Part 19 (1/2)

The d.u.c.h.ess sat alone and thought deeply. What she thought of chiefly was the Head of the House of Coombe. She had always known that more than probably his att.i.tude towards a circ.u.mstance of this sort would not even remotely approach in likeness that of other people. His point of view would detach itself from ordinary theories of moralities and immoralities. He would see with singular clearness all sides of the incident. He would not be indignant, or annoyed or embarra.s.sed. He had had an interest in Robin as a creature representing peculiar loveliness and undefended potentialities. Sometimes she had felt that this had even verged on a tenderness of which he was himself remotely, if at all, conscious. Concerning the boy Donal she had realised that he felt something stronger and deeper than any words of his own had at any time expressed. He had believed fine things of him and had watched him silently. He had wished he had been his own flesh and blood. Perhaps he had always felt a longing for a son who might have been his companion as well as his successor. Who knew whether a thwarted paternal instinct might not now be giving him such thinking to do as he might have done if Donal Muir had been the son of his body--dead on the battlefield but leaving behind him something to be gravely considered? What would a man think--what would a man _do_ under such circ.u.mstances?

”One might imagine what some men would do--but it would depend entirely upon the type,” she thought. ”What he will do will be different. It might seem cold; it might be merely judicial--but it might be surprising.”

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

”I wish to G.o.d I had known him better! I wish to G.o.d I had talked to him more!”

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 and carefully considered expression of interest in her loss and loneliness.

Concerning such things as she did not already know she would learn nothing from his conversation, but concerning such things as she had become aware of he would learn everything without alarming her.

”If those unhappy children met at her cottage and wandered about in Mersham Wood together the tragedy is understandable.”

The d.u.c.h.ess' thinking ended pityingly because just at this time it was that Robin opened the door and stood looking at her.

It seemed as though Dr. Redcliff must have talked to her for a long time. But she had on her small hat and coat and what the d.u.c.h.ess seemed chiefly to see was the wide darkness of her eyes set in a face suddenly pinched, 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 d.u.c.h.ess felt aghast--and then suddenly a flood of 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 d.u.c.h.ess' throat.

”Child,” she said. ”Come here!”

Robin went to her--oh, poor little soul!--in utter obedience. As she drew close to her she went down upon her knees holding up her hands like a 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 d.u.c.h.ess said. ”The time has 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 d.u.c.h.ess' dress and went on rapidly.

”It is not far. Dr. Redcliff said I might go. Mrs. Bennett is there. She loves 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 her touchingness was indescribable--almost unendurable to the ripe aged woman of the world who watched and heard her. It was as if she knew nothing of the meaning of things--as if some little spirit had been torn from heaven and flung down upon the dark earth. One felt that one must weep aloud over the exquisite incomprehensible remoteness of her. And it was so awfully plain that there was some tragic connection with the Wood and that her whole soul cried out to it. And she would not speak to any one in the world. Such things had been known. Was the child's brain wavering? 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 of balance and felt as if all old reasons for things had been swept away.