"CHAPTER I\n\n\n\n\n\nThe history of the circumstances about to be related began many\nyears ago--or so it seems in these days. It began, at least, years\nbefore the world being rocked to and fro revealed in the pause\nbetween each of its heavings some startling suggestion of a new\narrangement of its kaleidoscopic particles, and then immediately\na re-arrangement, and another and another until all belief in a\npermanency of design seemed lost, and the inhabitants of the earth\nwaited, helplessly gazing at changing stars and colours in a degree\nof mental chaos.\n\nIts opening incidents may be dated from a period when people\nstill had reason to believe in permanency and had indeed many of\nthem--sometimes through ingenuousness, sometimes through stupidity\nof type--acquired a singular confidence in the importance and\nstability of their possessions, desires, ambitions and forms of\nconviction.\n\nLondon at the time, in common with other great capitals, felt\nitself rather final though priding itself on being much more fluid\nand adaptable than it had been fifty years previously. In speaking\nof itself it at least dealt with fixed customs, and conditions\nand established facts connected with them--which gave rise to\nbrilliant--or dull--witticisms.\n\nOne of these, heard not infrequently, was to the effect that--in\nLondon--one might live under an umbrella if one lived under it in\nthe right neighbourhood and on the right side of the street, which\naxiom is the reason that a certain child through the first six\nyears of her life sat on certain days staring out of a window\nin a small, dingy room on the top floor of a slice of a house on\na narrow but highly fashionable London street and looked on at\nthe passing of motors, carriages and people in the dull afternoon\ngrayness.\n\nThe room was exalted above its station by being called The Day\nNursery and another room equally dingy and uninviting was known as\nThe Night Nursery. The slice of a house was inhabited by the very\npretty Mrs. Gareth-Lawless, its inordinate rent being reluctantly\npaid by her--apparently with the assistance of those \"ravens\" who\nare expected to supply the truly deserving. The rent was inordinate\nonly from the standpoint of one regarding it soberly in connection\nwith the character of the house itself which was a gaudy little\nkennel crowded between two comparatively stately mansions. On one\nside lived an inordinately rich South African millionaire, and\non the other an inordinately exalted person of title, which facts\ncombined to form sufficient grounds for a certain inordinateness\nof rent.\n\nMrs. Gareth-Lawless was also, it may be stated, of the fibre\nwhich must live on the right side of the street or dissolve into\nnothingness--since as nearly nothingness as an embodied entity can\nachieve had Nature seemingly created her at the outset. So light\nand airy was the fair, slim, physical presentation of her being\nto the earthly vision, and so almost impalpably diaphanous the\ntexture and form of mind and character to be observed by human\nperception, that among such friends--and enemies--as so slight a\nthing could claim she was prettily known as \"Feather\". Her real\nname, \"Amabel\", was not half as charming and whimsical in its\nappropriateness. \"Feather\" she adored being called and as it was\nthe fashion among the amazing if amusing circle in which she spent\nher life, to call its acquaintances fantastic pet names selected\nfrom among the world of birds, beasts and fishes or inanimate\nobjects--\"Feather\" she floated through her curious existence. And\nit so happened that she was the mother of the child who so often\nstared out of the window of the dingy and comfortless Day Nursery,\ntoo much a child to be more than vaguely conscious in a chaotic way\nthat a certain feeling which at times raged within her and made her\nlittle body hot and restless was founded on something like actual\nhate for a special man who had certainly taken no deliberate steps\nto cause her detestation.\n\n       *       *        *       *        *\n\n\"Feather\" had not been called by that delicious name when she married\nRobert Gareth-Lawless who was a beautiful and irresponsibly rather\nthan deliberately bad young man. She was known as Amabel Darrel\nand the loveliest girl in the lovely corner of the island of Jersey\nwhere her father, a country doctor, had begotten a large family of\nlovely creatures and brought them up on the appallingly inadequate\nproceeds of his totally inadequate practice. Pretty female things\nmust be disposed of early lest their market value decline. Therefore\na well-born young man even without obvious resources represents a\nsail in the offing which is naturally welcomed as possibly belonging\nto a bark which may at least bear away a burden which the back\ncarrying it as part of its pack will willingly shuffle on to other\nshoulders. It is all very well for a man with six lovely daughters\nto regard them as capital if he has money or position or generous\nrelations or if he has energy and an ingenious unfatigued mind. But\na man who is tired and neither clever nor important in any degree\nand who has reared his brood in one of the Channel Islands with a\nfaded, silly, unattractive wife as his only aid in any difficulty,\nis wise in leaving the whole hopeless situation to chance and luck.\nSometimes luck comes without assistance but--almost invariably--it\ndoes not.\n\n\"Feather\"--who was then \"Amabel\"--thought Robert Gareth-Lawless\nincredible good luck. He only drifted into her summer by merest\nchance because a friend's yacht in which he was wandering about\n\"came in\" for supplies. A girl Ariel in a thin white frock and with\nbig larkspur blue eyes yearning at you under her flapping hat as\nshe answers your questions about the best road to somewhere will\nnot be too difficult about showing the way herself. And there you\nare at a first-class beginning.\n\nThe night after she met Gareth-Lawless in a lane whose banks were\nthick with bluebells, Amabel and her sister Alice huddled close\ntogether in bed and talked almost pantingly in whispers over the\npossibilities which might reveal themselves--God willing--through\na further acquaintance with Mr. Gareth-Lawless. They were eager and\nbreathlessly anxious but they were young--YOUNG in their eagerness\nand Amabel was full of delight in his good looks.\n\n\"He is SO handsome, Alice,\" she whispered actually hugging her, not\nwith affection but exultation. \"And he can't be more than twenty-six\nor seven. And I'm SURE he liked me. You know that way a man has of\nlooking at you--one sees it even in a place like this where there\nare only curates and things. He has brown eyes--like dark bright\nwater in pools. Oh, Alice, if he SHOULD!\"\n\nAlice was not perhaps as enthusiastic as her sister. Amabel had\nseen him first and in the Darrel household there was a sort of\nunwritten, not always observed code flimsily founded on \"First come\nfirst served.\" Just at the outset of an acquaintance one might\nsay \"Hands off\" as it were. But not for long.\n\n\"It doesn't matter how pretty one is they seldom do,\" Alice\ngrumbled. \"And he mayn't have a farthing.\"\n\n\"Alice,\" whispered Amabel almost agonizingly, \"I wouldn't\nCARE a farthing--if only he WOULD! Have I a farthing--have you a\nfarthing--has anyone who ever comes here a farthing? He lives in\nLondon. He'd take me away. To live even in a back street IN LONDON\nwould be Heaven! And one MUST--as soon as one possibly can.--One\nMUST! And Oh!\" with another hug which this time was a shudder,\n\"think of what Doris Harmer had to do! Think of his thick red old\nneck and his horrid fatness! And the way he breathed through his\nnose. Doris said that at first it used to make her ill to look at\nhim.\"\n\n\"She's got over it,\" whispered Alice. \"She's almost as fat as he\nis now. And she's loaded with pearls and things.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't have to 'get over' anything,\" said Amabel, \"if this\none WOULD. I could fall in love with him in a minute.\"\n\n\"Did you hear what Father said?\" Alice brought out the words\nrather slowly and reluctantly. She was not eager on the whole to\nyield up a detail which after all added glow to possible prospects\nwhich from her point of view were already irritatingly glowing.\nYet she could not resist the impulse of excitement. \"No, you didn't\nhear. You were out of the room.\"\n\n\"What about? Something about HIM? I hope it wasn't horrid. How\ncould it be?\"\n\n\"He said,\" Alice drawled with a touch of girlishly spiteful\nindifference, \"that if he was one of the poor Gareth-Lawlesses he\nhadn't much chance of succeeding to the title. His uncle--Lord\nLawdor--is only forty-five and he has four splendid healthy\nboys--perfect little giants.\"\n\n\"Oh, I didn't know there was a title. How splendid,\" exclaimed Amabel\nrapturously. Then after a few moments' innocent maiden reflection\nshe breathed with sweet hopefulness from under the sheet, \"Children\nso often have scarlet fever or diphtheria, and you know they\nsay those very strong ones are more likely to die than the other\nkind. The Vicar of Sheen lost FOUR all in a week. And the Vicar\ndied too. The doctor said the diphtheria wouldn't have killed him\nif the shock hadn't helped.\"\n\nAlice--who had a teaspoonful more brain than her sister--burst\ninto a fit of giggling it was necessary to smother by stuffing\nthe sheet in her mouth.\n\n\"Oh! Amabel!\" she gurgled. \"You ARE such a donkey! You would have\nbeen silly enough to say that even if people could have heard you.\nSuppose HE had!\"\n\n\"Why should he care,\" said Amabel simply. \"One can't help thinking\nthings. If it happened he would be the Earl of Lawdor and--\"\n\nShe fell again into sweet reflection while Alice giggled a little\nmore. Then she herself stopped and thought also. After all perhaps--!\nOne had to be practical. The tenor of her thoughts was such that\nshe did not giggle again when Amabel broke the silence by whispering\nwith tremulous, soft devoutness.\n\n\"Alice--do you think that praying REALLY helps?\"\n\n\"I've prayed for things but I never got them,\" answered Alice.\n\"But you know what the Vicar said on Sunday in sermon about 'Ask\nand ye shall receive'.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you haven't prayed in the right spirit,\" Amabel suggested\nwith true piety. \"Shall we--shall we try? Let us get out of bed\nand kneel down.\"\n\n\"Get out of bed and kneel down yourself,\" was Alice's sympathetic\nrejoinder. \"You wouldn't take that much trouble for ME.\"\n\nAmabel sat up on the edge of the bed. In the faint moonlight and\nher white night-gown she was almost angelic. She held the end of\nthe long fair soft plait hanging over her shoulder and her eyes\nwere full of reproach.\n\n\"I think you ought to take SOME interest,\" she said plaintively.\n\"You know there would be more chances for you and the others--if\nI were not here.\"\n\n\"I'll wait until you are not here,\" replied the unstirred Alice.\n\nBut Amabel felt there was no time for waiting in this particular\ncase. A yacht which \"came in\" might so soon \"put out\". She knelt\ndown, clasping her slim young hands and bending her forehead upon\nthem. In effect she implored that Divine Wisdom might guide Mr.\nRobert Gareth-Lawless in the much desired path. She also made\ndivers promises because nothing is so easy as to promise things.\nShe ended with a gently fervent appeal that--if her prayer\nwere granted--something \"might happen\" which would result in her\nbecoming a Countess of Lawdor. One could not have put the request\nwith greater tentative delicacy.\n\nShe felt quite uplifted and a trifle saintly when she rose from\nher knees. Alice had actually fallen asleep already and she sighed\nquite tenderly as she slipped into the place beside her. Almost\nas her lovely little head touched the pillow her own eyes closed.\nThen she was asleep herself--and in the faintly moonlit room with\nthe long soft plait trailing over her shoulder looked even more\nlike an angel than before.\n\nWhether or not as a result of this touching appeal to the Throne\nof Grace, Robert Gareth-Lawless DID. In three months there was\na wedding at the very ancient village church, and the flowerlike\nbridesmaids followed a flower of a bride to the altar and later in\nthe day to the station from where Mr. and Mrs. Robert Gareth-Lawless\nwent on their way to London. Perhaps Alice and Olive also knelt by\nthe side of their white beds the night after the wedding, for on\nthat propitious day two friends of the bridegroom's--one of them\nthe owner of the yacht--decided to return again to the place where\nthere were to be found the most nymphlike of pretty creatures a man\nhad ever by any chance beheld. Such delicate little fair crowned\nheads, such delicious little tip-tilted noses and slim white throats,\nsuch ripples of gay chatter and nonsense! When a man has fortune\nenough of his own why not take the prettiest thing he sees? So\nAlice and Olive were borne away also and poor Mr. and Mrs. Darrel\nbreathed sighs of relief and there were not only more chances but\ncauses for bright hopefulness in the once crowded house which now\nhad rooms to spare.\n\nA certain inattention on the part of the Deity was no doubt\nresponsible for the fact that \"something\" did not \"happen\" to the\nfamily of Lord Lawdor. On the contrary his four little giants of\nsons throve astonishingly and a few months after the Gareth-Lawless\nwedding Lady Lawdor--a trifle effusively, as it were--presented her\nhusband with twin male infants so robust that they were humorously\nknown for years afterwards as the \"Twin Herculeses.\"\n\nBy that time Amabel had become \"Feather\" and despite Robert's\ningenious and carefully detailed method of living upon nothing\nwhatever, had many reasons for knowing that \"life is a back street\nin London\" is not a matter of beds of roses. Since the back street\nmust be the \"right street\" and its accompaniments must wear an aspect\nof at least seeming to belong to the right order of detachment and\nfashionable ease, one was always in debt and forced to keep out of\nthe way of duns, and obliged to pretend things and tell lies with\naptness and outward gaiety. Sometimes one actually was so far driven\nto the wall that one could not keep most important engagements and\nthe invention of plausible excuses demanded absolute genius. The\nslice of a house between the two big ones was a rash feature of\nthe honeymoon but a year of giving smart little dinners in it and\ngoing to smart big dinners from it in a smart if small brougham\nended in a condition somewhat akin to the feat of balancing oneself\non the edge of a sword.\n\nThen Robin was born. She was an intruder and a calamity of course.\nNobody had contemplated her for a moment. Feather cried for a week\nwhen she first announced the probability of her advent. Afterwards\nhowever she managed to forget the approaching annoyance and went\nto parties and danced to the last hour continuing to be a great\nsuccess because her prettiness was delicious and her diaphanous\nmentality was no strain upon the minds of her admirers male and\nfemale.\n\nThat a Feather should become a parent gave rise to much wit of light\nweight when Robin in the form of a bundle of lace was carried down\nby her nurse to be exhibited in the gaudy crowded little drawing-room\nin the slice of a house in the Mayfair street.\n\nIt was the Head of the House of Coombe who asked the first question\nabout her.\n\n\"What will you DO with her?\" he inquired detachedly.\n\nThe frequently referred to \"babe unborn\" could not have presented\na gaze of purer innocence than did the lovely Feather. Her eyes of\nlarkspur blueness were clear of any thought or intention as spring\nwater is clear at its unclouded best.\n\nHer ripple of a laugh was clear also--enchantingly clear.\n\n\"Do!\" repeated. \"What is it people 'do' with babies? I suppose\nthe nurse knows. I don't. I wouldn't touch her for the world. She\nfrightens me.\"\n\nShe floated a trifle nearer and bent to look at her.\n\n\"I shall call her Robin,\" she said. \"Her name is really Roberta\nas she couldn't be called Robert. People will turn round to look\nat a girl when they hear her called Robin. Besides she has eyes\nlike a robin. I wish she'd open them and let you see.\"\n\nBy chance she did open them at the moment--quite slowly. They were\ndark liquid brown and seemed to be all lustrous iris which gazed\nunmovingly at the object in of focus. That object was the Head of\nthe House of Coombe.\n\n\"She is staring at me. There is antipathy in her gaze,\" he said,\nand stared back unmovingly also, but with a sort of cold interest.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Head of the House of Coombe was not a title to be found in\nBurke or Debrett. It was a fine irony of the Head's own and having\nbeen accepted by his acquaintances was not infrequently used by\nthem in their light moments in the same spirit. The peerage recorded\nhim as a Marquis and added several lesser attendant titles.\n\n\"When English society was respectable, even to stodginess at times,\"\nwas his point of view, \"to be born 'the Head of the House' was a\nweighty and awe-inspiring thing. In fearful private denunciatory\ninterviews with one's parents and governors it was brought up against\none as a final argument against immoral conduct such as debt and\nnot going to church. As the Head of the House one was called upon\nto be an Example. In the country one appeared in one's pew and\nannounced oneself a 'miserable sinner' in loud tones, one had to\ninvite the rector to dinner with regularity and 'the ladies' of\none's family gave tea and flannel petticoats and baby clothes to\ncottagers. Men and women were known as 'ladies' and 'gentlemen'\nin those halcyon days. One Represented things--Parties in\nParliament--Benevolent Societies, and British Hospitality in the\nform of astounding long dinners at which one drank healths and\nmade speeches. In roseate youth one danced the schottische and the\npolka and the round waltz which Lord Byron denounced as indecent.\nTo recall the vigour of his poem gives rise to a smile--when one\nchances to sup at a cabaret.\"\n\nHe was considered very amusing when he analyzed his own mental\nattitude towards his world in general.\n\n\"I was born somewhat too late and somewhat too early,\" he explained\nin his light, rather cold and detached way. \"I was born and educated\nat the closing of one era and have to adjust myself to living in\nanother. I was as it were cradled among treasured relics of the\nethics of the Georges and Queen Charlotte, and Queen Victoria in\nher bloom. _I_ was in my bloom in the days when 'ladies' were\nreproved for wearing dresses cut too low at Drawing Rooms. Such\ntraining gives curious interest to fashions in which bodices are\nunconsidered trifles and Greek nymphs who dance with bare feet\nand beautiful bare legs may be one's own relations. I trust I do\nnot seem even in the shadowiest way to comment unfavourably. I\nmerely look on at the rapidities of change with unalloyed interest.\nAs the Head of the House of Coombe I am not sure WHAT I am an\nExample of--or to. Which is why I at times regard myself in that\ncapacity with a slightly ribald lightness.\"\n\nThe detachment of his question with regard to the newborn infant\nof the airily irresponsible Feather was in entire harmony with his\nattitude towards the singular incident of Life as illustrated by\nthe World, the Flesh and the Devil by none of which he was--as far\nas could be observed--either impressed, disturbed or prejudiced.\nHis own experience had been richly varied and practically unlimited\nin its opportunities for pleasure, sinful or unsinful indulgence,\nmitigated or unmitigated wickedness, the gathering of strange\nknowledge, and the possible ignoring of all dull boundaries. This\nbeing the case a superhuman charity alone could have forborne to\nbelieve that his opportunities had been neglected in the heyday\nof his youth. Wealth and lack of limitations in themselves would\nhave been quite enough to cause the Nonconformist Victorian mind\nto regard a young--or middle-aged--male as likely to represent a\nfearsome moral example, but these three temptations combined with\ngood looks and a certain mental brilliance were so inevitably the\nconcomitants of elegant iniquity that the results might be taken\nfor granted.\n\nThat the various worlds in which he lived in various lands accepted\nhim joyfully as an interesting and desirable of more or less\nabominably sinful personage, the Head of the House of Coombe--even\nmany years before he became its head--regarded with the detachment\nwhich he had, even much earlier, begun to learn. Why should it be\nin the least matter what people thought of one? Why should it in\nthe least matter what one thought of oneself--and therefore--why\nshould one think at all? He had begun at the outset a brilliantly\nhappy young pagan with this simple theory. After the passing of\nsome years he had not been quite so happy but had remained quite\nas pagan and retained the theory which had lost its first fine\ncareless rapture and gained a secret bitterness. He had not married\nand innumerable stories were related to explain the reason why.\nThey were most of them quite false and none of them quite true.\nWhen he ceased to be a young man his delinquency was much discussed,\nmore especially when his father died and he took his place as the\nhead of his family. He was old enough, rich enough, important enough\nfor marriage to be almost imperative. But he remained unmarried.\nIn addition he seemed to consider his abstinence entirely an affair\nof his own.\n\n\"Are you as wicked as people say you are?\" a reckless young woman\nonce asked him. She belonged to the younger set which was that\nseason trying recklessness, in a tentative way, as a new fashion.\n\n\"I really don't know. It is so difficult to decide,\" he answered.\n\"I could tell better if I knew exactly what wickedness is. When\nI find out I will let you know. So good of you to take an interest.\"\n\nThirty years earlier he knew that a young lady who had heard he was\nwicked would have perished in flames before immodestly mentioning\nthe fact to him, but might have delicately attempted to offer \"first\naid\" to reformation, by approaching with sweetness the subject of\ngoing to church.\n\nThe reckless young woman looked at him with an attention which\nhe was far from being blind enough not to see was increased by his\nanswer.\n\n\"I never know what you mean,\" she said almost wistfully.\n\n\"Neither do I,\" was his amiable response. \"And I am sure it would\nnot be worth while going into. Really, we neither of us know what\nwe mean. Perhaps I am as wicked as I know how to be. And I may\nhave painful limitations--or I may not.\"\n\nAfter his father's death he spent rather more time in London and\nrather less in wandering over the face of the globe. But by the\ntime he was forty he knew familiarly far countries and near and\nwas intimate with most of the peoples thereof. He could have found\nhis way about blind-folded in the most distinctive parts of most\nof the great cities. He had seen and learned many things. The\nmost absorbing to his mind had been the ambitions and changes of\nnations, statesmen, rulers and those they ruled or were ruled by.\nCourts and capitals knew him, and his opportunities were such as\ngave him all ease as an onlooker. He was outwardly of the type\nwhich does not arouse caution in talkers and he heard much which\nwas suggestive even to illumination, from those to whom he remained\nunsuspected of being a man who remembered things long and was\nastute in drawing conclusions. The fact remained however that\nhe possessed a remarkable memory and one which was not a rag-bag\nfilled with unassorted and parti-coloured remnants, but a large and\norderly space whose contents were catalogued and filed and well\nenclosed from observation. He was also given to the mental argument\nwhich follows a point to its conclusion as a mere habit of mind.\nHe saw and knew well those who sat and pondered with knit brows and\ncautiously hovering hand at the great chess-board which is formed\nby the Map of Europe. He found an enormous interest in watching\ntheir play. It was his fortune as a result of his position to know\npersons who wore crowns and a natural incident in whose lives it\nwas to receive the homage expressed by the uncovering of the head\nand the bending of the knee. At forty he looked back at the time\nwhen the incongruousness, the abnormality and the unsteadiness of\nthe foundations on which such personages stood first struck him.\nThe realization had been in its almost sacrilegious novelty and\ndaring, a sort of thunderbolt passing through his mind. He had\nat the time spoken of it only to one person.\n\n\"I have no moral or ethical views to offer,\" he had said. \"I only\nSEE. The thing--as it is--will disintegrate. I am so at sea as\nto what will take its place that I feel as if the prospect were\nrather horrible. One has had the old landmarks and been impressed\nby the old pomp and picturesqueness so many centuries, that one\ncannot see the earth without them. There have been kings even in\nthe Cannibal Islands.\"\n\nAs a statesman or a diplomat he would have seen far but he had been\ntoo much occupied with Life as an entertainment, too self-indulgent\nfor work of any order. He freely admitted to himself that he was\na worthless person but the fact did not disturb him. Having been\nborn with a certain order of brain it observed and worked in spite\nof him, thereby adding flavour and interest to existence. But that\nwas all.\n\nIt cannot be said that as the years passed he quite enjoyed the\nfact that he knew he was rarely spoken of to a stranger without\nits being mentioned that he was the most perfectly dressed man in\nLondon. He rather detested the idea though he was aware that the\ntruth was unimpeachable. The perfection of his accompaniments had\narisen in his youth from a secret feeling for fitness and harmony.\nTexture and colour gave him almost abnormal pleasure. His expression\nof this as a masculine creature had its limits which resulted in\na concentration on perfection. Even at five-and-twenty however he\nhad never been called a dandy and even at five-and-forty no one\nhad as yet hinted at Beau Brummel though by that time men as well\nas women frequently described to each other the cut and colour\nof the garments he wore, and tailors besought him to honour them\nwith crumbs of his patronage in the ambitious hope that they might\nmention him as a client. And the simple fact that he appeared in\na certain colour or cut set it at once on its way to become a\nfashion to be seized upon, worn and exaggerated until it was\ndropped suddenly by its originator and lost in the oblivion of\ncheap imitations and cheap tailor shops. The first exaggeration\nof the harmony he had created and the original was seen no more.\n\nFeather herself had a marvellous trick in the collecting of her\ngarments. It was a trick which at times barely escaped assuming the\nproportions of absolute creation. Her passion for self-adornment\nexpressed itself in ingenious combination and quite startling\nuniqueness of line now and then. Her slim fairness and ash-gold\ngossamer hair carried airily strange tilts and curves of little\nor large hats or daring tints other women could not sustain\nbut invariably strove to imitate however disastrous the results.\nBeneath soft drooping or oddly flopping brims hopelessly unbecoming\nto most faces hers looked out quaintly lovely as a pictured child's\nwearing its grandmother's bonnet. Everything draped itself about\nor clung to her in entrancing folds which however whimsical were\nnever grotesque.\n\n\"Things are always becoming to me,\" she said quite simply. \"But\noften I stick a few pins into a dress to tuck it up here and there,\nor if I give a hat a poke somewhere to make it crooked, they are\nmuch more becoming. People are always asking me how I do it but\nI don't know how. I bought a hat from Cerise last week and I gave\nit two little thumps with my fist--one in the crown and one in\nthe brim and they made it wonderful. The maid of the most grand\nkind of person tried to find out from my maid where I bought it.\nI wouldn't let her tell of course.\"\n\nShe created fashions and was imitated as was the Head of the House\nof Coombe but she was enraptured by the fact and the entire power\nof such gray matter as was held by her small brain cells was\nconcentrated upon her desire to evolve new fantasies and amazements\nfor her world.\n\nBefore he had been married for a year there began to creep into the\nmind of Bob Gareth-Lawless a fearsome doubt remotely hinting that\nshe might end by becoming an awful bore in the course of\ntime--particularly if she also ended by being less pretty. She\nchattered so incessantly about nothing and was such an empty-headed,\nextravagant little fool in her insistence on clothes--clothes--clothes--as\nif they were the breath of life. After watching her for about two\nhours one morning as she sat before her mirror directing her maid\nto arrange and re-arrange her hair in different styles--in delicate\npuffs and curls and straying rings--soft bands and loops--in braids\nand coils--he broke forth into an uneasy short laugh and expressed\nhimself--though she did not know he was expressing himself and\nwould not have understood him if she had.\n\n\"If you have a soul--and I'm not at all certain you have--\" he\nsaid, \"it's divided into a dressmaker's and a hairdresser's and\na milliner's shop. It's full of tumbled piles of hats and frocks\nand diamond combs. It's an awful mess, Feather.\"\n\n\"I hope it's a shoe shop and a jeweller's as well,\" she laughed\nquite gaily. \"And a lace-maker's. I need every one of them.\"\n\n\"It's a rag shop,\" he said. \"It has nothing but CHIFFONS in it.\"\n\n\"If ever I DO think of souls I think of them as silly gauzy things\nfloating about like little balloons,\" was her cheerful response.\n\n\"That's an idea,\" he answered with a rather louder laugh. \"Yours\nmight be made of pink and blue gauze spangled with those things\nyou call paillettes.\"\n\nThe fancy attracted her.\n\n\"If I had one like that\"--with a pleased creative air, \"it would\nlook rather ducky floating from my shoulder--or even my hat--or my\nhair in the evenings, just held by a tiny sparkling chain fastened\nwith a diamond pin--and with lovely little pink and blue streamers.\"\nWith the touch of genius she had at once relegated it to its place\nin the scheme of her universe. And Robert laughed even louder than\nbefore.\n\n\"You mustn't make me laugh,\" she said holding up her hand. \"I am\nhaving my hair done to match that quakery thin pale mousey dress\nwith the tiny poke bonnet--and I want to try my face too. I must\nlook sweet and demure. You mustn't really laugh when you wear a\ndress and hat like that. You must only smile.\"\n\nSome months earlier Bob would have found it difficult to believe\nthat she said this entirely without any touch of humour but he\nrealized now that it was so said. He had some sense of humour of\nhis own and one of his reasons for vaguely feeling that she might\nbecome a bore was that she had none whatever.\n\nIt was at the garden party where she wore the thin quakery mousey\ndress and tiny poke bonnet that the Head of the House of Coombe\nfirst saw her. It was at the place of a fashionable artist who\nlived at Hampstead and had a garden and a few fine old trees. It\nhad been Feather's special intention to strike this note of delicate\ndim colour. Every other woman was blue or pink or yellow or white\nor flowered and she in her filmy coolness of unusual hue stood out\nexquisitely among them. Other heads wore hats broad or curved or\nflopping, hers looked like a little nun's or an imaginary portrait\nof a delicious young great-grandmother. She was more arresting\nthan any other female creature on the emerald sward or under the\nspreading trees.\n\nWhen Coombe's eyes first fell upon her he was talking to a group\nof people and he stopped speaking. Someone standing quite near him\nsaid afterwards that he had for a second or so become pale--almost\nas if he saw something which frightened him.\n\n\"Who is that under the copper beech--being talked to by Harlow?\"\nhe inquired.\n\nFeather was in fact listening with a gentle air and with her eyelids\ndown drooped to the exact line harmonious with the angelic little\npoke bonnet.\n\n\"It is Mrs. Robert Gareth-Lawless--'Feather' we call her,\" he was\nanswered. \"Was there ever anything more artful than that startling\nlittle smoky dress? If it was flame colour one wouldn't see it as\nquickly.\"\n\n\"One wouldn't look at it as long,\" said Coombe. \"One is in danger\nof staring. And the little hat--or bonnet--which pokes and is\nfastened under her pink ear by a satin bow held by a loose pale\nbud! Will someone rescue me from staring by leading me to her. It\nwon't be staring if I am talking to her. Please.\"\n\nThe paleness appeared again as on being led across the grass he\ndrew nearer to the copper beech. He was still rather pale when\nFeather lifted her eyes to him. Her eyes were so shaped by Nature\nthat they looked like an angel's when they were lifted. There are\neyes of that particular cut. But he had not talked to her fifteen\nminutes before he knew that there was no real reason why he should\never again lose his colour at the sight of her. He had thought at\nfirst there was. With the perception which invariably marked her\nsense of fitness of things she had begun in the course of the\nfifteen minutes--almost before the colour had quite returned to\nhis face--the story of her husband's idea of her soul, as a balloon\nof pink and blue gauze spangled with paillettes. And of her own\ninspiration of wearing it floating from her shoulder or her hair\nby the light sparkling chain--and with delicate ribbon streamers.\nShe was much delighted with his laugh--though she thought it had a\nrather cracked, harsh sound. She knew he was an important person\nand she always felt she was being a success when people laughed.\n\n\"Exquisite!\" he said. \"I shall never see you in the future without\nit. But wouldn't it be necessary to vary the colour at times?\"\n\n\"Oh! Yes--to match things,\" seriously. \"I couldn't wear a pink and\nblue one with this--\" glancing over the smoky mousey thing \"--or\npaillettes.\"\n\n\"Oh, no--not paillettes,\" he agreed almost with gravity, the harsh\nlaugh having ended.\n\n\"One couldn't imagine the exact colour in a moment. One would have\nto think,\" she reflected. \"Perhaps a misty dim bluey thing--like\nthe edge of a rain-cloud--scarcely a colour at all.\"\n\nFor an instant her eyes were softly shadowed as if looking into\na dream. He watched her fixedly then. A woman who was a sort of\nangel might look like that when she was asking herself how much\nher pure soul might dare to pray for. Then he laughed again and\nFeather laughed also.\n\nMany practical thoughts had already begun to follow each other\nhastily through her mind. It would be the best possible thing\nfor them if he really admired her. Bob was having all sorts of\ntrouble with people they owed money to. Bills were sent in again\nand again and disagreeable letters were written. Her dressmaker\nand milliner had given her most rude hints which could indeed\nbe scarcely considered hints at all. She scarcely dared speak to\ntheir smart young footman who she knew had only taken the place\nin the slice of a house because he had been told that it might be\nan opening to better things. She did not know the exact summing\nup at the agency had been as follows:\n\n\"They're a good looking pair and he's Lord Lawdor's nephew.\nThey're bound to have their fling and smart people will come to\ntheir house because she's so pretty. They'll last two or three\nyears perhaps and you'll open the door to the kind of people who\nremember a well set-up young fellow if he shows he knows his work\nabove the usual.\"\n\nThe more men of the class of the Head of the House of Coombe who\ncame in and out of the slice of a house the more likely the owners\nof it were to get good invitations and continued credit, Feather\nwas aware. Besides which, she thought ingenuously, if he was rich\nhe would no doubt lend Bob money. She had already known that certain\nmen who liked her had done it. She did not mind it at all. One\nwas obliged to have money.\n\nThis was the beginning of an acquaintance which gave rise to much\nargument over tea-cups and at dinner parties and in boudoirs--even\nin corners of Feather's own gaudy little drawing-room. The argument\nregarded the degree of Coombe's interest in her. There was always\ncuriosity as to the degree of his interest in any woman--especially\nand privately on the part of the woman herself. Casual and shallow\nobservers said he was quite infatuated if such a thing were possible\nto a man of his temperament; the more concentrated of mind said it\nwas not possible to a man of his temperament and that any attraction\nFeather might have for him was of a kind special to himself and\nthat he alone could explain it--and he would not.\n\nRemained however the fact that he managed to see a great deal of\nher. It might be said that he even rather followed her about and\nmore than one among the specially concentrated of mind had seen him\non occasion stand apart a little and look at her--watch her--with\nan expression suggesting equally profound thought and the profound\nintention to betray his private meditations in no degree. There\nwas no shadow of profundity of thought in his treatment of her.\nHe talked to her as she best liked to be talked to about herself,\nher successes and her clothes which were more successful than\nanything else. He went to the little but exceedingly lively dinners\nthe Gareth-Lawlesses gave and though he was understood not to be\nfond of dancing now and then danced with her at balls.\n\nFeather was guilelessly doubtless concerning him. She was quite sure\nthat he was in love with her. Her idea of that universal emotion\nwas that it was a matter of clothes and propinquity and loveliness\nand that if one were at all clever one got things one wanted as a\nresult of it. Her overwhelming affection for Bob and his for her\nhad given her life in London and its entertaining accompaniments.\nHer frankness in the matter of this desirable capture when she\ntalked to her husband was at once light and friendly.\n\n\"Of course you will be able to get credit at his tailor's as you\nknow him so well,\" she said. \"When I persuaded him to go with me\nto Madame Helene's last week she was quite amiable. He helped me\nto choose six dresses and I believe she would have let me choose\nsix more.\"\n\n\"Does she think he is going to pay for them?\" asked Bob.\n\n\"It doesn't matter what she thinks\"; Feather laughed very prettily.\n\n\"Doesn't it?\"\n\n\"Not a bit. I shall have the dresses. What's the matter, Rob? You\nlook quite red and cross.\"\n\n\"I've had a headache for three days,\" he answered, \"and I feel\nhot and cross. I don't care about a lot of things you say, Feather.\"\n\n\"Don't be silly,\" she retorted. \"I don't care about a lot of things\nyou say--and do, too, for the matter of that.\"\n\nRobert Gareth-Lawless who was sitting on a chair in her dressing-room\ngrunted slightly as he rubbed his red and flushed forehead.\n\n\"There's a--sort of limit,\" he commented. He hesitated a little\nbefore he added sulkily \"--to the things one--SAYS.