“In this Wood—even now—there is Something which must be saved from suffering. It is helpless—it is blameless. It is not you—it is not Donal. God help it.”
He spoke steadily but strangely and his voice was so low that it was almost a whisper—though it was not one. For the first time she felt something stir in her stunned mind—as if thought were wakening—fear—a vague quaking. Her wan small face began to wonder and in the dark roundness of her eyes a question was to be seen like a drowned thing slowly rising from the deeps of a pool. But she asked no question. She only waited a few moments and let him look at her until she said at last in a voice as near a whisper as his own.
“I—will believe you.”
Chapter 17
He was alone with the Duchess. The doors were closed, and the world shut out 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 the room with long paces. He had been doing it for some time and he had told her from beginning to end the singular story of what had happened when he 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 of before anything else. If I were speaking to another person than yourself I should say that she was too ignorant of the world. To you I will say that she is not merely a girl—she is the unearthly luckless embodiment of the pure spirit of Love. She knew only worship and the rapt giving of gifts. Her unearthliness made him forget earth himself. Folly and madness of course! Incredible madness—it would seem to most people—a decently intelligent lad losing his head wholly and not regaining his senses until it was too late to act sanely. But perhaps not quite incredible to you and me. There must have been days which seemed to him—and lads like him—like the last hours of a condemned man. In the midst of love and terror and the agony of farewells—what time was there for sanity?”
“You believe her?” the Duchess said.
“Yes,” impersonally. “In spite of the world, the flesh and the devil. I also know that no one else will. To most people her story will seem a thing trumped up out of a fourth rate novel. The law will not listen to it. You will—when you see her unawakened face.”
“I have seen it,” was the Duchess’ interpolation. “I saw it when she went 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 baffled old woman of the world. Now I begin to see. I believe her as you do. The world and the law will laugh at us because we have none of the accepted reasons for our belief. But I believe her as you do—absurd as it will seem to others.”
“Yes, it will seem absurd,” Coombe said slowly pacing. “But here she is—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 to defend herself goes, she is as powerless as a child fresh from a nursery. She lives among people with observing eyes already noting the change in her piteous face. Her place in your house makes her a centre of attention. The observation of her beauty and happiness has been good-natured so far. The observation will continue, but in time its character 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. Perhaps Mrs. Gareth-Lawless has sharp eyes. She said to you something rather vulgarly hideous about being glad her daughter was in my house and not in 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-Lawless would call ‘a mess.’”
“It is what a good many people would call it,” the Duchess said. “And she does not even know that her tragedy would express itself in a mere vulgar colloquialism with a modern snigger in it. Presently, poor child, when she awakens a little more she will begin to go about looking like a little 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 and hear nothing. She is not a criminal or malignant creature, but her light malice is capable of playing flimsily with any atrocity. She has not brain enough to know that she can be atrocious. Robin can be protected only if she is shut out of the whole affair. She was simply speaking the truth 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 she looks ill it will not be unnatural that the doctor should advise me to send her away from London. It is not possible to remember anything long in the life we live now. She will be forgotten in a week. That part of it will be simple.”
“Yes,” he answered. “Yes.”
He paced the length of the room twice—three times and said nothing. She watched him as he walked and she knew he was going to say more. She also wondered what curious thing it might be. She had said to herself that what he said and did would be entirely detached from ordinary or archaic views. Also she had guessed that it might be extraordinary—perhaps as extraordinary as his long intimacy with Mrs. Gareth-Lawless. Was there a possibility that he was going to express himself now?
“But that is not all,” he said at last and he ended his pondering walk by coming nearer to her. He sat down and touched the newspapers lying on the table.
“You have been poring over these,” he said, “ and I have been doing the same thing. I have also been talking to the people who know things and to those who ought to know them but don’t. Just now the news is worse each day. In the midst of the roar and thunder of cataclysms to talk about a mere girl ‘in trouble’ appears disproportionate. But because our world seems crumbling to pieces about us she assumes proportions of her own. I was born of the old obstinate passions of belief in certain established 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 have professed to be. The new life has gripped me, but the old has not let me go. There are things I cannot bear to see lost forever without a struggle.”
“Such as—” she said it very low.
“I conceal things from myself,” he answered, “but they rise and confront me. There were days when we at least believed—quite obstinately—in a number of things.”
“Sometimes quite heroically,” she admitted. “‘God Save the Queen’ in its long day had actual glow and passion. I have thrilled and glowed myself at the shouting song of it.”
“Yes,” he drew a little nearer to her and his cold face gained a slight colour. “In those days when a son—or a grandson—was born to the head of a house it was a serious and impressive affair.”
“Yes.” And he knew she at once recalled her own son—and George in Flanders.
“It meant new generations, and generations counted for decent dignity as well as power. A farmer would say with huge pride, ‘Me and mine have worked the place for four generations,’ as he would say of the owner of the land, ‘Him and his have held it for six centuries.’ Centuries and generations are in danger of no longer inspiring special reverence. It is the future and the things to be which count.”
