It was five o'clock of the same day and Harry was asleep in front of
his fire. In the early hours of the afternoon the strain under which
he had been during the past week began to assert itself, and every part
of his body seemed to cry out for sleep.
His head was throbbing, his legs trembled, and strange lights and
figures danced before his eyes; he flung himself into a chair in his
small study at the top of the West Tower and fell asleep.
He had grown to love that room very dearly: the great stretch of the
sea and the shining sand with the grey bending hills hemming it in;
that view was never the same, but with the passing of every cloud held
new colours like a bowl of shining glass.
The room was bare and simple--that had been his own wish; a photograph
of his first wife hung over the mantelpiece, a small sketch of Auckland
Harbour, a rough drawing of the Terraces before their
destruction--these were all his pictures.
He had been trying to read since his return, and copies of "The Egoist"
and some of Swinburne's poetry lay on the table; but the first had
seemed incomprehensible to him and the second indecent, and he had
abandoned them; but he _had_ made one discovery, thanks to Bethel, Walt
Whitman's "Leaves of Grass"--it seemed to him the greatest book that he
had ever read, the very voicing of all his hopes and ideals and faith.
Ah! that man knew!
Benham came in and drew the curtains. He watched the sleeping man for
a moment and nodded his head. He was the right sort, Mr. Harry! He
would do!--and the Watcher of the House stole out again.
Harry slept on, a great, dreamless sleep, grey and formless as sleep of
utter exhaustion always is; then he suddenly woke to the dim twilight
of the room, the orange glow of the dying fire, and the distant
striking of the hour--it was six o'clock!
As he lay back in his chair, dreamily, lazily watching the fire, his
thoughts were of his father. He had not known that he would regret him
so intensely, but he saw now that the old man had meant everything to
him during those first weeks of his return. He thought of him very
tenderly--his prejudices, his weaknesses, his traditions. It was
strange how alike they all were in reality, the Trojans! Sir Jeremy,
Clare, Garrett, Robin, himself, the same bedrock of traditional pride
was there, it was only that circumstances had altered them
superficially. Three weeks ago Clare and he had seemed worlds apart,
now he saw how near they were! But for that very reason, they would
never get on--he saw that quite clearly. They knew too well the weak
spots in each other's armour, and their pride would be for ever at war.
He did not want to turn her out--she had been there for all those years
and it was her home; but he thought that she herself would prefer to
go. There was a charming place in Norfolk, Wrexhall Pogis, that had
been let for years, and there was quite a pleasant little place in
town, 3 Southwick Crescent--yes, she would probably prefer to go, even
had he not meant to marry Mary. The announcement of that little affair
would be something in the nature of a thunderbolt.
It was impossible for him to go--the head of the House must always live
at "The Flutes." But he knew already how much that House was going to
mean to him, and so he guessed how much it must mean to Clare.
And to Robin? What would Robin do? Three weeks ago there could have
been but one answer to that question--he would have followed his aunt.
Now Harry was not so sure. There was this affair of Miss Feverel;
probably Robin would come to him about it and then they would be able
to talk. He had had that very day a letter from Dahlia Feverel. He
looked at it again now; it said:--
"DEAR MR. TROJAN--Mother and I are leaving Pendragon to-morrow--for
ever, I suppose--but before I go I thought that I should like to send
you a little line to thank you for your kindness to me. That sounds
terribly formal, doesn't it? but the gratitude is really there, and
indeed I am no letter-writer.
"You met a girl at the crisis in her life when there were two roads in
front of her and you helped her to choose the right one. I daresay
that you thought that you did very little--it cannot have seemed very
much, that short meeting that we had; but it made just the difference
to me and will, I know, be to me a white stone from which I shall date
my new life. I am not a strong woman--I never shall be a strong
woman--and it was partly because I thought that love for Robin was
going to give me that strength that it hurt so terribly when I found
that the love wasn't there. The going of my love hurt every bit as
much as the going of his--it had been something to be proud of.
