It was long before the dropped eyelids could lift and hold themselves
open for more than a few seconds and long before the eyes wore their old
clear look. The depths of the collapse after prolonged tortures of
strain and fear was such as demanded a fierce and unceasing fight of
skill and unswerving determination on the part of both doctors and
nurses. There were hours when what seemed to be strange, deathly drops
into abysses of space struck terror into most of those who stood by
looking on. But Nurse Jones always believed and so did Coombe.
"You needn't send for his mother yet," she said without flinching. "You
and I know something the others don't know, Lord Coombe. That child and
her baby are holding him back though they don't know anything about it."
It revealed itself to him that her interest in things occult and
apparently unexplained by material processes had during the last few
years intensely absorbed her in private. Her feeling, though intense,
was intelligent and her processes of argument were often convincing. He
became willing to answer her questions because he felt sure of her. He
lent her the books he had been reading and in her hard-earned hours of
leisure she plunged deep into them.
"Perhaps I read sometimes when I ought to be sleeping, but it rests
me--I tell you it _rests_ me. I'm finding out that there's strength
outside of all this and you can draw on it. It's there waiting," she
said. "Everybody will know about its being there--in course of time."
"But the time seems long," said Coombe.
Concerning the dream she had many interesting theories. She was at first
disturbed and puzzled because it had stopped. She was anxious to find
out whether it had come back again, but, like Lord Coombe, she realised
that Robin's apparent calm must on no account be disturbed. If her
health-giving serenity could be sustained for a certain length of time,
the gates of Heaven would open to her. But at first Nurse Jones asked
herself and Lord Coombe some troubled questions.
It came about at length that she appeared one night, in the room where
their first private talk had taken place and she had presented herself
on her way to bed, because she had something special to say.
"It came to me when I awakened this morning as if it had been told to me
in the night. Things often seem to come that way. Do you remember, Lord
Coombe, that she said they only talked about happy things?"
"Yes. She said it several times," Coombe answered.
"Do you remember that he never told her where he came from? And she knew
that she must not ask questions? How _could_ he have told her of that
hell--how could he?"
"You are right--quite!"
"I feel sure I am. When he can talk he will tell you--if he remembers. I
wonder how much they remember--except the relief and the blessed
happiness of it? Lord Coombe, I believe as I believe I'm in this room,
that when he knew he was going to face the awful risk of trying to
escape, he knew he mustn't tell her. And he knew that in crawling
through dangers and hiding in ditches he could never be sure of being
able to lie down to sleep and concentrate on sending his soul to her. So
he told her that he might not come for some time. Oh, lord! If he'd been
caught and killed he could never-- No! No!" obstinately, "even then he
would have got back in some form--in some way. I've got to the point of
believing as much as that. He was hers!"
"Yes. Yes. Yes," was all his slow answer. But there was deep thought in
each detached word and when she went away he walked up and down the room
with leisurely steps, looking down at the carpet.
* * * * *
As many hours of the day and night as those in authority would allow him
Lord Coombe sat and watched by Donal's bed. He watched from well hidden
anxiousness to see every subtle change recording itself on his being; he
watched from throbbing affection and longing to see at once any tinge of
growing natural colour, any unconscious movement perhaps a shade
stronger than the last. It was his son who lay there, he told himself,
it was the son he had remotely yearned for in his loneliness; if he had
been his father watching his sunk lids with bated breath, he would have
felt just these unmerciful pangs.
He also watched because in the boy's hours of fevered unconsciousness he
could at times catch words--sometimes broken sentences, which threw
ghastly light upon things past. Sometimes their significance was such as
made him shudder. A condition the doctors most dreaded was one in which
monstrous scenes seem lived again--scenes in which cruelties and
maddening suffering and despairing death itself rose vividly from the
depth of subconsciousness and cried aloud for vengeance. Sometimes Donal
shuddered, tearing at his chest with both hands, more than once he lay
sobbing until only skilled effort prevented his sobs from becoming
choking danger.
"It may be years after he regains his strength," the chief physician
said, "years before it will be safe to ask him for detail. On my own
part I would _never_ bring such horrors back to a man. You may have
noticed how the men who have borne most, absolutely refuse to talk."
"It's an accursed fool who tries to make them," broke in one of the
younger men. "There was a fellow who had been pinned up against a barn
door and left to hang there--and a coarse, loud-mouthed lunatic asked
him to describe how it felt. The chap couldn't stand it. Do you know
what he did? He sprang at him and knocked him down. He apologized
afterwards and said it was his nerves. But there's not a man who was
there who will ever speak to that other brute again."
The man whose name was Jackson seemed to be a clinging memory to the
skeleton when its mind wandered in the past Hades. He had been in some
way very close to the boy. He had died somehow--cruelly. There had been
blood--blood--and no one would help. Some devil had even laughed. When
that scene came back the doctors and nurses held their breath and
silently worked hard. Nothing seemed quite as heart-rending as what had
happened to Jackson. But there were endless other things to shudder at.
* * * * *
So the time passed and Nurse Jones found many times that she must stop
at his door on her way to her rest to say, "Don't look like that, Lord
Coombe. You need not send for his mother yet."
Then at last--and it had been like travelling for months waterless in a
desert--she came in one day with a new and elate countenance. "Mrs. Muir
is a quiet, self-controlled woman, isn't she?" she asked.
