"'DEAR Miss TROJAN—Surely the matter is closed after what happened the other day? I am extremely sorry that you should be troubled by my decision; but it is, I am afraid, unalterable.—Yours truly,D. FEVEREL.'"
"Her decision?" cried Robin quickly. "Had she told you anything? Had she decided anything?"
"Only that she would keep the letters," answered Clare slowly. "You couldn't expect me, Robin dear, to argue with her about it. One had, after all, one's dignity."
"Oh! it's no use!" cried Robin. "She means to use them—of course, it's all plain enough; we've just got to face it, I suppose"; and then, as a forlorn hope, turning to his uncle—
"You've done nothing, I suppose, Uncle Garrett?"
His uncle had hitherto taken no part in the discussion, but sat intent on the book that he was reading. Now he answered, without looking up—
"Yes—I saw the girl."
"You saw her?" from Clare.
"What! Dahlia!" from Robin.
"Yes, I called." He laid the book down on his knee and enjoyed the effect of his announcement. He could be important for a moment at any rate, although he must, with his next words, confess failure, so he prolonged the situation. "Some more tea, Clare, please, and not quite so strong this time—you might speak about the tea—why not make it yourself?"
She took his cup and went over to the tea-table. She knew how to play the game as well as he did, and she showed no astonishment or vulgar curiosity, but if he had succeeded where she had failed she must change her hand. She had never thought very much about Garrett; he was a thorough Trojan—for that she was very grateful, but he had always been more of an emblem to her than a man. Now if he had got the letters she was humiliated indeed. Robin would despise her for having failed where his uncle had succeeded.
"Well, have you got them?"
Robin bent forward eagerly.
"No, not precisely," Garrett answered deliberately. "But I went to see her——"
"With what result?"
"With no precise result—that is to say, she did not promise to surrender them—not immediately. But I have every hope——" He paused mysteriously.
"Of what?" If his uncle had really a chance of getting them, he was not such a fool after all. Perhaps he was a cleverer man than one gave him credit for being.
"Well, of course, one has very little ground for any real assertion, but we discussed the matter at some length. I think I convinced her that it would be her wisest course to deliver up the letters as soon as might be, and I assured her that we would let the matter rest there and take no further steps. I think she was impressed," and he sipped his tea slowly and solemnly.
"Impressed! Yes, but what has she promised?" Robin cried impatiently. He knew Dahlia better than they did, and he did not feel somehow that she was very likely to be impressed with Uncle Garrett. He was not the kind of man.
"Promised? No, not a precise promise—but she was quite pleasant and seemed to be open to argument—quite a nice young person."
"Ah! you have done nothing!" There was a note of relief in Clare's exclamation. "Why not say so at once, Garrett, instead of beating about the bush? There is an end of it. We have failed, Robin, both of us; we are where we were before, and what to do next I really don't know."
It was rather a comfort to drag Garrett into it as well. She was glad that he had tried; it made her own failure less noticeable.
Robin looked at both of them, gloomily, from the fireplace. Aunt Clare, handsome, aristocratic, perfectly well fitted to pour out tea in any society, but useless, useless, useless when it came to the real thing; Uncle Garrett and his eyeglass, trying to make the most of a situation in which he had most obviously failed—no, they were no good either of them, and three weeks ago they had seemed the ultimate standard by which his own life was to be tested. How quickly one learnt!
"Well, what is to be done?" he said desperately. "It's plain enough that she means to stick to the things; and, after all, there can only be one reason for her doing it—she means to use them. I can see no way out of it at all—one must just stand up to it."
"We'll think, dear, we'll think," said Clare eagerly. "Ideas are sure to come if we only wait."
"Wait! But we can't wait!" cried Robin. "She'll move at once. Probably the letters are in the lawyer's hands already."
"Then there's nothing to be done," said Garrett comfortably, settling back again into his book—he was, he flattered himself, a man of most excellent practical sense.
"No, it really seems, Robin, as if we had better wait," said Clare. "We must have patience. Perhaps after all she has taken no steps."
But Robin was angry. He had long ago forgotten his share in the business; he had adopted so successfully the rôle of injured sufferer that his own actions seemed to him almost meritorious. But he was very angry with them. Here they were, in the face of a family crisis, deliberately adopting a policy oflaissez-faire; he had done his best and had failed, but he was young and ignorant of the world (that at least he now admitted), but they were old, experienced, wise—or, at least, they had always seemed to him to stand for experience and wisdom, and yet they could do nothing—nay, worse—they seemed to wish to do nothing—Oh! he was angry with them!
The whole room with its silver and knick-knacks—its beautifully worked cushions and charming water-colours, its shining rows of complete editions and dainty china stood to him now for incapacity. Three weeks ago it had seemed his Holy of Holies.
"But we can't wait," he repeated—"we can't! Don't you see, Aunt Clare, she isn't the sort of girl that waiting does for? She'd never dream of waiting herself." Dahlia seemed, by contrast with their complacent acquiescence, almost admirable.