"I relied on sentiment and now I am going to rely on work; those are
the only two alternatives offered to women, and the latter is so often
denied to them.
"I hope that it may, one day, give you pleasure to think that you once
helped a girl to do the strong thing instead of the weak one. Of
course, my love for Robin has died, and I see him clearly now without
exaggeration. What happened was largely my fault--I spoilt him, I
think, and helped his self-pride. I know that he has been passing
through a bad time lately, and I am sure that he will come to you to
help him out of it. He is a lucky fellow to have some one to help him
like that--and then he will suddenly see that he has done a rather
cruel thing. Poor Robin! he will make a fine man one day.
"I have got a little secretaryship in London--nothing very big, but it
will give me the work that I want; and, because you once said that you
believed in me, I will try to justify your belief. There! that is
sentiment, isn't it!--and I have flung sentiment away. Well, it is the
last time!
"Good-bye--I shall never forget. Thank you.--
Yours sincerely,
DAHLIA FEVEREL."
So perhaps, after all, Robin's mistakes had been for the good of all of
them. Mistake was, indeed, a slight word for what he had done, and,
thinking of it even now, Harry's anger rose.
And she had been a nice girl, too, and a plucky one.
He had answered her:--
"MY DEAR MISS FEVEREL--I was extremely pleased to get your letter. It
is very good of you to speak as you have done about myself, but I
assure you that what I did was of the smallest importance. It was
because you had pluck yourself that you pulled through. You are quite
right to fling away sentiment. I came back to England three weeks ago
longing to call every man my brother. I thought that by a mere smile,
a bending of the finger, the world was my friend for life. I soon
found my mistake. Friendship is a very slow and gradual affair, and I
distrust the mushroom growth profoundly. Life isn't easy in that kind
of way; you and I have found that out together.
"I wish you every success in your new life; I have no doubt whatever
that you will get on, and I hope that you will let me hear sometimes
from you.
"Things have been happening quickly during the last few days. My
father died this morning; he was himself glad to go, but I shall miss
him terribly--he has been a most splendid friend to me during these
weeks. Then I know that you will be interested to hear that I am
engaged to Miss Bethel--you know her, do you not? I hope and believe
that we shall be very happy.
"As to Robin, he has, as you say, been having a bad time. To do him
justice it has not been only the fear of the letters that has hung over
him--he has also discovered a good many things about himself that have
hurt and surprised him.
"Well, good-bye--I am sure that you will look back on the Robin episode
with gratitude. It has done a great deal for all of us. Good luck to
you!--Always your friend,
HENRY TROJAN."
He turned on the lights in his room and tried to read, but he found
that that was impossible. His eyes wandered off the page and he
listened: he caught himself again and again straining his ears for a
sound. He pictured the coming of steps up the stairs and then sharp
and loud along the passage--then a pause and a knock on his door.
Often he fancied that he heard it, but it was only fancy and he turned
away disappointed; but he was sure that Robin would come.
They had decided not to dine downstairs together on that evening--they
were, all of them, overwrought and the situation was strained; they
were wondering what he was going to do. There were, of course, a
thousand things to be done, but he was glad that they had left him
alone for that night at any rate. He wanted to be quiet.
He had written a letter of enormous length to Mary, explaining to her
what had happened and telling her that he would come to her in the
morning. It was very hard, even then, not to rush down to her, but he
felt that he must keep that day at least sacred to his father.
Would Robin come? It was quarter to seven and that terrible sleep was
beginning to overcome him again. The fire, the walls, the pictures,
danced before his eyes ... the stories of the fishermen in the Cove
came back to him ... the Four Stones and the man who had lost his way
... the red tiles and the black rafters of "The Bended Thumb" ... and
then Mary's beauty above it all. Mary on the moors with the wind
blowing through her hair; Mary in the house with the firelight on her
face, Mary ... and then he suddenly started up, wide awake, for he
heard steps on the stair.
