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<= o:p>
The Head Of The House Of Coomb=
e
By
Francis Hodgson Burnett
Contents
The history of the circumstances about to =
be
related began many years ago--or so it seems in these days. It began, at le=
ast,
years before the world being rocked to and fro revealed in the pause between
each of its heavings some startling suggestion of a new arrangement of its
kaleidoscopic particles, and then immediately a re-arrangement, and another=
and
another until all belief in a permanency of design seemed lost, and the
inhabitants of the earth waited, helplessly gazing at changing stars and
colours in a degree of mental chaos.
Its opening incidents may be dated from a
period when people still had reason to believe in permanency and had indeed
many of them--sometimes through ingenuousness, sometimes through stupidity =
of
type--acquired a singular confidence in the importance and stability of the=
ir
possessions, desires, ambitions and forms of conviction.
One of these, heard not infrequently, was =
to
the effect that--in London--one might live under an umbrella if one lived u=
nder
it in the right neighbourhood and on the right side of the street, which ax=
iom
is the reason that a certain child through the first six years of her life =
sat
on certain days staring out of a window in a small, dingy room on the top f=
loor
of a slice of a house on a narrow but highly fashionable London street and
looked on at the passing of motors, carriages and people in the dull aftern=
oon grayness.
The room was exalted above its station by
being called The Day Nursery and another room equally dingy and uninviting =
was
known as The Night Nursery. The slice of a house was inhabited by the very =
pretty
Mrs. Gareth-Lawless, its inordinate rent being reluctantly paid by
her--apparently with the assistance of those "ravens" who are
expected to supply the truly deserving. The rent was inordinate only from t=
he
standpoint of one regarding it soberly in connection with the character of =
the
house itself which was a gaudy little kennel crowded between two comparativ=
ely
stately mansions. On one side lived an inordinately rich South African
millionaire, and on the other an inordinately exalted person of title, which
facts combined to form sufficient grounds for a certain inordinateness of r=
ent.
Mrs. Gareth-Lawless was also, it may be
stated, of the fibre which must live on the right side of the street or
dissolve into nothingness--since as nearly nothingness as an embodied entity
can achieve had Nature seemingly created her at the outset. So light and ai=
ry
was the fair, slim, physical presentation of her being to the earthly visio=
n,
and so almost impalpably diaphanous the texture and form of mind and charac=
ter
to be observed by human perception, that among such friends--and enemies--a=
s so
slight a thing could claim she was prettily known as "Feather". H=
er
real name, "Amabel", was not half as charming and whimsical in it=
s appropriateness.
"Feather" she adored being called and as it was the fashion among=
the
amazing if amusing circle in which she spent her life, to call its
acquaintances fantastic pet names selected from among the world of birds,
beasts and fishes or inanimate objects--"Feather" she floated thr=
ough
her curious existence. And it so happened that she was the mother of the ch=
ild
who so often stared out of the window of the dingy and comfortless Day Nurs=
ery,
too much a child to be more than vaguely conscious in a chaotic way that a
certain feeling which at times raged within her and made her little body hot
and restless was founded on something like actual hate for a special man who
had certainly taken no deliberate steps to cause her detestation.
*
"Feather" had not been called by
that delicious name when she married Robert Gareth-Lawless who was a beauti=
ful
and irresponsibly rather than deliberately bad young man. She was known as
Amabel Darrel and the loveliest girl in the lovely corner of the
"Feather"--who was then
"Amabel"--thought Robert Gareth-Lawless incredible good luck. He =
only
drifted into her summer by merest chance because a friend's yacht in which =
he
was wandering about "came in" for supplies. A girl Ariel in a thin
white frock and with big larkspur blue eyes yearning at you under her flapp=
ing
hat as she answers your questions about the best road to somewhere will not=
be
too difficult about showing the way herself. And there you are at a first-c=
lass
beginning.
The night after she met Gareth-Lawless in a
lane whose banks were thick with bluebells, Amabel and her sister Alice hud=
dled
close together in bed and talked almost pantingly in whispers over the poss=
ibilities
which might reveal themselves--God willing--through a further acquaintance =
with
Mr. Gareth-Lawless. They were eager and breathlessly anxious but they were
young--YOUNG in their eagerness and Amabel was full of delight in his good
looks.
"He is SO handsome,
"It doesn't matter how pretty one is =
they
seldom do,"
"
"She's got over it," whispered <=
st1:City
w:st=3D"on">
"I shouldn't have to 'get over'
anything," said Amabel, "if this one WOULD. I could fall in love =
with
him in a minute."
"Did you hear what Father said?"=
"What about? Something about HIM? I h=
ope
it wasn't horrid. How could it be?"
"He said,"
"Oh, I didn't know there was a title.=
How
splendid," exclaimed Amabel rapturously. Then after a few moments'
innocent maiden reflection she breathed with sweet hopefulness from under t=
he
sheet, "Children so often have scarlet fever or diphtheria, and you kn=
ow
they say those very strong ones are more likely to die than the other kind.=
The
Vicar of Sheen lost FOUR all in a week. And the Vicar died too. The doctor =
said
the diphtheria wouldn't have killed him if the shock hadn't helped."
"Oh! Amabel!" she gurgled. "=
;You
ARE such a donkey! You would have been silly enough to say that even if peo=
ple
could have heard you. Suppose HE had!"
"Why should he care," said Amabel
simply. "One can't help thinking things. If it happened he would be the
Earl of Lawdor and--"
She fell again into sweet reflection while=
"
"I've prayed for things but I never g=
ot
them," answered
"Perhaps you haven't prayed in the ri=
ght
spirit," Amabel suggested with true piety. "Shall we--shall we tr=
y?
Let us get out of bed and kneel down."
"Get out of bed and kneel down
yourself," was
Amabel sat up on the edge of the bed. In t=
he
faint moonlight and her white night-gown she was almost angelic. She held t=
he
end of the long fair soft plait hanging over her shoulder and her eyes were
full of reproach.
"I think you ought to take SOME
interest," she said plaintively. "You know there would be more
chances for you and the others--if I were not here."
"I'll wait until you are not here,&qu=
ot;
replied the unstirred
But Amabel felt there was no time for wait=
ing
in this particular case. A yacht which "came in" might so soon
"put out". She knelt down, clasping her slim young hands and bend=
ing
her forehead upon them. In effect she implored that Divine Wisdom might gui=
de
Mr. Robert Gareth-Lawless in the much desired path. She also made divers
promises because nothing is so easy as to promise things. She ended with a
gently fervent appeal that--if her prayer were granted--something "mig=
ht
happen" which would result in her becoming a Countess of Lawdor. One c=
ould
not have put the request with greater tentative delicacy.
She felt quite uplifted and a trifle saint=
ly
when she rose from her knees.
Whether or not as a result of this touching
appeal to the Throne of Grace, Robert Gareth-Lawless DID. In three months t=
here
was a wedding at the very ancient village church, and the flowerlike brides=
maids
followed a flower of a bride to the altar and later in the day to the stati=
on
from where Mr. and Mrs. Robert Gareth-Lawless went on their way to
A certain inattention on the part of the D=
eity
was no doubt responsible for the fact that "something" did not
"happen" to the family of Lord Lawdor. On the contrary his four
little giants of sons throve astonishingly and a few months after the
Gareth-Lawless wedding Lady Lawdor--a trifle effusively, as it were--presen=
ted
her husband with twin male infants so robust that they were humorously known
for years afterwards as the "Twin Herculeses."
By that time Amabel had become
"Feather" and despite Robert's ingenious and carefully detailed
method of living upon nothing whatever, had many reasons for knowing that
"life is a back street in
Then Robin was born. She was an intruder a=
nd a
calamity of course. Nobody had contemplated her for a moment. Feather cried=
for
a week when she first announced the probability of her advent. Afterwards h=
owever
she managed to forget the approaching annoyance and went to parties and dan=
ced to
the last hour continuing to be a great success because her prettiness was
delicious and her diaphanous mentality was no train upon the minds of her
admirers male and female.
That a Feather should become a parent gave
rise to much wit of light weight when Robin in the form of a bundle of lace=
was
carried down by her nurse to be exhibited in the gaudy crowded little
drawing-room in the slice of a house in the Mayfair street.
It was the Head of the House of Coombe who
asked the first question about her.
"What will you DO with her?" he
inquired detachedly.
The frequently referred to "babe
unborn" could not have presented a gaze of purer innocence than did the
lovely Feather. Her eyes of larkspur blueness were clear of any thought or
intention as spring water is clear at its unclouded best.
Her ripple of a laugh was clear
also--enchantingly clear.
"Do!" repeated. "What is it
people 'do' with babies? I suppose the nurse knows. I don't. I wouldn't tou=
ch
her for the world. She frightens me."
She floated a trifle nearer and bent to lo=
ok
at her.
"I shall call her Robin," she sa=
id.
"Her name is really Roberta as she couldn't be called Robert. People w=
ill
turn round to look at a girl when they hear her called Robin. Besides she h=
as
eyes like a robin. I wish she'd open them and let you see."
By chance she did open them at the
moment--quite slowly. They were dark liquid brown and seemed to be all lust=
rous
iris which gazed unmovingly at the object in of focus. That object was the =
Head
of the House of Coombe.
"She is staring at me. There is antip=
athy
in her gaze," he said, and stared back unmovingly also, but with a sor=
t of
cold interest.
The Head of the House of Coombe was not a
title to be found in Burke or Debrett. It was a fine irony of the Head's own
and having been accepted by his acquaintances was not infrequently used by =
them
in their light moments in the same spirit. The peerage recorded him as a
Marquis and added several lesser attendant titles.
"When English society was respectable,
even to stodginess at times," was his point of view, "to be born =
'the
Head of the House' was a weighty and awe-inspiring thing. In fearful private
denunciatory interviews with one's parents and governors it was brought up
against one as a final argument against immoral conduct such as debt and not
going to church. As the Head of the House one was called upon to be an Exam=
ple.
In the country one appeared in one's pew and announced oneself a 'miserable
sinner' in loud tones, one had to invite the rector to dinner with regulari=
ty
and 'the ladies' of one's family gave tea and flannel petticoats and baby
clothes to cottagers. Men and women were known as 'ladies' and 'gentlemen' =
in
those halcyon days. One Represented things--Parties in Parliament--Benevole=
nt
Societies, and British Hospitality in the form of astounding long dinners at
which one drank healths and made speeches. In roseate youth one danced the
schottische and the polka and the round waltz which Lord Byron denounced as
indecent. To recall the vigour of his poem gives rise to a smile--when one =
chances
to sup at a cabaret."
He was considered very amusing when he
analyzed his own mental attitude towards his world in general.
"I was born somewhat too late and
somewhat too early," he explained in his light, rather cold and detach=
ed
way. "I was born and educated at the closing of one era and have to ad=
just
myself to living in another. I was as it were cradled among treasured relic=
s of
the ethics of the Georges and Queen Charlotte, and Queen Victoria in her bl=
oom.
I was in my bloom in the days when 'ladies' were reproved for wearing dress=
es
cut too low at Drawing Rooms. Such training gives curious interest to fashi=
ons
in which bodices are unconsidered trifles and Greek nymphs who dance with b=
are
feet and beautiful bare legs may be one's own relations. I trust I do not s=
eem
even in the shadowiest way to comment unfavourably. I merely look on at the
rapidities of change with unalloyed interest. As the Head of the House of
Coombe I am not sure WHAT I am an Example of--or to. Which is why I at times
regard myself in that capacity with a slightly ribald lightness."
The detachment of his question with regard=
to
the newborn infant of the airily irresponsible Feather was in entire harmony
with his attitude towards the singular incident of Life as illustrated by t=
he
World, the Flesh and the Devil by none of which he was--as far as could be
observed--either impressed, disturbed or prejudiced. His own experience had
been richly varied and practically unlimited in its opportunities for pleas=
ure,
sinful or unsinful indulgence, mitigated or unmitigated wickedness, the
gathering of strange knowledge, and the possible ignoring of all dull
boundaries. This being the case a superhuman charity alone could have forbo=
rne
to believe that his opportunities had been neglected in the heyday of his
youth. Wealth and lady of limitations in themselves would have been quite
enough to cause the Nonconformist Victorian mind to regard a young--or
middle-aged--male as likely to represent a fearsome moral example, but these
three temptations combined with good looks and a certain mental brilliance =
were
so inevitably the concomitants of elegant iniquity that the results might be
taken for granted.
That the various worlds in which he lived =
in
various lands accepted him joyfully as an interesting and desirable of more=
or
less abominably sinful personage, the Head of the House of Coombe--even many
years before he became its head--regarded with the detachment which he had,
even much earlier, begun to learn. Why should it be in the least matter what
people thought of one? Why should it in the least matter what one thought of
oneself--and therefore--why should one think at all? He had begun at the ou=
tset
a brilliantly happy young pagan with this simple theory. After the passing =
of some
years he had not been quite so happy but had remained quite as pagan and
retained the theory which had lost its first fine careless rapture and gain=
ed a
secret bitterness. He had not married and innumerable stories were related =
to explain
the reason why. They were most of them quite false and none of them quite t=
rue.
When he ceased to be a young man his delinquency was much discussed, more
especially when his father died and he took his place as the head of his
family. He was old enough, rich enough, important enough for marriage to be
almost imperative. But he remained unmarried. In addition he seemed to cons=
ider
his abstinence entirely an affair of his own.
"Are you as wicked as people say you
are?" a reckless young woman once asked him. She belonged to the young=
er
set which was that season trying recklessness, in a tentative way, as a new
fashion.
"I really don't know. It is so diffic=
ult
to decide," he answered. "I could tell better if I knew exactly w=
hat
wickedness is. When I find out I will let you know. So good of you to take =
an
interest."
Thirty years earlier he knew that a young =
lady
who had heard he was wicked would have perished in flames before immodestly
mentioning the fact to him, but might have delicately attempted to offer
"first aid" to reformation, by approaching with sweetness the sub=
ject
of going to church.
The reckless young woman looked at him wit=
h an
attention which he was far from being blind enough not to see was increased=
by
his answer.
"I never know what you mean," she
said almost wistfully.
"Neither do I," was his amiable
response. "And I am sure it would not be worth while going into. Reall=
y,
we neither of us know what we mean. Perhaps I am as wicked as I know how to=
be.
And I may have painful limitations--or I may not."
After his father's death he spent rather m=
ore
time in
"I have no moral or ethical views to
offer," he had said. "I only SEE. The thing--as it is--will
disintegrate. I am so at sea as to what will take its place that I feel as =
if
the prospect were rather horrible. One has had the old landmarks and been
impressed by the old pomp and picturesqueness so many centuries, that one c=
annot
see the earth without them. There have been kings even in the
As a statesman or a diplomat he would have
seen far but he had been too much occupied with Life as an entertainment, t=
oo
self-indulgent for work of any order. He freely admitted to himself that he=
was
a worthless person but the fact did not disturb him. Having been born with a
certain order of brain it observed and worked in spite of him, thereby addi=
ng
flavour and interest to existence. But that was all.
It cannot be said that as the years passed=
he
quite enjoyed the fact that he knew he was rarely spoken of to a stranger
without its being mentioned that he was the most perfectly dressed man in <=
st1:City
w:st=3D"on">
Feather herself had a marvellous trick in =
the
collecting of her garments. It was a trick which at times barely escaped
assuming the proportions of absolute creation. Her passion for self-adornme=
nt expressed
itself in ingenious combination and quite startling uniqueness of line now =
and
then. Her slim fairness and ash-gold gossamer hair carried airily strange t=
ilts
and curves of little or large hats or daring tints other women could not
sustain but invariably strove to imitate however disastrous the results. Be=
neath
soft drooping or oddly flopping brims hopelessly unbecoming to most faces h=
ers
looked out quaintly lovely as a pictured child's wearing its grandmother's
bonnet. Everything draped itself about or clung to her in entrancing folds
which however whimsical were never grotesque.
"Things are always becoming to me,&qu=
ot;
she said quite simply. "But often I stick a few pins into a dress to t=
uck
it up here and there, or if I give a hat a poke somewhere to make it crooke=
d,
they are much more becoming. People are always asking me how I do it but I
don't know how. I bought a hat from Cerise last week and I gave it two litt=
le
thumps with my fist--one in the crown and one in the brim and they made it
wonderful. The maid of the most grand kind of person tried to find out from=
my
maid where I bought it. I wouldn't let her tell of course."
She created fashions and was imitated as w=
as
the Head of the House of Coombe but she was enraptured by the fact and the
entire power of such gray matter as was held by her small brain cells was c=
oncentrated
upon her desire to evolve new fantasies and amazements for her world.
Before he had been married for a year there
began to creep into the mind of Bob Gareth-Lawless a fearsome doubt remotel=
y hinting
that she might end by becoming an awful bore in the course of time--particu=
larly
if she also ended by being less pretty. She chattered so incessantly about
nothing and was such an empty-headed, extravagant little fool in her insist=
ence
on clothes--clothes--clothes--as if they were the breath of life. After
watching her for about two hours one morning as she sat before her mirror
directing her maid to arrange and re-arrange her hair in different styles--=
in
delicate puffs and curls and straying rings--soft bands and loops--in braid=
s and
coils--he broke forth into an uneasy short laugh and expressed himself--tho=
ugh
she did not know he was expressing himself and would not have understood hi=
m if
she had.
"If you have a soul--and I'm not at a=
ll
certain you have--" he said, "it's divided into a dressmaker's an=
d a
hairdresser's and a milliner's shop. It's full of tumbled piles of hats and
frocks and diamond combs. It's an awful mess, Feather."
"I hope it's a shoe shop and a jewell=
er's
as well," she laughed quite gaily. "And a lace-maker's. I need ev=
ery
one of them."
"It's a rag shop," he said. &quo=
t;It
has nothing but CHIFFONS in it."
"If ever I DO think of souls I think =
of
them as silly gauzy things floating about like little balloons," was h=
er
cheerful response.
"That's an idea," he answered wi=
th a
rather louder laugh. "Yours might be made of pink and blue gauze spang=
led
with those things you call paillettes."
The fancy attracted her.
"If I had one like that"--with a
pleased creative air, "it would look rather ducky floating from my
shoulder--or even my hat--or my hair in the evenings, just held by a tiny
sparkling chain fastened with a diamond pin--and with lovely little pink and
blue streamers." With the touch of genius she had at once relegated it=
to
its place in the scheme of her universe. And Robert laughed even louder tha=
n before.
"You mustn't make me laugh," she
said holding up her hand. "I am having my hair done to match that quak=
ery
thin pale mousey dress with the tiny poke bonnet--and I want to try my face
too. I must look sweet and demure. You mustn't really laugh when you wear a=
dress
and hat like that. You must only smile."
Some months earlier Bob would have found it
difficult to believe that she said this entirely without any touch of humou=
r but
he realized now that it was so said. He had some sense of humour of his own=
and
one of his reasons for vaguely feeling that she might become a bore was that
she had none whatever.
It was at the garden party where she wore =
the
thin quakery mousey dress and tiny poke bonnet that the Head of the House of
Coombe first saw her. It was at the place of a fashionable artist who lived=
at
Hampstead and had a garden and a few fine old trees. It had been Feather's
special intention to strike this note of delicate dim colour. Every other w=
oman
was blue or pink or yellow or white or flowered and she in her filmy coolne=
ss
of unusual hue stood out exquisitely among them. Other heads wore hats broa=
d or
curved or flopping, hers looked like a little nun's or an imaginary portrai=
t of
a delicious young great-grandmother. She was more arresting than any other
female creature on the emerald sward or under the spreading trees.
When Coombe's eyes first fell upon her he =
was
talking to a group of people and he stopped speaking. Someone standing quite
near him said afterwards that he had for a second or so become pale--almost=
as
if he saw something which frightened him.
"Who is that under the copper
beech--being talked to by
Feather was in fact listening with a gentle
air and with her eyelids down drooped to the exact line harmonious with the
angelic little poke bonnet.
"It is Mrs. Robert
Gareth-Lawless--'Feather' we call her," he was answered. "Was the=
re
ever anything more artful than that startling little smoky dress? If it was
flame colour one wouldn't see it as quickly."
"One wouldn't look at it as long,&quo=
t;
said Coombe. "One is in danger of staring. And the little hat--or
bonnet--which pokes and is fastened under her pink ear by a satin bow held =
by a
loose pale bud! Will someone rescue me from staring by leading me to her. I=
t won't
be staring if I am talking to her. Please."
The paleness appeared again as on being led
across the grass he drew nearer to the copper beech. He was still rather pa=
le
when Feather lifted her eyes to him. Her eyes were so shaped by Nature that
they looked like an angel's when they were lifted. There are eyes of that
particular cut. But he had not talked to her fifteen minutes before he knew
that there was no real reason why he should ever again lose his colour at t=
he
sight of her. He had thought at first there was. With the perception which
invariably marked her sense of fitness of things she had begun in the cours=
e of
the fifteen minutes--almost before the colour had quite returned to his
face--the story of her husband's idea of her soul, as a balloon of pink and
blue gauze spangled with paillettes. And of her own inspiration of wearing =
it
floating from her shoulder or her hair by the light sparkling chain--and wi=
th
delicate ribbon streamers. She was much delighted with his laugh--though she
thought it had a rather cracked, harsh sound. She knew he was an important
person and she always felt she was being a success when people laughed.
"Exquisite!" he said. "I sh=
all
never see you in the future without it. But wouldn't it be necessary to vary
the colour at times?"
"Oh! Yes--to match things,"
seriously. "I couldn't wear a pink and blue one with this--" glan=
cing
over the smoky mousey thing "--or paillettes."
"Oh, no--not paillettes," he agr=
eed
almost with gravity, the harsh laugh having ended.
"One couldn't imagine the exact colou=
r in
a moment. One would have to think," she reflected. "Perhaps a mis=
ty
dim bluey thing--like the edge of a rain-cloud--scarcely a colour at all.&q=
uot;
For an instant her eyes were softly shadow=
ed
as if looking into a dream. He watched her fixedly then. A woman who was a =
sort
of angel might look like that when she was asking herself how much her pure
soul might dare to pray for. Then he laughed again and Feather laughed also=
.
Many practical thoughts had already begun =
to
follow each other hastily through her mind. It would be the best possible t=
hing
for them if he really admired her. Bob was having all sorts of trouble with
people they owed money to. Bills were sent in again and again and disagreea=
ble
letters were written. Her dressmaker and milliner had given her most rude h=
ints
which could indeed be scarcely considered hints at all. She scarcely dared
speak to their smart young footman who she knew had only taken the place in=
the
slice of a house because he had been told that it might be an opening to be=
tter
things. She did not know the exact summing up at the agency had been as
follows:
"They're a good looking pair and he's
Lord Lawdor's nephew. They're bound to have their fling and smart people wi=
ll
come to their house because she's so pretty. They'll last two or three years
perhaps and you'll open the door to the kind of people who remember a well
set-up young fellow if he shows he knows his work above the usual."
The more men of the class of the Head of t=
he
House of Coombe who came in and out of the slice of a house the more likely=
the
owners of it were to get good invitations and continued credit, Feather was
aware. Besides which, she thought ingenuously, if he was rich he would no d=
oubt
lend Bob money. She had already known that certain men who liked her had do=
ne
it. She did not mind it at all. One was obliged to have money.
This was the beginning of an acquaintance
which gave rise to much argument over tea-cups and at dinner parties and in
boudoirs--even in corners of Feather's own gaudy little drawing-room. The
argument regarded the degree of Coombe's interest in her. There was always =
curiosity
as to the degree of his interest in any woman--especially and privately on =
the
part of the woman herself. Casual and shallow observers said he was quite
infatuated if such a thing were possible to a man of his temperament; the m=
ore
concentrated of mind said it was not possible to a man of his temperament a=
nd
that any attraction Feather might have for him was of a kind special to him=
self
and that he alone could explain it--and he would not.
Remained however the fact that he managed =
to
see a great deal of her. It might be said that he even rather followed her
about and more than one among the specially concentrated of mind had seen h=
im on
occasion stand apart a little and look at her--watch her--with an expression
suggesting equally profound thought and the profound intention to betray his
private meditations in no degree. There was no shadow of profundity of thou=
ght
in his treatment of her. He talked to her as she best liked to be talked to
about herself, her successes and her clothes which were more successful tha=
n anything
else. He went to the little but exceedingly lively dinners the Gareth-Lawle=
sses
gave and though he was understood not to be fond of dancing now and then da=
nced
with her at balls.
Feather was guilelessly doubtless concerni=
ng
him. She was quite sure that he was in love with her. Her idea of that univ=
ersal
emotion was that it was a matter of clothes and propinquity and loveliness =
and
that if one were at all clever one got things one wanted as a result of it.=
Her
overwhelming affection for Bob and his for her had given her life in
"Of course you will be able to get cr=
edit
at his tailor's as you know him so well," she said. "When I persu=
aded
him to go with me to Madame Helene's last week she was quite amiable. He he=
lped
me to choose six dresses and I believe she would have let me choose six
more."
"Does she think he is going to pay for
them?" asked Bob.
"It doesn't matter what she thinks&qu=
ot;;
Feather laughed very prettily.
"Doesn't it?"
"Not a bit. I shall have the dresses.
What's the matter, Rob? You look quite red and cross."
"I've had a headache for three
days," he answered, "and I feel hot and cross. I don't care about=
a
lot of things you say, Feather."
"Don't be silly," she retorted.
"I don't care about a lot of things you say--and do, too, for the matt=
er
of that."
Robert Gareth-Lawless who was sitting on a
chair in her dressing-room grunted slightly as he rubbed his red and flushed
forehead.
"There's a--sort of limit," he
commented. He hesitated a little before he added sulkily "--to the thi=
ngs
one--SAYS."
"That sounds like
She had in fact at once observed his cloth=
es
as he had crossed the grass to her seat under the copper beech. She had seen
that his fine thinness was inimitably fitted and presented itself to the ey=
e as
that final note of perfect line which ignores any possibility of comment. He
did not wear things--they were expressions of his mental subtleties. Feathe=
r on
her part knew that she wore her clothes--carried them about with her--howev=
er
beautifully.
"I like him," she went on. "=
;I
don't know anything about political parties and the state of
The child Robin was a year old by that time
and staggered about uncertainly in the dingy little Day Nursery in which she
passed her existence except on such occasions as her nurse--who had promptl=
y fallen
in love with the smart young footman--carried her down to the kitchen and
Servants' Hall in the basement where there was an earthy smell and an abund=
ance
of cockroaches. The Servants' Hall had been given that name in the catalogu=
e of
the fashionable agents who let the home and it was as cramped and grimy as =
the two
top-floor nurseries.
The next afternoon Robert Gareth-Lawless
staggered into his wife's drawing-room and dropped on to a sofa staring at =
her
and breathing hard.
"Feather!" he gasped. "Don't
know what's up with me. I believe I'm--awfully ill! I can't see straight. C=
an't
think."
He fell over sidewise on to the cushions so
helplessly that Feather sprang at him.
"Don't, Rob, don't!" she cried in
actual anguish. "Lord Coombe is taking us to the opera and to supper
afterwards. I'm going to wear--" She stopped speaking to shake him and=
try
to lift his head. "Oh! do try to sit up," she begged pathetically.
"Just try. DON'T give up till afterwards." But she could neither =
make
him sit up nor make him hear. He lay back heavily with his mouth open,
breathing stertorously and quite insensible.
It happened that the Head of the House of
Coombe was announced at that very moment even as she stood wringing her han=
ds
over the sofa.
He went to her side and looked at
Gareth-Lawless.
"Have you sent for a doctor?" he
inquired.
"He's--only just done it!" she e=
xclaimed.
"It's more than I can bear. You said the Prince would be at the supper
after the opera and--"
"Were you thinking of going?" he=
put
it to her quietly.
"I shall have to send for a nurse of
course--" she began. He went so far as to interrupt her.
"You had better not go--if you'll par=
don
my saying so," he suggested.
"Not go? Not go at all?" she wai=
led.
"Not go at all," was his answer.=
And
there was such entire lack of encouragement in it that Feather sat down and
burst into sobs.
In few than two weeks Robert was dead and =
she
was left a lovely penniless widow with a child.
Two or three decades earlier the prevailing
sentiment would have been that "poor little Mrs. Gareth-Lawless" =
and
her situation were pathetic. Her acquaintances would sympathetically have
discussed her helplessness and absolute lack of all resource. So very prett=
y, so
young, the mother of a dear little girl--left with no income! How very sad!
What COULD she do? The elect would have paid her visits and sitting in her =
darkened
drawing-room earnestly besought her to trust to her Maker and suggested
"the Scriptures" as suitable reading. Some of them--rare and stra=
nge
souls even in their time--would have known what they meant and meant what t=
hey
said in a way they had as yet only the power to express through the medium =
of a
certain shibboleth, the rest would have used the same forms merely because
shibboleth is easy and always safe and creditable.
But to Feather's immediate circle a
multiplicity of engagements, fevers of eagerness in the attainment of pleas=
ures
and ambitions, anxieties, small and large terrors, and a whirl of days left=
no
time for the regarding of pathetic aspects. The tiny house up whose stairca=
se--tucked
against a wall--one had seemed to have the effect of crowding even when one
went alone to make a call, suddenly ceased to represent hilarious little
parties which were as entertaining as they were up to date and noisy. The m=
ost
daring things
Feather could bear it less than anybody el=
se.
It seemed incredible that such a trick could have been played her. She shut
herself up in her stuffy little bedroom with its shrimp pink frills and dra=
peries
and cried lamentably. At first she cried as a child might who was suddenly
snatched away in the midst of a party. Then she began to cry because she was
frightened. Numbers of cards "with sympathy" had been left at the
front door during the first week after the funeral, they had accumulated in=
a
pile on the salver but very few people had really come to see her and while=
she
knew they had the excuse of her recent bereavement she felt that it made the
house ghastly. It had never been silent and empty. Things had always been g=
oing
on and now there was actually not a sound to be heard--no one going up and =
down
stairs--Rob's room cleared of all his belongings and left orderly and
empty--the drawing-room like a gay little tomb without an occupant. How long
WOULD it be before it would be full of people again--how long must she wait
before she could decently invite anyone?--It was really at this point that =
fright
seized upon her. Her brain was not given to activities of reasoning and
followed no thought far. She had not begun to ask herself questions as to w=
ays
and means. Rob had been winning at cards and had borrowed some money from a=
new
acquaintance so no immediate abyss had yawned at her feet. But when the tho=
ught
of future festivities rose before her a sudden check made her involuntarily=
clutch
at her throat. She had no money at all, bills were piled everywhere, perhaps
now Robert was dead none of the shops would give her credit. She remembered
hearing Rob come into the house swearing only the day before he was taken i=
ll
and it had been because he had met on the door-step a collector of the rent
which was long over-due and must be paid. She had no money to pay it, none =
to
pay the servants' wages, none to pay the household bills, none to pay for t=
he
monthly hire of the brougham! Would they turn her into the street--would the
servants go away--would she be left without even a carriage? What could she=
do
about clothes! She could not wear anything but mourning now and by the time=
she
was out of mourning her old clothes would have gone out of fashion. The mor=
ning
on which this aspect of things occurred to her, she was so terrified that s=
he
began to run up and down the room like a frightened little cat seeing no es=
cape
from the trap it is caught in.
"It's awful--it's awful--it's
awful!" broke out between her sobs. "What can I do? I can't do
anything! There's nothing to do! It's awful--it's awful--it's awful!" =
She
ended by throwing herself on the bed crying until she was exhausted. She ha=
d no
mental resources which would suggest to her that there was anything but cry=
ing
to be done. She had cried very little in her life previously because even in
her days of limitation she had been able to get more or less what she
wanted--though of course it had generally been less. And crying made one's =
nose
and eyes red. On this occasion she actually forgot her nose and eyes and cr=
ied
until she scarcely knew herself when she got up and looked in the glass.
She rang the bell for her maid and sat dow=
n to
wait her coming. Tonson should bring her a cup of beef tea.
"It's time for lunch," she thoug=
ht.
"I'm faint with crying. And she shall bathe my eyes with rose-water.&q=
uot;
It was not Tonson's custom to keep her
mistress waiting but today she was not prompt. Feather rang a second time a=
nd
an impatient third and then sat in her chair and waited until she began to =
feel
as she felt always in these dreadful days the dead silence of the house. It=
was
the thing which most struck terror to her soul--that horrid stillness. The
servants whose place was in the basement were too much closed in their gloo=
my
little quarters to have made themselves heard upstairs even if they had been
inclined to. During the last few weeks feather had even found herself wishi=
ng that
they were less well trained and would make a little noise--do anything to b=
reak
the silence.
The room she sat in--Rob's awful little ro=
om
adjoining--which was awful because of what she had seen for a moment lying
stiff and hard on the bed before she was taken away in hysterics--were drea=
d enclosures
of utter silence. The whole house was dumb--the very street had no sound in=
it.
She could not endure it. How dare Tonson? She sprang up and rang the bell a=
gain
and again until its sound came back to her pealing through the place.
Then she waited again. It seemed to her th=
at
five minutes passed before she heard the smart young footman mounting the
stairs slowly. She did not wait for his knock upon the door but opened it
herself.
"How dare Tonson!" she began.
"I have rung four or five times! How dare she!"
The smart young footman's manner had been
formed in a good school. It was attentive, impersonal.
"I don't know, ma'am," he answer=
ed.
"What do you mean? What does SHE mean?
Where is she?" Feather felt almost breathless before his unperturbed g=
ood
style.
"I don't know, ma'am," he answer=
ed
as before. Then with the same unbiassed bearing added, "None of us kno=
w.
She has gone away."
Feather clutched the door handle because s=
he
felt herself swaying.
"Away! Away!" the words were a f=
aint
gasp.
"She packed her trunk yesterday and
carried it away with her on a four-wheeler. About an hour ago, ma'am."
Feather dropped her hand from the knob of the door and trailed back to the
chair she had left, sinking into it helplessly.
"Who--who will dress me?" she ha=
lf
wailed.
"I don't know, ma'am," replied t=
he
young footman, his excellent manner presuming no suggestion or opinion what=
ever.
He added however, "Cook, ma'am, wishes to speak to you."
"Tell her to come to me here,"
Feather said. "And I--I want a cup of beef tea."
"Yes, ma'am," with entire respec=
t.
And the door closed quietly behind him.
It was not long before it was opened again.
"Cook" had knocked and Feather had told her to come in. Most cooks
are stout, but this one was not. She was a thin, tall woman with square
shoulders and a square face somewhat reddened by constant proximity to fire=
s. She
had been trained at a cooking school. She carried a pile of small account b=
ooks
but she brought nothing else.
"I wanted some beef tea, Cook," =
said
Feather protestingly.
"There is no beef tea, ma'am," s=
aid
Cook. "There is neither beef, nor stock, nor Liebig in the house."=
;
"Why--why not?" stammered Feather
and she stammered because even her lack of perception saw something in the
woman's face which was new to her. It was a sort of finality.
She held out the pile of small books.
"Here are the books, ma'am," was=
her
explanation. "Perhaps as you don't like to be troubled with such thing=
s,
you don't know how far behind they are. Nothing has been paid for months. I=
t's
been an every-day fight to get the things that was wanted. It's not an
agreeable thing for a cook to have to struggle and plead. I've had to do it
because I had my reputation to think of and I couldn't send up rubbish when
there was company."
Feather felt herself growing pale as she s=
at
and stared at her. Cook drew near and laid one little book after another on=
the
small table near her.
"That's the butcher's book," she
said. "He's sent nothing in for three days. We've been living on leavi=
ngs.
He's sent his last, he says and he means it. This is the baker's. He's not =
been
for a week. I made up rolls because I had some flour left. It's done now--a=
nd
HE'S done. This is groceries and Mercom & Fees wrote to Mr. Gareth-Lawl=
ess
when the last month's supply came, that it would BE the last until payment =
was
made. This is wines--and coal and wood--and laundry--and milk. And here is =
wages,
ma'am, which CAN'T go on any longer."
Feather threw up her hands and quite wildl=
y.
"Oh, go away!--go away!" she cri=
ed.
"If Mr. Lawless were here--"
"He isn't, ma'am," Cook interpos=
ed,
not fiercely but in a way more terrifying than any ferocity could have been=
--a
way which pointed steadily to the end of things. "As long as there's a
gentleman in a house there's generally a sort of a prospect that things MAY=
be
settled some way. At any rate there's someone to go and speak your mind to =
even
if you have to give up your place. But when there's no gentleman and
nothing--and nobody--respectable people with their livings to make have got=
to
protect themselves."
The woman had no intention of being insole=
nt.
Her simple statement that her employer's death had left "Nothing"=
and
"Nobody" was prompted by no consciously ironic realization of the
diaphanousness of Feather. As for the rest she had been professionally trai=
ned to
take care of her interests as well as to cook and the ethics of the days of=
her
grandmother when there had been servants with actual affections had not rea=
ched
her.
"Oh! go away! Go AWA-AY!" Feather
almost shrieked.
"I am going, ma'am. So are Edward and
Emma and Louisa. It's no use waiting and giving the month's notice. We
shouldn't save the month's wages and the trades-people wouldn't feed us. We
can't stay here and starve. And it's a time of the year when places has to =
be
looked for. You can't hold it against us, ma'am. It's better for you to hav=
e us
out of the house tonight--which is when our boxes will be taken away."=
Then was Feather seized with a panic. For =
the
first time in her life she found herself facing mere common facts which rose
before her like a solid wall of stone--not to be leapt, or crept under, or
bored through, or slipped round. She was so overthrown and bewildered that =
she
could not even think of any clever and rapidly constructed lie which would =
help
her; indeed she was so aghast that she did not remember that there were such
things as lies.
"Do you mean," she cried out,
"that you are all going to LEAVE the house--that there won't be any
servants to wait on me--that there's nothing to eat or drink--that I shall =
have
to stay here ALONE--and starve!"
"We should have to starve if we
stayed," answered Cook simply. "And of course there are a few thi=
ngs
left in the pantry and closets. And you might get in a woman by the day. You
won't starve, ma'am. You've got your family in
"My father is ill. I think he's dying=
. My
mother could not leave him for a moment. Perhaps he's dead now," Feath=
er
wailed.
"You've got your
Feather literally beat her hands together.=
"My friends! Can I go to people's hou=
ses
and knock at their front door and tell them I haven't any servants or anyth=
ing
to eat! Can I do that? Can I?" And she said it as if she were going cr=
azy.
The woman had said what she had come to sa=
y as
spokeswoman for the rest. It had not been pleasant but she knew she had been
quite within her rights and dealt with plain facts. But she did not enjoy t=
he
prospect of seeing her little fool of a mistress raving in hysterics.
"You mustn't let yourself go,
ma'am," she said. "You'd better lie down a bit and try to get
quiet." She hesitated a moment looking at the pretty ruin who had risen
from her seat and stood trembling.
"It's not my place of course to--make
suggestions," she said quietly. "But--had you ever thought of sen=
ding
for Lord Coombe, ma'am?"
Feather actually found the torn film of her
mind caught for a second by something which wore a form of reality. Cook saw
that her tremor appeared to verge on steadying itself.
"Coombe," she faintly breathed a=
s if
to herself and not to Cook.
"Coombe."
"His lordship was very friendly with =
Mr.
Lawless and he seemed fond of--coming to the house," was presented as a
sort of added argument. "If you'll lie down I'll bring you a cup of te=
a,
ma'am--though it can't be beef."
Feather staggered again to her bed and dro=
pped
flat upon it--flat as a slim little pancake in folds of thin black stuff wh=
ich
hung and floated.
"I can't bring you cream," said =
Cook
as she went out of the room. "Louisa has had nothing but condensed
milk--since yesterday--to give Miss Robin."
"Oh-h!" groaned Feather, not in =
horror
of the tea without cream though that was awful enough in its significance, =
but
because this was the first time since the falling to pieces of her world th=
at she
had given a thought to the added calamity of Robin.
If one were to devote one's mental energie=
s to
speculation as to what is going on behind the noncommittal fronts of any ro=
w of
houses in any great city the imaginative mind might be led far.
Bricks, mortar, windows, doors, steps which
lead up to the threshold, are what are to be seen from the outside. Nothing
particular may be transpiring within the walls, or tragedies, crimes, hideo=
us
suffering may be enclosed. The conclusion is obvious to banality--but as su=
ggestive
as banal--so suggestive in fact that the hyper-sensitive and too imaginative
had better, for their own comfort's sake, leave the matter alone. In most c=
ases
the existing conditions would not be altered even if one knocked at the door
and insisted on entering with drawn sword in the form of attendant policeman
The outside of the slice of a house in which Feather lived was still rather=
fresh
from its last decorative touching up. It had been painted cream colour and =
had
white and windows and green window boxes with variegated vinca vines traili=
ng
from them and pink geraniums, dark blue lobelia and ferns filling the earth
stuffed in by the florist who provided such adornments. Passers-by frequent=
ly glanced
at it and thought it a nice little house whose amusing diminutiveness was a
sort of attraction. It was rather like a new doll's house.
No one glancing at it in passing at the
closing of this particular day had reason to suspect that any unaccustomed
event was taking place behind the cream-coloured front. The front door
"brasses" had been polished, the window-boxes watered and no cries
for aid issued from the rooms behind them. The house was indeed quiet both =
inside
and out. Inside it was indeed even quieter than usual. The servants'
preparation for departure had been made gradually and undisturbedly. There =
had
been exhaustive quiet discussion of the subject each night for weeks, even
before Robert Gareth-Lawless' illness. The smart young footman Edward who h=
ad
means of gaining practical information had constituted himself a sort of
private detective. He had in time learned all that was to be learned. This,=
it
had made itself clear to him on investigation, was not one of those cases w=
hen
to wait for evolutionary family events might be the part of discretion. The=
re
were no prospects ahead--none at all. Matters would only get worse and the
whole thing would end in everybody not only losing their unpaid back wages =
but
having to walk out into the street through the door of a disgraced househol=
d whose
owners would be turned out into the street also when their belongings were =
sold
over their heads. Better get out before everything went to pieces and there
were unpleasantnesses. There would be unpleasantnesses because there was no
denying that the trades-people had been played tricks with. Mrs. Gareth-Law=
less
was only one of a lot of pretty daughters whose father was a poor country
doctor in
"She's not one that won't find someon=
e to
look after her," ended Edward. "Somebody or other will take her up
because they'll be sorry for her. But us lot aren't widows and orphans. No
one's going to be sorry for us or care a hang what we've been let in for. T=
he
longer we stay, the longer we won't be paid." He was not a particularl=
y depraved
or cynical young footman but he laughed a little at the end of his speech.
"There's the Marquis," he added. "He's been running in and o=
ut
long enough to make a good bit of talk. Now's his time to turn up."
After she had taken her cup of tea without
cream Feather had fallen asleep in reaction from her excited agitation. It =
was
in accord with the inevitable trend of her being that even before her eyes =
closed
she had ceased to believe that the servants were really going to leave the
house. It seemed too ridiculous a thing to happen. She was possessed of no
logic which could lead her to a realization of the indubitable fact that th=
ere
was no reason why servants who could neither be paid nor provided with food
should remain in a place. The mild stimulation of the tea also gave rise to=
the
happy thought that she would not give them any references if they "beh=
aved
badly". It did not present itself to her that references from a house =
of
cards which had ignominiously fallen to pieces and which henceforth would
represent only shady failure, would be of no use. So she fell asleep.
*
When she awakened the lights were lighted =
in
the streets and one directly across the way threw its reflection into her
bedroom. It lit up the little table near which she had sat and the first th=
ing she
saw was the pile of small account books. The next was that the light which
revealed them also fell brightly on the glass knob of the door which led in=
to
Robert's room.
She turned her eyes away quickly with a
nervous shudder. She had a horror of the nearness of Rob's room. If there h=
ad
been another part of the house in which she could have slept she would have
fled to it as soon as he was taken ill. But the house was too small to have
"parts". The tiny drawing-rooms piled themselves on top of the di=
ning-room,
the "master's bedrooms" on top of the drawing-rooms, and the
nurseries and attics where Robin and the servants slept one on the other at=
the
top of the house. So she had been obliged to stay and endure everything. Ro=
b's
cramped quarters had always been full of smart boots and the smell of cigars
and men's clothes. He had moved about a good deal and had whistled and laug=
hed
and sworn and grumbled. They had neither of them had bad tempers so that th=
ey
had not quarrelled with each other. They had talked through the open door w=
hen
they were dressing and they had invented clever tricks which helped them to=
get
out of money scrapes and they had gossiped and made fun of people. And now =
the
door was locked and the room was a sort of horror. She could never think of=
it
without seeing the stiff hard figure on the bed, the straight close line of=
the
mouth and the white hard nose sharpened and narrowed as Rob's had never bee=
n.
Somehow she particularly could not bear the recollection of the sharp unnat=
ural
modeling of the hard, white nose. She could not BEAR it! She found herself =
recalling
it the moment she saw the light on the door handle and she got up to move a=
bout
and try to forget it.
It was then that she went to the window and
looked down into the street, probably attracted by some slight noise though=
she
was not exactly aware that she had heard anything.
She must have heard something however. Two
four-wheeled cabs were standing at the front door and the cabman assisted by
Edward were putting trunks on top of them. They were servants' trunks and C=
ook
was already inside the first cab which was filled with paper parcels and od=
ds
and ends. Even as her mistress watched Emma got in carrying a sedate band-b=
ox.
She was the house-parlourmaid and a sedate person. The first cab drove away=
as
soon as its door was closed and the cabman mounted to his seat. Louisa look=
ing
wholly unprofessional without her nurse's cap and apron and wearing a tailo=
r-made
navy blue costume and a hat with a wing in it, entered the second cab follo=
wed
by Edward intensely suggesting private life and possible connection with a
Bank. The second cab followed the first and Feather having lost her breath
looked after them as they turned the corner of the street.
When they were quite out of sight she turn=
ed
back into the room. The colour had left her skin, and her eyes were so wide
stretched and her face so drawn and pinched with abject terror that her pre=
ttiness
itself had left her.
"They've gone--all of them!" she
gasped. She stopped a moment, her chest rising and falling. Then she added =
even
more breathlessly, "There's no one left in the house. It's--empty!&quo=
t;
This was what was going on behind the
cream-coloured front, the white windows and green flower-boxes of the slice=
of
a house as motors and carriages passed it that evening on their way to dinn=
er parties
and theatres, and later as the policeman walked up and down slowly upon his
beat.
Inside a dim light in the small hall showe=
d a
remote corner where on a peg above a decorative seat hung a man's hat of the
highest gloss and latest form; and on the next peg a smart evening overcoat=
. They
had belonged to Robert Gareth-Lawless who was dead and needed such things no
more. The same dim light showed the steep narrowness of the white-railed
staircase mounting into gruesome little corners of shadows, while the minia=
ture
drawing-rooms illumined only from the street seemed to await an explanation=
of
dimness and chairs unfilled, combined with unnatural silence.
It would have been the silence of the tomb=
but
that it was now and then broken by something like a half smothered shriek
followed by a sort of moaning which made their way through the ceiling from=
the
room above.
Feather had at first run up and down the r=
oom
like a frightened cat as she had done in the afternoon. Afterwards she had =
had something
like hysterics, falling face downward upon the carpet and clutching her hair
until it fell down. She was not a person to be judged--she was one of the
unexplained incidents of existence. The hour has passed when the clearly mo=
ral
can sum up the responsibilities of a creature born apparently without brain=
, or
soul or courage. Those who aspire to such morals as are expressed by
fairness--mere fairness--are much given to hesitation. Courage had never be=
en
demanded of Feather so far. She had none whatever and now she only felt pan=
ic
and resentment. She had no time to be pathetic about Robert, being too much
occupied with herself. Robert was dead--she was alive--here--in an empty ho=
use
with no money and no servants. She suddenly and rather awfully realized that
she did not know a single person whom it would not be frantic to expect
anything from.
Nobody had money enough for themselves,
however rich they were. The richer they were the more they needed. It was w=
hen
this thought came to her that she clutched her hands in her hair. The prett=
y and
smart women and agreeable more or less good looking men who had chattered a=
nd
laughed and made love in her drawing-rooms were chattering, laughing and ma=
king
love in other houses at this very moment--or they were at the theatre
applauding some fashionable actor-manager. At this very moment--while she l=
ay
on the carpet in the dark and every little room in the house had horror shut
inside its closed doors--particularly Robert's room which was so hideously =
close
to her own, and where there seemed still to lie moveless on the bed, the st=
iff
hard figure. It was when she recalled this that the unnatural silence of the
drawing-rooms was intruded upon by the brief half-stifled hysteric shriek, =
and
the moaning which made its way through the ceiling. She felt almost as if t=
he
door handle might turn and something stiff and cold try to come in.
So the hours went on behind the cream-colo=
ured
outer walls and the white windows and gay flower-boxes. And the street beca=
me
more and more silent--so silent at last that when the policeman walked past=
on
his beat his heavy regular footfall seemed loud and almost resounding.
To even vaguely put to herself any question
involving would not have been within the scope of her mentality. Even when =
she
began to realize that she was beginning to feel faint for want of food she =
did
not dare to contemplate going downstairs to look for something to eat. What=
did
she know about downstairs? She had never there and had paid no attention
whatever to Louisa's complaints that the kitchen and Servants' Hall were sm=
all
and dark and inconvenient and that cockroaches ran about. She had cheerfully
accepted the simple philosophy that
"I'd give almost ANYTHING for a cup of
coffee," she protested feebly. "And there's no USE in ringing the
bell!"
Her mother ought to have come whether her
father was ill or not. He wasn't dead. Robert was dead and her mother ought=
to
have come so that whatever happened she would not be quite alone and SOMETH=
ING could
be done for her. It was probably this tender thought of her mother which br=
ought
back the recollection of her wedding day and a certain wedding present she =
had
received. It was a pretty silver travelling flask and she remembered that it
must be in her dressing-bag now, and there was some cognac left in it. She =
got
up and went to the place where the bag was kept.
Because she was unaccustomed to stimulant =
it
made her feel quite warm and in a few minutes she forgot that she had been
hungry and realized that she was not so frightened. It was such a relief no=
t to
be terrified; it was as if a pain had stopped. She actually picked up one or
two of the account books and glanced at the totals. If you couldn't pay bil=
ls
you couldn't and nobody was put in prison for debt in these days. Besides s=
he
would not have been put in prison--Rob would--and Rob was dead. Something w=
ould
happen--something.
As she began to arrange her hair for the n=
ight
she remembered what Cook had said about Lord Coombe. She has cried until she
did not look as lovely as usual, but after she had bathed her eyes with cold
rose-water they began to seem only shadowy and faintly flushed. And her fine
ash-gold hair was wonderful when it hung over each shoulder in wide, soft
plaits. She might be a school-girl of fifteen. A delicate lacy night-gown w=
as
one of the most becoming things one wore. It was a pity one couldn't wear t=
hem
to parties. There was nothing the least indecent about them. Millicent
Hardwicke had been photographed in one of hers and no one had suspected wha=
t it
was. Yes; she would send a little note to Coombe. She knew Madame Helene had
only let her have her beautiful mourning because--. The things she had crea=
ted
were quite unique--thin, gauzy, black, floating or clinging. She had been q=
uite
happy the morning she gave Helene her orders. Tomorrow when she had slept t=
hrough
the night and it was broad daylight again she would be able to think of thi=
ngs
to say in her letter to Lord Coombe. She would have to be a little careful
because he did not like things to bore him.--Death and widows might--a
little--at first. She had heard him say once that he did not wish to regard
himself in the light of a charitable institution. It wouldn't do to frighten
him away. Perhaps if he continued coming to the house and seemed very intim=
ate
the trades-people might be managed.
She felt much less helpless and when she w= as ready for bed she took a little more cognac. The flush had faded from her eye-lids and bloomed in delicious rose on her cheeks. As she crept between = the cool sheets and nestled down on her pillow she had a delightful sense of increasing comfort--comfort. What a beautiful thing it was to go to sleep!<= o:p>
And then she was disturbed-started out of =
the
divine doze stealing upon her-by a shrill prolonged wailing shriek!
It came from the Night Nursery and at the
moment it seemed almost worse than anything which had occurred all through =
the
day. It brought everything back so hideously. She had of course forgotten R=
obin
again-and it was Robin! And Louisa had gone away with Edward. She had perha=
ps
put the child to sleep discreetly before she went. And now she had wakened =
and
was screaming. Feather had heard that she was a child with a temper but by =
fair
means or foul Louisa had somehow managed to prevent her from being a nuisan=
ce.
The shrieks shocked her into sitting uprig=
ht
in bed. Their shrillness tearing through the utter soundlessness of the emp=
ty house
brought back all her terrors and set her heart beating at a gallop.
"I--I WON'T!" she protested, fai=
rly
with chattering teeth. "I won't! I WON'T!"
She had never done anything for the child
since its birth, she did not know how to do anything, she had not wanted to
know. To reach her now she would be obliged to go out in the dark-the gas-j=
et she
would have to light was actually close to the outer door of Robert's
bedroom--THE room! If she did not die of panic while she was trying to ligh=
t it
she would have to make her way almost in the dark up the steep crooked litt=
le
staircase which led to the nurseries. And the awful little creature's screa=
ms
would be going on all the time making the blackness and dead silence of the
house below more filled with horror by contrast-more shut off and at the sa=
me
time more likely to waken to some horror which was new.
"I-I couldn't-even if I wanted to!&qu=
ot;
she quaked. "I daren't! I daren't! I wouldn't do it--for A MILLION
POUNDS?" And she flung herself down again shuddering and burrowing her
head under the coverings and pillows she dragged over her ears to shut out =
the sounds.
The screams had taken on a more determined
note and a fiercer shrillness which the still house heard well and made the
most of, but they were so far deadened for Feather that she began beneath h=
er
soft barrier to protest pantingly.
"I shouldn't know what to do if I wen=
t.
If no one goes near her she'll cry herself to sleep. It's--it's only temper.
Oh-h! what a horrible wail! It--it sounds like a--a lost soul!"
But she did not stir from the bed. She
burrowed deeper under the bed clothes and held the pillow closer to her ear=
s.
* *
It did sound like a lost soul at times. Wh=
at
panic possesses a baby who cries in the darkness alone no one will ever know
and one may perhaps give thanks to whatever gods there be that the baby its=
elf
does not remember. What awful woe of sudden unprotectedness when life exists
only through protection--what piteous panic in the midst of black
unmercifulness, inarticulate sound howsoever wildly shrill can neither expl=
ain
nor express.
Robin knew only Louisa, warmth, food, sleep
and waking. Or if she knew more she was not yet aware that she did. She had
reached the age when she generally slept through the night. She might not h=
ave disturbed
her mother until daylight but Louisa had with forethought given her an infa=
nt
sleeping potion. It had disagreed with and awakened her. She was uncomforta=
ble
and darkness enveloped her. A cry or so and Louisa would ordinarily have co=
me
to her sleepy, and rather out of temper, but knowing what to do. In this
strange night the normal cry of warning and demand produced no result.
No one came. The discomfort continued--the
blackness remained black. The cries became shrieks--but nothing followed; t=
he
shrieks developed into prolonged screams. No Louisa, no light, no milk. The
blackness drew in closer and became a thing to be fought with wild little
beating hands. Not a glimmer--not a rustle--not a sound! Then came the crie=
s of
the lost soul--alone--alone--in a black world of space in which there was n=
ot
even another lost soul. And then the panics of which there have been no rec=
ords
and never will be, because if the panic stricken does not die in mysterious
convulsions he or she grows away from the memory of a formless past--except
that perhaps unexplained nightmares from which one wakens quaking, with cold
sweat, may vaguely repeat the long hidden thing.
What the child Robin knew in the dark perh=
aps
the silent house which echoed her might curiously have known. But the shrie=
ks
wore themselves out at last and sobs came--awful little sobs shuddering thr=
ough
the tiny breast and shaking the baby body. A baby's sobs are unspeakable
things--incredible things. Slower and slower Robin's came--with small deep
gasps and chokings between--and when an uninfantile druglike sleep came, the
bitter, hopeless, beaten little sobs went on.
But Feather's head was still burrowed under
the soft protection of the pillow.
The morning was a brighter one than
But she did not awaken either to a sense of
brightness or luxury this morning. She had slept it was true, but once or t=
wice
when the pillow had slipped aside she had found herself disturbed by the
far-off sound of the wailing of some little animal which had caused her aut=
omatically
and really scarcely consciously to replace the pillow. It had only happened=
at
long intervals because it is Nature that an exhausted baby falls asleep whe=
n it
is worn out. Robin had probably slept almost as much as her mother.
Feather staring at the pinkness around her
reached at last, with the assistance of a certain physical consciousness, a
sort of spiritless intention.
"She's asleep now," she murmured.
"I hope she won't waken for a long time. I feel faint. I shall have to
find something to eat--if it's only biscuits." Then she lay and tried =
to
remember what Cook had said about her not starving. "She said there we=
re a
few things left in the pantry and closets. Perhaps there's some condensed m=
ilk.
How do you mix it up? If she cries I might go and give her some. It wouldn'=
t be
so awful now it's daylight."
She felt shaky when she got out of bed and
stood on her feet. She had not had a maid in her girlhood so she could dress
herself, much as she detested to do it. After she had begun however she cou=
ld
not help becoming rather interested because the dress she had worn the day
before had become crushed and she put on a fresh one she had not worn at al=
l.
It was thin and soft also, and black was quite startlingly becoming to her.=
She
would wear this one when Lord Coombe came, after she wrote to him. It was s=
illy
of her not to have written before though she knew he had left town after the
funeral. Letters would be forwarded.
"It will be quite bright in the
dining-room now," she said to encourage herself. "And Tonson once
said that the only places the sun came into below stairs were the pantry and
kitchen and it only stayed about an hour early in the morning. I must get t=
here
as soon as I can."
When she had so dressed herself that the
reflection the mirror gave back to her was of the nature of a slight physic=
al
stimulant she opened her bedroom door and faced exploration of the deserted=
house
below with a quaking sense of the proportions of the inevitable. She got do=
wn
the narrow stairs casting a frightened glance at the emptiness of the
drawing-rooms which seemed to stare at her as she passed them. There was su=
n in
the dining-room and when she opened the sideboard she found some wine in
decanters and some biscuits and even a few nuts and some raisins and orange=
s. She
put them on the table and sat down and ate some of them and began to feel a
little less shaky.
If she had been allowed time to sit longer=
and
digest and reflect she might have reached the point of deciding on what she
would write to Lord Coombe. She had not the pen of a ready writer and it mu=
st be
thought over. But just when she was beginning to be conscious of the pleasa=
nt
warmth of the sun which shone on her shoulders from the window, she was alm=
ost
startled our of her chair by hearing again stealing down the staircase from=
the
upper regions that faint wail like a little cat's.
"Just the moment--the very MOMENT I b=
egin
to feel a little quieted--and try to think--she begins again!" she cri=
ed
out. "It's worse then ANYTHING!"
Large crystal tears ran down her face and =
upon
the polished table.
"I suppose she would starve to death =
if I
didn't give her some food--and then I should be blamed! People would be hor=
rid
about it. I've got nothing to eat myself."
She must at any rate manage to stop the cr=
ying
before she could write to Coombe. She would be obliged to go down into the
pantry and look for some condensed milk. The creature had no teeth but perh=
aps
she could mumble a biscuit or a few raisins. If she could be made to swallo=
w a
little port wine it might make her sleepy. The sun was paying its brief mor=
ning
visit to the kitchen and pantry when she reached there, but a few cockroach=
es
scuttled away before her and made her utter a hysterical little scream. But
there WAS some condensed milk and there was a little warm water in a kettle=
became
the fire was not quite out. She imperfectly mixed a decoction and filled a
bottle which ought not to have been downstairs but had been brought and left
there by Louisa as a result of tender moments with Edward.
When she put the bottle and some biscuits =
and
scraps of cold ham on a tray because she could not carry them all in her ha=
nds,
her sense of outrage and despair made her almost sob.
"I am just like a servant--carrying t=
rays
upstairs," she wept. "I--I might be Edward--or--or Louisa." =
And
her woe increased when she added in the dining-room the port wine and nuts =
and
raisins and macaroons as viands which MIGHT somehow add to infant diet and
induce sleep. She was not sure of course--but she knew they sucked things a=
nd
liked sweets.
A baby left unattended to scream itself to
sleep and awakening to scream itself to sleep again, does not present to a
resentful observer the flowerlike bloom and beauty of infancy. When Feather=
carried
her tray into the Night Nursery and found herself confronting the disordered
crib on which her offspring lay she felt the child horrible to look at. Its
face was disfigured and its eyes almost closed. She trembled all over as she
put the bottle to its mouth and saw the fiercely hungry clutch of its hands=
. It
was old enough to clutch, and clutch it did, and suck furiously and
starvingly--even though actually forced to stop once or twice at first to g=
ive
vent to a thwarted remnant of a scream.
Feather had only seen it as downy whiteness
and perfume in Louisa's arms or in its carriage. It had been a singularly v=
ivid
and brilliant-eyed baby at whom people looked as they passed.
"Who will give her a bath?" wail=
ed
Feather. "Who will change her clothes? Someone must! Could a woman by =
the
day do it? Cook said I could get a woman by the day."
And then she remembered that one got serva=
nts
from agencies. And where were the agencies? And even a woman "by the
day" would demand wages and food to eat.
And then the front door bell rang.
What could she do--what could she do? Go
downstairs and open the door herself and let everyone know! Let the ringer =
go
on ringing until he was tired and went away? She was indeed hard driven, ev=
en
though the wail had ceased as Robin clutched her bottle to her breast and f=
ed
with frenzy. Let them go away--let them! And then came the wild thought tha=
t it
might be Something--the Something which must happen when things were at the=
ir
worst! And if it had come and the house seemed to be empty! She did not walk
down the stairs, she ran. Her heart beat until she reached the door out of =
breath
and when she opened it stood their panting.
The people who waited upon the steps were
strangers. They were very nice looking and quite young--a man and a woman v=
ery
perfectly dressed. The man took a piece of paper out of his pocketbook and =
handed
it to her with an agreeable apologetic courtesy.
"I hope we have not called early enou=
gh
to disturb you," he said. "We waited until eleven but we are obli=
ged
to catch a train at half past. It is an 'order to view' from Carson &
Bayle." He added this because Feather was staring at the paper.
Carson & Bayle were the agents they had
rented the house from. It was Carson & Bayle's collector Robert had met=
on
the threshold and sworn at two days before he had been taken ill. They were=
letting
the house over her head and she would be turned out into the street?
The young man and woman finding themselves
gazing at this exquisitely pretty creature in exquisite mourning, felt
themselves appallingly embarrassed. She was plainly the widow
"Beg pardon! So sorry! I am afraid we
ought not to have come," he protested. "Agents ought to know bett=
er.
They said you were giving up the house at once and we were afraid someone m=
ight
take it."
Feather held the "order to view"=
in
her hand and snared at them quite helplessly.