"Well, dear," Clare answered, "your uncle and I have both tried—I think that we may be alarming ourselves unnecessarily. I must say she didn't seem to me to bear any grudge against you. I daresay she will leave things as they are——"
"Then why keep the letters?"
"Oh, sentiment. It would remind her, you see——"
But Robin could only repeat—"No, she's not that kind of girl," and marvel, perplexedly, at their short-sightedness.
And then he approached the point—
"There is, of course," he said slowly, "one other person who might help us——" He paused.
Garrett put his book down and looked up. Clare leaned towards him.
"Yes?" Clare looked slightly incredulous of any suggested remedy—but apparently composed and a little tired of all this argument. But, in reality, her heart was beating furiously. Had it come at last?—that first mention of his father that she had dreaded for so many days.
"I really cannot think——" from Garrett.
"Why not my father?"
Again it seemed to Clare that she and Harry were struggling for Robin ... since that first moment of his entry they had struggled—she with her twenty years of faithful service, he with nothing—Oh! it was unfair!
"But, Robin," she said gently—"you can't—not, at least, after what has happened. This is an affair for ourselves—for the family."
"Butheis the family!"
"Well, in a sense, yes. But his long absence—his different way of looking at things—make it rather hard. It would be better, wouldn't it, to settle it here, without its going further."
"Tosettleit, yes—but we can't—we don't—we are leaving things quite alone—waiting—when we ought to do something."
Robin knew that she was showing him that his father was still outside the circle—that for herself and Uncle Garrett recent events had made no difference.
But was he outside the circle? Why should he be? At any rate he would soon be head of the House, and then it would matter very little——
"Also," Clare added, "he will scarcely have time just now. He is with father all day—and I don't see what he could do, after all."
"He could see her," said Robin slowly. He suddenly remembered that Dahlia had once expressed great admiration for his father—she was the very woman to like that kind of man. A hurried mental comparison between his father and Uncle Garrett favoured the idea.
"He could see her," he said again. "I think she might like him."
"My dear boy," said Garrett, "take it from me that what a man could do I've done. I assure you it's useless. Your father is a very excellent man, but, I must confess, in my opinion scarcely a diplomat——"
"Well, at any rate it's worth trying," cried Robin impatiently. "We must, I suppose, eat humble pie after the things you said to him, Aunt Clare, the other day, but I must confess it's the only chance. He will be decent about it, I'm sure—I think you scarcely realise how nasty it promises to be."
"Who is to ask?" said Garrett.
"I will ask him," said Clare suddenly. "Perhaps after all Robin is right—he might do something."
It might, she thought, be the best thing. Unless he tried, Robin would always consider him capable of succeeding—but he should try and fail—fail! Why, of course he would fail.
"Thank you, Aunt Clare." Robin walked to the door and then turned: "Soon would be best"—then he closed the door behind him.
His father was coming down the stairs as he passed through the hall. He saw him against the light of the window and he half turned as though to speak to him—but his father gave no sign; he looked very stern—perhaps his grandfather was dead.
The sudden fear—the terror of death brought very close to him for the first time—caught him by the throat.
"He is not dead?" he whispered.
"He is asleep," Harry said, stopping for a moment on the last step of the stairs and looking at him across the hall—"I am afraid that he won't live through the night."
They had both spoken softly, and the utter silence of the house, the heaviness of the air so that it seemed to hang in thick clouds above one's head, drove Robin out. He looked as though he would speak, and then, with bent head, passed into the garden.
He felt most miserably lonely and depressed—if he hadn't been so old and proud he would have hidden in one of the bushes and cried. It was all so terrible—his grandfather, that weighty, eerie impression of Death felt for the first time, the dreadful uncertainty of the Feverel affair, all things were quite enough for misery, but this feeling of loneliness was new to him.
He had always had friends, but even when they had failed him there had been behind them the House—its traditions, its records, its history—his aunt and uncle, and, most reassuring of all, himself.
But now all these had failed him. His friends were vaguely unattractive; Randal was terribly superficial, he was betraying the House; his aunt and uncle were unsatisfactory, and for himself—well, he wasn't quite so splendid as he had once thought. He was wretchedly dissatisfied with it all and felt that he would give all the polish and culture in the world for a simple, unaffected friendship in which he could trust.
"Some one," he said angrily, "that would do something"—and his thoughts were of his father.
It was dark now, and he went down to the sea, because he liked the white flash of the waves as they broke on the beach—this sudden appearing and disappearing and the rustle of the pebbles as they turned slowly back and vanished into the night again.
He liked, too, the myriad lights of the town: the rows of lamps, rising tier on tier into the night sky, like people in some great amphitheatre waiting in silence for the rising of a mighty curtain. He always thought on these nights of Germany—Germany, Worms, the little bookseller, the distant gleam of candles in the Cathedrals, the flash of the sun through the trees over the Rhine, the crooked, cobbled streets at night with the moon like a lamp and the gabled roofs flinging wild shadows over the stones ... the night-sea brought it very close and carried Randal and Cambridge and Dahlia Feverel very far away, although he did not know why.