He knew them at once--he never doubted that they were Robin's. The
last two steps were taken slowly and with hesitation.
Then he hurried down the passage as though he had suddenly made up his
mind; then, again, there was a long pause before the door. At last
came the knock, timidly, and then another loudly and almost violently.
Harry shouted "Come in," and Robin entered, his face pale and his hands
twisting and untwisting.
"Ah, Robin--do you want anything? Come in--sit down. I've been
asleep."
"Oh, I'm sorry, did I wake you up? No, thanks, I won't sit down. I've
got some things I want to say. I'd rather say them standing up."
There was a long pause. Harry said nothing and stared into the fire.
"I've got a good lot to say altogether." Robin cleared his throat.
"It's rather hard. Perhaps this doesn't seem quite the time--after
grandfather--and--everything--but I couldn't wait very well. I've been
a bit uncomfortable."
"Out with it," said Harry. "This time will do excellently--there's a
pause just now, but to-morrow everything will begin again and there's a
terrible lot to do. What is it?"
Was it, he wondered, Robin's fault or his own that there was that
barrier so strangely defined between them even now? He could feel it
there in the room with them now. He wondered whether Robin felt it as
well.
"It is about what my aunt said to you this morning--and other
things--other things right from the beginning, ever since you came
back. I'm not much of a chap at talking, and probably I shan't say
what I mean, but I will try. I've been thinking about it all lately,
but what made me come and speak to you was this morning--having to ask
you a favour after being so rude to you. A chap doesn't like doing
that, and it made me think--besides there being other things."
"Oh, there's no need to thank me about this morning," Harry said drily;
"I shall be very pleased to do what I can."
"Oh, it isn't that," Robin said quickly. "It isn't about that somehow
that I mind at all now; I have been worrying about it a good bit, but
that isn't what I want to speak about. I'll go through with it--Breach
of Promise--or whatever it is--if only you wouldn't think me--well,
quite an utter rotter."
"I wish," said Harry quietly, "that you would sit down. I'm sure that
you would find it easier to talk."
Robin looked at him for a moment and then at the chair--then he sat
down.
"You see, somehow grandfather's dying has made things seem different to
one--it has made one younger somehow. I used to think that I was
really very old and knew a lot; but his death has shown me that I know
nothing at all--really nothing. But there have been a lot of things
all happening together--your coming back, that business with
Dahlia--Miss Feverel, you know--a dressing down that I got from Miss
Bethel the other evening, and then grandfather's dying----"
He paused again and cleared his throat. He looked straight into the
fire, and, every now and again, he gave a little choke and a gasp which
showed that he was moved.
"A chap doesn't like talking about himself," he went on at last; "no
decent chap does; but unless I tell you everything from the beginning
it will never be clear--I must tell you everything----"
"Please--I want to hear."
"Well, you see, before you came back, I suppose that I had really lots
of side. I never used to think that I had, but I see now that what
Mary said the other night was perfectly right--it wasn't only that I
'sided' about myself, but about my set and my people and everything.
And then you came back. You see we didn't any of us very much think
that we wanted you. To begin with, you weren't exactly like my
governor; not having seen you all my life I hadn't thought much about
you at all, and your letters were so unlike anything that I knew that I
hadn't believed them exactly. We were very happy as we were. I
thought that I had everything I wanted. And then you didn't do things
as we did; you didn't like the same books and pictures or anything, and
I was angry because I thought that I must know about those things and I
couldn't understand you. And then you know you made things worse by
trying to force my liking out of me, and chaps of my sort are awfully
afraid of showing their feelings to any one, least of all to a man----"
Robin paused.
"Yes," said Harry, "I know."
"But all this isn't an excuse really; I was a most awful cad, and
there's no getting away from it. But I think I began to see almost
from the very beginning that I hadn't any right to behave like that,
but I was obstinate.