"There--are no--no servants to show i=
t to
you," she said. "If you could wait--a few days--perhaps--"
She was so lovely and Madame Helene's filmy
black creation was in itself such an appeal, that the amiable young strange=
rs
gave up at once.
"Oh, certainly--certainly! Do excuse =
us!
Carson and Bayle ought not to have--! We are so sorry. Good morning, GOOD
morning," they gave forth in discomfited sympathy and politeness, and
really quite scurried away.
Having shut the door on their retreat Feat=
her
stood shivering.
"I am going to be turned out of the
house! I shall have to live in the street!" she thought. "Where s=
hall
I keep my clothes if I live in the street!"
Even she knew that she was thinking
idiotically. Of course if everything was taken from you and sold, you would
have no clothes at all, and wardrobes and drawers and closets would not mat=
ter.
The realization that scarcely anything in the house had been paid for came =
home
to her with a ghastly shock. She staggered upstairs to the first drawing-ro=
om
in which there was a silly pretty little buhl writing table.
She felt even more senseless when she sank
into a chair before it and drew a sheet of note-paper towards her. Her thou=
ghts
would not connect themselves with each other and she could not imagine what=
she
ought to say in her letter to Coombe. In fact she seemed to have no thought=
s at
all. She could only remember the things which had happened, and she actually
found she could write nothing else. There seemed nothing else in the world.=
"Dear Lord Coombe," trailed
tremulously over the page--"The house is quite empty. The servants have
gone away. I have no money. And there is not any food. And I am going to be
turned out into the street--and the baby is crying because it is hungry.&qu=
ot;
She stopped there, knowing it was not what=
she
ought to say. And as she stopped and looked at the words she began herself =
to
wail somewhat as Robin had wailed in the dark when she would not listen or =
go
to her. It was like a beggar's letter--a beggar's! Telling him that she had=
no
money and no food--and would be turned out for unpaid rent. And that the ba=
by
was crying because it was starving!
"It's a beggar's letter--just a
beggar's," she cried out aloud to the empty room. "And it's
tru-ue!" Robin's wail itself had not been more hopeless than hers was =
as
she dropped her head and let it lie on the buhl table.
She was not however even to be allowed to =
let
it lie there, for the next instant there fell on her startled ear quite ech=
oing
through the house another ring at the doorbell and two steely raps on the s=
mart
brass knocker. It was merely because she did not know what else to do, havi=
ng
just lost her wits entirely that she got up and trailed down the staircase
again.
When she opened the door, Lord Coombe--the
apotheosis of exquisite fitness in form and perfect appointment as also of
perfect expression--was standing on the threshold.
If he had meant to speak he changed his mi=
nd
after his first sight of her. He merely came in and closed the door behind =
him.
Curious experiences with which life had provided him had added finish to an
innate aptness of observation, and a fine readiness in action.
If she had been of another type he would h=
ave
saved both her and himself a scene and steered ably through the difficultie=
s of
the situation towards a point where they could have met upon a normal plane=
. A
very pretty woman with whose affairs one has nothing whatever to do, and wh=
ose
pretty home has been the perfection of modern smartness of custom, suddenly
opening her front door in the unexplained absence of a footman and confront=
ing
a visitor, plainly upon the verge of hysteria, suggests the necessity of pr=
omptness.
But Feather gave him not a breath's space.=
She
was in fact not merely on the verge of her hysteria. She had gone farther. =
And here
he was. Oh, here he was! She fell down upon her knees and actually clasped =
his
immaculateness.
"Oh, Lord Coombe! Lord Coombe! Lord
Coombe!" She said it three times because he presented to her but the o=
ne
idea.
He did not drag himself away from her embr=
ace
but he distinctly removed himself from it.
"You must not fall upon your knees, M=
rs.
Lawless," he said. "Shall we go into the drawing-room?"
"I--was writing to you. I am
starving--but it seemed too silly when I wrote it. And it's true!" Her
broken words were as senseless in their sound as she had thought them when =
she
saw them written.
"Will you come up into the drawing-ro=
om
and tell me exactly what you mean," he said and he made her release him
and stand upon her feet.
As the years had passed he had detached hi=
mself
from so many weaknesses and their sequelae of emotion that he had felt hims=
elf a
safely unreachable person. He was not young and he knew enough of the
disagreeableness of consequences to be adroit in keeping out of the way of
apparently harmless things which might be annoying. Yet as he followed Mrs.
Gareth-Lawless and watched her stumbling up the stairs like a punished chil=
d he
was aware that he was abnormally in danger of pitying her as he did not wis=
h to
pity people. The pity was also something apart from the feeling that it was
hideous that a creature so lovely, so shallow and so fragile should have be=
en
caught in the great wheels of Life.
He knew what he had come to talk to her ab=
out
but he had really no clear idea of what her circumstances actually were. Mo=
st
people had of course guessed that her husband had been living on the edge of
his resources and was accustomed to debt and duns, but a lovely being greet=
ing
you by clasping your knees and talking about "starving"--in this
particular street in Mayfair, led one to ask oneself what one was walking i=
nto.
Feather herself had not known, in fact neither had any other human being kn=
own,
that there was a special reason why he had drifted into seeming rather to a=
llow
her about--why he had finally been counted among the frequenters of the nar=
row
house--and why he had seemed to watch her a good deal sometimes with an
expression of serious interest--sometimes with an air of irritation, and
sometimes with no expression at all. But there existed this reason and this=
it
was and this alone which had caused him to appear upon her threshold and it=
had
also been the power which had prevented his disengaging himself with more
incisive finality when he found himself ridiculously clasped about the knee=
s as
one who played the part of an obdurate parent in a melodrama.
Once in the familiar surroundings of her
drawing-room her ash-gold blondness and her black gauzy frock heightened all
her effects so extraordinarily that he frankly admitted to himself that she=
possessed
assets which would have modified most things to most men.
As for Feather, when she herself beheld him
against the background of the same intimate aspects, the effect of the soun=
d of
his voice, the manner in which he sat down in a chair and a certain remotel=
y dim
hint in the hue of his clothes and an almost concealed note of some touch of
colour which scarcely seemed to belong to anything worn--were so reminiscen=
t of
the days which now seemed past forever that she began to cry again.
He received this with discreet lack of
melodrama of tone.
"You mustn't do that, Mrs. Lawless,&q=
uot;
he said, "or I shall burst into tears myself. I am a sensitive
creature."
"Oh, DO say 'Feather' instead of Mrs.
Lawless," she implored. "Sometimes you said 'Feather'."
"I will say it now," he answered,
"if you will not weep. It is an adorable name."
"I feel as if I should never hear it
again," she shuddered, trying to dry her eyes. "It is all over!&q=
uot;
"What is all over?"
"This--!" turning a hopeless gaze
upon the two tiny rooms crowded with knick-knacks and nonsense. "The
parties and the fun--and everything in the world! I have only had some bisc=
uits
and raisins to eat today--and the landlord is going to turn me out."
It seemed almost too preposterous to quite
credit that she was uttering naked truth.--And yet--! After a second's gaze=
at
her be repeated what he had said below stairs.
"Will you tell me exactly what you
mean?"
Then he sat still and listened while she
poured it all forth. And as he listened he realized that it was the mere ev=
ery
day fact that they were sitting in the slice of a house with the cream-colo=
ured
front and the great lady in her mansion on one side and the millionaire and=
his
splendours on the other, which peculiarly added to a certain hint of
gruesomeness in the situation.
It was not necessary to add colour and
desperation to the story. Any effort Feather had made in that direction wou=
ld
only have detracted from the nakedness of its stark facts. They were quite =
enough
in themselves in their normal inevitableness. Feather in her pale and total=
ly
undignified panic presented the whole thing with clearness which had--witho=
ut
being aided by her--an actual dramatic value. This in spite of her mental
dartings to and from and dragging in of points and bits of scenes which were
not connected with each other. Only a brain whose processes of inclusion an=
d exclusion
were final and rapid could have followed her. Coombe watched her closely as=
she
talked. No grief-stricken young widowed loneliness and heart-break were the
background of her anguish. She was her own background and also her own
foreground. The strength of the fine body laid prone on the bed of the room=
she
held in horror, the white rigid face whose good looks had changed to someth=
ing
she could not bear to remember, had no pathos which was not concerned with =
the
fact that Robert had amazingly and unnaturally failed her by dying and leav=
ing
her nothing but unpaid bills. This truth indeed made the situation more
poignantly and finally squalid, as she brought forth one detail after anoth=
er.
There were bills which had been accumulating ever since they began their li=
fe
in the narrow house, there had been trades-people who had been juggled with,
promises made and supported by adroit tricks and cleverly invented misrepre=
sentations
and lies which neither of the pair had felt any compunctions about and had
indeed laughed over. Coombe saw it all though he also saw that Feather did =
not
know all she was telling him. He could realize the gradually increasing
pressure and anger at tricks which betrayed themselves, and the gathering d=
etermination
on the part of the creditors to end the matter in the only way in which it
could be ended. It had come to this before Robert's illness, and Feather
herself had heard of fierce interviews and had seen threatening letters, but
she had not believed they could mean all they implied. Since things had been
allowed to go on so long she felt that they would surely go on longer in the
same way. There had been some serious threatening about the rent and the
unpaid-for furniture. Robert's supporting idea had been that he might perha=
ps
"get something out of Lawdor who wouldn't enjoy being the relation of a
fellow who was turned into the street!"
"He ought to have done something,&quo=
t;
Feather plained. "Robert would have been Lord Lawdor himself if his un=
cle
had died before he had all those disgusting children."
She was not aware that Coombe frequently
refrained from saying things to her--but occasionally allowed himself NOT to
refrain. He did not refrain now from making a simple comment.
"But he is extremely robust and he has
the children. Six stalwart boys and a stalwart girl. Family feeling has
apparently gone out of fashion."
As she wandered on with her story he menta=
lly
felt himself actually dragged into the shrimp-pink bedroom and standing an
onlooker when the footman outside the door "did not know" where
Tonson had gone. For a moment he felt conscious of the presence of some sce=
nt
which would have been sure to exhale itself from draperies and wardrobe. He=
saw
Cook put the account books on the small table, he heard her, he also
comprehended her. And Feather at the window breathlessly watching the two c=
abs
with the servants' trunks on top, and the servants respectably unprofession=
al
in attire and going away quietly without an unpractical compunction--he saw
these also and comprehended knowing exactly why compunctions had no part in=
latter-day
domestic arrangements. Why should they?
When Feather reached the point where it be=
came
necessary to refer to Robin some fortunate memory of
"She cried a little at first," s=
he
said, "but she fell asleep afterwards. I was glad she did because I was
afraid to go to her in the dark."
"Was she in the dark?"
"I think so. Perhaps Louisa taught he=
r to
sleep without a light. There was none when I took her some condensed milk t=
his
morning. There was only c-con-d-densed milk to give her."
She shed tears and choked as she described=
her
journey into the lower regions and the cockroaches scuttling away before her
into their hiding-places.
"I MUST have a nurse! I MUST have
one!" she almost sniffed. "Someone must change her clothes and gi=
ve
her a bath!"
"You can't?" Coombe said.
"I!" dropping her handkerchief.
"How--how CAN I?"
"I don't know," he answered and
picked up the handkerchief with an aloof grace of manner.
It was really Robin who was for Feather the
breaking-point.
He thought she was in danger of flinging
herself upon him again. She caught at his arm and her eyes of larkspur blue
were actually wild.
"Don't you see where I am! How there =
is
nothing and nobody--Don't you SEE?"
"Yes, I see," he answered. "=
;You
are quite right. There is nothing AND nobody. I have been to Lawdor
myself."
"You have been to TALK to him?"<= o:p>
"Yesterday. That was my reason for co=
ming
here. He will not see you or be written to. He says he knows better to begin
that sort of thing. It may be that family feeling has not the vogue it once=
had,
but you may recall that your husband infuriated him years ago. Also
"A hundred a year!" Feather
breathed. From her delicate shoulders hung floating scarf-like sleeves of b=
lack
transparency and she lifted one of them and held it out like a night moth's
wing--"This cost forty pounds," she said, her voice quite faint a=
nd
low. "A good nurse would cost forty! A cook--and a footman and a maid-=
-and
a coachman--and the brougham--I don't know how much they would cost. Oh-h!&=
quot;
She drooped forward upon her sofa and laid
face downward on a cushion--slim, exquisite in line, lost in despair.
The effect produced was that she gave hers=
elf
into his hands. He felt as well as saw it and considered. She had no sugges=
tion
to offer, no reserve. There she was.
"It is an incredible sort of
situation," he said in an even, low-pitched tone rather as if he were
thinking aloud, "but it is baldly real. It is actually simple. In a st=
reet
in
"Starve!"
He moved slightly and continued.
"Since their bills have not been paid=
the
trades-people will not send in food. Servants will not stay in a house where
they are not fed and receive no wages. No landlord will allow a tenant to o=
ccupy
his property unless he pays rent. It may sound inhuman--but it is only
human."
The cushion in which Feather's face was bu=
ried
retained a faint scent of Robert's cigar smoke and the fragrance brought ba=
ck
to her things she had heard him say dispassionately about Lord Coombe as we=
ll
as about other men. He had not been a puritanic or condemnatory person. She
seemed to see herself groveling again on the floor of her bedroom and to fe=
el
the darkness and silence through which she had not dared to go to Robin.
Not another night like that! No! No!
"You must go to
Then she sat upright and there was somethi=
ng
in her lovely little countenance he had never seen before. It was actually
determination.
"I have heard," she said, "=
of
poor girls who were driven--by starvation to--to go on the streets. I--woul=
d go
ANYWHERE before I would go back there."
"Anywhere!" he repeated, his own
countenance expressing--or rather refusing to express something as new as t=
he
thing he had seen in her own.
"Anywhere!" she cried and then s=
he
did what he had thought her on the verge of doing a few minutes earlier--she
fell at his feet and embraced his knees. She clung to him, she sobbed, her
pretty hair loosened itself and fell about her in wild but enchanting disor=
der.
"Oh, Lord Coombe! Oh, Lord Coombe! Oh,
Lord Coombe!" she cried as she had cried in the hall.
He rose and endeavoured to disengage himse=
lf
as he had done before. This time with less success because she would not let
him go. He had the greatest possible objection to scenes.
"Mrs. Lawless--Feather--I beg you will
get up," he said.
But she had reached the point of not caring
what happened if she could keep him. He was a gentleman--he had everything =
in
the world. What did it matter?
"I have no one but you and--and you
always seemed to like me, I would do anything--ANYONE asked me, if they wou=
ld
take care of me. I have always liked you very much--and I did amuse you--di=
dn't
I? You liked to come here."
There was something poignant about her
delicate distraught loveliness and, in the remoteness of his being, a
shuddering knowledge that it was quite true that she would do anything for =
any
man who would take care of her, produced an effect on him nothing else woul=
d have
produced. Also a fantastic and finely ironic vision of Joseph and Potiphar's
wife rose before him and the vision of himself as Joseph irked a certain
complexness of his mentality. Poignant as the thing was in its modern way, =
it
was also faintly ridiculous.
Then Robin awakened and shrieked again. The
sound which had gained strength through long sleep and also through added
discomfort quite rang through the house. What that sound added to the momen=
t he
himself would not have been able to explain until long afterwards. But it
singularly and impellingly added.
"Listen!" panted Feather. "=
She
has begun again. And there is no one to go to her."
"Get up, Mrs. Lawless," he said.
"Do I understand that you are willing that I arrange this for you!&quo=
t;
He helped her to her feet.
"Do you mean--really!" she falte=
red.
"Will you--will you--?"
Her uplifted eyes were like a young angel's
brimming with crystal drops which slipped--as a child's tears slip--down her
cheeks. She clasped her hands in exquisite appeal. He stood for a moment qu=
ite
still, his mind fled far away and he forgot where he was. And because of th=
is
the little simpleton's shallow discretion deserted her.
"If you were a--a marrying man--?&quo=
t;
she said foolishly--almost in a whisper.
He recovered himself.
"I am not," with a finality which
cut as cleanly as a surgical knife.
Something which was not the words was of a
succinctness which filled her with new terror.
"I--I know!" she whimpered, &quo=
t;I
only said if you were!"
"If I were--in this instance--it would
make no difference." He saw the kind of slippery silliness he was deal=
ing
with and what it might transform itself into if allowed a loophole. "T=
here
must be no mistakes."
In her fright she saw him for a moment more
distinctly than she had ever seen him before and hideous dread beset her le=
st
she had blundered fatally.
"There shall be none," she gaspe=
d.
"I always knew. There shall be none at all."
"Do you know what you are asking
me?" he inquired.
"Yes, yes--I'm not a girl, you know. =
I've
been married. I won't go home. I can't starve or live in awful lodgings.
SOMEBODY must save me!"
"Do you know what people will say?&qu=
ot;
his steady voice was slightly lower.
"It won't be said to me." Rather
wildly. "Nobody minds--really."
He ceased altogether to look serious. He
smiled with the light detached air his world was most familiar with.
"No--they don't really," he
answered. "I had, however, a slight preference for knowing whether you
would or not. You flatter me by intimating that you would not."
He knew that if he had held out an arm she
would have fallen upon his breast and wept there, but he was not at the mom=
ent
in the mood to hold out an arm. He merely touched hers with a light pressur=
e.
"Let us sit down and talk it over,&qu=
ot;
he suggested.
A hansom drove up to the door and stopped
before he had time to seat himself. Hearing it he went to the window and sa=
w a
stout businesslike looking man get out, accompanied by an attendant. There
followed a loud, authoritative ringing of the bell and an equally authorita=
tive
rap of the knocker. This repeated itself. Feather, who had run to the window
and caught sight of the stout man, clutched his sleeve.
"It's the agent we took the house fro=
m.
We always said we were out. It's either Carson or Bayle. I don't know
which."
Coombe walked toward the staircase.
"You can't open the door!" she
shrilled.
"He has doubtless come prepared to op=
en
it himself." he answered and proceeded at leisure down the narrow
stairway.
The caller had come prepared. By the time
Coombe stood in the hall a latchkey was put in the keyhole and, being turne=
d,
the door opened to let in Carson--or Bayle--who entered with an air of ange=
red
determination, followed by his young man.
The physical presence of the Head of the H=
ouse
of Coombe was always described as a subtly impressive one. Several centurie=
s of
rather careful breeding had resulted in his seeming to represent things by
silent implication. A man who has never found the necessity of explaining or
excusing himself inevitably presents a front wholly unsuggestive of
uncertainty. The front Coombe presented merely awaited explanations from
others.
Carson--or Bayle--had doubtless contemplat=
ed
seeing a frightened servant trying to prepare a stammering obvious lie. He
confronted a tall, thin man about whom--even if his clothes had been totall=
y different--there
could be no mistake. He stood awaiting an apology so evidently that Carson-=
-or
Bayle--began to stammer himself even before he had time to dismiss from his
voice the suggestion of bluster. It would have irritated Coombe immensely i=
f he
had known that he--and a certain overcoat--had been once pointed out to the=
man
at Sandown and that--in consequence of the overcoat--he vaguely recognized =
him.
"I--I beg pardon," he began.
"Quite so," said Coombe.
"Some tenants came to look at the hou=
se
this morning. They had an order to view from us. They were sent away, my
lord--and decline to come back. The rent has not been paid since the first =
half
year. There is no one now who can even PRETEND it's going to be paid. Some =
step
had to be taken."
"Quite so," said Coombe.
"Suppose you step into the dining-room."
He led the pair into the room and pointed =
to
chairs, but neither the agent nor his attendant was calm enough to sit down=
.
Coombe merely stood and explained himself.=
"I quite understand," he said.
"You are entirely within your rights. Mrs. Gareth-Lawless is, naturall=
y,
not able to attend to business. For the present--as a friend of her late
husband's--I will arrange matters for her. I am Lord Coombe. She does not w=
ish to
give up the house. Don't send any more possible tenants. Call at Coombe Hou=
se
in an hour and I will give you a cheque."
There were a few awkward apologetic moments
and then the front door opened and shut, the hansom jingled away and Coombe
returned to the drawing-room. Robin was still shrieking.
"She wants some more condensed
milk," he said. "Don't be frightened. Go and give her some. I kno=
w an
elderly woman who understands children. She was a nurse some years ago. I w=
ill
send her here at once. Kindly give me the account books. My housekeeper will
send you some servants. The trades-people will come for orders."
Feather was staring at him.
"W-will they?" she stammered.
"W-will everything--?"
"Yes--everything," he answered.
"Don't be frightened. Go upstairs and try to stop her. I must go now. I
never heard a creature yell with such fury."
She turned away and went towards the second
flight of stairs with a rather dazed air. She had passed through a rather
tremendous crisis and she WAS dazed. He made her feel so. She had never
understood him for a moment and she did not understand him now--but then sh=
e never
did understand people and the whole situation was a new one to her. If she =
had
not been driven to the wall she would have been quite as respectable as she
knew how to be.
Coombe called a hansom and drove home, thi=
nking
of many things and looking even more than usually detached. He had remarked=
the
facial expression of the short and stout man as he had got into his cab and=
he
was turning over mentally his own exact knowledge of the views the business
mind would have held and what the business countenance would have decently
covered if he--Coombe--had explained in detail that he was so far--in this
particular case--an entirely blameless character.
The slice of a house from that time forward
presented the external aspect to which the inhabitants of the narrow and
fashionable street and those who passed through it had been accustomed. Suc=
h individuals
as had anticipated beholding at some early day notices conspicuously placed
announcing "
On the contrary, the florist came and refi=
lled
the window boxes with an admirable arrangement of fresh flowers; new and ev=
en
more correct servants were to be seen ascending and descending the area ste=
p; a
young footman quite as smart as the departed Edward opened the front door a=
nd
attended Mrs. Gareth-Lawless to her perfect little brougham. The trades-peo=
ple
appeared promptly every day and were obsequiously respectful in manner.
Evidently the household had not disintegrated as a result of the death of M=
r.
Gareth-Lawless.
As it became an established fact that the
household had not fallen to pieces its frequenters gradually returned to it,
wearing indeed the air of people who had never really remained away from it.
There had been natural reasons enough for considerate absence from a house =
of
bereavement and a desolate widow upon whose grief it would have been indeli=
cate
to intrude. As Feather herself had realized, the circle of her intimates wa=
s not
formed of those who could readily adjust themselves to entirely changed
circumstances. If you dance on a tight rope and the rope is unexpectedly
withdrawn, where are you? You cannot continue dancing until the rope is res=
trung.
The rope, however, being apparently made
absolutely secure, it was not long before the dancing began again. Feather's
mourning, wonderfully shading itself from month to month, was the joy of al=
l beholders.
Madame Helene treated her as a star gleaming through gradually dispersing c=
louds.
Her circle watched her with secretly humorous interest as each fine veil of
dimness was withdrawn.
"The things she wears are
priceless," was said amiably in her own drawing-room. "Where does=
she
get them? Figure to yourself Lawdor paying the bills."
"She gets them from Helene," sai=
d a
long thin young man with a rather good-looking narrow face and dark eyes,
peering through pince nez, "But I couldn't."
In places where entertainment as a means of
existence proceed so to speak, fast and furiously, questions of taste are n=
ot
dwelt upon at leisure. You need not hesitate before saying anything you lik=
ed
in any one's drawing-room so long as it was amusing enough to make somebody=
--if
not everybody--laugh. Feather had made people laugh in the same fashion in =
the
past. The persons she most admired were always making sly little impudent
comments and suggestions, and the thwarted years on the
By the time the softly swathing veils of
vaporous darkness were withdrawn, and the tight rope assuring everyone of i=
ts
permanent security became a trusted support, Feather at her crowded little =
parties
and at other people's bigger ones did not remain wholly unaware of the
probability that even people who rather liked her made, among themselves, m=
ore
or less witty comments upon her improved fortunes. They were improved great=
ly.
Bills were paid, trades-people were polite, servants were respectful; she h=
ad no
need to invent excuses and lies. She and Robert had always kept out of the =
way
of stodgy, critical people, so they had been intimate with none of the
punctilious who might have withdrawn themselves from a condition of things =
they
chose to disapprove: accordingly, she found no gaps in her circle. Those who
had formed the habit of amusing themselves at her house were as ready as be=
fore
to amuse themselves again.
The fact remained, however,--curiously, perhaps, in connection with the usual slightness of all impressions made on her--that there was a memory which never wholly left her. Even when she tri= ed to force it so far into the background of her existence that it might almos= t be counted as forgotten, it had a trick of rising before her. It was the memor= y of the empty house as its emptiness had struck to the centre of her being when= she had turned from her bedroom window after watching the servants drive away in their cabs. It was also the memory of the hours which had followed--the nig= ht in which nobody had been in any of the rooms--no one had gone up or down the stairs--when all had seemed dark and hollow--except the Night Nursery where Robin screamed, and her own room where she herself cowered under the bed clothes and pulled the pillow over her head. But though the picture would n= ot let itself be blotted out, its effect was rather to intensify her sense of relief because she had slipped so safely from under the wheels of destiny.<= o:p>
"Sometimes," she revealed artles=
sly
to Coombe, "while I am driving in the park on a fine afternoon when ev=
ery
one is out and the dresses look like the flower beds, I let myself remember=
it
just to make myself enjoy everything more by contrast."
The elderly woman who had been a nurse in =
her
youth and who had been sent by Lord Coombe temporarily to replace Louisa had
not remained long in charge of Robin. She was not young and smart enough fo=
r a
house on the right side of the right street, and Feather found a young pers=
on
who looked exactly as she should when she pushed the child's carriage before
her around the square.
The square--out of which the right street
branches--and the "Gardens" in the middle of the square to which =
only
privileged persons were admitted by private key, the basement kitchen and
Servants' Hall, and the two top floor nurseries represented the world to th=
e child
Robin for some years. When she was old enough to walk in the street she was=
led
by the hand over the ground she had travelled daily in her baby carriage. H=
er
first memory of things was a memory of standing on the gravel path in the <=
st1:place
w:st=3D"on">
She liked watching the sparrows in the Gar=
dens
because she liked watching sparrows at all times. They were the only friends
she had ever known, though she was not old enough to call them friends, or =
to
know what friends meant. Andrews had taught her, by means of a system of her
own, to know better than to cry or to make any protesting noise when she was
left alone in her ugly small nursery. Andrews' idea of her duties did not
involve boring herself to death by sitting in a room on the top floor when
livelier entertainment awaited her in the basement where the cook was a wom=
an
of wide experience, the housemaid a young person who had lived in gay count=
ry
houses, and the footman at once a young man of spirit and humour. So Robin
spent many hours of the day--taking them altogether--quite by herself. She
might have more potently resented her isolations if she had ever known any
other condition than that of a child in whom no one was in the least intere=
sted
and in whom "being good" could only mean being passive under negl=
ect and
calling no one's attention to the fact that she wanted anything from anybod=
y.
As a bird born in captivity lives in its cage and perhaps believes it to be=
the
world, Robin lived in her nursery and knew every square inch of it with a
deadly if unconscious sense of distaste and fatigue. She was put to bed and
taken up, she was fed and dressed in it, and once a day--twice perhaps if A=
ndrews
chose--she was taken out of it downstairs and into the street. That was all.
And that was why she liked the sparrows so much.
And sparrows are worth watching if you liv=
e in
a nursery where nothing ever happens and where, when you look out, you are =
so
high up that it is not easy to see the people in the world below, in additi=
on
to which it seems nearly always raining. Robin used to watch them hopping a=
bout
on the slate roofs of the homes on the other side of the street. They flutt=
ered
their wings, they picked up straws and carried them away. She thought they =
must
have houses of their own among the chimneys--in places she could not see. S=
he fancied
it would be nice to hop about on the top of a roof oneself if one were not =
at
all afraid of falling. She liked the chippering and chirping sounds the bir=
ds
made became it sounded like talking and laughing--like the talking and laug=
hing
she sometimes wakened out of her sleep to lie and listen to when the Lady
Downstairs had a party. She often wondered what the people were doing becau=
se
it sounded as if they liked doing it very much.
Sometimes when it had rained two or three =
days
she had a feeling which made her begin to cry to herself--but not aloud. She
had once had a little black and blue mark on her arm for a week where Andre=
ws
had pinched her because she had cried loud enough to be heard. It had seeme=
d to
her that Andrews twisted and pinched the bit of flesh for five minutes with=
out
letting it go and she had held her large hand over her mouth as she did it.=
"Now you keep that in your mind,"
she had said when she had finished and Robin had almost choked in her awful
little struggle to keep back all sound.
The one thing Andrews was surest of was th=
at
nobody would come upstairs to the Nursery to inquire the meaning of any cri=
es
which were not unearthly enough to disturb the household. So it was easy to
regulate the existence of her charge in such a manner as best suited hersel=
f.
"Just give her food enough and keep h=
er
from making silly noises when she wants what she doesn't get," said
Andrews to her companions below stairs. "That one in the drawing-room
isn't going to interfere with the Nursery. Not her! I know my business and I
know how to manage her kind. I go to her politely now and then and ask her =
permission
to buy things from Best's or
"Fat lot the commandments give any one
trouble in these times," said
"Well," remarked Mrs. Blayne, the
cook, "she don't interfere and he pays the bills prompt. That'll do ME
instead of commandments. If you'll believe me, my mother told me that in th=
em
Queen
"He's precious particular about bills
being paid," volunteered
"That'd frighten her," was Andre=
ws'
succinct observation.
"It did!" said
Andrews laughed, a brief, dry laugh.
"Do you know what the child calls
her?" she said. "She calls her the Lady Downstairs. She's got a s=
ort
of fancy for her and tries to get peeps at her when we go out. I notice she
always cranes her little neck if we pass a room she might chance to be in. =
It's
her pretty clothes and her laughing that does it. Children's drawn by bright
colours and noise that sounds merry."
"It's my belief the child doesn't know
she IS her mother!" said Mrs. Blayne as she opened an oven door to loo=
k at
some rolls.
"It's my belief that if I told her she
was she wouldn't know what the word meant. It was me she got the name
from," Andrews still laughed as she explained. "I used to tell her
about the Lady Downstairs would hear if she made a noise, or I'd say I'd let
her have a peep at the Lady Downstairs if she was very good. I saw she had a
kind of awe of her though she liked her so much, so it was a good way of
managing her. You mayn't believe me but for a good bit I didn't take in that
she didn't know there was such things as mothers and, when I did take it in=
, I
saw there wasn't any use in trying to explain. She wouldn't have
understood."
"How would you go about to explain a
mother, anyway?" suggested
"I'd have to say that she was the wom=
an
that could keep you slaving at kitchen maid's work fifteen hours a day,&quo=
t;
said Mrs. Blayne; "My mother was cook in a big house and trained me un=
der
her."
"I never had one," said Andrews
stiffly. The truth was that she had taken care of eight infant brothers and
sisters, while her maternal parent slept raucously under the influence of b=
eer
when she was not quarrelling with her offspring.
Jane, the housemaid, had passed a not
uncomfortable childhood in the country and was perhaps of a soft nature.
"I'd say that a mother's the one that=
you
belong to and that's fond of you, even if she does keep you straight,"=
she
put in.
"Her mother isn't fond of her and doe=
sn't
keep herself straight," said
"And she doesn't slap her head or tea=
ch
her to do kitchen maid's work," put in Mrs. Blayne, "so yours is =
no
use, Mr. Jennings, and neither is mine. Miss Andrews 'll have to cook up an
explanation of her own herself when she finds she has to."
"She can get it out of a
In this manner were Mrs. Gareth-Lawless and
her maternal affections discussed below stairs. The interesting fact remain=
ed
that to Robin the Lady Downstairs was merely a radiant and beautiful being =
who floated
through certain rooms laughing or chattering like a bird, and always wearing
pretty clothes, which were different each time one beheld her. Sometimes one
might catch a glimpse of her through a door, or, if one pressed one's face
against the window pane at the right moment, she might get into her bright
little carnage in the street below and, after Jennings had shut its door, s=
he
might be seen to give a lovely flutter to her clothes as she settled back
against the richly dark blue cushions.
It is a somewhat portentous thing to reali=
ze
that a newborn human creature can only know what it is taught. The teaching=
may
be conscious or unconscious, intelligent or idiotic, exquisite or brutal. T=
he
images presented by those surrounding it, as its perceptions awaken day by =
day,
are those which record themselves on its soul, its brain, its physical being
which is its sole means of expressing, during physical life, all it has
learned. That which automatically becomes the Law at the dawning of newborn=
consciousness
remains, to its understanding, the Law of Being, the Law of the Universe. To
the cautious of responsibility this at times wears the aspect of an awesome
thing, suggesting, however remotely, that it might seem well, perhaps, to
remove the shoes from one's feet, as it were, and tread with deliberate and
delicate considering of one's steps, as do the reverently courteous even on=
the
approaching of an unknown altar.
This being acknowledged a scientific, as w=
ell
as a spiritual truth, there remains no mystery in the fact that Robin at six
years old--when she watched the sparrows in the
On the very rare occasions when the Lady
Downstairs appeared on the threshold of the Day Nursery, Robin--always havi=
ng
been freshly dressed in one of her nicest frocks--stood and stared with imm=
ense
startled eyes and answered in a whisper the banal little questions put to h=
er.
The Lady appeared at such rare intervals and remained poised upon the thres=
hold
like a tropic plumaged bird for moments so brief, that there never was time=
to
do more than lose breath and gaze as at a sudden vision. Why she came--when=
she
did come--Robin did not understand. She evidently did not belong to the sma=
ll, dingy
nurseries which grew shabbier every year as they grew steadily more grimy u=
nder
the persistent
Feather always held up her draperies when =
she
came. She would not have come at all but for the fact that she had once or
twice been asked if the child was growing pretty, and it would have seemed =
absurd
to admit that she never saw her at all.
"I think she's rather pretty," s=
he
said downstairs. "She's round and she has a bright colour--almost too
bright, and her eyes are round too. She's either rather stupid or she's
shy--and one's as bad as the other. She's a child that stares."
If, when Andrews had taken her into the
Gardens, she had played with other children, Robin would no doubt have lear=
ned
something of the existence and normal attitude of mothers through the mere
accident of childish chatter, but it somehow happened that she never formed
relations with the charges of other nurses. She took it for granted for some
time that this was because Andrews had laid down some mysterious law. Andre=
ws
did not seem to form acquaintances herself. Sometimes she sat on a bench and
talked a little to another nurse, but she seldom sat twice with the same pe=
rson.
It was indeed generally her custom to sit alone, crocheting or sewing, with=
a
rather lofty and exclusive air and to call Robin back to her side if she saw
her slowly edging towards some other child.
"My rule is to keep myself to myself,=
"
she said in the kitchen. "And to look as if I was the one that would t=
urn
up noses, if noses was to be turned up. There's those that would snatch awa=
y their
children if I let Robin begin to make up to them. Some wouldn't, of course,=
but
I'm not going to run risks. I'm going to save my own pride."
But one morning when Robin was watching her
sparrows, a nurse, who was an old acquaintance, surprised Andrews by appear=
ing
in the Gardens with two little girls in her charge. They were children of n=
ine
and eleven and quite sufficient for themselves, apart from the fact that th=
ey
regarded Robin as a baby and, therefore, took no notice of her. They began
playing with skipping ropes, which left their nurse free to engage in delig=
hted
conversation with Andrews.
It was conversation so delightful that Rob=
in
was forgotten, even to the extent of being allowed to follow her sparrows r=
ound
a clump of shrubbery and, therefore, out of Andrews' sight, though she was =
only
a few yards away. The sparrows this morning were quarrelsome and suddenly
engaged in a fight, pecking each other furiously, beating their wings and
uttering shrill, protesting chipperings. Robin did not quite understand what
they were doing and stood watching them with spellbound interest.
It was while she watched them that she hea=
rd
footsteps on the gravel walk which stopped near her and made her look up to=
see
who was at her side. A big boy in
So they stood and stared at each other and=
for
some strange, strange reason--created, perhaps, with the creating of Man and
still hidden among the deep secrets of the Universe--they were drawn to eac=
h other--wanted
each other--knew each other. Their advances were, of course, of the most
primitive--as primitive and as much a matter of instinct as the nosing and
sniffing of young animals. He spread and curved his red mouth and showed the
healthy whiteness of his own handsome teeth as she had shown her smaller on=
es.
Then he began to run and prance round in a circle, capering like a Shetland
pony to exhibit at once his friendliness and his prowess. He tossed his cur=
led
head and laughed to make her laugh also, and she not only laughed but clapp=
ed
her hands. He was more beautiful than anything she had ever seen before in =
her
life, and he was plainly trying to please her. No child creature had ever d=
one
anything like it before, because no child creature had ever been allowed by
Andrews to make friends with her. He, on his part, was only doing what any
other little boy animal would have done--expressing his child masculinity by
"showing off" before a little female. But to this little female it
had never happened before.
It was all beautifully elemental. As does =
not
too often happen, two souls as well as two bodies were drawn towards each o=
ther
by the Magnet of Being. When he had exhibited himself for a minute or two he
came back to her, breathing fast and glowing.
"My pony in Scotland does that. His n=
ame
is Chieftain. He is a Shetland pony and he is only that high," he meas=
ured
forty inches from the ground. "I'm called Donal. What are you
called?"
"Robin," she answered, her lips =
and
voice trembling with joy. He was so beautiful. His hair was bright and curl=
y.
His broad forehead was clear white where he had pushed back his bonnet with=
the
eagle feather standing upright on it. His strong legs and knees were white
between his tartan kilt and his rolled back stockings. The clasps which held
his feather and the plaid over his shoulder were set with fine stones in ri=
ch
silver. She did not know that he was perfectly equipped as a little Highland
chieftain, the head of his clan, should be.
They began to play together, and the unkno=
wn
Fates, which do their work as they choose, so wrought on this occasion as to
cause Andrews' friend to set forth upon a journey through a story so exciti=
ng
in its nature that its hearer was held spellbound and oblivious to her
surroundings themselves. Once, it is true, she rose as in a dream and walked
round the group of shrubs, but the Fates had arranged for that moment also.
Robin was alone and was busily playing with some leaves she had plucked and
laid on the seat of a bench for some mysterious reason. She looked good for=
an
hour's safe occupation, and Andrews returned to her friend's detailed and
intimate version of a great country house scandal, of which the papers were
full because it had ended in the divorce court.
Donal had, at that special moment, gone to
pick some of the biggest leaves from the lilac bush of which the Gardens
contained numerous sooty specimens. The leaves Robin was playing with were =
some
he had plucked first to show her a wonderful thing. If you laid a leaf flat=
on
the seat of the bench and were fortunate enough to possess a large pin you
could prick beautiful patterns on the leaf's greenness--dots and circles, a=
nd
borders and tiny triangles of a most decorative order. Neither Donal nor Ro=
bin
had a pin but Donal had, in his rolled down stocking, a little dirk the poi=
nt
of which could apparently be used for any interesting purpose. It was reall=
y he
who did the decoration, but Robin leaned against the bench and looked on
enthralled. She had never been happy before in the entire course of her bri=
ef
existence. She had not known or expected and conditions other than those she
was familiar with--the conditions of being fed and clothed, kept clean and
exercised, but totally unloved and unentertained. She did not even know that
this nearness to another human creature, the exchange of companionable look=
s, which
were like flashes of sunlight, the mutual outbreaks of child laughter and
pleasure were happiness. To her, what she felt, the glow and delight of it,=
had
no name but she wanted it to go on and on, never to be put an end to by And=
rews
or anyone else.
The boy Donal was not so unconscious. He h=
ad
been happy all his life. What he felt was that he had liked this little girl
the minute he saw her. She was pretty, though he thought her immensely youn=
ger
than himself, and, when she had looked up at him with her round, asking eye=
s,
he had wanted to talk to her and make friends. He had not played much with =
boys
and he had no haughty objection to girls who liked him. This one did, he sa=
w at
once.
Through what means children so quickly con=
vey
to each other--while seeming scarcely to do more than play--the entire hist=
ory
of their lives and surroundings, is a sort of occult secret. It is not a ma=
tter
of prolonged conversation. Perhaps images created by the briefest of unador=
ned
statements produce on the unwritten tablets of the child mind immediate and
complete impressions. Safe as the locked garden was, Andrews cannot have
forgotten her charge for any very great length of time and yet before Donal,
hearing his attendant's voice from her corner, left Robin to join her and be
taken home, the two children knew each other intimately. Robin knew that
Donal's home was in Scotland--where there are hills and moors with stags on
them. He lived there with "Mother" and he had been brought to Lon=
don
for a visit. The person he called "Mother" was a woman who took c=
are
of him and he spoke of her quite often. Robin did not think she was like
Andrews, though she did not in the least know why. On his part Donal knew a=
bout
the nurseries and the sparrows who hopped about on the slates of the houses=
opposite.
Robin did not describe the nurseries to him, but Donal knew that they were =
ugly
and that there were no toys in them and nothing to do. Also, in some mystic
fashion, he realized that Andrews would not let Robin play with him if she =
saw
them together, and that, therefore, they must make the most of their time. =
Full
of their joy in each other, they actually embarked upon an ingenious infant
intrigue, which involved their trying to meet behind the shrubs if they were
brought to the Gardens the next day. Donal was sure he could come because h=
is
nurse always did what he asked of her. He was so big now that she was not a
real nurse, but she had been his nurse when he was quite little and
"Mother" liked her to travel with them. He had a tutor but he had
stayed behind in Scotland at Braemarnie, which was their house. Donal would
come tomorrow and he would look for Robin and when she saw him she must get
away from Andrews and they would play together again.
"I will bring one of my picture
books," he said grandly. "Can you read at all?"
"No," answered Robin adoring him.
"What are picture books?"
"Haven't you any?" he blurted ou=
t.
"No," said Robin. She looked at =
the
gravel walk, reflecting a moment thoughtfully on the Day Nursery and the Ni=
ght
Nursery. Then she lifted her eyes to the glowing blueness of his and said q=
uite
simply, "I haven't anything."
He suddenly remembered things his Mother h=
ad
told him about poor people. Perhaps she was poor. Could she be poor when her
frock and hat and coat were so pretty? It was not polite to ask. But the th=
ought
made him love her more. He felt something warm rush all over his body. The
truth, if he had been old enough to be aware of it, was that the entire
simpleness of her acceptance of things as they were, and a something which =
was
unconsciousness of any cause for complaint, moved his child masculinity
enormously. His old nurse's voice came from her corner again.
"I must go to Nanny," he said,
feeling somehow as if he had been running fast. "I'll come tomorrow and
bring two picture books."
He was a loving, warm blooded child human
thing, and the expression of affection was, to him, a familiar natural impu=
lse.
He put his strong little eight-year-old arms round her and kissed her full =
on
her mouth, as he embraced her with all his strength. He kissed her twice.
It was the first time for Robin. Andrews d=
id
not kiss. There was no one else. It was the first time, and Nature had also
made her a loving, warm blooded, human thing. How beautiful he was--how big=
--how
strong his arms were--and how soft and warm his mouth felt. She stood and g=
azed
at him with wide asking eyes and laughed a little. She had no words because=
she
did not know what had happened.
"Don't you like to be kissed?" s=
aid
Donal, uncertain because she looked so startled and had not kissed him back=
.
"Kissed," she repeated, with a
small, caught breath, "ye-es." She knew now what it was. It was b=
eing
kissed. She drew nearer at once and lifted up her face as sweetly and gladl=
y,
as a flower lifts itself to the sun. "Kiss me again," she said qu=
ite
eagerly. As ingenuously and heartily as before, he kissed her again and, th=
is time,
she kissed too. When he ran quickly away, she stood looking after him with
smiling, trembling lips, uplifted, joyful--wondering and amazed.
When she went back to Andrews she carried =
the
pricked leaves with her. She could not have left them behind. From what sou=
rce
she had drawn a characterizing passionate, though silent, strength of mind =
and
body, it would be difficult to explain. Her mind and her emotions had been =
left
utterly unfed, but they were not of the inert order which scarcely needs
feeding. Her feeling for the sparrows had held more than she could have
expressed; her secret adoration of the "Lady Downstairs" was an
intense thing. Her immediate surrender to the desire in the first pair of h=
uman
eyes--child eyes though they were--which had ever called to her being for
response, was simple and undiluted rapture. She had passed over her little =
soul
without a moment's delay and without any knowledge of the giving. It had fl=
own
from her as a bird might fly from darkness into the sun. Eight-year-old Don=
al
was the sun.
No special tendency to innate duplicity was
denoted by the fact that she had acquired, through her observation of Andre=
ws,
Jennings, Jane and Mrs. Blayne, the knowledge that there were things it was=
best
not to let other people know. You were careful about them. From the occult
communications between herself and Donal, which had resulted in their intri=
gue,
there had of course evolved a realizing sense of the value of discretion. S=
he
did not let Andrews see the decorated leaves, but put them into a small poc=
ket
in her coat. Her Machiavellian intention was to slip them out when she was
taken up to the Nursery. Andrews was always in a hurry to go downstairs to =
her
lunch and she would be left alone and could find a place where she could hi=
de
them.
Andrews' friend started when Robin drew ne=
ar
to them. The child's cheeks and lips were the colour of Jacqueminot rose
petals. Her eyes glowed with actual rapture.
"My word! That's a beauty if I ever s=
aw
one," said the woman. "First sight makes you jump. My word!"=
Robin, however, did not know what she was
talking about and in fact scarcely heard her. She was thinking of Donal. She
thought of him as she was taken home, and she did not cease thinking of him
during the whole rest of the day and far into the night. When Andrews left =
her,
she found a place to hide the pricked leaves and before she put them away s=
he
did what Donal had done to her--she kissed them. She kissed them several ti=
mes
because they were Donal's leaves and he had made the stars and lines on the=
m.
It was almost like kissing Donal but not quite so beautiful.
After she was put to bed at night and Andr=
ews
left her she lay awake for a long time. She did not want to go to sleep bec=
ause
everything seemed so warm and wonderful and she could think and think and
think. What she thought about was Donal's face, his delightful eyes, his wh=
ite
forehead with curly hair pushed back with his Highland bonnet. His plaid sw=
ung
about when he ran and jumped. When he held her tight the buttons of his jac=
ket
hurt her a little because they pressed against her body. What was
"Mother" like? Did he kiss her? What pretty stones there were in =
his
clasps and buckles! How nice it was to hear him laugh and how fond he was of
laughing. Donal! Donal! Donal! He liked to play with her though she was a g=
irl
and so little. He would play with her tomorrow. His cheeks were bright pink,
his hair was bright, his eyes were bright. He was all bright. She tried to =
see
into the blueness of his eyes again as it seemed when they looked at each o=
ther
close to. As she began to see the clear colour she fell asleep.
The power which had on the first morning
guided Robin to the seclusion behind the clump of shrubs and had provided
Andrews with an enthralling companion, extended, the next day, an even more=
beneficient
and complete protection. Andrews was smitten with a cold so alarming as to
confine her to bed. Having no intention of running any risks, whatsoever, s=
he
promptly sent for a younger sister who, temporarily being "out of
place", came into the house as substitute. She was a pretty young woman
who assumed no special responsibilities and was fond of reading novels.
"She's been trained to be no trouble,
Anne. She'll amuse herself without bothering you as long as you keep her
out," Andrews said of Robin.
Anne took "Lady Audley's Secret" with her to the Gardens and, having led her charge to a shady and comfortab= le seat which exactly suited her, she settled herself for a pleasant morning.<= o:p>
"Now, you can play while I read,"
she said to Robin.
As they had entered the Gardens they had p=
assed,
not far from the gate, a bench on which sat a highly respectable looking wo=
man
who was hemming a delicate bit of cambric, and evidently in charge of two
picture books which lay on the seat beside her. A fine boy in Highland kilts
was playing a few yards away. Robin felt something like a warm flood rush o=
ver
her and her joy was so great and exquisite that she wondered if Anne felt h=
er
hand trembling. Anne did not because she was looking at a lady getting into=
a
carriage across the street.
The marvel of that early summer morning in=
the
gardens of a splendid but dingy London square thing was not a thing for whi=
ch human
words could find expression. It was not an earthly thing, or, at least, not=
a
thing belonging to an earth grown old. A child Adam and Eve might have known
something like it in the Garden of Eden. It was as clear and simple as spri=
ng
water and as warm as the sun.
Anne's permission to "play" once
given, Robin found her way behind the group of lilacs and snowballs. Donal
would come, not only because he was so big that Nanny would let him do what=
he
wanted to do, but because he would do everything and anything in the world.
Donal! Donal! Her heart was a mere baby's heart but it beat as if she were
seventeen--beat with pure rapture. He was all bright and he would laugh and
laugh.
The coming was easy enough for Donal. He h=
ad
told his mother and Nanny rejoicingly about the little girl he had made fri=
ends
with and who had no picture books. But he did not come straight to her. He =
took
his picture books under his arm, and showing all his white teeth in a joyous
grin, set out to begin their play properly with a surprise. He did not let =
her
see him coming but "stalked" her behind the trees and bushes unti=
l he
found where she was waiting, and then thrust his face between the branches =
of a
tall shrub near her and laughed the outright laugh she loved. And when she
turned she was looking straight into the clear blue she had tried to see wh=
en
she fell asleep. "Donal! Donal!" she cried like a little bird with
but one note.
The lilac and the snowball were in blossom=
and
there was a big hawthorn tree which smelt sweet and sweet. They could not s=
ee
the drift of smuts on the blossoms, they only smelled the sweetness and sat
under the hawthorn and sniffed and sniffed. The sun was deliciously warm an=
d a
piano organ was playing beautifully not far away. They sat close to each ot=
her,
so close that the picture book could lie open on both pairs of knees and the
warmth of each young body penetrated the softness of the other. Sometimes D=
onal
threw an arm around her as she bent over the page. Love and caresses were n=
ot
amazements to him; he accepted them as parts of the normal joy of life. To
Robin they were absolute wonder. The pictures were delight and amazement in
one. Donal knew all about them and told her stories. She felt that such
splendour could have emanated only from him. It could not occur to her that=
he
had not invented them and made the pictures. He showed her Robinson Crusoe =
and
Robin Hood. The scent of the hawthorn and lilac intoxicated them and they
laughed tremendously because Robin Hood's name was like Robin's own and he =
was
a man and she was a girl. They could scarcely stop laughing and Donal rolled
over and over on the grass, half from unconquerable high spirits and half to
make Robin laugh still more.
He had some beautiful coloured glass marbl=
es
in his pocket and he showed her how to play with them, and gave her two of =
the prettiest.
He could shoot them over the ground in a way to thrill the beholder. He cou=
ld
hop on one leg as far as he liked. He could read out of books.
"Do you like me?" he said once i=
n a
pause between displays of his prowess.
Robin was kneeling upon the grass watching=
him
and she clasped her little hands as if she were uttering a prayer.
"Oh, yes, yes!" she yearned.
"Yes! Yes!"
"I like you," he answered; "=
;I
told my mother all about you."
He came to her and knelt by her side.
"Have you a mother?" he asked.
"No," shaking her head.
"Do you live with your aunt?"
"No, I don't live with anybody."=
He looked puzzled.
"Isn't there any lady in your
house?" he put it to her. She brightened a little, relieved to think s=
he
had something to tell him.
"There's the Lady Downstairs," s=
he
said. "She's so pretty--so pretty."
"Is she----" he stopped and shook
his head. "She couldn't be your mother," he corrected himself.
"You'd know about HER."
"She wears pretty clothes. Sometimes =
they
float about and sparkle and she wears little crowns on her head--or flowers.
She laughs," Robin described eagerly. "A great many people come to
see her. They all laugh. Sometimes they sing. I lie in bed and listen."=
;
"Does she ever come upstairs to the
Nursery?" inquired Donal with a somewhat reflective air.
"Yes. She comes and stands near the d=
oor
and says, 'Is she quite well, Andrews?' She does not laugh then. She--she L=
OOKS
at me."
She stopped there, feeling suddenly that s=
he
wished very much that she had more to tell. What she was saying was evident=
ly
not very satisfactory. He seemed to expect more--and she had no more to giv=
e. A
sense of emptiness crept upon her and for no reason she understood there wa=
s a
little click in her throat.
"Does she only stand near the door?&q=
uot;
he suggested, as one putting the situation to a sort of crucial test.
"Does she never sit on a big chair and take you on her knee?"
"No, no," in a dropped voice.
"She will not sit down. She says the chairs are grubby."
"Doesn't she LOVE you at all?"
persisted Donal. "Doesn't she KISS you?"
There was a thing she had known for what
seemed to her a long time--God knows in what mysterious fashion she had lea=
rned
it, but learned it well she had. That no human being but herself was aware =
of
her knowledge was inevitable. To whom could she have told it? But Donal--Do=
nal
wanted to know all about her. The little click made itself felt in her thro=
at
again.
"She--she doesn't LIKE me!" Her
dropped voice was the whisper of one humbled to the dust by confession,
"She--doesn't LIKE me!" And the click became another thing which =
made
her put up her arm over her eyes--her round, troubled child eyes, which, as=
she
had looked into Donal's, had widened with sudden, bewildered tears.
Donal flung his arms round her and squeezed
his buttons into her tender chest. He hugged her close; he kissed her; there
was a choking in his throat. He was hot all over.
"She does like you. She must like you.
I'll make her!" he cried passionately. "She's not your mother. If=
she
was, she'd LOVE you! She'd LOVE you!"
"Do Mothers l-love you?" the sma=
ll
voice asked with a half sob. "What's--what's LOVE you?" It was not
vulgar curiosity. She only wanted to find out.
He loosed his embrace, sitting back on his
heels to stare.
"Don't you KNOW?"
She shook her head with soft meekness.
"N-no," she answered.
Big boys like himself did not usually play
with such little girls. But something had drawn him to her at their first
moment of encounter. She wasn't like any other little girls. He felt it all=
the
time and that was part of the thing which drew him. He was not, of course,
aware that the male thrill at being regarded as one who is a god had its po=
wer
over the emotions. She wasn't making silly fun and pretending. She really
didn't know--because she was different.
"It's liking very much. It's more,&qu=
ot;
he explained. "My mother loves ME. I--I LOVE you!" stoutly.
"Yes, I LOVE you. That's why I kissed you when you cried."
She was so uplifted, so overwhelmed with
adoring gratitude that as she knelt on the grass she worshipped him.
"I love YOU," she answered him.
"I LOVE you--LOVE you!" And she looked at him with such actual
prayerfulness that he caught at her and, with manly promptness, kissed her
again-this being mere Nature.
Because he was eight years old and she was=
six
her tears flashed away and they both laughed joyously as they sat down on t=
he
grass again to talk it over.
He told her all the pleasant things he knew
about Mothers. The world was full of them it seemed--full. You belong to th=
em
from the time you were a baby. He had not known many personally because he =
had
always lived at Braemarnie, which was in the country in Scotland. There wer=
e no
houses near his home. You had to drive miles and miles before you came to a
house or a castle. He had not seen much of other children except a few who
lived at the Manse and belonged to the minister. Children had fathers as we=
ll
as mothers. Fathers did not love you or take care of you quite as much as
Mothers--because they were men. But they loved you too. His own father had =
died
when he was a baby. His mother loved him as much as he loved her. She was
beautiful but--it seemed to reveal itself--not like the Lady Downstairs. She
did not laugh very much, though she laughed when they played together. He w=
as
too big now to sit on her knee, but squeezed into the big chair beside her =
when
she read or told him stories. He always did what his mother told him. She k=
new
everything in the world and so knew what he ought to do. Even when he was a=
big
man he should do what his mother told him.
Robin listened to every word with enraptur=
ed
eyes and bated breath. This was the story of Love and Life and it was the f=
irst
time she had ever heard it. It was as much a revelation as the Kiss. She had
spent her days in the grimy Nursery and her one close intimate had been a b=
ony
woman who had taught her not to cry, employing the practical method of
terrifying her into silence by pinching her--knowing it was quite safe to do
it. It had not been necessary to do it often. She had seen people on the
streets, but she had only seen them in passing by. She had not watched them=
as
she had watched the sparrows. When she was taken down for a few minutes into
the basement, she vaguely knew that she was in the way and that Mrs. Blayne=
's
and Andrews' and Jennings' low voices and occasional sidelong look meant th=
at
they were talking about her and did not want her to hear.
"I have no mother and no father,"
she explained quite simply to Donal. "No one kisses me."
"No one!" Donal said, feeling
curious. "Has no one ever kissed you but me?"
"No," she answered.
Donal laughed--because children always lau=
gh
when they do not know what else to do.
"Was that why you looked as if you we=
re
frightened when I said good-bye to you yesterday?"
"I-I didn't know," said Robin,
laughing a little too--but not very much, "I wasn't frightened. I liked
you."
"I'll kiss you as often as you want me
to," he volunteered nobly. "I'm used to it--because of my mother.
I'll kiss you again now." And he did it quite without embarrassment. It
was a sort of manly gratuity.
Once Anne, with her book in her hand, came
round the shrubs to see how her charge was employing herself, and seeing her
looking at pictures with a handsomely dressed companion, she returned to &q=
uot;Lady
Audley's Secret" feeling entirely safe.
The lilac and the hawthorn tree continued =
to
breathe forth warmed scents of paradise in the sunshine, the piano organ we=
nt
on playing, sometimes nearer, sometimes farther away, but evidently finding=
the
neighbourhood a desirable one. Sometimes the children laughed at each other,
sometimes at pictures Donal showed, or stories he told, or at his own extre=
me
wit. The boundaries were removed from Robin's world. She began to understand
that there was another larger one containing wonderful and delightful things
she had known nothing about. Donal was revealing it to her in everything he
said even when he was not aware that he was telling her anything. When Eve =
was
formed from the rib of Adam the information it was necessary for him to give
her regarding her surroundings must have filled her with enthralling intere=
st
and a reverence which adored. The planted enclosure which was the central
feature of the soot sprinkled, stately London Square was as the Garden of E=
den.
*
The Garden of Eden it remained for two wee=
ks.
Andrews' cold was serious enough to require a doctor and her sister Anne
continued to perform their duties. The weather was exceptionally fine and, =
being
a vain young woman, she liked to dress Robin in her pretty clothes and take=
her
out because she was a beauty and attracted attention to her nurse as well a=
s to
herself. Mornings spent under the trees reading were entirely satisfactory.
Each morning the children played together and each night Robin lay awake an=
d lived
again the delights of the past hours. Each day she learned more wonders and=
her
young mind and soul were fed. There began to stir in her brain new thoughts=
and
the beginning of questioning. Scotland, Braemarnie, Donal's mother, even the
Manse and the children in it, combined to form a world of enchantment. There
were hills with stags living in them, there were moors with purple heather =
and yellow
brome and gorse; birds built their nests under the bushes and Donal's pony =
knew
exactly where to step even in the roughest places. There were two boys and =
two
girls at the Manse and they had a father and a mother. These things were en=
ough
for a new heaven and a new earth to form themselves around. The centre of t=
he
whole Universe was Donal with his strength and his laugh and his eyes which
were so alive and glowing that she seemed always to see them. She knew noth=
ing
about the thing which was their somehow--not-to-be-denied allure. They were
ASKING eyes--and eyes which gave. The boy was in truth a splendid creature.=
His
body and beauty were perfect life and joyous perfect living. His eyes asked
other eyes for everything. "Tell me more," they said. "Tell =
me
more! Like me! Answer me! Let us give each other everything in the world.&q=
uot;
He had always been well, he had always been happy, he had always been prais=
ed
and loved. He had known no other things.
During the first week in which the two
children played together, his mother, whose intense desire it was to unders=
tand
him, observed in him a certain absorption of mood when he was not talking o=
r amusing
himself actively. He began to fall into a habit of standing at the windows,
often with his chin in his hand, looking out as if he were so full of thoug=
ht
that he saw nothing. It was not an old habit, it was a new one.
"What are you thinking about,
Donal?" she asked one afternoon.
He seemed to awaken, as it were, when he h=
eard
her. He turned about with his alluring smile.
"I am thinking it is FUNNY," he
said. "It is funny that I should like such a little girl such a lot. S=
he
is years and years younger than I am. But I like her so. It is such fun to =
tell
her things." He marched over to his mother's writing table and leaned
against it. What his mother saw was that he had an impassioned desire to ta=
lk
about this child. She felt it was a desire even a trifle abnormal in its
eagerness.
"She has such a queer house, I
think," he explained. "She has a nurse and such pretty clothes and
she is so pretty herself, but I don't believe she has any toys or books in =
her
nursery."
"Where is her mother?"
"She must be dead. There is no lady in
her house but the Lady Downstairs. She is very pretty and is always laughin=
g.
But she is not her mother because she doesn't like her and she never kisses=
her.
I think that's the queerest thing of all. No one had EVER kissed her till I
did."
His mother was a woman given to psychologi=
cal
analysis. Her eyes began to dwell on his face with slightly anxious
questioning.
"Did you kiss her?" she inquired=
.
"Yes. I kissed her when I said good
morning the first day. I thought she didn't like me to do it but she did. It
was only because no one had ever done it before. She likes it very much.&qu=
ot;
He leaned farther over the writing table a=
nd
began to pour forth, his smile growing and his eyes full of pleasure. His
mother was a trifle alarmedly struck by the feeling that he was talking lik=
e a
young man in love who cannot keep his tongue still, though in his case even=
the
youngest manhood was years away, and he made no effort to conceal his
sentiments which a young man would certainly have striven to do.
"She's got such a pretty little face =
and
such a pretty mouth and cheeks," he touched a Jacqueminot rose in a va=
se.
"They are the colour of that. Today a robin came with the sparrows and
hopped about near us. We laughed and laughed because her eyes are like the
robin's, and she is called Robin. I wish you would come into the Gardens and
see her, mother. She likes everything I do."
"I must come, dear," she answere=
d.
"Nanny thinks she is lovely," he
announced. "She says I am in love with her. Am I, mother?"
"You are too young to be in love,&quo=
t;
she said. "And even when you are older you must not fall in love with
people you know nothing about."
It was an unconscious bit of Scotch
cautiousness which she at once realized was absurd and quite out of place.
But--!
She realized it because he stood up and
squared his shoulders in an odd young-mannish way. He had not flushed even
faintly before and now a touch of colour crept under his fair skin.
"But I DO love her," he said.
"I DO. I can't stop." And though he was quite simple and obviously
little boy-like, she actually felt frightened for a moment.
On the afternoon of the day upon which this
occurred, Coombe was standing in Feather's drawing-room with a cup of tea in
his hand and wearing the look of a man who is given up to reflection.
"I saw Mrs. Muir today for the first =
time
for several years," he said after a silence. "She is in London wi=
th
the boy."
"Is she as handsome as ever?"
"Quite. Hers is not the beauty that
disappears. It is line and bearing and a sort of splendid grace and
harmony."
"What is the boy like?"
Coombe reflected again before he answered.=
"He is--amazing. One so seldom sees
anything approaching physical perfection that it strikes one a sort of blow
when one comes upon it suddenly face to face."
"Is he as beautiful as all that?"=
;
"The Greeks used to make statues of
bodies like his. They often called them gods--but not always. The Creative
Intention plainly was that all human beings should be beautiful and he is t=
he expression
of it."