He watched the light of the town and the waves and the great flashing eye of the lighthouse and then turned back. As he climbed the steps up the cliff he heard some one behind him, and, turning, saw that it was Mary Bethel. She said "Good-night" quickly and was going to pass him, but he stopped her.
"I haven't seen you for ages, Mary," he said. He resolved to speak to her. She knew his father and had always been a good sort—perhaps she would help him.
"Are you coming back, Robin?" she said, stopping and smiling. There was a lamp at the top of the cliff where the road ran past the steps, and by the light of it he saw that she had been crying. But he was too much occupied with his own affairs to consider the matter very deeply, and then girls cried so easily.
"Yes," he said, "let us go round by the road and the Chapel—it's a splendid night; besides, we don't seem to have met recently. We've both been busy, I suppose, and I've a good deal to talk about."
"If you like," she said, rather listlessly. It would, at least, save her from her own thoughts and protect her perhaps from the ceaseless repetition of that scene of three days ago when she had turned the man that she loved more than all the world away and had lied to him because she was proud.
And so at first she scarcely listened to him. They walked down the road that ran along the top of the cliff and the great eye of the lighthouse wheeled upon them, flashed and vanished; she saw the room with its dingy carpet and wide-open window, and she heard his voice again and saw his hands clenched—oh! she had been a fine fool! So it was little wonder that she did not hear his son.
But Robin had at last an audience and he knew no mercy. All the agitation of the last week came pouring forth—he lost all sense of time and place; he was at the end of the world addressing infinity on the subject of his woes, and it says a good deal for his vanity and not much for his sense of humour that he did not feel the lack of proportion in such a position.
"It was a girl, you know—perhaps you've met her—a Miss Feverel—Dahlia Feverel. I met her at Cambridge and we got rather thick, and then I wrote to her—rot, you know, like one does—and when I wanted to get back the letters she wouldn't let me have them, and she's going to use them, I'm afraid, for—well—Breach of Promise!"
He paused and waited for the effect of the announcement, but it never came; she was walking quickly, with her head lifted to catch the wind that blew from the sea—he could not be certain that she had heard.
"Breach of Promise!" he repeated impressively. "It would be rather an awful thing for people in our position if it really came to that—it would be beastly for me. Of course, I meant nothing by it—the letters, I mean—a chap never does. Everybody at Cambridge talks to girls—the girls like it—but she took it seriously, and now she may bring it down on our heads at any time, and you can't think how beastly it is waiting for it to come. We've done all we could—all of us—and now I can tell you it's been worrying me like anything wondering what she's done. My uncle and aunt both tried and failed; I was rather disappointed, because after all one would have thought that they would be able to deal with a thing like that, wouldn't one?"
He paused again, but she only said "Yes" and hurried on.
"So now I'm at my wits' end and I thought that you might help me."
"Why not your father?" she said suddenly.
"Ah! that's just it," he answered eagerly. "That's where I wanted you to give me your advice. You see—well, it's a little hard to explain—we weren't very nice to the governor when he came back first—the first day or two, I mean. He was—well, different—didn't look at things as we did; liked different things and had strong views about knocking down the Cove. So we went on our way and didn't pay much attention to him—I daresay he's told you all about it—and I'm sorry enough now, although it really was largely his own fault! I don't think he seemed to want us to have much to do with him, and then one day Clare spoke to him about things and asked him to consider us a little and he flared up.
"Well, I've a sort of idea that he could help us now—at any rate, there's no one else. Aunt Clare said that she would ask him, but you know him better than any of us, and, of course, it is a little difficult for us, after the way that we've spoken to him; you might help us, I thought."
He couldn't be sure, even now, that Mary had been listening—she looked so strange this evening that he was afraid of her, and half wished that he had kept his affairs to himself. She was silent for a moment, because she was wondering what it was that Harry had really done about the letters. It was amusing, because they obviously didn't know that she had told him—but what had he done?
"Do you want me to help you, Robin?" she asked.
"Yes, of course," he answered eagerly. "You know him so well and could get him to do things that he would never do for us. I'm afraid of him, or rather have been just lately. I don't know what there is about him exactly."
"You want me to help you?" she asked again. "Well then, you've got to put up with a bit of my mind—you've caught me in a bad mood, and I don't care whether it hurts you or not—you're in for a bit of plain speaking."
He looked up at her with surprise, but said nothing.
"Oh, I know I'm no very great person myself," she went on quickly—almost fiercely. "I've only known in the last few weeks how rotten one can really be, but at least I have known—I do know—and that's just what you don't. We've been friends for some time, you and I—but if you don't look out, we shan't be friends much longer."
"Why?" he asked quietly.