"And then I began to get in a fright about Miss Feverel. She wouldn't
give my letters back, although I went to her and Uncle Garrett and Aunt
Clare--all of us--but it was no good--she meant to keep them and of
course we knew why. And then, too, I saw at last that I'd behaved like
an utter cad--it was funny I didn't see it at the time. But I'd seen
other chaps do the same sort of thing and the girls didn't mind, and
I'd thought that she ought to be jolly pleased at getting to know a
Trojan--and all that sort of thing.
"But when I saw that she wasn't going to give the letters back but
meant to use them I was terribly frightened. It wasn't myself so much,
although I hated the idea of my friends knowing about it all and
laughing at me--but it was the House too--my letting it down so.
"I'd been thinking about you a good bit already. You see you changed
after Aunt Clare spoke to you that morning and I began to be rather
afraid of you--and when a chap begins to be afraid of some one he
begins to like him. I got Aunt Clare and Uncle Garrett to go and speak
to Dahlia, and they couldn't get anything out of her at all; so, then,
I began to wonder whether you could do anything, and as soon as I began
to wonder that I began to want to talk to you. But I never got much
chance; you were always in grandfather's room, and you didn't give me
much encouragement, did you? and then--I began to be awfully miserable.
I don't want to whine--I deserved it all right enough--but I didn't
seem to have a friend anywhere and all my things that I'd believed in
seemed to be worth nothing at all. Then I wanted to talk to you
awfully, and when grandfather was worse and was dying I began to see
things straight--and then I saw Mary and she told me right out what I
was, and I saw it all as clear as daylight.
"And so; well, I've come--not to ask you to help me about Dahlia--but
whether you'll help me to play the game better. I wasn't always slack
and rotten like I am now. When I was in Germany I thought I was going
to do all sorts of things ... but anyhow I can't say exactly all that I
mean. Only I'm awfully lonely and terribly ashamed; and I want you to
forgive me for being so beastly to you----"
He looked wretched enough as he sat there facing the fire with his lip
quivering. He made a strong effort to control himself, but in a moment
he had broken down altogether and hid his head in the arm of the chair,
sobbing as if his heart would break.
Harry waited. The moment for which he had longed so passionately had
come at last; all those weary weeks had now received their reward. But
he was very tired and he could not remember anything except that his
boy was there and that he was crying and wanted some one to help
him--which was very sentimental.
He got up from his chair and put his hand on Robin's shoulder.
"Robin, old boy--don't; it's all right really. I've been waiting for
you to come and speak to me; of course, I knew that you would come.
Never mind about those other things--we're going to have a splendid
time, you and I."
He put his arm round him. There was a moment's silence, then the boy
turned round and gripped his father's coat--then he buried his head in
his father's knees.
Benham entered half an hour later with Harry's evening meal.
"I will have mine here, too, Benham," said Robin, "with my father."
"There is one thing, Robin," said Harry a little later, laughing--"what
about the letters?"
"Oh, I know!" Robin looked up at his father appealingly. "I don't
know what you must think of me over that business. But I suppose I
believed for a time in it all, and then when I saw that it wouldn't do
I just wanted to get out of it as quickly as I could. I never seem to
have thought about it at all--and now I'm more ashamed than I can say.
But I think I'll go through with it; I don't see that there's anything
else very much for me to do, any other way of making up--I think I'd
rather face it."
"Would you?" said Harry. "What about your friends and the House?"
Robin flinched for a moment; then he said resolutely, "Yes, it would be
better for them too. You see they know already--the House, I mean.
All the chaps in the dining-hall and the picture-gallery, they've known
about it all day, and I know that they'd rather I didn't back out of
it. Besides--" he hesitated a moment. "There's another thing--I have
the kind of feeling that I can't have hurt Dahlia so very much if she's
the kind of girl to carry that sort of thing through; if, I mean, she
takes it like that she isn't the sort of girl that would mind very much
what I had done----"
"Is she," said Harry, "that sort of girl?"
"No, I don't think she is. That's what's puzzled me about it all. She
was worth twenty of me really. But any decent sort of girl would have
given them back----"
"She has----"
"What?"