Feather was pretending to embroider a pink
flower on a bit of gauze and she smiled vaguely.
"I don't know what you mean," she
admitted with no abasement of spirit, "but if ever there was any Inten=
tion
of that kind it has not been carried out." Her smile broke into a litt=
le
laugh as she stuck her needle into her work. "I'm thinking of Henry,&q=
uot;
she let drop in addition.
"So was I, it happened," answered
Coombe after a second or so of pause.
Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coom=
be's
great objection--his heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a
repulsive sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into t=
he
world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood devoted hims=
elf
to a life which would have undermined a Hercules. A relative may so easily
present the aspect of an unfortunate incident over which one has no control.
This was the case with Henry. His character and appearance were such that e=
ven
his connection with an important heritage was not enough to induce respecta=
ble
persons to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue Hen=
ry
would be the Head of the House.
"How is his cough?" inquired
Feather.
"Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck =
and
he has no physical cause for remaining alive."
Feather made three or four stitches.
"Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said.=
"If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his
miserable existence, that is all," he answered. "She is not the w=
oman
to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--h=
er
boy takes his place in the line of succession."
"Oh, yes, she'd know that," put =
in
Feather.
It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly=
.
"You have a mistaken view of her,&quo=
t;
he said.
"You admire her very much," Feat=
her
bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her "line" a=
nd
her "splendid grace and harmony" was enough to make one bridle.
"She doesn't admire me," said
Coombe. "She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn't really wa=
nt
the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts."
"Doesn't want it!" Feather's
exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big o=
ne.
"She is Scotch Early Victorian in some
things and extremely advanced in others," he went on. "She has st=
rong
ideas of her own as to how he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her
feeling for his being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help hi=
m to
be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not understand--a=
bout
the Creative Intention."
"I suppose she is religious,"
Feather said. "Scotch people often are but their religion isn't usually
like that. Creative Intention's a new name for God, I suppose. I ought to k=
now
all about God. I've heard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman b=
ut
he was very miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST one.=
We
were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed and all that. =
So
God's rather an old story."
"Queer how old--from Greenland's icy
mountains to India's coral strand," said Coombe. "It's an ancient
search--that for the Idea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or
stone."
"Well," said Feather, holding her
bit of gauze away from her the better to criticize the pink flower. "As
ALMOST a clergyman's daughter I must say that if there is one tiling God di=
dn't
do, it was to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it was =
only
to be happy in. It was made to-to try us by suffering and-that sort of thin=
g.
It's a-a-what d'ye call it? Something beginning with P."
"Probation," suggested Coombe
regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing
forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished t=
hem
out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type tha=
t it
almost fascinated him for a moment.
"Yes. That's it--probation," she
answered. "I knew it began with a P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas=
of
blood' and, if you are religious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or =
swim
them as the people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time you=
're
doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't say I think it's
pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful and perfect indeed! That's not
religion--it's being irreligious. Good gracious, think of the cripples and
lepers and hunchbacks!"
"And the idea is that God made them
all--by way of entertaining himself?" he put it to her quietly.
"Well, who else did?" said Feath=
er
cheerfully.
"I don't know," he said.
"Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say suggested to one that it might be
interesting to think it out."
"Did she talk to you about God at
afternoon tea?" said Feather. "It's the kind of thing a religious
Scotch woman might do."
"No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps =
that
was her mistake. She might have reformed me. She never says more to me than
civility demands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the B=
ethunes
and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs. Muir was talking to him
and I heard her. The man seemed to be a scholar and a deep thinker and as t=
hey
talked a group of us stood and listened or asked questions."
"How funny!" said Feather.
"It was not funny at all. It was
astonishingly calm and serious--and logical. The logic was the new note. I =
had
never thought of reason in that connection."
"Reason has nothing to do with it. You
must have faith. You must just believe what you're told not think at all.
Thinking is wickedness--unless you think what you hear preached." Feat=
her
was even a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but she
laughed after she had done with it. "But it MUST have been funny--a Tu=
rk
or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown and Mrs. Muir in her
Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God."
"You are quite out of it," Coombe
did not smile at all as he said it. "The Oriental was as physically
beautiful as Donal Muir is. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compa=
red
with her. Perhaps people who think grow beautiful."
Feather was not often alluring or coquetti=
sh
in her manner to Coombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at=
her
flower through lovely lashes.
"I don't think," she said. "=
;And
I am not so bad looking."
"No," he answered coldly. "=
You
are not. At times you look like a young angel."
"If Mrs. Muir is like that," she
said after a brief pause, "I should like to know what she thinks of
me?"
"No, you would not--neither should I-=
-if
she thinks at all," was his answer. "But you remember you said you
did not mind that sort of thing."
"I don't. Why should I? It can't harm
me." Her hint of a pout made her mouth entrancing. "But, if she
thinks good looks are the result of religiousness I should like to let her =
see
Robin--and compare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and =
she's
a perfect beauty."
"Last week?" said Coombe.
"She doesn't need anyone but Andrews.=
I
should bore her to death if I went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her=
. No
one does that sort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Mu=
ir
to see the two children together!" "That could not easily be
arranged, I am afraid," he said.
"Why not?"
His answer was politely deliberate.
"She greatly disapproves of me, I have
told you. She is not proud of the relationship."
"She does not like ME you mean?"=
"Excuse me. I mean exactly what I sai=
d in
telling you that she has her own very strong views of the boy's training and
surroundings. They may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not troubl=
e you."
Feather held up her hand and actually laug=
hed.
"If Robin meets him in ten years from now-THAT for her very strong views of his training and surroundings!"<= o:p>
And she snapped her fingers.
Mrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoid=
able
connection the man he might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been bro=
ught
up in a Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and almo=
st
divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been happy but she =
had
been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied from type through her marriage
with a young man who was a dreamer, an advanced thinker, an impassioned Gre=
ek
scholar and a lover of beauty. After he had from her terrors of damnation, =
they
had been profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read and
thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults and sometimes
found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes discovering untrodden paths=
of
wisdom. They were youthful enough to be solemn about things at times, and
clever enough to laugh at their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen M=
uir
left the reverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her res=
pect
for certain meanings they beclouded.
"I live in a new structure," she
said to her husband, "but it is built on a foundation which is like a
solid subterranean chamber. I don't use the subterranean chamber or go into=
it.
I don't want to. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves he=
ard in
it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself."
She had always been rather grave about her
little son and when her husband's early death left him and his dignified but
not large estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the p=
ower
to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly possible. The pure
blood and healthy tendencies of a long and fine ancestry expressing themsel=
ves
in the boy's splendid body and unusual beauty had set the minds of two
imaginative people working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests =
was
the study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in her mind
that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as to the Intention of=
the
Creative Cause. They used to look at the child as he lay asleep and note the
beauty of him--his hands, his feet, his torso, the tint and texture and lin=
e of
him.
"This is what was MEANT--in the plan =
for
every human being--How could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation=
. It
is we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought and lif=
e.
Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he is--if living does =
not
warp him." This was what his father said. His mother was at her graves=
t as
she looked down at the little god in the crib.
"It's as if some power had thrust a
casket of loose jewels into our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that =
not
one is lost'," she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled.
"Are we being solemn--over a baby?&qu=
ot;
she said.
"Perhaps," he was always even
readier to smile than she was. "I've an idea, however, that there's en=
ough
to be solemn about--not too solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beaut=
iful
thing, Fair Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget =
what
we have just said."
Through her darkest hours of young bereave=
ment
she remembered the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light
she might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards&qu=
ot; which
were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie and lived F=
OR
him without neglecting her duty of being the head of a household and an est=
ate
and also a good and gracious neighbour to things and people. She kept watch=
over
every jewel in his casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her
religion that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean =
chamber
were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to keep guard over
herself.
He was handsome and radiant with glowing
health and vitality. He was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of t=
he
joy of life as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too cle=
ver and
he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely ancient and
beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and luxury to be a pleasure
but no burden. Life in it could be perfect and also supply freedom. Coombe
Court and Coombe Keep were huge and castellated and demanded great things. =
Even
if the Head of the House had been a man to like and be proud of--the access=
ion
of a beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak, and
set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring "Henry&quo=
t;
had been beset with temptations from his earliest years. That he promptly
succumbed to the first only brought forth others. It did not seem fair that=
a
creature so different, a splendid fearless thing, should be dragged from his
hills and moors and fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of thin=
gs, of
whose poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish woman.=
In
her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in London with her hus=
band
and in their explorings of foreign cities.
This was the reason for her views of her b=
oy's
training and surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself=
, but
it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather by chance. In
spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and then he was furbished up
and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or at The Keep. It was always briefly
because he inevitably began to verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-fo=
ur
hours had passed. On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had
turned up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he had
been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting to kiss a very
young royal princess. There were quite definite objections to Henry.
Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe
relationship and with unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself a=
nd
her boy from all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimac=
y. Donal
knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough for that when he =
was
older, but, in the meantime, there should be no intercourse if it could be
avoided.
She had smiled at herself when the
"echo" had prompted her to the hint of a quaint caution in connec=
tion
with his little boy flame of delight in the strange child he had made frien=
ds
with. But it HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very sti=
ll by
the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight on her heart=
as
she thought it over. There were wonderful years when one could give one's
children all the things they wanted, she was saying to herself--the desires=
of
their child hearts, the joy of their child bodies, their little raptures of
delight. Those were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living =
through
those years now. He did not know that any happiness could be taken from him=
. He
was hers and she was his. It would be horrible if there were anything one c=
ould
not let him keep--in this early unshadowed time!
She was looking out at the Spring night wi=
th
all its stars lit and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her
window. Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny.
"Nanny," she said when the old n=
urse
came, "tell me something about the little girl Donal plays with in the
Square gardens."
"She's a bonny thing and finely dress=
ed,
ma'am," was the woman's careful answer, "but I don't make friends
with strange nurses and I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler w=
ho
sits novel reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the mea=
sles,
the child would be playing with him just the same as far as I can see. The
young woman sits under a tree and reads and the pretty little thing may do =
what
she likes. I keep my eye on them, however, and they're in no mischief. Mast=
er
Donal reads out of his picture books and shows himself off before her grand=
ly
and she laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child li=
kes
a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the pair of them. They'=
re
daft about each other. Just wee things in love at first sight."
"Donal has known very few girls. Those
plain little things at the Manse are too dull for him," his mother said
slowly.
"This one's not plain and she's not
dull," Nanny answered. "My word! but she's like a bit of witch fi=
re
dancing--with her colour and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at =
her
like a young man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her
forbears."
"I must see her," Mrs. Muir said.
"Tomorrow I'll go with you both to the Gardens."
Therefore the following day Donal pranced
proudly up the path to his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at
whom people looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small h=
ead softly
swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very clear and calm.
Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her and was indeed prancing th=
ough
his prance was broken by walking steps at intervals.
Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes =
and
her nurse was already deep in the mystery of Lady Audley.
"There she is!" cried Donal, and=
he
ran to her. "My mother has come with me. She wants to see you, too,&qu=
ot;
and he pulled her forward by her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is
Robin." He panted with elation and stood holding his prize as if she m=
ight
get away before he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's =
were
those of an exultant owner.
Robin had no desire to run away. To adore
anything which belonged to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair,
wonderful person was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The c=
hild
could only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like lit=
tle
worshippers before a deity.
Andrews' sister in her pride had attired t=
he
small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical
brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no
wonder--since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek
delicately.
"Donal wanted me to see his little
friend," she said. "I always want to see his playmates. Shall we =
walk
round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me =
all
about it."
She took the small hand and they walked
slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed =
at
all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about=
the
flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, =
she
began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into su=
dden
ripples of laughter like a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand
was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or je=
rk and
it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again
welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady=
sat
down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or wo=
rk.
She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything els=
e.
Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and
forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were "making
up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, =
they
did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs.
Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a mo=
ment
with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Rob=
in. Two
people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to them as if they
liked her and had time!
The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes follow=
ed
Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Su=
ch a
glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she=
would
be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His
strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could
one--with dignity and delicacy--find out why she had this obvious air of
belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation f=
or
his curious scraps of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one =
had
ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady
Downstairs?
A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hu= ed figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke to the coachman.<= o:p>
"Stop here!" she said. "I w=
ant
to get out."
As the victoria drew up near a gate she ma=
de a
light gesture.
"What do you think, Starling," s=
he
laughed. "The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens
there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy y=
ears
ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands an=
d her
laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on the grass
near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy! And I wanted to see =
the
pair together. Coombe said couldn't be done. And more than anything I want =
to
speak to HER. Let's get out."
They got out and this was why Helen Muir,
turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two wo=
men
coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident=
intention.
She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of
hyacinth petals.
Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards =
her,
Robin's turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's kn=
ee, her
eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipp=
ing
light.
"It is--" she ecstatically sighe=
d or
rather gasped, "the Lady Downstairs!"
Feather floated near to the seat and paused
smiling.
"Where is your nurse, Robin?" she
said.
Robin being always dazzled by the sight of=
her
did not of course shine.
"She is reading under the tree,"=
she
answered tremulously.
"She is only a few yards away," =
said
Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watch=
ing
them. Robin is your little girl?" amiably.
"Yes. So kind of you to let her play =
with
your boy. Don't let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless."
There was a little silence--a delicate lit=
tle
silence.
"I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at
once," said Feather. unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, "I saw =
your
portrait at the Grosvenor."
"Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She
had risen and was beautifully tall,--"the line" was perfect, and =
she
looked with a gracious calm into Feather's eyes.
Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colou=
rs,
drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered
something.
"Is this Donal?" Feather said.
"ARE you the Lady Downstairs,
please?" Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know.
Feather's pretty smile ended in the pretti=
est
of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name.
"Yes, I believe that's what she calls=
me.
It's a nice name for a mother, isn't it?"
Donal took a quick step forward.
"ARE you her mother?" he asked
eagerly.
"Of course I am."
Donal quite flushed with excitement.
"She doesn't KNOW," he said.
He turned on Robin.
"She's your Mother! You thought you
hadn't one! She's your Mother!"
"But I am the Lady Downstairs, too.&q=
uot;
Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she fel=
t a
perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and
that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see =
your
boy," she said.
"Yes," still gently from Mrs. Mu=
ir.
"Because of Coombe, you know. We are =
such
old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I
didn't know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the=
portrait.
GOOD morning. Goodbye, children."
While she strayed airily away they all wat=
ched
her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or
needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her
victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol flutteri=
ng
in the air.
Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and
Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they d=
id
not know that her eyes had something like grief in them.
"She's her Mother!" Donal cried.
"She's lovely, too. But she's--her MOTHER!" and his voice and face
were equally puzzled.
Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs.
Muir.
"IS--she?" she faltered.
Helen Muir took her in her arms and held h=
er
quite close. She kissed her.
"Yes, she is, my lamb," she said.
"She's your mother."
She was clear as to what she must do for
Donal's sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the c=
hild
WAS a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her littl=
e body
was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a
fragrance against her breast.
Donal talked a great deal as he pranced ho=
me.
Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she w=
as
her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her=
on
her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never
tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he
wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close
and a trifle authoritatively.
"I am glad I know you are my
mother," he said, "I always knew."
He was not sure that the matter was explai=
ned
very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really
disturbed. He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he tho=
ught
of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried
under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was used to that.=
It
came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, =
kept
as quiet as was humanly possible.
After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny.=
"You're tired, ma'am," the woman
said when she saw her, "I'm afraid you've a headache."
"I have had a good deal of thinking t=
o do
since this afternoon," her mistress answered, "You were right abo=
ut
the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent=
in her
way--boys quite unlike Donal."
"Yes, ma'am." And because she lo=
ved
her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely.
"You will be as--startled--as I was. =
By
some queer chance the child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in =
to
speak to me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless."
Nanny did start; she also reddened and spo=
ke sharply.
"And she came in and spoke to you,
ma'am!"
"Things have altered and are altering
every day," Mrs. Muir said. "Society is not at all inflexible. She
has a smart set of her own--and she is very pretty and evidently well provi=
ded
for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her hus=
band
was a relation of Lord Lawdor's."
"And him a canny Scotchman with a new
child a year. Yes, my certie," offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. =
Mrs.
Muir's hands clasped strongly as they lay on the table before her.
"That doesn't come within my bailiewick," she said in her quiet voice. "Her life is her own and not mine. Words are the wind that blows." She stopped just a moment and began again. "We must leave for Scotland by the earliest train."<= o:p>
"What'll he do?" the words escap=
ed
from the woman as if involuntarily. She even drew a quick breath. "He'=
s a
strong feeling bairn--strong!"
"He'll be stronger when he is a young
man, Nanny!" desperately. "That is why I must act now. There is no
half way. I don't want to be hard. Oh, am I hard--am I hard?" she cried
out low as if she were pleading.
"No, ma'am. You are not. He's your own
flesh and blood." Nanny had never before seen her mistress as she saw =
her
in the next curious almost exaggerated moment.
Her hand flew to her side.
"He's my heart and my soul--" she
said, "--he is the very entrails of me! And it will hurt him so and I
cannot explain to him because he is too young to understand. He is only a
little boy who must go where he is taken. And he cannot help himself.
It's--unfair!"
Nanny was prone to become more Scotch as s=
he
became moved. But she still managed to look grim.
"He canna help himsel," she said,
"an waur still, YOU canna."
There was a moment of stillness and then s=
he
said:
"I must go and pack up." And wal=
ked
out of the room.
*
Donal always slept like a young roe in the
bracken, and in deep and rapturous ease he slept this night. Another perfec=
tly
joyful day had passed and his Mother had liked Robin and kissed her. All was
well with the world. As long as he had remained awake--and it had not been
long--he had thought of delightful things unfeverishly. Of Robin, somehow at
Braemarnie, growing bigger very quickly--big enough for all sorts of games-=
-learning
to ride Chieftain, even to gallop. His mother would buy another pony and th=
ey
could ride side by side. Robin would laugh and her hair would fly behind he=
r if
they went fast. She would see how fast he could go--she would see him make
Chieftain jump. They would have picnics--catch sight of deer and fawns
delicately lifting their feet as they stepped. She would always look at him
with that nice look in her eyes and the little smile which came and went in=
a
second. She was quite different from the minister's little girls at the Man=
se.
He liked her--he liked her!
*
He was wakened by a light in his room and =
by
the sound of moving about. He sat up quickly and found his Mother standing =
by
his bed and Nanny putting things into a travelling bag. He felt as if his M=
other
looked taller than she had looked yesterday--and almost thin--and her face =
was
anxious and--shy.
"We let you sleep as late as we could,
Donal," she said. "You must get up quickly now and have breakfast.
Something has happened. 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 vagu=
ely.
"Yes. Get up, dear."
He was as she had said only a little boy a=
nd
accustomed to do as he was told. He was also a fine, sturdy little Scot wit=
h a
pride of his own. His breeding had been of the sort which did not include i=
nsubordinate
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 bushe=
s.
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 no=
w.
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, b=
ut,
as she said them, she knew they were not the right ones.
"She will be disappointed, of course,=
but
she is so little that she will not feel it as much as if she were bigger. S=
he
will get over it, darling. Very little girls do not remember things long.&q=
uot;
Oh, how coarse and crass and stupid it sounded--how course and crass and st=
upid
to say it to this small defiant scrap of what seemed the inevitable sufferi=
ng
of the world!
The clear blue of the eyes Robin had dwelt=
in,
lifted itself to her. There was something almost fierce in it--almost like =
impotent
hatred of something.
"She won't," he said, and she
actually heard him grind his little teeth after it.
He did not look like Donal when he was dre=
ssed
and sat at the breakfast table. He did not eat much of his porridge, but she
saw that he determinedly ate some. She felt several times as if he actually=
did
not look like anybody she had ever seen. And at the same time his fair hair,
his fair cheeks, and the fair sturdy knees beneath his swinging kilt made h=
im
seem as much a little boy as she had ever known him. It was his hot blue ey=
es
which were different.
He obeyed her every wish and followed where
she led. When the train laboured out of the big station he had taken a seat=
in
a corner and sat with his face turned to the window, so that his back was t=
owards
her. He stared and stared at the passing country and she could only see par=
t of
his cheek and the side of his neck. She could not help watching them and
presently she saw a hot red glow under the skin as if a flood had risen. It
subsided in a few moments, but presently she saw it rise again. This happen=
ed
several times and he was holding his lip with, his teeth. Once she saw his =
shoulders
more and he coughed obstinately two or three times. She knew that he would =
die
before he would let himself cry, but she wished he would descend to it just
this once, as the fields and hedges raced past and he was carried "Awa=
y!
Away!" It might be that it was all his manhood she was saving for him.=
He really made her heart stand still for a
moment just as she was thinking this and saying it to herself almost fierce=
ly.
He suddenly turned on her; the blue of his eyes was flaming and the tide ha=
d risen
again in his cheeks and neck. It was a thing like rage she saw before her--a
child's rage and impotently fierce. He cried out as if he were ending a
sentence he had not finished when he spoke as he sat on the floor buttoning=
his
shoes.
"She has no one but me to remember!&q=
uot;
he said. "No one but me had ever even kissed her. She didn't know!&quo=
t;
To her amazement he clenched both his sava=
ge
young fists and shook them before him.
"It'll kill me!" he raged.
She could not hold herself back. She caugh=
t at
him with her arms and meant to drag him to her breast. "No! No!
Donal!" she cried. "Darling! No--No!" But, as suddenly as th=
e queer
unchildish thing had broken out, did he remember himself and boy shame at h=
is fantastic
emotion overtook him. He had never spoken like that to anyone before! It was
almost as bad as bursting out crying! The red tide ebbed away and he withdr=
ew
himself awkwardly from her embrace. He said not another word and sat down in
his corner with his back turned toward the world.
*
That the Lady Downstairs, who was so fond =
of
laughing and who knew so many persons who seemed to laugh nearly all the ti=
me,
might have been joking about being her mother presented itself to Robin as a
vague solution of the problem. The Lady had laughed when she said it, as pe=
ople
so often laughed at children. Perhaps she had only been amusing herself as
grown-up persons were apparently entitled to do. Even Donal had not seemed
wholly convinced and though his mother had said the Lady Downstairs
WAS--somehow the subject had been changed at once. Mrs. Muir had so soon be=
gun
to tell them a story. Robin was not in the least aware that she had swiftly
distracted their attention from a question, any discussion of which would h=
ave
involved explanations she could not have produced. It would have been
impossible to make it clear to any child. She herself was helpless before t=
he
situation and therefore her only refuge was to make the two think of other
things. She had so well done this that Robin had gone home later only
remembering the brightly transitory episode as she recalled others as brief=
and
bright, when she had stared at a light and lovely figure standing on the
nursery threshold and asking careless questions of Andrews, without coming =
in
and risking the freshness of her draperies by contact with London top-floor
grubbiness. The child was, in fact, too full of the reality of her happiness
with Donal and Donal's mother to be more than faintly bewildered by a sort =
of
visionary conundrum.
Robin, like Donal, slept perfectly through=
the
night. Her sleep was perhaps made more perfect by fair dreams in which she
played in the Gardens and she and Donal ran to and from the knees of the Mo=
ther
lady to ask questions and explain their games. As the child had often, in t=
he
past, looked up at the sky, so she had looked up into the clear eyes of the
Mother lady. There was something in them which she had never seen before but
which she kept wanting to see again. Then there came a queer bit of a dream
about the Lady Downstairs. She came dancing towards them dressed in hyacint=
hs and
with her arms full of daffodils. She danced before Donal's Mother--danced a=
nd
laughed as if she thought they were all funny. She threw a few daffodils at
them and then danced away. The daffodils lay on the gravel walk and they all
looked at them but no one picked them up. Afterwards--in the dream--Mrs. Mu=
ir
suddenly caught her in her arms and kissed her and Robin was glad and felt =
warm
all over--inside and out.
She wakened smiling at the dingy ceiling of
the dingy room. There was but one tiny shadow in the world, which was the f=
ear
that Andrews would get well too quickly. She was no longer in bed but was w=
ell
enough to sit up and sew a little before the tiny fire in the atom of a
servant's room grate. The doctor would not let her go out yet; therefore, A=
nne
still remained in charge. Founding one's hope on previous knowledge of Anne=
's
habits, she might be trusted to sit and read and show no untoward curiosity=
.
From her bed Robin could see the sky was b=
lue.
That meant that she would be taken out. She lay as quiet as a mouse and tho=
ught
of the joy before her, until Anne came to dress her and give her her breakf=
ast.
"We'll put on your rose-coloured smock
this morning," the girl said, when the dressing began. "I like the
hat and socks that match."
Anne was not quite like Andrews who was not
talkative. She made a conversational sort of remark after she had tied the
white shoes.
"You've got pretty little aristocratic
legs of your own," she said amiably. "I like my children to have =
nice
legs."
Robin was uplifted in spirit by the
commendation, but she hoped Anne would put on her own things quickly. Somet=
imes
she was rather a long time. The one course, however, towards which discreti=
on pointed
as entirely safe was the continuance of being as quiet as a mouse--even
quieter, if such thing might be--so that nothing might interfere with anyth=
ing
any one wanted to do. To interfere would have been to attract attention and
might lead to delay. So she stood and watched the sparrows inoffensively un=
til
Anne called her.
When she found herself out on the street h=
er
step was so light on the pavement that she was rather like a rose petal blo=
wn
fluttering along by soft vagrant puffs of spring air. Under her flopping hat
her eyes and lips and cheeks were so happy that more than one passer-by tur=
ned
head over shoulder to look after her.
"Your name ought to be Rose," An=
ne
giggled involuntarily as she glanced down at her because someone had stared.
She had not meant to speak but the words said themselves.
Because the time was young June even London
sky and air were wonderful. Stray breaths of fragrance came and went. The g=
reen
of the trees in the Gardens was light and fresh and in the bedded-out curves
and stars and circles there were more flowers every hour, so that it seemed=
as
if blooming things with scents grew thick about one's feet. It was no wonder
one felt light and smiled back at nurses and governesses who looked up. Rob=
in
drew eyes became she was like a summer bloom suddenly appearing in the Spri=
ng
Garden.
Nanny was not sitting on the bench near the
gate and Donal was not to be seen amusing himself. But he was somewhere just
out of sight, or, if he had chanced to be late, he would come very soon eve=
n if
his Mother could not come with him--though Robin could not believe she would
not. To a child thing both happiness and despair cannot be conceived of exc=
ept
as lasting forever.
Anne sat down and opened her book. She had
reached an exciting part and looked forward to a thoroughly enjoyable morni=
ng.
Robin hopped about for a few minutes. Donal
had taught her to hop and she felt it an accomplishment. Entangled in the
meshes of the feathery, golden, if criminal, ringlets of Lady Audley, Anne =
did not
know when she hopped round the curve of the walk behind the lilac and snowb=
all
bushes.
Once safe in her bit of enchanted land, the
child stood still and looked about her. There was no kilted figure to be se=
en,
but it would come towards her soon with swinging plaid and eagle's feather =
standing
up grandly in its Highland bonnet. He would come soon. Perhaps he would come
running--and the Mother lady would walk behind more slowly and smile. Robin
waited and looked--she waited and looked.
She was used to waiting but she had never
watched for anyone before. There had never been any one or anything to watch
for. The newness of the suspense gave it a sort of deep thrill at first. Ho=
w long
was "at first"? She did not know. She stood--and stood--and stood=
--and
looked at every creature who entered the gate. She did not see any one who
looked in the least like Donal or his Mother or Nanny. There were nurses and
governesses and children and a loitering lady or two. There were never many
people in the Gardens--only those who had keys. She knew nothing about time=
but
at length she knew that on other mornings they had been playing together be=
fore
this.
The small rose-coloured figure stood so st=
ill
for so long that it began to look rigid and a nurse sitting at some distance
said to another,
"What is that child waiting for?"=
;
What length of time had passed before she
found herself looking slowly down at her feet because of something. The
"something" which had drawn her eyes downward was that she had st=
ood
so long without moving that her tense feet had begun vaguely to hurt her and
the ache attracted her attention. She changed her position slightly and tur=
ned
her eyes upon the gate again. He was coming very soon. He would be sure to =
run
fast now and he would be laughing. Donal! Donal! She even laughed a little =
low,
quivering laugh herself.
"What is that child waiting for? I sh=
ould
really like to know," the distant nurse said again curiously.
If she had been eighteen years old she wou=
ld
have said to herself that she was waiting hours and hours. She would have
looked at a little watch a thousand times; she would have walked up and dow=
n and
round and round the garden never losing sight of the gate--or any other poi=
nt
for that matter--for more than a minute. Each sound of the church clock
striking a few streets away would have brought her young heart thumping into
her throat.
But a child has no watch, no words out of
which to build hopes and fears and reasons, arguments battling against angu=
ish
which grows--palliations, excuses. Robin, could only wait in the midst of a
slow dark, rising tide of something she had no name for. This slow rising o=
f an
engulfing flood she felt when pins and needles began to take possession of =
her
feet, when her legs ached, and her eyes felt as if they had grown big and
tightly strained. Donal! Donal! Donal!
Who knows but that some echo of the terror
against which she had fought and screamed on the night when she had lain al=
one
in the dark in her cradle and Feather had hid her head under the pillow--ca=
me back
and closed slowly around and over her, filling her inarticulate being with
panic which at last reached its unbearable height? She had not really stood
waiting the entire morning, but she was young enough to think that she had =
and
that at any moment Anne might come and take her away. He had not come
running--he had not come laughing--he had not come with his plaid swinging =
and
his feather standing high! There came a moment when her strained eyes no lo=
nger
seemed to see clearly! Something like a big lump crawled up into her throat!
Something of the same sort happened the day she had burst into a wail of
loneliness and Andrews had pinched her. Panic seized her; she clutched the
breast of her rose-coloured frock and panic-driven turned and fled into a t=
hick
clump of bushes where there was no path and where even Donal had never pier=
ced.
"That child has run away at last,&quo=
t;
the distant nurse remarked, "I'd like to find out what she WAS waiting
for."
The shrubs were part of the enclosing plan=
ting
of the Gardens. The children who came to play on the grass and paths felt a=
s if
they formed a sort of forest. Because of this, Robin had made her frantic d=
ash
to their shelter. No one would come--no one would see her--no one would hear
her, beneath them it was almost dark. Bereft, broken and betrayed, a little=
mad
thing, she pushed her way into their shadow and threw herself face downward=
, a
small, writhing, rose-coloured heap, upon the damp mould. She could not have
explained what she was doing or why she had given up all, as if some tidal =
wave
had overwhelmed her. Suddenly she knew that all her new world had gone--for=
ever
and ever. As it had come so it had gone. As she had not doubted the permane=
nce
of its joy, so she KNEW that the end had come. Only the wisdom of the occul=
t would
dare to suggest that from her child mate, squaring his sturdy young shoulde=
rs
against the world as the flying train sped on its way, some wave of despera=
te,
inchoate thinking rushed backward. There was nothing more. He would not come
back running. He was GONE!
There was no Andrews to hear. Hidden in the
shadow under the shrubs, the rattle and roar of the street outside the rail=
ing
drowned her mad little cries. All she had never done before, she did then. =
Her hands
beat on the damp mould and tore at it--her small feet beat it and dug into =
it.
She cried, she sobbed; the big lump in her throat almost strangled her--she
writhed and did not know she was writhing. Her tears pouring forth wet her
hair, her face, her dress. She did not cry out, "Donal! Donal!"
because he was nowhere--nowhere. If Andrews had seen her she would have said
she was "in a tantrum," But she was not. The world had been torn
away.
A long time afterwards, as it seemed to he=
r,
she crawled out from under the shrubs, carrying her pretty flopping hat in =
her
earth-stained hand. It was not pretty any more. She had been lying on it an=
d it
was crushed and flat. She crept slowly round the curve to Anne.
Seeing her, Anne sprang to her feet. The r=
ose
was a piteous thing beaten to earth by a storm. The child's face was swollen
and stained, her hair was tangled and damp there were dark marks of mould o=
n her
dress, her hat, her hands, her white cheeks; her white shoes were earth-sta=
ined
also, and the feet in the rose-coloured socks dragged themselves
heavily--slowly.
"My gracious!" the young woman
almost shrieked. "What's happened! Where have you been? Did you fall d=
own?
Ah, my good gracious! Mercy me!"
Robin caught her breath but did not say a
word.
"You fell down on a flower bed where
they'd been watering the plants!" almost wept Anne. "You must hav=
e.
There isn't that much dirt anywhere else in the Gardens."
And when she took her charge home that was=
the
story she told Andrews. Out of Robin she could get nothing, and it was
necessary to have an explanation.
The truth, of which she knew nothing, was =
but
the story of a child's awful dismay and a child's woe at one of Life's first
betrayals. It would be left behind by the days which came and went--it woul=
d pass--as
all things pass but the everlasting hills--but in this way it was that it c=
ame
and wrote itself upon the tablets of a child's day.
"The child's always been well,
ma'am," Andrews was standing, the image of exact correctness, in her
mistress' bedroom, while Feather lay in bed with her breakfast on a conveni=
ent
and decorative little table. "It's been a thing I've prided myself on.=
But
I should say she isn't well now."
"Well, I suppose it's only natural th=
at
she should begin sometime," remarked Feather. "They always do, of
course. I remember we all had things when we were children. What does the
doctor say? I hope it isn't the measles, or the beginning of anything
worse?"
"No, ma'am, it isn't. It's nothing li=
ke a
child's disease. I could have managed that. There's good private nursing ho=
mes
for them in these days. Everything taken care of exactly as it should be an=
d no
trouble of disinfecting and isolating for the family. I know what you'd have
wished to have done, ma'am."
"You do know your business,
Andrews," was Feather's amiable comment.
"Thank you, ma'am," from Andrews.
"Infectious things are easy managed if they're taken away quick. But t=
he
doctor said you must be spoken to because perhaps a change was needed."=
;
"You could take her to Ramsgate or
somewhere bracing." said Feather. "But what did he SAY?"
"He seemed puzzled, ma'am. That's what
struck me. When I told him about her not eating--and lying awake crying all
night--to judge from her looks in the morning--and getting thin and pale--he
examined her very careful and he looked queer and he said, 'This child hasn=
't had
a SHOCK of any kind, has she? This looks like what we should call shock--if=
she
were older'."
Feather laughed.
"How could a baby like that have a
shock?"
"That's what I thought myself,
ma'am," answered Andrews. "A child that's had her hours regular a=
nd
is fed and bathed and sleeps by the clock, and goes out and plays by hersel=
f in
the Gardens, well watched over, hasn't any chance to get shocks. I told him=
so
and he sat still and watched her quite curious, and then he said very slow:
'Sometimes little children are a good deal shaken up by a fall when they are
playing. Do you remember any chance fall when she cried a good deal?'"=
"But you didn't, of course," said
Feather.
"No, ma'am, I didn't. I keep my eye on
her pretty strict and shouldn't encourage wild running or playing. I don't =
let
her play with other children. And she's not one of those stumbling, falling=
children.
I told him the only fall I ever knew of her having was a bit of a slip on a
soft flower bed that had just been watered--to judge from the state her clo=
thes
were in. She had cried because she's not used to such things, and I think s=
he
was frightened. But there wasn't a scratch or a shadow of a bruise on her. =
Even
that wouldn't have happened if I'd been with her. It was when I was ill and=
my
sister Anne took my place. Ann thought at first that she'd been playing wit=
h a
little boy she had made friends with--but she found out that the boy hadn't
come that morning--"
"A boy!" Andrews was sharp enoug=
h to
detect a new and interested note. "What boy?"
"She wouldn't have played with any ot=
her
child if I'd been there" said Andrews, "I was pretty sharp with A=
nne
about it. But she said he was an aristocratic looking little fellow--"=
"Was he in Highland costume?"
Feather interrupted.
"Yes, ma'am. Anne excused herself by
saying she thought you must know something about him. She declares she saw =
you
come into the Gardens and speak to his Mother quite friendly. That was the =
day before
Robin fell and ruined her rose-coloured smock and things. But it wasn't thr=
ough
playing boisterous with the boy--because he didn't come that morning, as I
said, and he never has since."
Andrews, on this, found cause for being
momentarily puzzled by the change of expression in her mistress' face. Was =
it
an odd little gleam of angry spite she saw?
"And never has since, has he?" M=
rs.
Gareth-Lawless said with a half laugh.
"Not once, ma'am," answered Andr=
ews.
"And Anne thinks it queer the child never seemed to look for him. As if
she'd lost interest. She just droops and drags about and doesn't try to pla=
y at
all."
"How much did she play with him?"=
;
"Well, he was such a fine little fell=
ow
and had such a respectable, elderly, Scotch looking woman in charge of him =
that
Anne owned up that she hadn't thought there was any objections to them play=
ing together.
She says they were as well behaved and quiet as children could be."
Andrews thought proper to further justify herself by repeating, "She
didn't think there could be any objection."
"There couldn't," Mrs.
Gareth-Lawless remarked. "I do know the boy. He is a relation of Lord
Coombe's."
"Indeed, ma'am," with colourless
civility, "Anne said he was a big handsome child."
Feather took a small bunch of hothouse gra=
pes
from her breakfast tray and, after picking one off, suddenly began to laugh=
.
"Good gracious, Andrews!" she sa=
id.
"He was the 'shock'! How perfectly ridiculous! Robin had never played =
with
a boy before and she fell in love with him. The little thing's actually pin=
ing away
for him." She dropped the grapes and gave herself up to delicate mirth.
"He was taken away and disappeared. Perhaps she fainted and fell into =
the
wet flower bed and spoiled her frock, when she first realized that he wasn't
coming."
"It did happen that morning,"
admitted Andrews, smiling a little also. "It does seem funny. But chil=
dren
take to each other in a queer way now and then. I've seen it upset them
dreadful when they were parted."
"You must tell the doctor," laug=
hed
Feather. "Then he'll see there's nothing to be anxious about. She'll g=
et
over it in a week."
"It's five weeks since it happened,
ma'am," remarked Andrews, with just a touch of seriousness.
"Five! Why, so it must be! I remember=
the
day I spoke to Mrs. Muir. If she's that sort of child you had better keep h=
er
away from boys. HOW ridiculous! How Lord Coombe--how people will laugh when=
I
tell them!"
She had paused a second because--for that
second--she was not quite sure that Coombe WOULD laugh. Frequently she was =
of
the opinion that he did not laugh at things when he should have done so. Bu=
t she
had had a brief furious moment when she had realized that the boy had actua=
lly
been whisked away. She remembered the clearness of the fine eyes which had
looked directly into hers. The woman had been deciding then that she would =
have
nothing to do with her--or even with her child.
But the story of Robin worn by a bereft
nursery passion for a little boy, whose mamma snatched him away as a brand =
from
the burning, was far too edifying not to be related to those who would find=
it delicious.
It was on the occasion, a night or so late=
r,
of a gathering at dinner of exactly the few elect ones, whose power to find=
it delicious
was the most highly developed, that she related it. It was a very little
dinner--only four people. One was the long thin young man, with the good
looking narrow face and dark eyes peering through a pince nez--the one who =
had
said that Mrs. Gareth-Lawless "got her wondrous clothes from Helene&qu=
ot;
but that he couldn't. His name was Harrowby. Another was the Starling who w=
as a
Miss March who had, some years earlier, led the van of the girls who prostr=
ated
their relatives by becoming what was then called "emancipated"; t=
he sign
thereof being the demanding of latchkeys and the setting up of bachelor
apartments. The relatives had astonishingly settled down, with the unmoved
passage of time, and more modern emancipation had so far left latchkeys and
bachelor apartments behind it that they began to seem almost old-fogeyish.
Clara March, however, had progressed with her day. The third diner was an
adored young actor with a low, veiled voice which, combining itself with al=
mond
eyes and a sentimental and emotional curve of cheek and chin, made the most
commonplace "lines" sound yearningly impassioned. He was not
impassioned at all--merely fond of his pleasures and comforts in a way which
would end by his becoming stout. At present his figure was perfect--exactly=
the
thing for the uniforms of royal persons of Ruritania and places of that
ilk--and the name by which programmes presented him was Gerald Vesey.
Feather's house pleased him and she herself
liked being spoken to in the veiled voice and gazed at by the almond eyes, =
as
though insuperable obstacles alone prevented soul-stirring things from being
said. That she knew this was not true did not interfere with her liking it.
Besides he adored and understood her clothes.
Over coffee in the drawing-room, Coombe jo=
ined
them. He had not known of the little dinner and arrived just as Feather was=
on
the point of beginning her story.
"You are just in time," she gree=
ted
him, "I was going to tell them something to make them laugh."
"Will it make me laugh?" he
inquired.
"It ought to. Robin is in love. She is
five years old and she has been deserted, and Andrews came to tell me that =
she
can neither eat nor sleep. The doctor says she has had a shock."
Coombe did not join in the ripple of amused
laughter but, as he took his cup of coffee, he looked interested.
Harrowby was interested too. His dark eyes
quite gleamed.
"I suppose she is in bed by now,"=
; he
said. "If it were not so late, I should beg you to have her brought do=
wn so
that we might have a look at her. I'm by way of taking a psychological
interest."
"I'm psychological myself," said=
the
Starling. "But what do you mean, Feather? Are you in earnest?"
"Andrews is," Feather answered.
"She could manage measles but she could not be responsible for shock. =
But
she didn't find out about the love affair. I found that out--by mere chance=
. Do
you remember the day we got out of the victoria and went into the Gardens, =
Starling?"
"The time you spoke to Mrs. Muir?&quo=
t;
Coombe turned slightly towards them.
Feather nodded, with a lightly significant
air.
"It was her boy," she said, and =
then
she laughed and nodded at Coombe.
"He was quite as handsome as you said=
he
was. No wonder poor Robin fell prostrate. He ought to be chained and muzzle=
d by
law when he grows up."
"But so ought Robin," threw in t=
he
Starling in her brusque, young mannish way.
"But Robin's only a girl and she's no=
t a
parti," laughed Feather. Her eyes, lifted to Coombe's, held a sort of
childlike malice. "After his mother knew she was Miss Gareth-Lawless, =
he
was not allowed to play in the Gardens again. Did she take him back to Scot=
land?"
"They went back to Scotland,"
answered Coombe, "and, of course, the boy was not left behind."
"Have YOU a child five years old?&quo=
t;
asked Vesey in his low voice of Feather. "You?"
"It seems absurd to ME," said
Feather, "I never quite believe in her."
"I don't," said Vesey. "She=
's
impossible."
"Robin is a stimulating name," p=
ut
in Harrowby. "IS it too late to let us see her? If she's such a beauty=
as
Starling hints, she ought to be looked at."
Feather actually touched the bell by the
fireplace. A sudden caprice moved her. The love story had not gone off quit=
e as
well as she had thought it would. And, after all, the child was pretty enou=
gh
to show off. She knew nothing in particular about her daughter's hours, but=
, if
she was asleep, she could be wakened.
"Tell Andrews," she said to the
footman when he appeared, "I wish Miss Robin to be brought
downstairs."
"They usually go to bed at seven, I
believe," remarked Coombe, "but, of course, I am not an
authority."
Robin was not asleep though she had long b=
een
in bed. Because she kept her eyes shut Andrews had been deceived into carry=
ing
on a conversation with her sister Anne, who had come to see her. Robin had =
been
lying listening to it. She had begun to listen because they had been talking
about the day she had spoiled her rose-coloured smock and they had ended by
being very frank about other things.
"As sure as you saw her speak to the =
boy's
mother the day before, just so sure she whisked him back to Scotland the ne=
xt
morning," said Andrews. "She's one of the kind that's particular.
Lord Coombe's the reason. She does not want her boy to see or speak to him,=
if
it can be helped. She won't have it--and when she found out--"
"Is Lord Coombe as bad as they say?&q=
uot;
put in Anne with bated breath. "He must be pretty bad if a boy that's
eight years old has to be kept out of sight and sound of him."
So it was Lord Coombe who had somehow done=
it.
He had made Donal's mother take him away. It was Lord Coombe. Who was Lord
Coombe? It was because he was wicked that Donal's mother would not let him =
play
with her--because he was wicked. All at once there came to her a memory of
having heard his name before. She had heard it several times in the basement
Servants' Hall and, though she had not understood what was said about him, =
she
had felt the atmosphere of cynical disapproval of something. They had said
"him" and "her" as if he somehow belonged to the house.=
On
one occasion he had been "high" in the manner of some reproof to
Jennings, who, being enraged, freely expressed his opinions of his lordship=
's
character and general reputation. The impression made on Robin then had bee=
n that
he was a person to be condemned severely. That the condemnation was the mere
outcome of the temper of an impudent young footman had not conveyed itself =
to
her, and it was the impression which came back to her now with a new
significance. He was the cause--not Donal, not Donal's Mother--but this man=
who
was so bad that servants were angry because he was somehow connected with t=
he
house.
"As to his badness," she heard
Andrews answer, "there's some that can't say enough against him. Badne=
ss
is smart these days. He's bad enough for the boy's mother to take him away
from. It's what he is in this house that does it. She won't have her boy
playing with a child like Robin."
Then--even as there flashed upon her
bewilderment this strange revelation of her own unfitness for association w=
ith
boys whose mothers took care of them--Jennings, the young footman, came to =
the
door.
"Is she awake, Miss Andrews?" he
said, looking greatly edified by Andrews' astonished countenance.
"What on earth--?" began Andrews=
.
"If she is," Jennings winked
humorously, "she's to be dressed up and taken down to the drawing-room=
to
be shown off. I don't know whether it's Coombe's idea or not. He's there.&q=
uot;
Robin's eyes flew wide open. She forgot to
keep them shut. She was to go downstairs! Who wanted her--who?
Andrews had quite gasped.
"Here's a new break out!" she
exclaimed. "I never heard such a thing in my life. She's been in bed o=
ver
two hours. I'd like to know--"
She paused here because her glance at the =
bed
met the dark liquidity of eyes wide open. She got up and walked across the
room.
"You are awake!" she said. "=
;You
look as if you hadn't been asleep at all. You're to get up and have your fr=
ock
put on. The Lady Downstairs wants you in the drawing-room."
Two months earlier such a piece of informa=
tion
would have awakened in the child a delirium of delight. But now her vitality
was lowered because her previously unawakened little soul had soared so hig=
h and
been so dashed down to cruel earth again. The brilliancy of the Lady Downst=
airs
had been dimmed as a candle is dimmed by the light of the sun.
She felt only a vague wonder as she did as
Andrews told her--wonder at the strangeness of getting up to be dressed, as=
it
seemed to her, in the middle of the night.
"It's just the kind of thing that wou=
ld
happen in a house like this," grumbled Andrews, as she put on her froc=
k.
"Just anything that comes into their heads they think they've a right =
to
do. I suppose they have, too. If you're rich and aristocratic enough to have
your own way, why not take it? I would myself."
The big silk curls, all in a heap, fell al=
most
to the child's hips. The frock Andrews chose for her was a fairy thing.
"She IS a bit thin, to be sure,"
said the girl Anne. "But it points her little face and makes her eyes =
look
bigger."
"If her mother's got a Marquis, I won=
der
what she'll get," said Andrews. "She's got a lot before her: this
one!"
When the child entered the drawing-room,
Andrews made her go in alone, while she held herself, properly, a few paces
back like a lady in waiting. The room was brilliantly lighted and seemed fu=
ll of
colour and people who were laughing. There were pretty things crowding each
other everywhere, and there were flowers on all sides. The Lady Downstairs,=
in
a sheathlike sparkling dress, and only a glittering strap seeming to hold i=
t on
over her fair undressed shoulders, was talking to a tall thin man standing
before the fireplace with a gold cup of coffee in his hand.
As the little thing strayed in, with her rather rigid attendant behind her, suddenly the laughing ceased and everybo= dy involuntarily drew a half startled breath--everybody but the tall thin man,= who quietly turned and set his coffee cup down on the mantel piece behind him.<= o:p>
"Is THIS what you have been keeping up
your sleeve!" said Harrowby, settling his pince nez.
"I told you!" said the Starling.=
"You couldn't tell us," Vesey's
veiled voice dropped in softly. "It must be seen to be believed. But
still--" aside to Feather, "I don't believe it."
"Enter, my only child!" said
Feather. "Come here, Robin. Come to your mother."
Now was the time! Robin went to her and to=
ok
hold of a very small piece of her sparkling dress.
"ARE you my Mother?" she said. A=
nd
then everybody burst into a peal of laughter, Feather with the rest.
"She calls me the Lady Downstairs,&qu=
ot;
she said. "I really believe she doesn't know. She's rather a stupid li=
ttle
thing."
"Amazing lack of filial affection,&qu=
ot;
said Lord Coombe.
He was not laughing like the rest and he w=
as
looking down at Robin. She thought him ugly and wicked looking. Vesey and
Harrowby were beautiful by contrast. Before she knew who he was, she dislik=
ed him.
She looked at him askance under her eyelashes, and he saw her do it before =
her
mother spoke his name, taking her by the tips of her fingers and leading he=
r to
him.
"Come and let Lord Coombe look at
you," she said. So it revealed itself to her that it was he--this ugly
one--who had done it, and hatred surged up in her soul. It was actually in =
the
eyes she raised to his face, and Coombe saw it as he had seen the sidelong =
glance
and he wondered what it meant.
"Shake hands with Lord Coombe,"
Feather instructed.
"If you can make a curtsey, make
one." She turned her head over her shoulders, "Have you taught he=
r to
curtsey, Andrews?"
But Andrews had not and secretly lost temp=
er
at finding herself made to figure as a nurse who had been capable of omissi=
on.
Outwardly she preserved rigid calm.
"I'm afraid not, ma'am. I will at onc=
e,
if you wish it."
Coombe was watching the inner abhorrence in
the little face. Robin had put her hand behind her back--she who had never
disobeyed since she was born! She had crossed a line of development when she
had seen glimpses of the new world through Donal's eyes.
"What are you doing, you silly little
thing," Feather reproved her. "Shake hands with Lord Coombe."=
;
Robin shook her head fiercely.
"No! No! No! No!" she protested.=
Feather was disgusted. This was not the ki=
nd
of child to display.
"Rude little thing! Andrews, come and
make her do it--or take her upstairs," she said.
Coombe took his gold coffee cup from the
mantel.
"She regards me with marked antipathy=
, as
she did when she first saw me," he summed the matter up. "Children
and animals don't hate one without reason. It is some remote iniquity in my
character which the rest of us have not yet detected." To Robin he sai=
d, "I
do not want to shake hands with you if you object. I prefer to drink my cof=
fee
out of this beautiful cup."
But Andrews was seething. Having no consci=
ence
whatever, she had instead the pride of a female devil in her perfection in =
her professional
duties. That the child she was responsible for should stamp her with
ignominious fourth-ratedness by conducting herself with as small grace as an
infant costermonger was more than her special order of flesh and blood coul=
d bear-and
yet she must outwardly control the flesh and blood.
In obedience to her mistress' command, she
crossed the room and bent down and whispered to Robin. She intended that her
countenance should remain non-committal, but, when she lifted her head, she=
met
Coombe's eyes and realized that perhaps it had not. She added to her whisper
nursery instructions in a voice of sugar.
"Be pretty mannered, Miss Robin, my d=
ear,
and shake hands with his lordship."
Each person in the little drawing-room saw=
the
queer flame in the child-face--Coombe himself was fantastically struck by t=
he
sudden thought that its expression might have been that of an obstinate you=
ng
martyr staring at the stake. Robin shrilled out her words:
"Andrews will pinch me--Andrews will
pinch me! But--No!--No!" and she kept her hand behind her back.
"Oh, Miss Robin, you naughty child!&q=
uot;
cried Andrews, with pathos. "Your poor Andrews that takes such care of
you!"
"Horrid little thing!" Feather
pettishly exclaimed. "Take her upstairs, Andrews. She shall not come d=
own
again."
Harrowby, settling his pince nez a little
excitedly in the spurred novelty of his interest, murmured,
"If she doesn't want to go, she will
begin to shriek. This looks as if she were a little termagant."
But she did not shriek when Andrews led her
towards the door. The ugly one with the wicked face was the one who had done
it. He filled her with horror. To have touched him would have been like tou=
ching
some wild beast of prey. That was all. She went with Andrews quite quietly.=
"Will you shake hands with me?" =
said
the Starling, goodnaturedly, as she passed, "I hope she won't snub
me," she dropped aside to Harrowby.
Robin put out her hand prettily.
"Shake mine," suggested Harrowby,
and she obeyed him.
"And mine?" smiled Vesey, with h=
is
best allure. She gave him her hand, and, as a result of the allure probably=
, a
tiny smile flickered about the corners of her mouth. He did not look wicked=
.
"I remain an outcast," remarked
Coombe, as the door closed behind the little figure.
"I detest an ill-mannered child,"
said Feather. "She ought to be slapped. We used to be slapped if we we=
re
rude."
"She said Andrews would pinch her. Is
pinching the customary discipline?"
"It ought to be. She deserves it.&quo=
t;
Feather was quite out of temper. "But Andrews is too good to her. She =
is a
perfect creature and conducts herself like a clock. There has never been the
slightest trouble in the Nursery. You see how the child looks--though her f=
ace
ISN'T quite as round as it was." She laughed disagreeably and shrugged=
her
white undressed shoulders. "I think it's a little horrid, myself--a ch=
ild
of that age fretting herself thin about a boy."
But though she had made no protest on being
taken out of the drawing-room, Robin had known that what Andrews' soft-soun=
ding
whisper had promised would take place when she reached the Nursery. She was=
too
young to feel more than terror which had no defense whatever. She had no mo=
re
defense against Andrews than she had had against the man who had robbed her=
of
Donal. They were both big and powerful, and she was nothing. But, out of the
wonders she had begun to know, there had risen in her before almost inert l=
ittle
being a certain stirring. For a brief period she had learned happiness and =
love
and woe, and, this evening, inchoate rebellion against an enemy. Andrews le=
d by
the hand up the narrow, top-story staircase something she had never led bef=
ore.
She was quite unaware of this and, as she mounted each step, her temper mou=
nted
also, and it was the temper of an incensed personal vanity abnormally stron=
g in
this particular woman. When they were inside the Nursery and the door was s=
hut,
she led Robin to the middle of the small and gloomy room and released her h=
and.
"Now, my lady," she said. "=
I'm
going to pay you out for disgracing me before everybody in the
drawing-room." She had taken the child below stairs for a few minutes
before bringing her up for the night. She had stopped in the kitchen for
something she wanted for herself. She laid her belongings on a chest of dra=
wers
and turned about.
"I'm going to teach you a lesson you
won't forget," she said.
What happened next turned the woman quite =
sick
with the shock of amazement. The child had, in the past, been a soft puppet.
She had been automatic obedience and gentleness. Privately Andrews had some=
what
looked down on her lack of spirit, though it had been her own best asset. T=
he
outbreak downstairs had been an abnormality.
And now she stood before her with hands
clenched, her little face wild with defiant rage.
"I'll scream! I'll scream! I'll
SCREAM!" she shrieked. Andrews actually heard herself gulp; but she sp=
rang
up and forward.
"You'll SCREAM!" she could scarc=
ely
believe her own feelings--not to mention the evidence of her ears, "YO=
U'LL
scream!"
The next instant was more astonishing stil=
l.
Robin threw herself on her knees and scrambled like a cat. She was under the
bed and in the remotest corner against the wall. She was actually unreachab=
le, and
she lay on her back kicking madly, hammering her heels against the floor and
uttering piercing shrieks. As something had seemed to let itself go when she
writhed under the bushes in the Gardens, so did something let go now. In her
overstrung little mind there ruled for this moment the feeling that if she =
was
to be pinched, she would be pinched for a reason.
Andrews knelt by the side of the bed. She =
had
a long, strong, thin arm and it darted beneath and clutched. But it was not
long enough to attain the corner where the kicking and screaming was going =
on.
Her temper became fury before her impotence and her hideous realization of
being made ridiculous by this baby of six. Two floors below the afterglow of
the little dinner was going on. Suppose even far echoes of the screams shou=
ld
be heard and make her more ridiculous still. She knew how they would laugh =
and
her mistress would make some silly joke about Robin's being too much for he=
r.
Her fury rose so high that she had barely sense to realize that she must not
let herself go too far when she got hold of the child. Get hold of her she
would and pay her out--My word! She would pay her out!
"You little devil!" she said bet=
ween
her teeth, "Wait till I get hold of you." And Robin shrieked and
hammered more insanely still.
The bed was rather a low one and it was
difficult for any one larger than a child to find room beneath it. The corr=
ect
and naturally rigid Andrews lay flat upon her stomach and wriggled herself
partly under the edge. Just far enough for her long and strong arm, and equ=
ally
long and strong clutching fingers to do their work. In her present state of
mind, Andrews would have broken her back rather than not have reached the
creature who so defied her. The strong fingers clenched a flying petticoat =
and
dragged at it fiercely--the next moment they clutched a frantic foot, with a
power which could not be broken away from. A jerk and a remorseless dragging
over the carpet and Robin was out of the protecting darkness and in the gas
light again, lying tumbled and in an untidy, torn little heap on the nursery
floor. Andrews was panting, but she did not loose her hold as she scrambled,
without a rag of professional dignity, to her feet.
"My word!" she breathlessly gave
forth. "I've got you now! I've got you now."
She so looked that to Robin she seemed--li=
ke
the ugly man downstairs--a sort of wicked wild beast, whose mere touch woul=
d have
been horror even if it did not hurt. And the child knew what was coming. She
felt herself dragged up from the floor and also dragged between Andrew's kn=
ees,
which felt bony and hard as iron. There was no getting away from them. Andr=
ews
had seated herself firmly on a chair.
Holding her between the iron knees, she put
her large hand over her mouth. It was a hand large enough to cover more than
her mouth. Only the panic-stricken eyes seemed to flare wide and lustrous a=
bove
it.
"YOU'LL scream!" she said,
"YOU'LL hammer on the floor with your heels! YOU'LL behave like a
wildcat--you that's been like a kitten! You've never done it before and you=
'll
never do it again! If it takes me three days, I'll make you remember!"=
And then her hand dropped--and her jaw
dropped, and she sat staring with a furious, sick, white face at the open
door--which she had shut as she came in. The top floor had always been so s=
afe.
The Nursery had been her own autocratic domain. There had been no human
creature to whom it would have occurred to interfere. That was it. She had =
been
actually SAFE.
Unheard in the midst of the struggle, the =
door
had been opened without a knock. There on the threshold, as stiff as a ramr=
od, and
with his hateful eyes uncovering their gleam, Lord Coombe was standing--no
other than Lord Coombe.
Having a sharp working knowledge of her wo=
rld,
Andrews knew that it was all up. He had come upstairs deliberately. She knew
what he had come for. He was as clever as he was bad, and he had seen somet=
hing
when he glanced at her in the drawing-room. Now he had heard and seen her as
she dragged Robin from under the bed. He'd come up for that--for some queer
evil reason of his own. The promptings of a remote gutter training made her
feel a desire to use language such as she still had wisdom enough to restra=
in.
"You are a very great fool, young
woman," he said. "You have nothing but your character as a nurse =
to
live on. A scene in a police court would ruin you. There is a Society which
interferes with nursery torture."
Robin, freed from the iron grasp, had slunk
behind a chair. He was there again.
Andrews' body, automatically responsive to
rule and habit, rose from its seat and stood before this member of a class
which required an upright position. She knew better than to attempt to excu=
se
or explain. She had heard about the Society and she knew publicity would sp=
ell
ruin and starvation. She had got herself into an appalling mess. Being
caught--there you were. But that this evil-reputationed swell should actual=
ly
have been awakened by some whim to notice and follow her up was "past
her," as she would have put it.
"You were going to pinch her--by
instalments, I suppose," he said. "You inferred that it might last
three days. When she said you would--in the drawing-room--it occurred to me=
to
look into it. What are your wages?"
"Thirty pounds a year, my lord."=
"Go tomorrow morning to Benby, who
engaged you for Mrs. Gareth-Lawless. He will be at his office by nine and w=
ill
pay you what is owed to you--and a month's wages in lieu of notice."
"The mistress--" began Andrews.<= o:p>
"I have spoken to Mrs.
Gareth-Lawless." It was a lie, serenely told. Feather was doing a new
skirt dance in the drawing-room. "She is engaged. Pack your box. Jenni=
ngs
will call a cab."
It was the utter idiotic hopelessness of
saying anything to him which finished her. You might as well talk to a front
door or a street lamp. Any silly thing you might try wouldn't even reach his
ears. He had no ears for you. You didn't matter enough.
"Shall I leave her here--as she is?&q=
uot;
she said, denoting Robin.
"Undress her and put her to bed before
you pack your box," absolutely certain, fine cold modulations in the
voice, which stood for his special plane of breeding, had their effect on h=
er
grovelling though raging soul. He was so exactly what he was and what she w=
as
not and could never attain. "I will stay here while you do it. Then
go."
No vocabulary of the Servants' Hall could =
have
encompassed the fine phrase grand seigneur, but, when Mrs. Blayne and the r=
est
talked of him in their least resentful and more amiable moods, they unconsc=
iously
made efforts to express the quality in him which these two words convey. He=
had
ways of his own. Men that paid a pretty woman's bills and kept her going in
luxury, Jennings and Mrs. Blayne and the others knew something about. They
sometimes began well enough but, as time went on, they forgot themselves and
got into the way of being familiar and showing they realized that they paid=
for
things and had their rights. Most of them began to be almost like
husbands--speak slighting and sharp and be a bit stiff about accounts--even
before servants. They ran in and out or--after a while--began to stay away =
and
not show up for weeks. "He" was different--so different that it w=
as
queer. Queer it certainly was that he really came to the place very seldom.
Wherever they met, it didn't noticeably often happen in the slice of a hous=
e. He
came as if he were a visitor. He took no liberties. Everything was
punctiliously referred to Mrs. Gareth-Lawless. Mr. Benby, who did everythin=
g,
conducted himself outwardly as if he were a sort of man of business in Mrs.
Gareth-Lawless' employ. It was open to the lenient to believe that she depe=
nded
on some mysterious private income. There were people who preferred to try to
believe this, but there were those who, in some occult way, knew exactly wh=
ere her
income came from. There were, in fact, hypercritical persons who did not kn=
ow
or notice her, but she had quite an entertaining, smart circle which neither
suspicions nor beliefs prevented from placing her in their visiting lists.
Coombe DID keep it up in the most perfect manner, some of them said admirin=
gly
among themselves. He showed extraordinarily perfect taste. Many fashionable
open secrets, accepted by a brilliant world, were not half so fastidiously =
managed.
Andrews knew he had unswervingly lied when he said he had "spoken to M=
rs.
Gareth-Lawless." But he never failed to place her in the position of
authority. That he should have presented himself on the nursery floor was
amazingly abnormal enough to mean some state of mind unregulated by all nat=
ural
rules. "Him," Andrews thought, "that never steps out of a
visitor's place in the drawing-room turning up on the third floor without a
word!" One thing she knew, and that came first. Behind all the polite =
show
he was the head of everything. And he was one that you'd better not give ba=
ck a
sound to if you knew what was good for yourself. Whatever people said again=
st
his character, he was one of the grand and high ones. A word from him--ever=
so
quiet--and you'd be done for.