\"\n\n\"That sounds like Alice,\" was her undisturbed answer. \"She used\nto squabble at me because I SAID things. But I believe one of\nthe reasons people like me is because I make them laugh by SAYING\nthings. Lord Coombe laughs. He is a very good person to know,\"\nshe added practically. \"Somehow he COUNTS. Don't you recollect\nhow before we knew him--when he was abroad so long--people used\nto bring him into their talk as if they couldn't help remembering\nhim and what he was like. I knew quite a lot about him--about\nhis cleverness and his manners and his way of keeping women off\nwithout being rude--and the things he says about royalties and the\naristocracy going out of fashion. And about his clothes. I adore\nhis clothes. And I'm convinced he adores mine.\"\n\nShe had in fact at once observed his clothes as he had crossed the\ngrass to her seat under the copper beech. She had seen that his\nfine thinness was inimitably fitted and presented itself to the\neye as that final note of perfect line which ignores any possibility\nof comment. He did not wear things--they were expressions of his\nmental subtleties. Feather on her part knew that she wore her\nclothes--carried them about with her--however beautifully.\n\n\"I like him,\" she went on. \"I don't know anything about political\nparties and the state of Europe so I don't understand the things\nhe says which people think are so brilliant, but I like him. He\nisn't really as old as I thought he was the first day I saw him.\nHe had a haggard look about his mouth and eyes then. He looked\nas if a spangled pink and blue gauze soul with little floating\nstreamers was a relief to him.\"\n\nThe child Robin was a year old by that time and staggered about\nuncertainly in the dingy little Day Nursery in which she passed her\nexistence except on such occasions as her nurse--who had promptly\nfallen in love with the smart young footman--carried her down to\nthe kitchen and Servants' Hall in the basement where there was an\nearthy smell and an abundance of cockroaches. The Servants' Hall\nhad been given that name in the catalogue of the fashionable\nagents who let the home and it was as cramped and grimy as the\ntwo top-floor nurseries.\n\nThe next afternoon Robert Gareth-Lawless staggered into his wife's\ndrawing-room and dropped on to a sofa staring at her and breathing\nhard.\n\n\"Feather!\" he gasped. \"Don't know what's up with me. I believe\nI'm--awfully ill! I can't see straight. Can't think.\"\n\nHe fell over sidewise on to the cushions so helplessly that Feather\nsprang at him.\n\n\"Don't, Rob, don't!\" she cried in actual anguish. \"Lord Coombe\nis taking us to the opera and to supper afterwards. I'm going to\nwear--\" She stopped speaking to shake him and try to lift his head.\n\"Oh! do try to sit up,\" she begged pathetically. \"Just try. DON'T\ngive up till afterwards.\" But she could neither make him sit up nor\nmake him hear. He lay back heavily with his mouth open, breathing\nstertorously and quite insensible.\n\nIt happened that the Head of the House of Coombe was announced\nat that very moment even as she stood wringing her hands over the\nsofa.\n\nHe went to her side and looked at Gareth-Lawless.\n\n\"Have you sent for a doctor?\" he inquired.\n\n\"He's--only just done it!\" she exclaimed. \"It's more than I can\nbear. You said the Prince would be at the supper after the opera\nand--\"\n\n\"Were you thinking of going?\" he put it to her quietly.\n\n\"I shall have to send for a nurse of course--\" she began. He went\nso far as to interrupt her.\n\n\"You had better not go--if you'll pardon my saying so,\" he suggested.\n\n\"Not go? Not go at all?\" she wailed.\n\n\"Not go at all,\" was his answer. And there was such entire lack\nof encouragement in it that Feather sat down and burst into sobs.\n\nIn few than two weeks Robert was dead and she was left a lovely\npenniless widow with a child.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\n\n\n\nTwo or three decades earlier the prevailing sentiment would have\nbeen that \"poor little Mrs. Gareth-Lawless\" and her situation were\npathetic. Her acquaintances would sympathetically have discussed\nher helplessness and absolute lack of all resource. So very pretty,\nso young, the mother of a dear little girl--left with no income!\nHow very sad! What COULD she do? The elect would have paid her visits\nand sitting in her darkened drawing-room earnestly besought her\nto trust to her Maker and suggested \"the Scriptures\" as suitable\nreading. Some of them--rare and strange souls even in their\ntime--would have known what they meant and meant what they said in\na way they had as yet only the power to express through the medium\nof a certain shibboleth, the rest would have used the same forms\nmerely because shibboleth is easy and always safe and creditable.\n\nBut to Feather's immediate circle a multiplicity of engagements,\nfevers of eagerness in the attainment of pleasures and ambitions,\nanxieties, small and large terrors, and a whirl of days left no time\nfor the regarding of pathetic aspects. The tiny house up whose\nstaircase--tucked against a wall--one had seemed to have the effect of\ncrowding even when one went alone to make a call, suddenly ceased\nto represent hilarious little parties which were as entertaining\nas they were up to date and noisy. The most daring things London\ngossiped about had been said and done and worn there. Novel social\nventures had been tried--dancing and songs which seemed almost\nstartling at first--but which were gradually being generally adopted.\nThere had always been a great deal of laughing and talking of\nnonsense and the bandying of jokes and catch phrases. And Feather\nfluttering about and saying delicious, silly things at which her\nhearers shouted with glee. Such a place could not suddenly become\npathetic. It seemed almost indecent for Robert Gareth-Lawless to\nhave dragged Death nakedly into their midst--to have died in his\nbed in one of the little bedrooms, to have been put in his coffin\nand carried down the stairs scraping the wall, and sent away in a\nhearse. Nobody could bear to think of it.\n\nFeather could bear it less than anybody else. It seemed incredible\nthat such a trick could have been played her. She shut herself\nup in her stuffy little bedroom with its shrimp pink frills and\ndraperies and cried lamentably. At first she cried as a child might\nwho was suddenly snatched away in the midst of a party. Then she\nbegan to cry because she was frightened. Numbers of cards \"with\nsympathy\" had been left at the front door during the first week\nafter the funeral, they had accumulated in a pile on the salver\nbut very few people had really come to see her and while she knew\nthey had the excuse of her recent bereavement she felt that it made\nthe house ghastly. It had never been silent and empty. Things had\nalways been going on and now there was actually not a sound to be\nheard--no one going up and down stairs--Rob's room cleared of all\nhis belongings and left orderly and empty--the drawing-room like a\ngay little tomb without an occupant. How long WOULD it be before\nit would be full of people again--how long must she wait before\nshe could decently invite anyone?--It was really at this point that\nfright seized upon her. Her brain was not given to activities of\nreasoning and followed no thought far. She had not begun to ask\nherself questions as to ways and means. Rob had been winning at\ncards and had borrowed some money from a new acquaintance so no\nimmediate abyss had yawned at her feet. But when the thought of\nfuture festivities rose before her a sudden check made her involuntarily\nclutch at her throat. She had no money at all, bills were piled\neverywhere, perhaps now Robert was dead none of the shops would\ngive her credit. She remembered hearing Rob come into the house\nswearing only the day before he was taken ill and it had been\nbecause he had met on the door-step a collector of the rent which\nwas long over-due and must be paid. She had no money to pay it,\nnone to pay the servants' wages, none to pay the household bills,\nnone to pay for the monthly hire of the brougham! Would they turn\nher into the street--would the servants go away--would she be left\nwithout even a carriage? What could she do about clothes! She\ncould not wear anything but mourning now and by the time she was\nout of mourning her old clothes would have gone out of fashion.\nThe morning on which this aspect of things occurred to her, she\nwas so terrified that she began to run up and down the room like a\nfrightened little cat seeing no escape from the trap it is caught\nin.\n\n\"It's awful--it's awful--it's awful!\" broke out between her sobs.\n\"What can I do? I can't do anything! There's nothing to do! It's\nawful--it's awful--it's awful!\" She ended by throwing herself on\nthe bed crying until she was exhausted. She had no mental resources\nwhich would suggest to her that there was anything but crying to\nbe done. She had cried very little in her life previously because\neven in her days of limitation she had been able to get more or\nless what she wanted--though of course it had generally been less.\nAnd crying made one's nose and eyes red. On this occasion she\nactually forgot her nose and eyes and cried until she scarcely\nknew herself when she got up and looked in the glass.\n\nShe rang the bell for her maid and sat down to wait her coming.\nTonson should bring her a cup of beef tea.\n\n\"It's time for lunch,\" she thought. \"I'm faint with crying. And\nshe shall bathe my eyes with rose-water.\"\n\nIt was not Tonson's custom to keep her mistress waiting but today\nshe was not prompt. Feather rang a second time and an impatient\nthird and then sat in her chair and waited until she began to feel\nas she felt always in these dreadful days the dead silence of the\nhouse. It was the thing which most struck terror to her soul--that\nhorrid stillness. The servants whose place was in the basement\nwere too much closed in their gloomy little quarters to have\nmade themselves heard upstairs even if they had been inclined to.\nDuring the last few weeks Feather had even found herself wishing\nthat they were less well trained and would make a little noise--do\nanything to break the silence.\n\nThe room she sat in--Rob's awful little room adjoining--which was\nawful because of what she had seen for a moment lying stiff and\nhard on the bed before she was taken away in hysterics--were dread\nenclosures of utter silence. The whole house was dumb--the very\nstreet had no sound in it. She could not endure it. How dare\nTonson? She sprang up and rang the bell again and again until its\nsound came back to her pealing through the place.\n\nThen she waited again. It seemed to her that five minutes passed\nbefore she heard the smart young footman mounting the stairs slowly.\nShe did not wait for his knock upon the door but opened it herself.\n\n\"How dare Tonson!\" she began. \"I have rung four or five times!\nHow dare she!\"\n\nThe smart young footman's manner had been formed in a good school.\nIt was attentive, impersonal.\n\n\"I don't know, ma'am,\" he answered.\n\n\"What do you mean? What does SHE mean? Where is she?\" Feather felt\nalmost breathless before his unperturbed good style.\n\n\"I don't know, ma'am,\" he answered as before. Then with the same\nunbiassed bearing added, \"None of us know. She has gone away.\"\n\nFeather clutched the door handle because she felt herself swaying.\n\n\"Away! Away!\" the words were a faint gasp.\n\n\"She packed her trunk yesterday and carried it away with her on a\nfour-wheeler. About an hour ago, ma'am.\" Feather dropped her hand\nfrom the knob of the door and trailed back to the chair she had\nleft, sinking into it helplessly.\n\n\"Who--who will dress me?\" she half wailed.\n\n\"I don't know, ma'am,\" replied the young footman, his excellent\nmanner presuming no suggestion or opinion whatever. He added\nhowever, \"Cook, ma'am, wishes to speak to you.\"\n\n\"Tell her to come to me here,\" Feather said. \"And I--I want a cup\nof beef tea.\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am,\" with entire respect. And the door closed quietly\nbehind him.\n\nIt was not long before it was opened again. \"Cook\" had knocked and\nFeather had told her to come in. Most cooks are stout, but this\none was not. She was a thin, tall woman with square shoulders and\na square face somewhat reddened by constant proximity to fires.\nShe had been trained at a cooking school. She carried a pile of\nsmall account books but she brought nothing else.\n\n\"I wanted some beef tea, Cook,\" said Feather protestingly.\n\n\"There is no beef tea, ma'am,\" said Cook. \"There is neither beef,\nnor stock, nor Liebig in the house.\"\n\n\"Why--why not?\" stammered Feather and she stammered because even\nher lack of perception saw something in the woman's face which\nwas new to her. It was a sort of finality.\n\nShe held out the pile of small books.\n\n\"Here are the books, ma'am,\" was her explanation. \"Perhaps as you\ndon't like to be troubled with such things, you don't know how\nfar behind they are. Nothing has been paid for months. It's been\nan every-day fight to get the things that was wanted. It's not\nan agreeable thing for a cook to have to struggle and plead. I've\nhad to do it because I had my reputation to think of and I couldn't\nsend up rubbish when there was company.\"\n\nFeather felt herself growing pale as she sat and stared at her.\nCook drew near and laid one little book after another on the small\ntable near her.\n\n\"That's the butcher's book,\" she said. \"He's sent nothing in for\nthree days. We've been living on leavings. He's sent his last,\nhe says and he means it. This is the baker's. He's not been for\na week. I made up rolls because I had some flour left. It's done\nnow--and HE'S done. This is groceries and Mercom & Fees wrote\nto Mr. Gareth-Lawless when the last month's supply came, that it\nwould BE the last until payment was made. This is wines--and coal\nand wood--and laundry--and milk. And here is wages, ma'am, which\nCAN'T go on any longer.\"\n\nFeather threw up her hands and quite wildly.\n\n\"Oh, go away!--go away!\" she cried. \"If Mr. Lawless were here--\"\n\n\"He isn't, ma'am,\" Cook interposed, not fiercely but in a way more\nterrifying than any ferocity could have been--a way which pointed\nsteadily to the end of things. \"As long as there's a gentleman\nin a house there's generally a sort of a prospect that things MAY\nbe settled some way. At any rate there's someone to go and speak\nyour mind to even if you have to give up your place. But when\nthere's no gentleman and nothing--and nobody--respectable people\nwith their livings to make have got to protect themselves.\"\n\nThe woman had no intention of being insolent. Her simple statement\nthat her employer's death had left \"Nothing\" and \"Nobody\" was\nprompted by no consciously ironic realization of the diaphanousness\nof Feather. As for the rest she had been professionally trained\nto take care of her interests as well as to cook and the ethics\nof the days of her grandmother when there had been servants with\nactual affections had not reached her.\n\n\"Oh! go away! Go AWA-AY!\" Feather almost shrieked.\n\n\"I am going, ma'am. So are Edward and Emma and Louisa. It's no\nuse waiting and giving the month's notice. We shouldn't save the\nmonth's wages and the trades-people wouldn't feed us. We can't stay\nhere and starve. And it's a time of the year when places has to\nbe looked for. You can't hold it against us, ma'am. It's better\nfor you to have us out of the house tonight--which is when our\nboxes will be taken away.\"\n\nThen was Feather seized with a panic. For the first time in her\nlife she found herself facing mere common facts which rose before\nher like a solid wall of stone--not to be leapt, or crept under,\nor bored through, or slipped round. She was so overthrown and\nbewildered that she could not even think of any clever and rapidly\nconstructed lie which would help her; indeed she was so aghast\nthat she did not remember that there were such things as lies.\n\n\"Do you mean,\" she cried out, \"that you are all going to LEAVE\nthe house--that there won't be any servants to wait on me--that\nthere's nothing to eat or drink--that I shall have to stay here\nALONE--and starve!\"\n\n\"We should have to starve if we stayed,\" answered Cook simply. \"And\nof course there are a few things left in the pantry and closets.\nAnd you might get in a woman by the day. You won't starve, ma'am.\nYou've got your family in Jersey. We waited because we thought\nMr. and Mrs. Darrel would be sure to come.\"\n\n\"My father is ill. I think he's dying. My mother could not leave\nhim for a moment. Perhaps he's dead now,\" Feather wailed.\n\n\"You've got your London friends, ma'am--\"\n\nFeather literally beat her hands together.\n\n\"My friends! Can I go to people's houses and knock at their front\ndoor and tell them I haven't any servants or anything to eat! Can\nI do that? Can I?\" And she said it as if she were going crazy.\n\nThe woman had said what she had come to say as spokeswoman for the\nrest. It had not been pleasant but she knew she had been quite\nwithin her rights and dealt with plain facts. But she did not\nenjoy the prospect of seeing her little fool of a mistress raving\nin hysterics.\n\n\"You mustn't let yourself go, ma'am,\" she said. \"You'd better lie\ndown a bit and try to get quiet.\" She hesitated a moment looking\nat the pretty ruin who had risen from her seat and stood trembling.\n\n\"It's not my place of course to--make suggestions,\" she said quietly.\n\"But--had you ever thought of sending for Lord Coombe, ma'am?\"\n\nFeather actually found the torn film of her mind caught for a\nsecond by something which wore a form of reality. Cook saw that\nher tremor appeared to verge on steadying itself.\n\n\"Coombe,\" she faintly breathed as if to herself and not to Cook.\n\n\"Coombe.\"\n\n\"His lordship was very friendly with Mr. Lawless and he seemed fond\nof--coming to the house,\" was presented as a sort of added argument.\n\"If you'll lie down I'll bring you a cup of tea, ma'am--though it\ncan't be beef.\"\n\nFeather staggered again to her bed and dropped flat upon it--flat\nas a slim little pancake in folds of thin black stuff which hung\nand floated.\n\n\"I can't bring you cream,\" said Cook as she went out of the room.\n\"Louisa has had nothing but condensed milk--since yesterday--to\ngive Miss Robin.\"\n\n\"Oh-h!\" groaned Feather, not in horror of the tea without cream\nthough that was awful enough in its significance, but because this\nwas the first time since the falling to pieces of her world that\nshe had given a thought to the added calamity of Robin.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\n\n\n\nIf one were to devote one's mental energies to speculation as\nto what is going on behind the noncommittal fronts of any row of\nhouses in any great city the imaginative mind might be led far.\n\nBricks, mortar, windows, doors, steps which lead up to the threshold,\nare what are to be seen from the outside. Nothing particular may\nbe transpiring within the walls, or tragedies, crimes, hideous suffering\nmay be enclosed. The conclusion is obvious to banality--but as\nsuggestive as banal--so suggestive in fact that the hyper-sensitive\nand too imaginative had better, for their own comfort's sake, leave\nthe matter alone. In most cases the existing conditions would not be\naltered even if one knocked at the door and insisted on entering\nwith drawn sword in the form of attendant policeman. The outside\nof the slice of a house in which Feather lived was still rather\nfresh from its last decorative touching up. It had been painted\ncream colour and had white doors and windows and green window boxes\nwith variegated vinca vines trailing from them and pink geraniums,\ndark blue lobelia and ferns filling the earth stuffed in by the\nflorist who provided such adornments. Passers-by frequently\nglanced at it and thought it a nice little house whose amusing\ndiminutiveness was a sort of attraction. It was rather like a new\ndoll's house.\n\nNo one glancing at it in passing at the closing of this particular\nday had reason to suspect that any unaccustomed event was taking\nplace behind the cream-coloured front. The front door \"brasses\"\nhad been polished, the window-boxes watered and no cries for aid\nissued from the rooms behind them. The house was indeed quiet both\ninside and out. Inside it was indeed even quieter than usual. The\nservants' preparation for departure had been made gradually and\nundisturbedly. There had been exhaustive quiet discussion of the\nsubject each night for weeks, even before Robert Gareth-Lawless'\nillness. The smart young footman Edward who had means of gaining\npractical information had constituted himself a sort of private\ndetective. He had in time learned all that was to be learned.\nThis, it had made itself clear to him on investigation, was not\none of those cases when to wait for evolutionary family events\nmight be the part of discretion. There were no prospects ahead--none\nat all. Matters would only get worse and the whole thing would end\nin everybody not only losing their unpaid back wages but having to\nwalk out into the street through the door of a disgraced household\nwhose owners would be turned out into the street also when their\nbelongings were sold over their heads. Better get out before\neverything went to pieces and there were unpleasantnesses. There\nwould be unpleasantnesses because there was no denying that the\ntrades-people had been played tricks with. Mrs. Gareth-Lawless\nwas only one of a lot of pretty daughters whose father was a poor\ncountry doctor in Jersey. He had had \"a stroke\" himself and his\nwidow would have nothing to live on when he died. That was what\nMrs. Lawless had to look to. As to Lord Lawdor Edward had learned\nfrom those who DID know that he had never approved of his nephew\nand that he'd said he was a fool for marrying and had absolutely\nrefused to have anything to do with him. He had six boys and\na girl now and big estates weren't what they had been, everyone\nknew. There was only one thing left for Cook and Edward and Emma\nand Louisa to do and that was to \"get out\" without any talk or\nargument.\n\n\"She's not one that won't find someone to look after her,\" ended\nEdward. \"Somebody or other will take her up because they'll be sorry\nfor her. But us lot aren't widows and orphans. No one's going to\nbe sorry for us or care a hang what we've been let in for. The longer\nwe stay, the longer we won't be paid.\" He was not a particularly\ndepraved or cynical young footman but he laughed a little at the\nend of his speech. \"There's the Marquis,\" he added. \"He's been\nrunning in and out long enough to make a good bit of talk. Now's\nhis time to turn up.\"\n\nAfter she had taken her cup of tea without cream Feather had fallen\nasleep in reaction from her excited agitation. It was in accord\nwith the inevitable trend of her being that even before her eyes\nclosed she had ceased to believe that the servants were really\ngoing to leave the house. It seemed too ridiculous a thing to\nhappen. She was possessed of no logic which could lead her to a\nrealization of the indubitable fact that there was no reason why\nservants who could neither be paid nor provided with food should\nremain in a place. The mild stimulation of the tea also gave rise\nto the happy thought that she would not give them any references\nif they \"behaved badly\". It did not present itself to her that\nreferences from a house of cards which had ignominiously fallen\nto pieces and which henceforth would represent only shady failure,\nwould be of no use. So she fell asleep.\n\n       *       *        *       *        *\n\nWhen she awakened the lights were lighted in the streets and one\ndirectly across the way threw its reflection into her bedroom. It\nlit up the little table near which she had sat and the first thing\nshe saw was the pile of small account books. The next was that the\nlight which revealed them also fell brightly on the glass knob of\nthe door which led into Robert's room.\n\nShe turned her eyes away quickly with a nervous shudder. She had\na horror of the nearness of Rob's room. If there had been another\npart of the house in which she could have slept she would have fled\nto it as soon as he was taken ill. But the house was too small to\nhave \"parts\". The tiny drawing-rooms piled themselves on top of the\ndining-room, the \"master's bedrooms\" on top of the drawing-rooms,\nand the nurseries and attics where Robin and the servants slept\none on the other at the top of the house. So she had been obliged\nto stay and endure everything. Rob's cramped quarters had always\nbeen full of smart boots and the smell of cigars and men's clothes.\nHe had moved about a good deal and had whistled and laughed and\nsworn and grumbled. They had neither of them had bad tempers\nso that they had not quarrelled with each other. They had talked\nthrough the open door when they were dressing and they had invented\nclever tricks which helped them to get out of money scrapes and\nthey had gossiped and made fun of people. And now the door was\nlocked and the room was a sort of horror. She could never think of\nit without seeing the stiff hard figure on the bed, the straight\nclose line of the mouth and the white hard nose sharpened and\nnarrowed as Rob's had never been. Somehow she particularly could\nnot bear the recollection of the sharp unnatural modeling of\nthe hard, white nose. She could not BEAR it! She found herself\nrecalling it the moment she saw the light on the door handle and\nshe got up to move about and try to forget it.\n\nIt was then that she went to the window and looked down into the\nstreet, probably attracted by some slight noise though she was not\nexactly aware that she had heard anything.\n\nShe must have heard something however. Two four-wheeled cabs were\nstanding at the front door and the cabman assisted by Edward were\nputting trunks on top of them. They were servants' trunks and\nCook was already inside the first cab which was filled with paper\nparcels and odds and ends. Even as her mistress watched Emma got\nin carrying a sedate band-box. She was the house-parlourmaid and\na sedate person. The first cab drove away as soon as its door was\nclosed and the cabman mounted to his seat. Louisa looking wholly\nunprofessional without her nurse's cap and apron and wearing a\ntailor-made navy blue costume and a hat with a wing in it, entered\nthe second cab followed by Edward intensely suggesting private\nlife and possible connection with a Bank. The second cab followed\nthe first and Feather having lost her breath looked after them as\nthey turned the corner of the street.\n\nWhen they were quite out of sight she turned back into the room.\nThe colour had left her skin, and her eyes were so wide stretched\nand her face so drawn and pinched with abject terror that her\nprettiness itself had left her.\n\n\"They've gone--all of them!\" she gasped. She stopped a moment, her\nchest rising and falling. Then she added even more breathlessly,\n\"There's no one left in the house. It's--empty!\"\n\nThis was what was going on behind the cream-coloured front, the\nwhite windows and green flower-boxes of the slice of a house as\nmotors and carriages passed it that evening on their way to dinner\nparties and theatres, and later as the policeman walked up and down\nslowly upon his beat.\n\nInside a dim light in the small hall showed a remote corner where\non a peg above a decorative seat hung a man's hat of the highest\ngloss and latest form; and on the next peg a smart evening overcoat.\nThey had belonged to Robert Gareth-Lawless who was dead and needed\nsuch things no more. The same dim light showed the steep narrowness\nof the white-railed staircase mounting into gruesome little corners\nof shadows, while the miniature drawing-rooms illumined only from\nthe street seemed to await an explanation of dimness and chairs\nunfilled, combined with unnatural silence.\n\nIt would have been the silence of the tomb but that it was now and\nthen broken by something like a half smothered shriek followed by\na sort of moaning which made their way through the ceiling from\nthe room above.\n\nFeather had at first run up and down the room like a frightened\ncat as she had done in the afternoon. Afterwards she had had\nsomething like hysterics, falling face downward upon the carpet\nand clutching her hair until it fell down. She was not a person to\nbe judged--she was one of the unexplained incidents of existence.\nThe hour has passed when the clearly moral can sum up the\nresponsibilities of a creature born apparently without brain, or\nsoul or courage. Those who aspire to such morals as are expressed\nby fairness--mere fairness--are much given to hesitation. Courage\nhad never been demanded of Feather so far. She had none whatever\nand now she only felt panic and resentment. She had no time to\nbe pathetic about Robert, being too much occupied with herself.\nRobert was dead--she was alive--here--in an empty house with no\nmoney and no servants. She suddenly and rather awfully realized\nthat she did not know a single person whom it would not be frantic\nto expect anything from.\n\nNobody had money enough for themselves, however rich they were.\nThe richer they were the more they needed. It was when this thought\ncame to her that she clutched her hands in her hair. The pretty\nand smart women and agreeable more or less good looking men who\nhad chattered and laughed and made love in her drawing-rooms were\nchattering, laughing and making love in other houses at this very\nmoment--or they were at the theatre applauding some fashionable\nactor-manager. At this very moment--while she lay on the carpet in\nthe dark and every little room in the house had horror shut inside\nits closed doors--particularly Robert's room which was so hideously\nclose to her own, and where there seemed still to lie moveless\non the bed, the stiff hard figure. It was when she recalled this\nthat the unnatural silence of the drawing-rooms was intruded upon\nby the brief half-stifled hysteric shriek, and the moaning which\nmade its way through the ceiling. She felt almost as if the door\nhandle might turn and something stiff and cold try to come in.\n\nSo the hours went on behind the cream-coloured outer walls and\nthe white windows and gay flower-boxes. And the street became more\nand more silent--so silent at last that when the policeman walked\npast on his beat his heavy regular footfall seemed loud and almost\nresounding.\n\nTo even vaguely put to herself any question involving action would not\nhave been within the scope of her mentality. Even when she began to\nrealize that she was beginning to feel faint for want of food she\ndid not dare to contemplate going downstairs to look for something\nto eat. What did she know about downstairs? She had never there\nand had paid no attention whatever to Louisa's complaints that the\nkitchen and Servants' Hall were small and dark and inconvenient\nand that cockroaches ran about. She had cheerfully accepted the\nsimple philosophy that London servants were used to these things\nand if they did their work it did not really matter. But to go\nout of one's room in the horrible stillness and creep downstairs,\nhaving to turn up the gas as one went, and to face the basement\nsteps and cockroaches scuttling away, would be even more impossible\nthan to starve. She sat upon the floor, her hair tumbling about\nher shoulders and her thin black dress crushed.\n\n\"I'd give almost ANYTHING for a cup of coffee,\" she protested\nfeebly. \"And there's no USE in ringing the bell!\"\n\nHer mother ought to have come whether her father was ill or not.\nHe wasn't dead. Robert was dead and her mother ought to have come\nso that whatever happened she would not be quite alone and SOMETHING\ncould be done for her. It was probably this tender thought of\nher mother which brought back the recollection of her wedding day\nand a certain wedding present she had received. It was a pretty\nsilver travelling flask and she remembered that it must be in her\ndressing-bag now, and there was some cognac left in it. She got up\nand went to the place where the bag was kept. Cognac raised your\nspirits and made you go to sleep, and if she could sleep until\nmorning the house would not be so frightening by daylight--and\nsomething might happen. The little flask was almost full. Neither\nshe nor Robert had cared much about cognac. She poured some into\na glass with water and drank it.\n\nBecause she was unaccustomed to stimulant it made her feel quite\nwarm and in a few minutes she forgot that she had been hungry\nand realized that she was not so frightened. It was such a relief\nnot to be terrified; it was as if a pain had stopped. She actually\npicked up one or two of the account books and glanced at the\ntotals. If you couldn't pay bills you couldn't and nobody was\nput in prison for debt in these days. Besides she would not have\nbeen put in prison--Rob would--and Rob was dead. Something would\nhappen--something.\n\nAs she began to arrange her hair for the night she remembered what\nCook had said about Lord Coombe. She has cried until she did not\nlook as lovely as usual, but after she had bathed her eyes with\ncold rose-water they began to seem only shadowy and faintly flushed.\nAnd her fine ash-gold hair was wonderful when it hung over each\nshoulder in wide, soft plaits. She might be a school-girl of\nfifteen. A delicate lacy night-gown was one of the most becoming\nthings one wore. It was a pity one couldn't wear them to parties.\nThere was nothing the least indecent about them. Millicent Hardwicke\nhad been photographed in one of hers and no one had suspected\nwhat it was. Yes; she would send a little note to Coombe. She\nknew Madame Helene had only let her have her beautiful mourning\nbecause--. The things she had created were quite unique--thin,\ngauzy, black, floating or clinging. She had been quite happy the\nmorning she gave Helene her orders. Tomorrow when she had slept\nthrough the night and it was broad daylight again she would be\nable to think of things to say in her letter to Lord Coombe. She\nwould have to be a little careful because he did not like things\nto bore him.--Death and widows might--a little--at first. She had\nheard him say once that he did not wish to regard himself in the\nlight of a charitable institution. It wouldn't do to frighten him\naway. Perhaps if he continued coming to the house and seemed very\nintimate the trades-people might be managed.\n\nShe felt much less helpless and when she was ready for bed she\ntook a little more cognac. The flush had faded from her eye-lids\nand bloomed in delicious rose on her cheeks. As she crept between\nthe cool sheets and nestled down on her pillow she had a delightful\nsense of increasing comfort--comfort. What a beautiful thing it\nwas to go to sleep!\n\nAnd then she was disturbed--started out of the divine doze stealing\nupon her--by a shrill prolonged wailing shriek!\n\nIt came from the Night Nursery and at the moment it seemed almost\nworse than anything which had occurred all through the day. It\nbrought everything back so hideously. She had of course forgotten\nRobin again--and it was Robin! And Louisa had gone away with\nEdward. She had perhaps put the child to sleep discreetly before\nshe went. And now she had wakened and was screaming. Feather had\nheard that she was a child with a temper but by fair means or foul\nLouisa had somehow managed to prevent her from being a nuisance.\n\nThe shrieks shocked her into sitting upright in bed. Their\nshrillness tearing through the utter soundlessness of the empty\nhouse brought back all her terrors and set her heart beating at\na gallop.\n\n\"I--I WON'T!\" she protested, fairly with chattering teeth. \"I won't!\nI WON'T!\"\n\nShe had never done anything for the child since its birth, she did\nnot know how to do anything, she had not wanted to know. To reach\nher now she would be obliged to go out in the dark--the gas-jet\nshe would have to light was actually close to the outer door of\nRobert's bedroom--THE room! If she did not die of panic while she\nwas trying to light it she would have to make her way almost in\nthe dark up the steep crooked little staircase which led to the\nnurseries. And the awful little creature's screams would be going\non all the time making the blackness and dead silence of the house\nbelow more filled with horror by contrast--more shut off and at the\nsame time more likely to waken to some horror which was new.\n\n\"I-I couldn't--even if I wanted to!\" she quaked. \"I daren't!\nI daren't! I wouldn't do it--for A MILLION POUNDS?\" And she flung\nherself down again shuddering and burrowing her head under the\ncoverings and pillows she dragged over her ears to shut out the\nsounds.\n\nThe screams had taken on a more determined note and a fiercer\nshrillness which the still house heard well and made the most of,\nbut they were so far deadened for Feather that she began beneath\nher soft barrier to protest pantingly.\n\n\"I shouldn't know what to do if I went. If no one goes near her\nshe'll cry herself to sleep. It's--it's only temper. Oh-h! what\na horrible wail! It--it sounds like a--a lost soul!\"\n\nBut she did not stir from the bed. She burrowed deeper under the\nbed clothes and held the pillow closer to her ears.\n\n       *       *        *       *        *\n\nIt did sound like a lost soul at times. What panic possesses\na baby who cries in the darkness alone no one will ever know and\none may perhaps give thanks to whatever gods there be that the baby\nitself does not remember. What awful woe of sudden unprotectedness\nwhen life exists only through protection--what piteous panic in\nthe midst of black unmercifulness, inarticulate sound howsoever\nwildly shrill can neither explain nor express.\n\nRobin knew only Louisa, warmth, food, sleep and waking. Or if she\nknew more she was not yet aware that she did. She had reached the\nage when she generally slept through the night. She might not have\ndisturbed her mother until daylight but Louisa had with forethought\ngiven her an infant sleeping potion. It had disagreed with and\nawakened her. She was uncomfortable and darkness enveloped her.\nA cry or so and Louisa would ordinarily have come to her sleepy,\nand rather out of temper, but knowing what to do. In this strange\nnight the normal cry of warning and demand produced no result.\n\nNo one came. The discomfort continued--the blackness remained\nblack. The cries became shrieks--but nothing followed; the shrieks\ndeveloped into prolonged screams. No Louisa, no light, no milk.\nThe blackness drew in closer and became a thing to be fought\nwith wild little beating hands. Not a glimmer--not a rustle--not\na sound! Then came the cries of the lost soul--alone--alone--in\na black world of space in which there was not even another lost\nsoul. And then the panics of which there have been no records\nand never will be, because if the panic stricken does not die in\nmysterious convulsions he or she grows away from the memory of\na formless past--except that perhaps unexplained nightmares from\nwhich one wakens quaking, with cold sweat, may vaguely repeat the\nlong hidden thing.\n\nWhat the child Robin knew in the dark perhaps the silent house\nwhich echoed her might curiously have known. But the shrieks wore\nthemselves out at last and sobs came--awful little sobs shuddering\nthrough the tiny breast and shaking the baby body. A baby's sobs\nare unspeakable things--incredible things. Slower and slower\nRobin's came--with small deep gasps and chokings between--and when\nan uninfantile druglike sleep came, the bitter, hopeless, beaten\nlittle sobs went on.\n\nBut Feather's head was still burrowed under the soft protection\nof the pillow.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\n\n\n\nThe morning was a brighter one than London usually indulges in\nand the sun made its way into Feather's bedroom to the revealing\nof its coral pink glow and comfort. She had always liked her bedroom\nand had usually wakened in it to the sense of luxuriousness it\nis possible a pet cat feels when it wakens to stretch itself on\na cushion with its saucer of cream awaiting it.