Even in London a man saw and heard and was able, if he had an imagination, to visualise too much to remain quite normal. He had seen what was left of strong men brought back from the Front, men who could scarcely longer be counted as really living human beings; he had talked to men on leave who had a hideous hardness in their haggard eyes and who did not know that they gnawed at their lips sometimes as they told the things they had seen. He saw the people going into the churches and chapels. He sometimes went into such places himself and he always found there huddled forms kneeling in the pews, even when no service was being held. Sometimes they were men, sometimes women, and often they writhed and sobbed horribly. He did not know why he went in; his going seemed only part of some surging misery.
He heard weird stories again and again of occult happenings. He had been told all the details of Lady Maureen’s case and of a number of other cases somewhat resembling it. He was of those who have advanced through experience to the point where entire disbelief in anything is not easy. This was the more so because almost all previously accepted laws had been shaken as by an earthquake. He had fallen upon a new sort of book drifting about. He had had such books put into his hands by acquaintances, some of whom were of the impressionable hysteric order, but many of whom were as analytically minded as himself. He found much of such literature in the book shops. He began to look over the best written and ended by reading them with deep attention. He was amazed to discover that for many years profoundly scientific men had been seriously investigating and experimenting with mysteries unexplainable by the accepted laws of material science. They had discussed, argued and written grave books upon them. They had been doing all this before any society for psychical research had founded itself and the intention of new logic was to be scientific rather than psychological. They had written books, scattered through the years, on mesmerism, hypnosis, abnormal mental conditions, the powers of suggestion, even unexplored dimensions and in modern days psychotherapeutics.
“What has amazed me is my own ignorance of the prolonged and serious nature of the investigation of an astonishing subject,” he said in talking with the Duchess. “To realise that analytical minds have been doing grave work of which one has known nothing is an actual shock to one’s pride. I suppose the tendency would have been to pooh-pooh it. The cheap, modern popular form is often fantastic and crude, but there remains the fact that it all contains truths not to be explained by the rules we have always been familiar with.”
The Duchess had read the book he had brought her and held it in her hands.
“Perhaps the time has come, in which we are to learn the new ones,” she said.
“Perhaps we are being forced to learn them—as a result of our pooh-poohing,” was his answer. “Some of us may learn that clear-cut disbelief is at least indiscreet.”
Therefore upon a certain morning he sat long in reflection over a letter which had arrived from Dowie. He read it a number of times.
“I don’t know what your lordship may think,” Dowie said and he felt she held herself with a tight rein. “If I may say so, it’s what’s going to come out of it that matters and not what any of us think of it. So far it seems as if a miracle had happened. About a week ago she wakened in the morning looking as I’d been afraid she’d never look again. There was actually colour in her thin little face that almost made it look not so thin. There was a light in her eyes that quite startled me. She lay on her bed and smiled like a child that’s suddenly put out of pain. She said—quite quiet and natural—that she’d seen her husband. She said he had come and talked to her a long time and that it was not a dream, and he was not an angel—he was himself. At first I was terrified by a dreadful thought that her poor young mind had given way. But she had no fever and she was as sweet and sensible as if she was talking to her Dowie in her own nursery. And, my lord, this is what does matter. She sat up and ate her breakfast and said she would take a walk with me. And walk she did—stronger and better than I’d have believed. She had a cup of tea and a glass of milk and a fresh egg and a slice of hot buttered toast. That’s what I hold on to, my lord—without any thinking. I daren’t write about it at first because I didn’t trust it to last. But she has wakened in the same way every morning since. And she’s eaten the bits of nice meals I’ve put before her. I’ve been careful not to put her appetite off by giving her more than a little at a time. And she’s slept like a baby and walked every day. I believe she thinks she sees Captain Muir every night. I wouldn’t ask questions, but she spoke of it once again to me.
“Your obedient servant, SARAH ANN DOWSON.”
Lord Coombe sat in interested reflection. He felt curiously uplifted above the rolling sounds in the street and the headlines of the pile of newspapers on the table.
“If it had not been for the tea and egg and buttered toast she would have been sure the poor child was mad.” He thought it out. “An egg and a slice of buttered toast guarantee even spiritual things. Why not? We are material creatures who have only material sight and touch and taste to employ as arguments. I suppose that is why tables are tipped, and banjos fly about for beginners. It’s because we cannot see other things, and what we cannot see—Oh! fools that we are! The child said he was not an angel—he was himself. Why not? Where did he come from? Personally I believe that he came.”
Chapter 30
“It was Lord Coombe who sent the book,” said Robin.
She was sitting in the Tower room, watching Dowie open the packages which had come from London. She herself had opened the one which held the models and she was holding a tiny film of lawn and fine embroidery in her hands. Dowie could see that she was quite unconscious that she loosely held it against her breast as if she were nursing it.
“It’s his lordship’s way to think of things,” the discreet answer came impersonally.
