Part 16 (1/2)

CHAPTER XIII

But there were no letters. And she was obliged to sit at her desk in the corner and listen to what people said about what was happening, and now and then to Lord Coombe speaking in low tones to the d.u.c.h.ess of his anxiety and uncertainty about Donal. Anxiety was increasing on every side and such of the unthinking mult.i.tude as had at last ceased to believe that one magnificent English blow would rid the earth of Germany, had begun to lean towards belief in a vision of German millions adding themselves each day to other millions advancing upon France, Belgium, England itself, a grey encroaching ma.s.s rolling forward and ever forward, overwhelming even neutral countries until not only Europe but the whole world was covered, and the mailed fist beat its fragments into such dust as it chose. Even those who had not lost their heads and who knew more than the general public, wore grave faces because they felt they knew too little and could not know more. Coombe's face was hard and grey many days.

”It seems as if one lost them in the flood sometimes,” Robin heard him say to the d.u.c.h.ess. ”I saw his mother yesterday and could give her no definite news. She believes that he is where the worst fighting is going on. 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--perhaps she would not. She lived only in the day which was pa.s.sing. She rose, dressed and presented herself to the d.u.c.h.ess for orders; she did the work given her to do, she saw the day gradually die and the lights lighted; she worked as long as she was allowed to do so--and then the day was over and she climbed the staircase to her room.

Sometimes she sat and wrote letters to Donal--long yearning letters, but when they were written she tore them into pieces or burned them. If they were to keep their secret she could not send such letters because there were so many chances that they would be lost. Still there was a hopeless comfort in writing them, in pouring out what she would not have written even if she had been sure that it would reach him safely. No girl who loved a man who was at the Front would let him know that it seemed as if her heart were slowly breaking. She must be brave--brave! But she was not 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 and came no more. One of them who had lost three sons in one battle had died a few days after the news arrived because the shock had been too great for her strength to endure. There were new phases of anguish on all sides. She did all she was called on to do with a secret pa.s.sion of eagerness; each smallest detail was the sacred thing. She begged the d.u.c.h.ess to allow her to visit and help the mothers of sons who were fighting--or wounded or missing. That made her feel nearer to things she wanted to feel near to. When they cried or told her stories, she could understand. When she worked she might be doing things which might somehow reach Donal or boys like Donal.

Howsoever long her life was she knew one thing would never be blotted out 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 any longer, there were only bare branched trees standing holding out naked arms to the greyness of the world. They looked as if they were protesting against something. The gra.s.s and ferns were brown and sodden with late rains and there were no hollyhocks and snapdragons in the cottage 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 and burned and swept away. The grandsons had made the garden autumn-tidy every year before this one.

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

”Don't get up, please, Mrs. Bennett,” Robin said when she lifted the latch 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 wood so.”

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

Mrs. Bennett only gave herself up to the small clutching hands and sat and s.h.i.+vered.

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

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

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

”Don't be afraid. There's no one left to hear but the walls and the bare trees 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 lying dead, thank G.o.d. But you're a child.” The small clutching hands clutched more piteously because it was so true--so true. Whatsoever befell there were all the long, long years to come--with only the secret left and the awful fear that sometime she might begin to be afraid that it was not a real thing--since no one had ever known or ever would know and since she could 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?” she asked tremulously. ”There's nothing I'd mind.”

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