We
are obliged to go back to Scotland by very early train. There is
not a minute to waste."
At first he only said:
"Back!"
"Yes, dear. Get up."
"To Braemarnie?"
"Yes, dear laddie!"
He felt himself grow hot and cold.
"Away! Away!" he said again vaguely.
"Yes. Get up, dear."
He was as she had said only a little boy and accustomed to do as
he was told. He was also a fine, sturdy little Scot with a pride
of his own. His breeding had been of the sort which did not include
insubordinate scenes, so he got out of bed and began to dress. But
his mother saw that his hands shook.
"I shall not see Robin," he said in a queer voice. "She won't
find me when she goes behind the lilac bushes. She won't know why
I don't come."
He swallowed very hard and was dead still for a few minutes,
though he did not linger over his dressing. His mother felt that
the whole thing was horrible. He was acting almost like a young
man even now. She did not know how she could bear it. She spoke to
him in a tone which was actually rather humble.
"If we knew where she lived you--you could write a little letter
and tell her about it. But we do not where she lives."
He answered her very low.
"That's it. And she's little--and she won't understand. She's very
little--really." There was a harrowingly protective note in his
voice. "Perhaps--she'll cry."
Helen looking down at him with anguished eyes--he was buttoning his
shoes--made an unearthly effort to find words, but, as she said
them, she knew they were not the right ones.
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