Mrs. Brane felt Robbie's death terribly, of course; she suffered not only from the natural grief of a mother, but from a morbid fancy that, in some way, the tragedy was her own fault. “I should have taken him away. I should not have let him live in this dreary, dreadful house. What was anything worth compared to his dear life! What is anything worth to me now!” There was again the suggestion that living in this house was worth something. I should have discussed all these matters with Mr. Dabney. Indeed, I should have made him my confidant on all these mysteries which confronted me, had it not been for his harshness on that dreadful night. As it was, I could hardly bear to look at him, hardly bear to speak to him. And, yet, poor, wretched, lonely-hearted girl that I was, I loved him more than ever. I kept on with my work of dusting books, and he kept on with his everlasting notes on Russian literature, so we were as much as ever in each other's company. But what a sad change in our intercourse! The shadow of sorrow and discomfort that lay upon “The Pines” lay heaviest of all in that sunny, peaceful bookroom where we had had such happy hours. And I could not help being glad of his presence, and, sometimes, I found his eyes fixed upon me with such a look of doubt, of dumb and miserable feeling. I was trying to make up my mind to speak to him in those days. I think that in the end I should have done so, with what result I cannot even now imagine, had it not been, first, for the episode of the Russian Baron, and, second, for another matter, infinitely and incomparably more dreadful than any other experience of my life.
The Russian Baron came to “The Pines” one morning about ten days after little Robbie's death. Mrs. Brane received him in the drawing-room, and presently rang the bell and sent Sara upstairs with a message for me.
I came down at once. The Baron sat opposite to Mrs. Brane before the small coal fire. He was a heavy, high-shouldered, bearded man, with that look of having too many and too white teeth which a full black beard gives. His figure reminded me of a dressed-up bolster. It was round and narrow, and without any shape, and it looked soft. His plump hands were buttoned into light-colored gloves, which he had not removed, and his feet were encased in extravagantly long, pointed, very light tan shoes. He kept his eyebrows raised, and his eyes opened so wide that the whites showed above the iris, and this with no sense of effort and for no reason whatever. It disguised every possible expression except one of entirely unwarranted, extreme surprise. At first, when I came into the room, I thought that in some way I must have caused the look, but I soon found that it was habitual to him. Mrs. Brane looked at once nervous, and faintly amused.
“Miss Gale,” she said, “this is Baron Borff.” She consulted the card on her lap. “He was a friend of my husband's when my husband was in Europe, and he, too, like Mr. Dabney, wants to see my husband's collection of Russian books.”
The Baron stood up, and made me a bow so deep that I discovered his hair was parted down the back.
“Mees Gale,” said the Baron, looking up at me while he bowed. He suggested the contortions of a trained sea-animal of some kind.
“I shall have to ask you to show him the books, Miss Gale,” went on Mrs. Brane. “It seems to be one of your principal duties in the house, does n't it! And I certainly did not engage you for a librarian. But I have not been very well since my little boy died—” Her lips quivered and the Baron gave a magnificent, deep, organ-like murmur of sympathy, his unreasonably astonished eyes being fixed meanwhile upon me. In fact, he had stared at me without deviation since my entrance, and I was thoroughly out of countenance.
“It ees true that I should not have intruded myself at this so tragic time into your house of mourning,” he said, “but, unfortunately, my time in your country is so very short that unless I come at this juncture I should not be able to come at all, and so—”
“I understand, of course,” said Mrs. Brane, rising and twisting the Baron's card in her hand. “I am very glad you came. Will you not take dinner with us this evening?”
The Baron looked at me as if for consent or advice, and, thinking that he was considering his hostess's health I made a motion of my lips of “no,” at which he promptly but very politely and effusively declined her hospitality, and followed me out of the room.