"Given them back."
"The letters?"
Harry went to his writing-table and produced the bundle. They lay in
his hand with the blue ribbon and the neat handwriting, "For Robert
Trojan," outside.
Robin stared. "Not _the_ letters?"
"Yes--the letters; I have had them some days."
But still he did not move. "_You've_ had them?--several days?"
"Yes. I went to see Miss Feverel on my own account and she gave me
them----"
"You had them when we asked you to help us!"
"Yes--of course. It was a little secret of my own and Miss
Feverel's--our--if you like--revenge."
"And we've been laughing at you, scorning you; and we tried--all of
us--and could do nothing! I say, you're the cleverest man in England!
Score! Why I should think you have!" and then he added, "But I'm
ashamed--terribly. You have known all these days and said nothing--and
I! I wonder what you've thought of me----"
He took the letters into his hand and undid the ribbon slowly. "I'm
jolly glad you've known--it's as if you'd been looking after the family
all this time, while we were plunging around in the dark. What a
score! That we should have failed and you so absolutely succeeded--"
Then again, "But I'm jolly ashamed--I'll tell you everything--always.
We'll work together----"
He looked them through and then flung them into the fire.
"I've grown up," he suddenly cried; "come of age at last--at last I
know."
"Not too fast," said Harry, smiling; "it's only a stage. There's
plenty to learn--and we'll learn it together." Then, after a pause,
"There's another thing, though, that will astonish you a bit--I'm
engaged----"
"Engaged!" Robin stared. Quickly before his eyes passed visions of
terrible Colonial women--some entanglement that his father had
contracted abroad and had been afraid to announce before. Well,
whatever it might be, he would stand by him! It was they two against
the world whatever happened!--and Robin felt already the anticipatory
glow of self-sacrificing heroism.
Harry smiled. "Yes--Mary Bethel!"
"Mary! Hurrah!"
He rushed at his father and seized his hand--"You and Mary! Why, it's
simply splendid! The very thing--I'd rather it were she than any
one!--she told me what she thought of me the other night, I can tell
you--fairly went for me. By Jove! I'm glad--we'll have some times,
three of us here together. When was it?"
"Oh! only this morning! I had asked her before, but it was only
settled this morning."
Then Robin was suddenly grave. "Oh! but, I say, there's Aunt
Clare--and Uncle Garrett!" He had utterly forgotten them. What would
they say? The Bethels of all people!
"Yes. I've thought about it. I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid Aunt
Clare won't want to stay. I don't see what's to be done. I haven't
told her yet----"
Robin saw at once that he must choose his future; it was to be his aunt
or his father. His aunt with all those twenty years of faithful
service behind her, his aunt who had done everything for him--or his
father whom he had known for three weeks. But he had no hesitation;
there was now no question it was his father for ever against the world!
"I'm sorry," he said slowly. "Perhaps there will be some arrangement.
Poor Aunt Clare! Did you--tell grandfather?"
"No. I wanted to, but I had no opportunity. But he knows--I am sure
that he knows."
Their thoughts passed to the old man. It was almost as if he had been
there in the room with them, and they felt, curiously, as though he had
at that moment handed over the keys of the House. For an instant they
saw him; his eyes like diamonds, his wrinkled cheeks, his crooked
fingers--and then his laugh. "Harry, my boy, you'll do."
"It's almost as if he was here," said Robin. He turned round and put
his hand in his father's.
"I know he's pleased," he said.
And so it was during the next week, through the funeral, and the
gathering of relatives and the gradual dispersing of them again, and
the final inevitable seclusion when the world and the relations and the
dead had all joined in leaving the family alone. The gathering of
Trojans had shown, beyond a doubt, that Harry was quite fitted to take
his place at the head of the family. He had acted throughout with
perfect tact and everything had gone without a hitch. Many a Trojan
had arrived for the funeral--mournful, red-eyed Trojans, with black
crape and an air of deferential resignation that hinted, also, at
curiosity as regards the successor. They watched Harry, ready for
anything that might gratify their longing for sensational failure; a
man from the backwoods was certain to fail, and their chagrined
disappointment was only solaced by their certainty of some little
sensation in the announcement of his surprising success.