Robin looked slowly round the small and really quite wonderful room.
“You know I said that, the first night we came here.”
“Yes?” Dowie answered.
Robin turned her eyes upon her. They were no longer hollowed, but they still looked much too large.
“Dowie,” she said. “He knows things.”
“He always did,” said Dowie. “Some do and some don’t.”
“He knows things—as Donal does. The secret things you can’t talk about—the meaning of things.”
She went on as if she were remembering bit by bit. “ When we were in the Wood in the dark, he said the first thing that made my mind begin to move—almost to think. That was because he knew. Knowing things made him send the book.”
The fact was that he knew much of which it was not possible for him to speak, and in passing a shop window he had been fantastically arrested by a mere pair of small sleeves—the garment to which they belonged having by chance so fallen that they seemed to be tiny arms holding themselves out in surrendering appeal. They had held him a moment or so staring and then he had gone into the shop and asked for their catalogue.
“Yes, he knew,” Dowie replied.
A letter had been written to London signed by Dowie and the models and patterns had been sent to the village and brought to the castle by Jock Macaur. Later there had come rolls of fine flannel and lawn, with gossamer thread and fairy needles and embroidery floss. Then the sewing began.
Doctor Benton had gradually begun to look forward to his daily visits with an interest stimulated by a curiosity become eager. The most casual looker-on might have seen the change taking place in his patient day by day and he was not a casual looker-on. Was the improvement to be relied upon? Would the mysterious support suddenly fail them?
“What in God’s name should we do if it did?” he broke out unconsciously aloud one day when Dowie and he were alone together.
“If it did what, sir?” she asked.
“If it stopped—the dream?”
Dowie understood. By this time she knew that, when he asked questions, took notes and was professionally exact, he had ceased to think of Robin
merely as a patient. She had touched him in some unusual way which had drawn him within the circle of her innocent woe. He was under the spell of her pathetic youngness which made Dowie herself feel as if they were watching over a child called upon to bear something it was unnatural for a child to endure.
“It won’t stop,” she said obstinately, but she lost her ruddy colour because she was not sure.
But after the sewing began there grew up within her a sort of courage. A girl whose material embodiment has melted away until she has worn the aspect of a wraith is not restored to normal bloom in a week. But what Dowie seemed to see was the lamp of life relighted and the first flickering flame strengthening to a glow. The hands which fitted together on the table in the Tower room delicate puzzles in bits of lawn and paper, did not in these days tremble with weakness. Instead of the lost look there had returned to the young doe’s eyes the pretty trusting smile. The girl seemed to smile as if to herself nearly all the time, Dowie thought, and often she broke into a happy laugh at her own small blunders—and sometimes only at the sweet littleness of the things she was making.
One fact revealed itself clearly to Dowie, which was that she had lost all sense of the aspect which the dream must wear to others than herself. This was because there had been no others than Dowie who had uttered no suggestion of doubt and had never touched upon the subject unless it had been first broached by Robin herself. She had hidden her bewilderment and anxieties and had outwardly accepted the girl’s own acceptance of the situation.
Of the incident of the sewing Lord Coombe had been informed later with other details.
“She sits and sews and sews,” wrote Dowie. “She sewed beautifully even before she was out of the nursery. I have never seen a picture of a little saint sewing. If I had, perhaps I should say she looked like it.”
Coombe read the letter to his old friend at Eaton Square.
There was a pause as he refolded it. After the silence he added as out of deep thinking, “I wish that I could see her.”
“So do I,” the Duchess said. “ So do I. But if I were to go to her, questioning would begin at once.”
“My going to Darreuch would attract no attention. It never did after the first year. But she has not said she wished to see me. I gave my word. I shall never see her again unless she asks me to come. She does not need me. She has Donal.”
“What do you believe?” she asked.
“What do you believe?” he replied.
After a moment of speculative gravity came her reply.
“As without proof I believed in the marriage, so without proof I believe that in some mysterious way he comes to her—God be thanked!”
“So do I,” said Coombe. “ We are living in a changing world and new things are happening. I do not know what they are, but they shake me inwardly.”
“You want to see her because—?” the Duchess put it to him.
“Perhaps I am changing with the rest of the world, or it may be that instincts which have always been part of me have been shaken to the surface of my being. Perhaps I was by nature an effusively affectionate and domestic creature. I cannot say that I have ever observed any signs of the tendency, but it may have lurked secretly within me.”
“It caused you to rescue a child from torment and watch over its helplessness as if it had been your own flesh and blood,” interposed the Duchess.
“It may have been. Who knows? And now the unnatural emotional upheaval of the times has broken down all my artificialities. I feel old and tired—perhaps childish. Shrines are being torn down and blown to pieces all over the world. And I long for a quite simple shrine to cleanse my soul before. A white little soul hidden away in peace, and sitting smiling over her sewing of small garments is worth making a pilgrimage to. Do you remember the childish purity of her eyelids? I want to see them dropped down as she sews. I want to see her.”