“The things to be—yes,” the Duchess said and knew that he was drawing near 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 the time when—all the rest of me dropped into a bottomless gulf. That perhaps describes it. I found myself suddenly standing on the edge of it. And youth, and future, and belief in the use of hoping and real enjoyment of things dropped into the blackness and were gone while I looked on. If I had not been born a dogged devil I should have blown my brains out. If I had been born gentler or
kinder or more patient I should perhaps have lived it down and found there was something left. A man’s way of facing things depends upon the kind of thing he was born. I went on living without—the rest of myself. I closed my mouth and not only 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 was all. 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 saw Mrs. 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 for breath. “She had a way of lifting her eyes as a very young angel might—she had a quivering spirit of a smile—and soft, deep curled corners to her mouth. You saw the same things in the old photograph you bought. The likeness was—Oh! it was hellish that such a resemblance could be! In less than half an hour after she spoke to me I had shut another 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 well enough to be sure what would happen. Some man would pick her up and throw her aside—and then some one else. She could have held nothing long. She would have passed from one hand to another until she was tossed into the gutter and swept away—quivering spirit of a smile and all of it. I could not have shut any door on that. I prevented it—and kept her clean—by shutting doors right and left. I have watched over her. At times it has bored me frightfully. But after a year or so—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 was a sort of resentment of the beastly unfairness of things. The bottomless gulf 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 began to keep an eye on her and prevent things—or assist them. It was more fury than benevolence, but it has gone on for years—behind the shut door.”
“Are you quite sure you have been entirely free from all affection for her?” The Duchess asked the question impersonally though with a degree of 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 it for Donal—and for you—than for any one else. But when the child talked to me in the wood I felt for the first time that I wished her to know that my relation to her mother was not the reason for her hating me which 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 was probably about to hear the chief thing he had been approaching. So she waited attentively.
“Behind a door has been shut another thing,” he said and he endeavoured to say it with his usual detached rigidity of calm, but did not wholly succeed. “It is the outcome of the generations and the centuries at present diminishing in value and dignity. The past having had its will of me and the present and future having gripped me—if I had had a son—”
As if in a flash she saw as he lingered on the words that he was speaking of a thing of which he had secretly thought often and much, though he had allowed no human being to suspect it. She had not suspected it herself. In a secretive, intense way he had passionately desired a son.
“If you had had a son—” she repeated.
“He would have stood for both—the past and the future—at the beginning of a New World,” he ended.
He said it with such deliberate meaning that the magnitude of his possible 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 the kind of world it will be. That will depend upon the men and women who build it. Those who were born during the last few years—those who are about 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 starts fair—ought to have quite a lot to say—and do. Howsoever black things look,” obstinately fierce, “England is not done for. At the worst no real Englishman believes she can be. She can’t! You know the old saying, ‘In all wars England loses battles, but she always wins one—the last one.’ She always will. Afterwards she must do her bit for the New World.”
Chapter 18
This then was it—the New World and the human creatures who were to build it, the unborn as well as those now in their cradles or tottering in their first step on the pathway leading to the place of building. Yet he himself had no thought of there being any touch of heroic splendour in his way of looking at it. He was not capable of drama. Behind his shut doors of immovability and stiff coldness, behind his cynic habit of treating all things with detached lightness, the generations and the centuries had continued their work in spite of his modernity. His British obstinacy would not relinquish the long past he and his had seemed to own in representing it. He had loved one woman, and one only—with a love like a deep wound; he had longed for a son; he had stubbornly undertaken to protect a creature he felt life had treated unfairly. The shattering of the old world had stirred in him a powerful interest in the future of the new one whose foundations were yet to be laid. The combination of these things might lead to curious developments.
They sat and talked long and the developments were perhaps more unusual than she had imagined they might be.
“If I had been able to express the something which approached affection which I felt for Donal, he would have found out that my limitations were not deliberately evil proclivities,” was one of the things he said. “One day he would have ended by making a clean breast of it. He was afraid of me. I suspect he was afraid of his mother—fond as they were of each other. I should have taken the matter in hand and married the pair of them at once—quietly if they preferred it, but safely and sanely. God knows I should have comprehended their wish to keep a roaring world out of 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 her I should know that he meant to marry her, even if fate played them some ghastly trick and there was not time. Another girl’s consciousness of 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 after my death.”
“The Head of the House,” the Duchess said.
“It is a curious thing,” he deliberated, “that now there remains no possible head but what is left of myself—it ceases to seem the mere pompous 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 demanding one. There ought to have been more males in the family. Only four were killed—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 seen him look before.
“Allow me to make a fantastic confession to you,” he said. “It will open doors. If all were as the law foolishly demands it should be—if she were safe in the ordinary way—absurdly incredible or not as the statement may seem—I should now be at her feet.”
“At her feet!” she said slowly, because she felt herself facing actual revelation.
“Her child would be to me the child of the son who ought to have been born to me a life time ago. God, how I have wanted him! Robin would seem to be what another Madonna-like young creature might have been if she had been my wife. She would not know that she was a little saint on an altar. She would be the shrine of the past and the future. In my inexpressive way I should be worshipping before her. That her
possible son would rescue the House of Coombe from extinction would have meant much, but it would be a mere detail. Now you understand.”
Yes. She understood. Things she had never comprehended and had not expected 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 of those who have work before them—shall not be handicapped. He shall not begin life manacled and shamed by illegitimacy. He shall begin it with the background of all his father meant to give him. The law of England will not believe in his claims unless they can be proven. She can prove nothing. I can prove nothing for her. If she had been a little female costermonger she would have demanded her ‘marriage lines’ and clung to them fiercely. She would have known that to be able to flaunt them in the face of argument was indispensable.”
“She probably did not know that there existed such documents,” the Duchess said. “Neither of the pair knew anything for the time but that they were wild with love and were to be torn apart.”
“Therefore,” he said with distinctness even clearer and harder, “she must possess indisputable documentary evidence of marriage before the child is born—as soon as possible.”
“Marriage!” she hesitated aghast. “But who will—?”
“I,” he answered with absolute rigidity. “It will be difficult. It must be secret. But if it can be done—when his time comes the child can look his new world in the face. He will be the Head of the House of Coombe when it most needs a strong fellow who has no cause to fear anything and who holds money and power in his hands.”
“You propose to suggest that she shall marry you?” she put it to him.