"You were never very much good," she went on, paying no attention to his question, "and always conceited, but that was your aunt's fault as much as any one's, and she gave you that idea of your family—that you were God's own chosen people and that no one could come within speaking distance of you—you had that when you were quite a little boy, and you seem to have thought that that was enough, that you need never do anything all your life just because you were a Trojan. Eton helped the idea, and when you went up to Cambridge you were a snob of the first order. I thought Cambridge would knock it out of you, but it didn't; it encouraged you, and you were always with people who thought as you did, and you fancied that your own little corner of the earth—your own little potato-patch—was better than every one else's gardens; I thought you were a pretty poor thing when you came back from Cambridge last year, but now you've beaten my expectations by a good deal——"
"I say——" he broke in—"really I——" but she went on unheeding—
"Instead of working and doing something like any decent man would, you loafed along with your friends learning to tie your tie and choosing your waistcoat-buttons; you go and make love to a decent girl and then when you've tired of her tell her so, and seem surprised at her hitting back.
"Then at last when there is a chance of your seeing what a man is like—that he isn't only a man who dresses decently like a tailor's model—when your father comes back and asks you to spend a few of your idle hours with him, you laugh at him, his manners, his habits, his friends, his way of thinking; you insult him and cut him dead—your father, one of the finest men in the world. Why, you aren't fit to brush his clothes!—but that isn't the worst! Now—when you find you're in a hole and you want some one to help you out of it and you don't know where to turn, you suddenly think of your father. He wasn't any good before—he was rough and stupid, almost vulgar, but now that he can help you, you'll turn and play the dutiful son!
"That's you as you are, Robin Trojan—you asked me for it and you've got it; it's just as well that you should see yourself as you are for once in your life—you'll forget it all again soon enough. I'm not saying it's only you—it's the lot of you—idle, worthless, snobbish, empty, useless. Help you? No! You can go to your father yourself and think yourself lucky if he will speak to you."
Mary stopped for lack of breath. Of course, he couldn't know that she'd been attacking herself as much as him, that, had it not been for that scene three days ago, she would never have spoken at all.
"I say!" he said quietly, "is it really as bad as that? Am I that sort of chap?"
"Yes. You know it now at least."
"It's not quite fair. I am only like the rest. I——"
"Yes, but why should you be? Fancy being proud that you are like the rest! One of a crowd!"
They turned up the road to her house, and she began to relent when she saw that he was not angry.
"No," he said, nodding his head slowly, "I expect you're about right, Mary. Things have been happening lately that have made everything different—I've been thinking ... I see my father differently...."
Then, "How could you?" she cried. "Youto cut him and turn him out? Oh! Robin! you weren't always that sort——"
"No," he answered. "I wasn't once. In Germany I was different—when I got away from things—but it's harder here"—and then again slowly—"But am I really as bad as that, Mary?"
Sudden compunction seized her. What right had she to speak to him? After all, he was only a boy, and she was every bit as bad herself.
"Oh! I don't know!" she said wearily. "I'm all out of sorts to-night, Robin. We're neither of us fit to speak to him, and you've treated him badly, all of you—I oughtn't to have spoken as I did, perhaps; but here we are! You'd better forget it, and another day I'll tell you some of the nice things about you——"
"Am I that sort of chap?" he said again, staring in front of him with his hand on the gate. She said good-night and left him standing in the road. He turned up the hill, with his head bent. He was scarcely surprised and not at all angry. It only seemed the climax to so many things that had happened lately—"a snob"—"a pretty poor thing"—"You don't work, you learn to choose your waistcoat-buttons"—that was the kind of chap he was. And his father: "One of the finest men there is——" He'd missed his chance, perhaps, he would never get it again! But he would try!
He passed into the garden and fumbled for his latch-key. He would speak to his father to-morrow!
Mary was quite right ... hewasa "pretty poor thing!"
That night was never forgotten by any one at "The Flutes." Down in the servants' hall they prolonged their departure for bed to a very late hour, and then crept, timorously, to their rooms; they were extravagant with the electric light, and dared Benham's anger in order to secure a little respite from terrible darkness. Stories were recalled of Sir Jeremy's kindness and good nature, and much speculation was indulged in as to his successor—the cook recalled her early youth and an engagement with a soldier that aroused such sympathy in her hearers that she fraternised, unexpectedly, with Clare's maid—a girl who had formerly been considered "haughty," but was now found to be agreeable and pleasant.
Above stairs there was the same restlessness and sense of uneasy expectancy. Clare went to bed, but not to sleep. Her mind was not with her father—she had been waiting for his death during many long weeks, and now that the time had arrived she could scarcely think of it otherwise than calmly. If one had lived like a Trojan one would die like one—quietly, becomingly, in accordance with the best traditions. She was sure that there would be something ready for Trojans in the next world a little different from other folks' destiny—something select and refined—so why worry at going to meet it?
