it's notbecause if she doesn't see him now she'll never see him alive again. Hehas all his life before him. "

"Please sit down, Nurse, " Coombe spoke hastily and placed a chair as hespoke. He did so because he had perceiving eyes. 

She sat down and covered her face with her apron for a moment. She madeno sound or movement, but caught a deep quick breath two or three times. The relaxed strain had temporarily overpowered her. She uncovered herface and got up almost immediately. She was not likely to give wayopenly to her emotions. 

"Thank you, Lord Coombe, " she said. "I've never had a case that grippedhold of me as this has. I've often felt as though that poor half-killedboy was more to me than he is. You might speak to Dr. Beresford now. He's just gone in. "

 * * * * *

Therefore Lord Coombe went that afternoon to the house before which grewthe plane trees whose leaves had rustled in the dawn's first wind on themorning Donal had sat and talked with his mother after the night of theDowager Duchess of Darte's dance. 

On his way his thoughts were almost uncontrollable things and he knewthe first demand of good sense was that he should control them. But hewas like an unbelievable messenger from another world--a dark worldunknown, because shadows hid it, and would not let themselves be piercedby streaming human eyes. Donal was dead. This was what would fill thiswoman's mind when he entered her house. Donal was dead. It was thethought that had excluded all else from life for her, though he knew shehad gone on working as other broken women had done. What did people sayto women whose sons had been dead and had come back to life? It hadhappened before. What _could_ one say to prepare them for thetranscendent shock of joy? What preparation could there be?

"God help me!" he said to himself with actual devoutness as he stood atthe door. 

He had seen Helen Muir once or twice since the news of her loss hadreached her and she had looked like a most beautiful ghost and shadow ofherself. When she came into her drawing-room to meet him she was more ofa ghost and shadow than when they had last met and he saw her lipsquiver at the mere sight of him, though she came forward very quietly. 

Whatsoever helped him in response to his unconscious appeal brought tohim suddenly a wave of comprehension of her and of himself as creaturesunexpectedly near each other as they had never been before. The feelingwas remotely akin to what had been awakened in him by the pure gravityand tenderness of Robin's baptismal good-bye kiss. He was human, she washuman, they had both been forced to bear suffering. He was bringing joyto her. 

He met her almost as she entered the door. He made several quick stepsand he took both her hands in his and held them. It was a thing sounheard of that she stopped and stood quite still, looking up at him. 

"Come and sit down here, " he said, drawing her towards a sofa and he didnot let her hands go, and sat down at her side while she stared at himand her breath began to come and go quickly. 

"What--?" she began, "You are changed--quite different--"

"Yes, I am changed. Everything is changed--for us both!"

"For us--" She touched her breast weakly. "For me--as well as you?"

"Yes, " he answered, and he still held her hands protectingly and kepthis altered eyes--the eyes of a strangely new man--upon her. They wereliving, human, longing to help her--who had so long condemned him. Hishands were even warm and held hers as if to give her support. 

"You are a calm, well-balanced woman, " he said. "And joy does not killpeople--even hurt them. "

There could be only one joy--only one! And she knew he knew there couldbe no other. She sprang from her seat. 

"Donal!" she cried out so loud that the room rang. "Donal! Donal!"

He was on his feet also because he still wonderfully did not let her go. 

"He is at my house. He has been there for weeks because we have had tofight for his life. We should have called you if he had been dying. Onlyan hour ago the doctor in charge gave me permission to come to you. Youmay see him--for a few minutes. "

She began to tremble and sat down. 

"I shall be quiet soon, " she said. "Oh, dear God! God! God! Donal!"

Tears swept down her cheeks but he saw her begin to control herself eventhe next moment. 

"May I speak to him at all?" she asked. 

"Kiss him and tell him you are waiting in the next room and can comeback any moment. What the hospital leaves free of Coombe House is atyour disposal. "

"God bless you! Oh, _forgive_ me!"

