The little feudal fastness in the Highlands which was called Darreuch
Castle--when it was mentioned by any one, which was rarely--had been
little more than a small ruin when Lord Coombe inherited it as an
unconsidered trifle among more imposing and available property. It had
indeed presented the aspect not so much of an asset as of an entirely
useless relic. The remote and--as far as record dwelt on him--obviously
unnotable ancestor who had built it as a stronghold in an almost
unreachable spot upon the highest moors had doubtlessly had picturesque
reasons for the structure, but these were lost in the dim past and
appeared on the surface, unexplainable to a modern mind. Lord Coombe
himself had not explained an interest he chose to feel in it, or his own
reasons for repairing it a few years after it came into his possession.
He rebuilt certain breaches in the walls and made certain rooms
sufficiently comfortable to allow of his spending a few nights or weeks
in it at rare intervals. He always went alone, taking no servant with
him, and made his retreat after his own mood, served only by the farmer
and his wife who lived in charge from year's end to year's end, herding
a few sheep and cultivating a few acres for their own needs.
They were a silent pair without children and plainly not feeling the
lack of them. They had lived in remote moorland places since their
birth. They had so little to say to each other that Lord Coombe
sometimes felt a slight curiosity as to why they had married instead of
remaining silent singly. There was however neither sullenness nor
resentment in their lack of expression. Coombe thought they liked each
other but found words unnecessary. Jock Macaur driving his sheep to fold
in the westering sun wore the look of a man not unpleased with life and
at least undisturbed by it. Maggy Macaur doing her housework, churning
or clucking to her hens, was peacefully cheerful and seemed to ask no
more of life than food and sleep and comfortable work which could be
done without haste. There were no signs of knowledge on her part or
Jock's of the fact that they were surrounded by wonders of moorland and
hillside colour and beauty. Sunrise which leaped in delicate flames of
dawn meant only that they must leave their bed; sunset which lighted the
moorland world with splendour meant that a good night's sleep was
coming.
Jock had heard from a roaming shepherd or so that the world was at war
and that lads were being killed in their thousands. One good man had
said that the sons of the great gentry were being killed with the rest.
Jock did not say that he did not believe it and in fact expressed no
opinion at all. If he and Maggy gave credit to the story, they were
little disturbed by any sense of its reality. They had no neighbours and
their few stray kinfolk lived at remote distances and were not given to
visits or communications. There had been vague rumours of far away wars
in the years past, but they had assumed no more reality than legends.
This war was a shadow too and after Jock came home one night and
mentioned it as he might have mentioned the death of a cow or the buying
of a moor pony the subject was forgotten by both.
"His lordship" it was who reminded them of it. He even bestowed upon the
rumour a certain reality. He appeared at the stout little old castle one
day without having sent them warning, which was unusual. He came to give
some detailed orders and to instruct them in the matter of changes. He
had shown forethought in bringing with him a selection of illustrated
newspapers. This saved time and trouble in the matter of making the
situation clear. The knowledge which conveyed itself to Maggy and Jock
produced the effect of making them even more silent than usual if such a
condition were possible. They stared fixedly and listened with respect
but beyond a rare "Hech!" they had no opinion to express. It became
plain that the war was more than a mere rumour-- The lads who had been
blown to bits or bayoneted! The widows and orphans that were left! Some
of the youngest of the lads had lost their senses and married young
things only to go off to the ill place folk called "The Front" and leave
them widows in a few days' or weeks' time. There were hundreds of bits
of girls left lonely waiting for their bairns to come into the
world--Some with scarce a penny unless friends took care of them. There
was a bit widow in her teens who was a distant kinswoman of his
lordship's, and her poor lad was among those who were killed. He had
been a fine lad and he would never see his bairn. The poor young widow
had been ill with grief and the doctors said she must be hidden away in
some quiet place where she would never hear of battles or see a
newspaper. She must be kept in peace and taken great care of if she was
to gain strength to live through her time. She had no family to watch
over her and his lordship and an old lady who was fond of her had taken
her trouble in hand. The well-trained woman who had nursed her as a
child would bring her to Darreuch Castle and there would stay.
His lordship had been plainly much interested in the long time past when
he had put the place in order for his own convenience. Now he seemed
even more interested and more serious. He went from room to room with a
grave face and looked things over carefully. He had provided himself
with comforts and even luxuries before his first coming and they had
been of the solid baronial kind which does not deteriorate. It was a
little castle and a forgotten one, but his rooms had beauty and had not
been allowed to be as gloomy as they might have been if stone walls and
black oak had not been warmed by the rich colours of tapestry and
pictures which held light and glow. But other things were coming from
London. He himself would wait to see them arrive and installed. The
Macaurs wondered what more the "young leddy" and her woman could want
but took their orders obediently. Her woman's name was Mrs. Dowson and
she was a quiet decent body who would manage the household. That the
young widow was to be well taken care of was evident. A doctor was to
ride up the moorland road each day to see her, which seemed a great
precaution even though the Macaurs did not know that he had consented to
live temporarily in the locality because he had been well paid to do so.