\n\nBut she did not awaken either to a sense of brightness or luxury\nthis morning. She had slept it was true, but once or twice when\nthe pillow had slipped aside she had found herself disturbed by\nthe far-off sound of the wailing of some little animal which had\ncaused her automatically and really scarcely consciously to replace\nthe pillow. It had only happened at long intervals because it is\nNature that an exhausted baby falls asleep when it is worn out.\nRobin had probably slept almost as much as her mother.\n\nFeather staring at the pinkness around her reached at last, with\nthe assistance of a certain physical consciousness, a sort of\nspiritless intention.\n\n\"She's asleep now,\" she murmured. \"I hope she won't waken for a\nlong time. I feel faint. I shall have to find something to eat--if\nit's only biscuits.\" Then she lay and tried to remember what Cook\nhad said about her not starving. \"She said there were a few things\nleft in the pantry and closets. Perhaps there's some condensed\nmilk. How do you mix it up? If she cries I might go and give her\nsome. It wouldn't be so awful now it's daylight.\"\n\nShe felt shaky when she got out of bed and stood on her feet. She\nhad not had a maid in her girlhood so she could dress herself,\nmuch as she detested to do it. After she had begun however she\ncould not help becoming rather interested because the dress she\nhad worn the day before had become crushed and she put on a fresh\none she had not worn at all. It was thin and soft also, and black\nwas quite startlingly becoming to her. She would wear this one\nwhen Lord Coombe came, after she wrote to him. It was silly of\nher not to have written before though she knew he had left town\nafter the funeral. Letters would be forwarded.\n\n\"It will be quite bright in the dining-room now,\" she said\nto encourage herself. \"And Tonson once said that the only places\nthe sun came into below stairs were the pantry and kitchen and it\nonly stayed about an hour early in the morning. I must get there\nas soon as I can.\"\n\nWhen she had so dressed herself that the reflection the mirror\ngave back to her was of the nature of a slight physical stimulant\nshe opened her bedroom door and faced exploration of the deserted\nhouse below with a quaking sense of the proportions of the\ninevitable. She got down the narrow stairs casting a frightened\nglance at the emptiness of the drawing-rooms which seemed to stare\nat her as she passed them. There was sun in the dining-room and\nwhen she opened the sideboard she found some wine in decanters and\nsome biscuits and even a few nuts and some raisins and oranges.\nShe put them on the table and sat down and ate some of them and\nbegan to feel a little less shaky.\n\nIf she had been allowed time to sit longer and digest and reflect\nshe might have reached the point of deciding on what she would write\nto Lord Coombe. She had not the pen of a ready writer and it must\nbe thought over. But just when she was beginning to be conscious\nof the pleasant warmth of the sun which shone on her shoulders from\nthe window, she was almost startled our of her chair by hearing\nagain stealing down the staircase from the upper regions that faint\nwail like a little cat's.\n\n\"Just the moment--the very MOMENT I begin to feel a little\nquieted--and try to think--she begins again!\" she cried out. \"It's\nworse then ANYTHING!\"\n\nLarge crystal tears ran down her face and upon the polished table.\n\n\"I suppose she would starve to death if I didn't give her some\nfood--and then _I_ should be blamed! People would be horrid about\nit. I've got nothing to eat myself.\"\n\nShe must at any rate manage to stop the crying before she could\nwrite to Coombe. She would be obliged to go down into the pantry\nand look for some condensed milk. The creature had no teeth but\nperhaps she could mumble a biscuit or a few raisins. If she could\nbe made to swallow a little port wine it might make her sleepy. The\nsun was paying its brief morning visit to the kitchen and pantry\nwhen she reached there, but a few cockroaches scuttled away before\nher and made her utter a hysterical little scream. But there WAS\nsome condensed milk and there was a little warm water in a kettle\nbecause the fire was not quite out. She imperfectly mixed a decoction\nand filled a bottle which ought not to have been downstairs but\nhad been brought and left there by Louisa as a result of tender\nmoments with Edward.\n\nWhen she put the bottle and some biscuits and scraps of cold ham\non a tray because she could not carry them all in her hands, her\nsense of outrage and despair made her almost sob.\n\n\"I am just like a servant--carrying trays upstairs,\" she wept.\n\"I--I might be Edward--or--or Louisa.\" And her woe increased when\nshe added in the dining-room the port wine and nuts and raisins\nand macaroons as viands which MIGHT somehow add to infant diet\nand induce sleep. She was not sure of course--but she knew they\nsucked things and liked sweets.\n\nA baby left unattended to scream itself to sleep and awakening\nto scream itself to sleep again, does not present to a resentful\nobserver the flowerlike bloom and beauty of infancy. When Feather\ncarried her tray into the Night Nursery and found herself confronting\nthe disordered crib on which her offspring lay she felt the child\nhorrible to look at. Its face was disfigured and its eyes almost\nclosed. She trembled all over as she put the bottle to its mouth\nand saw the fiercely hungry clutch of its hands. It was old enough\nto clutch, and clutch it did, and suck furiously and starvingly--even\nthough actually forced to stop once or twice at first to give vent\nto a thwarted remnant of a scream.\n\nFeather had only seen it as downy whiteness and perfume in\nLouisa's arms or in its carriage. It had been a singularly vivid\nand brilliant-eyed baby at whom people looked as they passed.\n\n\"Who will give her a bath?\" wailed Feather. \"Who will change her\nclothes? Someone must! Could a woman by the day do it? Cook said\nI could get a woman by the day.\"\n\nAnd then she remembered that one got servants from agencies. And\nwhere were the agencies? And even a woman \"by the day\" would demand\nwages and food to eat.\n\nAnd then the front door bell rang.\n\nWhat could she do--what could she do? Go downstairs and open the\ndoor herself and let everyone know! Let the ringer go on ringing\nuntil he was tired and went away? She was indeed hard driven,\neven though the wail had ceased as Robin clutched her bottle to\nher breast and fed with frenzy. Let them go away--let them! And\nthen came the wild thought that it might be Something--the Something\nwhich must happen when things were at their worst! And if it had\ncome and the house seemed to be empty! She did not walk down the\nstairs, she ran. Her heart beat until she reached the door out of\nbreath and when she opened it stood their panting.\n\nThe people who waited upon the steps were strangers. They were\nvery nice looking and quite young--a man and a woman very perfectly\ndressed. The man took a piece of paper out of his pocketbook and\nhanded it to her with an agreeable apologetic courtesy.\n\n\"I hope we have not called early enough to disturb you,\" he said.\n\"We waited until eleven but we are obliged to catch a train at\nhalf past. It is an 'order to view' from Carson & Bayle.\" He added\nthis because Feather was staring at the paper.\n\nCarson & Bayle were the agents they had rented the house from.\nIt was Carson & Bayle's collector Robert had met on the threshold\nand sworn at two days before he had been taken ill. They were\nletting the house over her head and she would be turned out into\nthe street?\n\nThe young man and woman finding themselves gazing at this exquisitely\npretty creature in exquisite mourning, felt themselves appallingly\nembarrassed. She was plainly the widow Carson had spoken of. But\nwhy did she open the door herself? And why did she look as if she\ndid not understand? Indignation against Carson & Bayle began to\nstir the young man.\n\n\"Beg pardon! So sorry! I am afraid we ought not to have come,\" he\nprotested. \"Agents ought to know better. They said you were giving\nup the house at once and we were afraid someone might take it.\"\n\nFeather held the \"order to view\" in her hand and snared at them\nquite helplessly.\n\n\"There--are no--no servants to show it to you,\" she said. \"If you\ncould wait--a few days--perhaps--\"\n\nShe was so lovely and Madame Helene's filmy black creation was in\nitself such an appeal, that the amiable young strangers gave up\nat once.\n\n\"Oh, certainly--certainly! Do excuse us! Carson and Bayle ought\nnot to have--! We are so sorry. Good morning, GOOD morning,\" they\ngave forth in discomfited sympathy and politeness, and really\nquite scurried away.\n\nHaving shut the door on their retreat Feather stood shivering.\n\n\"I am going to be turned out of the house! I shall have to live\nin the street!\" she thought. \"Where shall I keep my clothes if I\nlive in the street!\"\n\nEven she knew that she was thinking idiotically. Of course if\neverything was taken from you and sold, you would have no clothes\nat all, and wardrobes and drawers and closets would not matter.\nThe realization that scarcely anything in the house had been paid\nfor came home to her with a ghastly shock. She staggered upstairs\nto the first drawing-room in which there was a silly pretty little\nbuhl writing table.\n\nShe felt even more senseless when she sank into a chair before\nit and drew a sheet of note-paper towards her. Her thoughts would\nnot connect themselves with each other and she could not imagine\nwhat she ought to say in her letter to Coombe. In fact she seemed\nto have no thoughts at all. She could only remember the things\nwhich had happened, and she actually found she could write nothing\nelse. There seemed nothing else in the world.\n\n\"Dear Lord Coombe,\" trailed tremulously over the page--\"The house\nis quite empty. The servants have gone away. I have no money. And\nthere is not any food. And I am going to be turned out into the\nstreet--and the baby is crying because it is hungry.\"\n\nShe stopped there, knowing it was not what she ought to say. And\nas she stopped and looked at the words she began herself to wail\nsomewhat as Robin had wailed in the dark when she would not listen\nor go to her. It was like a beggar's letter--a beggar's! Telling\nhim that she had no money and no food--and would be turned out for\nunpaid rent. And that the baby was crying because it was starving!\n\n\"It's a beggar's letter--just a beggar's,\" she cried out aloud\nto the empty room. \"And it's tru-ue!\" Robin's wail itself had not\nbeen more hopeless than hers was as she dropped her head and let\nit lie on the buhl table.\n\nShe was not however even to be allowed to let it lie there, for\nthe next instant there fell on her startled ear quite echoing\nthrough the house another ring at the doorbell and two steely raps\non the smart brass knocker. It was merely because she did not know\nwhat else to do, having just lost her wits entirely that she got\nup and trailed down the staircase again.\n\nWhen she opened the door, Lord Coombe--the apotheosis of exquisite\nfitness in form and perfect appointment as also of perfect\nexpression--was standing on the threshold.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\n\n\n\nIf he had meant to speak he changed his mind after his first sight\nof her. He merely came in and closed the door behind him. Curious\nexperiences with which life had provided him had added finish to\nan innate aptness of observation, and a fine readiness in action.\n\nIf she had been of another type he would have saved both her and\nhimself a scene and steered ably through the difficulties of the\nsituation towards a point where they could have met upon a normal\nplane. A very pretty woman with whose affairs one has nothing\nwhatever to do, and whose pretty home has been the perfection of\nmodern smartness of custom, suddenly opening her front door in\nthe unexplained absence of a footman and confronting a visitor,\nplainly upon the verge of hysteria, suggests the necessity of\npromptness.\n\nBut Feather gave him not a breath's space. She was in fact not\nmerely on the verge of her hysteria. She had gone farther. And\nhere he was. Oh, here he was! She fell down upon her knees and\nactually clasped his immaculateness.\n\n\"Oh, Lord Coombe! Lord Coombe! Lord Coombe!\" She said it three\ntimes because he presented to her but the one idea.\n\nHe did not drag himself away from her embrace but he distinctly\nremoved himself from it.\n\n\"You must not fall upon your knees, Mrs. Lawless,\" he said. \"Shall\nwe go into the drawing-room?\"\n\n\"I--was writing to you. I am starving--but it seemed too silly when\nI wrote it. And it's true!\" Her broken words were as senseless in\ntheir sound as she had thought them when she saw them written.\n\n\"Will you come up into the drawing-room and tell me exactly what\nyou mean,\" he said and he made her release him and stand upon her\nfeet.\n\nAs the years had passed he had detached himself from so many\nweaknesses and their sequelae of emotion that he had felt himself\na safely unreachable person. He was not young and he knew enough\nof the disagreeableness of consequences to be adroit in keeping out\nof the way of apparently harmless things which might be annoying.\nYet as he followed Mrs. Gareth-Lawless and watched her stumbling\nup the stairs like a punished child he was aware that he was\nabnormally in danger of pitying her as he did not wish to pity\npeople. The pity was also something apart from the feeling that it\nwas hideous that a creature so lovely, so shallow and so fragile\nshould have been caught in the great wheels of Life.\n\nHe knew what he had come to talk to her about but he had really no\nclear idea of what her circumstances actually were. Most people\nhad of course guessed that her husband had been living on the\nedge of his resources and was accustomed to debt and duns, but a\nlovely being greeting you by clasping your knees and talking about\n\"starving\"--in this particular street in Mayfair, led one to ask\noneself what one was walking into. Feather herself had not known,\nin fact neither had any other human being known, that there was\na special reason why he had drifted into seeming rather to allow\nher about--why he had finally been counted among the frequenters\nof the narrow house--and why he had seemed to watch her a good\ndeal sometimes with an expression of serious interest--sometimes\nwith an air of irritation, and sometimes with no expression at\nall. But there existed this reason and this it was and this alone\nwhich had caused him to appear upon her threshold and it had also\nbeen the power which had prevented his disengaging himself with\nmore incisive finality when he found himself ridiculously clasped\nabout the knees as one who played the part of an obdurate parent\nin a melodrama.\n\nOnce in the familiar surroundings of her drawing-room her ash-gold\nblondness and her black gauzy frock heightened all her effects\nso extraordinarily that he frankly admitted to himself that she\npossessed assets which would have modified most things to most\nmen.\n\nAs for Feather, when she herself beheld him against the background\nof the same intimate aspects, the effect of the sound of his voice,\nthe manner in which he sat down in a chair and a certain remotely\ndim hint in the hue of his clothes and an almost concealed note of\nsome touch of colour which scarcely seemed to belong to anything\nworn--were so reminiscent of the days which now seemed past forever\nthat she began to cry again.\n\nHe received this with discreet lack of melodrama of tone.\n\n\"You mustn't do that, Mrs. Lawless,\" he said, \"or I shall burst\ninto tears myself. I am a sensitive creature.\"\n\n\"Oh, DO say 'Feather' instead of Mrs. Lawless,\" she implored.\n\"Sometimes you said 'Feather'.\"\n\n\"I will say it now,\" he answered, \"if you will not weep. It is an\nadorable name.\"\n\n\"I feel as if I should never hear it again,\" she shuddered, trying\nto dry her eyes. \"It is all over!\"\n\n\"What is all over?\"\n\n\"This--!\" turning a hopeless gaze upon the two tiny rooms crowded\nwith knick-knacks and nonsense. \"The parties and the fun--and\neverything in the world! I have only had some biscuits and raisins\nto eat today--and the landlord is going to turn me out.\"\n\nIt seemed almost too preposterous to quite credit that she was\nuttering naked truth.--And yet--! After a second's gaze at her he\nrepeated what he had said below stairs.\n\n\"Will you tell me exactly what you mean?\"\n\nThen he sat still and listened while she poured it all forth. And\nas he listened he realized that it was the mere every day fact that\nthey were sitting in the slice of a house with the cream-coloured\nfront and the great lady in her mansion on one side and the\nmillionaire and his splendours on the other, which peculiarly\nadded to a certain hint of gruesomeness in the situation.\n\nIt was not necessary to add colour and desperation to the story.\nAny effort Feather had made in that direction would only have\ndetracted from the nakedness of its stark facts. They were quite\nenough in themselves in their normal inevitableness. Feather in\nher pale and totally undignified panic presented the whole thing\nwith clearness which had--without being aided by her--an actual\ndramatic value. This in spite of her mental dartings to and from\nand dragging in of points and bits of scenes which were not connected\nwith each other. Only a brain whose processes of inclusion and\nexclusion were final and rapid could have followed her. Coombe\nwatched her closely as she talked. No grief-stricken young widowed\nloneliness and heart-break were the background of her anguish. She\nwas her own background and also her own foreground. The strength\nof the fine body laid prone on the bed of the room she held in horror,\nthe white rigid face whose good looks had changed to something she\ncould not bear to remember, had no pathos which was not concerned\nwith the fact that Robert had amazingly and unnaturally failed\nher by dying and leaving her nothing but unpaid bills. This truth\nindeed made the situation more poignantly and finally squalid,\nas she brought forth one detail after another. There were bills\nwhich had been accumulating ever since they began their life in\nthe narrow house, there had been trades-people who had been juggled\nwith, promises made and supported by adroit tricks and cleverly\ninvented misrepresentations and lies which neither of the pair had\nfelt any compunctions about and had indeed laughed over. Coombe\nsaw it all though he also saw that Feather did not know all she was\ntelling him. He could realize the gradually increasing pressure\nand anger at tricks which betrayed themselves, and the gathering\ndetermination on the part of the creditors to end the matter in the\nonly way in which it could be ended. It had come to this before\nRobert's illness, and Feather herself had heard of fierce interviews\nand had seen threatening letters, but she had not believed they\ncould mean all they implied. Since things had been allowed to go on\nso long she felt that they would surely go on longer in the same\nway. There had been some serious threatening about the rent and\nthe unpaid-for furniture. Robert's supporting idea had been that\nhe might perhaps \"get something out of Lawdor who wouldn't enjoy\nbeing the relation of a fellow who was turned into the street!\"\n\n\"He ought to have done something,\" Feather complained. \"Robert would\nhave been Lord Lawdor himself if his uncle had died before he had\nall those disgusting children.\"\n\nShe was not aware that Coombe frequently refrained from saying\nthings to her--but occasionally allowed himself NOT to refrain.\nHe did not refrain now from making a simple comment.\n\n\"But he is extremely robust and he has the children. Six stalwart\nboys and a stalwart girl. Family feeling has apparently gone out\nof fashion.\"\n\nAs she wandered on with her story he mentally felt himself actually\ndragged into the shrimp-pink bedroom and standing an onlooker when\nthe footman outside the door \"did not know\" where Tonson had gone.\nFor a moment he felt conscious of the presence of some scent which\nwould have been sure to exhale itself from draperies and wardrobe.\nHe saw Cook put the account books on the small table, he heard her,\nhe also comprehended her. And Feather at the window breathlessly\nwatching the two cabs with the servants' trunks on top, and\nthe servants respectably unprofessional in attire and going away\nquietly without an unpractical compunction--he saw these also\nand comprehended knowing exactly why compunctions had no part in\nlatter-day domestic arrangements. Why should they?\n\nWhen Feather reached the point where it became necessary to refer\nto Robin some fortunate memory of Alice's past warnings caused her\nto feel--quite suddenly--that certain details might be eliminated.\n\n\"She cried a little at first,\" she said, \"but she fell asleep\nafterwards. I was glad she did because I was afraid to go to her\nin the dark.\"\n\n\"Was she in the dark?\"\n\n\"I think so. Perhaps Louisa taught her to sleep without a light.\nThere was none when I took her some condensed milk this morning.\nThere was only c-con-d-densed milk to give her.\"\n\nShe shed tears and choked as she described her journey into the\nlower regions and the cockroaches scuttling away before her into\ntheir hiding-places.\n\n\"I MUST have a nurse! I MUST have one!\" she almost sniffed. \"Someone\nmust change her clothes and give her a bath!\"\n\n\"You can't?\" Coombe said.\n\n\"I!\" dropping her handkerchief. \"How--how CAN I?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" he answered and picked up the handkerchief with\nan aloof grace of manner.\n\nIt was really Robin who was for Feather the breaking-point.\n\nHe thought she was in danger of flinging herself upon him again.\nShe caught at his arm and her eyes of larkspur blue were actually\nwild.\n\n\"Don't you see where I am! How there is nothing and nobody--Don't\nyou SEE?\"\n\n\"Yes, I see,\" he answered. \"You are quite right. There is nothing\nAND nobody. I have been to Lawdor myself.\"\n\n\"You have been to TALK to him?\"\n\n\"Yesterday. That was my reason for coming here. He will not see\nyou or be written to. He says he knows better than to begin that sort\nof thing. It may be that family feeling has not the vogue it once\nhad, but you may recall that your husband infuriated him years\nago. Also England is a less certain quantity than it once was--and\nthe man has a family. He will allow you a hundred a year but there\nhe draws the line.\"\n\n\"A hundred a year!\" Feather breathed. From her delicate shoulders\nhung floating scarf-like sleeves of black transparency and she lifted\none of them and held it out like a night moth's wing--\"This cost\nforty pounds,\" she said, her voice quite faint and low. \"A good\nnurse would cost forty! A cook--and a footman and a maid--and a\ncoachman--and the brougham--I don't know how much they would cost.\nOh-h!\"\n\nShe drooped forward upon her sofa and laid face downward on a\ncushion--slim, exquisite in line, lost in despair.\n\nThe effect produced was that she gave herself into his hands. He\nfelt as well as saw it and considered. She had no suggestion to\noffer, no reserve. There she was.\n\n\"It is an incredible sort of situation,\" he said in an even,\nlow-pitched tone rather as if he were thinking aloud, \"but it is\nbaldly real. It is actually simple. In a street in Mayfair a woman\nand child might--\" He hesitated a second and a wailed word came\nforth from the cushion.\n\n\"Starve!\"\n\nHe moved slightly and continued.\n\n\"Since their bills have not been paid the trades-people will not\nsend in food. Servants will not stay in a house where they are\nnot fed and receive no wages. No landlord will allow a tenant to\noccupy his property unless he pays rent. It may sound inhuman--but\nit is only human.\"\n\nThe cushion in which Feather's face was buried retained a faint\nscent of Robert's cigar smoke and the fragrance brought back to her\nthings she had heard him say dispassionately about Lord Coombe as\nwell as about other men. He had not been a puritanic or condemnatory\nperson. She seemed to see herself groveling again on the floor\nof her bedroom and to feel the darkness and silence through which\nshe had not dared to go to Robin.\n\nNot another night like that! No! No!\n\n\"You must go to Jersey to your mother and father,\" Coombe said.\n\"A hundred a year will help you there in your own home.\"\n\nThen she sat upright and there was something in her lovely little\ncountenance he had never seen before. It was actually determination.\n\n\"I have heard,\" she said, \"of poor girls who were driven--by\nstarvation to--to go on the streets. I--would go ANYWHERE before\nI would go back there.\"\n\n\"Anywhere!\" he repeated, his own countenance expressing--or rather\nrefusing to express something as new as the thing he had seen in\nher own.\n\n\"Anywhere!\" she cried and then she did what he had thought her on\nthe verge of doing a few minutes earlier--she fell at his feet and\nembraced his knees. She clung to him, she sobbed, her pretty hair\nloosened itself and fell about her in wild but enchanting disorder.\n\n\"Oh, Lord Coombe! Oh, Lord Coombe! Oh, Lord Coombe!\" she cried as\nshe had cried in the hall.\n\nHe rose and endeavoured to disengage himself as he had done before.\nThis time with less success because she would not let him go. He\nhad the greatest possible objection to scenes.\n\n\"Mrs. Lawless--Feather--I beg you will get up,\" he said.\n\nBut she had reached the point of not caring what happened if she\ncould keep him. He was a gentleman--he had everything in the world.\nWhat did it matter?\n\n\"I have no one but you and--and you always seemed to like me, I\nwould do anything--ANYONE asked me, if they would take care of me.\nI have always liked you very much--and I did amuse you--didn't I?\nYou liked to come here.\"\n\nThere was something poignant about her delicate distraught loveliness\nand, in the remoteness of his being, a shuddering knowledge that\nit was quite true that she would do anything for any man who would\ntake care of her, produced an effect on him nothing else would\nhave produced. Also a fantastic and finely ironic vision of Joseph\nand Potiphar's wife rose before him and the vision of himself as\nJoseph irked a certain complexness of his mentality. Poignant as\nthe thing was in its modern way, it was also faintly ridiculous.\n\nThen Robin awakened and shrieked again. The sound which had gained\nstrength through long sleep and also through added discomfort\nquite rang through the house. What that sound added to the moment\nhe himself would not have been able to explain until long afterwards.\nBut it singularly and impellingly added.\n\n\"Listen!\" panted Feather. \"She has begun again. And there is no\none to go to her.\"\n\n\"Get up, Mrs. Lawless,\" he said. \"Do I understand that you are\nwilling that _I_ arrange this for you!\"\n\nHe helped her to her feet.\n\n\"Do you mean--really!\" she faltered. \"Will you--will you--?\"\n\nHer uplifted eyes were like a young angel's brimming with crystal\ndrops which slipped--as a child's tears slip--down her cheeks.\nShe clasped her hands in exquisite appeal. He stood for a moment\nquite still, his mind fled far away and he forgot where he was.\nAnd because of this the little simpleton's shallow discretion\ndeserted her.\n\n\"If you were a--a marrying man--?\" she said foolishly--almost in\na whisper.\n\nHe recovered himself.\n\n\"I am not,\" with a finality which cut as cleanly as a surgical\nknife.\n\nSomething which was not the words was of a succinctness which\nfilled her with new terror.\n\n\"I--I know!\" she whimpered, \"I only said if you were!\"\n\n\"If I were--in this instance--it would make no difference.\" He saw\nthe kind of slippery silliness he was dealing with and what it\nmight transform itself into if allowed a loophole. \"There must be\nno mistakes.\"\n\nIn her fright she saw him for a moment more distinctly than she\nhad ever seen him before and hideous dread beset her lest she had\nblundered fatally.\n\n\"There shall be none,\" she gasped. \"I always knew. There shall be\nnone at all.\"\n\n\"Do you know what you are asking me?\" he inquired.\n\n\"Yes, yes--I'm not a girl, you know. I've been married. I won't\ngo home. I can't starve or live in awful lodgings. SOMEBODY must\nsave me!\"\n\n\"Do you know what people will say?\" his steady voice was slightly\nlower.\n\n\"It won't be said to me.\" Rather wildly. \"Nobody minds--really.\"\n\nHe ceased altogether to look serious. He smiled with the light\ndetached air his world was most familiar with.\n\n\"No--they don't really,\" he answered. \"I had, however, a slight\npreference for knowing whether you would or not. You flatter me\nby intimating that you would not.\"\n\nHe knew that if he had held out an arm she would have fallen upon\nhis breast and wept there, but he was not at the moment in the mood\nto hold out an arm. He merely touched hers with a light pressure.\n\n\"Let us sit down and talk it over,\" he suggested.\n\nA hansom drove up to the door and stopped before he had time to\nseat himself. Hearing it he went to the window and saw a stout\nbusinesslike looking man get out, accompanied by an attendant.\nThere followed a loud, authoritative ringing of the bell and an\nequally authoritative rap of the knocker. This repeated itself.\nFeather, who had run to the window and caught sight of the stout\nman, clutched his sleeve.\n\n\"It's the agent we took the house from. We always said we were\nout. It's either Carson or Bayle. I don't know which.\"\n\nCoombe walked toward the staircase.\n\n\"You can't open the door!\" she shrilled.\n\n\"He has doubtless come prepared to open it himself.\" he answered\nand proceeded at leisure down the narrow stairway.\n\nThe caller had come prepared. By the time Coombe stood in the hall\na latchkey was put in the keyhole and, being turned, the door\nopened to let in Carson--or Bayle--who entered with an air of\nangered determination, followed by his young man.\n\nThe physical presence of the Head of the House of Coombe was always\ndescribed as a subtly impressive one. Several centuries of rather\ncareful breeding had resulted in his seeming to represent things\nby silent implication. A man who has never found the necessity of\nexplaining or excusing himself inevitably presents a front wholly\nunsuggestive of uncertainty. The front Coombe presented merely\nawaited explanations from others.\n\nCarson--or Bayle--had doubtless contemplated seeing a frightened\nservant trying to prepare a stammering obvious lie. He confronted\na tall, thin man about whom--even if his clothes had been totally\ndifferent--there could be no mistake. He stood awaiting an apology\nso evidently that Carson--or Bayle--began to stammer himself\neven before he had time to dismiss from his voice the suggestion\nof bluster. It would have irritated Coombe immensely if he had\nknown that he--and a certain overcoat--had been once pointed out\nto the man at Sandown and that--in consequence of the overcoat--he\nvaguely recognized him.\n\n\"I--I beg pardon,\" he began.\n\n\"Quite so,\" said Coombe.\n\n\"Some tenants came to look at the house this morning. They had an\norder to view from us. They were sent away, my lord--and decline\nto come back. The rent has not been paid since the first half\nyear. There is no one now who can even PRETEND it's going to be\npaid. Some step had to be taken.\"\n\n\"Quite so,\" said Coombe. \"Suppose you step into the dining-room.\"\n\nHe led the pair into the room and pointed to chairs, but neither\nthe agent nor his attendant was calm enough to sit down.\n\nCoombe merely stood and explained himself.\n\n\"I quite understand,\" he said. \"You are entirely within your\nrights. Mrs. Gareth-Lawless is, naturally, not able to attend to\nbusiness. For the present--as a friend of her late husband's--I\nwill arrange matters for her. I am Lord Coombe. She does not wish\nto give up the house. Don't send any more possible tenants. Call\nat Coombe House in an hour and I will give you a cheque.\"\n\nThere were a few awkward apologetic moments and then the front door\nopened and shut, the hansom jingled away and Coombe returned to\nthe drawing-room. Robin was still shrieking.\n\n\"She wants some more condensed milk,\" he said. \"Don't be frightened.\nGo and give her some. I know an elderly woman who understands\nchildren. She was a nurse some years ago. I will send her here at\nonce. Kindly give me the account books. My housekeeper will send\nyou some servants. The trades-people will come for orders.\"\n\nFeather was staring at him.\n\n\"W-will they?\" she stammered. \"W-will everything--?\"\n\n\"Yes--everything,\" he answered. \"Don't be frightened. Go upstairs\nand try to stop her. I must go now. I never heard a creature yell\nwith such fury.\"\n\nShe turned away and went towards the second flight of stairs with\na rather dazed air. She had passed through a rather tremendous crisis\nand she WAS dazed. He made her feel so. She had never understood\nhim for a moment and she did not understand him now--but then she\nnever did understand people and the whole situation was a new one\nto her. If she had not been driven to the wall she would have been\nquite as respectable as she knew how to be.\n\nCoombe called a hansom and drove home, thinking of many things\nand looking even more than usually detached. He had remarked the\nfacial expression of the short and stout man as he had got into\nhis cab and he was turning over mentally his own exact knowledge of\nthe views the business mind would have held and what the business\ncountenance would have decently covered if he--Coombe--had explained\nin detail that he was so far--in this particular case--an entirely\nblameless character.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\n\n\n\nThe slice of a house from that time forward presented the external\naspect to which the inhabitants of the narrow and fashionable\nstreet and those who passed through it had been accustomed. Such\nindividuals as had anticipated beholding at some early day notices\nconspicuously placed announcing \"Sale by Auction. Elegant Modern\nFurniture\" were vaguely puzzled as well as surprised by the fact\nthat no such notices appeared even inconspicuously. Also there\ndid not draw up before the door--even as the weeks went on--huge\nand heavy removal vans with their resultant litter, their final\nnote of farewell a \"To Let\" in the front windows.\n\nOn the contrary, the florist came and refilled the window boxes\nwith an admirable arrangement of fresh flowers; new and even more\ncorrect servants were to be seen ascending and descending the area\nstep; a young footman quite as smart as the departed Edward opened\nthe front door and attended Mrs. Gareth-Lawless to her perfect\nlittle brougham. The trades-people appeared promptly every day and\nwere obsequiously respectful in manner. Evidently the household\nhad not disintegrated as a result of the death of Mr. Gareth-Lawless.\n\nAs it became an established fact that the household had not fallen to\npieces its frequenters gradually returned to it, wearing indeed\nthe air of people who had never really remained away from it. There\nhad been natural reasons enough for considerate absence from a\nhouse of bereavement and a desolate widow upon whose grief it would\nhave been indelicate to intrude. As Feather herself had realized,\nthe circle of her intimates was not formed of those who could\nreadily adjust themselves to entirely changed circumstances. If\nyou dance on a tight rope and the rope is unexpectedly withdrawn,\nwhere are you? You cannot continue dancing until the rope is\nrestrung.\n\nThe rope, however, being apparently made absolutely secure, it\nwas not long before the dancing began again. Feather's mourning,\nwonderfully shading itself from month to month, was the joy of all\nbeholders. Madame Helene treated her as a star gleaming through\ngradually dispersing clouds. Her circle watched her with secretly\nhumorous interest as each fine veil of dimness was withdrawn.\n\n\"The things she wears are priceless,\" was said amiably in her own\ndrawing-room. \"Where does she get them? Figure to yourself Lawdor\npaying the bills.\"\n\n\"She gets them from Helene,\" said a long thin young man with\na rather good-looking narrow face and dark eyes, peering through\npince nez, \"But I couldn't.\"\n\nIn places where entertainment as a means of existence proceed so\nto speak, fast and furiously, questions of taste are not dwelt\nupon at leisure. You need not hesitate before saying anything you\nliked in any one's drawing-room so long as it was amusing enough\nto make somebody--if not everybody--laugh. Feather had made people\nlaugh in the same fashion in the past. The persons she most admired\nwere always making sly little impudent comments and suggestions,\nand the thwarted years on the island of Jersey had, in her case,\nresulted in an almost hectic desire to keep pace. Her efforts had\nusually been successes because Nature's self had provided her with\nthe manner of a silly pretty child who did not know how far she\nwent. Shouts of laughter had often greeted her, and the first time\nshe had for a moment doubted her prowess was on an occasion when\nshe had caught a glimpse of Coombe who stared at her with an\nexpression which she would--just for one second--have felt might\nbe horror, if she had not been so sure it couldn't be, and must of\ncourse be something else--one of the things nobody ever understood\nin him.\n\nBy the time the softly swathing veils of vaporous darkness were\nwithdrawn, and the tight rope assuring everyone of its permanent\nsecurity became a trusted support, Feather at her crowded little\nparties and at other people's bigger ones did not remain wholly\nunaware of the probability that even people who rather liked\nher made, among themselves, more or less witty comments upon her\nimproved fortunes. They were improved greatly. Bills were paid,\ntrades-people were polite, servants were respectful; she had no\nneed to invent excuses and lies. She and Robert had always kept out\nof the way of stodgy, critical people, so they had been intimate\nwith none of the punctilious who might have withdrawn themselves\nfrom a condition of things they chose to disapprove: accordingly,\nshe found no gaps in her circle. Those who had formed the habit of\namusing themselves at her house were as ready as before to amuse\nthemselves again.\n\nThe fact remained, however,--curiously, perhaps, in connection with\nthe usual slightness of all impressions made on her--that there\nwas a memory which never wholly left her. Even when she tried to\nforce it so far into the background of her existence that it might\nalmost be counted as forgotten, it had a trick of rising before\nher. It was the memory of the empty house as its emptiness had\nstruck to the centre of her being when she had turned from her\nbedroom window after watching the servants drive away in their\ncabs. It was also the memory of the hours which had followed--the\nnight in which nobody had been in any of the rooms--no one had gone\nup or down the stairs--when all had seemed dark and hollow--except\nthe Night Nursery where Robin screamed, and her own room where she\nherself cowered under the bed clothes and pulled the pillow over\nher head. But though the picture would not let itself be blotted\nout, its effect was rather to intensify her sense of relief because\nshe had slipped so safely from under the wheels of destiny.\n\n\"Sometimes,\" she revealed artlessly to Coombe, \"while I am driving\nin the park on a fine afternoon when every one is out and the\ndresses look like the flower beds, I let myself remember it just\nto make myself enjoy everything more by contrast.