Part 32 (2/2)

Garrett moved to the door, but Clare stopped him.

”I want you, Garrett--you can bear me out!”

”I thought that my opinion was of so little importance,” he answered sulkily, ”that I might as well go.”

But he sat down again and buried himself in his paper.

They waited, and Robin made mental comparisons with a similar scene a week before; there were still the silver teapot, the toast, the ham--they were all there, and it was only he himself who had altered.

Only a week, and what a difference! What a cad he had been! a howling cad! Not only to his father, but to Dahlia, to every one with whom he had had to do. He did not spare himself; he had at least the pluck to go through with it--_that_ was Trojan.

At Harry's entrance there was an involuntary raising of eyebrows to see, if possible, how _he_ took it; _it_ being his own immediate succession rather than his father's death. He was grave, of course, but there was a light in his eyes that Clare could not understand. Had he some premonition of her request? He apologised for being late.

”I have been up most of the night. There is no immediate danger of a change, but we ought, I think, to be ready. Yes, the toast, Robin, please--I hope you've slept all right, Clare?”

How quickly he had picked up the manner, she reflected, as she watched him! But of course that was natural enough; once a Trojan, always a Trojan, and no amount of colonies will do away with it. But three weeks was a short time for so vast a change.

”No, Harry, not very well--of course, it weighs on one rather.”

She sighed and rose from the breakfast-table; she looked terribly tired and Harry was suddenly sorry for her, and, for the first time since the night of his return, felt that they were brother and sister; but after the adventure of the early morning it was as though he were related to the whole world--Love and Death had drawn close to him, and, with the sound of the beating of their wings, the world had revealed things to him that had, in other days, been secrets. Love and Death were such big things that his personal relations with Clare, with Garrett, even with Robin, had a.s.sumed their true proportion.

”Clare, you're tired!” he said. ”I should go and lie down again. You shall be told if anything happens.”

”No, thanks, Harry. I wanted to ask you something--but, perhaps, first I ought to apologise for some of the things that I said the other day.

I said more than I meant to. I am sorry--but one forgets at times that one has no right to meddle in other people's affairs. But now I--we--all of us--want to ask you a favour----”

”Yes?” he said, looking up.

”Well, of course, this is scarcely the time. But it is something that can hardly wait, and you can decide about acting yourself----”

She paused. It was the very hardest thing that she had ever had to do, and she would never forget it to the day of her death. But it was harder for Robin; he sat there with flaming cheeks and his head hanging--he could not look at his father.

”It is to do with Robin--” Clare went on; ”he was rather afraid to ask you about it himself, because, of course, it is not a business of which he is very proud, and so he has asked me to do it for him. It is a girl--a Miss Feverel--whom he met at Cambridge and to whom he had written letters, letters that gave the young woman some reasons to suppose that he was offering her marriage. He saw the matter more wisely after a time and naturally wished Miss Feverel to restore the letters, but this she refused to do. Both Garrett and myself have done what we could and have, I am afraid, failed. Miss Feverel is quite resolute--most obstinately so. We are afraid that she may take steps that would be unpleasant to all of us--it is rather worrying us, and we thought--it seemed--in short, I determined to ask you to help us. With your wider experience you will probably know the best way in which to deal with such a person.”

Clare paused. She had put it as drily as possible, but it was, nevertheless, humiliating.

There was a pause.

”I am scarcely surprised,” said Harry, ”that Robin is ashamed of the affair.”

”Of course he is,” answered Clare eagerly, ”bitterly ashamed.”

”I suppose you made love to--ah--Miss Feverel?” he said, turning directly to Robin.

”Yes,” said Robin, lifting his head and facing his father. As their eyes met the colour rushed to his cheeks.

”It was a rotten thing to do,” said Harry.

”I have been very much ashamed of myself,” answered Robin. ”I would make Miss Feverel any apology that is in my power, but there seems to be little that I can do.”

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