"He escaped from a German prison by some miracle. He must be made toforget. He must hear of nothing but happiness. There is happiness beforehim--enough to force him to forget. You will accept anything he tellsyou as if it were a natural thing?"

"Accept!" she cried. "What would I _not_ accept, praising God! You arepreparing me for something. Ah! don't, don't be afraid! But--is itmaiming--darkness?"

"No! No! It is a perfect thing. You must know it before you see him--andbe ready. Before he went to the Front he was married. "

"Married!" in a mere breath. 

Coombe went on in quick sentences. She must be prepared and she couldbear anything in the rapture of her joy. 

"He married in secret a lonely child whom the Dowager Duchess of Dartehad taken into her household. We have both taken charge of her since wediscovered she was his wife. We thought she was his widow. She has ason. Before her marriage she was Robin Gareth-Lawless. "

"Ah!" she cried brokenly. "He would have told me--he wanted to tellme--but he could not--because I was so hard! Oh! poor motherlesschildren!"

"You never were hard, I could swear, " Coombe said. "But perhaps you havechanged--as I have. If he had not thought I was hard he might have toldme-- Shall we go to him at once?"

Together they went without a moment's delay. 

CHAPTER XLII

The dream had come back and Robin walked about the moor carrying herbaby in her arms, even though Dowie followed her. She laid him on theheather and let him listen to the skylarks and there was in her facesuch a look, that, in times past if she had seen it, Dowie would havebelieved that it could only mean translation from earth. 

But when Lord Coombe came for a brief visit he took Dowie to walk alonewith him upon the moor. When they set out together she found herselfinvoluntarily stealing furtive sidelong glances at him. There was thatin his face which drew her eyes in spite of her. It was a look sointense and new that once she caught her breath, trembling. It was thenthat he turned to look at her and began to talk. He began--and wenton--and as she listened there came to her sudden flooding tears and morethan once a loud startled sob of joy. 

"But he begs that she shall not see him until he is less ghastly tobehold. He says the memory of such a face would tell her things she mustnever know. His one thought is that she must not know. Things happen toa man's nerves when he has seen and borne the ultimate horrors. Men havegone mad under the prolonged torture. He sometimes has moments ofhideous collapse when he cannot shut out certain memories. He is moreafraid of such times than of anything else. He feels he must get hold ofhimself. "

Dowie's step slackened until it stopped. Her almost awed countenancetold him what she felt she must know or perish. He felt that she had herrights and one of them was the right to be told. She had been a strongtower of honest faith and love. 

"My lord, might I ask if you have told him--all about it?"

"Yes, Dowie, " he answered. "All is well and no one but ourselves willever know. The marriage in the dark old church is no longer a marriage. Only the first one--which he can prove--stands. "

The telling of his story to Donal had been a marvellous thing because hehad so controlled its drama that it had even been curiously undramatic. He had made it a mere catalogued statement of facts. As Donal had lainlistening his heart had seemed to turn over in his breast. 

"If I had _known_ you!" he panted low. "If we had known each other! Wedid not!"

Later, bit by bit, he told him of Jackson--only of Jackson. He neverspoke of other things. When put together the "bit by bit" amounted tothis:

"He was a queer, simple sort of American. He was full of ideals and akind of unbounded belief in his country. He had enlisted in Canada atthe beginning. He always believed America would come in. He was sure theGermans knew she would and that was why they hated Americans. The morethey saw her stirred up, the more they hated the fellows theycaught--and the worse they treated them. They were hellish to Jackson!"

He had stopped at this point and Coombe had noted a dreaded look dawningin his eyes. 

"Don't go on, my boy. It's bad for you, " he broke in. 

Donal shook his head a little as if to shake something away. 