\"\n\nThe elderly woman who had been a nurse in her youth and who had\nbeen sent by Lord Coombe temporarily to replace Louisa had not\nremained long in charge of Robin. She was not young and smart\nenough for a house on the right side of the right street, and\nFeather found a young person who looked exactly as she should when\nshe pushed the child's carriage before her around the square.\n\nThe square--out of which the right street branches--and the \"Gardens\"\nin the middle of the square to which only privileged persons were\nadmitted by private key, the basement kitchen and Servants' Hall,\nand the two top floor nurseries represented the world to the\nchild Robin for some years. When she was old enough to walk in the\nstreet she was led by the hand over the ground she had travelled\ndaily in her baby carriage. Her first memory of things was a memory\nof standing on the gravel path in the Square Gardens and watching\nsome sparrows quarrel while Andrews, her nurse, sat on a bench\nwith another nurse and talked in low tones. They were talking in\na way Robin always connected with servants and which she naturally\naccepted as being the method of expression of their species--much\nas she accepted the mewing of cats and the barking of dogs. As\nshe grew older, she reached the stage of knowing that they were\ngenerally saying things they did not wish her to hear.\n\nShe liked watching the sparrows in the Gardens because she liked\nwatching sparrows at all times. They were the only friends she had\never known, though she was not old enough to call them friends,\nor to know what friends meant. Andrews had taught her, by means\nof a system of her own, to know better than to cry or to make any\nprotesting noise when she was left alone in her ugly small nursery.\nAndrews' idea of her duties did not involve boring herself to death\nby sitting in a room on the top floor when livelier entertainment\nawaited her in the basement where the cook was a woman of wide\nexperience, the housemaid a young person who had lived in gay\ncountry houses, and the footman at once a young man of spirit\nand humour. So Robin spent many hours of the day--taking them\naltogether--quite by herself. She might have more potently resented\nher isolations if she had ever known any other condition than\nthat of a child in whom no one was in the least interested and\nin whom \"being good\" could only mean being passive under neglect\nand calling no one's attention to the fact that she wanted anything\nfrom anybody. As a bird born in captivity lives in its cage and\nperhaps believes it to be the world, Robin lived in her nursery\nand knew every square inch of it with a deadly if unconscious\nsense of distaste and fatigue. She was put to bed and taken up,\nshe was fed and dressed in it, and once a day--twice perhaps if\nAndrews chose--she was taken out of it downstairs and into the\nstreet. That was all. And that was why she liked the sparrows so\nmuch.\n\nAnd sparrows are worth watching if you live in a nursery where\nnothing ever happens and where, when you look out, you are so high\nup that it is not easy to see the people in the world below, in\naddition to which it seems nearly always raining. Robin used to\nwatch them hopping about on the slate roofs of the homes on the\nother side of the street. They fluttered their wings, they picked\nup straws and carried them away. She thought they must have houses\nof their own among the chimneys--in places she could not see. She\nfancied it would be nice to hop about on the top of a roof oneself\nif one were not at all afraid of falling. She liked the chippering\nand chirping sounds the birds made became it sounded like talking\nand laughing--like the talking and laughing she sometimes wakened\nout of her sleep to lie and listen to when the Lady Downstairs had\na party. She often wondered what the people were doing because it\nsounded as if they liked doing it very much.\n\nSometimes when it had rained two or three days she had a feeling\nwhich made her begin to cry to herself--but not aloud. She had\nonce had a little black and blue mark on her arm for a week where\nAndrews had pinched her because she had cried loud enough to be\nheard. It had seemed to her that Andrews twisted and pinched the\nbit of flesh for five minutes without letting it go and she had\nheld her large hand over her mouth as she did it.\n\n\"Now you keep that in your mind,\" she had said when she had finished\nand Robin had almost choked in her awful little struggle to keep\nback all sound.\n\nThe one thing Andrews was surest of was that nobody would come\nupstairs to the Nursery to inquire the meaning of any cries which\nwere not unearthly enough to disturb the household. So it was easy\nto regulate the existence of her charge in such a manner as best\nsuited herself.\n\n\"Just give her food enough and keep her from making silly noises\nwhen she wants what she doesn't get,\" said Andrews to her companions\nbelow stairs. \"That one in the drawing-room isn't going to interfere\nwith the Nursery. Not her! I know my business and I know how to\nmanage her kind. I go to her politely now and then and ask her\npermission to buy things from Best's or Liberty's or some other\ngood place. She always stares a minute when I begin, as if she\nscarcely understood what I was talking about and then she says\n'Oh, yes, I suppose she must have them.' And I go and get them. I\nkeep her as well dressed as any child in Mayfair. And she's been\na beauty since she was a year old so she looks first rate when I\nwheel her up and down the street, so the people can see she's well\ntaken care of and not kept hidden away. No one can complain of her\nlooks and nobody is bothered with her. That's all that's wanted\nof ME. I get good wages and I get them regular. I don't turn up\nmy nose at a place like this, whatever the outside talk is. Who\ncares in these days anyway? Fashionable people's broader minded\nthan they used to be. In Queen Victoria's young days they tell\nme servants were no class that didn't live in families where they\nkept the commandments.\"\n\n\"Fat lot the commandments give any one trouble in these times,\"\nsaid Jennings, the footman, who was a wit. \"There's one of 'em I\ncould mention that's been broken till there's no bits of it left\nto keep. If I smashed that plate until it was powder it'd have\nto be swept into the dust din. That's what happened to one or two\ncommandments in particular.\"\n\n\"Well,\" remarked Mrs. Blayne, the cook, \"she don't interfere and\nhe pays the bills prompt. That'll do ME instead of commandments.\nIf you'll believe me, my mother told me that in them Queen Victoria\ndays ladies used to inquire about cold meat and ask what was done\nwith the dripping. Civilisation's gone beyond that--commandments\nor no commandments.\"\n\n\"He's precious particular about bills being paid,\" volunteered\nJennings, with the air of a man of the world. \"I heard him having\na row with her one day about some bills she hadn't paid. She'd\nspent the money for some nonsense and he was pretty stiff in that\nqueer way of his. Quite right he was too. I'd have been the same\nmyself,\" pulling up his collar and stretching his neck in a manner\nindicating exact knowledge of the natural sentiments of a Marquis\nwhen justly annoyed. \"What he intimated was that if them bills\nwas not paid with the money that was meant to pay them, the\nmoney wouldn't be forthcoming the next time.\" Jennings was rather\npleased by the word \"forthcoming\" and therefore he repeated it\nwith emphasis, \"It wouldn't be FORTHCOMING.\"\n\n\"That'd frighten her,\" was Andrews' succinct observation.\n\n\"It did!\" said Jennings. \"She'd have gone in hysterics if he hadn't\nkept her down. He's got a way with him, Coombe has.\"\n\nAndrews laughed, a brief, dry laugh.\n\n\"Do you know what the child calls her?\" she said. \"She calls her\nthe Lady Downstairs. She's got a sort of fancy for her and tries\nto get peeps at her when we go out. I notice she always cranes\nher little neck if we pass a room she might chance to be in. It's\nher pretty clothes and her laughing that does it. Children's drawn\nby bright colours and noise that sounds merry.\"\n\n\"It's my belief the child doesn't know she IS her mother!\" said\nMrs. Blayne as she opened an oven door to look at some rolls.\n\n\"It's my belief that if I told her she was she wouldn't know what\nthe word meant. It was me she got the name from,\" Andrews still\nlaughed as she explained. \"I used to tell her about the Lady\nDownstairs would hear if she made a noise, or I'd say I'd let her\nhave a peep at the Lady Downstairs if she was very good. I saw\nshe had a kind of awe of her though she liked her so much, so it\nwas a good way of managing her. You mayn't believe me but for\na good bit I didn't take in that she didn't know there was such\nthings as mothers and, when I did take it in, I saw there wasn't\nany use in trying to explain. She wouldn't have understood.\"\n\n\"How would you go about to explain a mother, anyway?\" suggested\nJennings. \"I'd have to say that she was the person that had the\nright to slap your head if you didn't do what she told you.\"\n\n\"I'd have to say that she was the woman that could keep you slaving\nat kitchen maid's work fifteen hours a day,\" said Mrs. Blayne;\n\"My mother was cook in a big house and trained me under her.\"\n\n\"I never had one,\" said Andrews stiffly. The truth was that she\nhad taken care of eight infant brothers and sisters, while her\nmaternal parent slept raucously under the influence of beer when\nshe was not quarrelling with her offspring.\n\nJane, the housemaid, had passed a not uncomfortable childhood in\nthe country and was perhaps of a soft nature.\n\n\"I'd say that a mother's the one that you belong to and that's\nfond of you, even if she does keep you straight,\" she put in.\n\n\"Her mother isn't fond of her and doesn't keep herself straight,\"\nsaid Jennings. \"So that wouldn't do.\"\n\n\"And she doesn't slap her head or teach her to do kitchen maid's\nwork,\" put in Mrs. Blayne, \"so yours is no use, Mr. Jennings, and\nneither is mine. Miss Andrews 'll have to cook up an explanation\nof her own herself when she finds she has to.\"\n\n\"She can get it out of a Drury Lane melodrama,\" said Jennings, with\ngreat humour. \"You'll have to sit down some night, Miss Andrews,\nand say, 'The time has come, me chee-ild, when I must tell you\nAll'.\"\n\nIn this manner were Mrs. Gareth-Lawless and her maternal affections\ndiscussed below stairs. The interesting fact remained that to Robin\nthe Lady Downstairs was merely a radiant and beautiful being who\nfloated through certain rooms laughing or chattering like a bird,\nand always wearing pretty clothes, which were different each time\none beheld her. Sometimes one might catch a glimpse of her through\na door, or, if one pressed one's face against the window pane at\nthe right moment, she might get into her bright little carnage in\nthe street below and, after Jennings had shut its door, she might\nbe seen to give a lovely flutter to her clothes as she settled\nback against the richly dark blue cushions.\n\nIt is a somewhat portentous thing to realize that a newborn\nhuman creature can only know what it is taught. The teaching may\nbe conscious or unconscious, intelligent or idiotic, exquisite\nor brutal. The images presented by those surrounding it, as its\nperceptions awaken day by day, are those which record themselves\non its soul, its brain, its physical being which is its sole means\nof expressing, during physical life, all it has learned. That\nwhich automatically becomes the Law at the dawning of newborn\nconsciousness remains, to its understanding, the Law of Being,\nthe Law of the Universe. To the cautious of responsibility this\nat times wears the aspect of an awesome thing, suggesting, however\nremotely, that it might seem well, perhaps, to remove the shoes\nfrom one's feet, as it were, and tread with deliberate and delicate\nconsidering of one's steps, as do the reverently courteous even\non the approaching of an unknown altar.\n\nThis being acknowledged a scientific, as well as a spiritual truth,\nthere remains no mystery in the fact that Robin at six years\nold--when she watched the sparrows in the Square Gardens--did not\nknow the name of the feeling which had grown within her as a result\nof her pleasure in the chance glimpses of the Lady Downstairs. It\nwas a feeling which made her eager to see her or anything which\nbelonged to her; it made her strain her child ears to catch the\nsound of her voice; it made her long to hear Andrews or the other\nservants speak of her, and yet much too shy to dare to ask any\nquestions. She had found a place on the staircase leading to the\nNursery, where, by squeezing against the balustrade, she could\nsometimes see the Lady pass in and out of her pink bedroom. She\nused to sit on a step and peer between the railing with beating\nheart. Sometimes, after she had been put to bed for the night and\nAndrews was safely entertained downstairs, Robin would be awakened\nfrom her first sleep by sounds in the room below and would creep\nout of bed and down to her special step and, crouching in a hectic\njoy, would see the Lady come out with sparkling things in her hair\nand round her lovely, very bare white neck and arms, all swathed\nin tints and draperies which made her seem a vision of colour and\nlight. She was so radiant a thing that often the child drew in\nher breath with a sound like a little sob of ecstasy, and her lip\ntrembled as if she were going to cry. But she did not know that what\nshe felt was the yearning of a thing called love--a quite simple\nand natural common thing of which she had no reason for having\nany personal knowledge. As she was unaware of mothers, so she was\nunaware of affection, of which Andrews would have felt it to be\nsuperfluously sentimental to talk to her.\n\nOn the very rare occasions when the Lady Downstairs appeared on\nthe threshold of the Day Nursery, Robin--always having been freshly\ndressed in one of her nicest frocks--stood and stared with immense\nstartled eyes and answered in a whisper the banal little questions\nput to her. The Lady appeared at such rare intervals and remained\npoised upon the threshold like a tropic plumaged bird for moments\nso brief, that there never was time to do more than lose breath and\ngaze as at a sudden vision. Why she came--when she did come--Robin\ndid not understand. She evidently did not belong to the small,\ndingy nurseries which grew shabbier every year as they grew steadily\nmore grimy under the persistent London soot and fogs.\n\nFeather always held up her draperies when she came. She would not\nhave come at all but for the fact that she had once or twice been\nasked if the child was growing pretty, and it would have seemed\nabsurd to admit that she never saw her at all.\n\n\"I think she's rather pretty,\" she said downstairs. \"She's round\nand she has a bright colour--almost too bright, and her eyes are\nround too. She's either rather stupid or she's shy--and one's as\nbad as the other. She's a child that stares.\"\n\nIf, when Andrews had taken her into the Gardens, she had played\nwith other children, Robin would no doubt have learned something\nof the existence and normal attitude of mothers through the\nmere accident of childish chatter, but it somehow happened that\nshe never formed relations with the charges of other nurses. She\ntook it for granted for some time that this was because Andrews\nhad laid down some mysterious law. Andrews did not seem to form\nacquaintances herself. Sometimes she sat on a bench and talked\na little to another nurse, but she seldom sat twice with the same\nperson. It was indeed generally her custom to sit alone, crocheting\nor sewing, with a rather lofty and exclusive air and to call Robin\nback to her side if she saw her slowly edging towards some other\nchild.\n\n\"My rule is to keep myself to myself,\" she said in the kitchen.\n\"And to look as if I was the one that would turn up noses, if\nnoses was to be turned up. There's those that would snatch away\ntheir children if I let Robin begin to make up to them. Some\nwouldn't, of course, but I'm not going to run risks. I'm going to\nsave my own pride.\"\n\nBut one morning when Robin was watching her sparrows, a nurse,\nwho was an old acquaintance, surprised Andrews by appearing in the\nGardens with two little girls in her charge. They were children\nof nine and eleven and quite sufficient for themselves, apart from\nthe fact that they regarded Robin as a baby and, therefore, took\nno notice of her. They began playing with skipping ropes, which\nleft their nurse free to engage in delighted conversation with\nAndrews.\n\nIt was conversation so delightful that Robin was forgotten, even\nto the extent of being allowed to follow her sparrows round a\nclump of shrubbery and, therefore, out of Andrews' sight, though\nshe was only a few yards away. The sparrows this morning were\nquarrelsome and suddenly engaged in a fight, pecking each other\nfuriously, beating their wings and uttering shrill, protesting\nchipperings. Robin did not quite understand what they were doing\nand stood watching them with spellbound interest.\n\nIt was while she watched them that she heard footsteps on the\ngravel walk which stopped near her and made her look up to see who\nwas at her side. A big boy in Highland kilts and bonnet and sporan\nwas standing by her, and she found herself staring into a pair of\nhandsome deep blue eyes, blue like the waters of a hillside tarn.\nThey were wide, glowing, friendly eyes and none like them had ever\nlooked into hers before. He seemed to her to be a very big boy\nindeed, and in fact, he was unusually tall and broad for his age,\nbut he was only eight years old and a simple enough child pagan.\nRobin's heart began to beat as it did when she watched the Lady\nDownstairs, but there was something different in the beating. It\nwas something which made her red mouth spread and curve itself into\na smile which showed all her small teeth.\n\nSo they stood and stared at each other and for some strange, strange\nreason--created, perhaps, with the creating of Man and still hidden\namong the deep secrets of the Universe--they were drawn to each\nother--wanted each other--knew each other. Their advances were, of\ncourse, of the most primitive--as primitive and as much a matter\nof instinct as the nosing and sniffing of young animals. He spread\nand curved his red mouth and showed the healthy whiteness of his\nown handsome teeth as she had shown her smaller ones. Then he began\nto run and prance round in a circle, capering like a Shetland pony\nto exhibit at once his friendliness and his prowess. He tossed his\ncurled head and laughed to make her laugh also, and she not only\nlaughed but clapped her hands. He was more beautiful than anything\nshe had ever seen before in her life, and he was plainly trying\nto please her. No child creature had ever done anything like it\nbefore, because no child creature had ever been allowed by Andrews\nto make friends with her. He, on his part, was only doing what\nany other little boy animal would have done--expressing his child\nmasculinity by \"showing off\" before a little female. But to this\nlittle female it had never happened before.\n\nIt was all beautifully elemental. As does not too often happen,\ntwo souls as well as two bodies were drawn towards each other by\nthe Magnet of Being. When he had exhibited himself for a minute\nor two he came back to her, breathing fast and glowing.\n\n\"My pony in Scotland does that. His name is Chieftain. He is a\nShetland pony and he is only that high,\" he measured forty inches\nfrom the ground. \"I'm called Donal. What are you called?\"\n\n\"Robin,\" she answered, her lips and voice trembling with joy. He\nwas so beautiful. His hair was bright and curly. His broad forehead\nwas clear white where he had pushed back his bonnet with the eagle\nfeather standing upright on it. His strong legs and knees were\nwhite between his tartan kilt and his rolled back stockings. The\nclasps which held his feather and the plaid over his shoulder were\nset with fine stones in rich silver. She did not know that he was\nperfectly equipped as a little Highland chieftain, the head of\nhis clan, should be.\n\nThey began to play together, and the unknown Fates, which do their\nwork as they choose, so wrought on this occasion as to cause\nAndrews' friend to set forth upon a journey through a story so\nexciting in its nature that its hearer was held spellbound and\noblivious to her surroundings themselves. Once, it is true, she\nrose as in a dream and walked round the group of shrubs, but the\nFates had arranged for that moment also. Robin was alone and was\nbusily playing with some leaves she had plucked and laid on the\nseat of a bench for some mysterious reason. She looked good for\nan hour's safe occupation, and Andrews returned to her friend's\ndetailed and intimate version of a great country house scandal,\nof which the papers were full because it had ended in the divorce\ncourt.\n\nDonal had, at that special moment, gone to pick some of the biggest\nleaves from the lilac bush of which the Gardens contained numerous\nsooty specimens. The leaves Robin was playing with were some he\nhad plucked first to show her a wonderful thing. If you laid a leaf\nflat on the seat of the bench and were fortunate enough to possess\na large pin you could prick beautiful patterns on the leaf's\ngreenness--dots and circles, and borders and tiny triangles of a\nmost decorative order. Neither Donal nor Robin had a pin but Donal\nhad, in his rolled down stocking, a little dirk the point of which\ncould apparently be used for any interesting purpose. It was really\nhe who did the decoration, but Robin leaned against the bench and\nlooked on enthralled. She had never been happy before in the entire\ncourse of her brief existence. She had not known or expected any\nconditions other than those she was familiar with--the conditions\nof being fed and clothed, kept clean and exercised, but totally\nunloved and unentertained. She did not even know that this nearness\nto another human creature, the exchange of companionable looks,\nwhich were like flashes of sunlight, the mutual outbreaks of child\nlaughter and pleasure were happiness. To her, what she felt, the\nglow and delight of it, had no name but she wanted it to go on\nand on, never to be put an end to by Andrews or anyone else.\n\nThe boy Donal was not so unconscious. He had been happy all his\nlife. What he felt was that he had liked this little girl the\nminute he saw her. She was pretty, though he thought her immensely\nyounger than himself, and, when she had looked up at him with her\nround, asking eyes, he had wanted to talk to her and make friends.\nHe had not played much with boys and he had no haughty objection\nto girls who liked him. This one did, he saw at once.\n\nThrough what means children so quickly convey to each other--while\nseeming scarcely to do more than play--the entire history of their\nlives and surroundings, is a sort of occult secret. It is not a\nmatter of prolonged conversation. Perhaps images created by the\nbriefest of unadorned statements produce on the unwritten tablets\nof the child mind immediate and complete impressions. Safe as\nthe locked garden was, Andrews cannot have forgotten her charge\nfor any very great length of time and yet before Donal, hearing\nhis attendant's voice from her corner, left Robin to join her and\nbe taken home, the two children knew each other intimately. Robin\nknew that Donal's home was in Scotland--where there are hills and\nmoors with stags on them. He lived there with \"Mother\" and he had\nbeen brought to London for a visit. The person he called \"Mother\"\nwas a woman who took care of him and he spoke of her quite often.\nRobin did not think she was like Andrews, though she did not in\nthe least know why. On his part Donal knew about the nurseries\nand the sparrows who hopped about on the slates of the houses\nopposite. Robin did not describe the nurseries to him, but Donal\nknew that they were ugly and that there were no toys in them and\nnothing to do. Also, in some mystic fashion, he realized that\nAndrews would not let Robin play with him if she saw them together,\nand that, therefore, they must make the most of their time. Full\nof their joy in each other, they actually embarked upon an ingenious\ninfant intrigue, which involved their trying to meet behind the\nshrubs if they were brought to the Gardens the next day. Donal was\nsure he could come because his nurse always did what he asked of\nher. He was so big now that she was not a real nurse, but she had\nbeen his nurse when he was quite little and \"Mother\" liked her\nto travel with them. He had a tutor but he had stayed behind in\nScotland at Braemarnie, which was their house. Donal would come\ntomorrow and he would look for Robin and when she saw him she must\nget away from Andrews and they would play together again.\n\n\"I will bring one of my picture books,\" he said grandly. \"Can you\nread at all?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Robin adoring him. \"What are picture books?\"\n\n\"Haven't you any?\" he blurted out.\n\n\"No,\" said Robin. She looked at the gravel walk, reflecting a\nmoment thoughtfully on the Day Nursery and the Night Nursery. Then\nshe lifted her eyes to the glowing blueness of his and said quite\nsimply, \"I haven't anything.\"\n\nHe suddenly remembered things his Mother had told him about poor\npeople. Perhaps she was poor. Could she be poor when her frock\nand hat and coat were so pretty? It was not polite to ask. But the\nthought made him love her more. He felt something warm rush all\nover his body. The truth, if he had been old enough to be aware of\nit, was that the entire simpleness of her acceptance of things as\nthey were, and a something which was unconsciousness of any cause\nfor complaint, moved his child masculinity enormously. His old\nnurse's voice came from her corner again.\n\n\"I must go to Nanny,\" he said, feeling somehow as if he had been\nrunning fast. \"I'll come tomorrow and bring two picture books.\"\n\nHe was a loving, warm blooded child human thing, and the expression\nof affection was, to him, a familiar natural impulse. He put his\nstrong little eight-year-old arms round her and kissed her full\non her mouth, as he embraced her with all his strength. He kissed\nher twice.\n\nIt was the first time for Robin. Andrews did not kiss. There was\nno one else. It was the first time, and Nature had also made her\na loving, warm blooded, human thing. How beautiful he was--how\nbig--how strong his arms were--and how soft and warm his mouth\nfelt. She stood and gazed at him with wide asking eyes and laughed a\nlittle. She had no words because she did not know what had happened.\n\n\"Don't you like to be kissed?\" said Donal, uncertain because she\nlooked so startled and had not kissed him back.\n\n\"Kissed,\" she repeated, with a small, caught breath, \"ye-es.\" She\nknew now what it was. It was being kissed. She drew nearer at once\nand lifted up her face as sweetly and gladly, as a flower lifts\nitself to the sun. \"Kiss me again,\" she said quite eagerly. As\ningenuously and heartily as before, he kissed her again and, this\ntime, she kissed too. When he ran quickly away, she stood looking\nafter him with smiling, trembling lips, uplifted, joyful--wondering\nand amazed.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\n\n\n\nWhen she went back to Andrews she carried the pricked leaves with\nher. She could not have left them behind. From what source she\nhad drawn a characterizing passionate, though silent, strength of\nmind and body, it would be difficult to explain. Her mind and her\nemotions had been left utterly unfed, but they were not of the inert\norder which scarcely needs feeding. Her feeling for the sparrows\nhad held more than she could have expressed; her secret adoration\nof the \"Lady Downstairs\" was an intense thing. Her immediate\nsurrender to the desire in the first pair of human eyes--child eyes\nthough they were--which had ever called to her being for response,\nwas simple and undiluted rapture. She had passed over her little\nsoul without a moment's delay and without any knowledge of the\ngiving. It had flown from her as a bird might fly from darkness\ninto the sun. Eight-year-old Donal was the sun.\n\nNo special tendency to innate duplicity was denoted by the fact\nthat she had acquired, through her observation of Andrews, Jennings,\nJane and Mrs. Blayne, the knowledge that there were things it was\nbest not to let other people know. You were careful about them.\nFrom the occult communications between herself and Donal, which\nhad resulted in their intrigue, there had of course evolved a\nrealizing sense of the value of discretion. She did not let Andrews\nsee the decorated leaves, but put them into a small pocket in her\ncoat. Her Machiavellian intention was to slip them out when she\nwas taken up to the Nursery. Andrews was always in a hurry to go\ndownstairs to her lunch and she would be left alone and could find\na place where she could hide them.\n\nAndrews' friend started when Robin drew near to them. The child's\ncheeks and lips were the colour of Jacqueminot rose petals. Her\neyes glowed with actual rapture.\n\n\"My word! That's a beauty if I ever saw one,\" said the woman.\n\"First sight makes you jump. My word!\"\n\nRobin, however, did not know what she was talking about and in\nfact scarcely heard her. She was thinking of Donal. She thought\nof him as she was taken home, and she did not cease thinking of\nhim during the whole rest of the day and far into the night. When\nAndrews left her, she found a place to hide the pricked leaves and\nbefore she put them away she did what Donal had done to her--she\nkissed them. She kissed them several times because they were Donal's\nleaves and he had made the stars and lines on them. It was almost\nlike kissing Donal but not quite so beautiful.\n\nAfter she was put to bed at night and Andrews left her she lay\nawake for a long time. She did not want to go to sleep because\neverything seemed so warm and wonderful and she could think and\nthink and think. What she thought about was Donal's face, his\ndelightful eyes, his white forehead with curly hair pushed back\nwith his Highland bonnet. His plaid swung about when he ran and\njumped. When he held her tight the buttons of his jacket hurt her\na little because they pressed against her body. What was \"Mother\"\nlike? Did he kiss her? What pretty stones there were in his clasps\nand buckles! How nice it was to hear him laugh and how fond he\nwas of laughing. Donal! Donal! Donal! He liked to play with her\nthough she was a girl and so little. He would play with her tomorrow.\nHis cheeks were bright pink, his hair was bright, his eyes were\nbright. He was all bright. She tried to see into the blueness of\nhis eyes again as it seemed when they looked at each other close\nto. As she began to see the clear colour she fell asleep.\n\nThe power which had on the first morning guided Robin to the\nseclusion behind the clump of shrubs and had provided Andrews with\nan enthralling companion, extended, the next day, an even more\nbeneficient and complete protection. Andrews was smitten with a\ncold so alarming as to confine her to bed. Having no intention of\nrunning any risks, whatsoever, she promptly sent for a younger\nsister who, temporarily being \"out of place\", came into the house\nas substitute. She was a pretty young woman who assumed no special\nresponsibilities and was fond of reading novels.\n\n\"She's been trained to be no trouble, Anne. She'll amuse herself\nwithout bothering you as long as you keep her out,\" Andrews said\nof Robin.\n\nAnne took \"Lady Audley's Secret\" with her to the Gardens and,\nhaving led her charge to a shady and comfortable seat which exactly\nsuited her, she settled herself for a pleasant morning.\n\n\"Now, you can play while I read,\" she said to Robin.\n\nAs they had entered the Gardens they had passed, not far from the\ngate, a bench on which sat a highly respectable looking woman who\nwas hemming a delicate bit of cambric, and evidently in charge of\ntwo picture books which lay on the seat beside her. A fine boy in\nHighland kilts was playing a few yards away. Robin felt something\nlike a warm flood rush over her and her joy was so great and\nexquisite that she wondered if Anne felt her hand trembling. Anne\ndid not because she was looking at a lady getting into a carriage\nacross the street.\n\nThe marvel of that early summer morning in the gardens of a\nsplendid but dingy London square thing was not a thing for which\nhuman words could find expression. It was not an earthly thing,\nor, at least, not a thing belonging to an earth grown old. A child\nAdam and Eve might have known something like it in the Garden of\nEden. It was as clear and simple as spring water and as warm as\nthe sun.\n\nAnne's permission to \"play\" once given, Robin found her way behind\nthe group of lilacs and snowballs. Donal would come, not only\nbecause he was so big that Nanny would let him do what he wanted\nto do, but because he would do everything and anything in the\nworld. Donal! Donal! Her heart was a mere baby's heart but it\nbeat as if she were seventeen--beat with pure rapture. He was all\nbright and he would laugh and laugh.\n\nThe coming was easy enough for Donal. He had told his mother and\nNanny rejoicingly about the little girl he had made friends with\nand who had no picture books. But he did not come straight to\nher. He took his picture books under his arm, and showing all his\nwhite teeth in a joyous grin, set out to begin their play properly\nwith a surprise. He did not let her see him coming but \"stalked\"\nher behind the trees and bushes until he found where she was\nwaiting, and then thrust his face between the branches of a tall\nshrub near her and laughed the outright laugh she loved. And when\nshe turned she was looking straight into the clear blue she had\ntried to see when she fell asleep. \"Donal! Donal!\" she cried like\na little bird with but one note.\n\nThe lilac and the snowball were in blossom and there was a big\nhawthorn tree which smelt sweet and sweet. They could not see the\ndrift of smuts on the blossoms, they only smelled the sweetness\nand sat under the hawthorn and sniffed and sniffed. The sun was\ndeliciously warm and a piano organ was playing beautifully not\nfar away. They sat close to each other, so close that the picture\nbook could lie open on both pairs of knees and the warmth of each\nyoung body penetrated the softness of the other. Sometimes Donal\nthrew an arm around her as she bent over the page. Love and\ncaresses were not amazements to him; he accepted them as parts of\nthe normal joy of life. To Robin they were absolute wonder. The\npictures were delight and amazement in one. Donal knew all about\nthem and told her stories. She felt that such splendour could have\nemanated only from him. It could not occur to her that he had not\ninvented them and made the pictures. He showed her Robinson Crusoe\nand Robin Hood. The scent of the hawthorn and lilac intoxicated\nthem and they laughed tremendously because Robin Hood's name was\nlike Robin's own and he was a man and she was a girl. They could\nscarcely stop laughing and Donal rolled over and over on the grass,\nhalf from unconquerable high spirits and half to make Robin laugh\nstill more.\n\nHe had some beautiful coloured glass marbles in his pocket\nand he showed her how to play with them, and gave her two of the\nprettiest. He could shoot them over the ground in a way to thrill\nthe beholder. He could hop on one leg as far as he liked. He could\nread out of books.\n\n\"Do you like me?\" he said once in a pause between displays of his\nprowess.\n\nRobin was kneeling upon the grass watching him and she clasped\nher little hands as if she were uttering a prayer.\n\n\"Oh, yes, yes!\" she yearned. \"Yes! Yes!\"\n\n\"I like you,\" he answered; \"I told my mother all about you.\"\n\nHe came to her and knelt by her side.\n\n\"Have you a mother?\" he asked.\n\n\"No,\" shaking her head.\n\n\"Do you live with your aunt?\"\n\n\"No, I don't live with anybody.\"\n\nHe looked puzzled.\n\n\"Isn't there any lady in your house?\" he put it to her. She\nbrightened a little, relieved to think she had something to tell\nhim.\n\n\"There's the Lady Downstairs,\" she said. \"She's so pretty--so\npretty.\"\n\n\"Is she----\" he stopped and shook his head. \"She couldn't be your\nmother,\" he corrected himself. \"You'd know about HER.\"\n\n\"She wears pretty clothes. Sometimes they float about and sparkle\nand she wears little crowns on her head--or flowers. She laughs,\"\nRobin described eagerly. \"A great many people come to see her.\nThey all laugh. Sometimes they sing. I lie in bed and listen.\"\n\n\"Does she ever come upstairs to the Nursery?\" inquired Donal with\na somewhat reflective air.\n\n\"Yes. She comes and stands near the door and says, 'Is she quite\nwell, Andrews?' She does not laugh then. She--she LOOKS at me.\"\n\nShe stopped there, feeling suddenly that she wished very much that\nshe had more to tell. What she was saying was evidently not very\nsatisfactory. He seemed to expect more--and she had no more to\ngive. A sense of emptiness crept upon her and for no reason she\nunderstood there was a little click in her throat.\n\n\"Does she only stand near the door?\" he suggested, as one putting\nthe situation to a sort of crucial test. \"Does she never sit on a\nbig chair and take you on her knee?\"\n\n\"No, no,\" in a dropped voice. \"She will not sit down. She says\nthe chairs are grubby.\"\n\n\"Doesn't she LOVE you at all?\" persisted Donal. \"Doesn't she KISS\nyou?\"\n\nThere was a thing she had known for what seemed to her a long\ntime--God knows in what mysterious fashion she had learned it,\nbut learned it well she had. That no human being but herself was\naware of her knowledge was inevitable. To whom could she have\ntold it? But Donal--Donal wanted to know all about her. The little\nclick made itself felt in her throat again.\n\n\"She--she doesn't LIKE me!\" Her dropped voice was the whisper of\none humbled to the dust by confession, \"She--doesn't LIKE me!\"\nAnd the click became another thing which made her put up her arm\nover her eyes--her round, troubled child eyes, which, as she had\nlooked into Donal's, had widened with sudden, bewildered tears.\n\nDonal flung his arms round her and squeezed his buttons into her\ntender chest. He hugged her close; he kissed her; there was a\nchoking in his throat. He was hot all over.\n\n\"She does like you. She must like you. I'll make her!\" he cried\npassionately. \"She's not your mother. If she was, she'd LOVE you!\nShe'd LOVE you!\"\n\n\"Do Mothers l-love you?\" the small voice asked with a half sob.\n\"What's--what's LOVE you?\" It was not vulgar curiosity. She only\nwanted to find out.\n\nHe loosed his embrace, sitting back on his heels to stare.\n\n\"Don't you KNOW?\"\n\nShe shook her head with soft meekness.\n\n\"N-no,\" she answered.\n\nBig boys like himself did not usually play with such little\ngirls. But something had drawn him to her at their first moment\nof encounter. She wasn't like any other little girls. He felt it\nall the time and that was part of the thing which drew him. He\nwas not, of course, aware that the male thrill at being regarded\nas one who is a god had its power over the emotions. She wasn't\nmaking silly fun and pretending. She really didn't know--because\nshe was different.\n\n\"It's liking very much. It's more,\" he explained. \"My mother loves\nME. I--I LOVE you!\" stoutly. \"Yes, I LOVE you. That's why I kissed\nyou when you cried.