“Alixe—and her children—would have been your shrine.” The Duchess thought it out slowly.
“Yes.”
He was the last of men to fall into an unconventional posture, but he dropped forward in his seat, his elbows on his knees, his forehead in his hands.
“If she lives and the child lives I shall long intolerably to see them. As her mother seemed to live in Alixe’s exquisite body without its soul, so Alixe’s soul seems to possess this child’s body. Do I appear to be talking nonsense? Things without precedent have always been supposed to be nonsense.”
“We are not so sure of that as we used to be,” commented the Duchess.
“I shall long to be allowed to be near them,” he added. “But I may go out of existence without seeing them at all. I gave my word.”
Chapter 31
After the first day of cutting out patterns from the models and finely sewing tiny pieces of lawn together, Dowie saw that, before going to her bedroom for the night, Robin began to gather together all she had done and used in doing her work. She had ordered from London one of the pretty silk-lined lace-frilled baskets women are familiar with, and she neatly folded and laid her sewing in it. She touched each thing with fingers that lingered; she smoothed and once or twice patted something. She made exquisitely orderly little piles. Her down-dropped white lids quivered with joy as she did it. When she lifted them to look at Dowie her eyes were like those of a stray young spirit.
“I am going to take them into my room,” she said. “I shall take them every night. I want to keep them on a chair quite near me so that I can put out my hand and touch them.”
“Yes, my lamb,” Dowie agreed cheerfully. But she knew she was going to hear something else. And this would be the third time.
“I want to show them to Donal.” The very perfection of her naturalness gave Dowie a cold chill, even while she thanked God. She had shivered inwardly when she had opened the Tower room window, and so she shivered now despite her serene exterior. A simple unexalted body could not but think of those fragments which were never even found. And she, standing there with her lips and eyes smiling, just like any other radiant girl mother whose young husband is her lover, enraptured and amazed by this new miracle of hers!
Robin touched her with the tip of her finger.
“It can’t be only a dream, Dowie,” she said. “He’s too real. I am too real. We are too happy.” She hesitated a second. “If he were here at Darreuch in the daytime—I should not always know where he had been when he was away. Only his coming back would matter. He can’t tell me now just where he comes from. He says ‘Not yet.’ But he comes. Every night, Dowie.”
Every day she sewed in the Tower room, her white eyelids drooping over her work. Each night the basket was carried to her room. And each day Dowie watched with amazement the hollows in her temples and cheeks and under her eyes fill out, the small bones cover themselves, the thinned throat grow round with young tissue and smooth with satin skin. Her hair became light curled silk again; the faint colour deepened into the Jacqueminot glow at which passers by had turned to look in the street when she was little more than a baby. But she never talked of the dream. The third time was the last for many weeks.
Between Doctor Benton and Dowie there grew up an increased reserve concerning the dream. Never before had the man encountered an experience which so absorbed him. He was a student of the advanced order. He also had seen the books which had fallen into the hands of Coombe—some the work of scientific men—some the purely commercial outcome of the need of the hour written by the jackals of the literary profession. He would have been ready to sit by the bedside of his patient through the night watching over her sleep, holding her wrist with fingers on her pulse. Even his most advanced thinking involuntarily harked back to pulse and temperature and blood pressure. The rapidity of the change taking place in the girl was abnormal, but it expressed itself physically as well as mentally. How closely involved physiology and psychology were after all! Which was which? Where did one end and the other begin? Where was the line drawn? Was there a line at all? He had seen no chances for the ap
parently almost dying young thing when he first met her. She could not have lived through what lay before her. She had had a dream which she believed was real, and, through the pure joy and comfort of it, the life forces had begun to flow through her being and combine to build actual firm tissue and supply blood cells. The results were physical enough. The inexplicable in this case was that the curative agency was that she believed that her husband, who had been blown to atoms on the battle field, came to her alive each night—talked with her—held her in warm arms. Nothing else had aided her. And there you were—thrown upon occultism and what not!
He became conscious that, though he would have been glad to question Dowie daily and closely, a certain reluctance of mind held him back. Also he realised that, being a primitive though excellent woman, Dowie herself was secretly awed into avoidance of the subject. He believed that she knelt by her bedside each night in actual fear, but faithfully praying that for some months at least the dream might be allowed to go on. Had not he himself involuntarily said,
“She is marvellously well. We have nothing to fear if this continues.”
It did continue and her bloom became a thing to marvel at. And not her bloom alone. Her strength increased with her blooming until no one could have felt fear for or doubt of her. She walked upon the moor without fatigue, she even worked in a garden Jock Macaur had laid out for her inside the ruined walls of what had once been the castle’s banquet hall. So much of her life had been spent in London that wild moor and sky and the growing of things thrilled her. She ran in and out and to and fro like a little girl. There seemed no limit to the young vigour that appeared day by day to increase rather than diminish.