Of course, Clare had been useful; it was on such an occasion that she
appeared at her best. She was kind to them all, but at the same time
impressed the dignity of her position upon them, so that they went away
declaring that Clare Trojan knew how to carry herself and was young for
her years.
The funeral was an occasion of great ceremony, and the town attended in
crowds. Harry realised in their altered demeanour to himself their
appreciation of the value of his succession, and he knew that Sir Henry
Trojan was something very different from the plain Harry. But he had,
from the beginning, taken matters very quietly. Now that he was
assured of the affection of the only two people who were of importance
to him he could afford to treat with easy acquiescence anything else
that Fate might have in store for him. His diffidence, had, to some
extent, left him, and he took everything that came with an ease that
had been entirely foreign to him three weeks before.
Clare might indeed wonder at the change in him, for she had not the key
that unlocked the mystery. The week seemed to draw father and son very
closely together. Years seemed to have made little difference in their
outlook on things, and in some ways Robin was the elder of the two.
They said nothing about Mary--that was to wait until after the funeral;
but the consciousness of their secret added to the bond between them.
Clare herself regarded the future complacently. She was, she felt,
absolutely essential to the right ruling of the House, and she
intended, gradually but surely, to restore her command above and below
stairs. The only possible lion in her path was Harry's marrying, but
of that there seemed no fear at all.
She admired him a little for his conduct during their father's funeral;
he was not such an oaf as she had thought--but she would bide her time.
At last, however, the thunderbolt fell. It was a week after the
funeral, and they had reached dessert. Clare sometimes stayed with
them while they smoked, and, as a rule, conversation was not very
general. To-night, however, she rose to go. Her black suited her; her
dark hair, her dark eyes, the dark trailing clouds of her dress--it was
magnificently sombre against the firelight and the shine of the
electric lamps on the silver. But Harry's "Wait a moment, Clare, I
want to talk," called her back, and she stood by the door looking over
her shoulder at him.
Then when she saw from his glance that it was a matter of importance,
she came back slowly again towards him.
"Another family council?" said Garrett rather impatiently. "We have
had a generous supply lately."
"I'm afraid this is imperative," said Harry. "I am sorry to bother
you, Clare, but this seems to me the best time."
"Oh, any time suits me," she said indifferently, sitting down
reluctantly. "But if it's household affairs, I should think that we
need hardly keep Garrett and Robin."
"It is something that concerns us all four," said Harry. "I am going
to be married!"
It had been from the beginning of things a Trojan dictum that the
revealing of emotion was the worst of gaucheries--Clare, Garrett, and
Robin himself had been schooled in this matter from their respective
cradles; and now the lesson must be put into practice.
For Robin, of course, it was no revelation at all, but he dared not
look at his aunt; he understood a little what it must mean to her. To
those that watched her, however, nothing was revealed. She stood by
the fire, her hands at her side, her head slightly turned towards her
brother.
"Might I ask," she said quietly, "the name of the fortunate lady?"
"Miss Bethel!"
"Miss Bethel!" Garrett sprang to his feet. "Harry, you must be
joking! You can't mean it! Not the daughter of Bethel at the
Point--the madman!--the----"
"Please, Garrett," said Harry, "remember that she has promised to be my
wife. I am sorry, Clare----"
He turned round to his sister.
But she had said nothing. She pulled a chair from the table and sat
down, quietly, without obvious emotion.
"It is a little unexpected," she said. "But really if we had
considered things it was obvious enough. It is all of a piece. Robin
tried for Breach of Promise, the Bethels in the house before father has
been buried for three days--the policy and traditions of the last three
hundred years upset in three weeks."