\"\n\nShe was so uplifted, so overwhelmed with adoring gratitude that as\nshe knelt on the grass she worshipped him.\n\n\"I love YOU,\" she answered him. \"I LOVE you--LOVE you!\" And she\nlooked at him with such actual prayerfulness that he caught at her\nand, with manly promptness, kissed her again--this being mere Nature.\n\nBecause he was eight years old and she was six her tears flashed\naway and they both laughed joyously as they sat down on the grass\nagain to talk it over.\n\nHe told her all the pleasant things he knew about Mothers. The\nworld was full of them it seemed--full. You belong to them from\nthe time you were a baby. He had not known many personally because\nhe had always lived at Braemarnie, which was in the country in\nScotland. There were no houses near his home. You had to drive\nmiles and miles before you came to a house or a castle. He had not\nseen much of other children except a few who lived at the Manse\nand belonged to the minister. Children had fathers as well as\nmothers. Fathers did not love you or take care of you quite as\nmuch as Mothers--because they were men. But they loved you too.\nHis own father had died when he was a baby. His mother loved him\nas much as he loved her. She was beautiful but--it seemed to reveal\nitself--not like the Lady Downstairs. She did not laugh very much,\nthough she laughed when they played together. He was too big now\nto sit on her knee, but squeezed into the big chair beside her when\nshe read or told him stories. He always did what his mother told\nhim. She knew everything in the world and so knew what he ought to\ndo. Even when he was a big man he should do what his mother told\nhim.\n\nRobin listened to every word with enraptured eyes and bated breath.\nThis was the story of Love and Life and it was the first time she\nhad ever heard it. It was as much a revelation as the Kiss. She\nhad spent her days in the grimy Nursery and her one close intimate\nhad been a bony woman who had taught her not to cry, employing\nthe practical method of terrifying her into silence by pinching\nher--knowing it was quite safe to do it. It had not been necessary\nto do it often. She had seen people on the streets, but she had\nonly seen them in passing by. She had not watched them as she had\nwatched the sparrows. When she was taken down for a few minutes\ninto the basement, she vaguely knew that she was in the way and that\nMrs. Blayne's and Andrews' and Jennings' low voices and occasional\nsidelong look meant that they were talking about her and did not\nwant her to hear.\n\n\"I have no mother and no father,\" she explained quite simply to\nDonal. \"No one kisses me.\"\n\n\"No one!\" Donal said, feeling curious. \"Has no one ever kissed you\nbut me?\"\n\n\"No,\" she answered.\n\nDonal laughed--because children always laugh when they do not know\nwhat else to do.\n\n\"Was that why you looked as if you were frightened when I said\ngood-bye to you yesterday?\"\n\n\"I-I didn't know,\" said Robin, laughing a little too--but not very\nmuch, \"I wasn't frightened. I liked you.\"\n\n\"I'll kiss you as often as you want me to,\" he volunteered nobly.\n\"I'm used to it--because of my mother. I'll kiss you again now.\"\nAnd he did it quite without embarrassment. It was a sort of manly\ngratuity.\n\nOnce Anne, with her book in her hand, came round the shrubs to\nsee how her charge was employing herself, and seeing her looking\nat pictures with a handsomely dressed companion, she returned to\n\"Lady Audley's Secret\" feeling entirely safe.\n\nThe lilac and the hawthorn tree continued to breathe forth warmed\nscents of paradise in the sunshine, the piano organ went on playing,\nsometimes nearer, sometimes farther away, but evidently finding\nthe neighbourhood a desirable one. Sometimes the children laughed\nat each other, sometimes at pictures Donal showed, or stories he\ntold, or at his own extreme wit. The boundaries were removed from\nRobin's world. She began to understand that there was another\nlarger one containing wonderful and delightful things she had\nknown nothing about. Donal was revealing it to her in everything\nhe said even when he was not aware that he was telling her anything.\nWhen Eve was formed from the rib of Adam the information it was\nnecessary for him to give her regarding her surroundings must have\nfilled her with enthralling interest and a reverence which adored.\nThe planted enclosure which was the central feature of the soot\nsprinkled, stately London Square was as the Garden of Eden.\n\n       *       *        *       *        *\n\nThe Garden of Eden it remained for two weeks. Andrews' cold was\nserious enough to require a doctor and her sister Anne continued\nto perform their duties. The weather was exceptionally fine and,\nbeing a vain young woman, she liked to dress Robin in her pretty\nclothes and take her out because she was a beauty and attracted\nattention to her nurse as well as to herself. Mornings spent\nunder the trees reading were entirely satisfactory. Each morning\nthe children played together and each night Robin lay awake and\nlived again the delights of the past hours. Each day she learned\nmore wonders and her young mind and soul were fed. There began to\nstir in her brain new thoughts and the beginning of questioning.\nScotland, Braemarnie, Donal's mother, even the Manse and the children\nin it, combined to form a world of enchantment. There were hills\nwith stags living in them, there were moors with purple heather and\nyellow brome and gorse; birds built their nests under the bushes\nand Donal's pony knew exactly where to step even in the roughest\nplaces. There were two boys and two girls at the Manse and they\nhad a father and a mother. These things were enough for a new heaven\nand a new earth to form themselves around. The centre of the whole\nUniverse was Donal with his strength and his laugh and his eyes\nwhich were so alive and glowing that she seemed always to see them.\nShe knew nothing about the thing which was their somehow--not-to-be-denied\nallure. They were ASKING eyes--and eyes which gave. The boy was\nin truth a splendid creature. His body and beauty were perfect life\nand joyous perfect living. His eyes asked other eyes for everything.\n\"Tell me more,\" they said. \"Tell me more! Like me! Answer me! Let\nus give each other everything in the world.\" He had always been\nwell, he had always been happy, he had always been praised and\nloved. He had known no other things.\n\nDuring the first week in which the two children played together,\nhis mother, whose intense desire it was to understand him, observed\nin him a certain absorption of mood when he was not talking or\namusing himself actively. He began to fall into a habit of standing\nat the windows, often with his chin in his hand, looking out as if\nhe were so full of thought that he saw nothing. It was not an old\nhabit, it was a new one.\n\n\"What are you thinking about, Donal?\" she asked one afternoon.\n\nHe seemed to awaken, as it were, when he heard her. He turned\nabout with his alluring smile.\n\n\"I am thinking it is FUNNY,\" he said. \"It is funny that I should\nlike such a little girl such a lot. She is years and years younger\nthan I am. But I like her so. It is such fun to tell her things.\"\nHe marched over to his mother's writing table and leaned against\nit. What his mother saw was that he had an impassioned desire\nto talk about this child. She felt it was a desire even a trifle\nabnormal in its eagerness.\n\n\"She has such a queer house, I think,\" he explained. \"She has a\nnurse and such pretty clothes and she is so pretty herself, but\nI don't believe she has any toys or books in her nursery.\"\n\n\"Where is her mother?\"\n\n\"She must be dead. There is no lady in her house but the Lady\nDownstairs. She is very pretty and is always laughing. But she is\nnot her mother because she doesn't like her and she never kisses\nher. I think that's the queerest thing of all. No one had EVER\nkissed her till I did.\"\n\nHis mother was a woman given to psychological analysis. Her eyes\nbegan to dwell on his face with slightly anxious questioning.\n\n\"Did you kiss her?\" she inquired.\n\n\"Yes. I kissed her when I said good morning the first day. I thought\nshe didn't like me to do it but she did. It was only because no\none had ever done it before. She likes it very much.\"\n\nHe leaned farther over the writing table and began to pour forth,\nhis smile growing and his eyes full of pleasure. His mother was\na trifle alarmedly struck by the feeling that he was talking like\na young man in love who cannot keep his tongue still, though in\nhis case even the youngest manhood was years away, and he made no\neffort to conceal his sentiments which a young man would certainly\nhave striven to do.\n\n\"She's got such a pretty little face and such a pretty mouth and\ncheeks,\" he touched a Jacqueminot rose in a vase. \"They are the\ncolour of that. Today a robin came with the sparrows and hopped\nabout near us. We laughed and laughed because her eyes are like\nthe robin's, and she is called Robin. I wish you would come into\nthe Gardens and see her, mother. She likes everything I do.\"\n\n\"I must come, dear,\" she answered.\n\n\"Nanny thinks she is lovely,\" he announced. \"She says I am in love\nwith her. Am I, mother?\"\n\n\"You are too young to be in love,\" she said. \"And even when you\nare older you must not fall in love with people you know nothing\nabout.\"\n\nIt was an unconscious bit of Scotch cautiousness which she at once\nrealized was absurd and quite out of place. But--!\n\nShe realized it because he stood up and squared his shoulders in\nan odd young-mannish way. He had not flushed even faintly before\nand now a touch of colour crept under his fair skin.\n\n\"But I DO love her,\" he said. \"I DO. I can't stop.\" And though he\nwas quite simple and obviously little boy-like, she actually felt\nfrightened for a moment.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\n\n\n\nOn the afternoon of the day upon which this occurred, Coombe was\nstanding in Feather's drawing-room with a cup of tea in his hand\nand wearing the look of a man who is given up to reflection.\n\n\"I saw Mrs. Muir today for the first time for several years,\" he\nsaid after a silence. \"She is in London with the boy.\"\n\n\"Is she as handsome as ever?\"\n\n\"Quite. Hers is not the beauty that disappears. It is line and\nbearing and a sort of splendid grace and harmony.\"\n\n\"What is the boy like?\"\n\nCoombe reflected again before he answered.\n\n\"He is--amazing. One so seldom sees anything approaching physical\nperfection that it strikes one a sort of blow when one comes upon\nit suddenly face to face.\"\n\n\"Is he as beautiful as all that?\"\n\n\"The Greeks used to make statues of bodies like his. They often\ncalled them gods--but not always. The Creative Intention plainly\nwas that all human beings should be beautiful and he is the\nexpression of it.\"\n\nFeather was pretending to embroider a pink flower on a bit of\ngauze and she smiled vaguely.\n\n\"I don't know what you mean,\" she admitted with no abasement of\nspirit, \"but if ever there was any Intention of that kind it has\nnot been carried out.\" Her smile broke into a little laugh as she\nstuck her needle into her work. \"I'm thinking of Henry,\" she let\ndrop in addition.\n\n\"So was I, it happened,\" answered Coombe after a second or so of\npause.\n\nHenry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his\nheir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive\nsort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into\nthe world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood\ndevoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules.\nA relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident\nover which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His\ncharacter and appearance were such that even his connection with\nan important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons\nto accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue\nHenry would be the Head of the House.\n\n\"How is his cough?\" inquired Feather.\n\n\"Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause\nfor remaining alive.\"\n\nFeather made three or four stitches.\n\n\"Does Mrs. Muir know?\" she said.\n\n\"If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is\nall,\" he answered. \"She is not the woman to inquire. Of course\nshe cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes\nhis place in the line of succession.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, she'd know that,\" put in Feather.\n\nIt was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly.\n\n\"You have a mistaken view of her,\" he said.\n\n\"You admire her very much,\" Feather bridled. The figure of this\nbig Scotch creature with her \"line\" and her \"splendid grace and\nharmony\" was enough to make one bridle.\n\n\"She doesn't admire me,\" said Coombe. \"She is not proud of me as\na connection. She doesn't really want the position for the boy,\nin her heart of hearts.\"\n\n\"Doesn't want it!\" Feather's exclamation was a little jeer only\nbecause she would not have dared a big one.\n\n\"She is Scotch Early Victorian in some things and extremely advanced\nin others,\" he went on. \"She has strong ideas of her own as to\nhow he shall be brought up. She's rather Greek in her feeling for\nhis being as perfect physically and mentally as she can help him\nto be. She believes things. It was she who said what you did not\nunderstand--about the Creative Intention.\"\n\n\"I suppose she is religious,\" Feather said. \"Scotch people often\nare but their religion isn't usually like that. Creative Intention's\na new name for God, I suppose. I ought to know all about God. I've\nheard enough about Him. My father was not a clergyman but he was\nvery miserable, and it made him so religious that he was ALMOST\none. We were every one of us christened and catechized and confirmed\nand all that. So God's rather an old story.\"\n\n\"Queer how old--from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral\nstrand,\" said Coombe. \"It's an ancient search--that for the\nIdea--whether it takes form in metal or wood or stone.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Feather, holding her bit of gauze away from her\nthe better to criticize the pink flower. \"As ALMOST a clergyman's\ndaughter I must say that if there is one thing God didn't do, it\nwas to fill the world with beautiful people and things as if it\nwas only to be happy in. It was made to--to try us by suffering\nand--that sort of thing. It's a-a--what d'ye call it? Something\nbeginning with P.\"\n\n\"Probation,\" suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of\nspeculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn\nlittle scraps of orthodoxy--as one who fished them out of a bag of\nlong-discarded remnants of rubbish--was so true to type that it\nalmost fascinated him for a moment.\n\n\"Yes. That's it--probation,\" she answered. \"I knew it began with\na P. It means 'thorny paths' and 'seas of blood' and, if you are\nreligious, you 'tread them with bleeding feet--' or swim them as\nthe people do in hymns. And you praise and glorify all the time\nyou're doing it. Of course, I'm not religious myself and I can't\nsay I think it's pleasant--but I do KNOW! Every body beautiful\nand perfect indeed! That's not religion--it's being irreligious.\nGood gracious, think of the cripples and lepers and hunchbacks!\"\n\n\"And the idea is that God made them all--by way of entertaining\nhimself?\" he put it to her quietly.\n\n\"Well, who else did?\" said Feather cheerfully.\n\n\"I don't know,\" he said. \"Certain things I heard Mrs. Muir say\nsuggested to one that it might be interesting to think it out.\"\n\n\"Did she talk to you about God at afternoon tea?\" said Feather.\n\"It's the kind of thing a religious Scotch woman might do.\"\n\n\"No, she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was her mistake. She\nmight have reformed me. She never says more to me than civility\ndemands. And it was not at tea. I accidentally dropped in on the\nBethunes and found an Oriental had been lecturing there. Mrs.\nMuir was talking to him and I heard her. The man seemed to be a\nscholar and a deep thinker and as they talked a group of us stood\nand listened or asked questions.\"\n\n\"How funny!\" said Feather.\n\n\"It was not funny at all. It was astonishingly calm and serious--and\nlogical. The logic was the new note. I had never thought of reason\nin that connection.\"\n\n\"Reason has nothing to do with it. You must have faith. You\nmust just believe what you're told not think at all. Thinking is\nwickedness--unless you think what you hear preached.\" Feather was\neven a trifle delicately smug as she rattled off her orthodoxy--but\nshe laughed after she had done with it. \"But it MUST have been\nfunny--a Turk or a Hindoo in a turban and a thing like a tea gown\nand Mrs. Muir in her Edinburgh looking clothes talking about God.\"\n\n\"You are quite out of it,\" Coombe did not smile at all as he\nsaid it. \"The Oriental was as physically beautiful as Donal Muir\nis. And Mrs. Muir--no other woman in the room compared with her.\nPerhaps people who think grow beautiful.\"\n\nFeather was not often alluring or coquettish in her manner to\nCoombe but she tilted her head prettily and looked down at her\nflower through lovely lashes.\n\n\"_I_ don't think,\" she said. \"And I am not so bad looking.\"\n\n\"No,\" he answered coldly. \"You are not. At times you look like a\nyoung angel.\"\n\n\"If Mrs. Muir is like that,\" she said after a brief pause, \"I\nshould like to know what she thinks of me?\"\n\n\"No, you would not--neither should I--if she thinks at all,\" was\nhis answer. \"But you remember you said you did not mind that sort\nof thing.\"\n\n\"I don't. Why should I? It can't harm me.\" Her hint of a pout\nmade her mouth entrancing. \"But, if she thinks good looks are the\nresult of religiousness I should like to let her see Robin--and\ncompare her with her boy. I saw Robin in the park last week and\nshe's a perfect beauty.\"\n\n\"Last week?\" said Coombe.\n\n\"She doesn't need anyone but Andrews. I should bore her to death if\nI went and sat in the Nursery and stared at her. No one does that\nsort of thing in these days. But I should like to see Mrs. Muir to\nsee the two children together!\" \"That could not easily be arranged,\nI am afraid,\" he said.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\nHis answer was politely deliberate.\n\n\"She greatly disapproves of me, I have told you. She is not proud\nof the relationship.\"\n\n\"She does not like ME you mean?\"\n\n\"Excuse me. I mean exactly what I said in telling you that she has\nher own very strong views of the boy's training and surroundings.\nThey may be ridiculous but that sort of thing need not trouble\nyou.\"\n\nFeather held up her hand and actually laughed.\n\n\"If Robin meets him in ten years from now--THAT for her very strong\nviews of his training and surroundings!\"\n\nAnd she snapped her fingers.\n\nMrs. Muir's distaste for her son's unavoidable connection the man\nhe might succeed had a firm foundation. She had been brought up in\na Scottish Manse where her father dominated as an omnipotent and\nalmost divine authority. As a child of imagination she had not been\nhappy but she had been obedient. In her girlhood she had varied\nfrom type through her marriage with a young man who was a dreamer,\nan advanced thinker, an impassioned Greek scholar and a lover\nof beauty. After he had released her from her terrors of damnation, they had\nbeen profoundly happy. They were young and at ease and they read\nand thought together ardently. They explored new creeds and cults\nand sometimes found themselves talking nonsense and sometimes\ndiscovering untrodden paths of wisdom. They were youthful enough\nto be solemn about things at times, and clever enough to laugh\nat their solemnity when they awakened to it. Helen Muir left the\nreverent gloom of the life at the Manse far behind despite her\nrespect for certain meanings they beclouded.\n\n\"I live in a new structure,\" she said to her husband, \"but it is\nbuilt on a foundation which is like a solid subterranean chamber.\nI don't use the subterranean chamber or go into it. I don't want\nto. But now and then echoes--almost noises--make themselves heard\nin it. Sometimes I find I have listened in spite of myself.\"\n\nShe had always been rather grave about her little son and when\nher husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large\nestate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the\npower to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly\npossible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and\nfine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body\nand unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people\nworking from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the\nstudy of development of the race. It was he who had planted in\nher mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as\nto the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the\nchild as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his\nfeet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him.\n\n\"This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How\ncould there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is\nwe ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought\nand life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he\nis--if living does not warp him.\" This was what his father said.\nHis mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god\nin the crib.\n\n\"It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into\nour hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost',\"\nshe murmured. Then the looked up and smiled.\n\n\"Are we being solemn--over a baby?\" she said.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" he was always even readier to smile than she was. \"I've\nan idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too\nsolemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair\nHelen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget\nwhat we have just said.\"\n\nThrough her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered\nthe words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she\nmight hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the \"Afterwards\"\nwhich were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie\nand lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head\nof a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour\nto things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his\ncasket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion\nthat sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean\nchamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to\nkeep guard over herself.\n\nHe was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He\nwas a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life\nas a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever\nand he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely\nancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and\nluxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect\nand also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge\nand castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the\nHouse had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a\nbeautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak,\nand set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring\n\"Henry\" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years.\nThat he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others.\nIt did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid\nfearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and\nfair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose\npoison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish\nwoman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in\nLondon with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities.\n\nThis was the reason for her views of her boy's training and\nsurroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself,\nbut it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather\nby chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and\nthen he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or\nat The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to\nverge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed.\nOn his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned\nup without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he\nhad been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting\nto kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite\nobjections to Henry.\n\nHelen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with\nunvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from\nall chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy.\nDonal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough\nfor that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be\nno intercourse if it could be avoided.\n\nShe had smiled at herself when the \"echo\" had prompted her to the\nhint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame\nof delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it\nHAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still\nby the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight\non her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years\nwhen one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she\nwas saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy\nof their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those\nwere divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living\nthrough those years now. He did not know that any happiness could\nbe taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible\nif there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early\nunshadowed time!\n\nShe was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit\nand gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window.\nSuddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny.\n\n\"Nanny,\" she said when the old nurse came, \"tell me something about\nthe little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens.\"\n\n\"She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am,\" was the woman's\ncareful answer, \"but I don't make friends with strange nurses and\nI don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel\nreading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the\nmeasles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far\nas I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the\npretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them,\nhowever, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of\nhis picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she\nlaughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child\nlikes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the\npair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in\nlove at first sight.\"\n\n\"Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the\nManse are too dull for him,\" his mother said slowly.\n\n\"This one's not plain and she's not dull,\" Nanny answered. \"My\nword! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour\nand her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young\nman at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears.\"\n\n\"I must see her,\" Mrs. Muir said. \"Tomorrow I'll go with you both\nto the Gardens.\"\n\nTherefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to\nhis trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people\nlooked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head\nsoftly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very\nclear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her\nand was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking\nsteps at intervals.\n\nRobin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already\ndeep in the mystery of Lady Audley.\n\n\"There she is!\" cried Donal, and he ran to her. \"My mother has come\nwith me. She wants to see you, too,\" and he pulled her forward by\nher hand. \"This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin.\" He panted with\nelation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before\nhe had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were\nthose of an exultant owner.\n\nRobin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged\nto Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person\nwas a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could\nonly look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like\nlittle worshippers before a deity.\n\nAndrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like\na flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy\ngave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since\nshe was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately.\n\n\"Donal wanted me to see his little friend,\" she said. \"I always\nwant to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together\nand you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it.\"\n\nShe took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at\nfirst too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and\ncontinued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things\nabout the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the\npony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little\nhop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like\na bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like\nAndrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk\nand it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was\nhappiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the\nGarden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play.\nIt was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched\nthem as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal\nkept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards\nand forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were\n\"making up\" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and\ncircles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she\nhelped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of\nher play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of\npuzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin.\nTwo people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to\nthem as if they liked her and had time!\n\nThe truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they\nfollowed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing\nvital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she\nwould be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was\nof her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming\ntemperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out\nwhy she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was\nan exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps\nof her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever\nkissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the\nLady Downstairs?\n\nA victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because\nthe two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of\nhyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued\nfigure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke\nto the coachman.\n\n\"Stop here!\" she said. \"I want to get out.\"\n\nAs the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture.\n\n\"What do you think, Starling,\" she laughed. \"The very woman\nwe are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her\nperfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago.\nYes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know.\" She clapped her hands and\nher laugh became a delighted giggle. \"And my Robin is playing on\nthe grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy!\nAnd I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be\ndone. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get\nout.\"\n\nThey got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment\nfrom Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards\nher with evident intention. At least one of them had evident\nintention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect\nof being made of hyacinth petals.\n\nBecause Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned\nalso. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee,\nher eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a\nsudden worshipping light.\n\n\"It is--\" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, \"the Lady\nDownstairs!\"\n\nFeather floated near to the seat and paused smiling.\n\n\"Where is your nurse, Robin?\" she said.\n\nRobin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course\nshine.\n\n\"She is reading under the tree,\" she answered tremulously.\n\n\"She is only a few yards away,\" said Mrs. Muir. \"She knows Robin\nis playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your\nlittle girl?\" amiably.\n\n\"Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her\nbore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless.\"\n\nThere was a little silence--a delicate little silence.\n\n\"I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once,\" said Feather, unperturbed\nand smiling brilliantly, \"I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully\ntall,--\"the line\" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm\ninto Feather's eyes.\n\nDonal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made\nan unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something.\n\n\"Is this Donal?\" Feather said.\n\n\"ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?\" Donal put in politely,\nbecause he wanted so to know.\n\nFeather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs.\nHer maid had told her Andrews' story of the name.\n\n\"Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a\nmother, isn't it?\"\n\nDonal took a quick step forward.\n\n\"ARE you her mother?\" he asked eagerly.\n\n\"Of course I am.\"\n\nDonal quite flushed with excitement.\n\n\"She doesn't KNOW,\" he said.\n\nHe turned on Robin.\n\n\"She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!\"\n\n\"But I am the Lady Downstairs, too.\" Feather was immensely amused.\nShe was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of\npleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that\nit led her into a touch of vulgarity. \"I wanted very much to see\nyour boy,\" she said.\n\n\"Yes,\" still gently from Mrs. Muir.\n\n\"Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer\nthat the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know.\nI am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the\nportrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children.\"\n\nWhile she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up\nher friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed,\nhad paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until\nher victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike\nparasol fluttering in the air.\n\nMrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against\nher. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know\nthat her eyes had something like grief in them.\n\n\"She's her Mother!\" Donal cried. \"She's lovely, too. But she's--her\nMOTHER!\" and his voice and face were equally puzzled.\n\nRobin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir.\n\n\"IS--she?\" she faltered.\n\nHelen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She\nkissed her.\n\n\"Yes, she is, my lamb,\" she said. \"She's your mother.\"\n\nShe was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the\nonly safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb\nand she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little\nbody was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in\na heap were a fragrance against her breast.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\n\n\n\nDonal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited\nas well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her\nmother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and\nhold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees!\nDid some mothers never tell their children and did the children\nnever find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took\nthe gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively.\n\n\"I am glad I know you are my mother,\" he said, \"I always knew.\"\n\nHe was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as\nclearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed.\nHe had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought\nof that. There was also a game in a little box which could be\neasily carried under his arm. His mother was \"thinking\" and he was\nused to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he\nalways, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible.\n\nAfter he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny.\n\n\"You're tired, ma'am,\" the woman said when she saw her, \"I'm afraid\nyou've a headache.\"\n\n\"I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon,\"\nher mistress answered, \"You were right about the nurse. The\nlittle girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in\nher way--boys quite unlike Donal.\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am.\" And because she loved her and knew her face and\nvoice Nanny watched her closely.\n\n\"You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the\nchild's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to\nme. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless.\"\n\nNanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply.\n\n\"And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!\"\n\n\"Things have altered and are altering every day,\" Mrs. Muir said.\n\"Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and\nshe is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going\npeople who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband\nwas a relation of Lord Lawdor's.\"\n\n\"And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie,\"\noffered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped\nstrongly as they lay on the table before her.\n\n\"That doesn't come within my bailiewick,\" she said in her quiet\nvoice. \"Her life is her own and not mine. Words are the wind that\nblows.\" She stopped just a moment and began again. \"We must leave\nfor Scotland by the earliest train.\"\n\n\"What'll he do?\" the words escaped from the woman as if involuntarily.\nShe even drew a quick breath. \"He's a strong feeling bairn--strong!\"\n\n\"He'll be stronger when he is a young man, Nanny!\" desperately.\n\"That is why I must act now. There is no half way. I don't want\nto be hard. Oh, am I hard--am I hard?\" she cried out low as if she\nwere pleading.\n\n\"No, ma'am. You are not. He's your own flesh and blood.\" Nanny had\nnever before seen her mistress as she saw her in the next curious\nalmost exaggerated moment.\n\nHer hand flew to her side.\n\n\"He's my heart and my soul--\" she said, \"--he is the very entrails\nof me! And it will hurt him so and I cannot explain to him because\nhe is too young to understand. He is only a little boy who must\ngo where he is taken. And he cannot help himself. It's--unfair!\"\n\nNanny was prone to become more Scotch as she became moved. But\nshe still managed to look grim.\n\n\"He canna help himsel,\" she said, \"an waur still, YOU canna.\"\n\nThere was a moment of stillness and then she said:\n\n\"I must go and pack up.\" And walked out of the room.