She was shaking with fear inwardly, but she
undressed Robin and put her in bed, laying everything away and making things
tidy for the night.
"This is the Night Nursery, I
suppose," Coombe had said when she began. He put up his glasses and lo=
oked
the uninviting little room over. He scrutinized it and she wondered what his
opinion of it might be.
"Yes, my lord. The Day Nursery is thr=
ough
that door." He walked through the door in question and she could see t=
hat
he moved slowly about it, examining the few pieces of furniture curiously,
still with his glass in his eye. She had finished undressing Robin and had =
put
her in her bed before he came back into the sleeping apartment. By that tim=
e,
exhausted by the unknown tempest she had passed through, the child had drop=
ped
asleep in spite of herself. She was too tired to remember that her enemy wa=
s in
the next room.
"I have seen the child with you sever=
al
times when you have not been aware of it," Coombe said to her before he
went downstairs. "She has evidently been well taken care of as far as =
her
body is concerned. If you were not venomous--if you had merely struck her, =
when
you lost your temper, you might have had another trial. I know nothing about
children, but I know something about the devil, and if ever the devil was i=
n a
woman's face and voice the devil was in yours when you dragged the little
creature from under the bed. If you had dared, you would have killed her. L=
ook
after that temper, young woman. Benby shall keep an eye on you if you take
another place as nurse, and I shall know where you are."
"My lord!" Andrews gasped. "=
;You
wouldn't overlook a woman and take her living from her and send her to
starvation!"
"I would take her living from her and
send her to starvation without a shadow of compunction," was the reply
made in the fine gentleman's cultivated voice, "--if she were capable =
of
what you were capable of tonight. You are, I judge, about forty, and, thoug=
h you
are lean, you are a powerful woman; the child is, I believe, barely six.&qu=
ot;
And then, looking down at her through his glass, he added--to her quite
shuddering astonishment--in a tone whose very softness made it really awful=
to
her, "Damn you! Damn you!"
"I'll--I swear I'll never let myself =
go
again, my lord!" the woman broke out devoutly.
"I don't think you will. It would cost
you too much," he said.
Then he went down the steep, crooked little
staircase quite soundlessly and Andrews, rather white and breathless, went =
and packed
her trunk. Robin--tired baby as she was--slept warm and deeply.
It was no custom of his to outstay other
people; in fact, he usually went away comparatively early. Feather could no=
t imagine
what his reason could be, but she was sure there was a reason. She was often
disturbed by his reasons, and found it difficult to adjust herself to them.
How--even if one had a logically brilliant mind--could one calculate on a m=
ale
being, who seemed not exactly to belong to the race of men.
As a result of the skirt dancing, the
furniture of the empty drawing-room was a little scattered and untidy, but
Feather had found a suitable corner among cushions on a sofa, after everyon=
e had
gone leaving Coombe alone with her. She wished he would sit down, but he
preferred to stand in his still, uncomfortable way.
"I know you are going to tell me
something," she broke the silence.
"I am. When I went out of the room, I=
did
not drive round to my club as I said I found myself obliged to. I went upst=
airs
to the third floor--to the Nursery."
Feather sat quite upright.
"YOU went up to the Nursery!" If
this was the reason for his staying, what on earth had he come upon in the
region of the third floor, and how ridiculously unlike him to allow himself=
to
interfere. Could it be Andrews and Jennings? Surely Andrews was too old.--T=
his passed
across her mind in a flash.
"You called Andrews to use her author=
ity
with the child when she would not shake hands with me. The little creature,=
for
some reason of her own, evidently feels an antipathy to me. That interested=
me
and I watched her as Andrews whispered in her ear. The woman's vanity was
stung. I realized that she whispered a threat. A hint of actual ferocity sh=
owed
in her eyes in spite of herself. Robin turned pale."
"Andrews was quite right. Children mu=
st
be punished when they are rude." Feather felt this at once silly and
boring. What did he know about such matters?
"The child said, 'Andrews will pinch =
me!'
and I caught Andrews' eye and knew it was true--also that she had done it
before. I looked at the woman's long, thin, strong fingers. They were cruel
fingers. I do not take liberties, as a rule, but I took a liberty. I excuse=
d myself
and climbed three flights of stairs."
Never had Feather been so surprised in her
life. She looked like a bewildered child.
"But--what COULD it matter to YOU?&qu=
ot;
she said in soft amaze.
"I don't know," his answer came
after a moment's pause. "I have caprices of mood. Certain mental images
made my temperature rise. Momentarily it did matter. One is like that at ti=
mes.
Andrews' feline face and her muscular fingers--and the child's extraordinar=
ily exquisite
flesh--gave me a second's furious shudder."
Feather quite broke in upon him.
"Are you--are you FOND of children?&q=
uot;
"No," he was really abrupt. &quo=
t;I
never thought of such a thing in my life--as being FOND of things."
"That was what--I mean I thought
so." Feather faltered, as if in polite acquiescence with a quite natur=
al
fact.
Coombe proceeded:
"As I went up the stairs I heard scre=
ams
and I thought that the pinching had begun. I got up quickly and opened the =
door
and found the woman lying flat on the floor by the bed, dragging out the ch=
ild
who had hidden under it. The woman's face was devilish, and so was her voic=
e. I
heard her threats. She got on her feet and dragged the child up and held her
between her knees. She clapped her hand over mouth to stifle her shrieks. T=
here
I stopped her. She had a fright at sight of me which taught her something.&=
quot;
He ended rather slowly. "I took the great liberty of ordering her to p=
ack
her box and leave the house--course," with a slight bow, "using y=
ou
as my authority."
"Andrews!" cried Feather, aghast.
"Has she--gone?"
"Would you have kept her?" he in=
quired.
"It's true that--that PINCHING"
Feather's voice almost held tears, "--really HARD pinching is--is not
proper. But Andrews has been invaluable. Everyone says Robin is better dres=
sed
and better kept than other children. And she is never allowed to make the l=
east
noise--"
"One wouldn't if one were pinched by
those devilish, sinewy fingers every time one raised one's voice. Yes. She =
has
gone. I ordered her to put her charge to bed before she packed. I did not l=
eave
her alone with Robin. In fact, I walked about the two nurseries and looked =
them
over."
He had walked about the Night Nursery and =
the
Day Nursery! He--the Head of the House of Coombe, whose finely acrid summin=
g up
of things, they were all secretly afraid of, if the truth were known. "=
;They"
stood for her smart, feverishly pleasure-chasing set. In their way, they ha=
lf
unconsciously tried to propitiate something in him, always without producing
the least effect. Her mental vision presented to her his image as he had wa=
lked
about the horrid little rooms, his somewhat stiffly held head not much below
the low ceilings. He had taken in shabby carpets, furniture, faded walls,
general dim dinginess.
"It's an unholy den for anything to s=
pend
its days in--that third floor," he made the statement detachedly, in a
way. "If she's six, she has lived six years there--and known nothing
else."
"All London top floors are like it,&q=
uot;
said Feather, "and they are all nurseries and school rooms--where there
are children."
His faintly smiling glance took in her gir=
l-child
slimness in its glittering sheath--the zephyr scarf floating from the snow =
of
her bared loveliness--her delicate soft chin deliciously lifted as she look=
ed
up at him.
"How would YOU like it?" he aske=
d.
"But I am not a child," in pretty
protest. "Children are--are different!"
"You look like a child," he sudd=
enly
said, queerly--as if the aspect of her caught him for an instant and made h=
im
absent-minded. "Sometimes--a woman does. Not often."
She bloomed into a kind of delighted radia=
nce.
"You don't often pay me
compliments," she said. "That is a beautiful one. Robin--makes it
more beautiful."
"It isn't a compliment," he
answered, still watching her in the slightly absent manner. "It is--a
tragic truth."
He passed his hand lightly across his eyes=
as
if he swept something away, and then both looked and spoke exactly as befor=
e.
"I have decided to buy the long lease=
of
this house. It is for sale," he said, casually. "I shall buy it f=
or
the child."
"For Robin!" said Feather,
helplessly.
"Yes, for Robin."
"It--it would be an income--whatever
happened. It is in the very heart of Mayfair," she said, because, in h=
er
astonishment--almost consternation--she could think of nothing else. He wou=
ld
not buy it for her. He thought her too silly to trust. But, if it were Robi=
n's--it
would be hers also. A girl couldn't turn her own mother into the street. Am=
id
the folds of her narrow being hid just one spark of shrewdness which came to
life where she herself was concerned.
"Two or three rooms--not large ones--=
can be
added at the back," he went on. "I glanced out of a window to see=
if
it could be done."
Incomprehensible as he was, one might alwa=
ys
be sure of a certain princeliness in his inexplicable methods. He never was
personal or mean. An addition to the slice of a house! That really WAS gene=
rous!
Entrancement filled her.
"That really is kind of you," she
murmured, gratefully. "It seems too much to ask!"
"You did not ask it," was his
answer.
"But I shall benefit by it. Nothing C=
OULD
BE nicer. These rooms are so much too small," glancing about her in
flushed rapture, "And my bedroom is dreadful. I'm obliged to use Rob's=
for
a dressing-room."
"The new rooms will be for Robin,&quo=
t;
he said. An excellent method he had discovered, of entirely detaching himse=
lf
from the excitements and emotions of other persons, removed the usual
difficulties in the way of disappointing--speaking truths to--or embarrassi=
ng people
who deserved it. It was this method which had utterly cast down the defence=
s of
Andrews. Feather was so wholly left out of the situation that she was actua=
lly
almost saved from its awkwardness. "When one is six," he explaine=
d,
"one will soon be seven--nine--twelve. Then the teens begin to loom up=
and
one cannot be concealed in cupboards on a top floor. Even before that time a
governess is necessary, and, even from the abyss of my ignorance, I see tha=
t no
respectable woman would stand either the Night or the Day Nursery. Your
daughter--"
"Oh, don't call her THAT!" cried
Feather. "My daughter! It sounds as if she were eighteen!" She fe=
lt
as if she had a sudden hideous little shock. Six years HAD passed since Bob
died! A daughter! A school girl with long hair and long legs to keep out of=
the
way. A grown-up girl to drag about with one. Never would she do it!
"Three sixes are eighteen," Coom=
be
continued, "as was impressed upon one in early years by the multiplica=
tion
table."
"I never saw you so interested in
anything before," Feather faltered. "Climbing steep, narrow, horr=
id
stairs to her nursery! Dismissing her nurse!" She paused a second, bec=
ause
a very ugly little idea had clutched at her. It arose from and was complica=
ted
with many fantastic, half formed, secret resentments of the past. It made h=
er
laugh a shade hysterical.
"Are you going to see that she is pro=
perly
brought up and educated, so that if--anyone important falls in love with her
she can make a good match?"
Hers was quite a hideous little mind, he w=
as
telling himself--fearful in its latter day casting aside of all such small
matters as taste and feeling. People stripped the garments from things in t=
hese
days. He laughed inwardly at himself and his unwitting "these days.&qu=
ot;
Senile severity mouthed just such phrases. Were they not his own days and t=
he
outcome of a past which had considered itself so much more decorous? Had not
boldly questionable attitudes been held in those other days? How long was it
since the Prince Regent himself had flourished? It was only that these days
brought it all close against one's eyes. But this exquisite creature had a =
hideous
little mind of her own whatsoever her day.
Later, he confessed to himself that he was
unprepared to see her spring to her feet and stand before him absurdly,
fantastically near being impassioned.
"You think I as too silly to SEE
anything," she broke forth. "But I do see--a long way sometimes. I
can't bear it but I do--I do! I shall have a grown-up daughter. She will be=
the
kind of girl everyone will look at--and someone--important--may want to mar=
ry her.
But, Oh!--" He was reminded of the day when she had fallen at his feet,
and clasped his rigid and reluctant knees. This was something of the same
feeble desperation of mood. "Oh, WHY couldn't someone like that have
wanted to marry ME! See!" she was like a pathetic fairy as she spread =
her
nymphlike arms, "how PRETTY I am!"
His gaze held her a moment in the singular
fashion with which she had become actually familiar, because--at long
intervals--she kept seeing it again. He quite gently took her fingers and
returned her to her sofa.
"Please sit down again," he
requested. "It will be better."
She sat down without another imbecile word=
to
say. As for him, he changed the subject.
"With your permission, Benby will
undertake the business of the lease and the building," he explained.
"The plans will be brought to you. We will go over them together, if y=
ou
wish. There will be decent rooms for Robin and her governess. The two nurse=
ries
can be made fit for human beings to live in and used for other purposes. The
house will be greatly improved."
It was nearly three o'clock when Feather w=
ent
upstairs to her dozing maid, because, after he had left her, she sat some t=
ime
in the empty, untidy little drawing-room and gazed straight before her at a
painted screen on which shepherdesses and swains were dancing in a Watteau
glade infested by flocks of little Loves.
When, from Robin's embarrassed young
consciousness, there had welled up the hesitating confession,
"She--doesn't like me," she could not, of course, have found word=
s in
which to make the reasons for her knowledge clear, but they had for herself=
no
obscurity. The fair being who, at rare intervals, fluttered on the threshol=
d of
her world had a way of looking at her with a shade of aloof distaste in her
always transient gaze.
The unadorned fact was that Feather did NOT
like her. She had been outraged by her advent. A baby was absurdly "ou=
t of
the picture." So far as her mind encompassed a future, she saw herself
flitting from flower to flower of "smart" pleasures and successes=
, somehow,
with more money and more exalted invitations--"something" vaguely=
--having
happened to the entire Lawdor progeny, and she, therefore, occupying a posi=
tion
in which it was herself who could gracefully condescend to others. There was
nothing so "stodgy" as children in the vision. When the worst cam=
e to
the worst, she had been consoled by the thought that she had really managed=
the
whole thing very cleverly. It was easier, of course, to so arrange such thi=
ngs
in modern days and in town. The Day Nursery and the Night Nursery on the th=
ird
floor, a smart-looking young woman who knew her business, who even knew wha=
t to
buy for a child and where to buy it, without troubling any one simplified t=
he
situation. Andrews had been quite wonderful. Nobody can bother one about a
healthy, handsome child who is seen meticulously cared for and beautifully
dressed, being pushed or led or carried out in the open air every day.
But there had arrived the special morning =
when
she had seen a child who so stood out among a dozen children that she had b=
een startled
when she recognized that it was Robin. Andrews had taken her charge to Hyde
Park that day and Feather was driving through the Row on her way to a
Knightsbridge shop. First her glance had been caught by the hair hanging to=
the
little hips--extraordinary hair in which Andrews herself had a pride. Then =
she
had seen the slender, exquisitely modeled legs, and the dancing sway of the=
small
body. A wonderfully cut, stitched, and fagotted smock and hat she had, of
course, taken in at a flash. When the child suddenly turned to look at some
little girls in a pony cart, the amazing damask of her colour, and form and
depth of eye had given her another slight shock. She realized that what she=
had
thrust lightly away in a corner of her third floor produced an unmistakable
effect when turned out into the light of a gay world. The creature was tall=
too--for
six years old. Was she really six? It seemed incredible. Ten more years and=
she
would be sixteen.
Mrs. Heppel-Bevill had a girl of fifteen, =
who
was a perfect catastrophe. She read things and had begun to talk about her
"right to be a woman." Emily Heppel-Bevill was only
thirty-seven--three years from forty. Feather had reached the stage of
softening in her disdain of the women in their thirties. She had found hers=
elf admitting
that--in these days--there were women of forty who had not wholly passed be=
yond
the pale into that outer darkness where there was weeping and wailing and
gnashing of teeth. But there was no denying that this six year old baby, wi=
th
the dancing step, gave one--almost hysterically--"to think." Her
imagination could not--never had and never would she have allowed it to--gr=
asp
any belief that she herself could change. A Feather, No! But a creature of
sixteen, eighteen--with eyes that shape--with lashes an inch long--with yar=
ds
of hair--standing by one's side in ten years! It was ghastly!
Coombe, in his cold perfunctory way, climb=
ing
the crooked, narrow stairs, dismissing Andrews--looking over the
rooms--dismissing them, so to speak, and then remaining after the rest had =
gone
to reveal to her a new abnormal mood--that, in itself alone, was actually
horrible. It was abnormal and yet he had always been more or less like that=
in
all things. Despite everything--everything--he had never been in love with =
her
at all. At first she had believed he was--then she had tried to make him ca=
re
for her. He had never failed her, he had done everything in his grand seign=
eur
fashion. Nobody dare make gross comment upon her, but, while he saw her lov=
eliness
as only such a man could--she had gradually realized that she had never had
even a chance with him. She could not even think that if she had not been so
silly and frightened that awful day six years ago, and had not lost her hea=
d,
he might have admired her more and more and in the end asked her to marry h=
im. He
had said there must be no mistakes, and she had not been allowed to fall in=
to
making one. The fact that she had not, had, finally, made her feel the powe=
r of
a certain fascination in him. She thought it was a result of his special ty=
pe
of looks, his breeding, the wonderful clothes he wore--but it was, in truth,
his varieties of inaccessibility.
"A girl might like him," she had
said to herself that night--she sat up late after he left her. "A girl
who--who had up-to-date sense might. Modern people don't grow old as they u=
sed
to. At fifty-five he won't be fat, or bald and he won't have lost his teeth.
People have found out they needn't. He will be as thin and straight as he is
today--and nothing can alter his nose. He will be ten years cleverer than h=
e is
now. Buying the house for a child of that age--building additional rooms for
her!"
In the fevered, rapid, deep-dipping whirl =
of
the life which was the only one she knew, she had often seen rather trying =
things
happen--almost unnatural changes in situations. People had overcome the fol=
ly
of being afraid to alter their minds and their views about what they had
temporarily believed were permanent bonds and emotions. Bonds had become old
fogeyish. Marriages went to pieces, the parties in love affairs engaged in a
sort of "dance down the middle" and turn other people's partners.=
The
rearrangement of figures sometimes made for great witticism. Occasionally
people laughed at themselves as at each other. The admirers of engaging mat=
rons
had been known to renew their youth at the coming-out balls of lovely daugh=
ters
in their early teens, and to end by assuming the flowery chains of a new
allegiance. Time had, of course, been when such a volte face would have aro=
used
condemnation and indignant discussion, but a humorous leniency spent but li=
ttle
time in selecting terms of severity. Feather had known of several such
contretemps ending in quite brilliant matches. The enchanting mothers usual=
ly
consoled themselves with great ease, and, if the party of each part was
occasionally wittily pungent in her comments on the other, everybody laughed
and nobody had time to criticize. A man who had had much to bestow and who
preferred in youth to bestow it upon himself was not infrequently more in t=
he
mood for the sharing of marriage when years had revealed to him the distres=
sing
fact that he was not, and had never been, the centre of the universe, which
distressing fact is one so unfairly concealed from youth in bloom.
It was, of course, but as a vaguely outlin=
ed
vision that these recognitions floated through what could only be alleged t=
o be
Feather's mind because there was no other name for it. The dark little
staircase, the rejected and despised third floor, and Coombe detachedly ann=
ouncing
his plans for the house, had set the--so to speak--rather malarious mist
flowing around her. A trying thing was that it did not really dispel itself
altogether, but continued to hang about the atmosphere surrounding other and
more cheerful things. Almost impalpably it added to the familiar feeling--or
lack of feeling--with regard to Robin. She had not at all hated the little
thing; it had merely been quite true that, in an inactive way, she had not
LIKED her. In the folds of the vague mist quietly floated the truth that she
now liked her less.
Benby came to see and talk to her on the
business of the structural changes to be made. He conducted himself precise=
ly
as though her views on the matter were of value and could not, in fact, be
dispensed with. He brought the architect's plans with him and explained them
with care. They were clever plans which made the most of a limited area. He=
did
not even faintly smile when it revealed itself to him, as it unconsciously =
did,
that Mrs. Gareth-Lawless regarded their adroit arrangement as a singular mi=
suse
of space which could have been much better employed for necessities of her =
own.
She was much depressed by the ground floor addition which might have enlarg=
ed
her dining-room, but which was made into a sitting-room for Robin and her
future governess.
"And that is in ADDITION to her
schoolroom which might have been thrown into the drawing-room--besides the =
new
bedrooms which I needed so much," she said.
"The new nurse, who is a highly
respectable person," explained Benby, "could not have been secure=
d if
she had not known that improvements were being made. The reconstruction of =
the
third floor will provide suitable accommodations."
The special forte of Dowson, the new nurse,
was a sublimated respectability far superior to smartness. She had been
mystically produced by Benby and her bonnets and jackets alone would have r=
evealed
her selection from almost occult treasures. She wore bonnets and
"jackets," not hats and coats.
"In the calm days of Her Majesty, nur=
ses
dressed as she does. I do not mean in the riotous later years of her reign-=
-but
earlier--when England dreamed in terms of Crystal Palaces and Great
Exhibitions. She can only be the result of excavation," Coombe said of
her.
She was as proud of her respectability as
Andrews had been of her smartness. This had, in fact, proved an almost
insuperable obstacle to her engagement. The slice of a house, with its floc=
king
in and out of chattering, smart people in marvellous clothes was not the pl=
ace
for her, nor was Mrs. Gareth-Lawless the mistress of her dreams. But her
husband had met with an accident and must be kept in a hospital, and an inv=
alid
daughter must live by the seaside--and suddenly, when things were at their
worst with her, had come Benby with a firm determination to secure her with
wages such as no other place would offer. Besides which she had observed as=
she
had lived.
"Things have changed," she refle=
cted
soberly. "You've got to resign yourself and not be too particular.&quo=
t;
She accepted the third floor, as Benby had
said, because it was to be rearranged and the Night and Day Nurseries, being
thrown into one, repainted and papered would make a decent place to live in=
. At
the beautiful little girl given into her charge she often looked in a puzzl=
ed
way, because she knew a good deal about children, and about this one there =
was
something odd. Her examination of opened drawers and closets revealed piles=
of
exquisite garments of all varieties, all perfectly kept. In these dingy hol=
es,
which called themselves nurseries, she found evidence that money had been s=
pent
like water so that the child, when she was seen, might look like a small
princess. But she found no plaything--no dolls or toys, and only one picture
book, and that had "Donal" written on the fly leaf and evidently
belonged to someone else.
What exactly she would have done when she =
had
had time to think the matter over, she never knew, because, a few days after
her arrival, a tall, thin gentleman, coming up the front steps as she was g=
oing
out with Robin, stopped and spoke to her as if he knew who she was.
"You know the kind of things children
like to play with, nurse?" he said.
She respectfully replied that she had had =
long
experience with young desires. She did not know as yet who he was, but there
was that about him which made her feel that, while there was no knowing what
height his particular exaltation in the matter of rank might reach, one wou=
ld
be safe in setting it high.
"Please go to one of the toy shops and
choose for the child what she will like best. Dolls--games--you will know w=
hat
to select. Send the bill to me at Coombe House. I am Lord Coombe."
"Thank you, my lord," Dowson
answered, with a sketch of a curtsey, "Miss Robin, you must hold out y=
our
little hand and say 'thank you' to his lordship for being so kind. He's told
Dowson to buy you some beautiful dolls and picture books as a present."=
;
Robin's eyelashes curled against her under
brows in her wide, still glance upward at him. Here was "the one"
again! She shut her hand tightly into a fist behind her back.
Lord Coombe smiled a little--not much.
"She does not like me," he said.
"It is not necessary that she should give me her hand. I prefer that s=
he
shouldn't, if she doesn't want to. Good morning, Dowson."
To the well-regulated mind of Dowson, this
seemed treating too lightly a matter as serious as juvenile incivility. She
remonstrated gravely and at length with Robin.
"Little girls must behave prettily to
kind gentlemen who are friends of their mammas. It is dreadful to be rude a=
nd
not say 'thank you'," she said.
But as she talked she was vaguely aware th=
at
her words passed by the child's ears as the summer wind passed. Perhaps it =
was
all a bit of temper and would disappear and leave no trace behind. At the s=
ame
time, there WAS something queer about the little thing. She had a listless =
way
of sitting staring out of the window and seeming to have no desire to amuse
herself. She was too young to be listless and she did not care for her food.
Dowson asked permission to send for the doctor and, when he came, he ordere=
d sea
air.
"Of course, you can take her away for=
a
few weeks," Mrs. Gareth-Lawless said. Here she smiled satirically and
added, "But I can tell you what it is all about. The little minx actua=
lly
fell in love with a small boy she met in the Square Gardens and, when his
mother took him from London, she began to mope like a tiresome girl in her
teens. It's ridiculous, but is the real trouble."
"Oh!" said Dowson, the low and
respectful interjection expressing a shade of disapproval, "Children do
have fancies, ma'am. She'll get over it if we give her something else to th=
ink
of."
The good woman went to one of the large toy
shops and bought a beautiful doll, a doll's house, and some picture books. =
When
they were brought up to the Day Nursery, Robin was asleep after a rather lo=
ng
walk, which Dowson had decided would be good for her. When she came later i=
nto
the room, after the things had been unpacked, she regarded them with an
expression of actual dislike.
"Isn't that a beautiful doll?" s=
aid
Dowson, good-humouredly. "And did you ever see such a lovely house? It=
was
kind Lord Coombe who gave them to you. Just you look at the picture
books."
Robin put her hands behind her back and wo=
uld
not touch them. Dowson, who was a motherly creature with a great deal of
commonsense, was set thinking. She began to make guesses, though she was not
yet sufficiently familiar with the household to guess from any firm foundat=
ion
of knowledge of small things.
"Come here, dear," she said, and=
drew
the small thing to her knee. "Is it because you don't love Lord
Coombe?" she asked.
"Yes," she answered.
"But why?" said Dowson. "Wh=
en
he is such a kind gentleman?"
But Robin would not tell her why and never
did. She never told any one, until years had passed, how this had been the
beginning of a hatred. The toys were left behind when she was taken to the =
seaside.
Dowson tried to persuade her to play with them several times, but she would=
not
touch them, so they were put away. Feeling that she was dealing with someth=
ing
unusual, and, being a kindly person, Dowson bought her some playthings on h=
er
own account. They were simple things, but Robin was ready enough to like th=
em.
"Did YOU give them to me?" she
asked.
"Yes, I did, Miss Robin."
The child drew near her after a full minut=
e of
hesitation.
"I will KISS you!" she said
solemnly, and performed the rite as whole-souledly as Donal had done.
"Dear little mite!" exclaimed the
surprised Dowson. "Dear me!" And there was actual moisture in her
eyes as she squeezed the small body in her arms.
"She's the strangest mite I ever
nursed," was her comment to Mrs. Blayne below stairs. "It was so
sudden, and she did it as if she'd never done it before. I'd actually been
thinking she hadn't any feeling at all."
"No reason why she should have. She's
been taken care of by the clock and dressed like a puppet, but she's not be=
en
treated human!" broke forth Mrs. Blayne.
Then the whole story was told--the
"upstairs" story with much vivid description, and the mentioning =
of
many names and the dotting of many "i's". Dowson had heard certain
things only through vague rumour, but now she knew and began to see her way.
She had not heard names before, and the definite inclusion of Lord Coombe's=
suggested
something to her.
"Do you think the child could be JEAL=
OUS
of his lordship?" she suggested.
"She might if she knew anything about
him--but she never saw him until the night she was taken down into the
drawing-room. She's lived upstairs like a little dog in its kennel."
"Well," Dowson reflected aloud,
"it sounds almost silly to talk of a child's hating any one, but that =
bit
of a thing's eyes had fair hate in them when she looked up at him where he
stood. That was what puzzled me."
Before Robin had been taken to the seaside=
to
be helped by the bracing air of the Norfolk coast to recover her lost appet=
ite and
forget her small tragedy, she had observed that unaccustomed things were ta=
king
place in the house. Workmen came in and out through the mews at the back an=
d brought
ladders with them and tools in queer bags. She heard hammerings which began
very early in the morning and went on all day. As Andrews had trained her n=
ot to
ask tiresome questions, she only crept now and then to a back window and pe=
eped
out. But in a few days Dowson took her away.
When she came back to London, she was not
taken up the steep dark stairs to the third floor. Dowson led her into some
rooms she had never seen before. They were light and airy and had pretty wa=
lls and
furniture. A sitting-room on the ground floor had even a round window with
plants in it and a canary bird singing in a cage.
"May we stay here?" she asked Do=
wson
in a whisper.
"We are going to live here," was=
the
answer.
And so they did.
At first Feather occasionally took her
intimates to see the additional apartments.
"In perfect splendour is the creature=
put
up, and I with a bedroom like a coalhole and such drawing-rooms as you see =
each
time you enter the house!" she broke forth spitefully one day when she=
forgot
herself.
She said it to the Starling and Harrowby, =
who
had been simply gazing about them in fevered mystification, because the new
development was a thing which must invoke some more or less interesting exp=
lanation.
At her outbreak, all they could do was to gaze at her with impartial eyes,
which suggested question, and Feather shrugged pettish shoulders.
"You knew I didn't do it. How could
I?" she said. "It is a queer whim of Coombe's. Of course, it is n=
ot
the least like him. I call it morbid."
After which people knew about the matter a=
nd
found it a subject for edifying and quite stimulating discussion. There was
something fantastic in the situation. Coombe was the last man on earth to h=
ave
taken the slightest notice of the child's existence! It was believed that he
had never seen her--except in long clothes--until she had glared at him and=
put
her hand behind her back the night she was brought into the drawing-room. S=
he
had been adroitly kept tucked away in an attic somewhere. And now behold an
addition of several wonderful, small rooms built, furnished and decorated f=
or her
alone, where she was to live as in a miniature palace attended by servitors!
Coombe, as a purveyor of nursery appurtenances, was regarded with humour, t=
he
general opinion being that the eruption of a volcano beneath his feet alone
could have awakened his somewhat chill self-absorption to the recognition of
any child's existence.
"To be exact we none of us really know
anything in particular about his mental processes." Harrowby pondered
aloud. "He's capable of any number of things we might not understand, =
if
he condescended to tell us about them--which he would never attempt. He has=
a remote,
brilliantly stored, cynical mind. He owns that he is of an inhuman selfishn=
ess.
I haven't a suggestion to make, but it sets one searching through the purli=
eus
of one's mind for an approximately reasonable explanation."
"Why 'purlieus'?" was the Starli=
ng's
inquiry. Harrowby shrugged his shoulders ever so lightly.
"Well, one isn't searching for reasons
founded on copy-book axioms," he shook his head. "Coombe? No.&quo=
t;
There was a silence given to occult though=
t.
"Feather is really in a rage and is t=
oo
Feathery to be able to conceal it," said Starling.
"Feather would be--inevitably,"
Harrowby lifted his near-sighted eyes to her curiously. "Can you see
Feather in the future--when Robin is ten years older?"
"I can," the Starling answered.<= o:p>
*
The years which followed were changing
years--growing years. Life and entertainment went on fast and furiously in =
all
parts of London, and in no part more rapidly than in the slice of a house w=
hose
front always presented an air of having been freshly decorated, in spite of
summer rain and winter soot and fog. The plants in the window boxes seemed
always in bloom, being magically replaced in the early morning hours when t=
hey
dared to hint at flagging. Mrs. Gareth-Lawless, it was said, must be renewe=
d in
some such mysterious morning way, as she merely grew prettier as she neared=
thirty
and passed it. Women did in these days! Which last phrase had always been a
useful one, probably from the time of the Flood. Old fogeys, male and femal=
e,
had used it in the past as a means of scathingly unfavourable comparison,
growing flushed and almost gobbling like turkey cocks in their indignation.
Now, as a phrase, it was a support and a mollifier. "In these days&quo=
t;
one knew better how to amuse oneself, was more free to snatch at agreeable
opportunity, less in bondage to old fancies which had called themselves
beliefs; everything whirled faster and more lightly--danced, two-stepped, i=
nstead
of marching.
Robin vaguely connected certain changes in=
her
existence with the changes which took place in the fashion of sleeves and
skirts which appeared to produce radical effects in the world she caught gl=
impses
of. Sometimes sleeves were closely fitted to people's arms, then puffs spra=
ng
from them and grew until they were enormous and required delicate manipulat=
ion
when coats were put on; then their lavishness of material fell from the
shoulder to the wrists and hung there swaying until some sudden development=
of
skirt seemed to distract their attention from themselves and they shrank in=
to unimportance
and skirts changed instead. Afterwards, sometimes figures were slim and enc=
ased
in sheathlike draperies, sometimes folds rippled about feet,
"fullness" crept here or there or disappeared altogether, trains =
grew
longer or shorter or wider or narrower, cashmeres, grosgrain silks and heavy
satins were suddenly gone and chiffon wreathed itself about the world and t=
ook
possession of it. Bonnets ceased to exist and hats were immense or tiny, ta=
ll or
flat, tilted at the back, at the side, at the front, worn over the face or
dashingly rolled back from it; feathers drooped or stood upright at heights
which rose and fell and changed position with the changing seasons. No garm=
ent
or individual wore the same aspect for more than a month's time. It was
necessary to change all things with a rapidity matching the change of moods=
and
fancies which altered at the rate of the automobiles which dashed here and
there and everywhere, through country roads, through town, through remote
places with an unsparing swiftness which set a new pace for the world.
"I cannot hark back regretfully to st=
age
coaches," said Lord Coombe. "Even I was not born early enough for
that. But in the days of my youth and innocence express trains seemed almost
supernatural. One could drive a pair of horses twenty miles to make a count=
ry visit,
but one could not drive back the same day. One's circle had its limitations=
and
degrees of intimacy. Now it is possible motor fifty miles to lunch and home=
to
dine with guests from the remotest corners of the earth. Oceans are crossed=
in
six days, and the eager flit from continent to continent. Engagements can b=
e made
by cable and the truly enterprising can accept an invitation to dine in Ame=
rica
on a fortnight's notice. Telephones communicate in a few seconds and no one=
is
secure from social intercourse for fifteen minutes. Acquaintances and
correspondence have no limitations because all the inhabitants of the globe=
can
reach one by motor or electricity. In moments of fatigue I revert to the da=
ys
of Queen Anne with pleasure."
While these changes went on, Robin lived in
her own world in her own quarters at the rear of the slice of a house. Duri=
ng
the early years spent with Dowson, she learned gradually that life was a be=
tter
thing than she had known in the dreary gloom of the third floor Day and Nig=
ht
Nurseries. She was no longer left to spend hours alone, nor was she taken b=
elow
stairs to listen blankly to servants talking to each other of mysterious th=
ings
with which she herself and the Lady Downstairs and "him" were som=
ehow
connected, her discovery of this fact being based on the dropping of voices=
and
sidelong glances at her and sudden warning sounds from Andrews. She realized
that Dowson would never pinch her, and the rooms she lived in were pretty a=
nd
bright.
Gradually playthings and picture books
appeared in them, which she gathered Dowson presented her with. She gathered
this from Dowson herself.
She had never played with the doll, and, by
chance a day arriving when Lord Coombe encountered Dowson in the street wit=
hout
her charge, he stopped her again and spoke as before.
"Is the little girl well and happy,
Nurse?" he asked.
"Quite well, my lord, and much happier
than she used to be."
"Did she," he hesitated slightly,
"like the playthings you bought her?"
Dowson hesitated more than slightly but, b=
eing
a sensible woman and at the same time curious about the matter, she spoke t=
he
truth.
"She wouldn't play with them at all, =
my
lord. I couldn't persuade her to. What her child's fancy was I don't
know."
"Neither do I--except that it is foun=
ded
on a distinct dislike," said Coombe. There was a brief pause. "Are
you fond of toys yourself, Dowson?" he inquired coldly.
"I am that--and I know how to choose
them, your lordship," replied Dowson, with a large, shrewd intelligenc=
e.
"Then oblige me by throwing away the =
doll
and its accompaniments and buying some toys for yourself, at my expense. You
can present them to Miss Robin as a personal gift. She will accept them fro=
m you."
He passed on his way and Dowson looked aft=
er
him interestedly.
"If she was his," she thought,
"I shouldn't be puzzled. But she's not--that I've ever heard of. He's =
got
some fancy of his own the same as Robin has, though you wouldn't think it to
look at him. I'd like to know what it is."
It was a fancy--an old, old fancy--it hark=
ed
back nearly thirty years--to the dark days of youth and passion and unending
tragedy whose anguish, as it then seemed, could never pass--but which, neve=
rtheless,
had faded with the years as they flowed by. And yet left him as he was and =
had
been. He was not sentimental about it, he smiled at himself drearily--though
never at the memory--when it rose again and, through its vague power, led h=
im
to do strange things curiously verging on the emotional and eccentric. But =
even
the child--who quite loathed him for some fantastic infant reason of her
own--even the child had her part in it. His soul oddly withdrew itself into=
a
far remoteness as he walked away and Piccadilly became a shadow and a dream=
.
Dowson went home and began to pack neatly =
in a
box the neglected doll and the toys which had accompanied her. Robin seeing=
her
doing it, asked a question.
"Are they going back to the shop?&quo=
t;
"No. Lord Coombe is letting me give t=
hem
to a little girl who is very poor and has to lie in bed because her back hu=
rts
her. His lordship is so kind he does not want you to be troubled with them.=
He
is not angry. He is too good to be angry."
That was not true, thought Robin. He had d=
one
THAT THING she remembered! Goodness could not have done it. Only badness.
When Dowson brought in a new doll and other
wonderful things, a little hand enclosed her wrist quite tightly as she was
unpacking the boxes. It was Robin's and the small creature looked at her wi=
th a
questioning, half appealing, half fierce.
"Did he send them, Dowson?"
"They are a present from me," Do=
wson
answered comfortably, and Robin said again,
"I want to kiss you. I like to kiss y=
ou.
I do."
To those given to psychical interests and
speculations, it might have suggested itself that, on the night when the
creature who had seemed to Andrews a soft tissued puppet had suddenly burst
forth into defiance and fearless shrillness, some cerebral change had taken
place in her. From that hour her softness had become a thing of the past.
Dowson had not found a baby, but a brooding, little, passionate being. She =
was
neither insubordinate nor irritable, but Dowson was conscious of a certain
intensity of temperament in her. She knew that she was always thinking of
things of which she said almost nothing. Only a sensible motherly curiosity,
such as Dowson's could have made discoveries, but a rare question put by the
child at long intervals sometimes threw a faint light. There were questions
chiefly concerning mothers and their habits and customs. They were such as,=
in
their very unconsciousness, revealed a strange past history. Lights were mo=
st
unconsciously thrown by Mrs. Gareth-Lawless herself. Her quite amiable
detachment from all shadow of responsibility, her brilliantly unending occu=
pations,
her goings in and out, the flocks of light, almost noisy, intimates who cam=
e in
and out with her revealed much to a respectable person who had soberly watc=
hed
the world.
"The Lady Downstairs is my mother, is=
n't
she?" Robin inquired gravely once.
"Yes, my dear," was Dowson's ans=
wer.
A pause for consideration of the matter and
then from Robin:
"All mothers are not alike, Dowson, a=
re
they?"
"No, my dear," with wisdom.
Though she was not yet seven, life had so
changed for her that it was a far cry back to the Spring days in the Square
Gardens. She went back, however, back into that remote ecstatic past.
"The Lady Downstairs is not--alike,&q=
uot;
she said at last, "Donal's mother loved him. She let him sit in the sa=
me
chair with her and read in picture books. She kissed him when he was in
bed."
Jennings, the young footman who was a
humourist, had, of course, heard witty references to Robin's love affair wh=
ile
in attendance, and he had equally, of course, repeated them below stairs.
Therefore,
Dowson had heard vague rumours but had
tactfully refrained from mentioning the subject to her charge.
"Who was Donal?" she said now, b=
ut
quite quietly. Robin did not know that a confidante would have made her fir=
st
agony easier to bear. She was not really being confidential now, but, reali=
zing
Dowson's comfortable kindliness, she knew that it would be safe to speak to
her.
"He was a big boy," she answered
keeping her eyes on Dowson's face. "He laughed and ran and jumped. His
eyes--" she stopped there because she could not explain what she had
wanted to say about these joyous young eyes, which were the first friendly
human ones she had known.
"He lives in Scotland," she began
again. "His mother loved him. He kissed me. He went away. Lord Coombe =
sent
him."
Dawson could not help her start.
"Lord Coombe!" she exclaimed.
Robin came close to her and ground her lit=
tle
fist into her knee, until its plumpness felt almost bruised.
"He is bad--bad--bad!" and she
looked like a little demon.
Being a wise woman, Dowson knew at once th=
at
she had come upon a hidden child volcano, and it would be well to let it se=
ethe
into silence. She was not a clever person, but long experience had taught h=
er
that there were occasions when it was well to leave a child alone. This one
would not answer if she were questioned. She would only become stubborn and
furious, and no child should be goaded into fury. Dowson had, of course,
learned that the boy was a relative of his lordship's and had a strict Scot=
tish
mother who did not approve of the slice of a house. His lordship might have
been concerned in the matter--or he might not. But at least Dowson had gain=
ed a
side light. And how the little thing had cared! Actually as if she had been=
a
grown girl, Dowson found herself thinking uneasily.
She was rendered even a trifle more uneasy=
a
few days later when she came upon Robin sitting in a corner on a footstool =
with
a picture book on her knee, and she recognized it as the one she had discov=
ered
during her first exploitation of the resources of the third floor nursery. =
It
was inscribed "Donal" and Robin was not looking at it alone, but =
at
something she held in her hand--something folded in a crumpled, untidy bit =
of
paper.
Making a reason for nearing her corner, Do=
wson
saw what the paper held. The contents looked like the broken fragments of s=
ome
dried leaves. The child was gazing at them with a piteous, bewildered face-=
-so
piteous that Dowson was sorry.
"Do you want to keep those?" she
asked.
"Yes," with a caught breath.
"Yes."
"I will make you a little silk bag to
hold them in," Dowson said, actually feeling rather piteous herself. T=
he
poor, little lamb with her picture book and her bits of broken dry
leaves--almost like senna.
She sat down near her and Robin left her
footstool and came to her. She laid the picture book on her lap and the sen=
na
like fragments of leaves on its open page.
"Donal brought it to show me," s=
he
quavered. "He made pretty things on the leaves--with his dirk." S=
he
recalled too much--too much all at once. Her eyes grew rounder and larger w=
ith
inescapable woe; "Donal did! Donal!" And suddenly she hid her face
deep in Dowson's skirts and the tempest broke. She was so small a thing--so=
inarticulate--and
these were her dead! Dowson could only catch her in her arms, drag her up on
her knee, and rock her to and fro.
"Good Lord! Good Lord!" was her
inward ejaculation. "And she not seven! What'll she do when she's
seventeen! She's one of them there's no help for!"
It was the beginning of an affection. After
this, when Dowson tucked Robin in bed each night, she kissed her. She told =
her
stories and taught her to sew and to know her letters. Using some discretio=
n she
found certain little playmates for her in the Gardens. But there were occas=
ions
when all did not go well, and some pretty, friendly child, who had played w=
ith
Robin for a few days, suddenly seemed to be kept strictly by her nurse's si=
de.
Once, when she was about ten years old, a newcomer, a dramatic and too rich=
ly
dressed little person, after a day of wonderful imaginative playing appeare=
d in
the Gardens the morning following to turn an ostentatious cold shoulder.
"What is the matter?" asked Robi=
n.
"Oh, we can't play with you any
more," with quite a flounce superiority.
"Why not?" said Robin, becoming
haughty herself.
"We can't. It's because of Lord
Coombe." The little person had really no definite knowledge of how Lord
Coombe was concerned, but certain servants' whisperings of names and myster=
ious
phrases had conveyed quite an enjoyable effect of unknown iniquity connecte=
d with
his lordship.
Robin said nothing to Dowson, but walked up
and down the paths reflecting and building a slow fire which would continue=
to
burn in her young heart. She had by then passed the round, soft baby period=
and
had entered into that phase when bodies and legs grow long and slender and
small faces lose their first curves and begin to show sharper modeling.
Accepting the situation in its entirety,
Dowson had seen that it was well to first reach Lord Coombe with any need of
the child's. Afterwards, the form of presenting it to Mrs. Gareth-Lawless m=
ust be
gone through, but if she were first spoken to any suggestion might be forgo=
tten
or intentionally ignored.
Dowson became clever in her calculations a=
s to
when his lordship might be encountered and where--as if by chance, and
therefore, quite respectfully. Sometimes she remotely wondered if he himsel=
f did
not make such encounters easy for her. But his manner never altered in its
somewhat stiff, expressionless chill of indifference. He never was kindly in
his manner to the child if he met her. Dowson felt him at once casual and
"lofty." Robin might have been a bit of unconsidered rubbish, the
sight of which slightly bored him. Yet the singular fact remained that it w=
as
to him one must carefully appeal.
One afternoon Feather swept him, with one =
or
two others, into the sitting-room with the round window in which flowers gr=
ew.
Robin was sitting at a low table making pothooks with a lead pencil on a pi=
ece
of paper Dowson had given her. Dowson had, in fact, set her at the task, ha=
ving
heard from Jennings that his lordship and the other afternoon tea drinkers =
were
to be brought into the "Palace" as Feather ironically chose to ca=
ll
it. Jennings rather liked Dowson, and often told her little things she want=
ed
to know. It was because Lord Coombe would probably come in with the rest th=
at Dowson
had set the low, white table in the round windows and suggested the pothook=
s.
In course of time there was a fluttering a=
nd a
chatter in the corridor. Feather was bringing some new guests, who had not =
seen
the place before.
"This is where my daughter lives. She=
is
much grander than I am," she said.
"Stand up, Miss Robin, and make your
curtsey," whispered Dowson. Robin did as she was told, and Mrs.
Gareth-Lawless' pretty brows ran up.
"Look at her legs," she said.
"She's growing like Jack and the Bean Stalk--though, I suppose, it was
only the Bean Stalk that grew. She'll stick through the top of the house so=
on.
Look at her legs, I ask you."
She always spoke as if the child were an
inanimate object and she had, by this time and by this means, managed to sw=
eep
from Robin's mind all the old, babyish worship of her loveliness and had
planted in its place another feeling. At this moment the other feeling surg=
ed
and burned.
"They are beautiful legs," remar=
ked
a laughing young man jocularly, "but perhaps she does not particularly
want us to look at them. Wait until she begins skirt dancing." And
everybody laughed at once and the child stood rigid--the object of their li=
ght
ridicule--not herself knowing that her whole little being was cursing them
aloud.
Coombe stepped to the little table and
bestowed a casual glance on the pencil marks.
"What is she doing?" he asked as
casually of Dowson.
"She is learning to make pothooks, my
lord," Dowson answered. "She's a child that wants to be learning
things. I've taught her her letters and to spell little words. She's quick-=
-and
old enough, your lordship."
"Learning to read and write!"
exclaimed Feather.
"Presumption, I call it. I don't know=
how
to read and write--least I don't know how to spell. Do you know how to spel=
l,
Collie?" to the young man, whose name was Colin. "Do you, Genevie=
ve?
Do you, Artie?"
"You can't betray me into vulgar
boasting," said Collie. "Who does in these days? Nobody but clerk=
s at
Peter Robinson's."
"Lord Coombe does--but that's his tir=
esome
superior way," said Feather.
"He's nearly forty years older than m=
ost
of you. That is the reason," Coombe commented. "Don't deplore your
youth and innocence."
They swept through the rooms and examined
everything in them. The truth was that the--by this time well known--fact t=
hat
the unexplainable Coombe had built them made them a curiosity, and a sort of
secret source of jokes. The party even mounted to the upper story to go thr=
ough
the bedrooms, and, it was while they were doing this, that Coombe chose to
linger behind with Dowson.
He remained entirely expressionless for a =
few
moments. Dowson did not in the least gather whether he meant to speak to he=
r or
not. But he did.
"You meant," he scarcely glanced=
at
her, "that she was old enough for a governess."
"Yes, my lord," rather breathles=
s in
her hurry to speak before she heard the high heels tapping on the staircase
again. "And one that's a good woman as well as clever, if I may take t=
he
liberty. A good one if--"
"If a good one would take the place?&=
quot;
Dowson did not attempt refutation or apolo=
gy.
She knew better.
He said no more, but sauntered out of the
room.
As he did so, Robin stood up and made the
little "charity bob" of a curtsey which had been part of her nurs=
ery
education. She was too old now to have refused him her hand, but he never m=
ade
any advances to her. He acknowledged her curtsey with the briefest nod.
Not three minutes later the high heels came tapping down the staircase and the small gust of visitors swept away also.<= o:p>
The interview which took place between Fea=
ther
and Lord Coombe a few days later had its own special character.
"A governess will come here tomorrow =
at
eleven o'clock," he said. "She is a Mademoiselle Valle. She is
accustomed to the educating of young children. She will present herself for
your approval. Benby has done all the rest."
Feather flushed to her fine-spun ash-gold
hair.
"What on earth can it matter!" s=
he
cried.
"It does not matter to you," he
answered; "it chances--for the time being--to matter to ME."
"Chances!" she flamed forth--it =
was
really a queer little flame of feeling. "That's it. You don't really c=
are!
It's a caprice--just because you see she is going to be pretty."
"I'll own," he admitted, "t=
hat
has a great deal to do with it."
"It has everything to do with it,&quo=
t;
she threw out. "If she had a snub nose and thick legs you wouldn't care
for her at all."
"I don't say that I do care for
her," without emotion. "The situation interests me. Here is an
extraordinary little being thrown into the world. She belongs to nobody. She
will have to fight for her own hand. And she will have to FIGHT, by God! Wi=
th
that dewy lure in her eyes and her curved pomegranate mouth! She will not k=
now,
but she will draw disaster!"
"Then she had better not be taught
anything at all," said Feather. "It would be an amusing thing to =
let
her grow up without learning to read or write at all. I know numbers of men=
who
would like the novelty of it. Girls who know so much are a bore."
"There are a few minor chances she ou=
ght
to have," said Coombe. "A governess is one. Mademoiselle Valle wi=
ll
be here at eleven."
"I can't see that she promises to be =
such
a beauty," fretted Feather. "She's the kind of good looking child=
who
might grow up into a fat girl with staring black eyes like a barmaid."=
"Occasionally pretty women do abhor t=
heir
growing up daughters," commented Coombe letting his eyes rest on her
interestedly.
"I don't abhor her," with pathos
touched with venom. "But a big, lumping girl hanging about ogling and =
wanting
to be ogled when she is passing through that silly age! And sometimes you s=
peak
to me as a man speaks to his wife when he is tired of her."
"I beg your pardon," Coombe said.
"You make me feel like a person who lives over a shop at Knightsbridge=
, or
in bijou mansion off Regent's Park."
But he was deeply aware that, as an outcom= e of the anomalous position he occupied, he not infrequently felt exactly this.<= o:p>
That a governess chosen by Coombe--though =
he
would seem not to appear in the matter--would preside over the new rooms,
Feather knew without a shadow of doubt.
A certain almost silent and always high-br=
ed
dominance over her existence she accepted as the inevitable, even while she
fretted helplessly. Without him, she would be tossed, a broken butterfly, i=
nto
the gutter. She knew her London. No one would pick her up unless to break h=
er
into smaller atoms and toss her away again. The freedom he allowed her after
all was wonderful. It was because he disdained interference.
But there was a line not to be crossed--th=
ere
must not even be an attempt at crossing it. Why he cared about that she did=
not
know.
"You must be like Caesar's wife,"=
; he
said rather grimly, after an interview in which he had given her a certain
unsparing warning.
"And I am nobody's wife. What did
Caesar's wife do?" she asked.
"Nothing." And he told her the s=
tory
and, when she had heard him tell it, she understood certain things clearly.=
Mademoiselle Valle was an intelligent, mat=
ure
Frenchwoman. She presented herself to Mrs. Gareth-Lawless for inspection an=
d,
in ten minutes, realized that the power to inspect and sum up existed only =
on
her own side. This pretty woman neither knew what inquiries to make nor car=
ed
for such replies as were given. Being swift to reason and practical in dedu=
ction,
Mademoiselle Valle did not make the blunder of deciding that this light
presence argued that she would be under no supervision more serious. The
excellent Benby, one was made aware, acted and the excellent Benby, one was
made aware, acted under clearly defined orders. Milord Coombe--among other
things the best dressed and perhaps the least comprehended man in London--w=
as
concerned in this, though on what grounds practical persons could not expla=
in
to themselves. His connection with the narrow house on the right side of the
right street was entirely comprehensible. The lenient felt nothing blatant =
or objectionable
about it. Mademoiselle Valle herself was not disturbed by mere rumour. The
education, manner and morals of the little girl she could account for. These
alone were to be her affair, and she was competent to undertake their
superintendence.
Therefore, she sat and listened with
respectful intelligence to the birdlike chatter of Mrs. Gareth-Lawless. (Wh=
at a
pretty woman! The silhouette of a jeune fille!)
Mrs. Gareth-Lawless felt that, on her part,
she had done all that was required of her.
"I'm afraid she's rather a dull child,
Mademoiselle," she said in farewell. "You know children's ways and
you'll understand what I mean. She has a trick of staring and saying nothin=
g. I
confess I wish she wasn't dull."
"It is impossible, madame, that she
should be dull," said Mademoiselle, with an agreeably implicating smil=
e.
"Oh, but quite impossible! We shall see."
Not many days had passed before she had se=
en
much. At the outset, she recognized the effect of the little girl with the
slender legs and feet and the dozen or so of points which go to make a beau=
ty. The
intense eyes first and the deeps of them. They gave one furiously to think
before making up one's mind. Then she noted the perfection of the rooms add=
ed
to the smartly inconvenient little house. Where had the child lived before =
the
addition had been built? Thought and actual architectural genius only could
have done this. Light and even as much sunshine as London will vouchsafe, h=
ad
been arranged for. Comfort, convenience, luxury, had been provided. Perfect
colour and excellent texture had evoked actual charm. Its utter unlikeness =
to
the quarters London usually gives to children, even of the fortunate class,
struck Mademoiselle Valle at once. Madame Gareth-Lawless had not done this.=
Who
then, had?
The good Dowson she at once affiliated wit=
h.
She knew the excellence of her type as it had revealed itself to her in the
best peasant class. Trustworthy, simple, but of kindly, shrewd good sense a=
nd with
the power to observe. Dowson was not a chatterer or given to gossip, but, a=
s a
silent observer, she would know many things and, in time, when they had bec=
ome
friendly enough to be fully aware that each might trust the other, gentle a=
nd
careful talk would end in unconscious revelation being made by Dowson.
That the little girl was almost singularly
attached to her nurse, she had marked early. There was something unusual in=
her
manifestations of her feeling. The intense eyes followed the woman often, a=
s if
making sure of her presence and reality. The first day of Mademoiselle's
residence in the place she saw the little thing suddenly stop playing with =
her
doll and look at Dowson earnestly for several moments. Then she left her se=
at
and went to the kind creature's side.
"I want to KISS you, Dowie," she
said.
"To be sure, my lamb," answered
Dowson, and, laying down her mending, she gave her a motherly hug. After wh=
ich
Robin went back contentedly to her play.
The Frenchwoman thought it a pretty bit of
childish affectionateness. But it happened more than once during the day, a=
nd
at night Mademoiselle commented upon it.
"She has an affectionate heart, the
little one," she remarked. "Madame, her mother, is so pretty and =
full
of gaieties and pleasures that I should not have imagined she had much time=
for
caresses and the nursery."
Even by this time Dowson had realized that
with Mademoiselle she was upon safe ground and was in no danger of betraying
herself to a gossip. She quietly laid down her sewing and looked at her com=
panion
with grave eyes.
"Her mother has never kissed her in h=
er
life that I am aware of," she said.
"Has never--!" Mademoiselle
ejaculated. "Never!"
"Just as you see her, she is,
Mademoiselle," Dowson said. "Any sensible woman would know, when =
she
heard her talk about her child. I found it all out bit by bit when first I =
came
here. I'm going to talk plain and have done with it. Her first six years she
spent in a sort of dog kennel on the top floor of this house. No sun, no re=
al
fresh air. Two little holes that were dingy and gloomy to dull a child's
senses. Not a toy or a bit of colour or a picture, but clothes fine enough =
for
Buckingham Palace children--and enough for six. Fed and washed and taken out
every day to be shown off. And a bad nurse, Miss--a bad one that kept her q=
uiet
by pinching her black and blue."
"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! That little
angel!" cried Mademoiselle, covering her eyes.
Dowson hastily wiped her own eyes. She had
shed many a motherly tear over the child. It was a relief to her to open her
heart to a sympathizer.
"Black and blue!" she repeated.
"And laughing and dancing and all sorts of fast fun going on in the
drawing-rooms." She put out her hand and touched Mademoiselle's arm qu=
ite
fiercely. "The little thing didn't know she HAD a mother! She didn't k=
now
what the word meant. I found that out by her innocent talk. She used to cal=
l HER
'The Lady Downstairs'."
"Mon Dieu!" cried the Frenchwoman
again. "What a woman!"
"She first heard of mothers from a li=
ttle
boy she met in the Square Gardens. He was the first child she had been allo=
wed
to play with. He was a nice child and he had a good mother. I only got it b=
it by
bit when she didn't know how much she was telling me. He told her about mot=
hers
and he kissed her--for the first time in her life. She didn't understand bu=
t it
warmed her little heart. She's never forgotten."
Mademoiselle even started slightly in her
chair. Being a clever Frenchwoman she felt drama and all its subtle
accompaniments.
"Is that why----" she began.
"It is," answered Dowson, stoutl= y. "A kiss isn't an ordinary thing to her. It means something wonderful. She's got into the way of loving me, bless her, and every now and then, it'= s my opinion, she suddenly remembers her lonely days when she didn't know what l= ove was. And it just wells up in her little heart and she wants to kiss me. She always says it that way, 'Dowie, I want to KISS you,' as if it was something strange and, so to say, sacred. She doesn't know it means almost nothing to most people. That's why I always lay down my work and hug her close."<= o:p>
"You have a good heart--a GOOD one!&q=
uot;
said Mademoiselle with strong feeling.
Then she put a question:
"Who was the little boy?"
"He was a relation of--his
lordship's."
"His lordship's?" cautiously.
"The Marquis. Lord Coombe."
There was a few minutes' silence. Both wom=
en
were thinking of a number of things and each was asking herself how much it
would be wise to say.
It was Dowson who made her decision first,=
and
this time, as before, she laid down her work. What she had to convey was th=
e thing
which, above all others, the Frenchwoman must understand if she was to be a=
ble
to use her power to its best effect.
"A woman in my place hears enough
talk," was her beginning. "Servants are given to it. The Servants'
Hall is their theatre. It doesn't matter whether tales are true or not, so =
that
they're spicy. But it's been my way to credit just as much as I see and know
and to say little about that. If a woman takes a place in a house, let her =
go
or stay as suits her best, but don't let her stay and either complain or
gossip. My business here is Miss Robin, and I've found out for myself that
there's just one person that, in a queer, unfeeling way of his own, has a f=
ancy
for looking after her. I say 'unfeeling' because he never shows any human s=
igns
of caring for the child himself. But if there's a thing that ought to be do=
ne
for her and a body can contrive to let him know it's needed, it'll be done.
Downstairs' talk that I've seemed to pay no attention to has let out that it
was him that walked quietly upstairs to the Nursery, where he'd never set f=
oot
before, and opened the door on Andrews pinching the child. She packed her b=
ox
and left that night. He inspected the nurseries and, in a few days, an
architect was planning these rooms,--for Miss Robin and for no one else, th=
ough
there was others wanted them. It was him that told me to order her books and
playthings--and not let her know it because she hates him. It was him I told
she needed a governess. And he found you."
Mademoiselle Valle had listened with profo=
und
attention. Here she spoke.
"You say continually 'he' or 'him'. He
is--?"
"Lord Coombe. I'm not saying I've seen
much of him. Considering--" Dowson paused--"it's queer how seldom=
he
comes here. He goes abroad a good deal. He's mixed up with the highest and =
it's
said he's in favour because he's satirical and clever. He's one that's goss=
iped
about and he cares nothing for what's said. What business of mine is it whe=
ther
or not he has all sorts of dens on the Continent where he goes to racket. He
might be a bishop for all I see. And he's the only creature in this world of
the Almighty's that remembers that child's a human being. Just him--Lord
Coombe. There, Mademoiselle,--I've said a good deal."
More and more interestedly had the Frenchw=
oman
listened and with an increasing hint of curiosity in her intelligent eyes. =
She pressed
Dowson's needle-roughened fingers warmly.
"You have not said too much. It is we=
ll that
I should know this of this gentleman. As you say, he is a man who is much
discussed. I myself have heard much of him--but of things connected with an=
other
part of his character. It is true that he is in favour with great personage=
s.
It is because they are aware that he has observed much for many years. He is
light and ironic, but he tells truths which sometimes startle those who hear
them."
"Jennings tells below stairs that he =
says
things it's queer for a lord to say. Jennings is a sharp young snip and lik=
es
to pick up things to repeat. He believes that his lordship's idea is that t=
here's
a time coming when the high ones will lose their places and thrones and kin=
gs
will be done away with. I wouldn't like to go that far myself," said
Dowson, gravely, "but I must say that there's not that serious respect
paid to Royalty that there was in my young days. My word! When Queen Victor=
ia
was in her prime, with all her young family around her,--their little Royal
Highnesses that were princes in their Highland kilts and the princesses in
their crinolines and hats with drooping ostrich feathers and broad satin
streamers--the people just went wild when she went to a place to unveil
anything!"
"When the Empress Eugenie and the Pri=
nce
Imperial appeared, it was the same thing," said Mademoiselle, a trifle
sadly. "One recalls it now as a dream passed away--the Champs Elysees =
in
the afternoon sunlight--the imperial carriage and the glittering escort
trotting gaily--the beautiful woman with the always beautiful costumes--her=
charming
smile--the Emperor, with his waxed moustache and saturnine face! It meant so
much and it went so quickly. One moment," she made a little gesture,
"and it is gone--forever! An Empire and all the splendour of it! Two
centuries ago it could not have disappeared so quickly. But now the world is
older. It does not need toys so much. A Republic is the people--and there a=
re
more people than kings."
"It's things like that his lordship s=
ays,
according to Jennings," said Dowson. "Jennings is never quite sure
he's in earnest. He has a satirical way--And the company always laugh."=
;
Mademoiselle had spoken thoughtfully and a=
s if
half to her inner self instead of to Dowson. She added something even more
thoughtfully now.
"The same kind of people laughed befo=
re
the French Revolution," she murmured.
"I'm not scholar enough to know much
about that--that was a long time ago, wasn't it?" Dowson remarked.
"A long time ago," said
Mademoiselle.
Dowson's reply was quite free from tragic
reminiscence.
"Well, I must say, I like a respectab=
le
Royal Family myself," she observed. "There's something solid and
comfortable about it--besides the coronations and weddings and procession w=
ith
all the pictures in the Illustrated London News. Give me a nice, well-behav=
ed
Royal Family."