Lord Coombe had chosen him with as discreet selection as he had used in
his choice of the vicar of the ancient and forsaken church. A rather
young specialist who was an enthusiast in his work and as ambitious as
he was poor, could contemplate selling some months of his time for value
received if the terms offered were high enough. That silence and
discretion were required formed no objections.
* * * * *
The rain poured down on the steep moorland road when the carriage slowly
climbed it to the castle. Robin, seeming to gaze out at the sodden
heath, did not really see it because she was thinking of Dowie who sat
silently by her side. Dowie had taken her from the church to the station
and they had made the long journey together. They had talked very little
in the train though Dowie had been tenderly careful and kind. Robin knew
she would ask no questions and she dully felt that the blows which were
falling on everybody every day must have stunned her also. What she
herself was thinking as she seemed to gaze at the sodden heather was a
thing of piteous and helpless pain. She was achingly wondering what
Dowie was thinking--what she knew and what she thought of the girl she
had taken such care of and who was being sent away to be hidden in a
ruined castle whose existence was a forgotten thing. The good
respectable face told nothing but it seemed to be trying to keep itself
from looking too serious; and once Robin had thought that it looked as
if Dowie might suddenly have broken down if she would have allowed
herself but she would not allow herself.
The truth was that the two or three days at Eaton Square had been very
hard for Dowie to manage perfectly. To play her accepted part before her
fellow servants required much steady strength. They were all fond of
"poor little Miss Lawless" and had the tendency of their class to
discuss and dwell upon symptoms with sympathetic harrowingness of
detail. It seemed that all of them had had some friend or relative who
had "gone off in a quick decline. It's strange how many young people
do!" A head housemaid actually brought her heart into her throat one
afternoon by saying at the servants' hall tea:
"If she was one of the war brides, I should say she was just like my
cousin Lucy--poor girl. She and her husband were that fond of each other
that it was a pleasure to see them. He was killed in an accident. She
was expecting. And they'd been that happy. She went off in three
months. She couldn't live without him. She wasn't as pretty as Miss
Lawless, of course, but she had big brown eyes and it was the way they
looked that reminded me. Quick decline always makes people's eyes look
big and--just as poor little Miss Lawless does."
To sit and eat buttered toast quietly and only look normally sad and
slowly shake one's head and say, "Yes indeed. I know what you mean, Miss
Tompkins," was an achievement entitled to much respect.
The first night Dowie had put her charge to bed and had seen the faint
outline under the bedclothes and the sunken eyes under the pale closed
lids whose heaviness was so plain because it was a heaviness which had
no will to lift itself again and look at the morning, she could scarcely
bear her woe. As she dressed the child when morning came and saw the
delicate bones sharply denoting themselves, and the hollows in neck and
throat where smooth fairness had been, her hands almost shook as she
touched. And hardest of all to bear was the still, patient look in the
enduring eyes. She was being patient--_patient_, poor lamb, and only God
himself knew how she cried when she was left alone in her white bed, the
door closed between her and all the house.
"Does she think I am wicked?" was what was passing through Robin's mind
as the carriage climbed the moor through the rain. "It would break my
heart if Dowie thought I was wicked. But even that does not matter. It
is only _my_ heart."
In memory she was looking again into Donal's eyes as he had looked into
hers when he knelt before her in the wood. Afterwards he had kissed her
dress and her feet when she said she would go with him to be married so
that he could have her for his own before he went away to be killed.
It would have been _his_ heart that would have been broken if she had
said "No" instead of whispering the soft "Yes" of a little mating bird,
which had always been her answer when he had asked anything of her.
When the carriage drew up at last before the entrance to the castle, the
Macaurs awaited them with patient respectful faces. They saw the "decent
body" assist with care the descent of a young thing the mere lift of
whose eyes almost caused both of them to move a trifle backward.
"You and Dowie are going to take care of me," she said quiet and low and
with a childish kindness. "Thank you."
She was taken to a room in whose thick wall Lord Coombe had opened a
window for sunlight and the sight of hill and heather. It was a room
warm and full of comfort--a strange room to find in a little feudal
stronghold hidden from the world. Other rooms were near it, as
comfortable and well prepared. One in a tower adjoining was hung with
tapestry and filled with wonderful old things, uncrowded and harmonious
and so arranged as to produce the effect of a small retreat for rest,
the reading of books or refuge in stillness.
When Robin went into it she stood for a few moments looking about
her--looking and wondering.
"Lord Coombe remembers everything," she said very slowly at last,
"--everything. He remembers."
"He always did remember," said Dowie watching her. "That's it."
"I did not know--at first," Robin said as slowly as before. "I do--now."
In the evening she sat long before the fire and Dowie, sewing near her,
looked askance now and then at her white face with the lost eyes. It was
Dowie's own thought that they were "lost." She had never before seen
anything like them. She could not help glancing sideways at them as they
gazed into the red glow of the coal. What was her mind dwelling on? Was
she thinking of words to say? Would she begin to feel that they were far
enough from all the world--remote and all alone enough for words not to
be sounds too terrible to hear even as they were spoken?
