Part 42 (1/2)

”The years pa.s.s, the agony of being young pa.s.ses. One slowly becomes another man,” he resumed. ”I am another man. I could not be called a creature of sentiment. I have given myself interests in existence--many of them. But the sealed tomb is under one's feet.

Not to allow oneself to acknowledge its existence consciously is one's affair. But--the devil of chance sometimes chooses to play tricks. Such a trick was played on me.”

He glanced down at the two pictures at which she herself was looking with grave eyes. It was the photograph of Feather he took up and set a strange questioning gaze upon.

”When I saw this,” he said, ”this--exquisitely smiling at me under a green tree in a sunny garden--the tomb opened under my feet, and I stood on the brink of it--twenty-five again.”

”You cannot possibly put it into words,” the d.u.c.h.ess said. ”You need not. I know.” For he had become for the moment almost livid.

Even to her who so well knew him it was a singular thing to see him hastily set down the picture and touch his forehead with his handkerchief.

She knew he was about to tell her his reason for this unsealing of the tomb. When he sat down at her table he did so. He did not use many phrases, but in making clear his reasons he also made clear to her certain facts which most persons would have ironically disbelieved. But no shadow of a doubt pa.s.sed through her mind because she had through a long life dwelt interestedly on the many variations in human type. She was extraordinarily interested when he ended with the story of Robin.

”I do not know exactly why 'it matters to me'--I am quoting her mother,” he explained, ”but it happens that I am determined to stand between the child and what would otherwise be the inevitable.

It is not that she has the slightest resemblance to--to anyone--which might awaken memory. It is not that. She and her mother are of totally different types. And her detestation of me is unconquerable.

She believes me to be the worst of men. When I entered the room into which the woman had trapped her, she thought that I came as one of the creature's d.a.m.nable clients. You will acknowledge that my position presents difficulties in the way of explanation to a girl--to most adults in fact. Her childish frenzy of desire to support herself arises from her loathing of the position of accepting support from me. I sympathize with her entirely.”

”Mademoiselle Valle is an intelligent woman,” the d.u.c.h.ess said as though thinking the matter out. ”Send her to me and we will talk the matter over. Then she can bring the child.”

CHAPTER XXVI

As a result of this, her grace saw Mademoiselle Valle alone a few mornings later and talked to her long and quietly. Their comprehension of each other was complete. Before their interview was at an end the d.u.c.h.ess' interest in the adventure she was about to enter into had become profound.

”The sooner she is surrounded by a new atmosphere, the better,”

was one of the things the Frenchwoman had said. ”The prospect of an arrangement so perfect and so secure fills me with the profoundest grat.i.tude. It is absolutely necessary that I return to my parents in Belgium. They are old and failing in health and need me greatly.

I have been sad and anxious for months because I felt that it would be wickedness to desert this poor child. I have been torn in two. Now I can be at peace--thank the good G.o.d.”

”Bring her to me tomorrow if possible,” the d.u.c.h.ess said when they parted. ”I foresee that I may have something to overcome in the fact that I am Lord Coombe's old friend, but I hope to be able to overcome it.”

”She is a baby--she is of great beauty--she has a pa.s.sionate little soul of which she knows nothing.” Mademoiselle Valle said it with an anxious reflectiveness. ”I have been afraid. If I were her mother----” her eyes sought those of the older woman.

”But she has no mother,” her grace answered. Her own eyes were serious. She knew something of girls, of young things, of the rush and tumult of young life in them and of the outlet it demanded. A baby who was of great beauty and of a pa.s.sionate soul was no trivial undertaking for a rheumatic old d.u.c.h.ess, but--”Bring her to me,”

she said.

So was Robin brought to the tall Early Victorian mansion in the belatedly stately square. And the chief thought in her mind was that though mere good manners demanded under the circ.u.mstances that she should come to see the Dowager d.u.c.h.ess of Darte and be seen by her, if she found that she was like Lord Coombe, she would not be able to endure the prospect of a future spent in her service howsoever desirable such service might outwardly appear. This desirableness Mademoiselle Valle had made clear to her. She was to be the companion of a personage of great and mature charm and grace who desired not mere attendance, but something more, which something included the warmth and fresh brightness of happy youth and bloom. She would do for her employer the things a young relative might do. She would have a suite of rooms of her own and a freedom as to hours and actions which greater experience on her part would have taught was not the customary portion meted out to a paid companion. But she knew nothing of paid service and a preliminary talk of Coombe's with Mademoiselle Valle had warned her against allowing any suspicion that this ”earning a living”

had been too obviously ameliorated.

”Her life is unusual. She herself is unusual in a most dignified and beautiful way. You will, it might almost be said, hold the position of a young lady in waiting,” was Mademoiselle's gracefully put explanation.

When, after they had been ushered into the room where her grace sat in her beautiful and mellow corner by the fire, Robin advanced towards the highbacked chair, what the old woman was chiefly conscious of was the eyes which seemed all l.u.s.trous iris. There was uncommon appeal and fear in them. The blackness of their setting of up-curled lashes made them look babyishly wide.

”Mademoiselle Valle has told me of your wish to take a position as companion,” the d.u.c.h.ess said after they were seated.

”I want very much,” said Robin, ”to support myself and Mademoiselle thinks that I might fill such a place if I am not considered too young.”

”You are not too young--for me. I want something young to come and befriend me. Am I too old for YOU?” Her smile had been celebrated fifty years earlier and it had not changed. A smile does not. She was not like Lord Coombe in any degree however remote. She did not belong to his world, Robin thought.