"A nice, well-behaved Royal Family.&q=
uot;
There had been several of them in Europe for some time. An appreciable numb=
er
of them had prided themselves, even a shade ostentatiously, upon their
domesticity. The moral views of a few had been believed to border upon the =
high
principles inscribed in copy books. Some, however, had not. A more important
power or so had veered from the exact following of these commendable
axioms--had high-handedly behaved according to their royal will and tastes.=
But
what would you? With a nation making proper obeisance before one from infan=
cy;
with trumpets blaring forth joyous strains upon one's mere appearance on an=
y scene;
with the proudest necks bowed and the most superb curtseys swept on one's m=
ere
passing by, with all the splendour of the Opera on gala night rising to its
feet to salute one's mere entry into the royal or imperial box, while the
national anthem bursts forth with adulatory and triumphant strains, only a =
keen
and subtle sense of humour, surely, could curb errors of judgment arising f=
rom
naturally mistaken views of one's own importance and value to the entire
Universe. Still there remained the fact that a number of them WERE well-beh=
aved
and could not be complained of as bearing any likeness to the bloodthirsty
tyrants and oppressors of past centuries.
The Head of the House of Coombe had attend=
ed
the Court Functions and been received at the palaces and castles of most of
them. For in that aspect of his character of which Mademoiselle Valle had h=
eard
more than Dowson, he was intimate with well-known and much-observed persona=
ges
and places. A man born among those whose daily life builds, as it passes, at
least a part of that which makes history and so records itself, must needs =
find
companions, acquaintances, enemies, friends of varied character, and if he =
be,
by chance, a keen observer of passing panoramas, can lack no material for
private reflection and the accumulation of important facts.
That part of his existence which connected
itself with the slice of a house on the right side of the Mayfair street was
but a small one. A feature of the untranslatableness of his character was t=
hat
he was seen there but seldom. His early habit of crossing the Channel
frequently had gradually reestablished itself as years passed. Among his
acquaintances his "Saturday to Monday visits" to continental citi=
es
remote or unremote were discussed with humour. Possibly, upon these
discussions, were finally founded the rumours of which Dowson had heard but
which she had impartially declined to "credit". Lively conjecture
inevitably figured largely in their arguments and, when persons of unrestra=
ined
wit devote their attention to airy persiflage, much may be included in their
points of view.
Of these conjectural discussions no one was
more clearly aware than Coombe himself, and the finished facility--even
felicity--of his evasion of any attempt at delicately valued cross examinat=
ion was
felt to be inhumanly exasperating.
In one of the older Squares which still
remained stately, through the splendour of modern fashion had waned in its
neighbourhood, there was among the gloomy, though imposing, houses one in
particular upon whose broad doorsteps--years before the Gareth-Lawlesses ha=
d appeared
in London--Lord Coombe stood oftener than upon any other. At times his brou=
gham
waited before it for hours, and, at others, he appeared on foot and lifted =
the
heavy knocker with a special accustomed knock recognized at once by any foo=
tman
in waiting in the hall, who, hearing it, knew that his mistress--the old
Dowager Duchess of Darte--would receive this visitor, if no other.
The interior of the house was of the type
which, having from the first been massive and richly sombre, had mellowed i=
nto
a darker sombreness and richness as it had stood unmoved amid London years =
and
fogs. The grandeur of decoration and furnishing had been too solid to
depreciate through decay, and its owner had been of no fickle mind led to w=
aver
in taste by whims of fashion. The rooms were huge and lofty, the halls and
stairways spacious, the fireplaces furnished with immense grates of glitter=
ing
steel, which held in winter beds of scarlet glowing coal, kept scarlet glow=
ing
by a special footman whose being, so to speak, depended on his fidelity to =
his
task.
There were many rooms whose doors were kept
closed because they were apparently never used; there were others as little
used but thrown open, warmed and brightened with flowers each day, because =
the
Duchess chose to catch glimpses of their cheerfulness as she passed them on=
her
way up or downstairs. The house was her own property, and, after her widowh=
ood,
when it was emptied of her children by their admirable marriages, and she
herself became Dowager and, later, a confirmed rheumatic invalid, it became
doubly her home and was governed by her slightest whim. She was not indeed =
an
old woman of caprices, but her tastes, not being those of the later day in
which she now lived, were regarded as a shade eccentric being firmly define=
d.
"I will not have my house glaring with
electricity as if it were a shop. In my own rooms I will be lighted by wax
candles. Large ones--as many as you please," she said. "I will no=
t be
'rung up' by telephone. My servants may if they like. It is not my affair to
deprive them of the modern inconveniences, if they find them convenient. My
senility does not take the form of insisting that the world shall cease to
revolve upon its axis. It formed that habit without my assistance, and it i=
s to
be feared that it would continue it in the face of my protests."
It was, in fact, solely that portion of the
world affecting herself alone which she preferred to retain as it had been =
in
the brilliant early years of her life. She had been a great beauty and also=
a
wit in the Court over which Queen Victoria had reigned. She had possessed t=
he
delicate high nose, the soft full eyes, the "polished forehead," =
the
sloping white shoulders from which scarves floated or India shawls graceful=
ly
drooped in the Books of Beauty of the day. Her carriage had been noble, her=
bloom
perfect, and, when she had driven through the streets "in attendance&q=
uot;
on her Royal Mistress, the populace had always chosen her as "the pick=
of 'em
all". Young as she had then been, elderly statesmen had found her worth
talking to, not as a mere beauty in her teens, but as a creature of singular
brilliance and clarity of outlook upon a world which might have dazzled her
youth. The most renowned among them had said of her, before she was twenty,
that she would live to be one of the cleverest women in Europe, and that she
had already the logical outlook of a just man of fifty.
She married early and was widowed in middle
life. In her later years rheumatic fever so far disabled her as to confine =
her
to her chair almost entirely. Her sons and daughter had homes and families =
of
their own to engage them. She would not allow them to sacrifice themselves =
to
her because her life had altered its aspect.
"I have money, friends, good servants= and a house I particularly like," she summed the matter up; "I may be condemned to sit by the fire, but I am not condemned to be a bore to my inoffensive family. I can still talk and read, and I shall train myself to = become a professional listener. This will attract. I shall not only read myself, b= ut I will be read to. A strong young man with a nice voice shall bring magazines= and books to me every day, and shall read the best things aloud. Delightful peo= ple will drop in to see me and will be amazed by my fund of information."<= o:p>
It was during the first years of her enfor=
ced
seclusion that Coombe's intimacy with her began. He had known her during
certain black days of his youth, and she had comprehended things he did not=
tell
her. She had not spoken of them to him but she had silently given him of
something which vaguely drew him to her side when darkness seemed to overwh=
elm
him. The occupations of her life left her in those earlier days little leis=
ure
for close intimacies, but, when she began to sit by her fire letting the bu=
sy
world pass by, he gradually became one of those who "dropped in".=
In one of the huge rooms she had chosen for
her own daily use, by the well-tended fire in its shining grate, she had
created an agreeable corner where she sat in a chair marvellous for ease and
comfort, enclosed from draughts by a fire screen of antique Chinese lacquer=
, a
table by her side and all she required within her reach. Upon the table sto=
od a
silver bell and, at its sound, her companion, her reader, her maid or her
personally trained footman, came and went quietly and promptly as if summon=
ed
by magic. Her life itself was simple, but a certain almost royal dignity
surrounded her loneliness. Her companion, Miss Brent, an intelligent, mature
woman who had known a hard and pinched life, found at once comfort and savo=
ur
in it.
"It is not I who am
expensive,"--this in one of her talks with Coombe, "but to live i=
n a
house of this size, well kept by excellent servants who are satisfied with
their lot, is not a frugal thing. A cap of tea for those of my friends who =
run
in to warm themselves by my fire in the afternoon; a dinner or so when I am
well enough to sit at the head of my table, represent almost all I now do f=
or the
world. Naturally, I must see that my tea is good and that my dinners cannot=
be
objected to. Nevertheless, I sit here in my chair and save money--for
what?"
Among those who "warmed themselves by=
her
fire" this man had singularly become her friend and intimate. When they
had time to explore each other's minds, they came upon curious discoveries =
of
hidden sympathies and mutual comprehensions which were rich treasures. They
talked of absorbing things with frankness. He came to sit with her when oth=
ers
were not admitted because she was in pain or fatigued. He added to neither =
her
fatigue nor her pain, but rather helped her to forget them.
"For what?" he answered on this =
day.
"Why not for your grandchildren?"
"They will have too much money. There=
are
only four of them. They will make great marriages as their parents did,&quo=
t;
she said. She paused a second before she added, "Unless our World
Revolution has broken into flame by that time--And there are no longer any
great marriages to make."
For among the many things they dwelt on in
their talks along, was the Chessboard, which was the Map of Europe, over wh=
ich
he had watched for many years certain hands hover in tentative experimentin=
g as
to the possibilities of the removal of the pieces from one square to anothe=
r.
She, too, from her youth had watched the game with an interest which had not
waned in her maturity, and which, in her days of sitting by the fire, had
increased with every move the hovering hands made. She had been familiar wi=
th
political parties and their leaders, she had met heroes and statesmen; she =
had
seen an unimportant prince become an emperor, who, from his green and boast=
ful
youth, aspired to rule the world and whose theatrical obsession had been the
sly jest of unwary nations, too carelessly sure of the advance of civilizat=
ion
and too indifferently self-indulgent to realize that a monomaniac, even if
treated as a source of humour, is a perilous thing to leave unwatched. She =
had known
France in all the glitter of its showy Empire, and had seen its imperial
glories dispersed as mist. Russia she had watched with curiosity and dread.=
On
the day when the ruler, who had bestowed freedom on millions of his people,=
met
his reward in the shattering bomb which tore him to fragments, she had been=
in
St. Petersburg. A king, who had been assassinated, she had known well and h=
ad
well liked; an empress, whom a frenzied madman had stabbed to the heart, had
been her friend.
Her years had been richly full of varied
events, giving a strong and far-seeing mind reason for much unspoken though=
t of
the kind which leaps in advance of its day's experience and exact knowledge=
. She
had learned when to speak and when to be silent, and she oftener chose sile=
nce.
But she had never ceased gazing on the world with keen eyes, and reflecting
upon its virtues and vagaries, its depths and its shallows, with the help o=
f a
clear and temperate brain.
By her fire she sat, an attracting presenc=
e,
though only fine, strong lines remained of beauty ravaged by illness and ye=
ars.
The "polished forehead" was furrowed by the chisel of suffering; =
the delicate
high nose springing from her waxen, sunken face seemed somewhat eaglelike, =
but
the face was still brilliant in its intensity of meaning and the carriage of
her head was still noble. Not able to walk except with the assistance of a
cane, her once exquisite hands stiffened almost to uselessness, she held her
court from her throne of mere power and strong charm. On the afternoons whe=
n people
"ran in to warm themselves" by her fire, the talk was never dull =
and
was often wonderful. There were those who came quietly into the room fresh =
from
important scenes where subjects of weight to nations were being argued
closely--perhaps almost fiercely. Sometimes the argument was continued over
cups of perfect tea near the chair of the Duchess, and, howsoever far it le=
d,
she was able brilliantly to follow. With the aid of books and pamphlets and=
magazines,
and the strong young man with the nice voice, who was her reader, she kept =
pace
with each step of the march of the world.
It was, however, the modern note in her
recollections of her world's march in days long past, in which Coombe found
mental food and fine flavour. The phrase, "in these days" express=
ed
in her utterance neither disparagement nor regret. She who sat in state in a
drawing-room lighted by wax candles did so as an affair of personal prefere=
nce,
and denied no claim of higher brilliance to electric illumination. Driving
slowly through Hyde Park on sunny days when she was able to go out, her
high-swung barouche hinted at no lofty disdain of petrol and motor power. At
the close of her youth's century, she looked forward with thrilled curiosit=
y to
the dawning wonders of the next.
"If the past had not held so much, one
might not have learned to expect more," was her summing up on a certain
afternoon, when he came to report himself after one of his absences from
England. "The most important discovery of the last fifty years has been
the revelation that no man may any longer assume to speak the last word on =
any
subject. The next man--almost any next man--may evolve more. Before that pe=
riod
all elderly persons were final in their dictum. They said to each other--and
particularly to the young--'It has not been done in my time--it was not don=
e in
my grandfather's time. It has never been done. It never can be done'."=
"The note of today is 'Since it has n=
ever
been done, it will surely be done soon'," said Coombe.
"Ah! we who began life in the most
assured and respectable of reigns and centuries," she answered him,
"have seen much. But these others will see more. Crinolines, mushroom =
hats
and large families seemed to promise a decorum peaceful to dullness; but th=
ere
have been battles, murders and sudden deaths; there have been almost supern=
atural
inventions and discoveries--there have been marvels of new doubts and faith=
s.
When one sits and counts upon one's fingers the amazements the 19th century=
has
provided, one gasps and gazes with wide eyes into the future. I, for one, f=
eel
rather as though I had seen a calm milch cow sauntering--at first slowly--a=
long
a path, gradually evolve into a tiger--a genie with a hundred heads contain=
ing
all the marvels of the world--a flying dragon with a thousand eyes! Oh, we =
have
gone fast and far!"
"And we shall go faster and
farther," Coombe added.
"That is it," she answered.
"Are we going too fast?"
"At least so fast that we forget thin=
gs
it would be well for us to remember." He had come in that day with a
certain preoccupied grimness of expression which was not unknown to her. It=
was
generally after one of his absences that he looked a shade grim.
"Such as--?" she inquired.
"Such as catastrophes in the history =
of
the world, which forethought and wisdom might have prevented. The French
Revolution is the obvious type of figure which lies close at hand so one pi=
cks
it up. The French Revolution--its Reign of Terror--the orgies of carnage--t=
he cataclysms
of agony--need not have been, but they WERE. To put it in words of one
syllable."
"What!" was her involuntary
exclamation. "You are seeking such similes as the French Revolution!&q=
uot;
"Who knows how far a madness may reach
and what Reign of Terror may take form?" He sat down and drew an atlas
towards him. It always lay upon the table on which all the Duchess desired =
was
within reach. It was fat, convenient of form, and agreeable to look at in i=
ts cover
of dull, green leather. Coombe's gesture of drawing it towards him was a
familiar one. It was frequently used as reference.
"The atlas again?" she said.
"Yes. Just now I can think of little
else. I have realized too much."
The continental journey had lasted a month=
. He
had visited more countries than one in his pursuit of a study he was making=
of the
way in which the wind was blowing particular straws. For long he had found =
much
to give thought to in the trend of movement in one special portion of the
Chessboard. It was that portion of it dominated by the ruler of whose obses=
sion
too careless nations made sly jest. This man he had known from his arrogant=
and
unendearing youth. He had looked on with unbiassed curiosity at his develop=
ment
into arrogance so much greater than its proportions touched the grotesque. =
The
rest of the world had looked on also, but apparently, merely in the casual =
way
which good-naturedly smiles and leaves to every man--even an emperor--the
privilege of his own eccentricities. Coombe had looked on with a difference=
, so
also had his friend by her fireside. This man's square of the Chessboard had
long been the subject of their private talks and a cause for the drawing to=
wards
them of the green atlas. The moves he made, the methods of his ruling, the
significance of these methods were the evidence they collected in their
frequent arguments. Coombe had early begun to see the whole thing as a
process--a life-long labour which was a means to a monstrous end.
There was a certain thing he believed of w=
hich
they often spoke as "It". He spoke of it now.
"Through three weeks I have been mark=
ing
how It grows," he said; "a whole nation with the entire power of =
its
commerce, its education, its science, its religion, guided towards one aim =
is a
curious study. The very babes are born and bred and taught only that one
thought may become an integral part of their being. The most innocent and b=
lue
eyed of them knows, without a shadow of doubt, that the world has but one
reason for existence--that it may be conquered and ravaged by the country t=
hat
gave them birth."
"I have both heard and seen it,"=
she
said. "One has smiled in spite of oneself, in listening to their simpl=
e,
everyday talk."
"In little schools--in large ones--in
little churches, and in imposing ones, their Faith is taught and
preached," Coombe answered. "Sometimes one cannot believe one's
hearing. It is all so ingenuously and frankly unashamed--the mouthing,
boasting, and threats of their piety. There exists for them no God who is n=
ot the
modest henchman of their emperor, and whose attention is not rivetted on th=
eir
prowess with admiration and awe. Apparently, they are His business, and He =
is
well paid by being allowed to retain their confidence."
"A lack of any sense of humour is a
disastrous thing," commented the Duchess. "The people of other na=
tions
may be fools--doubtless we all are--but there is no other which proclaims t=
he
fact abroad with such guileless outbursts of raucous exultation."
"And even we--you and I who have thou=
ght
more than others" he said, restlessly, "even we forget and half
smile. There been too much smiling."
She picked up an illustrated paper and ope=
ned
it at a page filled by an ornate picture.
"See!" she said. "It is bec=
ause
he himself has made it so easy, with his amazing portraits of his big boots,
and swords, and eruption of dangling orders. How can one help but smile whe=
n one
finds him glaring at one from a newspaper in his superwarlike attitude, def=
ying
the Universe, with his comic moustachios and their ferocious waxed and
bristling ends. No! One can scarcely believe that a man can be stupid enough
not to realize that he looks as if he had deliberately made himself up to
represent a sort of terrific military bogey intimating that, at he may poun=
ce
and say 'Boo?"
"There lies the peril. His pretensions
seem too grotesque to be treated seriously. And, while he should be watched=
as
a madman is watched, he is given a lifetime to we attack on a world that ha=
s ceased
to believe in the sole thing which is real to himself."
"You are fresh from observation."
There was new alertness in her eyes, though she had listened before.
"I tell you it GROWS!" he gave b=
ack
and lightly struck the table in emphasis. "Do you remember
Carlyle--?"
"The French Revolution again?"
"Yes. Do you recall this? 'Do not fir=
es,
fevers, seeds, chemical mixtures, GO ON GROWING. Observe, too, that EACH GR=
OWS
with a rapidity proportioned to the madness and unhealthiness there is in i=
t.'
A ruler who, in an unaggressive age such as this, can concentrate his life =
and
his people's on the one ambition of plunging the world in an ocean of blood=
, in
which his own monomania can bathe in triumph--Good God! there is madness and
unhealthiness to flourish in!"
"The world!" she said. "Yes=
--it
will be the world."
"See," he said, with a curve of =
the
finger which included most of the Map of Europe. "Here are countries
engaged--like the Bandarlog--in their own affairs. Quarrelling, snatching
things from each other, blustering or amusing themselves with transitory po=
mps
and displays of power. Here is a huge empire whose immense, half-savage
population has seethed for centuries in its hidden, boiling cauldron of reb=
ellion.
Oh! it has seethed! And only cruelties have repressed it. Now and then it h=
as
boiled over in assassination in high places, and one has wondered how long =
its
autocratic splendour could hold its own. Here are small, fierce, helpless
nations overrun and outraged into a chronic state of secret ever-ready hatr=
ed.
Here are innocent, small countries, defenceless through their position and
size. Here is France rich, careless, super-modern and cynic. Here is England
comfortable to stolidity, prosperous and secure to dullness in her own half
belief in a world civilization, which no longer argues in terms of blood and
steel. And here--in a well-entrenched position in the midst of it all--with=
in
but a few hundreds of miles of weakness, complicity, disastrous unreadiness=
and
panic-stricken uncertainty of purpose, sits this Man of One Dream--who beli=
eves
God Himself his vassal. Here he sits."
"Yes his One Dream. He has had no
other." The Duchess was poring over the map also. They were as people
pondering over a strange and terrible game.
"It is his monomania. It possessed him
when he was a boy. What Napoleon hoped to accomplish he has BELIEVED he cou=
ld
attain by concentrating all the power of people upon preparation for it--an=
d by
not flinching from pouring forth their blood as if it were the refuse water=
of
his gutters."
"Yes--the blood--the blood!" the
Duchess shuddered. "He would pour it forth without a qualm."
Coombe touched the map first at one point =
and
then at another.
"See!" he said again, and this t=
ime
savagely. "This empire flattered and entangled by cunning, this country
irritated, this deceived, this drawn into argument, this and this and this
treated with professed friendship, these tricked and juggled with--And then,
when his plans are ripe and he is made drunk with belief in himself--just o=
ne
sodden insult or monstrous breach of faith, which all humanity must leap to
resent--And there is our World Revolution."
The Duchess sat upright in her chair.
"Why did you let your youth pass?&quo=
t;
she said. "If you had begun early enough, you could hare made the coun=
try
listen to you. Why did you do it?"
"For the same reason that all selfish
grief and pleasure and indifference let the world go by. And I am not sure =
they
would have listened. I speak freely enough now in some quarters. They liste=
n, but
they do nothing. There is a warning in the fact that, as he has seen his yo=
uth
leave him without giving him his opportunity, he has been a disappointed man
inflamed and made desperate. At the outset, he felt that he must provide the
world with some fiction of excuse. As his obsession and arrogance have swol=
len,
he sees himself and his ambition as reason enough. No excuse is needed. Deu=
tschland
uber alles--is sufficient."
He pushed the map away and his fire died d=
own.
He spoke almost in his usual manner.
"The conquest of the world," he
said. "He is a great fool. What would he DO with his continents if he =
got
them?"
"What, indeed," pondered her gra=
ce.
"Continents--even kingdoms are not like kittens in a basket, or puppie=
s to
be trained to come to heel."
"It is part of his monomania that he =
can
persuade himself that they are little more." Coombe's eye-glasses had =
been
slowly swaying from the ribbon in his fingers. He let them continue to sway=
a moment
and then closed them with a snap.
"He is a great fool," he said.
"But we,--oh, my friend--and by 'we' I mean the rest of the Map of
Europe--we are much greater fools. A mad dog loose among us and we sit--and
smile."
And this was in the days before the house =
with
the cream-coloured front had put forth its first geraniums and lobelias in
Feather's window boxes. Robin was not born.
In
the added suite of rooms at the back of the house, Robin grew through the y=
ears
in which It was growing also. On the occasion when her mother saw her, she
realized that she was not at least going to look like a barmaid. At no peri=
od
of her least refulgent moment did she verge upon this type. Dowie took care=
of
her and Mademoiselle Valle educated her with the assistance of certain mast=
ers
who came to give lessons in German and Italian.
"Why only German and Italian and
French," said Feather, "why not Latin and Greek, as well, if she =
is to
be so accomplished?"
"It is modern languages one needs at =
this
period. They ought to be taught in the Board Schools," Coombe replied.
"They are not accomplishments but workman's tools. Nationalities are n=
ot separated
as they once were. To be familiar with the language of one's friends--and o=
ne's
enemies--is a protective measure."
"What country need one protect oneself
against? When all the kings and queens are either married to each other's
daughters or cousins or take tea with each other every year or so. Just thi=
nk of
the friendliness of Germany for instance----"
"I do," said Coombe, "very
often. That is one of the reasons I choose German rather than Latin and Gre=
ek.
Julius Caesar and Nero are no longer reasons for alarm."
"Is the Kaiser with his seventeen
children and his respectable Frau?" giggled Feather. "All that he
cares about is that women shall be made to remember that they are born for
nothing but to cook and go to church and have babies. One doesn't wonder at=
the
clothes they wear."
It was not a month after this, however, wh=
en
Lord Coombe, again warming himself at his old friend's fire, gave her a pie=
ce
of information.
"The German teacher, Herr Wiese, has
hastily returned to his own country," he said.
She lifted her eyebrows inquiringly.
"He found himself suspected of being a spy," was his answer. "With most excellent reason. Some first-rate sketches of fortifications were found in a box he left behind him in his ha= ste. The country--all countries--are sown with those like him. Mild spectacled students and clerks in warehouses and manufactories are weighing and measur= ing resources; round-faced, middle-aged governesses are making notes of conversation and of any other thing which may be useful. In time of war--if they were caught at what are now their simple daily occupations--they would= be placed against a wall and shot. As it is, they are allowed to play about am= ong us and slip away when some fellow worker's hint suggests it is time."<= o:p>
"German young men are much given to
spending a year or so here in business positions," the Duchess wore a
thoughtful air. "That has been going on for a decade or so. One recogn=
izes
their Teuton type in shops and in the streets. They say they come to learn =
the language
and commercial methods."
"Not long ago a pompous person, who is
the owner of a big shop, pointed out to me three of them among his
salesmen," Coombe said. "He plumed himself on his astuteness in
employing them. Said they worked for low wages and cared for very little el=
se
but finding out how things were done in England. It wasn't only business kn=
owledge
they were after, he said; they went about everywhere--into factories and do=
ck
yards, and public buildings, and made funny little notes and sketches of th=
ings
they didn't understand--so that they could explain them in Germany. In his
fatuous, insular way, it pleased him to regard them rather as a species of
aborigines benefiting by English civilization. The English Ass and the Germ=
an
Ass are touchingly alike. The shade of difference is that the English Ass's
sublime self-satisfaction is in the German Ass self-glorification. The Engl=
ish
Ass smirks and plumes himself; the German Ass blusters and bullies and
defies."
"Do you think of engaging another Ger= man Master for the little girl?" the Duchess asked the question casually.<= o:p>
"I have heard of a quiet young woman =
who
has shown herself thorough and well-behaved in a certain family for three
years. Perhaps she also will disappear some day, but, for the present, she =
will
serve the purpose."
As he had not put into words to others any
explanation of the story of the small, smart establishment in the Mayfair
street, so he had put into words no explanation to her. That she was aware =
of
its existence he knew, but what she thought of it, or imagined he himself t=
hought
of it, he had not at any period inquired. Whatsoever her point of view might
be, he knew it would be unbiassed, clear minded and wholly just. She had as=
ked
no question and made no comment. The rapid, whirligig existence of the
well-known fashionable groups, including in their circles varieties of the =
Mrs.
Gareth-Lawless type, were to be seen at smart functions and to be read of in
newspapers and fashion reports, if one's taste lay in the direction of a de=
sire
to follow their movements. The time had passed when pretty women of her kind
were cut off by severities of opinion from the delights of a world they had
thrown their dice daringly to gain. The worldly old axiom, "Be virtuou=
s and
you will be happy," had been ironically paraphrased too often. "P=
lease
yourself and you will be much happier than if you were virtuous," was a
practical reading.
But for a certain secret which she alone k=
new
and which no one would in the least have believed, if she had proclaimed it
from the housetops, Feather would really have been entirely happy. And, aft=
er
all, the fly in her ointment was merely an odd sting a fantastic Fate had
inflicted on her vanity and did not in any degree affect her pleasures. So =
many
people lived in glass houses that the habit of throwing stones had fallen o=
ut
of fashion as an exercise. There were those, too, whose houses of glass,
adroitly given the air of being respectable conservatories, engendered in t=
he
dwellers therein a leniency towards other vitreous constructions. As a resu=
lt
of this last circumstance, there were times when quite stately equipages dr=
ew
up before Mrs. Gareth-Lawless' door and visiting cards bearing the names of
acquaintances much to be desired were left upon the salver presented by
Jennings. Again, as a result of this circumstance, Feather employed some
laudable effort in her desire to give her own glass house the conservatory =
aspect.
Her little parties became less noisy, if they still remained lively. She ga=
ve
an "afternoon" now and then to which literary people and artists,=
and
persons who "did things" were invited. She was pretty enough to
allure an occasional musician to "do something", some new poet to
read or recite. Fashionable people were asked to come and hear and talk to
them, and, in this way, she threw out delicate fishing lines here and there,
and again and again drew up a desirable fish of substantial size. Sometimes=
the
vague rumour connected with the name of the Head of the House of Coombe was
quite forgotten and she was referred to amiably as "That beautiful cre=
ature,
Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." She was left a widow when she was nothing but a
girl. If she hadn't had a little money of her own, and if her husband's
relatives hadn't taken care of her, she would have had a hard time of it. S=
he
is amazingly clever at managing her, small income, they added. Her tiny hou=
se is
one of the jolliest little places in London--always full of good looking pe=
ople
and amusing things.
But, before Robin was fourteen, she had fo=
und
out that the house she lived in was built of glass and that any chance stone
would break its panes, even if cast without particular skill in aiming. She
found it out in various ways, but the seed from which all things sprang to =
the
fruition of actual knowledge was the child tragedy through which she had
learned that Donal had been taken from her--because his mother would not let
him love and play with a little girl whose mother let Lord Coombe come to h=
er
house--because Lord Coombe was so bad that even servants whispered secrets
about him. Her first interpretation of this had been that of a mere baby, b=
ut
it had filled her being with detestation of him, and curious doubts of her
mother. Donal's mother, who was good and beautiful, would not let him come =
to
see her and kept Donal away from him. If the Lady Downstairs was good, too,
then why did laugh and talk to him and seem to like him? She had thought th=
is
over for hours--sometimes wakening in the night to lie and puzzle over it
feverishly. Then, as time went by, she had begun to remember that she had n=
ever
played with any of the children in the Square Gardens. It had seemed as tho=
ugh
this had been because Andrews would not let her. But, if she was not fit to
play with Donal, perhaps the nurses and governesses and mothers of the other
children knew about it and would not trust their little girls and boys to h=
er
damaging society. She did not know what she could have done to harm them--a=
nd
Oh! how COULD she have harmed Donal!--but there must be something dreadful
about a child whose mother knew bad people--something which other children
could "catch" like scarlet fever. From this seed other thoughts h=
ad
grown. She did not remain a baby long. A fervid little brain worked for her,
picked up hints and developed suggestions, set her to singularly alert
reasoning which quickly became too mature for her age. The quite horrid lit=
tle girl,
who flouncingly announced that she could not be played with any more
"because of Lord Coombe" set a spark to a train. After that time =
she
used to ask occasional carefully considered questions of Dowson and
Mademoiselle Valle, which puzzled them by their vagueness. The two women we=
re
mutually troubled by a moody habit she developed of sitting absorbed in her=
own
thoughts, and with a concentrated little frown drawing her brows together. =
They
did not know that she was silently planning a subtle cross examination of t=
hem
both, whose form would be such that neither of them could suspect it of bei=
ng
anything but innocent. She felt that she was growing cunning and deceitful,=
but
she did not care very much. She possessed a clever and determined, though v=
ery
young brain. She loved both Dowson and Mademoiselle, but she must find out =
about
things for herself, and she was not going to harm or trouble them. They wou=
ld
never know she had found out: Whatsoever she discovered, she would keep to
herself.
But one does not remain a baby long, and o=
ne
is a little girl only a few years, and, even during the few years, one is
growing and hearing and seeing all the time. After that, one is beginning t=
o be
a rather big girl and one has seen books and newspapers, and overheard scra=
ps
of things from servants. If one is brought up in a convent and allowed to r=
ead
nothing but literature selected by nuns, a degree of aloofness from knowled=
ge
may be counted upon--though even convent schools, it is said, encounter the=
ir difficulties
in perfect discipline.
Robin, in her small "Palace" was
well taken care of but her library was not selected by nuns. It was chosen =
with
thought, but it was the library of modern youth. Mademoiselle Valle's theor=
ies
of a girl's education were not founded on a belief that, until marriage, she
should be led about by a string blindfolded, and with ears stopped with wax=
.
"That results in a bleating lamb's be=
ing
turned out of its fold to make its way through a jungle full of wild creatu=
res
and pitfalls it has never heard of," she said in discussing the point =
with
Dowson. She had learned that Lord Coombe agreed with her. He, as well as sh=
e,
chose the books and his taste was admirable. Its inclusion of an unobtrusive
care for girlhood did not preclude the exercise of the intellect. An early
developed passion for reading led the child far and wide. Fiction, history,
poetry, biography, opened up vistas to a naturally quick and eager mind.
Mademoiselle found her a clever pupil and an affection-inspiring little bei=
ng
even from the first.
She always felt, however, that in the dept=
hs
of her something held itself hidden--something she did not speak of. It was
some thought which perhaps bewildered her, but which something prevented he=
r making
clear to herself by the asking of questions. Mademoiselle Valle finally bec=
ame
convinced that she never would ask the questions.
Arrived a day when Feather swept into the
Palace with some visitors. They were two fair and handsome little girls of
thirteen and fourteen, whose mother, having taken them shopping, found it w=
ould
suit her extremely well to drop then somewhere for an hour while she went to
her dressmaker. Feather was quite willing that they should be left with Rob=
in
and Mademoiselle until their own governess called for them.
"Here are Eileen and Winifred Erwyn,
Robin," she said, bringing them in. "Talk to them and show them y=
our
books and things until the governess comes. Dowson, give them some cakes and
tea."
Mrs. Erwyn was one of the most treasured of
Feather's circle. Her little girls' governess was a young Frenchwoman, enti=
rely
unlike Mademoiselle Valle. Eileen and Winifred saw Life from their schoolro=
om
windows as an open book. Why not, since their governess and their mother's
French maid conversed freely, and had rather penetrating voices even when t=
hey
were under the impression that they lowered them out of deference to blamel=
ess
youth. Eileen and Winifred liked to remain awake to listen as long as they
could after they went to bed. They themselves had large curious eyes and we=
re
given to whispering and giggling.
They talked a good deal to Robin and assum=
ed
fashionable little grown up airs. They felt themselves mature creatures as
compared to her, since she was not yet thirteen. They were so familiar with
personages and functions that Robin felt that they must have committed to
memory every morning the column in the Daily Telegraph known as "London
Day by Day." She sometimes read it herself, because it was amusing to =
her
to read about parties and weddings and engagements. But it did not seem eas=
y to
remember. Winifred and Eileen were delighted to display themselves in the
character of instructresses. They entertained Robin for a short time, but, =
after
that, she began to dislike the shared giggles which so often broke out after
their introduction of a name or an incident. It seemed to hint that they we=
re
full of amusing information which they held back. Then they were curious and
made remarks and asked questions. She began to think them rather horrid.
"We saw Lord Coombe yesterday," =
said
Winifred at last, and the unnecessary giggle followed.
"We think he wears the most beautiful
clothes we ever saw! You remember his overcoat, Winnie?" said Eileen.
"He MATCHES so--and yet you don't know exactly how he matches," a=
nd
she giggled also.
"He is the best dressed man in
London," Winifred stated quite grandly. "I think he is handsome. =
So
do Mademoiselle and Florine."
Robin said nothing at all. What Dowson
privately called "her secret look" made her face very still. Wini=
fred
saw the look and, not understanding it or her, became curious.
"Don't you?" she said.
"No," Robin answered. "He h=
as a
wicked face. And he's old, too."
"You think he's old because you're on=
ly
about twelve," inserted Eileen. "Children think everybody who is
grown-up must be old. I used to. But now people don't talk and think about =
age
as they used to. Mademoiselle says that when a man has distinction he is al=
ways
young--and nicer than boys."
Winifred, who was persistent, broke in.
"As to his looking wicked, I daresay =
he
IS wicked in a sort of interesting way. Of course, people say all sorts of
things about him. When he was quite young, he was in love with a beautiful =
little
royal Princess--or she was in love with him--and her husband either killed =
her
or she died of a broken heart--I don't know which."
Mademoiselle Valle had left them for a sho=
rt
time feeling that they were safe with their tea and cakes and would feel mo=
re
at ease relieved of her presence. She was not long absent, but Eileen and W=
inifred,
being avid of gossip and generally eliminated subjects, "got in their
work" with quite fevered haste. They liked the idea of astonishing Rob=
in.
Eileen bent forward and lowered her voice.=
"They do say that once Captain Thorpe=
was
fearfully jealous of him and people wonder that he wasn't among the
co-respondents." The word "co-respondent" filled her with
self-gratulation even though she only whispered it.
"Co-respondents?" said Robin.
They both began to whisper at once--quite shrilly in their haste. They knew Mademoiselle might return at any moment.<= o:p>
"The great divorce case, you know! The
Thorpe divorce case the papers are so full of. We get the under housemaid to
bring it to us after Mademoiselle has done with it. It's so exciting! Haven=
't you
been reading it? Oh!"
"No, I haven't," answered Robin.
"And I don't know about co-respondents, but, if they are anything horr=
id,
I daresay he WAS one of them."
And at that instant Mademoiselle returned =
and
Dowson brought in fresh cakes. The governess, who was to call for her charg=
es, presented
herself not long afterwards and the two enterprising little persons were ta=
ken
away.
"I believe she's JEALOUS of Lord
Coombe," Eileen whispered to Winifred, after they reached home.
"So do I," said Winifred wisely.
"She can't help but know how he ADORES Mrs. Gareth-Lawless because she=
's
so lovely. He pays for all her pretty clothes. It's silly of her to be
jealous--like a baby."
Robin sometimes read newspapers, though sh=
e liked
books better. Newspapers were not forbidden her. She been reading an
enthralling book and had not seen a paper for some days. She at once search=
ed
for one and, finding it, sat down and found also the Thorpe Divorce Case. It
was not difficult of discovery, as it filled the principal pages with drama=
tic
evidence and amazing revelations.
Dowson saw her bending over the spread she=
ets,
hot-eyed and intense in her concentration.
"What are you reading, my love?"=
she
asked.
The little flaming face lifted itself. It =
was
unhappy, obstinate, resenting. It wore no accustomed child look and Dowson =
felt
rather startled.
"I'm reading the Thorpe Divorce Case,
Dowie," she answered deliberately and distinctly.
Dowie came close to her.
"It's an ugly thing to read, my
lamb," she faltered. "Don't you read it. Such things oughtn't to =
be
allowed in newspapers. And you're a little girl, my own dear." Robin's
elbow rested firmly on the table and her chin firmly in her hand. Her eyes =
were
not like a bird's.
"I'm nearly thirteen," she said.
"I'm growing up. Nobody can stop themselves when they begin to grow up=
. It
makes them begin to find out things. I want to ask you something, Dowie.&qu=
ot;
"Now, lovey--!" Dowie began with
tremor. Both she and Mademoiselle had been watching the innocent "grow=
ing
up" and fearing a time would come when the widening gaze would see too
much. Had it come as soon as this?
Robin suddenly caught the kind woman's wri=
sts
in her hands and held them while she fixed her eyes on her. The childish
passion of dread and shyness in them broke Dowson's heart because it was so
ignorant and young.
"I'm growing up. There's something--I
MUST know something! I never knew how to ask about it before." It was =
so
plain to Dowson that she did not know how to ask about it now. "Someone
said that Lord Coombe might have been a co-respondent in the Thorpe
case----"
"These wicked children!" gasped
Dowie. "They're not children at all!"
"Everybody's horrid but you and
Mademoiselle," cried Robin, brokenly. She held the wrists harder and e=
nded
in a sort of outburst. "If my father were alive--could he bring a divo=
rce
suit----And would Lord Coombe----"
Dowson burst into open tears. And then, so=
did
Robin. She dropped Dowson's wrists and threw her arms around her waist,
clinging to it in piteous repentance.
"No, I won't!" she cried out.
"I oughtn't to try to make you tell me. You can't. I'm wicked to you. =
Poor
Dowie--darling Dowie! I want to KISS you, Dowie! Let me--let me!"
She sobbed childishly on the comfortable
breast and Dowie hugged her close and murmured in a choked voice,
"My lamb! My pet lamb!"
Mademoiselle
Valle and Dowson together realized that after this the growing up process w=
as
more rapid. It always seems incredibly rapid to lookers on, after thirteen.=
But
these two watchers felt that, in Robin's case, it seemed unusually so. Robin
had always been interested in her studies and clever at them, but, suddenly=
, she
developed a new concentration and it was of an order which her governess fe=
lt
denoted the secret holding of some object in view. She devoted herself to h=
er
lessons with a quality of determination which was new. She had previously b=
een
absorbed, but not determined. She made amazing strides and seemed to aspire=
to
a thoroughness and perfection girls did not commonly aim at--especially at =
the frequently
rather preoccupied hour of blossoming. Mademoiselle encountered in her an
eagerness that she--who knew girls--would have felt it optimistic to expect=
in
most cases. She wanted to work over hours; she would have read too much if =
she
had not been watched and gently coerced.
She was not distracted by the society of y=
oung
people of her own age. She, indeed, showed a definite desire to avoid such
companionship. What she said to Mademoiselle Valle one afternoon during a l=
ong
walk they took together, held its own revelation for the older woman.
They had come upon the two Erwyns walking =
with
their attendant in Kensington Gardens, and, seeing them at some distance, R=
obin
asked her companion to turn into another walk.
"I don't want to meet them," she
said, hurriedly. "I don't think I like girls. Perhaps it's horrid of
me--but I don't. I don't like those two." A few minutes later, after t=
hey
had walked in an opposite direction, she said thoughtfully.
"Perhaps the kind of girls I should l=
ike
to know would not like to know me."
From the earliest days of her knowledge of
Lord Coombe, Mademoiselle Valle had seen that she had no cause to fear lack=
of
comprehension on his part. With a perfection of method, they searched each
other's intelligence. It had become understood that on such occasions as th=
ere
was anything she wished to communicate or inquire concerning, Mr. Benby, in=
his
private room, was at Mademoiselle's service, and there his lordship could a=
lso
be met personally by appointment.
"There have been no explanations,&quo=
t;
Mademoiselle Valle said to Dowson. "He does not ask to know why I turn=
to
him and I do not ask to know why he cares about this particular child. It is
taken for granted that is his affair and not mine. I am paid well to take c=
are
of Robin, and he knows that all I say and do is part of my taking care of
her."
After the visit of the Erwyn children, she=
had
a brief interview with Coombe, in which she made for him a clear sketch. It=
was
a sketch of unpleasant little minds, avid and curious on somewhat exotic
subjects, little minds, awake to rather common claptrap and gossipy pinchbe=
ck
interests.
"Yes--unpleasant, luckless, little
persons. I quite understand. They never appeared before. They will not appe=
ar
again. Thank you, Mademoiselle," he said.
The little girls did not appear again; nei=
ther
did any others of their type, and the fact that Feather knew little of other
types was a sufficient reason for Robin's growing up without companions of =
her
own age.
"She's a lonely child, after all,&quo=
t;
Mademoiselle said.
"She always was," answered Dowie.
"But she's fond of us, bless her heart, and it isn't loneliness like it
was before we came."
"She is not unhappy. She is too bloom=
ing
and full of life," Mademoiselle reflected. "We adore her and she =
has
many interests. It is only that she does not know the companionship most yo=
ung people
enjoy. Perhaps, as she has never known it, she does not miss it."
The truth was that if the absence of
intercourse with youth produced its subtle effect on her, she was not aware=
of
any lack, and a certain uncompanioned habit of mind, which gave her much ti=
me
for dreams and thought, was accepted by her as a natural condition as simpl=
y as
her babyhood had accepted the limitations of the Day and Night Nurseries.
She was not a self-conscious creature, but=
the
time came when she became rather disturbed by the fact that people looked at
her very often, as she walked in the streets. Sometimes they turned their h=
eads
to look after her; occasionally one person walking with another would say
something quietly to his or her companion, and they even paused a moment to
turn quite round and look. The first few times she noticed this she flushed
prettily and said nothing to Mademoiselle Valle who was generally with her.
But, after her attention had been attracted by the same thing on several
different days, she said uneasily:
"Am I quite tidy, Mademoiselle?"=
"Quite," Mademoiselle answered--=
just
a shade uneasy herself.
"I began to think that perhaps someth=
ing
had come undone or my hat was crooked," she explained. "Those two
women stared so. Then two men in a hansom leaned forward and one said somet=
hing
to the other, and they both laughed a little, Mademoiselle!" hurriedly=
, "Now,
there are three young men!" quite indignantly. "Don't let them see
you notice them--but I think it RUDE!"
They were carelessly joyous and not strict=
ly
well-bred youths, who were taking a holiday together, and their rudeness was
quite unintentional and without guile. They merely stared and obviously mut=
tered
comments to each other as they passed, each giving the hasty, unconscious t=
ouch
to his young moustache, which is the automatic sign of pleasurable observat=
ion
in the human male.
"If she had had companions of her own=
age
she would have known all about it long ago," Mademoiselle was thinking=
.
Her intelligent view of such circumstances=
was
that the simple fact they arose from could--with perfect taste--only be tre=
ated
simply. It was a mere fact; therefore, why be prudish and affected about it=
.
"They did not intend any rudeness,&qu=
ot;
she said, after they had gone by. "They are not much more than boys and
not perfectly behaved. People often stare when they see a very pretty girl.=
I
am afraid I do it myself. You are very pretty," quite calmly, and as o=
ne speaking
without prejudice.
Robin turned and looked at her, and the
colour, which was like a Jacqueminot rose, flooded her face. She was at the
flushing age. Her gaze was interested, speculative, and a shade
startled--merely a shade.
"Oh," she said briefly--not in
exclamation exactly, but in a sort of acceptance. Then she looked straight
before her and went on walking, with the lovely, slightly swaying, buoyant =
step
which in itself drew attracted eyes after her.
"If I were a model governess, such as=
one
read of long before you were born," Mademoiselle Valle continued, &quo=
t;I
should feel it my duty to tell you that beauty counts for nothing. But that=
is nonsense.
It counts a great deal--with some women it counts for everything. Such women
are not lucky. One should thank Heaven for it and make the best of it, with=
out
exaggerated anxiety. Both Dowie and I, who love you, are GRATEFUL to le bon
Dieu that you are pretty."
"I have sometimes thought I was prett=
y,
when I saw myself in the glass," said Robin, with unexcited interest.
"It seemed to me that I LOOKED pretty. But, at the same time, I couldn=
't
help knowing that everything is a matter of taste and that it might be beca=
use I
was conceited."
"You are not conceited," answered
the Frenchwoman.
"I don't want to be," said Robin.
"I want to be--a serious person with--with a strong character."
Mademoiselle's smile was touched with
affectionate doubt. It had not occurred to her to view this lovely thing in=
the
light of a "strong" character. Though, after all, what exactly was
strength? She was a warm, intensely loving, love compelling, tender being. =
Having
seen much of the world, and of humanity and inhumanity, Mademoiselle Valle =
had
had moments of being afraid for her--particularly when, by chance, she reca=
lled
the story Dowson had told her of the bits of crushed and broken leaves.
"A serious person," she said,
"and strong?"
"Because I must earn my own living,&q=
uot;
said Robin. "I must be strong enough to take care of myself. I am goin=
g to
be a governess--or something."
Here, it was revealed to Mademoiselle as i=
n a
flash, was the reason why she had applied herself with determination to her
studies. This had been the object in view. For reasons of her own, she inte=
nded
to earn her living. With touched interest, Mademoiselle Valle waited, wonde=
ring
if she would be frank about the reason. She merely said aloud:
"A governess?"
"Perhaps there may be something else I
can do. I might be a secretary or something like that. Girls and women are =
beginning
to do so many new things," her charge explained herself. "I do no=
t want
to be--supported and given money. I mean I do not want--other people--to bu=
y my
clothes and food--and things. The newspapers are full of advertisements. I
could teach children. I could translate business letters. Very soon I shall=
be
old enough to begin. Girls in their teens do it."
She had laid some of her cards on the tabl=
e,
but not all, poor child. She was not going into the matter of her really
impelling reasons. But Mademoiselle Valle was not dull, and her affection a=
dded
keenness to her mental observations. Also she had naturally heard the story=
of
the Thorpe lawsuit from Dowson. Inevitably several points suggested themsel=
ves
to her.
"Mrs. Gareth-Lawless----" she be=
gan,
reasonably.
But Robin stopped her by turning her face =
full
upon her once more, and this time her eyes were full of clear significance.=
"She will let me go," she said.
"You KNOW she will let me go, Mademoiselle, darling. You KNOW she
will." There was a frank comprehension and finality in the words which
made a full revelation of facts Mademoiselle herself had disliked even to a=
llow
to form themselves into thoughts. The child knew all sorts of things and fe=
lt
all sorts of things. She would probably never go into details, but she was
extraordinarily, harrowingly, AWARE. She had been learning to be aware for
years. This had been the secret she had always kept to herself.
"If you are planning this,"
Mademoiselle said, as reasonably as before, "we must work very serious=
ly
for the news few years."
"How long do you think it will
take?" asked Robin. She was nearing sixteen--bursting into glowing
blossom--a radiant, touching thing whom one only could visualize in floweri=
ng
gardens, in charming, enclosing rooms, figuratively embraced by every mature
and kind arm within reach of her. This presented itself before Mademoiselle=
Valle
with such vividness that it was necessary for her to control a sigh.
"When I feel that you are ready, I wi=
ll
tell you," she answered. "And I will do all I can to help you--be=
fore
I leave you."
"Oh!" Robin gasped, in an
involuntarily childish way, "I--hadn't thought of that! How could I LI=
VE
without you--and Dowie?"
"I know you had not thought of it,&qu=
ot;
said Mademoiselle, affectionately. "You are only a dear child yet. But
that will be part of it, you know. A governess or a secretary, or a young l=
ady
in an office translating letters cannot take her governess and maid with
her."
"Oh!" said Robin again, and her =
eyes
became suddenly so dewy that the person who passed her at the moment though=
t he
had never seen such wonderful eyes in his life. So much of her was still ch=
ild that
the shock of this sudden practical realization thrust the mature and determ=
ined
part of her being momentarily into the background, and she could scarcely b=
ear
her alarmed pain. It was true that she had been too young to face her plan =
as
she must.
But, after the long walk was over and she
found herself in her bedroom again, she was conscious of a sense of being
relieved of a burden. She had been wondering when she could tell Mademoisel=
le and
Dowie of her determination. She had not liked to keep it a secret from them=
as
if she did not love them, but it had been difficult to think of a way in wh=
ich
to begin without seeming as if she thought she was quite grown up--which wo=
uld
have been silly. She had not thought of speaking today, but it had all come
about quite naturally, as a result of Mademoiselle's having told her that s=
he was
really very pretty--so pretty that it made people turn to look at her in the
street. She had heard of girls and women who were like that, but she had ne=
ver
thought it possible that she----! She had, of course, been looked at when s=
he
was very little, but she had heard Andrews say that people looked because s=
he
had so much hair and it was like curled silk.
She went to the dressing table and looked =
at
herself in the glass, leaning forward that she might see herself closely. T=
he
face which drew nearer and nearer had the effect of some tropic flower, bec=
ause
it was so alive with colour which seemed to palpitate instead of standing
still. Her soft mouth was warm and brilliant with it, and the darkness of h=
er
eyes was--as it had always been--like dew. Her brow were a slender black ve=
lvet
line, and her lashes made a thick, softening shadow. She saw they were
becoming. She cupped her round chin in her hands and studied herself with a=
desire
to be sure of the truth without prejudice or self conceit. The whole effect=
of
her was glowing, and she felt the glow as others did. She put up a finger to
touch the velvet petal texture of her skin, and she saw how prettily pointed
and slim her hand was. Yes, that was pretty--and her hair--the way it grew
about her forehead and ears and the back of her neck. She gazed at her young
curve and colour and flame of life's first beauty with deep curiosity,
singularly impersonal for her years.
She liked it; she began to be grateful as
Mademoiselle had said she and Dowie were. Yes, if other people liked it, th=
ere
was no use in pretending it would not count.
"If I am going to earn my living,&quo=
t;
she thought, with entire gravity, "it may be good for me. If I am a
governess, it will be useful because children like pretty people. And if I =
am a
secretary and work in an office, I daresay men like one to be pretty becaus=
e it
is more cheerful."
She mentioned this to Mademoiselle Valle, =
who
was very kind about it, though she looked thoughtful afterwards. When, a few
days later, Mademoiselle had an interview with Coombe in Benby's comfortabl=
e room,
he appeared thoughtful also as he listened to her recital of the incidents =
of
the long walk during which her charge had revealed her future plans.
"She is a nice child," he said.
"I wish she did not dislike me so much. I understand her, villain as s=
he
thinks me. I am not a genuine villain," he added, with his cold smile.=
But
he was saying it to himself, not to Mademoiselle.
This, she saw, but--singularly, perhaps--s=
he
spoke as if in reply.
"Of that I am aware."
He turned his head slightly, with a quick,
unprepared movement.
"Yes?" he said.
"Would your lordship pardon me if I
should say that otherwise I should not ask your advice concerning a very yo=
ung
girl?"
He slightly waved his hand.
"I should have known that--if I had
thought of it. I do know it."
Mademoiselle Valle bowed.
"The fact," she said, "that=
she
seriously thinks that perhaps beauty may be an advantage to a young person =
who
applies for work in the office of a man of business because it may seem bri=
ght
and cheerful to him when he is tired and out of spirits--that gives one fur=
iously
to think. Yes, to me she said it, milord--with the eyes of a little dove
brooding over her young. I could see her--lifting them like an angel to some
elderly vaurien, who would merely think her a born cocotte."
Here Coombe's rigid face showed thought
indeed.
"Good God!" he muttered, quite to
himself, "Good God!" in a low, breathless voice. Villain or saint=
, he
knew not one world but many.
"We must take care of her," he s=
aid
next. "She is not an insubordinate child. She will do nothing yet?&quo=
t;
"I have told her she is not yet
ready," Mademoiselle Valle answered. "I have also promised to tell
her when she is--And to help her."
"God help her if we do not!" he
said. "She is, on the whole, as ignorant as a little sheep--and butche=
rs
are on the lookout for such as she is. They suit them even better than the
little things whose tendencies are perverse from birth. An old man with an =
evil
character may be able to watch over her from a distance."
Mademoiselle regarded him with grave eyes,
which took in his tall, thin erectness of figure, his bearing, the perfecti=
on
of his attire with its unfailing freshness, which was not newness.
"Do you call yourself an old man,
milord?" she asked.
"I am not decrepit--years need not br=
ing
that," was his answer. "But I believe I became an old man before I
was thirty. I have grown no older--in that which is really age--since
then."
In the moment's silence which followed, his
glance met Mademoiselle Valle's and fixed itself.
"I am not old enough--or young enough=
--to
be enamoured of Mrs. Gareth-Lawless' little daughter," he said. "=
YOU
need not be told that. But you have heard that there are those who amuse
themselves by choosing to believe that I am."
"A few light and not too clean-minded
fools," she admitted without flinching.
"No man can do worse for himself than=
to
explain and deny," he responded with a smile at once hard and fine.
"Let them continue to believe it."
Sixteen passed by with many other things m=
uch
more disturbing and important to the world than a girl's birthday; seventeen
was gone, with passing events more complicated still and increasingly signi=
ficant,
but even the owners of the hands hovering over the Chessboard, which was the
Map of Europe, did not keep a watch on all of them as close as might have b=
een
kept with advantage. Girls in their teens are seldom interested in political
and diplomatic conditions, and Robin was not fond of newspapers. She worked
well and steadily under Mademoiselle's guidance, and her governess realized
that she was not losing sight of her plans for self support. She was made a=
ware
of this by an occasional word or so, and also by a certain telepathic union
between them. Little as she cared for the papers, the child had a habit of
closely examining the advertisements every day. She read faithfully the col=
umns
devoted to those who "Want" employment or are "Wanted" =
by
employers.
"I look at all the paragraphs which b=
egin
'Wanted, a young lady' or a 'young woman' or a 'young person,' and those wh=
ich
say that 'A young person' or 'a young woman' or 'a young lady' desires a po=
sition.
I want to find out what is oftenest needed."
She had ceased to be disturbed by the eyes
which followed her, or opened a little as she passed. She knew that nothing=
had
come undone or was crooked and that untidiness had nothing to do with the
matter. She accepted being looked at as a part of everyday life. A certain
friendliness and pleasure in most of the glances she liked and was glad of.
Sometimes men of the flushed, middle-aged or elderly type displeased her by=
a
sort of boldness of manner and gaze, bet she thought that they were only si=
lly,
giddy, old things who ought to go home to their families and stay with than=
. Mademoiselle
or Dowie was nearly always with her, but, as she was not a French jemme fil=
le,
this was not because it was supposed that she could not be trusted out alon=
e,
but because she enjoyed their affectionate companionship.
There was one man, however, whom she great=
ly
disliked, as young girls will occasionally dislike a member of the opposite=
sex
for no special reason they can wholly explain to themselves.
He was an occasional visitor of her
mother's--a personable young Prussian officer of high rank and title. He was
blonde and military and good-looking; he brought his bearing and manner from
the Court at Berlin, and the click of his heels as he brought them smartly =
together,
when he made his perfect automatic bow, was one of the things Robin knew she
was reasonless in feeling she detested in him.
"It makes me feel as if he was not me=
rely
bowing as a a man who is a gentleman does," she confided to Mademoisel=
le
Valle, "but as if he had been taught to do it and to call attention to=
it
as if no one had ever known how to do it properly before. It is so flourish=
ing
in its stiff way that it's rather vulgar."
"That is only personal fancy on your
part," commented Mademoiselle.
"I know it is," admitted Robin.
"But--" uneasily, "--but that isn't what I dislike in him mo=
st.
It's his eyes, I suppose they are handsome eyes. They are blue and full--ra=
ther
too full. They have a queer, swift stare--as if they plunged into other
people's eyes and tried to hold them and say something secret, all in one s=
econd.
You find yourself getting red and trying to look away."
"I don't," said Mademoiselle
astutely--because she wanted to hear the rest, without asking too many
questions.
Robin laughed just a little.
"You have not seen him do it. I have =
not
seen him do it myself very often. He comes to call on--Mamma"--she nev=
er
said "Mother"--"when he is in London. He has been coming for=
two
or three seasons. The first time I saw him I was going out with Dowie and he
was just going upstairs. Because the hall is so small, we almost knocked ag=
ainst
each other, and he jumped back and made his bow, and he stared so that I fe=
lt
silly and half frightened. I was only fifteen then."
"And since then?" Mademoiselle V=
alle
inquired.
"When he is here it seems as if I alw=
ays
meet him somewhere. Twice, when Fraulein Hirsch was with me in the Square
Gardens, he came and spoke to us. I think he must know her. He was very gra=
nd
and condescendingly polite to her, as if he did not forget she was only a
German teacher and I was only a little girl whose mamma he knew. But he kept
looking at me until I began to hate him."
"You must not dislike people without
reason. You dislike Lord Coombe."
"They both make me creep. Lord Coombe
doesn't plunge his eyes into mine, but he makes me creep with his fishy
coldness. I feel as if he were like Satan in his still way."
"That is childish prejudice and
nonsense."
"Perhaps the other is, too," said
Robin. "But they both make me creep, nevertheless. I would rather DIE =
than
be obliged to let one of them touch me. That was why I would never shake ha=
nds
with Lord Coombe when I was a little child."
"You think Fraulein Hirsch knows the
Baron?" Mademoiselle inquired further.
"I am sure she does. Several times, w=
hen
she has gone out to walk with me, we have met him. Sometimes he only passes=
us
and salutes, but sometimes he stops and says a few words in a stiff,
magnificent way. But he always bores his eyes into mine, as if he were find=
ing out
things about me which I don't know myself. He has passed several times when=
you
have been with me, but you may not remember."
Mademoiselle Valle chanced, however, to re=
call
having observed the salute of a somewhat haughty, masculine person, whose
military bearing in itself was sufficient to attract attention, so markedly=
did
it suggest the clanking of spurs and accoutrements, and the high lift of a
breast bearing orders.
"He is Count von Hillern, and I wish =
he
would stay in Germany," said Robin.
Fraulein Hirsch had not been one of those =
who
returned hastily to her own country, giving no warning of her intention to =
her
employers. She had remained in London and given her lessons faithfully. She=
was
a plain young woman with a large nose and pimpled, colourless face and shy =
eyes
and manner. Robin had felt sure that she stood in awe of the rank and milit=
ary
grandeur of her fellow countryman. She looked shyer than ever when he
condescended to halt and address her and her charge--so shy, indeed, that h=
er
glances seemed furtive. Robin guessed that she admired him but was too humb=
le
to be at ease when he was near her. More than once she had started and turn=
ed red
and pale when she saw him approaching, which had caused Robin to wonder if =
she
herself would feel as timid and overpowered by her superiors, if she became=
a
governess. Clearly, a man like Count von Hillern would then be counted among
her superiors, and she must conduct herself becomingly, even if it led to h=
er
looking almost stealthy. She had, on several occasions, asked Fraulein cert=
ain
questions about governesses. She had inquired as to the age at which one co=
uld
apply for a place as instructress to children or young girls. Fraulein Hirs=
ch
had begun her career in Germany at the age of eighteen. She had lived a ser=
ious
life, full of responsibilities at home as one of a large family, and she ha=
d perhaps
been rather mature for her age. In England young women who wished for
situations answered advertisements and went to see the people who had inser=
ted
them in the newspapers, she explained. Sometimes, the results were very
satisfactory. Fraulein Hirsch was very amiable in her readiness to supply
information. Robin did not tell her of her intention to find work of some
sort--probably governessing--but the young German woman was possessed of a =
mind
"made in Germany" and was quite well aware of innumerable things =
her
charge did not suspect her of knowing. One of the things she knew best was =
that
the girl was a child. She was not a child herself, and she was an abjectly
bitter and wretched creature who had no reason for hope. She lived in small
lodgings in a street off Abbey Road, and, in a drawer in her dressing table,
she kept hidden a photograph of a Prussian officer with cropped blond head,=
and
handsome prominent blue eyes, arrogantly gazing from beneath heavy lids whi=
ch
drooped. He was of the type the German woman, young and slim, or mature and
stout, privately worships as a god whose relation to any woman can only be =
that
of a modern Jove stooping to command service. In his teens he had become
accustomed to the female eye which lifts itself adoringly or casts the
furtively excited glance of admiration or appeal. It was the way of mere na=
ture
that it should be so--the wise provision of a masculine God, whose world was
created for the supply and pleasure of males, especially males of the Pruss=
ian
Army, whose fixed intention it was to dominate the world and teach it
obedience.
To such a man, so thoroughly well trained =
in
the comprehension of the power of his own rank and values, a young woman su=
ch
as Fraulein Hirsch--subservient and without beauty--was an unconsidered obj=
ect to
be as little regarded as the pavement upon which one walks. The pavement had
its uses, and such women had theirs. They could, at least, obey the orders =
of
those Heaven had placed above them, and, if they showed docility and
intelligence, might be re warded by a certain degree of approval.
A presumption, which would have dared to
acknowledge to the existence of the hidden photograph, could not have been
encompassed by the being of Fraulein Hirsch. She was, in truth, secretly
enslaved by a burning, secret, heart-wringing passion which, sometimes, as =
she
lay on her hard bed at night, forced from her thin chest hopeless sobs which
she smothered under the bedclothes.
Figuratively, she would have licked the bo=
ots
of her conquering god, if he would have looked at her--just looked-as if she
were human. But such a thing could not have occurred to him. He did not even
think of her as she thought of herself, torturingly--as not young, not in a=
ny
degree good-looking, not geboren, not even female. He did not think of her =
at
all, except as one of those born to serve in such manner as their superiors
commanded. She was in England under orders, because she was unobtrusive loo=
king
enough to be a safe person to carry on the work she had been given to do. S=
he
was cleverer than she looked and could accomplish certain things without
attracting any attention whatsoever.