"Oh! dear Lord," Dowie prayed, "help her to ease her poor, timid young
heart that's so crushed with cruel weight."
"You must go to bed early, my dear," she said at length. "But why don't
you get a book and read?"
The lost eyes left the fire and met hers.
"I want to talk," Robin said. "I want to ask you things."
"I'll tell you anything you want to know," answered Dowie. "You're only
a child and you need an older woman to talk to."
"I want to talk to you about--_me_," said Robin. She sat straight in her
chair, her hands clasped on her knee. "Do you know about--me, Dowie?"
she asked.
"Yes, my dear," Dowie answered.
"Tell me what Lord Coombe told you."
Dowie put down her sewing because she was afraid her hands would tremble
when she tried to find the proper phrase in which to tell as briefly as
she could the extraordinary story.
"He said that you were married to a young gentleman who was killed at
the Front--and that because you were both so young and hurried and upset
you perhaps hadn't done things as regular as you thought. And that you
hadn't the papers you ought to have for proof. And it might take too
much time to search for them now. And--and--Oh, my love, he's a good
man, for all you've hated him so! He won't let a child be born with
shame to blight it. And he's given you and it--poor helpless
innocent--his own name, God bless him!"
Robin sat still and straight, with clasped hands on her knee, and her
eyes more lost than before, as she questioned Dowie remorselessly. There
was something she must know.
"He said--and the Duchess said--that no one would believe me if I told
them I was married. Do _you_ believe me, Dowie? Would Mademoiselle
believe me--if she is alive--for Oh! I believe she is dead! Would you
_both_ believe me?"
Dowie's work fell upon the rug and she held out both her comfortable
nursing arms, choking:
"Come here, my lamb," she cried out, with suddenly streaming eyes. "Come
and sit on your old Dowie's knee like you used to do in the nursery."
"You _do_ believe me--you _do_!" As she had looked in the nursery
days--the Robin who left her chair and was swept into the well known
embrace--looked now. She hid her face on Dowie's shoulder and clung to
her with shaking hands.
"I prayed to Jesus Christ that you would believe me, Dowie!" she cried.
"And that Mademoiselle would come if she is not killed. I wanted you to
_know_ that it was true--I wanted you to _know_!"
"That was it, my pet lamb!" Dowie kept hugging her to her breast "We'd
both of us know! We know _you_--we do! No one need prove things to us.
We _know_!"
"It frightened me so to think of asking you," shivered Robin. "When you
came to Eaton Square I could not bear it. If your dear face had looked
different I should have died. But I couldn't go to bed to-night without
finding out. The Duchess and Lord Coombe are very kind and sorry for me
and they say they believe me--but I can't feel sure they really do. And
nobody else would. But you and Mademoiselle. You loved me always and I
loved you. And I prayed you would."
Dowie knew how Mademoiselle had died--of the heap of innocent village
people on which she had fallen bullet-riddled. But she said nothing of
her knowledge.
"Mademoiselle would say what I do and she would stay and take care of
you as I'm going to do," she faltered. "God bless you for asking me
straight out, my dear! I was waiting for you to speak and praying you'd
do it before I went to bed myself. I couldn't have slept a wink if you
hadn't."
For a space they sat silent--Robin on her knee like a child drooping
against her warm breast. Outside was the night stillness of the moor,
inside the night stillness held within the thick walls of stone rooms
and passages, in their hearts the stillness of something which yet
waited--unsaid.
At last--
"Did Lord Coombe tell you who--he was, Dowie?"
"He said perhaps you would tell me yourself--if you felt you'd like me
to know. He said it was to be as you chose."
Robin fumbled with a thin hand at the neck of her dress. She drew from
it a chain with a silk bag attached. Out of the bag she took first a
small folded package.
"Do you remember the dry leaves I wanted to keep when I was so little?"
she whispered woefully. "I was too little to know how to save them. And
you made me this tiny silk bag."
Dowie's face was almost frightened as she drew back to look. There was
in her motherly soul the sudden sense of panic she had felt in the
nursery so long ago.
"My blessed child!" she breathed. "Not that one--after all that time!"
"Yes," said Robin. "Look, Dowie--look."
She had taken a locket out of the silk bag and she opened it and Dowie
looked.
Perhaps any woman would have felt what she felt when she saw the face
which seemed to laugh rejoicing into hers, as if Life were such a
supernal thing--as if it were literally the blessed gift of God as all
the ages have preached to us even while they have railed at the burden
of living and called it cruel nothingness. The radiance in the eyes'
clearness, the splendid strength and joy in being, could have built
themselves into nothing less than such beauty as this.
Dowie looked at it in dead silence, her breast heaving fast.
"Oh! blessed God!" she broke out with a gasp. "Did they kill--that!"
"Yes," said Robin, her voice scarcely more than a breath, "Donal."