\n\n       *       *        *       *        *\n\nDonal always slept like a young roe in the bracken, and in deep\nand rapturous ease he slept this night. Another perfectly joyful\nday had passed and his Mother had liked Robin and kissed her. All\nwas well with the world. As long as he had remained awake--and it\nhad not been long--he had thought of delightful things unfeverishly.\nOf Robin, somehow at Braemarnie, growing bigger very quickly--big\nenough for all sorts of games--learning to ride Chieftain, even\nto gallop. His mother would buy another pony and they could ride\nside by side. Robin would laugh and her hair would fly behind her\nif they went fast. She would see how fast he could go--she would\nsee him make Chieftain jump. They would have picnics--catch sight\nof deer and fawns delicately lifting their feet as they stepped.\nShe would always look at him with that nice look in her eyes and\nthe little smile which came and went in a second. She was quite\ndifferent from the minister's little girls at the Manse. He liked\nher--he liked her!\n\n       *       *        *       *        *\n\nHe was wakened by a light in his room and by the sound of moving\nabout. He sat up quickly and found his Mother standing by his bed\nand Nanny putting things into a travelling bag. He felt as if his\nMother looked taller than she had looked yesterday--and almost\nthin--and her face was anxious and--shy.\n\n\"We let you sleep as late as we could, Donal,\" she said. \"You must\nget up quickly now and have breakfast. Something has happened. We\nare obliged to go back to Scotland by very early train. There is\nnot a minute to waste.\"\n\nAt first he only said:\n\n\"Back!\"\n\n\"Yes, dear. Get up.\"\n\n\"To Braemarnie?\"\n\n\"Yes, dear laddie!\"\n\nHe felt himself grow hot and cold.\n\n\"Away! Away!\" he said again vaguely.\n\n\"Yes. Get up, dear.\"\n\nHe was as she had said only a little boy and accustomed to do as\nhe was told. He was also a fine, sturdy little Scot with a pride\nof his own. His breeding had been of the sort which did not include\ninsubordinate scenes, so he got out of bed and began to dress. But\nhis mother saw that his hands shook.\n\n\"I shall not see Robin,\" he said in a queer voice. \"She won't\nfind me when she goes behind the lilac bushes. She won't know why\nI don't come.\"\n\nHe swallowed very hard and was dead still for a few minutes,\nthough he did not linger over his dressing. His mother felt that\nthe whole thing was horrible. He was acting almost like a young\nman even now. She did not know how she could bear it. She spoke to\nhim in a tone which was actually rather humble.\n\n\"If we knew where she lived you--you could write a little letter\nand tell her about it. But we do not where she lives.\"\n\nHe answered her very low.\n\n\"That's it. And she's little--and she won't understand. She's very\nlittle--really.\" There was a harrowingly protective note in his\nvoice. \"Perhaps--she'll cry.\"\n\nHelen looking down at him with anguished eyes--he was buttoning his\nshoes--made an unearthly effort to find words, but, as she said\nthem, she knew they were not the right ones.\n\n\"She will be disappointed, of course, but she is so little that\nshe will not feel it as much as if she were bigger. She will get\nover it, darling. Very little girls do not remember things long.\"\nOh, how coarse and crass and stupid it sounded--how coarse and\ncrass and stupid to say it to this small defiant scrap of what\nseemed the inevitable suffering of the world!\n\nThe clear blue of the eyes Robin had dwelt in, lifted itself to\nher. There was something almost fierce in it--almost like impotent\nhatred of something.\n\n\"She won't,\" he said, and she actually heard him grind his little\nteeth after it.\n\nHe did not look like Donal when he was dressed and sat at the\nbreakfast table. He did not eat much of his porridge, but she saw\nthat he determinedly ate some. She felt several times as if he\nactually did not look like anybody she had ever seen. And at the\nsame time his fair hair, his fair cheeks, and the fair sturdy\nknees beneath his swinging kilt made him seem as much a little boy\nas she had ever known him. It was his hot blue eyes which were\ndifferent.\n\nHe obeyed her every wish and followed where she led. When the train\nlaboured out of the big station he had taken a seat in a corner\nand sat with his face turned to the window, so that his back was\ntowards her. He stared and stared at the passing country and she\ncould only see part of his cheek and the side of his neck. She\ncould not help watching them and presently she saw a hot red glow\nunder the skin as if a flood had risen. It subsided in a few moments,\nbut presently she saw it rise again. This happened several times\nand he was holding his lip with, his teeth. Once she saw his\nshoulders more and he coughed obstinately two or three times. She\nknew that he would die before he would let himself cry, but she\nwished he would descend to it just this once, as the fields and\nhedges raced past and he was carried \"Away! Away!\" It might be\nthat it was all his manhood she was saving for him.\n\nHe really made her heart stand still for a moment just as she was\nthinking this and saying it to herself almost fiercely. He suddenly\nturned on her; the blue of his eyes was flaming and the tide had\nrisen again in his cheeks and neck. It was a thing like rage she\nsaw before her--a child's rage and impotently fierce. He cried out\nas if he were ending a sentence he had not finished when he spoke\nas he sat on the floor buttoning his shoes.\n\n\"She has no one but me to remember!\" he said. \"No one but me had\never even kissed her. She didn't know!\"\n\nTo her amazement he clenched both his savage young fists and shook\nthem before him.\n\n\"It'll kill me!\" he raged.\n\nShe could not hold herself back. She caught at him with her arms\nand meant to drag him to her breast. \"No! No! Donal!\" she cried.\n\"Darling! No--No!\" But, as suddenly as the queer unchildish thing\nhad broken out, did he remember himself and boy shame at his\nfantastic emotion overtook him. He had never spoken like that to\nanyone before! It was almost as bad as bursting out crying! The\nred tide ebbed away and he withdrew himself awkwardly from her\nembrace. He said not another word and sat down in his corner with\nhis back turned toward the world.\n\n       *       *        *       *        *\n\nThat the Lady Downstairs, who was so fond of laughing and who knew\nso many persons who seemed to laugh nearly all the time, might\nhave been joking about being her mother presented itself to Robin\nas a vague solution of the problem. The Lady had laughed when she\nsaid it, as people so often laughed at children. Perhaps she had\nonly been amusing herself as grown-up persons were apparently\nentitled to do. Even Donal had not seemed wholly convinced and\nthough his mother had said the Lady Downstairs WAS--somehow the\nsubject had been changed at once. Mrs. Muir had so soon begun to\ntell them a story. Robin was not in the least aware that she had\nswiftly distracted their attention from a question, any discussion\nof which would have involved explanations she could not have\nproduced. It would have been impossible to make it clear to any\nchild. She herself was helpless before the situation and therefore\nher only refuge was to make the two think of other things. She had\nso well done this that Robin had gone home later only remembering\nthe brightly transitory episode as she recalled others as brief and\nbright, when she had stared at a light and lovely figure standing\non the nursery threshold and asking careless questions of Andrews,\nwithout coming in and risking the freshness of her draperies by\ncontact with London top-floor grubbiness. The child was, in fact,\ntoo full of the reality of her happiness with Donal and Donal's\nmother to be more than faintly bewildered by a sort of visionary\nconundrum.\n\nRobin, like Donal, slept perfectly through the night. Her sleep\nwas perhaps made more perfect by fair dreams in which she played\nin the Gardens and she and Donal ran to and from the knees of\nthe Mother lady to ask questions and explain their games. As the\nchild had often, in the past, looked up at the sky, so she had looked\nup into the clear eyes of the Mother lady. There was something in\nthem which she had never seen before but which she kept wanting to\nsee again. Then there came a queer bit of a dream about the Lady\nDownstairs. She came dancing towards them dressed in hyacinths\nand with her arms full of daffodils. She danced before Donal's\nMother--danced and laughed as if she thought they were all funny.\nShe threw a few daffodils at them and then danced away. The\ndaffodils lay on the gravel walk and they all looked at them but\nno one picked them up. Afterwards--in the dream--Mrs. Muir suddenly\ncaught her in her arms and kissed her and Robin was glad and felt\nwarm all over--inside and out.\n\nShe wakened smiling at the dingy ceiling of the dingy room. There\nwas but one tiny shadow in the world, which was the fear that\nAndrews would get well too quickly. She was no longer in bed but\nwas well enough to sit up and sew a little before the tiny fire\nin the atom of a servant's room grate. The doctor would not let\nher go out yet; therefore, Anne still remained in charge. Founding\none's hope on previous knowledge of Anne's habits, she might be\ntrusted to sit and read and show no untoward curiosity.\n\nFrom her bed Robin could see the sky was blue. That meant that\nshe would be taken out. She lay as quiet as a mouse and thought\nof the joy before her, until Anne came to dress her and give her\nher breakfast.\n\n\"We'll put on your rose-coloured smock this morning,\" the girl said,\nwhen the dressing began. \"I like the hat and socks that match.\"\n\nAnne was not quite like Andrews who was not talkative. She made\na conversational sort of remark after she had tied the white shoes.\n\n\"You've got pretty little aristocratic legs of your own,\" she said\namiably. \"I like my children to have nice legs.\"\n\nRobin was uplifted in spirit by the commendation, but she hoped\nAnne would put on her own things quickly. Sometimes she was rather\na long time. The one course, however, towards which discretion\npointed as entirely safe was the continuance of being as quiet\nas a mouse--even quieter, if such thing might be--so that nothing\nmight interfere with anything any one wanted to do. To interfere\nwould have been to attract attention and might lead to delay. So\nshe stood and watched the sparrows inoffensively until Anne called\nher.\n\nWhen she found herself out on the street her step was so light on\nthe pavement that she was rather like a rose petal blown fluttering\nalong by soft vagrant puffs of spring air. Under her flopping\nhat her eyes and lips and cheeks were so happy that more than one\npasser-by turned head over shoulder to look after her.\n\n\"Your name ought to be Rose,\" Anne giggled involuntarily as she\nglanced down at her because someone had stared. She had not meant\nto speak but the words said themselves.\n\nBecause the time was young June even London sky and air were\nwonderful. Stray breaths of fragrance came and went. The green of\nthe trees in the Gardens was light and fresh and in the bedded-out\ncurves and stars and circles there were more flowers every hour,\nso that it seemed as if blooming things with scents grew thick\nabout one's feet. It was no wonder one felt light and smiled back\nat nurses and governesses who looked up. Robin drew eyes became she\nwas like a summer bloom suddenly appearing in the Spring Garden.\n\nNanny was not sitting on the bench near the gate and Donal was\nnot to be seen amusing himself. But he was somewhere just out of\nsight, or, if he had chanced to be late, he would come very soon\neven if his Mother could not come with him--though Robin could\nnot believe she would not. To a child thing both happiness and\ndespair cannot be conceived of except as lasting forever.\n\nAnne sat down and opened her book. She had reached an exciting\npart and looked forward to a thoroughly enjoyable morning.\n\nRobin hopped about for a few minutes. Donal had taught her to hop\nand she felt it an accomplishment. Entangled in the meshes of the\nfeathery, golden, if criminal, ringlets of Lady Audley, Anne did\nnot know when she hopped round the curve of the walk behind the\nlilac and snowball bushes.\n\nOnce safe in her bit of enchanted land, the child stood still and\nlooked about her. There was no kilted figure to be seen, but it\nwould come towards her soon with swinging plaid and eagle's feather\nstanding up grandly in its Highland bonnet. He would come soon.\nPerhaps he would come running--and the Mother lady would walk\nbehind more slowly and smile. Robin waited and looked--she waited\nand looked.\n\nShe was used to waiting but she had never watched for anyone\nbefore. There had never been any one or anything to watch for. The\nnewness of the suspense gave it a sort of deep thrill at first. How\nlong was \"at first\"? She did not know. She stood--and stood--and\nstood--and looked at every creature who entered the gate. She did\nnot see any one who looked in the least like Donal or his Mother or\nNanny. There were nurses and governesses and children and a loitering\nlady or two. There were never many people in the Gardens--only\nthose who had keys. She knew nothing about time but at length she\nknew that on other mornings they had been playing together before\nthis.\n\nThe small rose-coloured figure stood so still for so long that it\nbegan to look rigid and a nurse sitting at some distance said to\nanother,\n\n\"What is that child waiting for?\"\n\nWhat length of time had passed before she found herself looking\nslowly down at her feet because of something. The \"something\"\nwhich had drawn her eyes downward was that she had stood so long\nwithout moving that her tense feet had begun vaguely to hurt her\nand the ache attracted her attention. She changed her position\nslightly and turned her eyes upon the gate again. He was coming very\nsoon. He would be sure to run fast now and he would be laughing.\nDonal! Donal! She even laughed a little low, quivering laugh\nherself.\n\n\"What is that child waiting for? I should really like to know,\"\nthe distant nurse said again curiously.\n\nIf she had been eighteen years old she would have said to herself\nthat she was waiting hours and hours. She would have looked at a\nlittle watch a thousand times; she would have walked up and down\nand round and round the garden never losing sight of the gate--or\nany other point for that matter--for more than a minute. Each\nsound of the church clock striking a few streets away would have\nbrought her young heart thumping into her throat.\n\nBut a child has no watch, no words out of which to build hopes\nand fears and reasons, arguments battling against anguish which\ngrows--palliations, excuses. Robin, could only wait in the midst\nof a slow dark, rising tide of something she had no name for. This\nslow rising of an engulfing flood she felt when pins and needles\nbegan to take possession of her feet, when her legs ached, and her\neyes felt as if they had grown big and tightly strained. Donal!\nDonal! Donal!\n\nWho knows but that some echo of the terror against which she had\nfought and screamed on the night when she had lain alone in the dark\nin her cradle and Feather had hid her head under the pillow--came\nback and closed slowly around and over her, filling her inarticulate\nbeing with panic which at last reached its unbearable height?\nShe had not really stood waiting the entire morning, but she was\nyoung enough to think that she had and that at any moment Anne\nmight come and take her away. He had not come running--he had not\ncome laughing--he had not come with his plaid swinging and his\nfeather standing high! There came a moment when her strained eyes\nno longer seemed to see clearly! Something like a big lump crawled\nup into her throat! Something of the same sort happened the day\nshe had burst into a wail of loneliness and Andrews had pinched\nher. Panic seized her; she clutched the breast of her rose-coloured\nfrock and panic-driven turned and fled into a thick clump of bushes\nwhere there was no path and where even Donal had never pierced.\n\n\"That child has run away at last,\" the distant nurse remarked,\n\"I'd like to find out what she WAS waiting for.\"\n\nThe shrubs were part of the enclosing planting of the Gardens. The\nchildren who came to play on the grass and paths felt as if they\nformed a sort of forest. Because of this, Robin had made her\nfrantic dash to their shelter. No one would come--no one would\nsee her--no one would hear her, beneath them it was almost dark.\nBereft, broken and betrayed, a little mad thing, she pushed her\nway into their shadow and threw herself face downward, a small,\nwrithing, rose-coloured heap, upon the damp mould. She could not\nhave explained what she was doing or why she had given up all,\nas if some tidal wave had overwhelmed her. Suddenly she knew that\nall her new world had gone--forever and ever. As it had come so\nit had gone. As she had not doubted the permanence of its joy,\nso she KNEW that the end had come. Only the wisdom of the occult\nwould dare to suggest that from her child mate, squaring his sturdy\nyoung shoulders against the world as the flying train sped on its\nway, some wave of desperate, inchoate thinking rushed backward.\nThere was nothing more. He would not come back running. He was\nGONE!\n\nThere was no Andrews to hear. Hidden in the shadow under the shrubs,\nthe rattle and roar of the street outside the railing drowned her\nmad little cries. All she had never done before, she did then. Her\nhands beat on the damp mould and tore at it--her small feet beat\nit and dug into it. She cried, she sobbed; the big lump in her\nthroat almost strangled her--she writhed and did not know she was\nwrithing. Her tears pouring forth wet her hair, her face, her dress.\nShe did not cry out, \"Donal! Donal!\" because he was nowhere--nowhere.\nIf Andrews had seen her she would have said she was \"in a tantrum,\"\nBut she was not. The world had been torn away.\n\nA long time afterwards, as it seemed to her, she crawled out from\nunder the shrubs, carrying her pretty flopping hat in her earth-stained\nhand. It was not pretty any more. She had been lying on it and it\nwas crushed and flat. She crept slowly round the curve to Anne.\n\nSeeing her, Anne sprang to her feet. The rose was a piteous thing\nbeaten to earth by a storm. The child's face was swollen and stained,\nher hair was tangled and damp there were dark marks of mould on\nher dress, her hat, her hands, her white cheeks; her white shoes\nwere earth-stained also, and the feet in the rose-coloured socks\ndragged themselves heavily--slowly.\n\n\"My gracious!\" the young woman almost shrieked. \"What's happened!\nWhere have you been? Did you fall down? Ah, my good gracious! Mercy\nme!\"\n\nRobin caught her breath but did not say a word.\n\n\"You fell down on a flower bed where they'd been watering the\nplants!\" almost wept Anne. \"You must have. There isn't that much\ndirt anywhere else in the Gardens.\"\n\nAnd when she took her charge home that was the story she told\nAndrews. Out of Robin she could get nothing, and it was necessary\nto have an explanation.\n\nThe truth, of which she knew nothing, was but the story of a child's\nawful dismay and a child's woe at one of Life's first betrayals.\nIt would be left behind by the days which came and went--it would\npass--as all things pass but the everlasting hills--but in this way\nit was that it came and wrote itself upon the tablets of a child's\nday.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\n\n\n\n\"The child's always been well, ma'am,\" Andrews was standing, the\nimage of exact correctness, in her mistress' bedroom, while Feather\nlay in bed with her breakfast on a convenient and decorative little\ntable. \"It's been a thing I've prided myself on. But I should say\nshe isn't well now.\"\n\n\"Well, I suppose it's only natural that she should begin sometime,\"\nremarked Feather. \"They always do, of course. I remember we all had\nthings when we were children. What does the doctor say? I hope it\nisn't the measles, or the beginning of anything worse?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am, it isn't. It's nothing like a child's disease. I could\nhave managed that. There's good private nursing homes for them in\nthese days. Everything taken care of exactly as it should be and no\ntrouble of disinfecting and isolating for the family. I know what\nyou'd have wished to have done, ma'am.\"\n\n\"You do know your business, Andrews,\" was Feather's amiable comment.\n\n\"Thank you, ma'am,\" from Andrews. \"Infectious things are easy\nmanaged if they're taken away quick. But the doctor said you must\nbe spoken to because perhaps a change was needed.\"\n\n\"You could take her to Ramsgate or somewhere bracing.\" said Feather.\n\"But what did he SAY?\"\n\n\"He seemed puzzled, ma'am. That's what struck me. When I told him\nabout her not eating--and lying awake crying all night--to judge from\nher looks in the morning--and getting thin and pale--he examined\nher very careful and he looked queer and he said, 'This child hasn't\nhad a SHOCK of any kind, has she? This looks like what we should\ncall shock--if she were older'.\"\n\nFeather laughed.\n\n\"How could a baby like that have a shock?\"\n\n\"That's what I thought myself, ma'am,\" answered Andrews. \"A child\nthat's had her hours regular and is fed and bathed and sleeps by\nthe clock, and goes out and plays by herself in the Gardens, well\nwatched over, hasn't any chance to get shocks. I told him so and\nhe sat still and watched her quite curious, and then he said very\nslow: 'Sometimes little children are a good deal shaken up by a\nfall when they are playing. Do you remember any chance fall when\nshe cried a good deal?'\"\n\n\"But you didn't, of course,\" said Feather.\n\n\"No, ma'am, I didn't. I keep my eye on her pretty strict and\nshouldn't encourage wild running or playing. I don't let her play\nwith other children. And she's not one of those stumbling, falling\nchildren. I told him the only fall I ever knew of her having was a\nbit of a slip on a soft flower bed that had just been watered--to\njudge from the state her clothes were in. She had cried because\nshe's not used to such things, and I think she was frightened. But\nthere wasn't a scratch or a shadow of a bruise on her. Even that\nwouldn't have happened if I'd been with her. It was when I was\nill and my sister Anne took my place. Ann thought at first that\nshe'd been playing with a little boy she had made friends with--but\nshe found out that the boy hadn't come that morning--\"\n\n\"A boy!\" Andrews was sharp enough to detect a new and interested\nnote. \"What boy?\"\n\n\"She wouldn't have played with any other child if I'd been there\"\nsaid Andrews, \"I was pretty sharp with Anne about it. But she said\nhe was an aristocratic looking little fellow--\"\n\n\"Was he in Highland costume?\" Feather interrupted.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am. Anne excused herself by saying she thought you must\nknow something about him. She declares she saw you come into the\nGardens and speak to his Mother quite friendly. That was the day\nbefore Robin fell and ruined her rose-coloured smock and things.\nBut it wasn't through playing boisterous with the boy--because\nhe didn't come that morning, as I said, and he never has since.\"\n\nAndrews, on this, found cause for being momentarily puzzled by the\nchange of expression in her mistress' face. Was it an odd little\ngleam of angry spite she saw?\n\n\"And never has since, has he?\" Mrs. Gareth-Lawless said with a\nhalf laugh.\n\n\"Not once, ma'am,\" answered Andrews. \"And Anne thinks it queer\nthe child never seemed to look for him. As if she'd lost interest.\nShe just droops and drags about and doesn't try to play at all.\"\n\n\"How much did she play with him?\"\n\n\"Well, he was such a fine little fellow and had such a respectable,\nelderly, Scotch looking woman in charge of him that Anne owned up\nthat she hadn't thought there was any objections to them playing\ntogether. She says they were as well behaved and quiet as children\ncould be.\" Andrews thought proper to further justify herself by\nrepeating, \"She didn't think there could be any objection.\"\n\n\"There couldn't,\" Mrs. Gareth-Lawless remarked. \"I do know the\nboy. He is a relation of Lord Coombe's.\"\n\n\"Indeed, ma'am,\" with colourless civility, \"Anne said he was a\nbig handsome child.\"\n\nFeather took a small bunch of hothouse grapes from her breakfast\ntray and, after picking one off, suddenly began to laugh.\n\n\"Good gracious, Andrews!\" she said. \"He was the 'shock'! How\nperfectly ridiculous! Robin had never played with a boy before\nand she fell in love with him. The little thing's actually pining\naway for him.\" She dropped the grapes and gave herself up to\ndelicate mirth. \"He was taken away and disappeared. Perhaps she\nfainted and fell into the wet flower bed and spoiled her frock,\nwhen she first realized that he wasn't coming.\"\n\n\"It did happen that morning,\" admitted Andrews, smiling a little\nalso. \"It does seem funny. But children take to each other in a\nqueer way now and then. I've seen it upset them dreadful when they\nwere parted.\"\n\n\"You must tell the doctor,\" laughed Feather. \"Then he'll see\nthere's nothing to be anxious about. She'll get over it in a week.\"\n\n\"It's five weeks since it happened, ma'am,\" remarked Andrews, with\njust a touch of seriousness.\n\n\"Five! Why, so it must be! I remember the day I spoke to Mrs.\nMuir. If she's that sort of child you had better keep her away from\nboys. HOW ridiculous! How Lord Coombe--how people will laugh when\nI tell them!\"\n\nShe had paused a second because--for that second--she was not quite\nsure that Coombe WOULD laugh. Frequently she was of the opinion\nthat he did not laugh at things when he should have done so. But\nshe had had a brief furious moment when she had realized that the\nboy had actually been whisked away. She remembered the clearness of\nthe fine eyes which had looked directly into hers. The woman had\nbeen deciding then that she would have nothing to do with her--or\neven with her child.\n\nBut the story of Robin worn by a bereft nursery passion for a little\nboy, whose mamma snatched him away as a brand from the burning,\nwas far too edifying not to be related to those who would find it\ndelicious.\n\nIt was on the occasion, a night or so later, of a gathering at\ndinner of exactly the few elect ones, whose power to find it\ndelicious was the most highly developed, that she related it. It\nwas a very little dinner--only four people. One was the long thin\nyoung man, with the good looking narrow face and dark eyes peering\nthrough a pince nez--the one who had said that Mrs. Gareth-Lawless\n\"got her wondrous clothes from Helene\" but that he couldn't. His\nname was Harrowby. Another was the Starling who was a Miss March\nwho had, some years earlier, led the van of the girls who prostrated\ntheir relatives by becoming what was then called \"emancipated\"; the\nsign thereof being the demanding of latchkeys and the setting up\nof bachelor apartments. The relatives had astonishingly settled\ndown, with the unmoved passage of time, and more modern emancipation\nhad so far left latchkeys and bachelor apartments behind it that\nthey began to seem almost old-fogeyish. Clara March, however,\nhad progressed with her day. The third diner was an adored young\nactor with a low, veiled voice which, combining itself with almond\neyes and a sentimental and emotional curve of cheek and chin, made\nthe most commonplace \"lines\" sound yearningly impassioned. He was\nnot impassioned at all--merely fond of his pleasures and comforts\nin a way which would end by his becoming stout. At present his\nfigure was perfect--exactly the thing for the uniforms of royal\npersons of Ruritania and places of that ilk--and the name by which\nprogrammes presented him was Gerald Vesey.\n\nFeather's house pleased him and she herself liked being spoken\nto in the veiled voice and gazed at by the almond eyes, as though\ninsuperable obstacles alone prevented soul-stirring things from\nbeing said. That she knew this was not true did not interfere with\nher liking it. Besides he adored and understood her clothes.\n\nOver coffee in the drawing-room, Coombe joined them. He had not\nknown of the little dinner and arrived just as Feather was on the\npoint of beginning her story.\n\n\"You are just in time,\" she greeted him, \"I was going to tell them\nsomething to make them laugh.\"\n\n\"Will it make me laugh?\" he inquired.\n\n\"It ought to. Robin is in love. She is five years old and she has\nbeen deserted, and Andrews came to tell me that she can neither\neat nor sleep. The doctor says she has had a shock.\"\n\nCoombe did not join in the ripple of amused laughter but, as he\ntook his cup of coffee, he looked interested.\n\nHarrowby was interested too. His dark eyes quite gleamed.\n\n\"I suppose she is in bed by now,\" he said. \"If it were not so late,\nI should beg you to have her brought down so that we might have a\nlook at her. I'm by way of taking a psychological interest.\"\n\n\"I'm psychological myself,\" said the Starling. \"But what do you\nmean, Feather? Are you in earnest?\"\n\n\"Andrews is,\" Feather answered. \"She could manage measles but she\ncould not be responsible for shock. But she didn't find out about\nthe love affair. I found that out--by mere chance. Do you remember\nthe day we got out of the victoria and went into the Gardens,\nStarling?\"\n\n\"The time you spoke to Mrs. Muir?\"\n\nCoombe turned slightly towards them.\n\nFeather nodded, with a lightly significant air.\n\n\"It was her boy,\" she said, and then she laughed and nodded at\nCoombe.\n\n\"He was quite as handsome as you said he was. No wonder poor Robin\nfell prostrate. He ought to be chained and muzzled by law when he\ngrows up.\"\n\n\"But so ought Robin,\" threw in the Starling in her brusque, young\nmannish way.\n\n\"But Robin's only a girl and she's not a parti,\" laughed Feather.\nHer eyes, lifted to Coombe's, held a sort of childlike malice.\n\"After his mother knew she was Miss Gareth-Lawless, he was not\nallowed to play in the Gardens again. Did she take him back to\nScotland?\"\n\n\"They went back to Scotland,\" answered Coombe, \"and, of course,\nthe boy was not left behind.\"\n\n\"Have YOU a child five years old?\" asked Vesey in his low voice\nof Feather. \"You?\"\n\n\"It seems absurd to ME,\" said Feather, \"I never quite believe in\nher.\"\n\n\"I don't,\" said Vesey. \"She's impossible.\"\n\n\"Robin is a stimulating name,\" put in Harrowby. \"IS it too late\nto let us see her? If she's such a beauty as Starling hints, she\nought to be looked at.\"\n\nFeather actually touched the bell by the fireplace. A sudden\ncaprice moved her. The love story had not gone off quite as well\nas she had thought it would. And, after all, the child was pretty\nenough to show off. She knew nothing in particular about her\ndaughter's hours, but, if she was asleep, she could be wakened.\n\n\"Tell Andrews,\" she said to the footman when he appeared, \"I wish\nMiss Robin to be brought downstairs.\"\n\n\"They usually go to bed at seven, I believe,\" remarked Coombe,\n\"but, of course, I am not an authority.\"\n\nRobin was not asleep though she had long been in bed. Because she\nkept her eyes shut Andrews had been deceived into carrying on a\nconversation with her sister Anne, who had come to see her. Robin\nhad been lying listening to it. She had begun to listen because\nthey had been talking about the day she had spoiled her rose-coloured\nsmock and they had ended by being very frank about other things.\n\n\"As sure as you saw her speak to the boy's mother the day before,\njust so sure she whisked him back to Scotland the next morning,\"\nsaid Andrews. \"She's one of the kind that's particular. Lord\nCoombe's the reason. She does not want her boy to see or speak to\nhim, if it can be helped. She won't have it--and when she found\nout--\"\n\n\"Is Lord Coombe as bad as they say?\" put in Anne with bated breath.\n\"He must be pretty bad if a boy that's eight years old has to be\nkept out of sight and sound of him.\"\n\nSo it was Lord Coombe who had somehow done it. He had made Donal's\nmother take him away. It was Lord Coombe. Who was Lord Coombe? It\nwas because he was wicked that Donal's mother would not let him\nplay with her--because he was wicked. All at once there came to\nher a memory of having heard his name before. She had heard it\nseveral times in the basement Servants' Hall and, though she had\nnot understood what was said about him, she had felt the atmosphere\nof cynical disapproval of something. They had said \"him\" and \"her\"\nas if he somehow belonged to the house. On one occasion he had\nbeen \"high\" in the manner of some reproof to Jennings, who, being\nenraged, freely expressed his opinions of his lordship's character\nand general reputation. The impression made on Robin then had been\nthat he was a person to be condemned severely. That the condemnation\nwas the mere outcome of the temper of an impudent young footman\nhad not conveyed itself to her, and it was the impression which\ncame back to her now with a new significance. He was the cause--not\nDonal, not Donal's Mother--but this man who was so bad that servants\nwere angry because he was somehow connected with the house.\n\n\"As to his badness,\" she heard Andrews answer, \"there's some that\ncan't say enough against him. Badness is smart these days. He's\nbad enough for the boy's mother to take him away from. It's what\nhe is in this house that does it. She won't have her boy playing\nwith a child like Robin.\"\n\nThen--even as there flashed upon her bewilderment this strange\nrevelation of her own unfitness for association with boys whose\nmothers took care of them--Jennings, the young footman, came to\nthe door.\n\n\"Is she awake, Miss Andrews?\" he said, looking greatly edified by\nAndrews' astonished countenance.\n\n\"What on earth--?\" began Andrews.\n\n\"If she is,\" Jennings winked humorously, \"she's to be dressed up\nand taken down to the drawing-room to be shown off. I don't know\nwhether it's Coombe's idea or not. He's there.\"\n\nRobin's eyes flew wide open. She forgot to keep them shut. She\nwas to go downstairs! Who wanted her--who?\n\nAndrews had quite gasped.\n\n\"Here's a new break out!\" she exclaimed. \"I never heard such a\nthing in my life. She's been in bed over two hours. I'd like to\nknow--\"\n\nShe paused here because her glance at the bed met the dark liquidity\nof eyes wide open. She got up and walked across the room.\n\n\"You are awake!\" she said. \"You look as if you hadn't been asleep\nat all. You're to get up and have your frock put on. The Lady\nDownstairs wants you in the drawing-room.\"\n\nTwo months earlier such a piece of information would have awakened\nin the child a delirium of delight. But now her vitality was lowered\nbecause her previously unawakened little soul had soared so high\nand been so dashed down to cruel earth again. The brilliancy of\nthe Lady Downstairs had been dimmed as a candle is dimmed by the\nlight of the sun.\n\nShe felt only a vague wonder as she did as Andrews told her--wonder\nat the strangeness of getting up to be dressed, as it seemed to\nher, in the middle of the night.\n\n\"It's just the kind of thing that would happen in a house like\nthis,\" grumbled Andrews, as she put on her frock. \"Just anything\nthat comes into their heads they think they've a right to do. I\nsuppose they have, too. If you're rich and aristocratic enough to\nhave your own way, why not take it? I would myself.\"\n\nThe big silk curls, all in a heap, fell almost to the child's hips.\nThe frock Andrews chose for her was a fairy thing.\n\n\"She IS a bit thin, to be sure,\" said the girl Anne. \"But it points\nher little face and makes her eyes look bigger.\"\n\n\"If her mother's got a Marquis, I wonder what she'll get,\" said\nAndrews. \"She's got a lot before her: this one!\"\n\nWhen the child entered the drawing-room, Andrews made her go in\nalone, while she held herself, properly, a few paces back like a\nlady in waiting. The room was brilliantly lighted and seemed full\nof colour and people who were laughing. There were pretty things\ncrowding each other everywhere, and there were flowers on all sides.\nThe Lady Downstairs, in a sheathlike sparkling dress, and only\na glittering strap seeming to hold it on over her fair undressed\nshoulders, was talking to a tall thin man standing before the\nfireplace with a gold cup of coffee in his hand.\n\nAs the little thing strayed in, with her rather rigid attendant\nbehind her, suddenly the laughing ceased and everybody involuntarily\ndrew a half startled breath--everybody but the tall thin man, who\nquietly turned and set his coffee cup down on the mantel piece\nbehind him.\n\n\"Is THIS what you have been keeping up your sleeve!\" said Harrowby,\nsettling his pince nez.\n\n\"I told you!\" said the Starling.\n\n\"You couldn't tell us,\" Vesey's veiled voice dropped in softly.\n\"It must be seen to be believed. But still--\" aside to Feather,\n\"I don't believe it.\"\n\n\"Enter, my only child!\" said Feather. \"Come here, Robin. Come to\nyour mother.\"\n\nNow was the time! Robin went to her and took hold of a very small\npiece of her sparkling dress.\n\n\"ARE you my Mother?\" she said. And then everybody burst into a\npeal of laughter, Feather with the rest.\n\n\"She calls me the Lady Downstairs,\" she said. \"I really believe\nshe doesn't know. She's rather a stupid little thing.\"\n\n\"Amazing lack of filial affection,\" said Lord Coombe.\n\nHe was not laughing like the rest and he was looking down at Robin.\nShe thought him ugly and wicked looking. Vesey and Harrowby were\nbeautiful by contrast. Before she knew who he was, she disliked\nhim. She looked at him askance under her eyelashes, and he saw her\ndo it before her mother spoke his name, taking her by the tips of\nher fingers and leading her to him.\n\n\"Come and let Lord Coombe look at you,\" she said. So it revealed\nitself to her that it was he--this ugly one--who had done it, and\nhatred surged up in her soul. It was actually in the eyes she\nraised to his face, and Coombe saw it as he had seen the sidelong\nglance and he wondered what it meant.\n\n\"Shake hands with Lord Coombe,\" Feather instructed.\n\n\"If you can make a curtsey, make one.\" She turned her head over\nher shoulders, \"Have you taught her to curtsey, Andrews?\"\n\nBut Andrews had not and secretly lost temper at finding herself made\nto figure as a nurse who had been capable of omission. Outwardly\nshe preserved rigid calm.\n\n\"I'm afraid not, ma'am. I will at once, if you wish it.\"\n\nCoombe was watching the inner abhorrence in the little face. Robin\nhad put her hand behind her back--she who had never disobeyed since\nshe was born! She had crossed a line of development when she had\nseen glimpses of the new world through Donal's eyes.\n\n\"What are you doing, you silly little thing,\" Feather reproved\nher. \"Shake hands with Lord Coombe.\"\n\nRobin shook her head fiercely.\n\n\"No! No! No! No!\" she protested.\n\nFeather was disgusted. This was not the kind of child to display.\n\n\"Rude little thing! Andrews, come and make her do it--or take her\nupstairs,\" she said.\n\nCoombe took his gold coffee cup from the mantel.\n\n\"She regards me with marked antipathy, as she did when she first\nsaw me,\" he summed the matter up. \"Children and animals don't hate\none without reason. It is some remote iniquity in my character\nwhich the rest of us have not yet detected.\" To Robin he said,\n\"I do not want to shake hands with you if you object. I prefer to\ndrink my coffee out of this beautiful cup.