Von Hillern had given her instructions now=
and
then, which had made it necessary for him to see and talk to her in various
places. The fact that she had before her the remote chance of seeing him by
some chance, gave her an object in life. It was enough to be allowed to sta=
nd
or sit for a short time near enough to have been able to touch his sleeve, =
if
she had had the mad audacity to do it; to quail before his magnificent glan=
ce,
to hear his voice, to ALMOST touch his strong, white hand when she gave him
papers, to see that he deigned, sometimes, to approve of what she had done,=
to
assure him of her continued obedience, with servile politeness.
She was not a nice woman, or a good one, a=
nd
she had, from her birth, accepted her place in her world with such finality
that her desires could not, at any time, have been of an elevated nature. I=
f he
had raised a haughty hand and beckoned to her, she would have followed him =
like
a dog under any conditions he chose to impose. But he did not raise his han=
d,
and never would, because she had no attractions whatsoever. And this she kn=
ew,
so smothered her sobs in her bed at night or lay awake, fevered with
anticipation when there was a vague chance that he might need her for some
reason and command her presence in some deserted park or country road or ch=
eap
hotel, where she could take rooms for the night as if she were a passing
visitor to London.
One night--she had taken cheap lodgings fo=
r a
week in a side street, in obedience to orders--he came in about nine o'clock
dressed in a manner whose object was to dull the effect of his grandeur and=
cause
him to look as much like an ordinary Englishman as possible.
But, when the door was closed and he stood
alone in the room with her, she saw, with the blissful pangs of an abjectly
adoring woman, that he automatically resumed his magnificence of bearing. H=
is
badly fitting overcoat removed, he stood erect and drawn to his full height=
, so
dominating the small place and her idolatrously cringing being that her hea=
rt
quaked within her. Oh! to dare to cast her unloveliness at his feet, if it =
were
only to be trampled upon and die there! No small sense of humour existed in=
her
brain to save her from her pathetic idiocy. Romantic humility and touching =
sacrifice
to the worshipped one were the ideals she had read of in verse and song all=
her
life. Only through such servitude and sacrifice could woman gain man's
love--and even then only if she had beauty and the gifts worthy of her idol=
's
acceptance.
It was really his unmitigated arrogance she
worshipped and crawled upon her poor, large-jointed knees to adore. Her
education, her very religion itself had taught that it was the sign of his
nobility and martial high breeding. Even the women of his own class believe=
d something
of the same sort--the more romantic and sentimental of them rather enjoying
being mastered by it. To Fraulein Hirsch's mental vision, he was a sublimat=
ed
and more dazzling German Rochester, and she herself a more worthy, because =
more
submissive, Jane Eyre. Ach Gott! His high-held, cropped head--his so beauti=
ful white
hands--his proud eyes which deigned to look at her from their drooping lids!
His presence filled the shabby room with the atmosphere of a Palace.
He asked her a few questions; he required =
from
her certain notes she had made; without wasting a word or glance he gave he=
r in
detail certain further orders.
He stood by the table, and it was, therefo=
re,
necessary that she should approach him--should even stand quite near that s=
he
might see clearly a sketch he made hastily--immediately afterwards tearing =
it
into fragments and burning it with a match. She was obliged to stand so near
him that her skirt brushed his trouser leg. His nearness, and a vague scent=
of
cigar smoke, mingled with the suggestion of some masculine soap or essence,
were so poignant in their effect that she trembled and water rose in her ey=
es.
In fact--and despite her terrified effort to control it, a miserable tear f=
ell
on her cheek and stood there because she dared not wipe it away.
Because he realized, with annoyance, that =
she
was trembling, he cast a cold, inquiring glance at her and saw the tear. Th=
en
he turned away and resumed his examination of her notes. He was not here to
make inquiries as to whether a sheep of a woman was crying or had merely a =
cold
in her head. "Ach!" grovelled poor Hirsch in her secret soul,--his
patrician control of outward expression and his indifference to all small a=
nd
paltry things! It was part, not only of his aristocratic breeding, but of t=
he
splendour of his military training.
It was his usual custom to leave her at on=
ce,
when the necessary formula had been gone through. Tonight--she scarcely dar=
ed
to believe it--he seemed to have some reason for slight delay. He did not s=
it
down or ask Fraulein Hirsch to do so--but he did not at once leave the room=
. He
lighted a quite marvellous cigar--deigning a slight wave of the admired hand
which held it, designating that he asked permission. Oh! if she dared have
darted to him with a match! He stood upon the hearth and asked a
casual-sounding question or so regarding her employer, her household, her
acquaintances, her habits.
The sole link between them was the asking =
of
questions and the giving of private information, and, therefore, the matter=
of
taste in such matters did not count as a factor. He might ask anything and =
she
must answer. Perhaps it was necessary for her to seek some special knowledge
among the guests Mrs. Gareth-Lawless received. But training, having develop=
ed
in her alertness of mind, led her presently to see that it was not Mrs.
Gareth-Lawless he was chiefly interested in--but a member of her family--the
very small family which consisted of herself and her daughter.
It was Robin he was enclosing in his netwo=
rk
of questions. And she had seen him look at Robin when he had passed or spok=
en
to them. An illuminating flash brought back to her that he had cleverly fou=
nd
out from her when they were to walk together, and where they were to go. She
had not been quick enough to detect this before, but she saw it now. Girls =
who
looked like that--yes! But it could not be--serious. An English girl of such
family--with such a mother! A momentary caprice, such as all young men of h=
is
class amused themselves with and forgot--but nothing permanent. It would no=
t,
indeed, be approved in those High Places where obedience was the first
commandment of the Decalogue.
But he did not go. He even descended a sha=
de
from his inaccessible plane. It was not difficult for him to obtain details=
of
the odd loneliness of the girl's position. Fraulein Hirsch was quite ready =
to
explain that, in spite of the easy morals and leniency of rank and fashion =
in
England, she was a sort of little outcast from sacred inner circles. There =
were
points she burned to make clear to him, and she made them so. She was in se=
cret
fiercely desirous that he should realize to the utmost, that, whatsoever
rashness this young flame of loveliness inspired in him, it was NOT possibl=
e that
he could regard it with any shadow of serious intention. She had always
disliked the girl, and now her weak mildness and humility suddenly transfor=
med
themselves into something else--a sort of maternal wolfishness. It did not
matter what happened to the girl--and whatsoever befell or did not befall h=
er,
she--Mathilde Hirsch--could neither gain nor lose hope through it. But, if =
she
did not displease him and yet saved him from final disaster, he would, perh=
aps,
be grateful to her--and perhaps, speak with approval--or remember it--and h=
is
Noble Mother most certainly would--if she ever knew. But behind and under a=
nd
through all these specious reasonings, was the hot choking burn of the mad
jealousy only her type of luckless woman can know--and of whose colour she =
dare
not show the palest hint.
"I have found out that, for some reas=
on,
she thinks of taking a place as governess," she said.
"Suggest that she go to Berlin. There=
are
good places there," was his answer.
"If she should go, her mother will not
feel any anxiety about her," returned Fraulein Hirsch.
"If, then, some young man she meets in
the street makes love to her and they run away together, she will not be
pursued by her relatives."
Fraulein Hirsch's flat mouth looked rather
malicious.
"Her mother is too busy to pursue her,
and there is no one else--unless it were Lord Coombe, who is said to want h=
er
himself."
Von Hillern shrugged his fine shoulders.
"At his age! After the mother! That is
like an Englishman!"
Upon this, Fraulein Hirsch drew a step nea=
rer and
fixed her eyes upon his, as she had never had the joy of fixing them before=
in her
life. She dared it now because she had an interesting story to tell him whi=
ch
he would like to hear. It WAS like an Englishman. Lord Coombe had the chara=
cter
of being one of the worst among them, but was too subtle and clever to open=
ly
offend people. It was actually said that he was educating the girl and keep=
ing
her in seclusion and that it was probably his colossal intention to marry h=
er
when she was old enough. He had no heir of his own--and he must have beauty=
and
innocence. Innocence and beauty his viciousness would have.
"Pah!" exclaimed von Hillern.
"It is youth which requires such things--and takes them. That is all
imbecile London gossip. No, he would not run after her if she ran away. He =
is a
proud man and he knows he would be laughed at. And he could not get her back
from a young man--who was her lover."
Her lover! How it thrilled the burning hea=
rt
her poor, flat chest panted above. With what triumphant knowledge of such
things he said it.
"No, he could not," she answered,
her eyes still on his. "No one could."
He laughed a little, confidently, but almo=
st
with light indifference.
"If she were missing, no particular
search would be made then," he said. "She is pretty enough to suit
Berlin."
He seemed to think pleasantly of something=
as
he stood still for a moment, his eyes on the floor. When he lifted them, th=
ere
was in their blue a hint of ugly exulting, though Mathilde Hirsch did not t=
hink
it ugly. He spoke in a low voice.
"It will be an exciting--a colossal d=
ay
when we come to London--as we shall. It will be as if an ocean had collected
itself into one huge mountain of a wave and swept in and overwhelmed
everything. There will be confusion then and the rushing up of untrained so=
ldiers--and
shouts--and yells----"
"And Zeppelins dropping bombs," =
she
so far forgot herself as to pant out, "and buildings crashing and
pavements and people smashed! Westminster and the Palaces rocking, and fat
fools running before bayonets."
He interrupted her with a short laugh ugli=
er
than the gleam in his eyes. He was a trifle excited.
"And all the women running about
screaming and trying to hide and being pulled out. We can take any of their
pretty, little, high nosed women we choose--any of them."
"Yes," she answered, biting her =
lip.
No one would take her, she knew.
He put on his overcoat and prepared to lea=
ve
her. As he stood at the door before opening it, he spoke in his usual tone =
of
mere command.
"Take her to Kensington Gardens tomor=
row
afternoon," he said. "Sit in one of the seats near the Round Pond=
and
watch the children sailing their boats. I shall not be there but you will f=
ind yourself
near a quiet, elegant woman in mourning who will speak to you. You are to
appear to recognize her as an old acquaintance. Follow her suggestions in
everything."
After this he was gone and she sat down to
think it over.
She saw him again during the following week
and was obliged to tell him that she had not been able to take her charge to
Kensington Gardens on the morning that he had appointed but that, as the gi=
rl was
fond of the place and took pleasure in watching the children sailing their
boats on the Round Pond, it would be easy to lead her there. He showed her a
photograph of the woman she would find sitting on a particular bench, and he
required she should look at it long enough to commit the face to memory. It=
was
that of a quietly elegant woman with gentle eyes.
"She will call herself Lady Etynge,&q=
uot;
he said. "You are to remember that you once taught her little girl in
Paris. There must be no haste and no mistakes. It be well for them to meet-=
-by
accident--several times."
Later he aid to her:
"When Lady Etynge invites her to go to
her house, you will, of course, go with her. You will not stay. Lady Etynge
will tell you what to do."
In words, he did not involve himself by gi=
ving
any hint of his intentions. So far as expression went, he might have had no=
ne, whatever.
Her secret conclusion was that he knew, if he could see the girl under
propitious circumstances--at the house of a clever and sympathetic
acquaintance, he need have no shadow of a doubt as to the result of his eff=
orts
to please her. He knew she was a lonely, romantic creature, who had doubtle=
ss
read sentimental books and been allured by their heroes. She was, of course,
just ripe for young peerings into the land of love making. His had been no
peerings, thought the pale Hirsch sadly. What girl--or woman--could resist =
the
alluring demand of his drooping eyes, if he chose to allow warmth to fill t=
hem?
Thinking of it, she almost gnashed her teeth. Did she not see how he would
look, bending his high head and murmuring to a woman who shook with joy und=
er
his gaze? Had she not seen it in her own forlorn, hopeless dreams?
What did it matter if what the world calls
disaster befell the girl? Fraulein Hirsch would not have called it disaster.
Any woman would have been paid a thousand times over. His fancy might last a
few months. Perhaps he would take her to Berlin--or to some lovely secret s=
pot
in the mountains where he could visit her. What heaven--what heaven! She we=
pt,
hiding her face on her hot, dry hands.
But it would not last long--and he would a=
gain
think only of the immense work--the august Machine, of which he was a
mechanical part--and he would be obliged to see and talk to her, Mathilde H=
irsch,
having forgotten the rest. She could only hold herself decently in check by
telling herself again and again that it was only natural that such things
should come and go in his magnificent life, and that the sooner it began the
sooner it would end.
It was a lovely morning when her pupil wal=
ked
with her in Kensington Gardens, and, quite naturally, strolled towards the
Round Pond. Robin was happy because there were flutings of birds in the air=
, gardeners
were stuffing crocuses and hyacinths into the flower beds, there were little
sweet scents floating about and so it was Spring. She pulled a bare looking
branch of a lilac bush towards her and stooped and kissed the tiny brown
buttons upon it, half shyly.
"I can't help it when I see the first
ones swelling on the twigs. They are working so hard to break out into
green," she said. "One loves everything at this time--everything!
Look at the children round the pond. That fat, little boy in a reefer and b=
rown
leather leggings is bursting with joy. Let us go and praise his boat, Fraul=
ein."
They went and Robin praised the boat until=
its
owner was breathless with rapture. Fraulein Hirsch, standing near her, look=
ed
furtively at all the benches round the circle, giving no incautiously
interested glance to any one of them in particular. Presently, however, she=
said:
"I think that is Lady Etynge sitting =
on
the third bench from here. I said to you that I had heard she was in London=
. I
wonder if her daughter is still in the Convent at Tours?"
When Robin returned, she saw a quiet woman=
in
perfect mourning recognize Fraulein Hirsch with a a bow and smile which see=
med
to require nearer approach.
"We must go and speak to her."
Fraulein Hirsch said. "I know she wil wish me to present you. She is f=
ond
of young girls--because of Helene."
Robin went forward prettily. The woman was
gentle looking and attracting. She had a sweet manner and was very kind to
Fraulein Hirsch. She seemed to know her well and to like her. Her daughter,=
Helene,
was still in the Convent at Tours but was expected home very shortly. She w=
ould
be glad to find that Fraulein Hirsch was in London.
"I have turned the entire top story o=
f my
big house into a pretty suite for her. She has a fancy for living high above
the street," smiled Lady Etynge, indulgently. Perhaps she was a
"Mother" person, Robin thought.
Both her looks and talk were kind, and she=
was
very nice in her sympathetic interest in the boats and the children's effor=
ts
to sail them.
"I often bring my book here and forge=
t to
read, because I find I am watching them," she said. "They are so
eager and so triumphant when a boat gets across the Pond."
She went away very soon and Robin watched =
her
out of sight with interest.
They saw her again a few days later and ta=
lked
a little more. She was not always near the Pond when they came, and they
naturally did not go there each time they walked together, though Fraulein =
Hirsch
was fond of sitting and watching the children.
She had been to take tea with her former
employer, she told Robin one day, and she was mildly excited by the
preparations for Helene, who had been educated entirely in a French convent=
and
was not like an English girl at all. She had always been very delicate and =
the
nuns seemed to know how to take care of her and calm her nerves with their
quiet ways.
"Her mother is rather anxious about h=
er
coming to London. She has, of course, no young friends here and she is so u=
sed
to the quiet of convent life," the Fraulein explained. "That is w=
hy
the rooms at the top of the house have been arranged for her. She will hear=
so
little sound. I confess I am anxious about her myself. Lady Etynge is wonde=
ring
if she can find a suitable young companion to live in the house with her. S=
he
must be a young lady and perfectly educated--and with brightness and charm.=
Not
a person like myself, but one who can be treated as an equal and a
friend--almost a playmate."
"It would be an agreeable position,&q=
uot;
commented Robin, thoughtfully.
"Extremely so," answered Fraulein
Hirsch. "Helene is a most lovable and affectionate girl. And Lady Etyn=
ge
is rich enough to pay a large salary. Helene is her idol. The suite of room=
s is
perfect. In Germany, girls are not spoiled in that way. It is not considere=
d good
for them."
It was quite natural, since she felt an
interest in Helene, that, on their next meeting, Robin should find pleasure=
in
sitting on the green bench near the girl's mother and hear her speak of her=
daughter.
She was not diffuse or intimate in her manner. Helene first appeared in the
talk as a result of a polite inquiry made by Fraulein Hirsch. Robin gathere=
d,
as she listened, that this particular girl was a tenderly loved and cared f=
or
creature and was herself gentle and intelligent and loving. She sounded lik=
e the
kind of a girl one would be glad to have for a friend. Robin wondered and
wondered--if she would "do." Perhaps, out of tactful consideration
for the feelings of Fraulein Hirsch who would not "do"--because s=
he
was neither bright, nor pretty, nor a girl--Lady Etynge touched but lightly=
on
her idea that she might find a sort of sublimated young companion for her
daughter.
"It would be difficult to advertise f=
or
what one wants," she said.
"Yes. To state that a girl must be cl=
ever
and pretty and graceful, and attractive, would make it difficult for a mode=
st
young lady to write a suitable reply," said Fraulein Hirsch grimly, and
both Lady Etynge and Robin smiled.
"Among your own friends," Lady
Etynge said to Robin, a little pathetically in her yearning, "do you k=
now
of anyone--who might know of anyone who would fit in? Sometimes there are p=
oor
little cousins, you know?"
"Or girls who have an independent spi=
rit
and would like to support themselves," said the Fraulein. "There =
are
such girls in these advanced times."
"I am afraid I don't know anyone,&quo=
t;
answered Robin. Modesty also prevented her from saying that she thought she
did. She herself was well educated, she was good tempered and well bred, and
she had known for some time that she was pretty.
"Perhaps Fraulein Hirsch may bring yo=
u in
to have tea with me some afternoon when you are out," Lady Etynge said
kindly before she left them. "I think you would like to see Helene's
rooms. I should be glad to hear what another girl thinks of them."
Robin was delighted. Perhaps this was a way
opening to her. She talked to Mademoiselle Valle about it and so glowed with
hope that Mademoiselle's heart was moved.
"Do you think I might go?" she s=
aid.
"Do you think there is any chance that I might be the right person? AM=
I
nice enough--and well enough educated, and ARE my manners good?"
She did not know exactly where Lady Etynge
lived, but believed it was one of those big houses in a certain dignified
"Place" they both knew--a corner house, she was sure, because--by
mere chance--she had one day seen Lady Etynge go into such a house as if it
were her own. She did not know the number, but they could ask Fraulein.
Fraulein Hirsch was quite ready with detail
concerning her former patroness and her daughter. She obviously admired them
very much. Her manner held a touch of respectful reverence. She described H=
elene's
disposition and delicate nerves and the perfection of the nuns' treatment of
her.
She described the beauty of the interior o=
f the
house, its luxury and convenience, and the charms of the suite of apartments
prepared for Helene. She thought the number of the house was No. 97 A. Lady=
Etynge
was the kindest employer she had ever had. She believed that Miss
Gareth-Lawless and Helene would be delighted with each other, if they met, =
and
her impression was that Lady Etynge privately hoped they would become frien=
ds.
Her mild, flat face was so modestly amiable
that Mademoiselle Valle, who always felt her unattractive femininity pathet=
ic,
was a little moved by her evident pleasure in having been the humble means =
of
providing Robin with acquaintances of an advantageous kind.
No special day had been fixed upon for the
visit and the cup of tea. Robin was eager in secret and hoped Lady Etynge w=
ould
not forget to remind them of her invitation.
She did not forget. One afternoon--they had
not seen her for several days and had not really expected to meet her, beca=
use
they took their walk later than usual--they found her just rising from her =
seat
to go home as they appeared.
"Our little encounters almost assume =
the
air of appointments," she said. "This is very nice, but I am just
going away, I am sorry to say. I wonder--" she paused a moment, and th=
en
looked at Fraulein Hirsch pleasantly; "I wonder if, in about an hour, =
you
would bring Miss Gareth-Lawless to me to have tea and tell me if she thinks=
Helene
will like her new rooms. You said you would like to see them," brightl=
y to
Robin.
"You are very kind. I should like it =
so
much," was Robin's answer.
Fraulein Hirsch was correctly appreciative=
of
the condescension shown to her. Her manner was the perfection of the exact
shade of unobtrusive chaperonship. There was no improper suggestion of a
mistaken idea that she was herself a guest, or, indeed, anything, in fact, =
but
a proper appendage to her charge. Robin had never been fond of Fraulein as =
she
was fond of Mademoiselle and Dowie, still she was not only an efficient
teacher, but also a good walker and very fond of long tramps, which
Mademoiselle was really not strong enough for, but which Robin's slender yo=
ung
legs rejoiced in.
The two never took cabs or buses, but alwa=
ys
walked everywhere. They walked on this occasion, and, about an hour later,
arrived at a large, corner house in Berford Place. A tall and magnificently=
built
footman opened the door for them, and they were handed into a drawing room =
much
grander than the one Robin sometimes glanced into as she passed it, when she
was at home. A quite beautiful tea equipage awaited them on a small table, =
but
Lady Etynge was not in the room.
"What a beautiful house to live in,&q=
uot;
said Robin, "but, do you know, the number ISN'T 97 A. I looked as we c=
ame
in, and it is No. 25."
"Is it? I ought to have been more
careful," answered Fraulein Hirsch. "It is wrong to be careless e=
ven
in small matters."
Almost immediately Lady Etynge came in and
greeted them, with a sort of gentle delight. She drew Robin down on to a so=
fa
beside her and took her hand and gave it a light pat which was a caress.
"Now you really ARE here," she s=
aid,
"I have been so busy that I have been afraid I should not have time to
show you the rooms before it was too late to make a change, if you thought
anything might be improved."
"I am sure nothing can improve
them," said Robin, more dewy-eyed than usual and even a thought
breathless, because this was really a sort of adventure, and she longed to =
ask
if, by any chance, she would "do." And she was so afraid that she
might lose this amazingly good opportunity, merely because she was too youn=
g and
inexperienced to know how she ought to broach the subject. She had not thou=
ght
yet of asking Mademoiselle Valle how it should be done.
She was not aware that she looked at Lady
Etynge with a heavenly, little unconscious appeal, which made her enchantin=
g.
Lady Etynge looked at her quite fixedly for an instant.
"What a child you are! And what a col=
our
your cheeks and lips are!" she said. "You are much--much prettier
than Helene, my dear."
She got up and brought a picture from a si=
de
table to show it to her.
"I think she is lovely," she sai=
d.
"Is it became I am her mother?"
"Oh, no! Not because you are her
mother!" exclaimed Robin. "She is angelic!"
She was rather angelic, with her delicate
uplifted face and her communion veil framing it mistily.
The picture was placed near them and Robin
looked at is many times as they took their tea. To be a companion to a girl
with a face like that would be almost too much to ask of one's luck. There =
was
actual yearning in Robin's heart. Suddenly she realized that she had missed
something all her life, without knowing that she missed it. It was the frie=
ndly
nearness of youth like her own. How she hoped that she might make Lady Etyn=
ge
like her. After tea was over, Lady Etynge spoke pleasantly to Fraulein Hirs=
ch.
"I know that you wanted to register a
letter. There is a post-office just around the corner. Would you like to go=
and
register it while I take Miss Gareth-Lawless upstairs? You have seen the ro=
oms.
You will only be away a few minutes."
Fraulein Hirsch was respectfully appreciat=
ive
again. The letter really was important. It contained money which she sent
monthly to her parents. This month she was rather late, and she would be ve=
ry
glad to be allowed to attend to the matter without losing a post.
So she went out of the drawing-room and do=
wn
the stairs, and Robin heard the front door close behind her with a slight t=
hud.
She had evidently opened and closed it herself without waiting for the foot=
man.
The upper rooms in London houses--even in =
the
large ones--are usually given up to servants' bedrooms, nurseries, and scho=
ol rooms.
Stately staircases become narrower as they mount, and the climber gets glim=
pses
of apartments which are frequently bare, whatsoever their use, and, if not
grubby in aspect, are dull and uninteresting.
But, in Lady Etynge's house, it was plain =
that
a good deal had been done. Stairs had been altered and widened, walls had b=
een given
fresh and delicate tints, and one laid one's hand on cream white balustrades
and trod on soft carpets. A good architect had taken interest in the proble=
ms
presented to him, and the result was admirable. Partitions must have been
removed to make rooms larger and of better shape.
"Nothing could be altered without
spoiling it!" exclaimed Robin, standing in the middle of a sitting roo=
m,
all freshness and exquisite colour--the very pictures on the wall being par=
t of
the harmony.
All that a girl would want or love was the=
re.
There was nothing left undone--unremembered. The soft Chesterfield lounge,
which was not too big and was placed near the fire, the writing table, the
books, the piano of satinwood inlaid with garlands; the lamp to sit and read
by.
"How glad she must be to come back to
anyone who loves her so," said Robin.
Here was a quilted basket with three Persi=
an
kittens purring in it, and she knelt and stroked their fluffiness, bending =
her
slim neck and showing how prettily the dark hair grew up from it. It was, p=
erhaps,
that at which Lady Etynge was looking as she stood behind her and watched h=
er.
The girl-nymph slenderness and flexibility of her leaning body was almost
touchingly lovely.
There were several other rooms and each one
was, in its way, more charming than the other. A library in Dresden blue and
white, and with peculiarly pretty windows struck the last note of cosiness.=
All
the rooms had pretty windows with rather small square panes enclosed in whi=
te
frames.
It was when she was in this room that Robin
took her courage in her hands. She must not let her chance go by. Lady Etyn=
ge
was so kind. She wondered if it would seem gauche and too informal to speak
now.
She stood quite upright and still, though =
her
voice was not quite steady when she began.
"Lady Etynge," she said, "y=
ou
remember what Fraulein Hirsch said about girls who wish to support themselv=
es?
I--I am one of them. I want very much to earn my own living. I think I am w=
ell
educated. I have been allowed to read a good deal and my teachers, Mademois=
elle
Valle and Fraulein Hirsch, say I speak and write French and German well for=
an
English girl. If you thought I could be a suitable companion for Miss Etyng=
e,
I--should be very happy."
How curiously Lady Etynge watched her as s=
he
spoke. She did not look displeased, but there was something in her face whi=
ch
made Robin afraid that she was, perhaps, after all, not the girl who was
fortunate enough to quite "do."
She felt her hopes raised a degree, howeve=
r,
when Lady Etynge smiled at her.
"Do you know, I feel that is very pre=
tty
of you!" she said. "It quite delights me--as I am an idolizing
mother--that my mere talk of Helene should have made you like her well enou=
gh
to think you might care to live with her. And I confess I am modern enough =
to be
pleased with your wishing to earn your own living."
"I must," said Robin. "I MU=
ST!
I could not bear not to earn it!" She spoke a little suddenly, and a f=
lag
of new colour fluttered in her cheek.
"When Helene comes, you must meet. If=
you
like each other, as I feel sure you will, and if Mrs. Gareth-Lawless does n=
ot
object--if it remains only a matter of being suitable--you are suitable, my=
dear--you
are suitable."
She touched Robin's hand with the light pat
which was a caress, and the child was radiant.
"Oh, you are kind to me!" The wo=
rds
broke from her involuntarily. "And it is such GOOD fortune! Thank you,=
thank
you, Lady Etynge."
The flush of her joy and relief had not di=
ed
out before the footman, who had opened the door, appeared on the threshold.=
He was
a handsome young fellow, whose eyes were not as professionally impassive as=
his
face. A footman had no right to dart a swift side look at one as people did=
in
the street. He did dart such a glance. Robin saw, and she was momentarily
struck by its being one of those she sometimes objected to.
Otherwise his manner was without flaw. He =
had
only come to announce to his mistress the arrival of a caller.
When Lady Etynge took the card from the
salver, her expression changed. She even looked slightly disturbed.
"Oh, I am sorry," she murmured,
"I must see her," lifting her eyes to Robin. "It is an old
friend merely passing through London. How wicked of me to forget that she w=
rote
to say that she might dash in at any hour."
"Please!" pled Robin, prettily.
"I can run away at once. Fraulein Hirsch must have come back.
Please--"
"The lady asked me particularly to say
that she has only a few minutes to stay, as she is catching a train," =
the
footman decorously ventured.
"If that is the case," Lady Etyn=
ge
said, even relievedly, "I will leave you here to look at things until I
come back. I really want to talk to you a little more about yourself and
Helene. I can't let you go." She looked back from the door before she
passed through it. "Amuse yourself, my dear," and then she added
hastily to the man.
"Have you remembered that there was
something wrong with the latch, William? See if it needs a locksmith."=
"Very good, my lady."
She was gone and Robin stood by the sofa
thrilled with happiness and relief. How wonderful it was that, through mere
lucky chance, she had gone to watch the children sailing their boats! And t=
hat
Fraulein Hirsch had seen Lady Etynge! What good luck and how grateful she w=
as!
The thought which passed through her mind was like a little prayer of thank=
s.
How strange it would be to be really intimate with a girl like herself--or
rather like Helene. It made her heart beat to think of it. How wonderful it
would be if Helene actually loved her, and she loved Helene. Something spra=
ng
out of some depths of her being where past things were hidden. The something
was a deadly little memory. Donal! Donal! It would be--if she loved Helene =
and
Helene loved her--as new a revelation as Donal. Oh! she remembered.
She heard the footman doing something to t=
he
latch of the door, which caused it to make a clicking sound. He was obeying
orders and examining it. As she involuntarily glanced at him, he--bending o=
ver
the door handle--raised his eyes sideways and glanced at her. It was an
inexcusable glance from a domestic, because it was actually as if he were
taking the liberty of privately summing her up--taking her points in for his
own entertainment. She so resented the unprofessional bad manners of it, th=
at
she turned away and sauntered into the Dresden blue and white library and s=
at
down with a book.
She was quite relieved, when, only a few
minutes later, he went away having evidently done what he could.
The book she had picked up was a new novel=
and
opened with an attention-arresting agreeableness, which led her on. In fact=
it led
her on further and, for a longer time than she was aware of. It was her way=
to
become wholly absorbed in books when they allured her; she forgot her
surroundings and forgot the passing of time. This was a new book by a strong
man with the gift which makes alive people, places, things. The ones whose
lives had taken possession of his being in this story were throbbing with v=
ital
truth.
She read on and on because, from the first
page, she knew them as actual pulsating human creatures. They looked into h=
er
face, they laughed, she heard their voices, she CARED for every trivial thi=
ng
that happened to them--to any of them. If one of them picked a flower, she =
saw
how he or she held it and its scent was in the air.
Having been so drawn on into a sort of
unconsciousness of all else, it was inevitable that, when she suddenly beca=
me
aware that she did not see her page quite clearly, she should withdraw her =
eyes
from her page and look about her. As she did so, she started from her
comfortable chair in amazement and some alarm. The room had become so much
darker that it must be getting late. How careless and silly she had been. W=
here
was Fraulein Hirsch?
"I am only a strange girl and Lady Et=
ynge
might so easily have forgotten me," passed through her mind. "Her
friend may have stayed and they may have had so much to talk about, that, of
coarse, I was forgotten. But Fraulein Hirsch--how could she!"
Then, remembering the subservient humility=
of
the Fraulein's mind, she wondered if it could have been possible that she h=
ad
been too timid to do more than sit waiting--in the hall, perhaps--afraid to
allow the footman to disturb Lady Etynge by asking her where her pupil was.=
The
poor, meek, silly thing.
"I must get away without disturbing
anyone," she thought, "I will slip downstairs and snatch Fraulein
Hirsch from her seat and we will go quietly out. I can write a nice note to
Lady Etynge tomorrow, and explain. I HOPE she won't mind having forgotten m=
e. I
must make her feel sure that it did not matter in the least. I'll tell her
about the book."
She replaced the book on the shelf from wh=
ich
she had taken it and passed through into the delightful sitting room. The
kittens were playing together on the hearth, having deserted their basket. =
One of
them gave a soft, airy pounce after her and caught at her dress with tiny
claws, rolling over and over after his ineffectual snatch.
She had not heard the footman close the do=
or
when he left the room, but she found he must have done so, as it was now sh=
ut.
When she turned the handle it did not seem to work well, because the door d=
id
not open as it ought to have done. She turned it again and gave it a little
pull, but it still remained tightly shut. She turned it again, still with no
result, and then she tried the small latch. Perhaps the man had done some
blundering thing when he had been examining it. She remembered hearing seve=
ral
clicks. She turned the handle again and again. There was no key in the keyh=
ole,
so he could not have bungled with the key. She was quite aghast at the
embarrassment of the situation.
"How CAN I get out without disturbing
anyone, if I cannot open the door!" she said. "How stupid I shall
seem to Lady Etynge! She won't like it. A girl who could forget where she
was--and then not be able to open a door and be obliged to bang until people
come!"
Suddenly she remembered that there had bee=
n a
door in the bedroom which had seemed to lead out into the hall. She ran into
the room in such a hurry that all three kittens ran frisking after her. She=
saw
she had not been mistaken. There was a door. She went to it and turned the
handle, breathless with excitement and relief. But the handle of that door =
also
would not open it. Neither would the latch. And there was no key.
"Oh!" she gasped. "Oh!"=
;
Then she remembered the electric bell near=
the
fireplace in the sitting room. There was one by the fireplace here, also. N=
o,
she would ring the one in the sitting room. She went to it and pressed the
button. She could not hear the ghost of a sound and one could generally hear
SOMETHING like one. She rang again and waited. The room was getting darker.=
Oh,
how COULD Fraulein Hirsch--how could she?
She waited--she waited. Fifteen minutes by=
her
little watch--twenty minutes--and, in their passing, she rang again. She ra=
ng
the bell in the library and the one in the bedroom--even the one in the bat=
hroom,
lest some might be out of order. She slowly ceased to be embarrassed and
self-reproachful and began to feel afraid, though she did not know quite wh=
at
she was afraid of. She went to one of the windows to look at her watch agai=
n in
the vanishing light, and saw that she had been ringing the bells for an hou=
r.
She automatically put up a hand and leaned against the white frame of one of
the decorative small panes of glass. As she touched it, she vaguely realized
that it was of such a solidity that it felt, not like wood but iron. She dr=
ew
her hand away quickly, feeling a sweep of unexplainable fear--yes, it was F=
EAR.
And why should she so suddenly feel it? She went back to the door and tried
again to open it--as ineffectively as before. Then she began to feel a litt=
le
cold and sick. She returned to the Chesterfield and sat down on it helpless=
ly.
"It seems as if--I had been locked
in!" she broke out, in a faint, bewildered wail of a whisper. "Oh,
WHY--did they lock the doors!"
She had known none of the absolute horrors=
of
life which were possible in that underworld which was not likely to touch h=
er
own existence in any form.
"Why," had argued Mademoiselle
Valle, "should one fill a white young mind with ugly images which would
deface with dark marks and smears, and could only produce unhappiness and,
perhaps, morbid broodings? One does not feel it is wise to give a girl an
education in crime. One would not permit her to read the Newgate Calendar f=
or
choice. She will be protected by those who love her and what she must disco=
ver
she will discover. That is Life."
Which was why her first discovery that nei=
ther
door could be opened, did not at once fill her with horror. Her first argum=
ents
were merely those of a girl who, though her brain was not inactive pulp, had
still a protected girl's outlook. She had been overwhelmed by a sense of the
awkwardness of her position and by the dread that she would be obliged to
disturb and, almost inevitably, embarrass and annoy Lady Etynge. Of course,
there had been some bungling on the part of the impudent footman--perhaps
actually at the moment when he had given his sidelong leer at herself inste=
ad of
properly attending to what he was trying to do. That the bedroom was locked
might be the result of a dozen ordinary reasons.
The first hint of an abnormality of condit=
ions
came after she had rung the bells and had waited in vain for response to her
summons. There were servants whose business it was to answer bells at once.=
If
ALL the bells were out of order, why were they out of order when Helene was=
to
return in a few days and her apartment was supposed to be complete? Even to=
the
kittens--even to the kittens!
"It seems as if I had been locked
in," she had whispered to the silence of the room. "Why did they =
lock
the doors?"
Then she said, and her heart began to thump
and race in her side:
"It has been done on purpose. They do=
n't
intend to let me out--for some HORRIBLE reason!"
Perhaps even her own growing panic was not=
so
appalling as a sudden rushing memory of Lady Etynge, which, at this moment,
overthrew her. Lady Etynge! Lady Etynge! She saw her gentle face and almost=
affectionately
watching eyes. She heard her voice as she spoke of Helene; she felt the lig=
ht
pat which was a caress.
"No! No!" she gasped it, because=
her
breath had almost left her. "No! No! She couldn't! No one could! There=
is
NOTHING as wicked--as that!"
Bat, even as she cried out, the overthrow =
was
utter, and she threw herself forward on the arm of the couch and sobbed--so=
bbed
with the passion she had only known on the day long ago when she had crawled
into the shrubs and groveled in the earth. It was the same kind of passion-=
-the
shaken and heart-riven woe of a creature who has trusted and hoped joyously=
and
has been forever betrayed. The face and eyes had been so kind. The voice so
friendly! Oh, how could even the wickedest girl in the world have doubted t=
heir
sincerity. Unfortunately--or fortunately--she knew nothing whatever of the
mental processes of the wicked girls of the world, which was why she lay br=
oken
to pieces, sobbing--sobbing, not at the moment because she was a trapped th=
ing,
but because Lady Etynge had a face in whose gentleness her heart had trusted
and rejoiced.
When she sat upright again, her own face, =
as
she lifted it, would have struck a perceptive onlooker as being, as it were,
the face of another girl. It was tear-stained and wild, but this was not th=
e cause
of its change. The soft, bird eyes were different--suddenly, amazingly older
than they had been when she had believed in Helene.
She had no experience which could reveal to
her in a moment the monstrousness of her danger, but all she had ever read,=
or
vaguely gathered, of law breakers and marauders of society, collected itself
into an advancing tidal wave of horror.
She rose and went to the window and tried =
to
open it, but it was not intended to open. The decorative panes were of small
size and of thick glass. Her first startled impression that the white frame=
work
seemed to be a painted metal was apparently founded on fact. A strong person
might have bent it with a hammer, but he could not have broken it. She exam=
ined
the windows in the other rooms and they were of the same structure.
"They are made like that," she s=
aid
to herself stonily, "to prevent people from getting OUT."
She stood at the front one and looked down
into the broad, stately "Place." It was a long way to look down, =
and,
even if the window could be opened, one's voice would not be heard. The str=
eet lamps
were lighted and a few people were to be seen walking past unhurriedly.
"In the big house almost opposite they
are going to give a party. There is a red carpet rolled out. Carriages are
beginning to drive up. And here on the top floor, there is a girl locked
up--And they don't know!"
She said it aloud, and her voice sounded a=
s though
it were not her own. It was a dreadful voice, and, as she heard it, panic
seized her.
Nobody knew--nobody! Her mother never eith=
er
knew or cared where she was, but Dowie and Mademoiselle always knew. They w=
ould
be terrified. Fraulein Hirsch had, perhaps, been told that her pupil had ta=
ken
a cab and gone home and she would return to her lodgings thinking she was s=
afe.
Then--only at this moment, and with a
suddenness which produced a sense of shock--she recalled that it was Fraule=
in
Hirsch who had presented her to Lady Etynge. Fraulein Hirsch herself! It was
she who had said she had been in her employ and had taught Helene--Helene! =
It
was she who had related anecdotes about the Convent at Tours and the nuns w=
ho
were so wise and kind! Robin's hand went up to her forehead with a
panic-stricken gesture. Fraulein Hirsch had made an excuse for leaving her =
with
Lady Etynge--to be brought up to the top of the house quite alone--and lock=
ed
in. Fraulein Hirsch had KNOWN! And there came back to her the memory of the=
furtive
eyes whose sly, adoring sidelooks at Count Von Hillern had always--though s=
he
had tried not to feel it--been, somehow, glances she had disliked--yes,
DISLIKED!
It was here--by the thread of Fraulein
Hirsch--that Count Von Hillern was drawn into her mind. Once there, it was =
as
if he stood near her--quite close--looking down under his heavy, drooping l=
ids with
stealthy, plunging eyes. It had always been when Fraulein Hirsch had walked
with her that they had met him--almost as if by arrangement.
There were only two people in the world who
might--because she herself had so hated them--dislike and choose in some wa=
y to
punish her. One was Count Von Hillern. The other was Lord Coombe. Lord Coom=
be,
she knew, was bad, vicious, did the things people only hinted at without
speaking of them plainly. A sense of instinctive revolt in the strength of =
her
antipathy to Von Hillern made her feel that he must be of the same order.
"If either of them came into this room
now and locked the door behind him, I could not get out."
She heard herself say it aloud in the stra=
nge
girl's dreadful voice, as she had heard herself speak of the party in the b=
ig house
opposite. She put her soft, slim hand up to her soft, slim throat.
"I could not get out," she repea=
ted.
She ran to the door and began to beat on i=
ts
panels. By this time, she knew it would be no use and yet she beat with her
hands until they were bruised and then she snatched up a book and beat with=
that.
She thought she must have been beating half an hour when she realized that
someone was standing outside in the corridor, and the someone said, in a vo=
ice
she recognized as belonging to the leering footman,
"May as well keep still, Miss. You ca=
n't
hammer it down and no one's going to bother taking any notice," and th=
en
his footsteps retired down the stairs. She involuntarily clenched her hurt
hands and the shuddering began again though she stood in the middle of the =
room
with a rigid body and her head thrown fiercely back.
"If there are people in the world as =
hideous--and
monstrous as THIS--let them kill me if they want to. I would rather be kill=
ed than
live! They would HAVE to kill me!" and she said it in a frenzy of defi=
ance
of all mad and base things on earth.
Her peril seemed to force her thought to d=
elve
into unknown dark places in her memory and dig up horrors she had
forgotten--newspaper stories of crime, old melodramas and mystery romances,=
in
which people disappeared and were long afterwards found buried under floors=
or
in cellars. It was said that the Berford Place houses, winch were old ones,=
had
enormous cellars under them.
"Perhaps other girls have disappeared=
and
now are buried in the cellars," she thought.
And the dreadful young voice added aloud.<= o:p>
"Because they would HAVE to kill
me."
One of the Persian kittens curled up in the
basket wakened because he heard it and stretched a sleepy paw and mewed at =
her.
Coombe House was one of the old ones, wear=
ing
somewhat the aspect of a stately barrack with a fine entrance. Its court was
enclosed at the front by a stone wall, outside which passing London roared =
in
low tumult. The court was surrounded by a belt of shrubs strong enough to d=
efy
the rain of soot which fell quietly upon them day and night.
The streets were already lighted for the
evening when Mademoiselle Valle presented herself at the massive front door=
and
asked for Lord Coombe. The expression of her face, and a certain intensity =
of
manner, caused the serious-looking head servant, who wore no livery, to come
forward instead of leaving her to the footmen.
"His lordship engaged with--a business
person--and must not be disturbed," he said. "He is also going
out."
"He will see me," replied
Mademoiselle Valle. "If you give him this card he will see me."
She was a plainly dressed woman, but she h=
ad a
manner which removed her entirely from the class of those who merely came to
importune. There was absolute certainty in the eyes she fixed with steadine=
ss on
the man's face. He took her card, though he hesitated.
"If he does not see me," she add=
ed,
"he will be very much displeased."
"Will you come in, ma'am, and take a =
seat
for a moment?" he ventured. "I will inquire."
The great hall was one of London's most
celebrated. A magnificent staircase swept up from it to landings whose walls
were hung with tapestries the world knew. In a gilded chair, like a throne,=
Mademoiselle
Valle sat and waited.
But she did not wait long. The serious-loo=
king
man without livery returned almost immediately. He led Mademoiselle into a =
room
like a sort of study or apartment given up to business matters. Mademoiselle
Valle had never seen Lord Coombe's ceremonial evening effect more flawless.
Tall, thin and finely straight, he waited in the centre of the room. He was
evidently on the point of going out, and the light-textured satin-lined
overcoat he had already thrown on revealed, through a suggestion of being
winged, that he wore in his lapel a delicately fresh, cream-coloured carnat=
ion.
A respectable, middle-class looking man wi=
th a
steady, blunt-featured face, had been talking to him and stepped quietly as=
ide
as Mademoiselle entered. There seemed to be no question of his leaving the
room.
Coombe met his visitor half way:
"Something has alarmed you very
much?" he said.
"Robin went out with Fraulein Hirsch =
this
afternoon," she said quickly. "They went to Kensington Gardens. T=
hey
have not come back--and it is nine o'clock. They are always at home by
six."
"Will you sit down," he said. The
man with the steady face was listening intently, and she realized he was do=
ing
so and that, somehow, it was well that he should.
"I do not think there is time for any=
one
to sit down," she said, speaking more quickly than before. "It is=
not
only that she has not come back. Fraulein Hirsch has presented her to one of
her old employers-a Lady Etynge. Robin was delighted with her. She has a da=
ughter
who is in France--,"
"Marguerite staying with her aunt in
Paris," suddenly put in the voice of the blunt-featured man from his s=
ide
of the room.
"Helene at a Covent in Tours,"
corrected Mademoiselle, turning a paling countenance towards him and then u=
pon
Coombe. "Lady Etynge spoke of wanting to engage some nice girl as a
companion to her daughter, who is coming home. Robin thought she might have=
the
good fortune to please her. She was to go to Lady Etynge's house to tea sine
afternoon and be shown the rooms prepared for Helene. She thought the mother
charming."
"Did she mention the address?"
Coombe asked at once.
"The house was in Berford Place-a lar=
ge
house at a corner. She chanced to see Lady Etynge go into it one day or we
should not have known. She did not notice the number. Fraulein Hirsch thoug=
ht it
was 97A. I have the Blue Book, Lord Coombe--through the Peerage--through the
Directory! There is no Lady Etynge and there is no 97A in Berford Place! Th=
at
is why I came here."
The man who had stood aside, stepped forwa=
rd
again. It was as if he answered some sign, though Lord Coombe at the moment
crossed the hearth and rang the bell.
"Scotland Yard knows that, ma'am,&quo=
t;
said the man. "We've had our eyes on that house for two weeks, and this
kind of thing is what we want."
"The double brougham," was Coomb=
e's
order to the servant who answered his ring. Then he came back to Mademoisel=
le.
"Mr. Barkstow is a detective," he said. "Among the other things he has done for me, he has, for some tim= e, kept a casual eye on Robin. She is too lovely a child and too friendless to= be quite safe. There are blackguards who know when a girl has not the usual fa= mily protection. He came here to tell me that she had been seen sitting in Kensington Gardens with a woman Scotland Yard has reason to suspect."<= o:p>
"A black 'un!" said Barkstow
savagely. "If she's the one we think she is-a black, poisonous, sly one
with a face that no girl could suspect."
Coombe's still countenance was so deadly in
the slow lividness, which Mademoiselle saw began to manifest itself, that s=
he
caught his sleeve with a shaking hand.
"She's nothing but a baby!" she
said. "She doesn't know what a baby she is. I can see her eyes frantic
with terror! She'd go mad."
"Good God!" he said, in a voice =
so
low it scarcely audible.
He almost dragged her out of the room, tho=
ugh,
as they passed through the hall, the servants only saw that he had given th=
e lady
his arm-and two of the younger footmen exchanged glances with each other wh=
ich
referred solely to the inimitableness of the cut of his evening overcoat.
When they entered the carriage, Barkstow
entered with them and Mademoiselle Valle leaned forward with her elbows on =
her
knees and her face clutched in her hands. She was trying to shut out from h=
er
mental vision a memory of Robin's eyes.
"If--if Fraulein Hirsch is--not
true," she broke out once. "Count von Hillern is concerned. It has
come upon me like a flash. Why did I not see before?"
The party at the big house, where the red
carpet was rolled across the pavement, was at full height when they drove i=
nto
the Place. Their brougham did not stop at the corner but at the end of the =
line
of waiting carriages.
Coombe got out and looked up and down the
thoroughfare.
"It must be done quietly. There must =
be
no scandal," he said. "The policeman on the beat is an enormous
fellow. You will attend to him, Barkstow," and Barkstow nodded and
strolled away.
Coombe walked up the Place and down on the
opposite side until he was within a few yards of the corner house. When he
reached this point, he suddenly quickened his footsteps because he saw that=
someone
else was approaching it with an air of intention. It was a man, not quite as
tall as himself but of heavier build and with square held shoulders. As the=
man
set his foot upon the step, Coombe touched him on the arm and said somethin=
g in
German.
The man started angrily and then suddenly
stood quite still and erect.
"It will be better for us to walk up =
the
Place together," Lord Coombe said, with perfect politeness.
If he could have been dashed down upon the
pavement and his head hammered in with the handle of a sword, or if he could
have been run through furiously again and again, either or both of these th=
ings
would have been done. But neither was possible. It also was not possible to
curse aloud in a fashionable London street. Such curses as one uttered must=
be
held in one's foaming mouth between one's teeth. Count von Hillern knew this
better than most men would have known it. Here was one of those English swi=
ne
with whom Germany would deal in her own way later.
They walked back together as if they were
acquaintances taking a casual stroll.
"There is nothing which would so
infuriate your--Master-as a disgraceful scandal," Lord Coombe's highbr=
ed
voice suggested undisturbedly. "The high honour of a German officer-the
knightly bearing of a wearer of the uniform of the All Highest-that sort of
thing you know. All that sort of thing!"
Von Hillern ground out some low spoken and
quite awful German words. If he had not been trapped-if he had been in some
quiet by-street!
"The man walking ahead of us is a
detective from Scotland Yard. The particularly heavy and rather martial tre=
ad
behind us is that of a policeman much more muscular than either of us. Ther=
e is
a ball going on in the large house with the red carpet spread across the
pavement. I know the people who are giving it. There are a good many coachm=
en
and footmen about. Most of them would probably recognize me."
It became necessary for Count von Hillern
actually to wipe away certain flecks of foam from his lips, as he ground fo=
rth
again more varied and awful sentiments in his native tongue.
"You are going back to Berlin," =
said
Coombe, coldly. "If we English were not such fools, you would not be h=
ere.
You are, of course, not going into that house."
Von Hillern burst into a derisive laugh.
"You are going yourself," he sai=
d.
"You are a worn-out old ROUE, but you are mad about her yourself in yo=
ur
senile way."
"You should respect my age and
decrepitude," answered Coombe. "A certain pity for my gray hairs
would become your youth. Shall we turn here or will you return to your hote=
l by
some other way?" He felt as if the man might a burst a blood vessel if=
he
were obliged to further restrain himself.
Von Hillern wheeled at the corner and
confronted him.
"There will come a day--" he alm=
ost
choked.
"Der Toy? Naturally," the chill =
of
Coombe's voice was a sound to drive this particular man at this particular,
damnably-thwarted moment, raving mad. And not to be able to go mad! Not to =
be
able!
"Swine of a doddering Englishman! Who
would envy you--trembling on your lean shanks--whatsoever you can buy for
yourself. I spit on you-spit!"
"Don't," said Coombe. "You =
are
sputtering to such an extent that you really ARE, you know."
Von Hillern whirled round the corner.
Coombe, left alone, stood still a moment.<= o:p>
"I was in time," he said to hims=
elf,
feeling somewhat nauseated. "By extraordinary luck, I was in time. In
earlier days one would have said something about 'Provadence'." And he=
at
once walked back.
It was not utterly dark in the room, though
Robin, after passing her hands carefully over the walls, had found no elect=
ric
buttons within reach nor any signs of candles or matches elsewhere. The nig=
ht
sky was clear and brilliant with many stars, and this gave her an unshadowed
and lighted space to look at. She went to the window and sat down on the fl=
oor,
huddled against the wall with her hands clasped round her knees, looking up.
She did this in the effort to hold in check a rising tide of frenzy which
threatened her. Perhaps, if she could fix her eyes on the vault full of sta=
rs,
she could keep herself from going out of her mind. Though, perhaps, it woul=
d be
better if she DID go out of her mind, she found herself thinking a few seco=
nds
later.
After her first entire acceptance of the hideous thing which had happened to her, she had passed through nerve break= ing phases of terror-stricken imaginings. The old story of the drowning man acr= oss whose brain rush all the images of life, came back to her. She did not know where or when or how she had ever heard or read of the ghastly incidents wh= ich came trooping up to her and staring at her with dead or mad eyes and awful faces. Perhaps they were old nightmares-perhaps a kind of delirium had seiz= ed her. She tried to stop their coming by saying over and over again the praye= rs Dowie had taught her when she was a child. And then she thought, with a sob which choked her, that perhaps they were only prayers for a safe little creature kneeling by a white bed-and did not apply to a girl locked up in a top room, which nobody knew about. Only when she thought of Mademoiselle Valle and Do= wie looking for her--with all London spread out before their helplessness--did = she cry. After that, tears seemed impossible. The images trooped by too close to her. The passion hidden within her being--which had broken out when she tore the earth under the shrubbery, and which, with torture staring her in the f= ace, had leaped in the child's soul and body and made her defy Andrews with shrieks--leaped up within her now. She became a young Fury, to whom a mad f= ight with monstrous death was nothing. She told herself that she was strong for a girl--that she could tear with her nails, she could clench her teeth in a flesh, she could shriek, she could battle like a young madwoman so that they would be FORCED to kill her. This was one of the images which rose op before her again yet again, A hideous-hideous thing, which would not remain away.<= o:p>
She had not had any food since the afterno=
on
cap of tea and she began to feel the need of it. If she became faint-! She
lifted her face desperately as she said it, and saw the immense blue darkne=
ss,
powdered with millions of stars and curving over her--as it curved over the
hideous house and all the rest of the world. How high--how immense--how
fathomlessly still it was--how it seemed as if there could be nothing
else--that nothing else could be real! Her hands were clenched together hard
and fiercely, as she scrambled to her knees and uttered a of prayer--not a
child's--rather the cry of a young Fury making a demand.
"Perhaps a girl is Nothing," she
cried, "-a girl locked up in a room! But, perhaps, she is Something--s=
he
may he real too! Save me-save me! But if you won't save me, let me be
killed!"
She knelt silent after it for a few minutes
and then she sank down and lay on the floor with her face on her arm.
How it was possible that even young and
worn-out as she was, such peace as sleep could overcome her at such a time,=
one
cannot say. But in the midst of her torment she was asleep.
But it was not for long. She wakened with a
start and sprang to her feet shivering. The carriages were still coming and
going with guests for the big house opposite. It could not be late, though =
she
seemed to have been in the place for years--long enough to feel that it was=
the
hideous centre of the whole earth and all sane and honest memories were a
dream. She thought she would begin to walk up and down the room.
But a sound she heard at this very instant
made her stand stock still. She had known there would be a sound at last--s=
he
had waited for it all the time--she had known, of course, that it would com=
e,
but she had not even tried to guess whether she would hear it early or late=
. It
would be the sound of the turning of the handle of the locked door. It had
come. There it was! The click of the lock first and then the creak of the
turned handle!
She went to the window again and stood with
her back against it, so that her body was outlined against the faint light.
Would the person come in the dark, or would he carry a light? Something beg=
an
to whirl in her brain. What was the low, pumping thump she seemed to hear a=
nd
feel at the same time? It was the awful thumping of her heart.
The door opened--not stealthily, but quite=
in
the ordinary way. The person who came in did not move stealthily either. He
came in as though he were making an evening call. How tall and straight his
body was, with a devilish elegance of line against the background of light =
in
the hall. She thought she saw a white flower on his lapel as his overcoat f=
ell
back. The leering footman had opened the for him.
"Turn on the lights." A voice she
knew gave the order, the leering footman obeyed, touching a spot high on the
wall.
She had vaguely and sickeningly felt almost
sure that it would be either Count von Hillern or Lord Coombe--and it was n=
ot
Count von Hillern! The cold wicked face--the ironic eyes which made her cre=
ep--the
absurd, elderly perfection of dress--even the flawless flower-made her flash
quake with repulsion. If Satan came into the room, he might look like that =
and
make one's revolting being quake so.
"I thought--it might be you," the
strange girl's voice said to him aloud.
"Robin," he said.
He was moving towards her and, as she threw
out her madly clenched little hands, he stopped and drew back.
"Why did you think I might come?"=
; he
asked.
"Because you are the kind of a man who
would do the things only devils would do. I have hated-hated-hated you sinc=
e I
was a baby. Come and kill me if you like. Call the footman back to help you=
, if
yon like. I can't get away. Kill me--kill me--kill me!"
She was lost in her frenzy and looked as if
she were mad.
One moment he hesitated, and then he point=
ed
politely to the sofa.
"Go and sit down, please," he
suggested. It was no more then a courteous suggestion. "I shall remain
here. I have no desire to approach you--if you'll pardon my saying so."=
;
But she would not leave the window.
"It is natural that you should be
overwrought," he said.
"This is a damnable thing. You are too
young to know the worst of it."
"You are the worst of it!" she
cried. "You."
"No" as the chill of his even vo=
ice
struck her, she wondered if he were really human. "Von Hillern would h=
ave
been the worst of it. I stopped him at the front door and knew how to send =
him
away. Now, listen, my good child. Hate me as ferociously as you like. That =
is a
detail. You are in the house of a woman whose name stands for shame and inf=
amy
and crime."
"What are YOU doing in it--" she
cried again, "--in a place where girls are trapped-and locked up in top
rooms--to be killed?"
"I came to take you away. I wish to d=
o it
quietly. It would be rather horrible if the public discovered that you have
spent some hours here. If I had not slipped in when they were expecting von=
Hillern,
and if the servants were not accustomed to the quiet entrance of well dress=
ed
men, I could not have got in without an open row and the calling of the
policemen,--which I wished to avoid. Also, the woman downstairs knows me and
realized that I was not lying when I said the house was surrounded and she =
was
on the point of being 'run in'. She is a woman of broad experience, and at =
once
knew that she might as well keep quiet."
Despite his cold eyes and the bad smile she
hated, despite his almost dandified meticulous attire and the festal note of
his white flower, which she hated with the rest--he was, perhaps, not lying=
to
her. Perhaps for the sake of her mother he had chosen to save her--and, bei=
ng
the man he was, he had been able to make use of his past experiences.
She began to creep away from the window, a=
nd
she felt her legs, all at once, shaking under her. By the time she reached =
the Chesterfield
sofa she fell down by it and began to cry. A sort of hysteria seized her, a=
nd
she shook from head to foot and clutched at the upholstery with weak hands
which clawed. She was, indeed, an awful, piteous sight. He was perhaps not
lying, but she was afraid of him yet.
"I told the men who are waiting outsi=
de
that if I did not bring you out in half an hour, they were to break into the
house. I do not wish them to break in. We have not any time to spare. What =
you
are doing is quite natural, but you must try and get up." He stood by =
her
and said this looking down at her slender, wrung body and lovely groveling
head.
He took a flask out of his overcoat
pocket--and it was a gem of goldsmith's art. He poured some wine into its c=
up
and bent forward to hold it out to her.
"Drink this and try to stand on your
feet," he said. He knew better than to try to help her to rise--to tou=
ch
her in any way. Seeing to what the past hours had reduced her, he knew bett=
er.
There was mad fear in her eyes when she lifted her head and threw out her h=
and
again.
"No! No!" she cried out. "N=
o, I
will drink nothing!" He understood at once and threw the wine into the
grate.
"I see," he said. "You might
think it might be drugged. You are right. It might be. I ought to have thou=
ght
of that." He returned the flask to his pocket. "Listen again. You
must. The time will soon be up and we must not let those fellows break in a=
nd
make a row that will collect a crowd We must go at once. Mademoiselle Valle=
is
waiting for you in my carriage outside. You will not be afraid to drink wine
she gives you."
"Mademoiselle!" she stammered.
"Yes. In my carriage, which is not fi=
fty
yards from the house. Can you stand on your feet?" She got up and stood
but she was still shuddering all over.
"Can you walk downstairs? If you cann=
ot,
will you let me carry you? I am strong enough-in spite of my years."
"I can walk," she whispered.
"Will you take my arm?"
She looked at him for a moment with awful,
broken-spirited eyes.
"Yes. I will take your arm."
He offered it to her with rigid
punctiliousness of manner. He did not even look at her. He led her out of t=
he
room and down the three flights of stairs. As they passed by the open
drawing-room door, the lovely woman who had called herself Lady Etynge stoo=
d near
it and watched them with eyes no longer gentle.
"I have something to say to you,
Madam," he said; "When I place this young lady in the hands of her
governess, I will come back and say it."
"Is her governess Fraulein Hirsch?&qu=
ot;
asked the woman lightly.
"No. She is doubtless on her way back=
to
Berlin--and von Hillern will follow her."
There was only the first floor flight of
stairs now. Robin could scarcely see her way. But Lord Coombe held her up
firmly and, in a few moments more, the leering footman, grown pale, opened =
the large
door, they crossed the pavement to the carriage, and she was helped in and
fell, almost insensible, across Mademoiselle Valle's lap, and was caught in=
a
strong arm which shook as she did.
"Ma cherie," she heard, "The
Good God! Oh, the good--good God!--And Lord Coombe! Lord Coombe!"
Coombe had gone back to the house. Four men
returned with him, two in plain clothes and two heavily-built policemen. Th=
ey
remained below, but Coombe went up the staircase with the swift lightness o=
f a
man of thirty.
He merely stood upon the threshold of the
drawing-room. This was what he said, and his face was entirely white his ey=
es
appalling.
"My coming back to speak to you
is--superfluous--and the result of pure fury. I allow it to myself as mere
shameless indulgence. More is known against you than this--things which have
gone farther and fared worse. You are not young and you are facing years of
life in prison. Your head will be shaved--your hands worn and blackened and
your nails broken with the picking of oakum. You will writhe in hopeless
degradation until you are done for. You will have time, in the night blackn=
ess
if of your cell, to remember--to see faces--to hear cries. Women such as you
should learn what hell on earth means. You will learn."
When he ended, the woman hung with her bac=
k to
the wall she had staggered against, her mouth opening and shutting helpless=
ly
but letting forth no sound.
He took out an exquisitely fresh handkerch=
ief
and touched his forehead because it was damp. His eyes were still appalling,
but his voice suddenly dropped and changed.
"I have allowed myself to feel like a
madman," he said. "It has been a rich experience--good for such a
soul as I own."
He went downstairs and walked home because=
his
carriage had taken Robin and Mademoiselle back to the slice of a house.
Von Hillern made no further calls on Mrs.
Gareth-Lawless. His return to Berlin was immediate and Fraulein Hirsch came=
no
more to give lessons in German. Later, Coombe learned from the mam with the=
steady,
blunt-featured face, that she had crossed the Channel on a night boat not m=
any
hours after Von Hillern had walked away from Berford Place. The exact truth=
was
that she had been miserably prowling about the adjacent streets, held in the
neighbourhood by some self-torturing morbidness, half thwarted helpless
passion, half triumphing hatred of the young thing she had betrayed. Up and
down the streets she had gone, round and round, wringing her lean fingers
together and tasting on her lips the salt of tears which rolled down her
cheeks--tears of torment and rage.
There was the bitterness of death in what,=
by
a mere trick of chance, came about. As she turned a corner telling herself =
for the
hundredth time that she must go home, she found herself face to face with a
splendid figure swinging furiously along. She staggered at the sight of the
tigerish rage in the white face she recognized with a gasp. It was enough
merely to behold it. He had met with some disastrous humiliation!