No, it was not Sir Jeremy, but Robin. Throughout the night she heard the clocks striking the quarters; the first light of dawn crept timidly through the shuttered blinds, the full blaze of the sun streamed on to her bed—and she could not sleep. The conversation of the day before recalled itself syllable for syllable; she read into it things that had never been there and tortured herself with suspicion and doubt. Robin was different—utterly different. He was different even from a week ago when he had first told them of the affair. She could hear his voice as he had bent over her asking her to forgive him; that had seemed to her then the hour of her triumph—but now she saw that it was the premonition of defeat. How she had worked for him, loved him, spoilt him; and now, in these weeks, her lifework was utterly undone. And then, in the terrible loneliness of her room, with the darkness on the world and round her bed and at her heart, she wept—terrible, tearless sobbing that left her in the morning weak, unstrung, utterly unequal to the day.
This conversation with Robin had also worried Garrett. The consolation that he had frequently found in the reassuring comforts of his study seemed utterly wanting to-night. The stillness irritated him; it seemed stuffy, close, and he had an overmastering desire for a companion. This desire he conquered, because he felt that it would be scarcely dignified to search the byways of the house for a friend; but he listened for steps, and fancied over and over again that he heard the eagerly anticipated knock. But no one came, and he sat far into the night, fancying strange sounds and trembling at the dark; and at last fell asleep in his chair, and was discovered in an undignified position on the floor in the early morning by the politely astonished Benham.
But it was for Harry that the night most truly marked a crisis. He spent it in vigil by the side of his father, and watched the heavy passing of the hours, like grey solemn figures through the darkened room. The faint glimmer of the electric light, heavily shaded, assumed fantastic and portentous shapes and fleecy enormous shadows on the white surface of the staring walls. Strange blue shadows glimmered through the black caverns of the windows, and faint lights came from beneath the door, and hovered on the ceiling like mysteriously moving figures.
Sir Jeremy was perfectly still. Death had come to him very gently and had laid its hand quietly upon him, with no violence or harshness. It was only old age that had greeted him as a friend, and then with a smile had persuaded him to go. He was unconscious now, but at any moment his senses might return, and then he would ask for Harry. The crisis might come at any time, and Harry must be there.
He felt no weariness; his brain was extraordinarily active and he passed every incident since his return in review. It all seemed so clear to him now; the inevitability of it all; and his own blindness in escaping the meaning of it. It seemed now that he had known nothing of the world at all three weeks ago. Then he had judged it from his own knowledge—now he saw it in many lights; the point of view of Robin, of Dahlia Feverel, of Clare, of Sir Jeremy, of Bethel, of Mary—he had arrived at the great knowledge that Life could be absolutely right for many different sorts of people—that the same life, like a globe of flashing colours, could shine into every corner of obscurity, gleaming differently in every different place and yet be unchangeable. Murderer, robber, violator, saint, priest, king, beggar—they were all parts of a wonderful, inevitable world, and, he saw it now, were all of them essential. He had been tolerant before from a wide-embracing charity; he was tolerant now from a wide-embracing knowledge: "Er liebte jeden Hund, und wünschte von jedem Hund geliebt zu sein."
They had all learnt in that last three weeks. Dahlia Feverel would pass into the world with that struggle at her heart and the strength of her victory—his father would solve the greatest question of all—Robin! Mary! Clare!—they had all been learning too, but what it was that they had learnt he could not yet tell; the conclusion of the matter was to come. But it had all been, for him at least, only a prelude; he was to stand for the world as head of the House, he had his life before him and his work to do, he had only, like Robin, just "come of age."
He did not know why, but he had no longer any doubt. He knew that he would win Robin, he knew that he would win Mary; up to that day he had been uncertain, vacillating, miserable—but now he had no longer any hesitation. The work of his life was to fit Robin for his due succession, and, please God, he would do it with all his heart and soul and strength; there was to be no false sentiment, no shifting of difficult questions, no hiding from danger, no sheltering blindly under unquestioned creeds, no false bids for popularity.
Robin was to be clean, straight, and sane, with all the sturdy cleanliness and strength and sanity that his father's love and knowledge could give him.
Oh! he loved his son!—but no longer blindly, as he had loved him three weeks ago ... and so he faced his future.
And of Mary, too, he was sure. He knew that she loved him; he had seen her face in the mirror as her lips had said "No," and he saw that her heart had said "Yes." With the new strength that had come to him he vowed to force her defences and carry her away.... Oh! he could be any knight and fight for any lady.
But as he sat by the bed, watching the dawn struggle through the blinds and listening to the faint, clear twittering of birds in the grey, dew-swept garden—he wished that he could tell his father of his engagement. He wondered if there would be time. That it would please the old man he knew, and it would seal the compact, and place a secret blessing on their married life together. Yes, he would like to tell him.