\"\n\nBut Andrews was seething. Having no conscience whatever, she\nhad instead the pride of a female devil in her perfection in her\nprofessional duties. That the child she was responsible for should\nstamp her with ignominious fourth-ratedness by conducting herself\nwith as small grace as an infant costermonger was more than\nher special order of flesh and blood could bear--and yet she must\noutwardly control the flesh and blood.\n\nIn obedience to her mistress' command, she crossed the room and\nbent down and whispered to Robin. She intended that her countenance\nshould remain non-committal, but, when she lifted her head, she\nmet Coombe's eyes and realized that perhaps it had not. She added\nto her whisper nursery instructions in a voice of sugar.\n\n\"Be pretty mannered, Miss Robin, my dear, and shake hands with\nhis lordship.\"\n\nEach person in the little drawing-room saw the queer flame in the\nchild-face--Coombe himself was fantastically struck by the sudden\nthought that its expression might have been that of an obstinate\nyoung martyr staring at the stake. Robin shrilled out her words:\n\n\"Andrews will pinch me--Andrews will pinch me! But--No!--No!\" and\nshe kept her hand behind her back.\n\n\"Oh, Miss Robin, you naughty child!\" cried Andrews, with pathos.\n\"Your poor Andrews that takes such care of you!\"\n\n\"Horrid little thing!\" Feather pettishly exclaimed. \"Take her\nupstairs, Andrews. She shall not come down again.\"\n\nHarrowby, settling his pince nez a little excitedly in the spurred\nnovelty of his interest, murmured,\n\n\"If she doesn't want to go, she will begin to shriek. This looks\nas if she were a little termagant.\"\n\nBut she did not shriek when Andrews led her towards the door.\nThe ugly one with the wicked face was the one who had done it. He\nfilled her with horror. To have touched him would have been like\ntouching some wild beast of prey. That was all. She went with\nAndrews quite quietly.\n\n\"Will you shake hands with me?\" said the Starling, goodnaturedly,\nas she passed, \"I hope she won't snub me,\" she dropped aside to\nHarrowby.\n\nRobin put out her hand prettily.\n\n\"Shake mine,\" suggested Harrowby, and she obeyed him.\n\n\"And mine?\" smiled Vesey, with his best allure. She gave him\nher hand, and, as a result of the allure probably, a tiny smile\nflickered about the corners of her mouth. He did not look wicked.\n\n\"I remain an outcast,\" remarked Coombe, as the door closed behind\nthe little figure.\n\n\"I detest an ill-mannered child,\" said Feather. \"She ought to be\nslapped. We used to be slapped if we were rude.\"\n\n\"She said Andrews would pinch her. Is pinching the customary\ndiscipline?\"\n\n\"It ought to be. She deserves it.\" Feather was quite out of temper.\n\"But Andrews is too good to her. She is a perfect creature and\nconducts herself like a clock. There has never been the slightest\ntrouble in the Nursery. You see how the child looks--though her\nface ISN'T quite as round as it was.\" She laughed disagreeably\nand shrugged her white undressed shoulders. \"I think it's a little\nhorrid, myself--a child of that age fretting herself thin about\na boy.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\n\n\n\nBut though she had made no protest on being taken out of the\ndrawing-room, Robin had known that what Andrews' soft-sounding\nwhisper had promised would take place when she reached the Nursery.\nShe was too young to feel more than terror which had no defense\nwhatever. She had no more defense against Andrews than she had\nhad against the man who had robbed her of Donal. They were both\nbig and powerful, and she was nothing. But, out of the wonders\nshe had begun to know, there had risen in her before almost inert\nlittle being a certain stirring. For a brief period she had learned\nhappiness and love and woe, and, this evening, inchoate rebellion\nagainst an enemy. Andrews led by the hand up the narrow, top-story\nstaircase something she had never led before. She was quite unaware\nof this and, as she mounted each step, her temper mounted also,\nand it was the temper of an incensed personal vanity abnormally\nstrong in this particular woman. When they were inside the Nursery\nand the door was shut, she led Robin to the middle of the small\nand gloomy room and released her hand.\n\n\"Now, my lady,\" she said. \"I'm going to pay you out for disgracing\nme before everybody in the drawing-room.\" She had taken the child\nbelow stairs for a few minutes before bringing her up for the\nnight. She had stopped in the kitchen for something she wanted for\nherself. She laid her belongings on a chest of drawers and turned\nabout.\n\n\"I'm going to teach you a lesson you won't forget,\" she said.\n\nWhat happened next turned the woman quite sick with the shock of\namazement. The child had, in the past, been a soft puppet. She\nhad been automatic obedience and gentleness. Privately Andrews\nhad somewhat looked down on her lack of spirit, though it had been\nher own best asset. The outbreak downstairs had been an abnormality.\n\nAnd now she stood before her with hands clenched, her little face\nwild with defiant rage.\n\n\"I'll scream! I'll scream! I'll SCREAM!\" she shrieked. Andrews\nactually heard herself gulp; but she sprang up and forward.\n\n\"You'll SCREAM!\" she could scarcely believe her own feelings--not\nto mention the evidence of her ears, \"YOU'LL scream!\"\n\nThe next instant was more astonishing still. Robin threw herself on\nher knees and scrambled like a cat. She was under the bed and in\nthe remotest corner against the wall. She was actually unreachable,\nand she lay on her back kicking madly, hammering her heels against\nthe floor and uttering piercing shrieks. As something had seemed\nto let itself go when she writhed under the bushes in the Gardens,\nso did something let go now. In her overstrung little mind there\nruled for this moment the feeling that if she was to be pinched,\nshe would be pinched for a reason.\n\nAndrews knelt by the side of the bed. She had a long, strong,\nthin arm and it darted beneath and clutched. But it was not long\nenough to attain the corner where the kicking and screaming was\ngoing on. Her temper became fury before her impotence and her\nhideous realization of being made ridiculous by this baby of six.\nTwo floors below the afterglow of the little dinner was going on.\nSuppose even far echoes of the screams should be heard and make\nher more ridiculous still. She knew how they would laugh and her\nmistress would make some silly joke about Robin's being too much\nfor her. Her fury rose so high that she had barely sense to realize\nthat she must not let herself go too far when she got hold of the\nchild. Get hold of her she would and pay her out--My word! She\nwould pay her out!\n\n\"You little devil!\" she said between her teeth, \"Wait till I get\nhold of you.\" And Robin shrieked and hammered more insanely still.\n\nThe bed was rather a low one and it was difficult for any one larger\nthan a child to find room beneath it. The correct and naturally\nrigid Andrews lay flat upon her stomach and wriggled herself partly\nunder the edge. Just far enough for her long and strong arm, and\nequally long and strong clutching fingers to do their work. In her\npresent state of mind, Andrews would have broken her back rather\nthan not have reached the creature who so defied her. The strong\nfingers clenched a flying petticoat and dragged at it fiercely--the\nnext moment they clutched a frantic foot, with a power which could\nnot be broken away from. A jerk and a remorseless dragging over\nthe carpet and Robin was out of the protecting darkness and in\nthe gas light again, lying tumbled and in an untidy, torn little\nheap on the nursery floor. Andrews was panting, but she did not\nloose her hold as she scrambled, without a rag of professional\ndignity, to her feet.\n\n\"My word!\" she breathlessly gave forth. \"I've got you now! I've\ngot you now.\"\n\nShe so looked that to Robin she seemed--like the ugly man\ndownstairs--a sort of wicked wild beast, whose mere touch would\nhave been horror even if it did not hurt. And the child knew what\nwas coming. She felt herself dragged up from the floor and also\ndragged between Andrew's knees, which felt bony and hard as iron.\nThere was no getting away from them. Andrews had seated herself\nfirmly on a chair.\n\nHolding her between the iron knees, she put her large hand over\nher mouth. It was a hand large enough to cover more than her mouth.\nOnly the panic-stricken eyes seemed to flare wide and lustrous\nabove it.\n\n\"YOU'LL scream!\" she said, \"YOU'LL hammer on the floor with your\nheels! YOU'LL behave like a wildcat--you that's been like a kitten!\nYou've never done it before and you'll never do it again! If it\ntakes me three days, I'll make you remember!\"\n\nAnd then her hand dropped--and her jaw dropped, and she sat staring\nwith a furious, sick, white face at the open door--which she had\nshut as she came in. The top floor had always been so safe. The\nNursery had been her own autocratic domain. There had been no\nhuman creature to whom it would have occurred to interfere. That\nwas it. She had been actually SAFE.\n\nUnheard in the midst of the struggle, the door had been opened\nwithout a knock. There on the threshold, as stiff as a ramrod,\nand with his hateful eyes uncovering their gleam, Lord Coombe was\nstanding--no other than Lord Coombe.\n\nHaving a sharp working knowledge of her world, Andrews knew that\nit was all up. He had come upstairs deliberately. She knew what\nhe had come for. He was as clever as he was bad, and he had seen\nsomething when he glanced at her in the drawing-room. Now he had\nheard and seen her as she dragged Robin from under the bed. He'd\ncome up for that--for some queer evil reason of his own. The\npromptings of a remote gutter training made her feel a desire to\nuse language such as she still had wisdom enough to restrain.\n\n\"You are a very great fool, young woman,\" he said. \"You have\nnothing but your character as a nurse to live on. A scene in a\npolice court would ruin you. There is a Society which interferes\nwith nursery torture.\"\n\nRobin, freed from the iron grasp, had slunk behind a chair. He\nwas there again.\n\nAndrews' body, automatically responsive to rule and habit, rose from\nits seat and stood before this member of a class which required\nan upright position. She knew better than to attempt to excuse or\nexplain. She had heard about the Society and she knew publicity would\nspell ruin and starvation. She had got herself into an appalling\nmess. Being caught--there you were. But that this evil-reputationed\nswell should actually have been awakened by some whim to notice\nand follow her up was \"past her,\" as she would have put it.\n\n\"You were going to pinch her--by instalments, I suppose,\" he\nsaid. \"You inferred that it might last three days. When she said\nyou would--in the drawing-room--it occurred to me to look into it.\nWhat are your wages?\"\n\n\"Thirty pounds a year, my lord.\"\n\n\"Go tomorrow morning to Benby, who engaged you for Mrs. Gareth-Lawless.\nHe will be at his office by nine and will pay you what is owed to\nyou--and a month's wages in lieu of notice.\"\n\n\"The mistress--\" began Andrews.\n\n\"I have spoken to Mrs. Gareth-Lawless.\" It was a lie, serenely\ntold. Feather was doing a new skirt dance in the drawing-room.\n\"She is engaged. Pack your box. Jennings will call a cab.\"\n\nIt was the utter idiotic hopelessness of saying anything to\nhim which finished her. You might as well talk to a front door or\na street lamp. Any silly thing you might try wouldn't even reach\nhis ears. He had no ears for you. You didn't matter enough.\n\n\"Shall I leave her here--as she is?\" she said, denoting Robin.\n\n\"Undress her and put her to bed before you pack your box,\" absolutely\ncertain, fine cold modulations in the voice, which stood for his\nspecial plane of breeding, had their effect on her grovelling\nthough raging soul. He was so exactly what he was and what she\nwas not and could never attain. \"I will stay here while you do\nit. Then go.\"\n\nNo vocabulary of the Servants' Hall could have encompassed the fine\nphrase grand seigneur, but, when Mrs. Blayne and the rest talked\nof him in their least resentful and more amiable moods, they\nunconsciously made efforts to express the quality in him which\nthese two words convey. He had ways of his own. Men that paid a\npretty woman's bills and kept her going in luxury, Jennings and\nMrs. Blayne and the others knew something about. They sometimes\nbegan well enough but, as time went on, they forgot themselves\nand got into the way of being familiar and showing they realized\nthat they paid for things and had their rights. Most of them began\nto be almost like husbands--speak slighting and sharp and be a bit\nstiff about accounts--even before servants. They ran in and out\nor--after a while--began to stay away and not show up for weeks.\n\"He\" was different--so different that it was queer. Queer it certainly\nwas that he really came to the place very seldom. Wherever they\nmet, it didn't noticeably often happen in the slice of a house.\nHe came as if he were a visitor. He took no liberties. Everything\nwas punctiliously referred to Mrs. Gareth-Lawless. Mr. Benby, who\ndid everything, conducted himself outwardly as if he were a sort\nof man of business in Mrs. Gareth-Lawless' employ. It was open to\nthe lenient to believe that she depended on some mysterious private\nincome. There were people who preferred to try to believe this,\nbut there were those who, in some occult way, knew exactly where\nher income came from. There were, in fact, hypercritical persons\nwho did not know or notice her, but she had quite an entertaining,\nsmart circle which neither suspicions nor beliefs prevented from\nplacing her in their visiting lists. Coombe DID keep it up in the\nmost perfect manner, some of them said admiringly among themselves.\nHe showed extraordinarily perfect taste. Many fashionable open\nsecrets, accepted by a brilliant world, were not half so fastidiously\nmanaged. Andrews knew he had unswervingly lied when he said he\nhad \"spoken to Mrs. Gareth-Lawless.\" But he never failed to place\nher in the position of authority. That he should have presented\nhimself on the nursery floor was amazingly abnormal enough to\nmean some state of mind unregulated by all natural rules. \"Him,\"\nAndrews thought, \"that never steps out of a visitor's place in\nthe drawing-room turning up on the third floor without a word!\"\nOne thing she knew, and that came first. Behind all the polite show\nhe was the head of everything. And he was one that you'd better\nnot give back a sound to if you knew what was good for yourself.\nWhatever people said against his character, he was one of the\ngrand and high ones. A word from him--ever so quiet--and you'd be\ndone for.\n\nShe was shaking with fear inwardly, but she undressed Robin and\nput her in bed, laying everything away and making things tidy for\nthe night.\n\n\"This is the Night Nursery, I suppose,\" Coombe had said when she\nbegan. He put up his glasses and looked the uninviting little room\nover. He scrutinized it and she wondered what his opinion of it\nmight be.\n\n\"Yes, my lord. The Day Nursery is through that door.\" He walked\nthrough the door in question and she could see that he moved slowly\nabout it, examining the few pieces of furniture curiously, still\nwith his glass in his eye. She had finished undressing Robin\nand had put her in her bed before he came back into the sleeping\napartment. By that time, exhausted by the unknown tempest she had\npassed through, the child had dropped asleep in spite of herself.\nShe was too tired to remember that her enemy was in the next room.\n\n\"I have seen the child with you several times when you have not\nbeen aware of it,\" Coombe said to her before he went downstairs.\n\"She has evidently been well taken care of as far as her body\nis concerned. If you were not venomous--if you had merely struck\nher, when you lost your temper, you might have had another trial.\nI know nothing about children, but I know something about the\ndevil, and if ever the devil was in a woman's face and voice the\ndevil was in yours when you dragged the little creature from under\nthe bed. If you had dared, you would have killed her. Look after\nthat temper, young woman. Benby shall keep an eye on you if you\ntake another place as nurse, and I shall know where you are.\"\n\n\"My lord!\" Andrews gasped. \"You wouldn't overlook a woman and take\nher living from her and send her to starvation!\"\n\n\"I would take her living from her and send her to starvation\nwithout a shadow of compunction,\" was the reply made in the fine\ngentleman's cultivated voice, \"--if she were capable of what you\nwere capable of tonight. You are, I judge, about forty, and, though\nyou are lean, you are a powerful woman; the child is, I believe,\nbarely six.\" And then, looking down at her through his glass, he\nadded--to her quite shuddering astonishment--in a tone whose very\nsoftness made it really awful to her, \"Damn you! Damn you!\"\n\n\"I'll--I swear I'll never let myself go again, my lord!\" the woman\nbroke out devoutly.\n\n\"I don't think you will. It would cost you too much,\" he said.\n\nThen he went down the steep, crooked little staircase quite\nsoundlessly and Andrews, rather white and breathless, went and\npacked her trunk. Robin--tired baby as she was--slept warm and\ndeeply.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\n\n\n\nIt was no custom of his to outstay other people; in fact, he\nusually went away comparatively early. Feather could not imagine\nwhat his reason could be, but she was sure there was a reason.\nShe was often disturbed by his reasons, and found it difficult to\nadjust herself to them. How--even if one had a logically brilliant\nmind--could one calculate on a male being, who seemed not exactly\nto belong to the race of men.\n\nAs a result of the skirt dancing, the furniture of the empty\ndrawing-room was a little scattered and untidy, but Feather had\nfound a suitable corner among cushions on a sofa, after everyone\nhad gone leaving Coombe alone with her. She wished he would sit\ndown, but he preferred to stand in his still, uncomfortable way.\n\n\"I know you are going to tell me something,\" she broke the silence.\n\n\"I am. When I went out of the room, I did not drive round to my\nclub as I said I found myself obliged to. I went upstairs to the\nthird floor--to the Nursery.\"\n\nFeather sat quite upright.\n\n\"YOU went up to the Nursery!\" If this was the reason for his staying,\nwhat on earth had he come upon in the region of the third floor,\nand how ridiculously unlike him to allow himself to interfere.\nCould it be Andrews and Jennings? Surely Andrews was too old.--This\npassed across her mind in a flash.\n\n\"You called Andrews to use her authority with the child when she\nwould not shake hands with me. The little creature, for some reason\nof her own, evidently feels an antipathy to me. That interested\nme and I watched her as Andrews whispered in her ear. The woman's\nvanity was stung. I realized that she whispered a threat. A hint\nof actual ferocity showed in her eyes in spite of herself. Robin\nturned pale.\"\n\n\"Andrews was quite right. Children must be punished when they are\nrude.\" Feather felt this at once silly and boring. What did he\nknow about such matters?\n\n\"The child said, 'Andrews will pinch me!' and I caught Andrews' eye\nand knew it was true--also that she had done it before. I looked\nat the woman's long, thin, strong fingers. They were cruel fingers.\nI do not take liberties, as a rule, but I took a liberty. I excused\nmyself and climbed three flights of stairs.\"\n\nNever had Feather been so surprised in her life. She looked like\na bewildered child.\n\n\"But--what COULD it matter to YOU?\" she said in soft amaze.\n\n\"I don't know,\" his answer came after a moment's pause. \"I have\ncaprices of mood. Certain mental images made my temperature rise.\nMomentarily it did matter. One is like that at times. Andrews'\nfeline face and her muscular fingers--and the child's extraordinarily\nexquisite flesh--gave me a second's furious shudder.\"\n\nFeather quite broke in upon him.\n\n\"Are you--are you FOND of children?\"\n\n\"No,\" he was really abrupt. \"I never thought of such a thing in\nmy life--as being FOND of things.\"\n\n\"That was what--I mean I thought so.\" Feather faltered, as if in\npolite acquiescence with a quite natural fact.\n\nCoombe proceeded:\n\n\"As I went up the stairs I heard screams and I thought that\nthe pinching had begun. I got up quickly and opened the door and\nfound the woman lying flat on the floor by the bed, dragging out\nthe child who had hidden under it. The woman's face was devilish,\nand so was her voice. I heard her threats. She got on her feet and\ndragged the child up and held her between her knees. She clapped\nher hand over mouth to stifle her shrieks. There I stopped her.\nShe had a fright at sight of me which taught her something.\" He\nended rather slowly. \"I took the great liberty of ordering her\nto pack her box and leave the house--course,\" with a slight bow,\n\"using you as my authority.\"\n\n\"Andrews!\" cried Feather, aghast. \"Has she--gone?\"\n\n\"Would you have kept her?\" he inquired.\n\n\"It's true that--that PINCHING\" Feather's voice almost held tears,\n\"--really HARD pinching is--is not proper. But Andrews has been\ninvaluable. Everyone says Robin is better dressed and better kept\nthan other children. And she is never allowed to make the least\nnoise--\"\n\n\"One wouldn't if one were pinched by those devilish, sinewy fingers\nevery time one raised one's voice. Yes. She has gone. I ordered\nher to put her charge to bed before she packed. I did not leave\nher alone with Robin. In fact, I walked about the two nurseries\nand looked them over.\"\n\nHe had walked about the Night Nursery and the Day Nursery! He--the\nHead of the House of Coombe, whose finely acrid summing up of\nthings, they were all secretly afraid of, if the truth were known.\n\"They\" stood for her smart, feverishly pleasure-chasing set. In\ntheir way, they half unconsciously tried to propitiate something\nin him, always without producing the least effect. Her mental\nvision presented to her his image as he had walked about the horrid\nlittle rooms, his somewhat stiffly held head not much below the\nlow ceilings. He had taken in shabby carpets, furniture, faded\nwalls, general dim dinginess.\n\n\"It's an unholy den for anything to spend its days in--that third\nfloor,\" he made the statement detachedly, in a way. \"If she's six,\nshe has lived six years there--and known nothing else.\"\n\n\"All London top floors are like it,\" said Feather, \"and they are\nall nurseries and school rooms--where there are children.\"\n\nHis faintly smiling glance took in her girl-child slimness in its\nglittering sheath--the zephyr scarf floating from the snow of her\nbared loveliness--her delicate soft chin deliciously lifted as she\nlooked up at him.\n\n\"How would YOU like it?\" he asked.\n\n\"But I am not a child,\" in pretty protest. \"Children are--are\ndifferent!\"\n\n\"You look like a child,\" he suddenly said, queerly--as if the\naspect of her caught him for an instant and made him absent-minded.\n\"Sometimes--a woman does. Not often.\"\n\nShe bloomed into a kind of delighted radiance.\n\n\"You don't often pay me compliments,\" she said. \"That is a beautiful\none. Robin--makes it more beautiful.\"\n\n\"It isn't a compliment,\" he answered, still watching her in the\nslightly absent manner. \"It is--a tragic truth.\"\n\nHe passed his hand lightly across his eyes as if he swept something\naway, and then both looked and spoke exactly as before.\n\n\"I have decided to buy the long lease of this house. It is for\nsale,\" he said, casually. \"I shall buy it for the child.\"\n\n\"For Robin!\" said Feather, helplessly.\n\n\"Yes, for Robin.\"\n\n\"It--it would be an income--whatever happened. It is in the very\nheart of Mayfair,\" she said, because, in her astonishment--almost\nconsternation--she could think of nothing else. He would not buy\nit for her. He thought her too silly to trust. But, if it were\nRobin's--it would be hers also. A girl couldn't turn her own\nmother into the street. Amid the folds of her narrow being hid\njust one spark of shrewdness which came to life where she herself\nwas concerned.\n\n\"Two or three rooms--not large ones--can be added at the back,\"\nhe went on. \"I glanced out of a window to see if it could be done.\"\n\nIncomprehensible as he was, one might always be sure of a certain\nprinceliness in his inexplicable methods. He never was personal\nor mean. An addition to the slice of a house! That really WAS\ngenerous! Entrancement filled her.\n\n\"That really is kind of you,\" she murmured, gratefully. \"It seems\ntoo much to ask!\"\n\n\"You did not ask it,\" was his answer.\n\n\"But I shall benefit by it. Nothing COULD BE nicer. These rooms\nare so much too small,\" glancing about her in flushed rapture, \"And\nmy bedroom is dreadful. I'm obliged to use Rob's for a dressing-room.\"\n\n\"The new rooms will be for Robin,\" he said. An excellent method he\nhad discovered, of entirely detaching himself from the excitements\nand emotions of other persons, removed the usual difficulties\nin the way of disappointing--speaking truths to--or embarrassing\npeople who deserved it. It was this method which had utterly cast\ndown the defences of Andrews. Feather was so wholly left out of the\nsituation that she was actually almost saved from its awkwardness.\n\"When one is six,\" he explained, \"one will soon be seven--nine--twelve.\nThen the teens begin to loom up and one cannot be concealed in\ncupboards on a top floor. Even before that time a governess is\nnecessary, and, even from the abyss of my ignorance, I see that no\nrespectable woman would stand either the Night or the Day Nursery.\nYour daughter--\"\n\n\"Oh, don't call her THAT!\" cried Feather. \"My daughter! It sounds\nas if she were eighteen!\" She felt as if she had a sudden hideous\nlittle shock. Six years HAD passed since Bob died! A daughter! A\nschool girl with long hair and long legs to keep out of the way.\nA grown-up girl to drag about with one. Never would she do it!\n\n\"Three sixes are eighteen,\" Coombe continued, \"as was impressed\nupon one in early years by the multiplication table.\"\n\n\"I never saw you so interested in anything before,\" Feather faltered.\n\"Climbing steep, narrow, horrid stairs to her nursery! Dismissing\nher nurse!\" She paused a second, because a very ugly little idea\nhad clutched at her. It arose from and was complicated with many\nfantastic, half formed, secret resentments of the past. It made\nher laugh a shade hysterical.\n\n\"Are you going to see that she is properly brought up and educated,\nso that if--anyone important falls in love with her she can make\na good match?\"\n\nHers was quite a hideous little mind, he was telling himself--fearful\nin its latter day casting aside of all such small matters as taste\nand feeling. People stripped the garments from things in these\ndays. He laughed inwardly at himself and his unwitting \"these\ndays.\" Senile severity mouthed just such phrases. Were they not\nhis own days and the outcome of a past which had considered itself\nso much more decorous? Had not boldly questionable attitudes been\nheld in those other days? How long was it since the Prince Regent\nhimself had flourished? It was only that these days brought it\nall close against one's eyes. But this exquisite creature had a\nhideous little mind of her own whatsoever her day.\n\nLater, he confessed to himself that he was unprepared to see her\nspring to her feet and stand before him absurdly, fantastically\nnear being impassioned.\n\n\"You think I as too silly to SEE anything,\" she broke forth. \"But\nI do see--a long way sometimes. I can't bear it but I do--I do!\nI shall have a grown-up daughter. She will be the kind of girl\neveryone will look at--and someone--important--may want to marry\nher. But, Oh!--\" He was reminded of the day when she had fallen\nat his feet, and clasped his rigid and reluctant knees. This was\nsomething of the same feeble desperation of mood. \"Oh, WHY couldn't\nsomeone like that have wanted to marry ME! See!\" she was like\na pathetic fairy as she spread her nymphlike arms, \"how PRETTY I\nam!\"\n\nHis gaze held her a moment in the singular fashion with which she\nhad become actually familiar, because--at long intervals--she kept\nseeing it again. He quite gently took her fingers and returned\nher to her sofa.\n\n\"Please sit down again,\" he requested. \"It will be better.\"\n\nShe sat down without another imbecile word to say. As for him, he\nchanged the subject.\n\n\"With your permission, Benby will undertake the business of the\nlease and the building,\" he explained. \"The plans will be brought\nto you. We will go over them together, if you wish. There will be\ndecent rooms for Robin and her governess. The two nurseries can be\nmade fit for human beings to live in and used for other purposes.\nThe house will be greatly improved.\"\n\nIt was nearly three o'clock when Feather went upstairs to her\ndozing maid, because, after he had left her, she sat some time in\nthe empty, untidy little drawing-room and gazed straight before\nher at a painted screen on which shepherdesses and swains were\ndancing in a Watteau glade infested by flocks of little Loves.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWhen, from Robin's embarrassed young consciousness, there had\nwelled up the hesitating confession, \"She--doesn't like me,\" she\ncould not, of course, have found words in which to make the reasons\nfor her knowledge clear, but they had for herself no obscurity.\nThe fair being who, at rare intervals, fluttered on the threshold\nof her world had a way of looking at her with a shade of aloof\ndistaste in her always transient gaze.\n\nThe unadorned fact was that Feather did NOT like her. She had been\noutraged by her advent. A baby was absurdly \"out of the picture.\"\nSo far as her mind encompassed a future, she saw herself flitting\nfrom flower to flower of \"smart\" pleasures and successes,\nsomehow, with more money and more exalted invitations--\"something\"\nvaguely--having happened to the entire Lawdor progeny, and she,\ntherefore, occupying a position in which it was herself who could\ngracefully condescend to others. There was nothing so \"stodgy\"\nas children in the vision. When the worst came to the worst, she\nhad been consoled by the thought that she had really managed the\nwhole thing very cleverly. It was easier, of course, to so arrange\nsuch things in modern days and in town. The Day Nursery and the\nNight Nursery on the third floor, a smart-looking young woman\nwho knew her business, who even knew what to buy for a child and\nwhere to buy it, without troubling any one simplified the situation.\nAndrews had been quite wonderful. Nobody can bother one about\na healthy, handsome child who is seen meticulously cared for and\nbeautifully dressed, being pushed or led or carried out in the open\nair every day.\n\nBut there had arrived the special morning when she had seen a\nchild who so stood out among a dozen children that she had been\nstartled when she recognized that it was Robin. Andrews had taken\nher charge to Hyde Park that day and Feather was driving through\nthe Row on her way to a Knightsbridge shop. First her glance had\nbeen caught by the hair hanging to the little hips--extraordinary\nhair in which Andrews herself had a pride. Then she had seen the\nslender, exquisitely modeled legs, and the dancing sway of the\nsmall body. A wonderfully cut, stitched, and fagotted smock and hat\nshe had, of course, taken in at a flash. When the child suddenly\nturned to look at some little girls in a pony cart, the amazing\ndamask of her colour, and form and depth of eye had given her another\nslight shock. She realized that what she had thrust lightly away\nin a corner of her third floor produced an unmistakable effect when\nturned out into the light of a gay world. The creature was tall\ntoo--for six years old. Was she really six? It seemed incredible.\nTen more years and she would be sixteen.\n\nMrs. Heppel-Bevill had a girl of fifteen, who was a perfect\ncatastrophe. She read things and had begun to talk about her \"right\nto be a woman.\" Emily Heppel-Bevill was only thirty-seven--three\nyears from forty. Feather had reached the stage of softening in\nher disdain of the women in their thirties. She had found herself\nadmitting that--in these days--there were women of forty who had\nnot wholly passed beyond the pale into that outer darkness where\nthere was weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. But there\nwas no denying that this six year old baby, with the dancing step,\ngave one--almost hysterically--\"to think.\" Her imagination could\nnot--never had and never would she have allowed it to--grasp any\nbelief that she herself could change. A Feather, No! But a creature\nof sixteen, eighteen--with eyes that shape--with lashes an inch\nlong--with yards of hair--standing by one's side in ten years! It\nwas ghastly!\n\nCoombe, in his cold perfunctory way, climbing the crooked, narrow\nstairs, dismissing Andrews--looking over the rooms--dismissing\nthem, so to speak, and then remaining after the rest had gone\nto reveal to her a new abnormal mood--that, in itself alone, was\nactually horrible. It was abnormal and yet he had always been more\nor less like that in all things. Despite everything--everything--he\nhad never been in love with her at all. At first she had believed\nhe was--then she had tried to make him care for her. He had never\nfailed her, he had done everything in his grand seigneur fashion.\nNobody dare make gross comment upon her, but, while he saw her\nloveliness as only such a man could--she had gradually realized\nthat she had never had even a chance with him. She could not\neven think that if she had not been so silly and frightened that\nawful day six years ago, and had not lost her head, he might have\nadmired her more and more and in the end asked her to marry him.\nHe had said there must be no mistakes, and she had not been allowed\nto fall into making one. The fact that she had not, had, finally,\nmade her feel the power of a certain fascination in him. She thought\nit was a result of his special type of looks, his breeding, the\nwonderful clothes he wore--but it was, in truth, his varieties of\ninaccessibility.\n\n\"A girl might like him,\" she had said to herself that night--she\nsat up late after he left her. \"A girl who--who had up-to-date sense\nmight. Modern people don't grow old as they used to. At fifty-five\nhe won't be fat, or bald and he won't have lost his teeth. People\nhave found out they needn't. He will be as thin and straight as\nhe is today--and nothing can alter his nose. He will be ten years\ncleverer than he is now. Buying the house for a child of that\nage--building additional rooms for her!\"\n\nIn the fevered, rapid, deep-dipping whirl of the life which was\nthe only one she knew, she had often seen rather trying things\nhappen--almost unnatural changes in situations. People had overcome\nthe folly of being afraid to alter their minds and their views\nabout what they had temporarily believed were permanent bonds and\nemotions. Bonds had become old fogeyish. Marriages went to pieces,\nthe parties in love affairs engaged in a sort of \"dance down the\nmiddle\" and turn other people's partners. The rearrangement of\nfigures sometimes made for great witticism. Occasionally people\nlaughed at themselves as at each other. The admirers of engaging\nmatrons had been known to renew their youth at the coming-out balls\nof lovely daughters in their early teens, and to end by assuming\nthe flowery chains of a new allegiance. Time had, of course,\nbeen when such a volte face would have aroused condemnation and\nindignant discussion, but a humorous leniency spent but little\ntime in selecting terms of severity. Feather had known of several\nsuch contretemps ending in quite brilliant matches. The enchanting\nmothers usually consoled themselves with great ease, and, if the\nparty of each part was occasionally wittily pungent in her comments\non the other, everybody laughed and nobody had time to criticize.\nA man who had had much to bestow and who preferred in youth\nto bestow it upon himself was not infrequently more in the mood\nfor the sharing of marriage when years had revealed to him the\ndistressing fact that he was not, and had never been, the centre of\nthe universe, which distressing fact is one so unfairly concealed\nfrom youth in bloom.\n\nIt was, of course, but as a vaguely outlined vision that these\nrecognitions floated through what could only be alleged to be\nFeather's mind because there was no other name for it. The dark\nlittle staircase, the rejected and despised third floor, and Coombe\ndetachedly announcing his plans for the house, had set the--so to\nspeak--rather malarious mist flowing around her. A trying thing\nwas that it did not really dispel itself altogether, but continued\nto hang about the atmosphere surrounding other and more cheerful\nthings. Almost impalpably it added to the familiar feeling--or lack\nof feeling--with regard to Robin. She had not at all hated the\nlittle thing; it had merely been quite true that, in an inactive\nway, she had not LIKED her. In the folds of the vague mist quietly\nfloated the truth that she now liked her less.\n\nBenby came to see and talk to her on the business of the\nstructural changes to be made. He conducted himself precisely as\nthough her views on the matter were of value and could not, in\nfact, be dispensed with. He brought the architect's plans with him\nand explained them with care. They were clever plans which made\nthe most of a limited area. He did not even faintly smile when\nit revealed itself to him, as it unconsciously did, that Mrs.\nGareth-Lawless regarded their adroit arrangement as a singular\nmisuse of space which could have been much better employed for\nnecessities of her own. She was much depressed by the ground floor\naddition which might have enlarged her dining-room, but which was\nmade into a sitting-room for Robin and her future governess.\n\n\"And that is in ADDITION to her schoolroom which might have been\nthrown into the drawing-room--besides the new bedrooms which I\nneeded so much,\" she said.\n\n\"The new nurse, who is a highly respectable person,\" explained\nBenby, \"could not have been secured if she had not known that\nimprovements were being made. The reconstruction of the third floor\nwill provide suitable accommodations.\"\n\nThe special forte of Dowson, the new nurse, was a sublimated\nrespectability far superior to smartness. She had been mystically\nproduced by Benby and her bonnets and jackets alone would have\nrevealed her selection from almost occult treasures. She wore\nbonnets and \"jackets,\" not hats and coats.\n\n\"In the calm days of Her Majesty, nurses dressed as she does. I do\nnot mean in the riotous later years of her reign--but earlier--when\nEngland dreamed in terms of Crystal Palaces and Great Exhibitions.\nShe can only be the result of excavation,\" Coombe said of her.\n\nShe was as proud of her respectability as Andrews had been of her\nsmartness. This had, in fact, proved an almost insuperable obstacle\nto her engagement. The slice of a house, with its flocking in and\nout of chattering, smart people in marvellous clothes was not the\nplace for her, nor was Mrs. Gareth-Lawless the mistress of her\ndreams. But her husband had met with an accident and must be kept\nin a hospital, and an invalid daughter must live by the seaside--and\nsuddenly, when things were at their worst with her, had come\nBenby with a firm determination to secure her with wages such as\nno other place would offer. Besides which she had observed as she\nhad lived.