As for him, the direct intervention of that
Heaven whose special care he was, had sent him a woman to punish--which, so
far, was at least one thing arranged as it should be. He knew so well how h=
e could
punish her with his mere contempt and displeasure--as he could lash a spani=
el
crawling at his feet. He need not deign to tell her what had happened, and =
he
did not. He merely drew back and stood in stiff magnificence looking down at
her.
"It is through some folly of yours,&q=
uot;
he dropped in a voice of vitriol. "Women are always foolish. They cann=
ot
hold their tongues or think clearly. Return to Berlin at once. You are not =
of
those whose conduct I can commend to be trusted in the future."
He was gone before she could have spoken e=
ven
if she had dared. Sobbing gasps caught her breath as she stood and watched =
him striding
pitilessly and superbly away with, what seemed to her abject soul, the swing
and tread of a martial god. Her streaming tears tasted salt indeed. She mig=
ht
never see him again--even from a distance. She would be disgraced and flung
aside as a blundering woman. She had obeyed his every word and done her
straining best, as she had licked the dust at his feet--but he would never =
cast
a glance at her in the future or utter to her the remotest word of his high
commands. She so reeled as she went her wretched way that a good-natured
policeman said to her as he passed,
"Steady on, my girl. Best get home an=
d go
to bed."
To Mrs. Gareth-Lawless, it was stated by
Coombe that Fraulein Hirsch had been called back to Germany by family compl=
ications.
That august orders should recall Count Von Hillern, was easily understood. =
Such
magnificent persons never shone upon society for any length of time.
That Feather had been making a country home
visit when her daughter had faced tragedy was considered by Lord Coombe as a
fortunate thing.
"We will not alarm Mrs. Gareth-Lawles=
s by
telling her what has occurred," he said to Mademoiselle Valle. "W=
hat
we most desire is that no one shall suspect that the hideous thing took pla=
ce.
A person who was forgetful or careless might, unintentionally, let some word
escape which--"
What he meant, and what Mademoiselle Valle
knew he meant--also what he knew she knew he meant--was that a woman, who w=
as a
heartless fool, without sympathy or perception, would not have the delicacy=
to
feel that the girl must be shielded, and might actually see a sort of ghast=
ly
joke in a story of Mademoiselle Valle's sacrosanct charge simply walking ou=
t of
her enshrining arms into such a "galere" as the most rackety and
adventurous of pupils could scarcely have been led into. Such a point of vi=
ew
would have been quite possible for Feather--even probable, in the slightly
spiteful attitude of her light mind.
"She was away from home. Only you and=
I
and Dowie know," answered Mademoiselle.
"Let us remain the only persons who
know," said Coombe. "Robin will say nothing."
They both knew that. She had been feverish=
and
ill for several days and Dowie had kept her in bed saying that she had caug=
ht
cold. Neither of the two women had felt it possible to talk to her. She had
lain staring with a deadly quiet fixedness straight before her, saying next=
to
nothing. Now and then she shuddered, and once she broke into a mad,
heart-broken fit of crying which she seemed unable to control.
"Everything is changed," she sai=
d to
Dowie and Mademoiselle who sat on either side of her bed, sometimes pressing
her head down onto a kind shoulder, sometimes holding her hand and patting =
it. "I
shall be afraid of everybody forever. People who have sweet faces and kind =
voices
will make me shake all over. Oh! She seemed so kind--so kind!"
It was Dowie whose warm shoulder her face
hidden on this time, and Dowie was choked with sobs she dared not let loose.
She could only squeeze hard and kiss the "silk curls all in a heap&quo=
t;--poor,
tumbled curls, no longer a child's!
"Aye, my lamb!" she managed to s=
ay.
"Dowie's poor pet lamb!"
"It's the knowing that kind eyes--kind
ones--!" she broke off, panting. "It's the KNOWING! I didn't know
before! I knew nothing. Now, it's all over. I'm afraid of all the world!&qu=
ot;
"Not all, cherie," breathed
Mademoiselle.
She sat upright against her pillows. The
mirror on a dressing table reflected her image--her blooming tear-wet youth,
framed in the wonderful hair falling a shadow about her. She stared at the =
reflection
hard and questioningly.
"I suppose," her voice was pathos
itself in its helplessness, "it is because what you once told me about
being pretty, is true. A girl who looks like THAT," pointing her finge=
r at
the glass, "need not think she can earn her own living. I loathe it,&q=
uot;
in fierce resentment at some bitter injustice. "It is like being a per=
son under
a curse!"
At this Dowie broke down openly and let her
tears run fast. "No, no! You mustn't say it or think it, my dearie!&qu=
ot;
she wept. "It might call down a blight on it. You a young thing like a
garden flower! And someone--somewhere--God bless him--that some day'll glor=
y in
it--and you'll glory too. Somewhere he is--somewhere!"
"Let none of them look at me!" c=
ried
Robin. "I loather them, too. I hate everything--and everybody--but you
two--just you two."
Mademoiselle took her in her arms this time
when she sobbed again. Mademoiselle knew how at this hour it seemed to her =
that
all her world was laid bare forever more. When the worst of the weeping was
over and she lay quiet, but for the deep catching breaths which lifted her
breast in slow, childish shudders at intervals, she held Mademoiselle Valle=
's
hand and looked at her with a faint, wry smile.
"You were too kind to tell me what a
stupid little fool I was when I talked to you about taking a place in an
office!" she said. "I know now that you would not have allowed me=
to
do the things I was so sure I could do. It was only my ignorance and concei=
t. I
can't answer advertisements. Any bad person can say what they choose in an
advertisement. If that woman had advertised, she would have described Helen=
e.
And there was no Helene." One of the shuddering catches of her breath
broke in here. After it, she said, with a pitiful girlishness of regret:
"I--I could SEE Helene. I have known so few people well enough to love
them. No girls at all. I though--perhaps--we should begin to LOVE each othe=
r. I
can't bear to think of that--that she never was alive at all. It leaves a s=
ort
of empty place."
When she had sufficiently recovered hersel=
f to
be up again, Mademoiselle Valle said to her that she wished her to express =
her gratitude
to Lord Coombe.
"I will if you wish it," she
answered.
"Don't you feel that it is proper that
you should do it? Do you not wish it yourself?" inquired Mademoiselle.
Robin looked down at the carpet for some seconds.
"I know," she at last admitted,
"that it is proper. But I don't wish to do it."
"No?" said Mademoiselle Valle.
Robin raised her eyes from the carpet and
fixed them on her.
"It is because of--reasons," she
said. "It is part of the horror I want to forget. Even you mayn't know
what it has done to me. Perhaps I am turning into a girl with a bad mind. B=
ad
thoughts keep swooping down on me--like great black ravens. Lord Coombe sav=
ed me,
but I think hideous things about him. I heard Andrews say he was bad when I=
was
too little to know what it meant. Now, I KNOW, I remember that HE knew beca=
use
he chose to know--of his own free will. He knew that woman and she knew him=
. HOW
did he know her?" She took a forward step which brought her nearer to
Mademoiselle. "I never told you but I will tell you now," she
confessed, "When the door opened and I saw him standing against the li=
ght
I--I did not think he had come to save me."
"MON DIEU!" breathed Mademoisell=
e in
soft horror.
"He knows I am pretty. He is an old m=
an
but he knows. Fraulein Hirsch once made me feel actually sick by telling me=
, in
her meek, sly, careful way, that he liked beautiful girls and the people sa=
id
he wanted a young wife and had his eye on me. I was rude to her because it =
made
me so furious. HOW did he know that woman so well? You see how bad I have b=
een
made!"
"He knows nearly all Europe. He has s=
een
the dark corners as well as the bright places. Perhaps he has saved other g=
irls
from her. He brought her to punishment, and was able to do it because he has
been on her track for some time. You are not bad--but unjust. You have had =
too
great a shock to be able to reason sanely just yet."
"I think he will always make me creep=
a
little," said Robin, "but I will say anything you think I ought to
say."
On an occasion when Feather had gone again=
to
make a visit in the country, Mademoiselle came into the sitting room with t=
he
round window in which plants grew, and Coombe followed her. Robin looked up
from her book with a little start and then stood up.
"I have told Lord Coombe that you
wish--that I wish you to thank him," Mademoiselle Valle said.
"I came on my own part to tell you th=
at
any expression of gratitude is entirely unnecessary," said Coombe.
"I MUST be grateful. I AM grateful.&q=
uot;
Robin's colour slowly faded as she said it. This was the first time she had
seen him since he had supported her down the staircase which mounted to a p=
lace
of hell.
"There is nothing to which I should
object so much as being regarded as a benefactor," he answered definit=
ely,
but with entire lack of warmth. "The role does not suit me. Being an
extremely bad man," he said it as one who speaks wholly without prejud=
ice,
"my experience is wide. I chance to know things. The woman who called
herself Lady Etynge is of a class which--which does not count me among its =
clients.
I had put certain authorities on her track--which was how I discovered your
whereabouts when Mademoiselle Valle told me that you had gone to take tea w=
ith
her. Mere chance you see. Don't be grateful to me, I beg of you, but to
Mademoiselle Valle."
"Why," faltered Robin, vaguely
repelled as much as ever, "did it matter to you?"
"Because," he answered--Oh, the =
cold
inhumanness of his gray eye!--"you happened to live in--this house.&qu=
ot;
"I thought that was perhaps the
reason," she said--and she felt that he made her "creep" eve=
n a
shade more.
"I beg your pardon," she added,
suddenly remembering, "Please sit down."
"Thank you," as he sat. "I =
will
because I have something more to say to you."
Robin and Mademoiselle seated themselves a=
lso
and listened.
"There are many hideous aspects of
existence which are not considered necessary portions of a girl's
education," he began.
"They ought to be," put in Robin,
and her voice was as hard as it was young.
It was a long and penetrating look he gave
her.
"I am not an instructor of Youth. I h=
ave
not been called upon to decide. I do not feel it my duty to go even now into
detail."
"You need not," broke in the hard
young voice. "I know everything in the world. I'm BLACK with
knowing."
"Mademoiselle will discuss that point
with you. What you have, unfortunately, been forced to learn is that it is =
not
safe for a girl--even a girl without beauty--to act independently of older =
people,
unless she has found out how to guard herself against--devils." The wo=
rds
broke from him sharply, with a sudden incongruous hint of ferocity which was
almost startling. "You have been frightened," he said next, "=
;and
you have discovered that there are devils, but you have not sufficient
experience to guard yourself against them."
"I have been so frightened that I sha=
ll
be a coward--a coward all my life. I shall be afraid of every face I see--t=
he
more to be trusted they look, the more I shall fear them. I hate every one =
in
the world!"
Her quite wonderful eyes--so they struck L=
ord
Coombe--flamed with a child's outraged anguish. A thunder shower of tears b=
roke
and rushed down her cheeks, and he rose and, walking quietly to the window =
full
of flowers, stood with his back to her for a few moments. She neither cared=
nor
knew whether it was because her hysteric emotion bored or annoyed him, or
because he had the taste to realize that she would not wish to be looked at.
Unhappy youth can feel no law but its own.
But all was over during the few moments, a=
nd
he turned and walked back to his chair.
"You want very much to do some work w=
hich
will insure your entire independence--to take some situation which will sup=
port
you without aid from others? You are not yet prepared to go out and take th=
e first
place which offers. You have been--as you say--too hideously frightened, and
you know there are dangers in wandering about unguided. Mademoiselle
Valle," turning his head, "perhaps you will tell her what you kno=
w of
the Duchess of Darte?"
Upon which, Mademoiselle Valle took hold of
her hand and entered into a careful explanation.
"She is a great personage of whom the=
re
can be no doubt. She was a lady of the Court. She is of advanced years and =
an
invalid and has a liking for those who are pretty and young. She desires a
companion who is well educated and young and fresh of mind. The companion w=
ho
had been with her for many years recently died. If you took her place you w=
ould
live with her in her town house and go with her to the country after the
season. Your salary would be liberal and no position could be more protected
and dignified. I have seen and talked to her grace myself, and she will all=
ow
me to take you to her, if you desire to go."
"Do not permit the fact that she has
known me for many years to prejudice you against the proposal," said
Coombe. "You might perhaps regard it rather as a sort of guarantee of =
my
conduct in the matter. She knows the worst of me and still allows me to ret=
ain her
acquaintance. She was brilliant and full of charm when she was a young woma=
n,
and she is even more so now because she is--of a rarity! If I were a girl a=
nd
might earn my living in her service, I should feel that fortune had been go=
od to
me--good."
Robin's eyes turned from one of them to the
other--from Coombe to Mademoiselle Valle, and from Mademoiselle to Coombe
pathetically.
"You--you see--what has been done to
me," she said. "A few weeks ago I should have KNOWN that God was
providing for me--taking care of me. And now--I am still afraid. I feel as =
if
she would see that--that I am not young and fresh any more but black with e=
vil.
I am afraid of her--I am afraid of you," to Coombe, "and of
myself."
Coombe rose, evidently to go away.
"But you are not afraid of Mademoisel=
le
Valle," he put it to her. "She will provide the necessary referen=
ces
for the Duchess. I will leave her to help you to decide."
Robin rose also. She wondered if she ought=
not
to hold out her hand. Perhaps he saw her slight movement. He himself made n=
one.
"I remember you objected to shaking h=
ands
as a child," he said, with an impersonal civil smile, and the easy
punctiliousness of his bow made it impossible for her to go further.
Some days before this the Duchess of Darte=
had
driven out in the morning to make some purchases and as she had sat in her
large landau she had greatly missed Miss Brent who had always gone with her
when she had made necessary visits to the shops. She was not fond of shoppi=
ng
and Miss Brent had privately found pleasure in it which had made her a chee=
rful
companion. To the quiet elderly woman whose life previous to her service wi=
th
this great lady had been spent in struggles with poverty, the mere incident=
of
entering shops and finding eager salesmen springing forward to meet her with
bows and amiable offers of ministration, was to the end of her days an almo=
st
thrilling thing. The Duchess bought splendidly though quietly. Knowing alwa=
ys
what she wanted, she merely required that it be produced, and after silently
examining it gave orders that it should be sent to her. There was a dignity=
in
her decision which was impressive. She never gave trouble or hesitated. The=
staffs
of employees in the large shops knew and reveled in her while they figurati=
vely
bent the knee. Miss Brent had been a happy satisfied woman while she had li=
ved.
She had died peacefully after a brief and, as it seemed at first, unalarming
illness at one of her employer's country houses to which she had been amiab=
ly
sent down for a holiday. Every kindness and attention had been bestowed upon
her and only a few moments before she fell into her last sleep she had been
talking pleasantly of her mistress.
"She is a very great lady, Miss
Hallam," she had said to her nurse. "She's the last of her kind I
often think. Very great ladies seem to have gone out--if you know what I me=
an.
They've gone out."
The Duchess had in fact said of Brent as s=
he
stood a few days later beside her coffin and looked down at her contentedly
serene face, something not unlike what Brent had said of herself.
"You were a good friend, Brent, my
dear," she murmured. "I shall always miss you. I am afraid there =
are
no more like you left."
She was thinking of her all the morning as=
she
drove slowly down to Bond Street and Piccadilly. As she got out of her carr=
iage
to go into a shop she was attracted by some photographs of beauties in a wi=
ndow
and paused to glance at them. Many of them were beauties whom she knew, but
among them were some of society's latest discoveries. The particular
photographs which caught her eye were two which had evidently been purposely
placed side by side for an interesting reason. The reason was that the two
women, while obviously belonging to periods of some twenty years apart as t=
he fashion
of their dress proved, were in face and form so singularly alike that they
bewilderingly suggested that they were the same person. Both were exquisite=
ly
nymphlike, fair and large eyed and both had the fine light hair which is
capable of forming itself into a halo. The Duchess stood and looked at them=
for
the moment spell-bound. She slightly caught her breath. She was borne back =
so swiftly
and so far. Her errand in the next door shop was forgotten. She went into t=
he
one which displayed the photographs.
"I wish to look at the two photographs
which are so much alike," she said to the man behind the counter.
He knew her as most people did and brought
forth the photographs at once.
"Many people are interested in them, =
your
grace," he said. "It was the amazing likeness which made me put t=
hem
beside each other."
"Yes," she answered. "It is
almost incredible." She looked up from the beautiful young being dress=
ed
in the mode of twenty years past.
"This is--WAS--?" she corrected
herself and paused. The man replied in a somewhat dropped voice. He evident=
ly
had his reasons for feeling it discreet to do so.
"Yes--WAS. She died twenty years ago.=
The
young Princess Alixe of X--" he said. "There was a sad story, your
grace no doubt remembers. It was a good deal talked about."
"Yes," she replied and said no m=
ore,
but took up the modern picture. It displayed the same almost floating airin=
ess
of type, but in this case the original wore diaphanous wisps of spangled tu=
lle
threatening to take wings and fly away leaving the girl slimness of arms and
shoulders bereft of any covering whatsoever.
"This one is--?" she questioned.=
"A Mrs. Gareth-Lawless. A widow with a
daughter though she looks in her teens. She's older than the Princess was, =
but
she's kept her beauty as ladies know how to in these days. It's wonderful t=
o see
them side by side. But it's only a few that saw her Highness as she was the
season she came with the Prince to visit at Windsor in Queen Victoria's day.
Did your grace--" he checked himself feeling that he was perhaps somew=
hat
exceeding Bond Street limits.
"Yes. I saw her," said the Duche=
ss.
"If these are for sale I will take them both."
"I'm selling a good many of them. Peo=
ple
buy them because the likeness makes them a sort of curiosity. Mrs. Gareth-L=
awless
is a very modern lady and she is quite amused."
The Duchess took the two photographs home =
with
her and looked at them a great deal afterwards as she sat in her winged cha=
ir.
They were on her table when Coombe came to
drink tea with her in the afternoon.
When he saw them he stood still and studied
the two faces silently for several seconds.
"Did you ever see a likeness so
wonderful?" he said at last.
"Never," she answered. "Or =
an
unlikeness. That is the most wonderful of all--the unlikeness. It is the sa=
me
body inhabited by two souls from different spheres."
His next words were spoken very slowly.
"I should have been sure you would see
that," he commented.
"I lost my breath for a second when I=
saw
them side by side in the shop window--and the next moment I lost it again
because I saw--what I speak of--the utter world wide apartness. It is in th=
eir
eyes. She--," she touched the silver frame enclosing the young Princes=
s, "was
a little saint--a little spirit. There never was a young human thing so
transparently pure."
The rigid modeling of his face expressed a
thing which, himself recognizing its presence, he chose to turn aside as he
moved towards the mantel and leaned on it. The same thing caused his voice =
to sound
hoarse and low as he spoke in answer, saying something she had not expected=
him
to say. Its unexpectedness in fact produced in her an effect of shock.
"And she was the possession of a brute
incarnate, mad with unbridled lust and drink and abnormal furies. She was a
child saint, and shook with terror before him. He killed her."
"I believe he did," she said
unsteadily after a breath space of pause. "Many people believed so tho=
ugh
great effort was made to silence the stories. But there were too many stori=
es
and they were so unspeakable that even those in high places were made furio=
usly
indignant. He was not received here at Court afterwards. His own emperor co=
uld
not condone what he did. Public opinion was too strong."
"The stories were true," answered
the hoarse low voice. "I myself, by royal command, was a guest at the
Schloss in the Bavarian Alps when it was known that he struck her repeatedly
with a dog whip. She was going to have a child. One night I was wandering in
the park in misery and I heard shrieks which sent me in mad search. I do not
know what I should have done if I had succeeded, but I tried to force an
entrance into the wing from which the shrieks came. I was met and stopped
almost by open violence. The sounds ceased. She died a week later. But the =
most
experienced lying could not hide some things. Even royal menials may have h=
uman
blood in their veins. It was known that there were hideous marks on her lit=
tle
dead body."
"We heard. We heard," whispered =
the
Duchess.
"He killed her. But she would have di=
ed
of horror if he had not struck her a blow. She began to die from the hour t=
he
marriage was forced upon her. I saw that when she was with him at
Windsor."
"You were in attendance on him,"=
the
Duchess said after a little silence. "That was when I first knew
you."
"Yes." She had added the last
sentence gravely and his reply was as grave though his voice was still hoar=
se.
"You were sublime goodness and wisdom. When a woman through the sheer
quality of her silence saves a man from slipping over the verge of madness =
he
does not forget. While I was sane I dared scarcely utter her name. If I had
gone mad I should have raved as madmen do. For that reason I was afraid.&qu=
ot;
"I knew. Speech was the greatest
danger," she answered him. "She was a princess of a royal house--=
poor
little angel--and she had a husband whose vileness and violence all Europe
knew. How DARED they give her to him?"
"For reasons of their own and because=
she
was too humbly innocent and obedient to rebel."
The Duchess did not ask questions. The sub=
lime
goodness of which he had spoken had revealed its perfection through the fact
that in the long past days she had neither questioned nor commented. She had
given her strong soul's secret support to him and in his unbearable hours he
had known that when he came to her for refuge, while she understood his nee=
d to
the uttermost, she would speak no word even to himself.
But today though she asked no question her
eyes waited upon him as it were. This was because she saw that for some unk=
nown
reason a heavy veil had rolled back from the past he had chosen to keep hid=
den
even from himself, as it were, more than from others.
"Speech is always the most dangerous
thing," he said. "Only the silence of years piled one upon the ot=
her
will bury unendurable things. Even thought must be silenced. I have lived a
lifetime since--" his words began to come very slowly--as she listened=
she
felt as if he were opening a grave and drawing from its depths long buried
things, "--since the night when I met her alone in a wood in the park =
of
the Schloss and--lost hold of myself--lost it utterly."
The Duchess' withered hands caught each ot=
her
in a clasp which was almost like a passionate exclamation.
"There was such a night. And I was
young--young--not an iron bound vieillard then. When one is young one's ang=
uish
is the Deluge which ends the world forever. I had lain down and risen up an=
d spent
every hour in growing torture for months. I had been forced to bind myself =
down
with bands of iron. When I found myself, without warning, face to face with
her, alone in the night stillness of the wood, the bands broke. She had dar=
ed
to creep out in secret to hide herself and her heartbroken terror in the
silence and darkness alone. I knew it without being told. I knew and I went=
quite
mad for the time. I was only a boy. I threw myself face downward on the ear=
th
and sobbed, embracing her young feet."
Both of them were quite silent for a few
moments before he went on.
"She was not afraid," he said, e=
ven
with something which was like a curious smile of tender pity at the memory.
"Afterwards--when I stood near her, trembling--she even took my hand a=
nd
held it. Once she kissed it humbly like a little child while her tears rain=
ed down.
Never before was there anything as innocently heartbreaking. She was so pit=
eously
grateful for love of any kind and so heart wrung by my misery."
He paused again and looked down at the car=
pet,
thinking. Then he looked up at her directly.
"I need not explain to you. You will
know. I was twenty-five. My heart was pounding in my side, my blood thudded
through my veins. Every atom of natural generous manhood in my being was wi=
ld
with fury at the brutal wrong done her exquisiteness. And she--"
"She was a young novice fresh from a
convent and very pious," the Duchess' quiet voice put in.
"You understand," he answered.
"She knelt down and prayed for her own soul as well as mine. She thank=
ed
God that I was kind and would forgive her and go away--and only remember he=
r in
my prayers. She believed it was possible. It was not, but I kissed the hem =
of her
white dress and left her standing alone--a little saint in a woodland shrin=
e.
That was what I thought deliriously as I staggered off. It was the next nig=
ht
that I heard her shrieks. Then she died."
The Duchess knew what else had died--the h=
igh
adventure of youth and joy of life in him, the brilliant spirit which had b=
een
himself and whose utter withdrawal from his being had left him as she had s=
een
him on his return to London in those days which now seemed a memory of a pa=
st
life in a world which had passed also. He had appeared before her late one
afternoon and she had for a moment been afraid to look at him because she w=
as
struck to the depths of her being by a sense of seeing before her a body wh=
ich
had broken the link holding it to life and walked the earth, the crowded st=
reets,
the ordinary rooms where people gathered, a dead thing. Even while it moved=
it
gazed out of dead eyes. And the years had passed and though they had been
friends he had never spoken until now.
"Such a thing must be buried in a tomb
covered with a heavy stone and with a seal set upon it. I am unsealing a
tomb," he said. Then after a silence he added, "I have, of cause,=
a
reason." She bent her head because she had known this must be the case=
.
"There is a thing I wish you to
understand. Every woman could not."
"I shall understand."
"Because I know you will I need not e=
nter
into exact detail. You will not find what I say abnormal."
There had been several pauses during his
relation. Once or twice he had stopped in the middle of a sentence as if for
calmer breath or to draw himself back from a past which had suddenly become
again a present of torment too great to face with modern steadiness. He took
breath so to speak in this manner again.
"The years pass, the agony of being y=
oung
passes. One slowly becomes another man," he resumed. "I am another
man. I could not be called a creature of sentiment. I have given myself
interests in existence--many of them. But the sealed tomb is under one's fe=
et. Not
to allow oneself to acknowledge its existence consciously is one's affair.
But--the devil of chance sometimes chooses to play tricks. Such a trick was
played on me."
He glanced down at the two pictures at whi=
ch
she herself was looking with grave eyes. It was the photograph of Feather he
took up and set a strange questioning gaze upon.
"When I saw this," he said,
"this--exquisitely smiling at me under a green tree in a sunny garden-=
-the
tomb opened under my feet, and I stood on the brink of it--twenty-five
again."
"You cannot possibly put it into
words," the Duchess said. "You need not. I know." For he had
become for the moment almost livid. Even to her who so well knew him it was=
a
singular thing to see him hastily set down the picture and touch his forehe=
ad
with his handkerchief.
She knew he was about to tell her his reas=
on
for this unsealing of the tomb. When he sat down at her table he did so. He=
did
not use many phrases, but in making clear his reasons he also made clear to=
her
certain facts which most persons would have ironically disbelieved. But no
shadow of a doubt passed through her mind because she had through a long li=
fe
dwelt interestedly on the many variations in human type. She was
extraordinarily interested when he ended with the story of Robin.
"I do not know exactly why 'it matter=
s to
me'--I am quoting her mother," he explained, "but it happens that=
I
am determined to stand between the child and what would otherwise be the
inevitable. It is not that she has the slightest resemblance to--to
anyone--which might awaken memory. It is not that. She and her mother are o=
f totally
different types. And her detestation of me is unconquerable. She believes m=
e to
be the worst of men. When I entered the room into which the woman had trapp=
ed
her, she thought that I came as one of the creature's damnable clients. You
will acknowledge that my position presents difficulties in the way of
explanation to a girl--to most adults in fact. Her childish frenzy of desir=
e to
support herself arises from her loathing of the position of accepting suppo=
rt
from me. I sympathize with her entirely."
"Mademoiselle Valle is an intelligent
woman," the Duchess said as though thinking the matter out. "Send=
her
to me and we will talk the matter over. Then she can bring the child."=
As a result of this, her grace saw
Mademoiselle Valle alone a few mornings later and talked to her long and
quietly. Their comprehension of each other was complete. Before their inter=
view
was at an end the Duchess' interest in the adventure she was about to enter
into had become profound.
"The sooner she is surrounded by a new
atmosphere, the better," was one of the things the Frenchwoman had sai=
d.
"The prospect of an arrangement so perfect and so secure fills me with=
the
profoundest gratitude. It is absolutely necessary that I return to my paren=
ts in
Belgium. They are old and failing in health and need me greatly. I have been
sad and anxious for months because I felt that it would be wickedness to de=
sert
this poor child. I have been torn in two. Now I can be at peace--thank the =
good
God."
"Bring her to me tomorrow if
possible," the Duchess said when they parted. "I foresee that I m=
ay
have something to overcome in the fact that I am Lord Coombe's old friend, =
but
I hope to be able to overcome it."
"She is a baby--she is of great
beauty--she has a passionate little soul of which she knows nothing."
Mademoiselle Valle said it with an anxious reflectiveness. "I have been
afraid. If I were her mother----" her eyes sought those of the older
woman.
"But she has no mother," her gra=
ce
answered. Her own eyes were serious. She knew something of girls, of young
things, of the rush and tumult of young life in them and of the outlet it
demanded. A baby who was of great beauty and of a passionate soul was no
trivial undertaking for a rheumatic old duchess, but--"Bring her to
me," she said.
So was Robin brought to the tall Early Victorian mansion in the belatedly stately square. And the chief thought in= her mind was that though mere good manners demanded under the circumstances tha= t she should come to see the Dowager Duchess of Darte and be seen by her, if she found that she was like Lord Coombe, she would not be able to endure the prospect of a future spent in her service howsoever desirable such service might outwardly appear. This desirableness Mademoiselle Valle had made clea= r to her. She was to be the companion of a personage of great and mature charm a= nd grace who desired not mere attendance, but something more, which something includ= ed the warmth and fresh brightness of happy youth and bloom. She would do for = her employer the things a young relative might do. She would have a suite of ro= oms of her own and a freedom as to hours and actions which greater experience on her part would have taught was not the customary portion meted out to a paid companion. But she knew nothing of paid service and a preliminary talk of Coombe's with Mademoiselle Valle had warned her against allowing any suspic= ion that this "earning a living" had been too obviously ameliorated.<= o:p>
"Her life is unusual. She herself is
unusual in a most dignified and beautiful way. You will, it might almost be
said, hold the position of a young lady in waiting," was Mademoiselle's
gracefully put explanation.
When, after they had been ushered into the
room where her grace sat in her beautiful and mellow corner by the fire, Ro=
bin
advanced towards the highbacked chair, what the old woman was chiefly consc=
ious
of was the eyes which seemed all lustrous iris. There was uncommon appeal a=
nd
fear in them. The blackness of their setting of up-curled lashes made them =
look
babyishly wide.
"Mademoiselle Valle has told me of yo=
ur
wish to take a position as companion," the Duchess said after they were
seated.
"I want very much," said Robin,
"to support myself and Mademoiselle thinks that I might fill such a pl=
ace
if I am not considered too young."
"You are not too young--for me. I want
something young to come and befriend me. Am I too old for YOU?" Her sm=
ile
had been celebrated fifty years earlier and it had not changed. A smile does
not. She was not like Lord Coombe in any degree however remote. She did not
belong to his world, Robin thought.
"If I can do well enough the things y=
ou
require done," she answered blushing her Jacqueminot rose blush, "=
;I
shall be grateful if you will let me try to do them. Mademoiselle will tell=
you
that I have no experience, but that I am one who tries well."
"Mademoiselle has answered all my
questions concerning your qualifications so satisfactorily that I need ask =
you
very few."
Such questions as she asked were not of the
order Robin had expected. She led her into talk and drew Mademoiselle Valle
into the conversation. It was talk which included personal views of books, =
old
gardens and old houses, people, pictures and even--lightly--politics. Robin=
found
herself quite incidentally, as it were, reading aloud to her an Italian poe=
m.
She ceased to be afraid and was at ease. She forgot Lord Coombe. The Duchess
listening and watching her warmed to her task of delicate investigation and=
saw
reason for anticipating agreeably stimulating things. She was not taking up=
on herself
a merely benevolent duty which might assume weight and become a fatigue. In
fact she might trust Coombe for that. After all it was he who had virtually
educated the child--little as she was aware of the singular fact. It was he=
who
had dragged her forth from her dog kennel of a top floor nursery and quaint=
ly incongruous
as it seemed, had found her a respectable woman for a nurse and an intellig=
ent
person for a governess and companion as if he had been a domesticated middle
class widower with a little girl to play mother to. She saw in the situation
more than others would have seen in it, but she saw also the ironic humour =
of
it. Coombe--with the renowned cut of his overcoat--the perfection of his li=
ne
and scarcely to be divined suggestions of hue--Coombe!
She did not avoid all mention of his name
during the interview, but she spoke of him only casually, and though the sa=
lary
she offered was an excellent one, it was not inordinate. Robin could not fe=
el that
she was not being accepted as of the class of young persons who support
themselves self-respectingly, though even the most modest earned income wou=
ld
have represented wealth to her ignorance.
Before they parted she had obtained the po=
sition
so pleasantly described by Mademoiselle Valle as being something like that =
of a
young lady in waiting. "But I am really a companion and I will do
everything--everything I can so that I shall be worth keeping," she
thought seriously. She felt that she should want to be kept. If Lord Coombe=
was
a friend of her employer's it was because the Duchess did not know what oth=
ers
knew. And her house was not his house--and the hideous thing she had secret=
ly
loathed would be at an end. She would be supporting herself as decently and
honestly as Mademoiselle or Dowie had supported themselves all their lives.=
With an air of incidentally recalling a fa=
ct,
the Duchess said after they had risen to leave her:
"Mademoiselle Valle tells me you have=
an
elderly nurse you are very fond of. She seems to belong to a class of serva=
nts
almost extinct."
"I love her," Robin
faltered--because the sudden reminder brought back a pang to her. There was=
a
look in her eyes which faltered also. "She loves me. I don't know
how----" but there she stopped.
"Such women are very valuable to those
who know the meaning of their type. I myself am always in search of it. My =
dear
Miss Brent was of it, though of a different class."
"But most people do not know," s=
aid
Robin. "It seems old-fashioned to them--and it's beautiful! Dowie is an
angel."
"I should like to secure your Dowie f=
or
my housekeeper and myself,"--one of the greatest powers of the celebra=
ted
smile was its power to convince. "A competent person is needed to take
charge of the linen. If we can secure an angel we shall be fortunate."=
A day or so later she said to Coombe in
describing the visit.
"The child's face is wonderful. If you
could but have seen her eyes when I said it. It is not the mere beauty of s=
ize
and shape and colour which affect one. It is something else. She is a littl=
e flame
of feeling."
The "something else" was in the
sound of her voice as she answered.
"She will be in the same house with m=
e!
Sometimes perhaps I may see her and talk to her! Oh! how GRATEFUL I am!&quo=
t;
She might even see and talk to her as often as she wished, it revealed itse=
lf and
when she and Mademoiselle got into their hansom cab to drive away, she caug=
ht
at the Frenchwoman's hand and clung to it, her eyelashes wet,
"It is as if there MUST be Goodness w=
hich
takes care of one," she said. "I used to believe in it so--until I
was afraid of all the world. Dowie means most of all. I did now know how I
could bear to let her go away. And since her husband and her daughter died,=
she
has no one but me. I should have had no one but her if you had gone back to
Belgium, Mademoiselle. And now she will be safe in the same house with me.
Perhaps the Duchess will keep her until she dies. I hope she will keep me u=
ntil
I die. I will be as good and faithful as Dowie and perhaps the Duchess will
live until I am quite old--and not pretty any more. And I will make economi=
es as
you have made them, Mademoiselle, and save all my salary--and I might be ab=
le
to end my days in a little cottage in the country."
Mademoiselle was conscious of an actual
physical drag at her heartstrings. The pulsating glow of her young loveline=
ss
had never been more moving and oh! the sublime certainty of her unconscious=
ness
that Life lay between this hour and that day when she was "quite old a=
nd
not pretty any more" and having made economies could die in a little
cottage in the country! She believed in her vision as she had believed that
Donal would come to her in the garden.
Upon Feather the revelation that her daugh=
ter
had elected to join the ranks of girls who were mysteriously determined to =
be responsible
for themselves produced a curious combination of effects. It was presented =
to
her by Lord Coombe in the form of a simple impersonal statement which had i=
ts
air of needing no explanation. She heard it with eyes widening a little and=
a
smile slowly growing. Having heard, she broke into a laugh, a rather
high-pitched treble laugh.
"Really?" she said. "She is
really going to do it? To take a situation! She wants to be independent and
'live her own life!' What a joke--for a girl of mine!" She was either
really amused or chose to seem so.
"What do YOU think of it?" she a=
sked
when she stopped laughing. Her eyes had curiosity in them.
"I like it," he answered.
"Of course. I ought to have remembere=
d that
you helped her to an Early Victorian duchess. She's one without a flaw--the
Dowager Duchess of Darte. The most conscientiously careful mother couldn't =
object.
It's almost like entering into the kingdom of heaven--in a dull way." =
She
began to laugh again as if amusing images rose suddenly before her. "A=
nd
what does the Duchess think of it?" she said after her laughter had ce=
ased
again. "How does she reconcile herself to the idea of a companion whose
mother she wouldn't have in her house?"
"We need not enter into that view of =
the
case. You decided some years ago that it did not matter to you whether Early
Victorian duchesses included you in their visiting lists or did not. More m=
odern
ones do I believe--quite beautiful and amusing ones."
"But for that reason I want this one =
and
those like her. They would bore me, but I want them. I want them to come to=
my
house and be polite to me in their stuffy way. I want to be invited to thei=
r hideous
dinner parties and see them sitting round their tables in their awful family
jewels 'talking of the sad deaths of kings.' That's Shakespeare, you know. I
heard it last night at the theatre."
"Why do you want it?" Coombe
inquired.
"When I ask you why you show your mor=
bid
interest in Robin, you say you don't know. I don't know--but I do want
it."
She suddenly flushed, she even showed her
small teeth. For an extraordinary moment she looked like a little cat.
"Robin will hare it," she cried,
grinding a delicate fist into the palm on her knee. "She's not eighteen
and she's a beauty and she's taken up by a perfectly decent old duchess. Sh=
e'll
have EVERYTHING! The Dowager will marry her to someone important. You'll he=
lp,"
she turned on him in a flame of temper. "You are capable of marrying h=
er
yourself!" There was a a brief but entire silence. It was broken by his
saying,
"She is not capable of marrying ME.&q=
uot;
There was brief but entire silence again, =
and
it was he who again broke it, his manner at once cool and reasonable.
"It is better not to exhibit this kin=
d of
feeling. Let us be quite frank. There are few things you feel more strongly
than that you do not want your daughter in the house. When she was a child =
you
told me that you detested the prospect of having her on your hands. She is
being disposed of in the most easily explained and enviable manner."
"It's true--it's true," Feather
murmured. She began to see advantages and the look of a little cat died out=
, or
at least modified itself into that of a little cat upon whom dawned prospec=
ts
of cream. No mood ever held her very long. "She won't come back to
stay," she said. "The Duchess won't let her. I can use her rooms =
and
I shall be very glad to have them. There's at least some advantage in figur=
ing
as a sort of Dame Aux Camelias."
The night before Robin went away as she sat
alone in the dimness of one light, thinking as girls nearly always sit and
think on the eve of a change, because to youth any change seems to mean the
final closing as well as the opening of ways, the door of her room was open=
ed
and an exquisite and nymphlike figure in pale green stood exactly where the
rays of the reading lamp seemed to concentrate themselves in an effort to
reveal most purely its delicately startling effect. It was her mother in a
dress whose spring-like tint made her a sort of slim dryad. She looked so
pretty and young that Robin caught her breath as she rose and went forward.=
"It is your aged parent come to give =
you
her blessing," said Feather.
"I was wondering if I might come to y=
our
room in the morning," Robin answered.
Feather seated herself lightly. She was not
intelligent enough to have any real comprehension of the mood which had
impelled her to come. She had merely given way to a secret sense of resentm=
ent
of something which annoyed her. She knew, however, why she had put on the
spring-leaf green dress which made her look like a girl. She was not going =
to
let Robin feel as if she were receiving a visit from her grandmother. She h=
ad
got that far.
"We don't know each other at all, do
we?" she said.
"No," answered Robin. She could =
not
remove her eyes from her loveliness. She brought up such memories of the La=
dy
Downstairs and the desolate child in the shabby nursery.
"Mothers are not as intimate with the=
ir
daughters as they used to be when it was a sort of virtuous fashion to
superintend their rice pudding and lecture them about their lessons. We have
not seen each other often."
"No," said Robin.
Feather's laugh had again the rather high =
note
Coombe had noticed.
"You haven't very much to say, have
you?" she commented. "And you stare at me as if you were trying to
explain me. I dare say you know that you have big eyes and that they're a g=
ood
colour, but I may as well hint to you that men do not like to be stared at =
as if
their deeps were being searched. Drop your eyelids."
Robin's lids dropped in spite of herself
because she was startled, but immediately she was startled again by a note =
in
her mother's voice--a note of added irritation.
"Don't make a habit of dropping them =
too
often," it broke out, "or it will look as if you did it to show y=
our
eyelashes. Girls with tricks of that sort are always laughed at. Alison Carr
LIVES sideways became she has a pretty profile."
Coombe would have recognized the little cat
look, if he had been watching her as she leaned back in her chair and
scrutinized her daughter. The fact was that she took in her every point, be=
ing
an astute censor of other women's charms.
"Stand up," she said.
Robin stood up because she could not well
refuse to do so, but she coloured because she was suddenly ashamed.
"You're not little, but you're not
tall," her mother said. "That's against you. It's the fashion for
women to be immensely tall now. Du Maurier's pictures in Punch and his idio=
tic
Trilby did it. Clothes are made for giantesses. I don't care about it mysel=
f,
but a girl's rather out of it if she's much less than six feet high. You can
sit down."
A more singular interview between mother a=
nd
daughter had assuredly rarely taken place. As she looked at the girl her
resentment of her increased each moment. She actually felt as if she were
beginning to lose her temper.
"You are what pious people call 'going
out into the world'," she went on. "In moral books mothers always
give advice and warnings to their girls when they're leaving them. I can gi=
ve
you some warnings. You think that because you have been taken up by a dowag=
er
duchess everything will be plain sailing. You're mistaken. You think because
you are eighteen and pretty, men will fall at your feet."
"I would rather be hideous," cri=
ed suddenly
passionate Robin. "I HATE men!"
The silly pretty thing who was responsible=
for
her being, grew sillier as her irritation increased.
"That's what girls always pretend, but
the youngest little idiot knows it isn't true. It's men who count. It makes=
me
laugh when I think of them--and of you. You know nothing about them and the=
y know
everything about you. A clever man can do anything he pleases with a silly
girl."
"Are they ALL bad?" Robin exclai=
med
furiously.
"They're none of them bad. They're on=
ly
men. And that's my warning. Don't imagine that when they make love to you t=
hey
do it as if you were the old Duchess' granddaughter. You will only be her p=
aid companion
and that's a different matter."
"I will not speak to one of
them----" Robin actually began.
"You'll be obliged to do what the Duc=
hess
tells you to do," laughed Feather, as she realized her obvious power to
dull the glitter and glow of things which she had felt the girl must be daz=
zled
and uplifted unduly by. She was rather like a spiteful schoolgirl entertain=
ing
herself by spoiling an envied holiday for a companion. "Old men will r=
un
after you and you will have to be nice to them whether you like it or
not." A queer light came into her eyes. "Lord Coombe is fond of g=
irls
just out of the schoolroom. But if he begins to make love to you don't allow
yourself to feel too much flattered."
Robin sprang toward her.
"Do you think I don't ABHOR Lord
Coombe!" she cried out forgetting herself in the desperate cruelty of =
the
moment. "Haven't I reason----" but there she remembered and stopp=
ed.
But Feather was not shocked or alarmed. Ye=
ars
of looking things in the face had provided her with a mental surface from w=
hich
tilings rebounded. On the whole it even amused her and "suited her
book" that Robin should take this tone.
"Oh! I suppose you mean you know he
admires me and pays bills for me. Where would you have been if he hadn't do=
ne
it? He's been a sort of benefactor."
"I know nothing but that even when I =
was
a little child I could not bear to touch his hand!" cried Robin. Then
Feather remembered several things she had almost forgotten and she was still
more entertained.
"I believe you've not forgotten throu=
gh
all these years that the boy you fell so indecently in love with was taken =
away
by his mother because Lord Coombe was YOUR mother's admirer and he was such=
a
sinner that even a baby was contaminated by him! Donal Muir is a young man =
by
this time. I wonder what his mother would do now if he turned up at your
mistress' house--that's what she is, you know, your mistress--and began to =
make
love to you." She laughed outright. "You'll get into all sorts of
messes, but that would be the nicest one!"
Robin could only stand and gaze at her. Her
moment's fire had died down. Without warning, out of the past a wave rose a=
nd
overwhelmed her then and there. It bore with it the wild woe of the morning=
when
a child had waited in the spring sun and her world had fallen into nothingn=
ess.
It came back--the broken-hearted anguish, the utter helpless desolation, as=
if
she stood in the midst of it again, as if it had never passed. It was a
re-incarnation. She could not bear it.
"Do you hate me--as I hate Lord
Coombe?" she cried out. "Do you WANT unhappy things to happen to =
me?
Oh! Mother, why!" She had never said "Mother" before. Nature
said it for her here. The piteous appeal of her youth and lonely young rush=
of
tears was almost intolerably sweet. Through some subtle cause it added to t=
he
thing in her which Feather resented and longed to trouble and to hurt.
"You are a spiteful little cat!"=
she
sprang up to exclaim, standing close and face to face with her. "You t=
hink
I am an old thing and that I'm jealous of you! Because you're pretty and a =
girl
you think women past thirty don't count. You'll find out. Mrs. Muir will co=
unt
and she's forty if she's a day. Her son's such a beauty that people go mad =
over
him. And he worships her--and he's her slave. I wish you WOULD get into some
mess you couldn't get out of! Don't come to me if you do."
The wide beauty of Robin's gaze and her te=
ar
wet bloom were too much. Feather was quite close to her. The spiteful
schoolgirl impulse got the better of her.
"Don't make eyes at me like that,&quo=
t;
she cried, and she actually gave the rose cheek nearest her a sounding litt=
le
slap, "There!" she exclaimed hysterically and she turned about and
ran out of the room crying herself.
Robin had parted from Mademoiselle Valle at
Charing Cross Station on the afternoon of the same day, but the night before
they had sat up late together and talked a long time. In effect Mademoisell=
e had
said also, "You are going out into the world," but she had not ap=
proached
the matter in Mrs. Gareth-Lawless' mood. One may have charge of a girl and =
be
her daily companion for years, but there are certain things the very years
themselves make it increasingly difficult to say to her. And after all why
should one state difficult things in exact phrases unless one lacks breeding
and is curious. Anxious she had been at times, but not curious. So it was t=
hat
even on this night of their parting it was not she who spoke.
It was after a few minutes of sitting in
silence and looking at the fire that Robin broke in upon the quiet which had
seemed to hold them both.
"I must learn to remember always that=
I
am a sort of servant. I must be very careful. It will be easier for me to
realize that I am not in my own house than it would be for other girls. I h=
ave not
allowed Dowie to dress me for a good many weeks. I have learned how to do
everything for myself quite well."
"But Dowie will be in the house with =
you
and the Duchess is very kind."
"Every night I have begun my prayers =
by
thanking God for leaving me Dowie," the girl said. "I have begun =
them
and ended them with the same words." She looked about her and then bro=
ke
out as if involuntarily. "I shall be away from here. I shall not wear
anything or eat anything or sleep on any bed I have not paid for myself.&qu=
ot;
"These rooms are very pretty. We have
been very comfortable here," Mademoiselle said. Suddenly she felt that=
if
she waited a few moments she would know definitely things she had previousl=
y only
guessed at. "Have you no little regrets?"
"No," answered Robin,
"No."
She stood upon the hearth with her hands
behind her. Mademoiselle felt as if her fingers were twisting themselves to=
gether
and the Frenchwoman was peculiarly moved by the fact that she looked like a
slim jeune fille of a creature saying a lesson. The lesson opened in this w=
ise.
"I don't know when I first began to k=
now
that I was different from all other children," she said in a soft, hot
voice--if a voice can express heat. "Perhaps a child who has
nothing--nothing--is obliged to begin to THINK before it knows what thoughts
are. If they play and are loved and amused they have no time for anything b=
ut
growing and being happy. You never saw the dreadful little rooms
upstairs----"
"Dowie has told me of them," said
Mademoiselle.
"Another child might have forgotten t=
hem.
I never shall. I--I was so little and they were full of something awful. It=
was
loneliness. The first time Andrews pinched me was one day when the thing fr=
ightened
me and I suddenly began to cry quite loud. I used to stare out of the window
and--I don't know when I noticed it first--I could see the children being t=
aken
out by their nurses. And there were always two or three of them and they
laughed and talked and skipped. The nurses used to laugh and talk too. Andr=
ews never
did. When she took me to the gardens the other nurses sat together and
chattered and their children played games with other children. Once a little
girl began to talk to me and her nurse called her away. Andrews was very an=
gry
and jerked me by my arm and told me that if ever I spoke to a child again s=
he
would pinch me."
"Devil!" exclaimed the Frenchwom=
an.
"I used to think and think, but I cou=
ld
never understand. How could I?"
"A baby!" cried Mademoiselle Val=
le
and she got up and took her in her arms and kissed her. "Chere petite
ange!" she murmured. When she sat down again her cheeks were wet. Robi=
n's
were wet also, but she touched them with her handkerchief quickly and dried
them. It was as if she had faltered for a moment in her lesson.
"Did Dowie ever tell you anything abo=
ut
Donal?" she asked hesitatingly.
"Something. He was the little boy you
played with?"
"Yes. He was the first human creature=
,"
she said it very slowly as if trying to find the right words to express what
she meant, "--the first HUMAN creature I had ever known. You see
Mademoiselle, he--he knew everything. He had always been happy, he BELONGED=
to
people and things. I belonged to nobody and nothing. If I had been like him=
he
would not have seemed so wonderful to me. I was in a kind of delirium of jo=
y.
If a creature who had been deaf dumb and blind had suddenly awakened, and
seeing on a summer day in a world full of flowers and sun--it might have se=
emed
to them as it seemed to me."
"You have remembered it through all t=
he
years," said Mademoiselle, "like that?"
"It was the first time I became alive.
One could not forget it. We only played as children play but--it WAS a deli=
rium
of joy. I could not bear to go to sleep at night and forget it for a moment=
. Yes,
I remember it--like that. There is a dream I have every now and then and it=
is
more real than--than this is--" with a wave of her hand about her. &qu=
ot;I
am always in a real garden playing with a real Donal. And his eyes--his
eyes--" she paused and thought, "There is a look in them that is
like--it is just like--that first morning."
The change which passed over her face the =
next
moment might have been said to seem to obliterate all trace of the childish
memory.
"He was taken away by his mother. That
was the beginning of my finding out," she said. "I heard Andrews
talking to her sister and in a baby way I gathered that Lord Coombe had sent
him. I hated Lord Coombe for years before I found out that he hadn't--and t=
hat
there was another reason. After that it took time to puzzle things out and
piece them together. But at last I found out what the reason had been. Then=
I
began to make plans. These are not my rooms," glancing about her again,
"--these are not my clothes," with a little pull at her dress.
"I'm not 'a strong character', Mademoiselle, as I wanted to be, but I
haven't one little regret--not one." She kneeled down and put her arms
round her old friend's waist, lifting her face. "I'm like a leaf blown
about by the wind. I don't know what it will do with me. Where do leaves go=
? One
never knows really."
She put her face down on Mademoiselle's kn=
ee
then and cried with soft bitterness.
When she bade her good-bye at Charing Cross
Station and stood and watched the train until it was quite out of sight,
afterwards she went back to the rooms for which she felt no regrets. And be=
fore
she went to bed that night Feather came and gave her farewell maternal advi=
ce
and warning.
That a previously scarcely suspected daugh=
ter
of Mrs. Gareth-Lawless had become a member of the household of the Dowager
Duchess of Darte stirred but a passing wave of interest in a circle which w=
as not
that of Mrs. Gareth-Lawless herself and which upon the whole but casually
acknowledged its curious existence as a modern abnormality. Also the attitu=
de
of the Duchess herself was composedly free from any admission of necessity =
for
comment.
"I have no pretty young relative who =
can
be spared to come and live with me. I am fond of things pretty and young an=
d I
am greatly pleased with what a kind chance put in my way," she said. In
her discussion of the situation with Coombe she measured it with her custom=
ary
fine acumen.
"Forty years ago it could not have be=
en
done. The girl would have been made uncomfortable and outside things could =
not
have been prevented from dragging themselves in. Filial piety in the mass w=
ould
have demanded that the mother should be accounted for. Now a genial knowled=
ge
of a variety in mothers leaves Mrs. Gareth-Lawless to play about with her o=
wn
probably quite amusing set. Once poor Robin would have been held responsible
for her and so should I. My position would have seemed to defy serious moral
issues. But we have reached a sane habit of detaching people from their
relations. A nice condition we should be in if we had not."
"You, of course, know that Henry died
suddenly in some sort of fit at Ostend." Coombe said it as if in a for=
m of
reply. She had naturally become aware of it when the rest of the world did,=
but
had not seen him since the event.
"One did not suppose his constitution
would have lasted so long," she answered. "You are more fortunate=
in
young Donal Muir. Have you seen him and his mother?"
"I made a special journey to Braemarn=
ie
and had a curious interview with Mrs. Muir. When I say 'curious' I don't me=
an
to imply that it was not entirely dignified. It was curious only because I
realize that secretly she regards with horror and dread the fact that her b=
oy
is the prospective Head of the House of Coombe. She does not make a jest of=
it
as I have had the temerity to do. It's a cheap defense, this trick of makin=
g an
eternal jest of things, but it IS a defense and one has formed the habit.&q=
uot;
"She has never done it--Helen Muir,&q=
uot;
his friend said. "On the whole I believe she at times knows that she h=
as
been too grave. She was a beautiful creature passionately in love with her
husband. When such a husband is taken away from such a woman and his child =
is
left it often happens that the flood of her love is turned into one current=
and
that it is almost overwhelming. She is too sane to have coddled the boy and
made him effeminate--what has she done instead?"
"He is a splendid young Highlander. He
would be too good-looking if he were not as strong and active as a young st=
ag.
All she has done is to so fill him with the power and sense of her charm th=
at he
has not seen enough of the world or learned to care for it. She is the one
woman on earth for him and life with her at Braemarnie is all he asks
for."
"Your difficulty will be that she will
not be willing to trust him to your instructions."
"I have not as much personal vanity a=
s I
may seem to have," Coombe said. "I put all egotism modestly aside
when I talked to her and tried to explain that I would endeavour to see tha=
t he
came to no harm in my society. My heir presumptive and I must see something=
of
each other and he must become intimate with the prospect of his
responsibilities. More will be demanded of the next Marquis of Coombe than =
has
been demanded of me. And it will be DEMANDED not merely hoped for or expect=
ed.
And it will be the overwhelming forces of Fate which will demand it--not me=
re
tenants or constituents or the general public."
"Have you any views as to WHAT will be
demanded?" was her interested question.
"None. Neither has anyone else who sh=
ares
my opinion. No one will have any until the readjustment comes. But before t=
he
readjustment there will be the pouring forth of blood--the blood of magnifi=
cent
lads like Donal Muir--perhaps his own blood,--my God!"
"And there may be left no head of the
house of Coombe," from the Duchess.
"There will be many a house left with=
out
its head--houses great and small. And if the peril of it were more generally
foreseen at this date it would be less perilous than it is."
"Lads like that!" said the old
Duchess bitterly. "Lads in their strength and joy and bloom! It is
hideous."
"In all their young virility and prom=
ise
for a next generation--the strong young fathers of forever unborn millions!
It's damnable! And it will be so not only in England, but all over a blood
drenched world."
It was in this way they talked to each oth=
er
of the black tragedy for which they believed the world's stage already being
set in secret, and though there were here and there others who felt the omi=
nous
inevitability of the raising of the curtain, the rest of the world looked o=
n in
careless indifference to the significance of the open training of its actors
and even the resounding hammerings of its stage carpenters and builders. In
these days the two discussed the matter more frequently and even in the ton=
e of
those who waited for the approach of a thing drawing nearer every day.
Each time the Head of the House of Coombe =
made
one of his so-called "week end" visits to the parts an Englishman=
can
reach only by crossing the Channel, he returned with new knowledge of the
special direction in which the wind veered in the blowing of those straws he
had so long observed with absorbed interest.
"Above all the common sounds of daily
human life one hears in that one land the rattle and clash of arms and the
unending thudding tread of marching feet," he said after one such visi=
t.
"Two generations of men creatures bred and born and trained to live as=
parts
of a huge death dealing machine have resulted in a monstrous construction. =
Each
man is a part of it and each part's greatest ambition is to respond to the
shouted word of command as a mechanical puppet responds to the touch of a
spring. To each unit of the millions, love of his own country means only ha=
tred
of all others and the belief that no other should be allowed existence. The
sacred creed of each is that the immensity of Germany is such that there ca=
n be
no room on the earth for another than itself. Blood and iron will clear the
world of the inferior peoples. To the masses that is their God's will. Their
God is an understudy of their Kaiser."
"You are not saying that as part of t=
he
trick of making a jest of things?"
"I wish to God I were. The poor huge
inhuman thing he has built does not know that when he was a boy he did not =
play
at war and battles as other boys do, but as a creature obsessed. He has pla=
yed at
soldiers with his people as his toys throughout all his morbid life--and he=
has
hungered and thirsted as he has done it."
A Bible lay upon the table and the Duchess
drew it towards her.
"There is a verse here--" she sa=
id
"--I will find it." She turned the pages and found it. "List=
en!
'Know this and lay it to thy heart this day. Jehovah is God in heaven above=
and
on the earth beneath. There is none else.' That is a power which does not c=
onfine
itself to Germany or to England or France or to the Map of Europe. It is the
Law of the Universe--and even Wilhelm the Second cannot bend it to his almi=
ghty
will. 'There is none else.'"
"'There is none else'," repeated
Coombe slowly. "If there existed a human being with the power to drive
that home as a truth into his delirious brain, I believe he would die raving
mad. To him there is no First Cause which was not 'made in Germany.' And it=
is
one of his most valuable theatrical assets. It is part of his paraphernalia=
--like
the jangling of his sword and the glitter of his orders. He shakes it before
his people to arrest the attention of the simple and honest ones as one jin=
gles
a rattle before a child. There are those among them who are not so readily
attracted by terms of blood and iron."
"But they will be called upon to shed
blood and to pour forth their own. There will be young things like Donal
Muir--lads with ruddy cheeks and with white bodies to be torn to
fragments." She shuddered as she said it. "I am afraid!" she
said. "I am afraid!"
"So am I," Coombe answered. &quo=
t;Of
what is coming. What a FOOL I have been!"
"How long will it be before other men
awaken to say the same thing?"
"Each man's folly is his own shame.&q=
uot;
He drew himself stiffly upright as a man might who stood before a firing sq=
uad.
"I had a life to live or to throw away. Because I was hideously wounde=
d at
the outset I threw it aside as done for. I said 'there is neither God nor
devil, vice nor virtue, love nor hate. I will do and leave undone what I
choose.' I had power and brain and money. A man who could see clearly and w=
ho
had words to choose from might have stood firmly in the place to which he w=
as born
and have spoken in a voice which might have been listened to. He might have
fought against folly and blindness and lassitude. I deliberately chose priv=
ately
to sneer at the thought of lifting a hand to serve any thing but the cold f=
ool
who was myself. Life passes quickly. It does not turn back." He ended =
with
a short harsh laugh. "This is Fear," he said. "Fear clears a
man's mind of rubbish and non-essentials. It is because I am AFRAID that I
accuse myself. And it is not for myself or you but for the whole world which
before the end comes will seem to fall into fragments."
"You have been seeing ominous
signs?" the Duchess said leaning forward and speaking low.
"There have been affectionate visits =
to
Vienna. There is a certain thing in the air--in the arrogance of the bearin=
g of
men clanking their sabres as they stride through the streets. There is an
exultant eagerness in their eyes. Things are said which hold scarcely conce=
aled
braggart threats. They have always been given to that sort of thing--but no=
w it
strikes one as a thing unleashed--or barely leashed at all. The background =
of
the sound of clashing arms and the thudding of marching feet is more unendi=
ngly
present. One cannot get away from it. The great munition factories are work=
ing
night and day. In the streets, in private houses, in the shops, one hears a=
nd
recognizes signs. They are signs which might not be clear to one who has not
spent years in looking on with interested eyes. But I have watched too long=
to
see only the surface of things. The nation is waiting for
something--waiting."
"What will be the pretext--what,"
the Duchess pondered.
"Any pretext will do--or none--except
that Germany must have what she wants and that she is strong enough to take
it--after forty years of building her machine."
"And we others have built none. We al= most deserve whatever comes to us." The old woman's face was darkly grave.<= o:p>
"In three villages where I chance to =
be
lord of the manor I have, by means of my own, set lads drilling and trainin=
g.
It is supposed to be a form of amusement and an eccentric whim of mine and =
it is
a change from eternal cricket. I have given prizes and made an occasional
speech on the ground that English brawn is so enviable a possession that it
ought to develop itself to the utmost. When I once went to the length of ad=
ding
that each Englishman should be muscle fit and ready in case of England's su=
dden
need, I saw the lads grin cheerfully at the thought of England in any such =
un-English
plight. Their innocent swaggering belief that the country is always ready f=
or
everything moved my heart of stone. And it is men like myself who are to
blame--not merely men of my class, but men of my KIND. Those who have chose=
n to
detach themselves from everything but the living of life as it best pleased=
their
tastes or served their personal ambitions."
"Are we going to be taught that man
cannot argue without including his fellow man? Are we going to be forced to
learn it?" she said.
"Yes--forced. Nothing but force could
reach us. The race is an undeveloped thing. A few centuries later it will h=
ave
evolved another sense. This century may see the first huge step--because the
power of a cataclysm sweeps it forward."
He turned his glance towards the opening d=
oor.
Robin came in with some letters in her hand. He was vaguely aware that she =
wore
an aspect he was unfamiliar with. The girl of Mrs. Gareth-Lawless had in the
past, as it went without saying, expressed the final note of priceless
simplicity and mode. The more finely simple she looked, the more priceless.=
The
unfamiliarity in her outward seeming lay in the fact that her quiet dun twe=
ed
dress with its lines of white at neck and wrists was not priceless though it
was well made. It, in fact, unobtrusively suggested that it was meant for
service rather than for adornment. Her hair was dressed closely and her mov=
ements
were very quiet. Coombe realized that her greeting of him was delicately
respectful.
"I have finished the letters," s=
he
said to the Duchess. "I hope they are what you want. Sometimes I am af=
raid----"
"Don't be afraid," said the Duch=
ess
kindly. "You write very correct and graceful little letters. They are
always what I want. Have you been out today?"
"Not yet." Robin hesitated a lit=
tle.
"Have I your permission to ask Mrs. James if it will be convenient to =
her
to let Dowie go with me for an hour?"
"Yes," as kindly as before.
"For two hours if you like. I shall not drive this afternoon."
"Thank you," said Robin and went=
out
of the room as quietly as she had entered it.
When the door closed the Duchess was smili=
ng
at Lord Coombe.
"I understand her," she said.
"She is sustained and comforted by her pretty air of servitude. She mi=
ght
use Dowie as her personal maid and do next to nothing, but she waits upon
herself and punctiliously asks my permission to approach Mrs. James the
housekeeper with any request for a favour. Her one desire is to be sure that
she is earning her living as other young women do when they are paid for th=
eir
work. I should really like to pet and indulge her, but it would only make h=
er
unhappy. I invent tasks for her which are quite unnecessary. For years the
little shut-up soul has been yearning and praying for this opportunity to s=
tand
honestly on her own feet and she can scarcely persuade herself that it has =
been
given to her. It must not be spoiled for her. I send her on errands my maid
could perform. I have given her a little room with a serious business air. =
It
is full of files and papers and she sits in it and copies things for me and
even looks over accounts. She is clever at looking up references. I have let
her sit up quite late once or twice searching for detail and dates for my u=
se.