The clocks struck five—he heard their voices echo through the house; and, at the last, the tiny voice of the cuckoo clock sounded and the little wild flap of his wings came quite clearly through the silence; his voice was answered by a chorus from the garden, the voices of the birds seemed to grow ever louder and louder; in that strange dark room, with its shaded lights and heavy airs, it was clear and fresh like the falling of water on cold, shining stone.
Harry went softly to the window and drew back a corner of the blind. The dawn was gradually revealing the forms and colours of the garden, and in the grey, misty light things were mysterious and uncertain; like white lights in a dusky room the two white statues shone through the mist. At that strange hour they seemed in their right atmosphere; they seemed to move and turn and bend—he could have fancied that they sailed on the mist—that, for a moment, they had vanished and then that they had grown enormous, monstrous. He watched them eagerly, and as the light grew clearer he made them out more plainly—the straight, eager beauty of the man, the dim, mysterious grace of the woman. Perhaps they talked in those early hours when they were alone in the garden; perhaps they might speak to him if he were to join them then. Then he fancied that the mist formed into figures of men and women; to his excited fancy the garden seemed peopled with shapes that increased and dwindled and vanished. Round the statues many shapes gathered; one in especial seemed to walk to and fro with its face turned to the house. It was a woman—her grey dress floated in the air, and he saw her form outlined against the statue. Then the mist seemed to sweep down again and catch the statues in its eddies and hide them from his gaze. The dawn was breaking very slowly. From the window the sweep of the sea was, in daylight, perfectly visible: now in the dim grey of the sky it was hidden—but Harry knew where it must be and watched for its appearance. The first lights were creeping over the sky, breaking in delicate tints and ripples of silver and curving, arc-shaped, from the west to the east.
Where sky and sea divided a faint pale line of grey hovered and broke, turning into other paler lights of the most delicate blue. The dawn had come.
He turned back again to the garden and started with surprise: in the more certain light there was no doubt that it was a woman who stood there by the statues, guarding the first early beauties of the garden. Everything was pearl-grey, save where, high above the water of the fountain that stood in the centre of the lawn, the sky had broken into a little lake of the palest blue and this was reflected in the still mirror of the fountain—but itwasa woman. He could see the outline of her form—the bend of her neck as she turned with her face to the house, the straight line of her arms as they tell at her sides. And, as he looked, his heart began to beat thickly. He seemed to recognise that carriage of the body from the hips, the fling-back of the head as she stared towards the windows.
The light of the dawn was breaking over the garden, the chorus of the birds was loud in the trees, and he knew that it was no dream.
He glanced for a moment at his father, and then crept softly from the room. He found one of the nurses making tea over a spirit-lamp in the dressing-room and asked her to take his place.
The house was perfectly silent as he opened the French window of the drawing-room and stepped on to the lawn. The grass was heavy with dew and the fresh air beat about his face; he had never known anything quite so fresh—the air, the grass, the trees, the birds' song like the sound of hidden waters tumbling on to some unseen rock.
Her face was turned away from him and his feet made no sound on the grass. He came perfectly silently towards her, and then when he saw that it had indeed been no imagination but that it was reality, and when he knew all that her coming there meant and what it implied, for moment his limbs shook so that he could scarcely stand. Then he laughed a little and said "Mary!"
She turned with a little cry, and when she saw who it was the crimson flooded her face, changing it as the rising sun was soon to change the grey of the sea and the garden.
"Oh!" she cried, "I didn't know—I didn't mean. I——"
"It is going to be a lovely day," he said quietly, "the sun will be up in a moment. I have been watching you from my father's window."
"Oh! You mustn't!" she cried eagerly. "I thought that I was safe—absolutely; I was here quite by chance—really I was—I couldn't sleep, and I thought that I would watch the sunrise over the sea—and I went down to the beach—and then—well, there was the little wood by your garden, and it was so wonderfully still and silent, and I saw those statues gleaming through the trees, and they looked so beautiful that I came nearer. I meant to come only for a moment and then go away again—but—I—stayed——"
But he could scarcely hear what she said; he only saw her standing there with her dress trembling a little in the breeze.
"Mary," he said, "you did not mean what you told me the other day?"
She looked at him for a moment and then suddenly flung out her hands and touched his coat. "No," she answered.
For a moment they were utterly silent. Then he took her into his arms.
"I love you! How I love you!"
Her hair was about his face, for a moment her face was buried in his coat, then she lifted it and their lips met.
He shook from head to foot, he crushed her to him, then he released her.
She glanced up at him with her hand still touching his coat and looked into his eyes.
"I will love you and serve you and honour you always," she said. She took his arm and they passed down the lawn and watched the light breaking over the sea. The sky was broken into thousands of fleecy clouds of mother-of-pearl—the sea was trembling as though the sun had whispered that it was near at hand, and, on the horizon, the first bars of pale gold heralded its coming.
"I have loved you," he said, "since the first moment that I saw you—I gave you tea and muffins; I deserted the Miss Ponsonbys in order to serve you."
"And I too!" she answered, laughing. "I could not eat the muffin for love of you, and I was jealous of the Miss Ponsonbys!"