"Of course," said Harry, "I could scarcely expect you to welcome the
change. You do not know Miss Bethel. I am afraid you are a little
prejudiced against her. And, indeed, please--please, believe me that
it has been my very last wish to go counter in any way to your own
plans. But it has seemed almost unavoidable; we have found that one
thing after another has arisen about which we could not agree. Is it
too late now to reconsider the position? Couldn't we pull together
from this moment?"
But she interrupted him. "Come, Harry," she said, "whatever we are,
let us avoid hypocrisy. You have beaten me at every point and I must
retire. I have seen in three weeks everything that I had cared for and
loved destroyed. You come back a stranger, and without knowing or
caring for the proper dignity of the House, you have done what you
pleased. Finally, you are bringing a woman into the House whose
parents are beggars, whose social position makes her unworthy of such a
marriage. You cannot expect me to love you for it. From this moment
we cease to exist for each other. I hope that I may never see you
again or hear from you. I shall not indulge in heroics or melodrama,
but I will never forgive you. I suppose that the house at Norfolk is
at my disposal?"
"Certainly," he answered. Then he turned to his brother. "I hope,
Garrett," he said, "that you do not feel as strongly about the matter
as Clare. I should be very glad if you found it possible to remain."
That gentleman was in a difficult position; he changed colour and tried
to avoid his sister's eyes. After a rapid survey of the position, he
had come to the conclusion that he would not be nearly as comfortable
in Norfolk--he could not write his book as easily, and the house had
scarcely the same position of importance. He had grown fond of the
place. Harry, after all, was not a bad chap--he seemed very anxious to
be pleasant; and even Mary Bethel mightn't turn out so badly.
"You see, Clare," he said slowly, "there is the book--and--well, on the
whole, I think it would be almost better if I remained; it is not, of
course, that----"
Clare's lip curled scornfully.
"I understand, Garrett, you could scarcely be expected to leave such
comforts for so slight a reason. And you, Robin?"
She held the chair with her hand as she spoke. The fury at her heart
was such that she could scarcely breathe; she was quite calm, but she
had a mad desire to seize Harry as he sat there at the table and
strangle him with her hands. And Garrett!--the contemptible coward!
But if only Robin would come with her, then the rest mattered little.
After all, it had only been a fortnight ago when he had stood at her
side and rejected his father. The scene now was parallel--her voice
grew soft and trembled a little as she spoke to him.
"Robin, dear, what will you do? Will you come with me?"
For a moment father and son looked at each other, then Robin answered--
"I shall be very glad to come and stay sometimes, Aunt
Clare--often--whenever you care to have me. But I think that I must
stay here. I have been talking to father and I am going up to London
to try, I think, for the Diplomatic. We thought----"
But the "we" was too much for her.
"I congratulate you," she said, turning to Harry. "You have done a
great deal in three weeks. It looks," she said, looking round the
room, "almost like a conspiracy. I----" Then she suddenly broke down.
She bent down over Robin and caught his head between her hands--
"Robin--Robin dear--you must come, you must, dear. I brought you up--I
have loved you--always--always. You can't leave me now, old boy, after
all that I have done--all, everything. Why, he has done
nothing--he----"
She kissed him again and again, and caught his hands: "Robin, I love
you--you--only in all the world; you are all that I have got----"
But he put her hands gently aside. "Please--please--Aunt Clare, I am
dreadfully sorry----"
And then her pride returned to her. She walked to the door with her
head high.
"I will go to the Darcy's in London until that other house is ready. I
will go to-morrow----"
She opened the door, but Harry sprang up--
"Please, Clare--don't go like that. Think over it--perhaps
to-morrow----"
"Oh, let me go," she answered wearily; "I'm tired."
She walked up the stairs to her room. She could scarcely see--Robin
had denied her!
She shut the door of her bedroom behind her and fell at the foot of her
bed, her face buried in her hands. Then at last she burst into a storm
of tears--
"Robin! Robin!" she cried.