It made her bloom with joy."
"You are quite the most delightful wo=
man
in the world," said Coombe. "Quite."
In the serious little room the Duchess had
given to her Robin built for herself a condition she called happiness. She =
drew
the spiritual substance from which it was made from her pleasure in the boo=
ks
of reference closely fitted into their shelves, in the files for letters and
more imposing documents, in the varieties of letter paper and envelopes of
different sizes and materials which had been provided for her use in case of
necessity.
"You may not use the more substantial
ones often, but you must be prepared for any unexpected contingency," =
the
Duchess had explained, thereby smoothing her pathway by the suggestion of
responsibilities.
The girl did not know the extent of her
employer's consideration for her, but she knew that she was kind with a spe=
cial
grace and comprehension. A subtle truth she also did not recognize was that=
the
remote flame of her own being was fiercely alert in its readiness to leap
upward at any suspicion that her duties were not worth the payment made for
them and that for any reason which might include Lord Coombe she was occupy=
ing
a position which was a sinecure. She kept her serious little room in order
herself, dusting and almost polishing the reference books, arranging and re=
-arranging
the files with such exactness of system that she could--as is the vaunt of =
the
model of orderly perfection--lay her hand upon any document "in the
dark." She was punctuality's self and held herself in readiness at any
moment to appear at the Duchess' side as if a magician had instantaneously
transported her there before the softly melodious private bell connected wi=
th
her room had ceased to vibrate. The correctness of her to deference to the
convenience of Mrs. James the housekeeper in her simplest communication with
Dowie quite touched that respectable person's heart.
"She's a young lady," Mrs. James
remarked to Dowie. "And a credit to you and her governess, Mrs. Dowson.
Young ladies have gone almost out of fashion."
"Mademoiselle Valle had spent her
governessing days among the highest. My own places were always with
gentle-people. Nothing ever came near her that could spoil her manners. A g=
ood
heart she was born with," was the civil reply of Dowie.
"Nothing ever came NEAR her--?" =
Mrs.
James politely checked what she became conscious was a sort of unconscious =
exclamation.
"Nothing," said Dowie going on w=
ith
her sheet hemming steadily.
Robin wrote letters and copied various
documents for the Duchess, she went shopping with her and executed commissi=
ons
to order. She was allowed to enter into correspondence with the village sch=
oolmistress
and the wife of the Vicar at Darte Norham and to buy prizes for notable dec=
orum
and scholarship in the school, and baby linen and blankets for the Maternity
Bag and other benevolences. She liked buying prizes and the baby clothes ve=
ry
much because--though she was unaware of the fact--her youth delighted in
youngness and the fulfilling of young desires. Even oftener and more
significantly than ever did eyes turn towards her--try to hold hers--look a=
fter
her eagerly when she walked in the streets or drove with the Duchess in the
high-swung barouche. More and more she became used to it and gradually she
ceased to be afraid of it and began to feel it nearly always--there were
sometimes exceptions--a friendly thing.
She saw friendliness in it because when she
caught sight as she so often did of young things like herself passing in pa=
irs,
laughing and talking and turning to look into each other's eyes, her being =
told
her that it was sweet and human and inevitable. They always turned and look=
ed
at each other--these pairs--and then they smiled or laughed or flushed a
little. As she had not known when first she recognized, as she looked down =
into
the street from her nursery window, that the children nearly always passed =
in
twos or threes and laughed and skipped and talked, so she did not know when=
she
first began to notice these joyous young pairs and a certain touch of
exultation in them and feel that it was sweet and quite a simple common nat=
ural
thing. Her noting and being sometimes moved by it was as natural as her
pleasure in the opening of spring flowers or the new thrill of spring
birds--but she did not know that either.
The brain which has worked through many ye=
ars
in unison with the soul to which it was apportioned has evolved a knowledge
which has deep cognizance of the universal law. The brain of the old Duchess
had so worked, keeping pace always with its guide, never visualizing the
possibility of working alone, also never falling into the abyss of that hum=
an
folly whose conviction is that all that one sees and gives a special name t=
o is
all that exists--or that the names accepted by the world justly and clearly
describe qualities, yearnings, moods, as they are. This had developed within
her wide perception and a wisdom which was sane and kind to tenderness.
As she drove through the streets with Robin
beside her she saw the following eyes, she saw the girl's soft friendly loo=
k at
the young creatures who passed her glowing and uplifted by the joy of life,=
and
she was moved and even disturbed.
After her return from one particular morni=
ng's
outing she sent for Dowie.
"You have taken care of Miss Robin si=
nce
she was a little child?" she began.
"She was not quite six when I first w=
ent
to her, your grace."
"You are not of the women who only fe=
ed
and bathe a child and keep her well dressed. You have been a sort of mother=
to
her."
"I've tried to, your grace. I've loved
her and watched over her and she's loved me, I do believe."
"That is why I want to talk to you ab=
out
her, Dowie. If you were the woman who merely comes and goes in a child's li=
fe,
I could not. She is--a very beautiful young thing, Dowie."
"From her little head to her slim bit=
s of
feet, your grace. No one knows better than I do."
The Duchess' renowned smile revealed itsel=
f.
"A beautiful young thing ought to see=
and
know other beautiful young things and make friends with them. That is one of
the reasons for their being put in the world. Since she has been with me she
has spoken to no one under forty. Has she never had young friends?"
"Never, your grace. Once two--young
baggages--were left to have tea with her and they talked to her about divor=
ce
scandals and corespondents. She never wanted to see them again." Dowie=
's
face set itself in lines of perfectly correct inexpressiveness and she adde=
d,
"They set her asking me questions I couldn't answer. And she broke down
because she suddenly understood why. No, your grace, she's not known those =
of
her own age."
"She is--of the ignorance of a
child," the Duchess thought it out slowly.
"She thinks not, poor lamb, but she
is," Dowie answered. The Duchess' eyes met hers and they looked at each
other for a moment. Dowie tried to retain a non-committal steadiness and the
Duchess observing the intention knew that she was free to speak.
"Lord Coombe confided to me that she =
had
passed through a hideous danger which had made a lasting impression on
her," she said in a low voice. "He told me because he felt it wou=
ld
explain certain reserves and fears in her."
"Sometimes she wakes up out of nightm=
ares
about it," said Dowie. "And she creeps into my room shivering and=
I
take her into my bed and hold her in my arms until she's over the panic. She
says the worst of it is that she keeps thinking that there may have been ot=
her
girls trapped like her--and that they did not get away."
The Duchess was very thoughtful. She saw t=
he
complications in which such a horror would involve a girl's mind.
"If she consorted with other young th=
ings
and talked nonsense with them and shared their pleasures she would forget
it," she said.
"Ah!" exclaimed Dowie. "Tha=
t's
it."
The question in the Duchess' eyes when she
lifted them required an answer and she gave it respectfully.
"The thing that happened was only the
last touch put to what she'd gradually been finding out as she grew from ch=
ild
to young girl. The ones she would like to know--she said it in plain words =
once
to Mademoiselle--might not want to know her. I must take the liberty of
speaking plain, your grace, or it's no use me speaking at all. She holds it
deep in her mind that she's a sort of young outcast."
"I must convince her that she is
not--." It was the beginning of what the Duchess had meant to say, but=
she
actually found herself pausing, held for the moment by Dowie's quiet, civil
eye.
"Was your grace in your kindness
thinking--?" was what the excellent woman said.
"Yes. That I would invite young peopl=
e to
meet her--help them to know each other and to make friends." And even =
as
she said it she was conscious of being slightly under the influence of Dowi=
e's wise
gaze.
"Your grace only knows those young pe=
ople
she would like to know." It was a mere simple statement.
"People are not as censorious as they
once were." Her grace's tone was intended to reply to the suggestion l=
ying
in the words which had worn the air of statement without comment.
"Some are not, but some are," Do=
wie
answered. "There's two worlds in London now, your grace. One is your
grace's and one is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless'. I HAVE heard say there are others
between, but I only know those two."
The Duchess pondered again.
"You are thinking that what Miss Robin
said to Mademoiselle Valle might be true--in mine. And perhaps you are not
altogether wrong even if you are not altogether right."
"Until I went to take care of Miss Ro=
bin
I had only had places in families Mrs. Gareth-Lawless' set didn't touch
anywhere. What I'm remembering is that there was a--strictness--shown somet=
imes
even when it seemed a bit harsh. Among the servants the older ones said tha=
t is
was BECAUSE of the new sets and their fast wicked ways. One of my young lad=
ies
once met another young lady about her own age--she was just fifteen--at a
charity bazaar and they made friends and liked each other very much. The yo=
ung
lady's mother was one there was a lot of talk about in connection with a pe=
rson
of very high station--the highest, your grace--and everyone knew. The girl =
was
a lovely little creature and beautifully behaved. It was said her mother wa=
nted
to push her into the world she couldn't get into herself. The acquaintance =
was
stopped, your grace--it was put a stop to at once. And my poor little young
lady quite broke her heart over it, and I heard it was much worse for the
other."
"I will think this over," the
Duchess said. "It needs thinking over. I wished to talk to you because=
I
have seen that she has fixed little ideas regarding what she thinks is suit=
ed
to her position as a paid companion and she might not be prepared. I wish y=
ou
to see that she has a pretty little frock or so which she could wear if she
required them."
"She has two, your grace," Dowie
smiled affectionately as she said it. "One for evening and one for spe=
cial
afternoon wear in case your grace needed her to attend you for some reason.
They are as plain as she dare make them, but when she puts one on she can't=
help
giving it A LOOK."
"Yes--she would give it all it
needed," her grace said. "Thank you, Dowie. You may go."
With her sketch of a respectful curtsey Do=
wie
went towards the door. As she approached it her step became slower; before =
she reached
it she had stopped and there was a remarkable look on her face--a suddenly
heroic look. She turned and made several steps backward and paused again wh=
ich
unexpected action caused the Duchess to turn to glance at her. When she gla=
nced
her grace recognized the heroic look and waited, with a consciousness of so=
me
slight new emotion within herself, for its explanation.
"Your grace," Dowie began, asking
God himself to give courage if she was doing right and to check her if she =
was
making a mistake, "When your grace was thinking of the parents of other
young ladies and gentlemen--did it come to you to put it to yourself whethe=
r you'd
be willing--" she caught her breath, but ended quite clearly,
respectfully, reasonably. "Lady Kathryn--Lord Halwyn--" Lady Kath=
ryn
was the Duchess' young granddaughter, Lord Halwyn was her extremely
good-looking grandson who was in the army.
The Duchess understood what the heroic look
had meant, and her respect for it was great. Its intention had not been to
suggest inclusion of George and Kathryn in her pun, it had only with pure j=
ustice
put it to her to ask herself what her own personal decision in such a matter
would be.
"You do feel as if you were her
mother," she said. "And you are a practical, clear-minded woman. =
It
is only if I myself am willing to take such a step that I have a right to a=
sk
it of other people. Lady Lothwell is the mother I must speak to first. Her
children are mine though I am a mere grandmother."
Lady Lothwell was her daughter and though =
she
was not regarded as Victorian either of the Early or the Middle periods, Do=
wie
as she returned to her own comfortable quarters wondered what would happen.=
What did occur was not at all complicated.=
It
would not have been possible for a woman to have spent her girlhood with the
cleverest mother of her day and have emerged from her training either obsti=
nate
or illogical. Lady Lothwell listened to as much of the history of Robin as =
her
mother chose to tell her and plainly felt an amiable interest in it. She kn=
ew
much more detail and gossip concerning Mrs. Gareth-Lawless than the Duchess
herself did. She had heard of the child who was kept out of sight, and she =
had been
somewhat disgusted by a vague story of Lord Coombe's abnormal interest in it
and the ugly hint that he had an object in view. It was too unpleasantly mo=
rbid
to be true of a man her mother had known for years.
"Of course you were not thinking of
anything large or formal?" she said after a moment of smiling hesitati=
on.
"No. I am not launching a girl into
society. I only want to help her to know a few nice young people who are
good-natured and well-mannered. She is not the ordinary old lady's companion
and if she were not so strict with herself and with me, I confess I should
behave towards her very much as I should behave to Kathryn if you could spa=
re
her to live with me. She is a heart-warming young thing. Because I am known=
to
have one of my eccentric fancies for her and because after all her father W=
AS
well connected, her present position will not be the obstacle. She is not t=
he
first modern girl who has chosen to support herself."
"But isn't she much too pretty?"=
"Much. But she doesn't flaunt it.&quo=
t;
"But heart-warming--and too pretty!
Dearest mamma!" Lady Lothwell laughed again. "She can do no harm =
to
Kathryn, but I own that if George were not at present quite madly in love w=
ith
a darling being at least fifteen years older than himself I should pause to
reflect. Mrs. Stacy will keep him steady--Mrs. Alan Stacy, you know--the one
with the magnificent henna hair, and the eyes that droop. No boy of twenty-=
two
can resist her. They call her adorers 'The Infant School'."
"A small dinner and a small dance--and
George and Kathryn may be the beginning of an interesting experiment. It wo=
uld
be pretty and kind of you to drop in during the course of the evening."=
;
"Are you hoping to--perhaps--make a
marriage for her?" Lady Lothwell asked the question a shade disturbedl=
y.
"You are so amazing, mamma darling, that I know you will do it, if you
believe in it. You seem to be able to cause the things you really want, to
evolve from the universe."
"She is the kind of girl whose place =
in
the universe is in the home of some young man whose own place in the univer=
se
is in the heart and soul and life of her kind of girl. They ought to carry =
out
the will of God by falling passionately in love with each other. They ought=
to
marry each other and have a large number of children as beautiful and
rapturously happy as themselves. They would assist in the evolution of the
race."
"Oh! Mamma! how delightful you always
are! For a really brilliant woman you are the most adorable dreamer in the
world."
"Dreams are the only things which are
true. The rest are nothing but visions."
"Angel!" her daughter laughed a
little adoringly as she kissed her. "I will do whatever you want me to=
do.
I always did, didn't I? It's your way of making one see what you see when y=
ou
are talking that does it."
It was understood before they parted that
Kathryn and George would be present at the small dinner and the small dance,
and that a few other agreeable young persons might be trusted to join them,=
and
that Lady Lothwell and perhaps her husband would drop in.
"It's your being almost Early Victori=
an,
mamma, which makes it easy for you to initiate things. You will initiate li=
ttle
Miss Lawless. It was rather neat of her to prefer to drop the 'Gareth.' The=
re
has been less talk in late years of the different classes 'keeping their
places'--'upper' and 'lower' classes really strikes one as vulgar."
"We may 'keep our places'," the
Duchess said. "We may hold on to them as firmly as we please. It is the
places themselves which are moving, my dear. It is not unlike the beginning=
of
a landslide."
Robin went to Dowie's room the next evening
and stood a moment in silence watching her sewing before she spoke. She loo=
ked
anxious and even pale.
"Her grace is going to give a party to
some young people, Dowie," she said. "She wishes me to be present.
I--I don't know what to do."
"What you must do, my dear, is to put=
on
your best evening frock and go downstairs and enjoy yourself as the other y=
oung
people will. Her grace wants you to see someone your own age," was Dow=
ie's
answer.
"But I am not like the others. I am o=
nly
a girl earning her living as a companion. How do I know--"
"Her grace knows," Dowie said.
"And what she asks you to do it is your duty to do--and do it
prettily."
Robin lost even a shade more colour.
"Do you realize that I have never bee=
n to
a party in my life--not even to a children's party, Dowie? I shall not know=
how
to behave myself."
"You know how to talk nicely to peopl=
e,
and you know how to sit down and rise from your chair and move about a room
like a quiet young lady. You dance like a fairy. You won't be asked to do a=
nything
more."
"The Duchess," reflected Robin a=
loud
slowly, "would not let me come downstairs if she did not know that peo=
ple
would--be kind."
"Lady Kathryn and Lord Halwyn are com=
ing.
They are her own grandchildren," Dowie said.
"How did you know that?" Robin
inquired.
Robin's colour began to come back.
"It's not what usually happens to gir=
ls
in situations," she said.
"Her grace herself isn't what usually
happens," said Dowie. "There is no one like her for high wisdom a=
nd
kindness."
Having herself awakened to the truth of th=
is
confidence-inspiring fact, Robin felt herself supported by it. One knew wha=
t far-sighted
perception and clarity of experienced vision this one woman had gained duri=
ng
her many years of life. If she had elected to do this thing she had seen her
path clear before her and was not offering a gift which awkward chance might
spoil or snatch away from the hand held out to receive it. A curious slow
warmth began to creep about Robin's heart and in its mounting gradually fil=
l her
being. It was true she had been taught to dance, to move about and speak
prettily. She had been taught a great many things which seemed to be very
carefully instilled into her mind and body without any special reason. She =
had
not been aware that Lord Coombe and Mademoiselle Valle had directed and
discussed her training as if it had been that of a young royal person whose
equipment must be a flawless thing. If the Dowager Duchess of Darte had wis=
hed
to present her at Court some fair morning she would have known the length of
the train she must wear, where she must make her curtseys and to whom and to
what depth, how to kiss the royal hand, and how to manage her train when she
retired from the presence. When she had been taught this she had asked
Mademoiselle Valle if the training was part of every girl's education and
Mademoiselle had answered,
"It is best to know everything--even
ceremonials which may or may not prove of use. It all forms part of a
background and prevents one from feeling unfamiliar with customs."
When she had passed the young pairs in the
streets she had found an added interest in them because of this background.=
She
could imagine them dancing together in fairy ball rooms whose lights and
colours her imagination was obliged to construct for her out of its own fab=
ric;
she knew what the girls would look like if they went to a Drawing Room and =
she
often wondered if they would feel shy when the page spread out their lovely
peacock tails for them and left them to their own devices. It was mere Natu=
re
that she should have pondered and pondered and sometimes unconsciously long=
ed
to feel herself part of the flood of being sweeping past her as she stood a=
part
on the brink of the river.
The warmth about her heart made it beat a
little faster. She opened the door of her wardrobe when she found herself in
her bedroom. The dress hung modestly in its corner shrouded from the
penetration of London fogs by clean sheeting. It was only white and as simp=
le
as she knew how to order it, but Mademoiselle had taken her to a young Fren=
ch
person who knew exactly what she was doing in all cases, and because the gi=
rl
had the supple lines of a wood nymph and the eyes of young antelope she had
evolved that which expressed her as a petal expresses its rose. Robin locked
her door and took the dress down and found the silk stockings and slippers
which belonged to it. She put them all on standing before her long mirror a=
nd having
left no ungiven last touch she fell a few steps backward and looked at hers=
elf,
turning and balancing herself as a bird might have done. She turned lightly
round and round.
"Yes. I AM--" she said. "I
am--very!"
The next instant she laughed at herself
outright.
"How silly! How silly!" she said.
"Almost EVERYBODY is--more or less! I wonder if I remember the new
steps." For she had been taught the new steps--the new walking and
swayings and pauses and sudden swirls and swoops. And her new dress was as
short as other fashionable girls' dresses were, but in her case revealed a
haunting delicacy of contour and line.
So before her mirror she danced alone and =
as
she danced her lips parted and her breast rose and fell charmingly, and her
eyes lighted and glowed as any girl's might have done or as a joyous girl
nymph's might have lighted as she danced by a pool in her forest seeing her
loveliness mirrored there.
Something was awakening as something had
awakened when Donal had kissed a child under the soot sprinkled London tree=
s.
The whole day before the party was secretly
exciting to Robin. She knew how much more important it seemed to her than it
really was. If she had been six years old she might have felt the same kind=
of
uncertain thrills and tremulous wonders. She hid herself behind the window
curtains in her room that she might see the men putting up the crimson and =
white
awning from the door to the carriage step. The roll of red carpet they took
from their van had a magic air. The ringing of the door bell which meant th=
at
things were being delivered, the extra moving about of servants, the floris=
ts'
men who went into the drawing-rooms and brought flowers and big tropical pl=
ants
to re-arrange the conservatory and fill corners which were not always
decorated--each and every one of them quickened the beating of her pulses. =
If
she had belonged in her past to the ordinary cheerful world of children, she
would have felt by this time no such elation. But she had only known of the
existence of such festivities as children's parties because once a juvenile
ball had been given in a house opposite her mother's and she had crouched i=
n an
almost delirious little heap by the nursery window watching carriages drive=
up
and deposit fluffy pink and white and blue children upon the strip of red
carpet, and had seen them led or running into the house. She had caught sou=
nds of
strains of music and had shivered with rapture--but Oh! what worlds away fr=
om
her the party had been.
She found her way into the drawing-rooms w=
hich
were not usually thrown open. They were lofty and stately and seemed to her
immense. There were splendid crystal-dropping chandeliers and side lights w=
hich
she thought looked as if they would hold a thousand wax candles. There was a
delightfully embowered corner for the musicians. It was all spacious and
wonderful in its beautiful completeness--its preparedness for pleasure. She
realized that all of it had always been waiting to be used for the happines=
s of
people who knew each other and were young and ready for delight. When the y=
oung
Lothwells had been children they had had dances and frolicking games with o=
ther
children in the huge rooms and had kicked up their young heels on the polis=
hed
floors at Christmas parties and on birthdays. How wonderful it must have be=
en.
But they had not known it was wonderful.
As Dowie dressed her the reflection she sa=
w in
the mirror gave back to her an intensified Robin whose curved lips almost
quivered as they smiled. The soft silk of her hair looked like the night an=
d the
small rings on the back of her very slim white neck were things to ensnare =
the
eye and hold it helpless.
"You look your best, my dear," D=
owie
said as she clasped her little necklace. "And it is a good best."
Dowie was feeling tremulous herself though she could not have explained why.
She thought that perhaps it was because she wished that Mademoiselle could =
have
been with her.
Robin kissed her when the last touch had b=
een
given.
"I'm going to run down the
staircase," she said. "If I let myself walk slowly I shall have t=
ime
to feel queer and shy and I might seem to CREEP into the drawing-room. I
mustn't creep in. I must walk in as if I had been to parties all my life.&q=
uot;
She ran down and as she did so she looked =
like
a white bird flying, but she was obliged to stop upon the landing before th=
e drawing-room
door to quiet a moment of excited breathing. Still when she entered the room
she moved as she should and held her head poised with a delicately fearless
air. The Duchess--who herself looked her best in her fine old ivory profiled
way--gave her a pleased smile of welcome which was almost affectionate.
"What a perfect little frock!" s=
he
said. "You are delightfully pretty in it."
"Is it quite right?" said Robin.
"Mademoiselle chose it for me."
"It is quite right. 'Frightfully righ=
t,'
George would say. George will sit near you at dinner. He is my grandson--Lo=
rd
Halwyn you know, and you will no doubt frequently hear him say things are '=
frightfully'
something or other during the evening. Kathryn will say things are 'deevy' =
or
'exquig'. I mention it because you may not know that she means 'exquisite' =
and
'divine.' Don't let it frighten you if you don't quite understand their
language. They are dear handsome things sweeping along in the rush of their=
bit
of century. I don't let it frighten me that their world seems to me an enti=
rely
new planet."
Robin drew a little nearer her. She felt
something as she had felt years ago when she had said to Dowie. "I wan=
t to
kiss you, Dowie." Her eyes were pools of childish tenderness because s=
he so
well understood the infinitude of the friendly tact which drew her within i=
ts
own circle with the light humour of its "I don't let them frighten
ME."
"You are kind--kind to me," she
said. "And I am grateful--GRATEFUL."
The extremely good-looking young people who
began very soon to drift into the brilliant big room--singly or in pairs of
brother and sister--filled her with innocent delight. They were so well bui=
lt
and gaily at ease with each other and their surroundings, so perfectly dres=
sed
and finished. The filmy narrowness of delicate frocks, the shortness of ski=
rts
accentuated the youth and girlhood and added to it a sort of child
fairy-likeness. Kathryn in exquisite wisps of silver-embroidered gauze look=
ed
fourteen instead of nearly twenty--aided by a dimple in her cheek and a sma=
ll
tilted nose. A girl in scarlet tulle was like a child out of a nursery read=
y to
dance about a Christmas tree. Everyone seemed so young and so suggested sup=
ple
dancing, perhaps because dancing was going on everywhere and all the world
whether fashionable or unfashionable was driven by a passion for whirling,
swooping and inventing new postures and fantastic steps. The young men had =
slim
straight bodies and light movements. Their clothes fitted their suppleness =
to
perfection. Robin thought they all looked as if they had had a great deal of
delightful exercise and plenty of pleasure all their lives.
They were of that stream which had always
seemed to be rushing past her in bright pursuit of alluring things which
belonged to them as part of their existence, but which had had nothing to d=
o with
her own youth. Now the stream had paused as if she had for the moment some
connection with it. The swift light she was used to seeing illuminate glanc=
ing
eyes as she passed people in the street, she saw again and again as new
arrivals appeared. Kathryn was quite excited by her eyes and eyelashes and
George hovered about. There was a great deal of hovering. At the dinner tab=
le sleek
young heads held themselves at an angle which allowed of their owners seeing
through or around, or under floral decorations and alert young eyes showed =
an
eager gleam. After dinner was over and dancing began the Duchess smiled
shrewdly as she saw the gravitating masculine movement towards a certain po=
int.
It was the point where Robin stood with a small growing circle about her.
It was George who danced with her first. He
was tall and slender and flexible and his good shoulders had a military
squareness of build. He had also a nice square face, and a warmly blue eye =
and knew
all the latest steps and curves and unexpected swirls. Robin was an ozier w=
and
and there was no swoop or dart or sudden sway and change she was not alert =
at.
The swing and lure of the music, the swift movement, the fluttering of airy
draperies as slim sister nymphs flew past her, set her pulses beating with
sweet young joy. A brief, uncontrollable ripple of laughter broke from her
before she had circled the room twice.
"How heavenly it is!" she exclai=
med
and lifted her eyes to Halwyn's. "How heavenly!"
They were not safe eyes to lift in such a =
way
to those of a very young man. They gave George a sudden enjoyable shock. He=
had
heard of the girl who was a sort of sublimated companion to his grandmother.
The Duchess herself had talked to him a little about her and he had come to=
the
party intending to behave very amiably and help the little thing enjoy hers=
elf.
He had also encountered before in houses where there were no daughters the
smart well-born, young companion who was allowed all sorts of privileges
because she knew how to assume tiresome little responsibilities and how to =
be
entertaining enough to add cheer and spice to the life of the elderly and
lonely. Sometimes she was a subtly appealing sort of girl and given to being
sympathetic and to liking sympathy and quiet corners in conservatories or
libraries, and sometimes she was capable of scientific flirtation and requi=
red
scientific management. A man had to have his wits about him. This one as sh=
e flew
like a blown leaf across the floor and laughed up into his face with wide e=
yes,
produced a new effect and was a new kind.
"It's you who are heavenly," he
answered with a boy's laugh. "You are like a feather--and a willow
wand."
"You are light too," she laughed
back, "and you are like steel as well."
Mrs. Alan Stacy, the lady with the magnifi=
cent
henna hair, had recently given less time to him, being engaged in the
preliminary instruction of a new member of the Infant Class. Such things wi=
ll, of
course, happen and though George had quite ingenuously raged in secret, the
circumstances left him free to "hover" and hovering was a pastime=
he
enjoyed.
"Let us go on like this forever and
ever," he said sweeping half the length of the room with her and whirl=
ing
her as if she were indeed a leaf in the wind, "Forever and ever."=
"I wish we could. But the music will
stop," she gave back.
"Music ought never to stop--never,&qu=
ot;
he answered.
But the music did stop and when it began a=
gain
almost immediately another tall, flexible young man made a lightning claim =
on
her and carried her away only to hand her to another and he in his turn to
another. She was not allowed more than a moment's rest and borne on the cre=
st
of the wave of young delight, she did not need more. Young eyes were always
laughing into hers and elating her by a special look of pleasure in everyth=
ing
she did or said or inspired in themselves. How was she informed without phr=
ases
that for this exciting evening she was a creature without a flaw, that the
loveliness of her eyes startled those who looked into them, that it was a
thrilling experience to dance with her, that somehow she was new and apart =
and
wonderful? No sleek-haired, slim and straight-backed youth said exactly any=
of
these things to her, but somehow they were conveyed and filled her with a
wondering realization of the fact that if they were true, they were no long=
er dreadful
and maddening, since they only made people like and want to dance with one.=
To
dance, to like people and be liked seemed so heavenly natural and right--to=
be
only like air and sky and free, happy breathing. There was, it was true, a
blissful little uplifted look about her which she herself was not aware of,=
but
which was singularly stimulating to the masculine beholder. It only meant
indeed that as she whirled and swayed and swooped laughing she was saying to
herself at intervals,
"This is what other girls feel like. =
They
are happy like this. I am laughing and talking to people just as other girls
do. I am Robin Gareth-Lawless, but I am enjoying a party like this--a YOUNG=
party."
Lady Lothwell sitting near her mother watc=
hed
the trend of affairs with an occasional queer interested smile.
"Well, mamma darling," she said =
at
last as youth and beauty whirled by in a maelstrom of modern Terpsichorean
liveliness, "she is a great success. I don't know whether it is quite =
what
you intended or not."
The Duchess did not explain what she had
intended. She was watching the trend also and thinking a good deal. On the
whole Lady Lothwell had scarcely expected that she would explain. She rarely
did. She seldom made mistakes, however.
Kathryn in her scant gauzy strips of white=
and
silver having drifted towards them at the moment stood looking on with a fu=
nny little
disturbed expression on her small, tip-tilted face.
"There's something ABOUT her,
grandmamma," she said.
"All the girls see it and no one knows
what it is. She's sitting out for a few minutes and just look at George--and
Hal Brunton--and Captain Willys. They are all laughing, of course, and
pretending to joke, but they would like to eat each other up. Perhaps it's =
her
eyelashes. She looks out from under them as if they were a curtain."
Lady Lothwell's queer little smile became a
queer little laugh.
"Yes. It gives her a look of being
ecstatically happy and yet almost shy and appealing at the same time. Men c=
an't
stand it of course."
"None of them are trying to stand it,=
"
answered little Lady Kathryn somewhat in the tone of a retort.
"I don't believe she knows she does
it," Lady Lothwell said quite reflectively.
"She does not know at all. That is the
worst of it," commented the Duchess.
"Then you see that there IS a worst,&=
quot;
said her daughter.
The Duchess glanced towards Kathryn, but
fortunately the puzzled fret of the girl's forehead was even at the moment
melting into a smile as a young man of much attraction descended upon her w=
ith smiles
of his own and carried her into the Tango or Fox Trot or Antelope Galop,
whichsoever it chanced to be.
"If she were really aware of it that
would be 'the worst' for other people--for us probably. She could look out =
from
under her lashes to sufficient purpose to call what she wanted and take and=
keep
it. As she is not aware, it will make things less easy for herself--under t=
he
circumstances."
"The circumstance of being Mrs.
Gareth-Lawless' daughter is not an agreeable one," said Lady Lothwell.=
"It might give some adventurous boys =
ideas
when they had time to realize all it means. Do you know I am rather sorry f=
or
her myself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were rather a dear little thing=
. She
looks tender and cuddle-some. Perhaps she is like the heroine of a sentimen=
tal
novel I read the other day. Her chief slave said of her 'She walks into a m=
an's
heart through his eyes and sits down there and makes a warm place which will
never get cold again.' Rather nice, I thought."
The Duchess thought it rather nice also.
"'Never get cold again,'" she
repeated. "What a heavenly thing to happen to a pair of
creatures--if--" she paused and regarded Robin, who at the other side =
of
the room was trying to decide some parlous question of dances to which there
was more than one claimant. She was sweetly puckering her brow over her card
and round her were youthful male faces looking eager and even a trifle tense
with repressed anxiety for the victory of the moment.
"Oh!" Lady Lothwell laughed.
"As Kitty says 'There's something about her' and it's not mere eyelash=
es.
You have let loose a germ among us, mamma my sweet, and you can't do anythi=
ng
with a germ when you have let it loose. To quote Kitty again, 'Look at
George!'"
The music which came from the bower behind
which the musicians were hidden seemed to gain thrill and wildness as the h=
ours
went on. As the rooms grew warmer the flowers breathed out more reaching sc=
ent.
Now and again Robin paused for a moment to listen to strange delightful cho=
rds
and to inhale passing waves of something like mignonette and lilies, and ap=
ple
blossoms in the sun. She thought there must be some flower which was like a=
ll
three in one. The rushing stream was carrying her with it as it went--one of
the happy petals on its surface. Could it ever cast her aside and leave her=
on
the shore again? While the violins went singing on and the thousand wax can=
dles
shone on the faint or vivid colours which mingled into a sort of lovely haz=
e,
it did not seem possible that a thing so enchanting and so real could have =
an
end at all. All the other things in her life seemed less real tonight.
In the conservatory there was a marble
fountain which had long years ago been brought from a palace garden in Rome=
. It
was not as large as it was beautiful and it had been placed among palms and
tropic ferns whose leaves and fronds it splashed merrily among and kept
deliciously cool and wet-looking. There was a quite intoxicating hot-house
perfume of warm damp moss and massed flowers and it was the kind of corner =
any
young man would feel it necessary to gravitate towards with a partner.
George led Robin to it and she naturally s=
at
upon the edge of the marble basin and as naturally drew off a glove and dip=
ped
her hand into the water, splashing it a little because it felt deliciously =
cool.
George stood near at first and looked down at her bent head. It was impossi=
ble
not also to take in her small fine ear and the warm velvet white of the lov=
ely
little nape of her slim neck. He took them in with elated appreciation. He =
was
not subtle minded enough to be aware that her reply to a casual remark he h=
ad
made to her at dinner had had a remote effect upon him.
"One of the loveliest creatures I ever
saw was a Mrs. Gareth-Lawless," he had said. "Are you related to
her?"
"I am her daughter," Robin had
answered and with a slightly startled sensation he had managed to slip into
amiably deft generalities while he had secretly wondered how much his
grandmother knew or did not know.
An involuntary thought of Feather had cros=
sed
his mind once or twice during the evening. This was the girl who, it was sa=
id,
had actually been saved up for old Coombe. Ugly morbid sort of idea if it w=
as
true. How had the Duchess got hold of her and why and what was Coombe reall=
y up
to? Could he have some elderly idea of wanting a youngster for a wife?
Occasionally an old chap did. Serve him right if some young chap took the w=
ind
out of his sails. He was not a desperate character, but he had been very
intimate with Mrs. Alan Stacy and her friends and it had made him careless.=
Also
Robin had drawn him--drawn him more than he knew.
"Is it still heavenly?" he asked.
(How pointed her fingers were and how soft and crushable her hand looked as=
it
splashed like a child's.)
"More heavenly every minute," she
answered. He laughed outright.
"The heavenly thing is the way you are
enjoying it yourself. I never saw a girl light up a whole room before. You
throw out stars as you dance."
"That's like a skyrocket," Robin
laughed back. "And it's because in all my life I never went to a dance
before."
"Never! You mean except to children's
parties?"
"There were no children's parties. Th=
is
is the first--first--first."
"Well, I don't see how that happened,=
but
I am glad it did because it's been a great thing for me to see you at your
first--first--first."
He sat down on the fountain's edge near he=
r.
"I shall not forget it," he said=
.
"I shall remember it as long as I
live," said Robin and she lifted her unsafe eyes again and smiled into=
his
which made them still more unsafe.
Perhaps it was because he was extremely yo=
ung,
perhaps it was because he was immoral, perhaps because he had never held a
tight rein on his fleeting emotions, even the next moment he felt that it w=
as
because he was an idiot--but suddenly he found he had let himself go and was
kissing the warm velvet of the slim little nape--had kissed it twice.
He had not given himself time to think what
would happen as a result, but what did happen was humiliating and ridiculou=
s.
One furious splash of the curled hand flung water into his face and eyes an=
d mouth
while Robin tore herself free from him and stood blazing with fury and woe-=
-for
it was not only fury he saw.
"You--You--!" she cried and actu=
ally
would have swooped to the fountain again if he had not caught her arm.
He was furious himself--at himself and at =
her.
"You--little fool!" he gasped.
"What did you do that for even if I WAS a jackass? There was nothing in
it. You're so pretty----"
"You've spoiled everything!" she
flamed, "everything--everything!"
"I've spoiled nothing. I've only been=
a
fool--and it's your own fault for being so pretty."
"You've spoiled everything in the wor=
ld!
Now--" with a desolate horrible little sob, "now I can only go
back--BACK!"
He had a queer idea that she spoke as if s=
he
were Cinderella and he had made the clock strike twelve. Her voice had such
absolute grief in it that he involuntarily drew near her.
"I say," he was really breathles=
s,
"don't speak like that. I beg pardon. I'll grovel! Don't--Oh!
Kathryn--COME here."
This last because at this difficult moment=
from
between the banks of hot-house bloom and round the big palms his sister Kat=
hryn
suddenly appeared. She immediately stopped short and stared at them
both--looking from one to the other.
"What is the matter?" she asked =
in a
low voice.
"Oh! COME and talk to her," Geor=
ge
broke forth. "I feel as if she might scream in a minute and call every=
body
in. I've been a lunatic and she has apparently never been kissed before. Te=
ll
her--tell her you've been kissed yourself."
A queer little look revealed itself in Kat=
hryn's
face. A delicate vein of her grandmother's wisdom made part of her outlook =
upon
a rapidly moving and exciting world. She had never been hide-bound or dull =
and
for a slight gauzy white and silver thing she was astute.
"Don't be impudent," she said to
George as she walked up to Robin and put a cool hand on her arm. "He's
only been silly. You'd better let him off," she said. She turned a gla=
nce
on George who was wiping his sleeve with a handkerchief and she broke into a
small laugh, "Did she push you into the fountain?" she asked
cheerfully.
"She threw the fountain at me,"
grumbled George. "I shall have to dash off home and change."
"I would," replied Kathryn still
cheerful. "You can apologize better when you're dry."
He slid through the palms like a snake and=
the
two girls stood and gazed at each other. Robin's flame had died down and her
face had settled itself into a sort of hardness. Kathryn did not know that =
she
herself looked at her as the Duchess might have looked at another girl in t=
he
quite different days of her youth.
"I'll tell you something now he's
gone," she said. "I HAVE been kissed myself and so have other gir=
ls I
know. Boys like George don't really matter, though of course it's bad manne=
rs.
But who has got good manners? Things rush so that there's scarcely time for
manners at all. When an older man makes a snatch at you it's sometimes
detestable. But to push him into the fountain was a good idea," and she
laughed again.
"I didn't push him in."
"I wish you had," with a gleeful
mischief. The next moment, however, the hint of a worried frown showed itse=
lf
on her forehead. "You see," she said protestingly, "you are =
so
FRIGHTFULLY pretty."
"I'd rather be a leper," Robin s=
hot
forth.
But Kathryn did not of course understand.<= o:p>
"What nonsense!" she answered.
"What utter rubbish! You know you wouldn't. Come back to the ball room=
. I
came here because my mother was asking for George."
She turned to lead the way through the ban=
ked
flowers and as she did so added something.
"By the way, somebody important has b=
een
assassinated in one of the Balkan countries. They are always assassinating
people. They like it. Lord Coombe has just come in and is talking it over w=
ith grandmamma.
I can see they are quite excited in their quiet way."
As they neared the entrance to the ball ro=
om
she paused a moment with a new kind of impish smile.
"Every girl in the room is absolutely shaky with thrills at this particular moment," she said. "And eve= ry man feels himself bristling a little. The very best looking boy in all Engl= and is dancing with Sara Studleigh. He dropped in by chance to call and the Duc= hess made him stay. He is a kind of miracle of good looks and takingness."<= o:p>
Robin said nothing. She had plainly not be=
en
interested in the Balkan tragedy and she as obviously did not care for the
miracle.
"You don't ask who he is?" said
Kathryn.
"I don't want to know."
"Oh! Come! You mustn't feel as sulky =
as
that. You'll want to ask questions the moment you see him. I did. Everyone
does. His name is Donal Muir. He's Lord Coombe's heir. He'll be the Head of=
the
House of Coombe some day. Here he comes," quite excitedly,
"Look!"
It was one of the tricks of Chance--or
Fate--or whatever you will. The dance brought him within a few feet of them=
at
that very moment and the slow walking steps he was taking held him--they we=
re
some of the queer stealthy almost stationary steps of the Argentine Tango. =
He
was finely and smoothly fitted as the other youngsters were, his blond glos=
sed
head was set high on a heroic column of neck, he was broad of shoulder, but=
not
too broad, slim of waist, but not too slim, long and strong of leg, but lig=
ht
and supple and firm. He had a fair open brow and a curved mouth laughing to=
show
white teeth. Robin felt he ought to wear a kilt and plaid and that an eagle=
's
feather ought to be standing up from a chieftain's bonnet on the fair hair
which would have waved if it had been allowed length enough. He was scarcely
two yards from her now and suddenly--almost as if he had been called--he tu=
rned
his eyes away from Sara Studleigh who was the little thing in Christmas tre=
e scarlet.
They were blue like the clear water in a tarn when the sun shines on it and
they were still laughing as his mouth was. Straight into hers they
laughed--straight into hers.
Through all aeons since all the worlds were
made it is at least not unthinkable that in all the worlds of which our own
atom is one, there has ruled a Force illimitable, unconquerable and
inexplicable and whichsoever its world and whatsoever the sign denoting or =
the name
given it, the Force--the Thing has been the same. Upon our own atom of the
universe it is given the generic name of Love and its existence is that whi=
ch
the boldest need not defy, the most profound need not attempt to explain wi=
th
clarity, the most brilliantly sophistical to argue away. Its forms of beaut=
y,
triviality, magnificence, imbecility, loveliness, stupidity, holiness, puri=
ty and
bestiality neither detract from nor add to its unalterable power. As the ea=
rth
revolves upon its axis and reveals night and day, Spring, Summer and Winter=
, so
it reveals this ceaselessly working Force. Men who were as gods have been
uplifted or broken by it, fools have trifled with it, brutes have sullied i=
t,
saints have worshipped, poets sung and wits derided it. As electricity is a
force death dealing, or illuminating and power bestowing, so is this Great
Impeller, and it is fatuous--howsoever worldly wise or moderately sardonic =
one
would choose to be--to hint ironically that its proportions are less than t=
he
ages have proved them. Whether a world formed without a necessity for the
presence and assistance of this psychological factor would have been a bett=
er or
a worse one, it is--by good fortune--not here imperative that one should
attempt to decide. What is--exists. None of us created it. Each one will de=
al
with the Impeller as he himself either sanely or madly elects. He will also
bear the consequences--and so also may others.
Of this force the Head of the House of Coo=
mbe
and his old friend knew much and had often spoken to each other. They had b=
oth
been accustomed to recognizing its signs subtle or crude, and watching their
development. They had seen it in the eyes of creatures young enough to be
called boys and girls, they had heard it in musical laughter and in silly
giggles, they had seen it express itself in tragedy and comedy and watched =
it
end in union or in a nothingness which melted away like a wisp of fog. But =
they
knew it was a thing omnipresent and that no one passed through life untouch=
ed
by it in some degree.
Years before this evening two children pla=
ying
in a garden had not know that the Power--the Thing--drew them with its grea=
test
strength because among myriads of atoms they two were created for oneness.
Enraptured and unaware they played together, their souls and bodies drawn
nearer each other every hour.
So it was that--without being portentous--=
one
may say that when an unusually beautiful and unusually well dressed and
perfectly fitted young man turned involuntarily in the particular London ba=
ll room
in which Mrs. Gareth-Lawless' daughter watched the dancers, and looked
unintentionally into the eyes of a girl standing for a moment near the wide
entrance doors, the inexplicable and unconquerable Force reconnected its
currents again.
Donal Muir's eyes only widened a little fo=
r a
second's time. He had not known why he had suddenly looked around and he did
not know why he was conscious of something which startled him a little. You
could not actually stare at a girl because your eyes chanced to get entangl=
ed
in hers for a second as you danced past her. It was true she was of a start=
ling
prettiness and there was something--. Yes, there was SOMETHING which drew t=
he
eye and--. He did not know what it was. It had actually given him a sort of
electric shock. He laughed at himself a little and then his open brow looke=
d puzzled
for a moment.
"You saw Miss Lawless," said Sara
Studleigh who was at the moment dancing prettily with him. She was guilty of
something which might have been called a slight giggle, but it was
good-natured. "I know, you saw Miss Lawless--the pretty one near the
door."
"There are so many pretty ones near
everything. You can't lift your eyes without seeing one," Donal answer=
ed.
"What a lot of them!" (The sense of having received a slight elec=
tric
shock made you feel that you must look again and find out what had caused i=
t,
he was thinking.)
"She is the one with the eyelashes.&q=
uot;
"I have eyelashes--so have you,"
looking down at hers with a very taking expression. Hers were in fact nice
ones.
"But ours are not two inches long and
they don't make a big soft circle round our eyes when we look at anyone.&qu=
ot;
"Please look up and let me see,"
said Donal. "When I asked you to dance with me I thought--"
What a "way" he had, Sara Studle=
igh
was thinking. But "perhaps it WAS the eyelashes" was passing thro=
ugh
Donal's mind. Very noticeable eyelashes were rather arresting.
"I knew you saw her," said Sara
Studleigh, "because I have happened to be near two or three people this
evening when they caught their first sight of her."
"What happens to them?" asked Do=
nal
Muir.
"They forget where they are," she
laughed, "and don't say anything for a few seconds."
"I should not want to forget where I =
am.
It wouldn't be possible either," answered Donal. ("But that was
it," he thought. "For a minute I forgot.")
One should not dance with one girl and tal=
k to
her about another. Wisely he led her to other subjects. The music was swing=
ing
through the air performing its everlasting miracle of swinging young souls =
and
pulses with it, the warmed flowers breathed more perceptible scent, sweet
chatter and laughter, swaying colour and glowing eyes concentrated in making
magic. This beautiful young man's pulses only beat with the rest--as one wi=
th
the pulse of the Universe. Lady Lothwell acting for the Duchess was very ki=
nd
to him finding him another partner as soon as a new dance began--this time =
her own
daughter, Lady Kathryn.
Even while he had been tangoing with Sara
Studleigh he had seen the girl with the eyelashes, whirling about with some=
one,
and when he began his dance with Kathryn, he caught a glimpse of her at the
other end of the room. And almost immediately Kathryn spoke of her.
"I don't know when you will get a dan=
ce
with Miss Lawless," she said. "She is obliged to work out
mathematical problems on her programme."
"I have a setter who fixes his eyes on
you and waits without moving until you look at him and then he makes a dart=
and
you're obliged to pat him," he said. "Perhaps if I go and stand n=
ear
her and do that she will take notice of me."
"Take notice of him, the enslaving
thing!" thought Kathryn. "She'd jump--for all her talk about
lepers--any girl would. He's TOO nice! There's something about HIM too.&quo=
t;
Robin did not jump. She had no time to do =
it
because one dance followed another so quickly and some of them were even
divided in two or three pieces. But the thrill of the singing sound of the =
violins
behind the greenery, the perfume and stately spaces and thousand candleligh=
ts
had suddenly been lifted on to another plane though she had thought they co=
uld
reach no higher one. Her whole being was a keen fine awareness. Every moment
she was AWARE. After all the years--from the far away days--he had come bac=
k.
No one had dreamed of the queer half abnormal secret she had always kept to
herself as a child--as a little girl--as a bigger one when she would have d=
ied
rather than divulge that in her loneliness there had been something she had
remembered--something she had held on to--a memory which she had actually m=
ade
a companion of, making pictures, telling herself stories in the dark, even
inventing conversations which not for one moment had she thought would or c=
ould
ever take place. But they had been living things to her and her one near wa=
rm
comfort--closer, oh, so weirdly closer than kind, kind Dowie and dearly bel=
oved
Mademoiselle. She had wondered if the two would have disapproved if they had
known--if Mademoiselle would have been shocked if she had realized that
sometimes when they walked together there walked with them a growing, laugh=
ing boy
in a swinging kilt and plaid and that he had a voice and eyes that drew the
heart out of your breast for joy. At first he had only been a child like
herself, but as she had grown he had grown with her--but always taller,
grander, marvellously masculine and beyond compare. Yet never once had she
dared to believe or hope that he could take form before her eyes--a living
thing. He had only been the shadow she had loved and which could not be tak=
en away
from her because he was her secret and no one could ever know.
The music went swinging and singing with n=
otes
which were almost a pain. And he was in the very room with her! Donal! Dona=
l!
He had not known and did not know. He had laughed into her eyes without kno=
wing--but
he had come back. A young man now like all the rest, but more beautiful. Wh=
at a
laugh, what wonderful shoulders, what wonderful dancing, how long and stron=
gly
smooth and supple he was in the line fabric of his clothes! Though her mind=
did
not form these things in words for her, it was only that her eyes saw all t=
he
charm of him from head to foot, and told her that he was only more than ever
what he had been in the miraculous first days.
"Perhaps he will not find out at
all," she thought, dancing all the while and trying to talk as well as
think. "I was too little for him to remember. I only remembered becaus=
e I
had nothing else. Oh, if he should not find out!" She could not go and
tell him. Even if a girl could do such a thing, perhaps he could not recall=
a
childish incident of so long ago--such a small, small thing. It had only be=
en
immense to her and so much water had flowed under his bridge bearing so many
flotillas. She had only stood and looked down at a thin trickling stream wh=
ich
carried no ships at all. It was very difficult to keep her eyes from
stealing--even darting--about in search of him. His high fair head with the=
clipped
wave in its hair could be followed if one dared be alert. He danced with an
auburn haired girl, he spun down the room with a brown one, he paused for a
moment to show the trick of a new step to a tall one with black coils. He w=
as
at the end of the room, he was tangoing towards her and she felt her heart =
beat
and beat. He passed close by and his eyes turned upon her and after he had =
passed
a queer little inner trembling would not cease. Oh! if he had looked a litt=
le
longer--if her partner would only carry her past him! And how dreadful she =
was
to let herself feel so excited when he could not be EXPECTED to remember su=
ch a
little thing--just a baby playing with him in a garden. Oh!--her heart givi=
ng a
leap--if he would look--if he would LOOK!
When did she first awaken to a realization--after what seemed years and years of waiting and not being abl= e to conquer the inwardly trembling feeling--that he was BEGINNING to look--that somehow he had become aware of her presence and that it drew his eyes thoug= h there was no special recognition in them? Down the full length of the room they m= et hers first, and again as he passed with yet another partner. Then when he w= as resting between danced and being very gay indeed--though somehow he always seemed gay. He had been gay when they played in the Gardens. Yes, his eyes = cane and found her. She thought he spoke of her to someone near him. Of course R= obin looked away and tried not to look again too soon. But when in spite of intention and even determination, something forced her glance and made it a creeping, following glance--there were his eyes again. She was frightened e= ach time it happened, but he was not. She began to know with new beatings of the pulse that he no longer looked by chance, but because he wanted to see her-= -and wished her to see him, as if he had begun to call to her with a gay Donal challenge. It was like that, though his demeanour was faultlessly correct.<= o:p>
The incident of their meeting was faultles=
sly
correct, also, when after one of those endless lapses of time Lady Lothwell
appeared and presented him as if the brief ceremony were one of the most or=
dinary
in existence. The conventional grace of his bow said no more than George's =
had
said to those looking on, but when he put his arm round her and they began =
to
sway together in the dance, Robin wondered in terror if he could not feel t=
he
beating of her heart under his hand. If he could it would be horrible--but =
it would
not stop. To be so near--to try to believe it--to try to make herself remem=
ber
that she could mean nothing to him and that it was only she who was
shaking--for nothing! But she could not help it. This was the disjointed ki=
nd
of thing that flew past her mental vision. She was not a shy girl, but she
could not speak. Curiously enough he also was quite silent for several mome=
nts.
They danced for a space without a word and they did not notice that people
began to watch them because they were an attracting pair to watch. And the
truth was that neither of the two knew in the least what the other thought.=
"That--is a beautiful waltz," he
said at last. He said it in a low meaning voice as if it were a sort of emo=
tional
confidence. He had not actually meant to speak in such a tone, but when he =
realized
what its sound had been he did not care in the least. What was the matter w=
ith
him?
"Yes," Robin answered. (Only
"Yes.")
He had not known when he glanced at her fi=
rst,
he was saying mentally. He could not, of course, swear to her now. But what=
an extraordinary
thing that--! She was like a swallow--she was like any swift flying thing o=
n a
man's arm. One could go on to the end of time. Once round the great ball ro=
om,
twice, and as the third round began he gave a little laugh and spoke again.=
"I am going to ask you a question. May
I?"
"Yes."
"Is your name Robin?"
"Yes," she could scarcely breathe
it.
"I thought it was," in the voice=
in
which he had spoken of the music. "I hoped it was--after I first began=
to
suspect. I HOPED it was."
"It is--it is."
"Did we--" he had not indeed mea=
nt
that his arm should hold her a shade closer, but--in spite of himself--it d=
id
because he was after all so little more than a boy, "--did we play
together in a garden?"
"Yes--yes," breathed Robin. &quo=
t;We
did." Surely she heard a sound as if he had caught a quick breath. But
after it there were a few more steps and another brief space of silence.
"I knew," he said next, very low.
"I KNEW that we played together in a garden."
"You did not know when you first look=
ed
at me tonight." Innocently revealing that even his first glance had be=
en
no casual thing to her.
But his answer revealed something too.
"You were near the door--just coming =
into
the room. I didn't know why you startled me. I kept looking for you afterwa=
rds
in the crowd."
"I didn't see you look," said Ro=
bin
softly, revealing still more in her utter inexperience.
"No, because you wouldn't look at me-=
-you
were too much engaged. Do you like this step?"
"I like them all."
"Do you always dance like this? Do you
always make your partner feel as if he had danced with you all his life?&qu=
ot;
"It is--because we played together in=
the
garden," said Robin and then was quite terrified at herself. Because a=
fter
all--after all they were only two conventional young people meeting for the=
first
time at a dance, not knowing each other in the least. It was really the fir=
st
time. The meeting of two children could not count. But the beating and stra=
nge elated
inward tremor would not stop.
As for him he felt abnormal also and he was
usually a very normal creature. It was abnormal to be so excited that he fo=
und
himself, as it were, upon another plane, because he had recognized and was =
dancing
with a girl he had not seen since she was five or six. It was not normal th=
at
he should be possessed by a desire to keep near to her, overwhelmed by an
impelling wish to talk to her--to ask her questions. About what--about
herself--themselves--the years between--about the garden.
"It began to come back bit by bit aft=
er I
had two fair looks. You passed me several times though you didn't know.&quo=
t;
(Oh! had she not known!) "I had been promised some dances by other peo=
ple.
But I went to Lady Lothwell. She's very kind."
Back swept the years and it had all begun
again, the wonderful happiness--just as the anguish had swept back on the n=
ight
her mother had come to talk to her. As he had brought it into her dreary li=
ttle
world then, he brought it now. He had the power. She was so happy that she
seemed to be only waiting to hear what he would say--as if that were enough.
There are phases like this--rare ones--and it was her fate that through suc=
h a
phase she was passing.
It was indeed true that much more water had
passed under his bridge than under hers, but now--! Memory reproduced for h=
im
with an acuteness like actual pain, a childish torment he thought he had fo=
rgotten.
And it was as if it had been endured only yesterday--and as if the urge to
speak and explain was as intense as it had been on the first day.
"She's very little and she won't
understand," he had said to his mother. "She's very little,
really--perhaps she'll cry."
How monstrous it had seemed! Had she
cried--poor little soul! He looked down at her eyelashes. Her cheek had bee=
n of
the same colour and texture then. That came back to him too. The impulse to=
tighten
his arms was infernally powerful--almost automatic.
"She has no one but me to remember!&q=
uot;
he heard his own child voice saying fiercely. Good Lord, it WAS as if it had
been yesterday. He actually gulped something down in his throat.
"You haven't rested much," he sa=
id
aloud. "There's a conservatory with marble seats and corners and a
fountain going. Will you let me take you there when we stop dancing? I want=
to
apologize to you."
The eyelashes lifted themselves and made r=
ound
her eyes the big soft shadow of which Sara Studleigh had spoken. A strong a=
nd healthy
valvular organ in his breast lifted itself curiously at the same time.
"To apologize?"
Was he speaking to her almost as if she we=
re
still four or five? It was to the helplessness of those years he was about =
to
explain--and yet he did not feel as though he were still eight.
"I want to tell you why I never came =
back
to the garden. It was a broken promise, wasn't it?"
The music had not ceased, but they stopped
dancing.
"Will you come?" he said and she
went with him like a child--just as she had followed in her babyhood. It se=
emed
only natural to do what he asked.
The conservatory was like an inner Paradise
now. The tropically scented warmth--the tiers on tiers of bloom above
bloom--the softened swing of music--the splash of the fountain on water and=
leaves.
Their plane had lifted itself too. They could hear the splashing water and
sometimes feel it in the corner seat of marble he took her to. A crystal dr=
op
fell on her hand when she sat down. The blue of his eyes was vaguely troubl=
ed
and he spoke as if he were not certain of himself.
"I was wakened up in what seemed to me
the middle of the night," he said, as if indeed the thing had happened
only the day before. "My mother was obliged to go back suddenly to
Scotland. I was only a little chap, but it nearly finished me. Parents and
guardians don't understand how gigantic such a thing can be. I had promised=
you--we
had promised each other--hadn't we?"
"Yes," said Robin. Her eyes were
fixed upon his face--open and unmoving. Such eyes! Such eyes! All the
touchingness of the past was in their waiting on his words.
"Children--little boys especially--are
taught that they must not cry out when they are hurt. As I sat in the train
through the journey that day I thought my heart would burst in my small bre=
ast.
I turned my back and stared out of the window for fear my mother would see =
my
face. I'd always loved her. Do you know I think that just then I HATED her.=
I
had never hated anything before. Good Lord! What a thing for a little chap =
to
go through! My mother was an angel, but she didn't KNOW."
"No," said Robin in a small stra=
nge
voice and without moving her gaze. "She didn't KNOW."
He had seated himself on a sort of low mar=
ble
stool near her and he held a knee with clasped hands. They were hands which
held each other for the moment with a sort of emotional clinch. His positio=
n made
him look upward at her instead of down.
"It was YOU I was wild about," he
said. "You see it was YOU. I could have stood it for myself. The troub=
le
was that I felt I was such a big little chap. I thought I was years--ages o=
lder
than you--and mountains bigger," his faint laugh was touched with pity=
for
the smallness of the big little chap. "You seemed so tiny and pretty--=
and
lonely."
"I was as lonely as a new-born bird
fallen out of its nest."
"You had told me you had 'nothing.' Y=
ou
said no one had ever kissed you. I'd been loved all my life. You had a
wondering way of fixing your eyes on me as if I could give you
everything--perhaps it was a coxy little chap's conceit that made me love y=
ou
for it--but perhaps it wasn't."
"You WERE everything," Robin
said--and the mere simpleness of the way in which she said it brought the
garden so near that he smelt the warm hawthorn and heard the distant piano
organ and it quickened his breath.
"It was because I kept seeing your ey=
es
and hearing your laugh that I thought my heart was bursting. I knew you'd go
and wait for me--and gradually your little face would begin to look differe=
nt. I
knew you'd believe I'd come. 'She's little'--that was what I kept saying to
myself again and again. 'And she'll cry--awfully--and she'll think I did it.
She'll never know.' There,"--he hesitated a moment--"there was a =
kind
of mad shame in it. As if I'd BETRAYED your littleness and your belief, tho=
ugh
I was too young to know what betraying was."
Just as she had looked at him before, &quo=
t;as
if he could give her everything," she was looking at him now. In what
other way could she look while he gave her this wonderful soothing, binding
softly all the old wounds with unconscious, natural touch because he had re=
ally
been all her child being had been irradiated and warmed by. There was no po=
se
in his manner--no sentimental or flirtatious youth's affecting of a picture=
sque
attitude. It was real and he told her this thing because he must for his own
relief.
"Did you cry?" he said. "Di=
d my
little chap's conceit make too much of it? I suppose I ought to hope it
did."
Robin put her hand softly against her hear=
t.
"No," she answered. "I was =
only
a baby, but I think it KILLED something--here."
He caught a big hard breath.
"Oh!" he said and for a few seco=
nds
simply sat and gazed at her.
"But it came to life again?" he =
said
afterwards.
"I don't know. I don't know what it w=
as.
Perhaps it could only live in a very little creature. But it was killed.&qu=
ot;
"I say!" broke from him. "It
was like wringing a canary's neck when it was singing in the sun!"
A sudden swelling of the music of a new da=
nce
swept in to them and he rose and stood up before her.
"Thank you for giving me my chance to
tell you," he said. "This was the apology. You have been kind to
listen."
"I wanted to listen," Robin said.
"I am glad I didn't live a long time and grow old and die without your
telling me. When I saw you tonight I almost said aloud, 'He's come back!'&q=
uot;
"I'm glad I came. It's queer how one = can live a thing over again. There have been all the years between for us both.= For me there's been all a lad's life--tutors and Eton and Oxford and people and= lots of travel and amusement. But the minute I set eyes on you near the door something must have begun to drag me back. I'll own I've never liked to let myself dwell on that memory. It wasn't a good thing because it had a trick = of taking me back in a fiendish way to the little chap with his heart bursting= in the railway carriage--and the betrayal feeling. It's morbid to let yourself= grouse over what can't be undone. So you faded away. But when I danced past you somehow I knew I'd come on SOMETHING. It made me restless. I couldn't keep = my eyes away decently. Then all at once I KNEW! I couldn't tell you what the effect was. There you were again--I was as much obliged to tell you as I sh= ould have been if I'd found you at Braemarnie when I got there that night. Conventions had nothing to do with it. It would not have mattered even if y= ou'd obviously thought I was a fool. You might have thought so, you know."<= o:p>
"No, I mightn't," answered Robin.
"There have been no Eton and Oxford and amusements for me. This is my
first party."
She rose as he had done and they stood for=
a
second or so with their eyes resting on each other's--each with a young smi=
le
quivering into life which neither was conscious of. It was she who first wa=
kened
and came back. He saw a tiny pulse flutter in her throat and she lifted her
hand with a delicate gesture.
"This dance was Lord Halwyn's and we'=
ve
sat it out. We must go back to the ball room."
"I--suppose--we must," he answer=
ed
with slow reluctance--but he could scarcely drag his eyes away from hers--e=
ven
though he obeyed, and they turned and went.
In the shining ball room the music rose and
fell and swelled again into ecstasy as he took her white young lightness in=
his
arm and they swayed and darted and swooped like things of the air--while the
old Duchess and Lord Coombe looked on almost unseeing and talked in murmurs=
of
Sarajevo.
THE END