And all the while he was deeply conscious that her infant hatred had not lessened—that he could show her no reason why it should.
There were black hours when she was in deadly peril from a human beast, mad with her beauty. Coombe had almost miraculously saved her, but her detestation of him still held.
Her one thought—her one hope—was to learn—learn, so that she might make her own living. Mademoiselle Vallé supported her in this, and Coombe understood.
In one of the older London squares there was a house upon the broad doorsteps of which Lord Coombe stood oftener than upon any other. The old Dowager Duchess of Darte, having surrounded herself with almost royal dignity, occupied that house in an enforced seclusion. She was a confirmed rheumatic invalid, but her soul was as strong as it was many years before, when she had given its support to Coombe in his unbearable hours. She had poured out her strength in silence, and in silence he had received it. She saved him from slipping over the verge of madness.
But there came a day when he spoke to her of this—of the one woman he had loved, Princess Alixe of X——:
"There was never a human thing so transparently pure, and she was the possession of a brute incarnate. She shook with terror before him. He killed her."
"I believe he did," she said, unsteadily. "He was not received here at Court afterward."
"He killed her. But she would have died of horror if he had not struck her a blow. I saw that. I was in attendance on him at Windsor."
"When I first knew you," the Duchess said gravely.