"I won't go on with--that, " he said. "But the dream--I must tell youabout that. It saved me from going mad--and Jackson did. He believed ina lot of things I'd not heard of except as jokes. He called them NewThought and Theosophy and Christian Science. He wasn't clever, but he_believed_. And it helped him. When I'm stronger I'll try to tell you. Subconscious mind and astral body came into it. I had begun to seethings--just through starvation and agony. I told him about Robin when Iscarcely knew what I was saying. He tried to hold me quiet by saying hername to me over and over. He'd pull me up with it. He began to talk tome about dreaming. When your body's not fed--you begin to see clear--ifyour spirit is not held down. "

He was getting tired and panting a little. Coombe bent nearer to him. 

"I can guess the rest. I have been reading books on such subjects. Hetold you how to concentrate on dreaming and try to get near her. Hehelped you by suggestion himself--"

"He used to lie awake night after night and do it--and I began todream-- No, it was not a dream. I believe I got to her-- He did it--andthey killed him!"

"Hush! hush!" cried Coombe. "Of all men he would most ardently imploreyou to hold yourself still--"

Donal made some strange effort. He lay still. 

"Yes, he would! Yes--of all the souls in the other world he'd bestrongest. He saved me--he saved Robin--he saved the child--you--all ofus! Perhaps he's here now! He said he'd come if he could. He believed hecould. "

He lay quiet for a few seconds and then the Donal smile they had alladored lighted up his face. 

"Jackson, old chap!" he said. "I can't see you--but I'll do what youwant me to do--I'll do it. "

He fainted the next minute and the doctors came to him. 

The facts which came later still were that Jackson had developedconsumption, and exposure and brutality had done their worst. And Donalhad seen his heart wringing end. 

"But he knew America would come in. I believed it too, because he did. Just at the right time. 'All the rest have fought like mad till they'retired--though they'll die fighting, ' he said. 'America's not tired. She's got everything and she sees red with frenzy at the bestiality. She'll _burst_ in--just at the right time!' Jackson _knew_!"

 * * * * *

"I must not go trembling to her, " Donal said on the morning when atlast--long last, it seemed--he drove with Coombe up the moor road toDarreuch. "But, " bravely, "what does it matter? I'm trembling becauseI'm going to her!"

He had been talking about her for weeks--for days he had been able totalk of nothing else-- Coombe had listened as if he heard echoes from apast when he would have so talked and dared not utter a word. He hadtalked as a boy lover talks--as a young bridegroom might let himselfpour his joy forth to his most sacredly trusted friend. 

Her loveliness, the velvet of her lifting eyes--the wonder of hertrusting soul--the wonder of her unearthly selfless sweetness!

"It was always the same kind of marvel every time you saw her, " he saidboyishly. "You couldn't believe there could be such sweetness onearth--until you saw her again. Even her eyes and her little mouth andher softness were like that. You had to tell yourself about them overand over again to make them real when she wasn't there!"

He was still thin, but the ghastly hollows had filled and his smilescarcely left his face--and he had waited as long as he could. 

"And to see her with a little child in her arms!" he had murmured. "Robin! Holding it--and being careful! And showing it to me!"

After he first caught sight of the small old towers of Darreuch he couldnot drag his eyes from them. 

"She's there! She's there! They're both there together!" he said overand over. Just before they left the carriage he wakened as it were andspoke to Coombe. 

"She won't be frightened, " he said. "I told her--last night. "

Coombe had asked himself if he must go to her. But, marvellously even tohim, there was no need. 

When they stood in the dark little hall--as she had come down the stonestairway on the morning when she bade him her sacred little good-bye, soshe came down again--like a white blossom drifting down from itsbranch--like a white feather from a dove's wing. --But she held her babyin her arms and to Donal her cheeks and lips and eyes were as he hadfirst seen them in the Gardens. 

He trembled as he watched her and even found himselfspellbound--waiting. 

"Donal! Donal!"

And they were in his arms--the soft warm things--and he sat down uponthe lowest step and held them--rocking--and trembling still more--butwith the gates of peace open and earth and war shut out. 

THE END