"Why did you turn me out the other day?"
"They had been talking—mother and the others; and I was hurt terribly, and I thought that you would hear what they had said and would think, perhaps, that it was true and would despise me. And then after you had gone, I knew that nothing in the world could make any difference—that they could say what they pleased, but that I could not live without you—you see I am very young!"
"Oh, and I am so old, dear! You mustn't forget that! Do you think that you could ever put up with any one as old as I am?"
She laughed. "You are just the same age as myself," she cried. "You will always be the same age, and I am not sure but I think that you are younger——"
And suddenly the sun had risen—a great ball of fire changing all the blue of the sky to red and gold, and they watched as the gods had watched the flaming ruin of Valhalla.
But the daylight drove them to other thoughts.
"I must go back," she said. "I will go down to the shore and perhaps will meet father. Oh! you don't know what I have suffered during these last few days. I thought that perhaps I had driven you away and that you would never come back—and then I had a silly idea that I would watch your windows—and so I came——"
"Why! I have watched yours!" he cried—"often! Oh! we will have some times!"
"But you must remember that there will be three of us," she answered. "There is Robin!"
"Robin! Why, it will be splendid! You and Robin and I!"
"Poor Robin——" She laughed. "You don't know how I scolded him last night. It was about you and I was unhappy. He is changing fast, and it is because of you. He has come round——"
"We have all come round!" cried Harry. "He and you and I! Oh! this is the beginning of the world for all of us—and I am forty-five! Will you write to me later in the day? I cannot get down until to-night. My father is very ill—I must be here. But write to me—a long letter—it will be as though you were talking."
She laughed. "Yes, I'll write," she cried; then she looked at him again—"I love you," she said, as though she were reciting her faith, "because you are good, because you are strong, because—oh! for no reason at all—just because you are you."
For a moment they watched the sea, and then again he took her in his arms and held her as though he would never let her go—then she vanished through the trees.
The house was waking into life as he re-entered it; servants were astir at an early hour: he had been away such a little time, but the world was another place. Every detail of the house—the stairs, the hall, the windows, the clocks, the pot-pourri scent from the bowls of dried roses, the dance of the dust in the light of the rising sun, was presented to him now with a new meaning. He was glad that she had stayed with him such a little while—it made it more precious, her coming with the shadows in that grey of breaking skies and a mysterious plunging sea, and then vanishing with the rising sun. Oh! they would come down to earth soon enough!—let him keep that kiss, those few words, her last smile as she vanished into the wood, like the visible signs of the other world that had, at last, been allowed to him. The vision of the Grail had passed from his eyes, but the memory of it was to be his most sacred possession.
He went to his room, had a bath, and then returned to his father; of course, he could not sleep.
Clare, Garrett, and Robin met at breakfast with the sense of approaching calamity heavy upon them. As far as Sir Jeremy himself was concerned there was little real regret—how could there be? Of course, there was the sentiment of separation, the breaking of a great many ties that had been strong and traditional; but it was better that the old man should go—of that there was no question. Sir Jeremy himself would rather. No, "Le roi est mort" was easy enough to say, but how "Vive le roi" stuck in their throats.
Garrett hinted at a wretched night, and quoted Benham on the dangers of an arm-chair at night-time.
"Of course, one had been thinking," he said vaguely, after a melancholy survey of eggs and bacon that developed into resignation over dry toast—"there was a good deal to think about. But I certainly had intended to go to bed—I can't imagine what——"
Robin said nothing. His mind was busy with Mary's speech of the night before; his world lay crumbled about him, and, like Cato, he was finding a certain melancholy satisfaction in its ruins. His thoughts were scarcely with his grandfather; he felt vaguely that there was Death in the house and that its immediate presence was one of the things that had helped to bring his self-content about his ears. But it was of his father that he was thinking, and of a certain morning when he had refused a walk. If he got a chance again!
Clare looked wretched. Robin thought that she had never seemed so ill before; there was, for the first time, an air of carelessness about her, as though she had flung on her clothes anyhow—something utterly unlike her.
"I am going to speak to Harry this morning," she said.
Garrett looked up peevishly. "Scarcely the time, Clare. I should say that it were better for us to wait until—well, afterwards. There is, perhaps, something a little indecent——"
"I have considered the matter carefully," interrupted Clare decisively. "This is the best time——"
"Oh, well, of course. Only I should have thought that I might have had just a little say in the matter. I was, after all, originally consulted as well as yourself. I saw the girl, and was even, I might venture to suggest, with her for some time. But, of course, a mere man's opinion——"
"Oh, don't be absurd, Garrett. It is I that have to ask him—it is pretty obvious that I have every right to choose my own time."
"Oh! Please, don't let me interfere—only I should scarcely have thought that this was quite the moment when Harry would be most inclined to listen to you."