"Entirely self-controlled and very quiet," he answered.
"Then if you will speak to Dr. Beresford about it I know he will allow
her to see Captain Muir for a few minutes. And, thank God, it's not
because if she doesn't see him now she'll never see him alive again. He
has all his life before him."
"Please sit down, Nurse," Coombe spoke hastily and placed a chair as he
spoke. He did so because he had perceiving eyes.
She sat down and covered her face with her apron for a moment. She made
no sound or movement, but caught a deep quick breath two or three times.
The relaxed strain had temporarily overpowered her. She uncovered her
face and got up almost immediately. She was not likely to give way
openly to her emotions.
"Thank you, Lord Coombe," she said. "I've never had a case that gripped
hold of me as this has. I've often felt as though that poor half-killed
boy was more to me than he is. You might speak to Dr. Beresford now.
He's just gone in."
* * * * *
Therefore Lord Coombe went that afternoon to the house before which grew
the plane trees whose leaves had rustled in the dawn's first wind on the
morning Donal had sat and talked with his mother after the night of the
Dowager Duchess of Darte's dance.
On his way his thoughts were almost uncontrollable things and he knew
the first demand of good sense was that he should control them. But he
was like an unbelievable messenger from another world--a dark world
unknown, because shadows hid it, and would not let themselves be pierced
by streaming human eyes. Donal was dead. This was what would fill this
woman's mind when he entered her house. Donal was dead. It was the
thought that had excluded all else from life for her, though he knew she
had gone on working as other broken women had done. What did people say
to women whose sons had been dead and had come back to life? It had
happened before. What _could_ one say to prepare them for the
transcendent shock of joy? What preparation could there be?
"God help me!" he said to himself with actual devoutness as he stood at
the door.
He had seen Helen Muir once or twice since the news of her loss had
reached her and she had looked like a most beautiful ghost and shadow of
herself. When she came into her drawing-room to meet him she was more of
a ghost and shadow than when they had last met and he saw her lips
quiver at the mere sight of him, though she came forward very quietly.
Whatsoever helped him in response to his unconscious appeal brought to
him suddenly a wave of comprehension of her and of himself as creatures
unexpectedly near each other as they had never been before. The feeling
was remotely akin to what had been awakened in him by the pure gravity
and tenderness of Robin's baptismal good-bye kiss. He was human, she was
human, they had both been forced to bear suffering. He was bringing joy
to her.
He met her almost as she entered the door. He made several quick steps
and he took both her hands in his and held them. It was a thing so
unheard of that she stopped and stood quite still, looking up at him.
"Come and sit down here," he said, drawing her towards a sofa and he did
not let her hands go, and sat down at her side while she stared at him
and her breath began to come and go quickly.
"What--?" she began, "You are changed--quite different--"
"Yes, I am changed. Everything is changed--for us both!"
"For us--" She touched her breast weakly. "For me--as well as you?"
"Yes," he answered, and he still held her hands protectingly and kept
his altered eyes--the eyes of a strangely new man--upon her. They were
living, human, longing to help her--who had so long condemned him. His
hands were even warm and held hers as if to give her support.
"You are a calm, well-balanced woman," he said. "And joy does not kill
people--even hurt them."
There could be only one joy--only one! And she knew he knew there could
be no other. She sprang from her seat.
"Donal!" she cried out so loud that the room rang. "Donal! Donal!"
He was on his feet also because he still wonderfully did not let her go.
"He is at my house. He has been there for weeks because we have had to
fight for his life. We should have called you if he had been dying. Only
an hour ago the doctor in charge gave me permission to come to you. You
may see him--for a few minutes."
She began to tremble and sat down.
"I shall be quiet soon," she said. "Oh, dear God! God! God! Donal!"
Tears swept down her cheeks but he saw her begin to control herself even
the next moment.
"May I speak to him at all?" she asked.
"Kiss him and tell him you are waiting in the next room and can come
back any moment. What the hospital leaves free of Coombe House is at
your disposal."
"God bless you! Oh, _forgive_ me!"
"He escaped from a German prison by some miracle. He must be made to
forget. He must hear of nothing but happiness. There is happiness before
him--enough to force him to forget. You will accept anything he tells
you as if it were a natural thing?"
"Accept!" she cried. "What would I _not_ accept, praising God! You are
preparing me for something. Ah! don't, don't be afraid! But--is it
maiming--darkness?"
"No! No! It is a perfect thing. You must know it before you see him--and
be ready. Before he went to the Front he was married."
"Married!" in a mere breath.
Coombe went on in quick sentences. She must be prepared and she could
bear anything in the rapture of her joy.
"He married in secret a lonely child whom the Dowager Duchess of Darte
had taken into her household. We have both taken charge of her since we
discovered she was his wife. We thought she was his widow. She has a
son. Before her marriage she was Robin Gareth-Lawless."
"Ah!" she cried brokenly. "He would have told me--he wanted to tell
me--but he could not--because I was so hard! Oh! poor motherless
children!"
"You never were hard, I could swear," Coombe said. "But perhaps you have
changed--as I have. If he had not thought I was hard he might have told
me-- Shall we go to him at once?"
Together they went without a moment's delay.