"If we don't ask him now," she answered, "there's no knowing when we shall have the opportunity. When poor father is gone he will have a great deal to settle and decide; he will have no time for anything at all for months ahead. This morning is our last chance."
But she had another thought. Her great desire now was that he should try and fail; that he would fail she was sure. She was eagerly impatient for that day when he must come to them and admit his failure. She looked ahead and fashioned that scene for herself—that scene when Robin should know and confess that his father was only as the rest of them; that their failure was his failure, their incapacity his incapacity—and then the balance would be restored and Robin would see as he had seen before.
"Coffee, Robin? It's quite hot still. I saw Dr. Brady just now. He says that there is no change, nor is there likely to be one for some hours. You're looking tired, Robin, old boy. Have you been sleeping on the floor, too?"
"No!" He looked up and smiled. "But I was awake a good bit. The house is different somehow, when——"
"Oh yes, I know. One feels it, of course. But eating's much the best thing for keeping one's spirits up. I suppose Harry is coming down. Just find out from Benham, will you, Wilder, whether Mr. Henry is coming down?"
The footman left the room, returning in a moment with the answer that Mr. Henry was about to come down.
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—thatwas Trojan.
At Harry's entrance there was an involuntary raising of eyebrows to see, if possible, howhetook it;itbeing 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 assumed 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."
Harry said no more.
"I am really sorry," said Clare at last, "to speak about a business like this just now—but really there is no time to lose. I am sure that you will do something to prevent trouble in the Courts, and that is what Miss Feverel seems to threaten."
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.
"To see her—to see her and try and arrange some compromise——"
"I should have thought that Robin was the proper person——"
"He has tried and failed; she would not listen to him."
"Then I am afraid that she will not listen to me—a perfect stranger with no claims on her interest."
"It is precisely that. You will be able to put it on a business footing, because sentiment does not enter into the question at all."
"Do you want me to help you, Robin?"
At the direct question Robin looked up again. His father looked very stern and judicial. It was the schoolmaster rather than the parent, but, after all, what else could he expect? So he said, quite simply—"Yes, father."
But at this moment there was an interruption. With the hurried opening of the door there came the sounds of agitated voices and steps in the passage—then Benham appeared.
"Sir Jeremy is worse, Mr. Henry. The doctor thinks that, perhaps——"
Harry hurriedly left the room. Absolute silence reigned. The sudden arrival of the long-expected crisis was terrifying. They sat like statues, staring in front of them, and listening eagerly to every sound. The monotonous ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece was terrifying—the clock on the wall by the door seemed to run a race. The "tick-tock" grew faster and faster—at last it was as if both clocks were screaming aloud.
The room was filled with the clamour, and through it all they sat motionless and silent.
In a moment Harry had returned. "All of you," he said quickly—"he would like to see you—I am afraid——"
After that Robin was confused and saw nothing clearly. As he crept tremblingly up the stairs everything assumed gigantic and menacing shapes—the clock, the pot-pourri bowls, the window-curtains, and the brass rods on the stairs. In the room there was that grey half-light that seemed so terrible, and the spurt and crackle of the fire seemed to fill the place with sounds. He scarcely saw his grandfather. In the centre of the bed, something was lying; the eyes gleamed for a moment in the light of the fire, the lips seemed to move. But he did not realise that those things were his grandfather whom he had known for so many years—in another hour he would be dead.
But the things that he saw were the shadows of the fire on the wall, the dancing in the air of the only lock of hair that Dr. Brady possessed, the way that Clare's hands were folded as she stood silently by the bed, Uncle Garrett's waistcoat-buttons that shot little sparks of light into the room as he turned, ever so slightly, from side to side.
At a motion of the doctor's, he came forward to bid Sir Jeremy farewell. As he bent over the bed panic seized him—he did not see Sir Jeremy but something horrible, terrible, ghoulish—Death. Then he saw the old man's eyes, and they were twinkling; then he knew that he was speaking to him. The words came with difficulty, but they were quite clear—
"You'll be a good man, Robin—but listen to your father—he knows—he'll show you how to be a Trojan."
For a moment he held the wrinkled, shrivelled hand in his own, and then he stepped back. Clare bent down and kissed her father, and then kneeled down by the bed; Robin had a mad longing to laugh as he saw his uncle and aunt kneeling there, their heads made enormous shadows on the wall.
Harry also bent down and kissed his father; the old man held his hand and kept it—
"I've tried to be a fair man and a gentleman—I've not been a good one. But I've had some fun and seen life—thank God, I was born a Trojan—so will the rest of you. Harry, my boy, you're all right—you'll do. I'm going, but I don't regret anything—your sins are experience—and the greatest sin of all is not having any."
His lips closed—as the fire flashed with the falling of a cavern of blazing coal his head rolled back on to the pillow.
Suddenly he smiled—
"Dear old Harry!" he said, and then he died.
The shadows from the fire leapt and danced on the wall, and the kneeling figures by the bed flung grotesque shapes over the dead man.