\n\n\"Things have changed,\" she reflected soberly. \"You've got to resign\nyourself and not be too particular.\"\n\nShe accepted the third floor, as Benby had said, because it was to\nbe rearranged and the Night and Day Nurseries, being thrown into\none, repainted and papered would make a decent place to live in.\nAt the beautiful little girl given into her charge she often looked\nin a puzzled way, because she knew a good deal about children, and\nabout this one there was something odd. Her examination of opened\ndrawers and closets revealed piles of exquisite garments of all\nvarieties, all perfectly kept. In these dingy holes, which called\nthemselves nurseries, she found evidence that money had been spent\nlike water so that the child, when she was seen, might look like\na small princess. But she found no plaything--no dolls or toys,\nand only one picture book, and that had \"Donal\" written on the\nfly leaf and evidently belonged to someone else.\n\nWhat exactly she would have done when she had had time to think\nthe matter over, she never knew, because, a few days after her\narrival, a tall, thin gentleman, coming up the front steps as she\nwas going out with Robin, stopped and spoke to her as if he knew\nwho she was.\n\n\"You know the kind of things children like to play with, nurse?\"\nhe said.\n\nShe respectfully replied that she had had long experience with\nyoung desires. She did not know as yet who he was, but there was\nthat about him which made her feel that, while there was no knowing\nwhat height his particular exaltation in the matter of rank might\nreach, one would be safe in setting it high.\n\n\"Please go to one of the toy shops and choose for the child what\nshe will like best. Dolls--games--you will know what to select.\nSend the bill to me at Coombe House. I am Lord Coombe.\"\n\n\"Thank you, my lord,\" Dowson answered, with a sketch of a curtsey,\n\"Miss Robin, you must hold out your little hand and say 'thank\nyou' to his lordship for being so kind. He's told Dowson to buy\nyou some beautiful dolls and picture books as a present.\"\n\nRobin's eyelashes curled against her under brows in her wide, still\nglance upward at him. Here was \"the one\" again! She shut her hand\ntightly into a fist behind her back.\n\nLord Coombe smiled a little--not much.\n\n\"She does not like me,\" he said. \"It is not necessary that\nshe should give me her hand. I prefer that she shouldn't, if she\ndoesn't want to. Good morning, Dowson.\"\n\nTo the well-regulated mind of Dowson, this seemed treating too\nlightly a matter as serious as juvenile incivility. She remonstrated\ngravely and at length with Robin.\n\n\"Little girls must behave prettily to kind gentlemen who are\nfriends of their mammas. It is dreadful to be rude and not say\n'thank you',\" she said.\n\nBut as she talked she was vaguely aware that her words passed by\nthe child's ears as the summer wind passed. Perhaps it was all a\nbit of temper and would disappear and leave no trace behind. At\nthe same time, there WAS something queer about the little thing.\nShe had a listless way of sitting staring out of the window and\nseeming to have no desire to amuse herself. She was too young\nto be listless and she did not care for her food. Dowson asked\npermission to send for the doctor and, when he came, he ordered\nsea air.\n\n\"Of course, you can take her away for a few weeks,\" Mrs. Gareth-Lawless\nsaid. Here she smiled satirically and added, \"But I can tell you\nwhat it is all about. The little minx actually fell in love with\na small boy she met in the Square Gardens and, when his mother\ntook him from London, she began to mope like a tiresome girl in\nher teens. It's ridiculous, but is the real trouble.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Dowson, the low and respectful interjection expressing\na shade of disapproval, \"Children do have fancies, ma'am. She'll\nget over it if we give her something else to think of.\"\n\nThe good woman went to one of the large toy shops and bought a\nbeautiful doll, a doll's house, and some picture books. When they\nwere brought up to the Day Nursery, Robin was asleep after a rather\nlong walk, which Dowson had decided would be good for her. When\nshe came later into the room, after the things had been unpacked,\nshe regarded them with an expression of actual dislike.\n\n\"Isn't that a beautiful doll?\" said Dowson, good-humouredly. \"And\ndid you ever see such a lovely house? It was kind Lord Coombe who\ngave them to you. Just you look at the picture books.\"\n\nRobin put her hands behind her back and would not touch them. Dowson,\nwho was a motherly creature with a great deal of commonsense, was\nset thinking. She began to make guesses, though she was not yet\nsufficiently familiar with the household to guess from any firm\nfoundation of knowledge of small things.\n\n\"Come here, dear,\" she said, and drew the small thing to her knee.\n\"Is it because you don't love Lord Coombe?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered.\n\n\"But why?\" said Dowson. \"When he is such a kind gentleman?\"\n\nBut Robin would not tell her why and never did. She never told\nany one, until years had passed, how this had been the beginning\nof a hatred. The toys were left behind when she was taken to the\nseaside. Dowson tried to persuade her to play with them several\ntimes, but she would not touch them, so they were put away. Feeling\nthat she was dealing with something unusual, and, being a kindly\nperson, Dowson bought her some playthings on her own account. They\nwere simple things, but Robin was ready enough to like them.\n\n\"Did YOU give them to me?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes, I did, Miss Robin.\"\n\nThe child drew near her after a full minute of hesitation.\n\n\"I will KISS you!\" she said solemnly, and performed the rite as\nwhole-souledly as Donal had done.\n\n\"Dear little mite!\" exclaimed the surprised Dowson. \"Dear me!\" And\nthere was actual moisture in her eyes as she squeezed the small\nbody in her arms.\n\n\"She's the strangest mite I ever nursed,\" was her comment to Mrs.\nBlayne below stairs. \"It was so sudden, and she did it as if she'd\nnever done it before. I'd actually been thinking she hadn't any\nfeeling at all.\"\n\n\"No reason why she should have. She's been taken care of by the\nclock and dressed like a puppet, but she's not been treated human!\"\nbroke forth Mrs. Blayne.\n\nThen the whole story was told--the \"upstairs\" story with much vivid\ndescription, and the mentioning of many names and the dotting of\nmany \"i's\". Dowson had heard certain things only through vague\nrumour, but now she knew and began to see her way. She had not\nheard names before, and the definite inclusion of Lord Coombe's\nsuggested something to her.\n\n\"Do you think the child could be JEALOUS of his lordship?\" she\nsuggested.\n\n\"She might if she knew anything about him--but she never saw him\nuntil the night she was taken down into the drawing-room. She's\nlived upstairs like a little dog in its kennel.\"\n\n\"Well,\" Dowson reflected aloud, \"it sounds almost silly to talk\nof a child's hating any one, but that bit of a thing's eyes had\nfair hate in them when she looked up at him where he stood. That\nwas what puzzled me.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\n\n\n\nBefore Robin had been taken to the seaside to be helped by the\nbracing air of the Norfolk coast to recover her lost appetite\nand forget her small tragedy, she had observed that unaccustomed\nthings were taking place in the house. Workmen came in and out\nthrough the mews at the back and brought ladders with them and\ntools in queer bags. She heard hammerings which began very early\nin the morning and went on all day. As Andrews had trained her not\nto ask tiresome questions, she only crept now and then to a back\nwindow and peeped out. But in a few days Dowson took her away.\n\nWhen she came back to London, she was not taken up the steep dark\nstairs to the third floor. Dowson led her into some rooms she had\nnever seen before. They were light and airy and had pretty walls\nand furniture. A sitting-room on the ground floor had even a round\nwindow with plants in it and a canary bird singing in a cage.\n\n\"May we stay here?\" she asked Dowson in a whisper.\n\n\"We are going to live here,\" was the answer.\n\nAnd so they did.\n\nAt first Feather occasionally took her intimates to see the\nadditional apartments.\n\n\"In perfect splendour is the creature put up, and I with a bedroom\nlike a coalhole and such drawing-rooms as you see each time you\nenter the house!\" she broke forth spitefully one day when she\nforgot herself.\n\nShe said it to the Starling and Harrowby, who had been simply gazing\nabout them in fevered mystification, because the new development\nwas a thing which must invoke some more or less interesting\nexplanation. At her outbreak, all they could do was to gaze at her\nwith impartial eyes, which suggested question, and Feather shrugged\npettish shoulders.\n\n\"You knew _I_ didn't do it. How could I?\" she said. \"It is a queer\nwhim of Coombe's. Of course, it is not the least like him. I call\nit morbid.\"\n\nAfter which people knew about the matter and found it a subject\nfor edifying and quite stimulating discussion. There was something\nfantastic in the situation. Coombe was the last man on earth to\nhave taken the slightest notice of the child's existence! It was\nbelieved that he had never seen her--except in long clothes--until\nshe had glared at him and put her hand behind her back the night\nshe was brought into the drawing-room. She had been adroitly kept\ntucked away in an attic somewhere. And now behold an addition of\nseveral wonderful, small rooms built, furnished and decorated for\nher alone, where she was to live as in a miniature palace attended\nby servitors! Coombe, as a purveyor of nursery appurtenances, was\nregarded with humour, the general opinion being that the eruption\nof a volcano beneath his feet alone could have awakened his somewhat\nchill self-absorption to the recognition of any child's existence.\n\n\"To be exact we none of us really know anything in particular about\nhis mental processes.\" Harrowby pondered aloud. \"He's capable of\nany number of things we might not understand, if he condescended\nto tell us about them--which he would never attempt. He has a\nremote, brilliantly stored, cynical mind. He owns that he is of an\ninhuman selfishness. I haven't a suggestion to make, but it sets one\nsearching through the purlieus of one's mind for an approximately\nreasonable explanation.\"\n\n\"Why 'purlieus'?\" was the Starling's inquiry. Harrowby shrugged\nhis shoulders ever so lightly.\n\n\"Well, one isn't searching for reasons founded on copy-book axioms,\"\nhe shook his head. \"Coombe? No.\"\n\nThere was a silence given to occult thought.\n\n\"Feather is really in a rage and is too Feathery to be able to\nconceal it,\" said Starling.\n\n\"Feather would be--inevitably,\" Harrowby lifted his near-sighted\neyes to her curiously. \"Can you see Feather in the future--when\nRobin is ten years older?\"\n\n\"I can,\" the Starling answered.\n\n       *       *        *       *        *\n\nThe years which followed were changing years--growing years. Life\nand entertainment went on fast and furiously in all parts of London,\nand in no part more rapidly than in the slice of a house whose\nfront always presented an air of having been freshly decorated,\nin spite of summer rain and winter soot and fog. The plants in\nthe window boxes seemed always in bloom, being magically replaced\nin the early morning hours when they dared to hint at flagging.\nMrs. Gareth-Lawless, it was said, must be renewed in some such\nmysterious morning way, as she merely grew prettier as she neared\nthirty and passed it. Women did in these days! Which last phrase\nhad always been a useful one, probably from the time of the Flood.\nOld fogeys, male and female, had used it in the past as a means of\nscathingly unfavourable comparison, growing flushed and almost\ngobbling like turkey cocks in their indignation. Now, as a phrase, it\nwas a support and a mollifier. \"In these days\" one knew better how\nto amuse oneself, was more free to snatch at agreeable opportunity,\nless in bondage to old fancies which had called themselves beliefs;\neverything whirled faster and more lightly--danced, two-stepped,\ninstead of marching.\n\nRobin vaguely connected certain changes in her existence with the\nchanges which took place in the fashion of sleeves and skirts\nwhich appeared to produce radical effects in the world she caught\nglimpses of. Sometimes sleeves were closely fitted to people's\narms, then puffs sprang from them and grew until they were enormous\nand required delicate manipulation when coats were put on; then\ntheir lavishness of material fell from the shoulder to the wrists\nand hung there swaying until some sudden development of skirt seemed\nto distract their attention from themselves and they shrank into\nunimportance and skirts changed instead. Afterwards, sometimes\nfigures were slim and encased in sheathlike draperies, sometimes\nfolds rippled about feet, \"fullness\" crept here or there or\ndisappeared altogether, trains grew longer or shorter or wider or\nnarrower, cashmeres, grosgrain silks and heavy satins were suddenly\ngone and chiffon wreathed itself about the world and took possession\nof it. Bonnets ceased to exist and hats were immense or tiny, tall\nor flat, tilted at the back, at the side, at the front, worn over\nthe face or dashingly rolled back from it; feathers drooped or\nstood upright at heights which rose and fell and changed position\nwith the changing seasons. No garment or individual wore the same\naspect for more than a month's time. It was necessary to change\nall things with a rapidity matching the change of moods and fancies\nwhich altered at the rate of the automobiles which dashed here\nand there and everywhere, through country roads, through town,\nthrough remote places with an unsparing swiftness which set a new\npace for the world.\n\n\"I cannot hark back regretfully to stage coaches,\" said Lord Coombe.\n\"Even I was not born early enough for that. But in the days of\nmy youth and innocence express trains seemed almost supernatural.\nOne could drive a pair of horses twenty miles to make a country\nvisit, but one could not drive back the same day. One's circle\nhad its limitations and degrees of intimacy. Now it is possible\nmotor fifty miles to lunch and home to dine with guests from the\nremotest corners of the earth. Oceans are crossed in six days,\nand the eager flit from continent to continent. Engagements can be\nmade by cable and the truly enterprising can accept an invitation\nto dine in America on a fortnight's notice. Telephones communicate\nin a few seconds and no one is secure from social intercourse for\nfifteen minutes. Acquaintances and correspondence have no limitations\nbecause all the inhabitants of the globe can reach one by motor or\nelectricity. In moments of fatigue I revert to the days of Queen\nAnne with pleasure.\"\n\nWhile these changes went on, Robin lived in her own world in her\nown quarters at the rear of the slice of a house. During the early\nyears spent with Dowson, she learned gradually that life was a\nbetter thing than she had known in the dreary gloom of the third\nfloor Day and Night Nurseries. She was no longer left to spend\nhours alone, nor was she taken below stairs to listen blankly to\nservants talking to each other of mysterious things with which she\nherself and the Lady Downstairs and \"him\" were somehow connected,\nher discovery of this fact being based on the dropping of voices\nand sidelong glances at her and sudden warning sounds from Andrews.\nShe realized that Dowson would never pinch her, and the rooms she\nlived in were pretty and bright.\n\nGradually playthings and picture books appeared in them, which she\ngathered Dowson presented her with. She gathered this from Dowson\nherself.\n\nShe had never played with the doll, and, by chance a day arriving\nwhen Lord Coombe encountered Dowson in the street without her\ncharge, he stopped her again and spoke as before.\n\n\"Is the little girl well and happy, Nurse?\" he asked.\n\n\"Quite well, my lord, and much happier than she used to be.\"\n\n\"Did she,\" he hesitated slightly, \"like the playthings you bought\nher?\"\n\nDowson hesitated more than slightly but, being a sensible woman\nand at the same time curious about the matter, she spoke the truth.\n\n\"She wouldn't play with them at all, my lord. I couldn't persuade\nher to. What her child's fancy was I don't know.\"\n\n\"Neither do I--except that it is founded on a distinct dislike,\"\nsaid Coombe. There was a brief pause. \"Are you fond of toys\nyourself, Dowson?\" he inquired coldly.\n\n\"I am that--and I know how to choose them, your lordship,\" replied\nDowson, with a large, shrewd intelligence.\n\n\"Then oblige me by throwing away the doll and its accompaniments\nand buying some toys for yourself, at my expense. You can present\nthem to Miss Robin as a personal gift. She will accept them from\nyou.\"\n\nHe passed on his way and Dowson looked after him interestedly.\n\n\"If she was his,\" she thought, \"I shouldn't be puzzled. But she's\nnot--that I've ever heard of. He's got some fancy of his own the\nsame as Robin has, though you wouldn't think it to look at him.\nI'd like to know what it is.\"\n\nIt was a fancy--an old, old fancy--it harked back nearly thirty\nyears--to the dark days of youth and passion and unending tragedy\nwhose anguish, as it then seemed, could never pass--but which,\nnevertheless, had faded with the years as they flowed by. And yet\nleft him as he was and had been. He was not sentimental about it,\nhe smiled at himself drearily--though never at the memory--when\nit rose again and, through its vague power, led him to do strange\nthings curiously verging on the emotional and eccentric. But even\nthe child--who quite loathed him for some fantastic infant reason\nof her own--even the child had her part in it. His soul oddly\nwithdrew itself into a far remoteness as he walked away and\nPiccadilly became a shadow and a dream.\n\nDowson went home and began to pack neatly in a box the neglected\ndoll and the toys which had accompanied her. Robin seeing her\ndoing it, asked a question.\n\n\"Are they going back to the shop?\"\n\n\"No. Lord Coombe is letting me give them to a little girl who is\nvery poor and has to lie in bed because her back hurts her. His\nlordship is so kind he does not want you to be troubled with them.\nHe is not angry. He is too good to be angry.\"\n\nThat was not true, thought Robin. He had done THAT THING she\nremembered! Goodness could not have done it. Only badness.\n\nWhen Dowson brought in a new doll and other wonderful things, a\nlittle hand enclosed her wrist quite tightly as she was unpacking\nthe boxes. It was Robin's and the small creature looked at her\nwith a questioning, half appealing, half fierce.\n\n\"Did he send them, Dowson?\"\n\n\"They are a present from me,\" Dowson answered comfortably, and\nRobin said again,\n\n\"I want to kiss you. I like to kiss you. I do.\"\n\nTo those given to psychical interests and speculations, it might\nhave suggested itself that, on the night when the creature who had\nseemed to Andrews a soft tissued puppet had suddenly burst forth\ninto defiance and fearless shrillness, some cerebral change had\ntaken place in her. From that hour her softness had become a thing\nof the past. Dowson had not found a baby, but a brooding, little,\npassionate being. She was neither insubordinate nor irritable,\nbut Dowson was conscious of a certain intensity of temperament\nin her. She knew that she was always thinking of things of which\nshe said almost nothing. Only a sensible motherly curiosity, such\nas Dowson's could have made discoveries, but a rare question put\nby the child at long intervals sometimes threw a faint light.\nThere were questions chiefly concerning mothers and their habits\nand customs. They were such as, in their very unconsciousness,\nrevealed a strange past history. Lights were most unconsciously\nthrown by Mrs. Gareth-Lawless herself. Her quite amiable detachment\nfrom all shadow of responsibility, her brilliantly unending\noccupations, her goings in and out, the flocks of light, almost\nnoisy, intimates who came in and out with her revealed much to a\nrespectable person who had soberly watched the world.\n\n\"The Lady Downstairs is my mother, isn't she?\" Robin inquired\ngravely once.\n\n\"Yes, my dear,\" was Dowson's answer.\n\nA pause for consideration of the matter and then from Robin:\n\n\"All mothers are not alike, Dowson, are they?\"\n\n\"No, my dear,\" with wisdom.\n\nThough she was not yet seven, life had so changed for her that it\nwas a far cry back to the Spring days in the Square Gardens. She\nwent back, however, back into that remote ecstatic past.\n\n\"The Lady Downstairs is not--alike,\" she said at last, \"Donal's\nmother loved him. She let him sit in the same chair with her and\nread in picture books. She kissed him when he was in bed.\"\n\nJennings, the young footman who was a humourist, had, of course,\nheard witty references to Robin's love affair while in attendance,\nand he had equally, of course, repeated them below stairs. Therefore,\n\nDowson had heard vague rumours but had tactfully refrained from\nmentioning the subject to her charge.\n\n\"Who was Donal?\" she said now, but quite quietly. Robin did not\nknow that a confidante would have made her first agony easier to\nbear. She was not really being confidential now, but, realizing\nDowson's comfortable kindliness, she knew that it would be safe\nto speak to her.\n\n\"He was a big boy,\" she answered keeping her eyes on Dowson's\nface. \"He laughed and ran and jumped. His eyes--\" she stopped\nthere because she could not explain what she had wanted to say about\nthese joyous young eyes, which were the first friendly human ones\nshe had known.\n\n\"He lives in Scotland,\" she began again. \"His mother loved him.\nHe kissed me. He went away. Lord Coombe sent him.\"\n\nDawson could not help her start.\n\n\"Lord Coombe!\" she exclaimed.\n\nRobin came close to her and ground her little fist into her knee,\nuntil its plumpness felt almost bruised.\n\n\"He is bad--bad--bad!\" and she looked like a little demon.\n\nBeing a wise woman, Dowson knew at once that she had come upon a\nhidden child volcano, and it would be well to let it seethe into\nsilence. She was not a clever person, but long experience had\ntaught her that there were occasions when it was well to leave\na child alone. This one would not answer if she were questioned.\nShe would only become stubborn and furious, and no child should\nbe goaded into fury. Dowson had, of course, learned that the boy\nwas a relative of his lordship's and had a strict Scottish mother\nwho did not approve of the slice of a house. His lordship might\nhave been concerned in the matter--or he might not. But at least\nDowson had gained a side light. And how the little thing had cared!\nActually as if she had been a grown girl, Dowson found herself\nthinking uneasily.\n\nShe was rendered even a trifle more uneasy a few days later\nwhen she came upon Robin sitting in a corner on a footstool with\na picture book on her knee, and she recognized it as the one she\nhad discovered during her first exploitation of the resources\nof the third floor nursery. It was inscribed \"Donal\" and Robin\nwas not looking at it alone, but at something she held in her\nhand--something folded in a crumpled, untidy bit of paper.\n\nMaking a reason for nearing her corner, Dowson saw what the paper\nheld. The contents looked like the broken fragments of some dried\nleaves. The child was gazing at them with a piteous, bewildered\nface--so piteous that Dowson was sorry.\n\n\"Do you want to keep those?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" with a caught breath. \"Yes.\"\n\n\"I will make you a little silk bag to hold them in,\" Dowson said,\nactually feeling rather piteous herself. The poor, little lamb\nwith her picture book and her bits of broken dry leaves--almost\nlike senna.\n\nShe sat down near her and Robin left her footstool and came to her.\nShe laid the picture book on her lap and the senna like fragments\nof leaves on its open page.\n\n\"Donal brought it to show me,\" she quavered. \"He made pretty things\non the leaves--with his dirk.\" She recalled too much--too much all\nat once. Her eyes grew rounder and larger with inescapable woe;\n\"Donal did! Donal!\" And suddenly she hid her face deep in Dowson's\nskirts and the tempest broke. She was so small a thing--so\ninarticulate--and these were her dead! Dowson could only catch\nher in her arms, drag her up on her knee, and rock her to and fro.\n\n\"Good Lord! Good Lord!\" was her inward ejaculation. \"And she not\nseven! What'll she do when she's seventeen! She's one of them\nthere's no help for!\"\n\nIt was the beginning of an affection. After this, when Dowson tucked\nRobin in bed each night, she kissed her. She told her stories and\ntaught her to sew and to know her letters. Using some discretion\nshe found certain little playmates for her in the Gardens. But there\nwere occasions when all did not go well, and some pretty, friendly\nchild, who had played with Robin for a few days, suddenly seemed\nto be kept strictly by her nurse's side. Once, when she was about\nten years old, a newcomer, a dramatic and too richly dressed little\nperson, after a day of wonderful imaginative playing appeared in the\nGardens the morning following to turn an ostentatious cold shoulder.\n\n\"What is the matter?\" asked Robin.\n\n\"Oh, we can't play with you any more,\" with quite a flounce\nsuperiority.\n\n\"Why not?\" said Robin, becoming haughty herself.\n\n\"We can't. It's because of Lord Coombe.\" The little person had\nreally no definite knowledge of how Lord Coombe was concerned,\nbut certain servants' whisperings of names and mysterious phrases\nhad conveyed quite an enjoyable effect of unknown iniquity connected\nwith his lordship.\n\nRobin said nothing to Dowson, but walked up and down the paths\nreflecting and building a slow fire which would continue to burn\nin her young heart. She had by then passed the round, soft baby\nperiod and had entered into that phase when bodies and legs grow\nlong and slender and small faces lose their first curves and begin\nto show sharper modeling.\n\nAccepting the situation in its entirety, Dowson had seen that it\nwas well to first reach Lord Coombe with any need of the child's.\nAfterwards, the form of presenting it to Mrs. Gareth-Lawless must\nbe gone through, but if she were first spoken to any suggestion\nmight be forgotten or intentionally ignored.\n\nDowson became clever in her calculations as to when his lordship\nmight be encountered and where--as if by chance, and therefore,\nquite respectfully. Sometimes she remotely wondered if he himself\ndid not make such encounters easy for her. But his manner never\naltered in its somewhat stiff, expressionless chill of indifference.\nHe never was kindly in his manner to the child if he met her.\nDowson felt him at once casual and \"lofty.\" Robin might have been\na bit of unconsidered rubbish, the sight of which slightly bored\nhim. Yet the singular fact remained that it was to him one must\ncarefully appeal.\n\nOne afternoon Feather swept him, with one or two others, into the\nsitting-room with the round window in which flowers grew. Robin\nwas sitting at a low table making pothooks with a lead pencil on\na piece of paper Dowson had given her. Dowson had, in fact, set\nher at the task, having heard from Jennings that his lordship\nand the other afternoon tea drinkers were to be brought into the\n\"Palace\" as Feather ironically chose to call it. Jennings rather\nliked Dowson, and often told her little things she wanted to know.\nIt was because Lord Coombe would probably come in with the rest\nthat Dowson had set the low, white table in the round windows and\nsuggested the pothooks.\n\nIn course of time there was a fluttering and a chatter in the\ncorridor. Feather was bringing some new guests, who had not seen\nthe place before.\n\n\"This is where my daughter lives. She is much grander than I am,\"\nshe said.\n\n\"Stand up, Miss Robin, and make your curtsey,\" whispered Dowson.\nRobin did as she was told, and Mrs. Gareth-Lawless' pretty brows\nran up.\n\n\"Look at her legs,\" she said. \"She's growing like Jack and the\nBean Stalk--though, I suppose, it was only the Bean Stalk that\ngrew. She'll stick through the top of the house soon. Look at her\nlegs, I ask you.\"\n\nShe always spoke as if the child were an inanimate object and she\nhad, by this time and by this means, managed to sweep from Robin's\nmind all the old, babyish worship of her loveliness and had planted\nin its place another feeling. At this moment the other feeling\nsurged and burned.\n\n\"They are beautiful legs,\" remarked a laughing young man jocularly,\n\"but perhaps she does not particularly want us to look at them.\nWait until she begins skirt dancing.\" And everybody laughed at once\nand the child stood rigid--the object of their light ridicule--not\nherself knowing that her whole little being was cursing them aloud.\n\nCoombe stepped to the little table and bestowed a casual glance\non the pencil marks.\n\n\"What is she doing?\" he asked as casually of Dowson.\n\n\"She is learning to make pothooks, my lord,\" Dowson answered.\n\"She's a child that wants to be learning things. I've taught her\nher letters and to spell little words. She's quick--and old enough,\nyour lordship.\"\n\n\"Learning to read and write!\" exclaimed Feather.\n\n\"Presumption, I call it. I don't know how to read and write--least\nI don't know how to spell. Do you know how to spell, Collie?\" to\nthe young man, whose name was Colin. \"Do you, Genevieve? Do you,\nArtie?\"\n\n\"You can't betray me into vulgar boasting,\" said Collie. \"Who does\nin these days? Nobody but clerks at Peter Robinson's.\"\n\n\"Lord Coombe does--but that's his tiresome superior way,\" said\nFeather.\n\n\"He's nearly forty years older than most of you. That is the\nreason,\" Coombe commented. \"Don't deplore your youth and innocence.\"\n\nThey swept through the rooms and examined everything in them.\nThe truth was that the--by this time well known--fact that the\nunexplainable Coombe had built them made them a curiosity, and\na sort of secret source of jokes. The party even mounted to the\nupper story to go through the bedrooms, and, it was while they\nwere doing this, that Coombe chose to linger behind with Dowson.\n\nHe remained entirely expressionless for a few moments. Dowson did\nnot in the least gather whether he meant to speak to her or not.\nBut he did.\n\n\"You meant,\" he scarcely glanced at her, \"that she was old enough\nfor a governess.\"\n\n\"Yes, my lord,\" rather breathless in her hurry to speak before\nshe heard the high heels tapping on the staircase again. \"And one\nthat's a good woman as well as clever, if I may take the liberty.\nA good one if--\"\n\n\"If a good one would take the place?\"\n\nDowson did not attempt refutation or apology. She knew better.\n\nHe said no more, but sauntered out of the room.\n\nAs he did so, Robin stood up and made the little \"charity bob\" of\na curtsey which had been part of her nursery education. She was\ntoo old now to have refused him her hand, but he never made any\nadvances to her. He acknowledged her curtsey with the briefest\nnod.\n\nNot three minutes later the high heels came tapping down the\nstaircase and the small gust of visitors swept away also.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\n\n\n\nThe interview which took place between Feather and Lord Coombe a\nfew days later had its own special character.\n\n\"A governess will come here tomorrow at eleven o'clock,\" he said.\n\"She is a Mademoiselle Valle. She is accustomed to the educating\nof young children. She will present herself for your approval.\nBenby has done all the rest.\"\n\nFeather flushed to her fine-spun ash-gold hair.\n\n\"What on earth can it matter!\" she cried.\n\n\"It does not matter to you,\" he answered; \"it chances--for the\ntime being--to matter to ME.\"\n\n\"Chances!\" she flamed forth--it was really a queer little flame of\nfeeling. \"That's it. You don't really care! It's a caprice--just\nbecause you see she is going to be pretty.\"\n\n\"I'll own,\" he admitted, \"that has a great deal to do with it.\"\n\n\"It has everything to do with it,\" she threw out. \"If she had a\nsnub nose and thick legs you wouldn't care for her at all.\"\n\n\"I don't say that I do care for her,\" without emotion. \"The situation\ninterests me. Here is an extraordinary little being thrown into\nthe world. She belongs to nobody. She will have to fight for her\nown hand. And she will have to FIGHT, by God! With that dewy lure\nin her eyes and her curved pomegranate mouth! She will not know,\nbut she will draw disaster!\"\n\n\"Then she had better not be taught anything at all,\" said Feather.\n\"It would be an amusing thing to let her grow up without learning\nto read or write at all. I know numbers of men who would like the\nnovelty of it. Girls who know so much are a bore.\"\n\n\"There are a few minor chances she ought to have,\" said Coombe.\n\"A governess is one. Mademoiselle Valle will be here at eleven.\"\n\n\"I can't see that she promises to be such a beauty,\" fretted\nFeather. \"She's the kind of good looking child who might grow up\ninto a fat girl with staring black eyes like a barmaid.\"\n\n\"Occasionally pretty women do abhor their growing up daughters,\"\ncommented Coombe letting his eyes rest on her interestedly.\n\n\"I don't abhor her,\" with pathos touched with venom. \"But a big,\nlumping girl hanging about ogling and wanting to be ogled when she\nis passing through that silly age! And sometimes you speak to me\nas a man speaks to his wife when he is tired of her.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" Coombe said. \"You make me feel like a person\nwho lives over a shop at Knightsbridge, or in bijou mansion off\nRegent's Park.\"\n\nBut he was deeply aware that, as an outcome of the anomalous\nposition he occupied, he not infrequently felt exactly this.\n\nThat a governess chosen by Coombe--though he would seem not to\nappear in the matter--would preside over the new rooms, Feather\nknew without a shadow of doubt.\n\nA certain almost silent and always high-bred dominance over her\nexistence she accepted as the inevitable, even while she fretted\nhelplessly. Without him, she would be tossed, a broken butterfly,\ninto the gutter. She knew her London. No one would pick her up\nunless to break her into smaller atoms and toss her away again.\nThe freedom he allowed her after all was wonderful. It was because\nhe disdained interference.\n\nBut there was a line not to be crossed--there must not even be an\nattempt at crossing it. Why he cared about that she did not know.\n\n\"You must be like Caesar's wife,\" he said rather grimly, after an\ninterview in which he had given her a certain unsparing warning.\n\n\"And I am nobody's wife. What did Caesar's wife do?\" she asked.\n\n\"Nothing.\" And he told her the story and, when she had heard him\ntell it, she understood certain things clearly.\n\nMademoiselle Valle was an intelligent, mature Frenchwoman. She\npresented herself to Mrs. Gareth-Lawless for inspection and, in\nten minutes, realized that the power to inspect and sum up existed\nonly on her own side. This pretty woman neither knew what inquiries\nto make nor cared for such replies as were given. Being swift to\nreason and practical in deduction, Mademoiselle Valle did not make\nthe blunder of deciding that this light presence argued that she\nwould be under no supervision more serious. The excellent Benby,\none was made aware, acted and the excellent Benby, one was made\naware, acted under clearly defined orders. Milord Coombe--among\nother things the best dressed and perhaps the least comprehended\nman in London--was concerned in this, though on what grounds\npractical persons could not explain to themselves. His connection\nwith the narrow house on the right side of the right street\nwas entirely comprehensible. The lenient felt nothing blatant or\nobjectionable about it. Mademoiselle Valle herself was not disturbed\nby mere rumour. The education, manner and morals of the little\ngirl she could account for. These alone were to be her affair, and\nshe was competent to undertake their superintendence.\n\nTherefore, she sat and listened with respectful intelligence to\nthe birdlike chatter of Mrs. Gareth-Lawless. (What a pretty woman!\nThe silhouette of a jeune fille!)\n\nMrs. Gareth-Lawless felt that, on her part, she had done all that\nwas required of her.\n\n\"I'm afraid she's rather a dull child, Mademoiselle,\" she said in\nfarewell. \"You know children's ways and you'll understand what I\nmean. She has a trick of staring and saying nothing. I confess I\nwish she wasn't dull.\"\n\n\"It is impossible, madame, that she should be dull,\" said\nMademoiselle, with an agreeably implicating smile. \"Oh, but quite\nimpossible! We shall see.\"\n\nNot many days had passed before she had seen much. At the outset,\nshe recognized the effect of the little girl with the slender legs\nand feet and the dozen or so of points which go to make a beauty.\nThe intense eyes first and the deeps of them. They gave one\nfuriously to think before making up one's mind. Then she noted the\nperfection of the rooms added to the smartly inconvenient little\nhouse. Where had the child lived before the addition had been\nbuilt? Thought and actual architectural genius only could have done\nthis. Light and even as much sunshine as London will vouchsafe,\nhad been arranged for. Comfort, convenience, luxury, had been\nprovided. Perfect colour and excellent texture had evoked actual\ncharm. Its utter unlikeness to the quarters London usually gives\nto children, even of the fortunate class, struck Mademoiselle Valle\nat once. Madame Gareth-Lawless had not done this. Who then, had?\n\nThe good Dowson she at once affiliated with. She knew the excellence\nof her type as it had revealed itself to her in the best peasant\nclass. Trustworthy, simple, but of kindly, shrewd good sense and\nwith the power to observe. Dowson was not a chatterer or given\nto gossip, but, as a silent observer, she would know many things\nand, in time, when they had become friendly enough to be fully\naware that each might trust the other, gentle and careful talk\nwould end in unconscious revelation being made by Dowson.\n\nThat the little girl was almost singularly attached to her\nnurse, she had marked early. There was something unusual in her\nmanifestations of her feeling. The intense eyes followed the woman\noften, as if making sure of her presence and reality. The first\nday of Mademoiselle's residence in the place she saw the little\nthing suddenly stop playing with her doll and look at Dowson\nearnestly for several moments. Then she left her seat and went to\nthe kind creature's side.\n\n\"I want to KISS you, Dowie,\" she said.\n\n\"To be sure, my lamb,\" answered Dowson, and, laying down her\nmending, she gave her a motherly hug. After which Robin went back\ncontentedly to her play.\n\nThe Frenchwoman thought it a pretty bit of childish affectionateness.\nBut it happened more than once during the day, and at night\nMademoiselle commented upon it.\n\n\"She has an affectionate heart, the little one,\" she remarked. \"Madame,\nher mother, is so pretty and full of gaieties and pleasures that\nI should not have imagined she had much time for caresses and the\nnursery.\"\n\nEven by this time Dowson had realized that with Mademoiselle she\nwas upon safe ground and was in no danger of betraying herself\nto a gossip. She quietly laid down her sewing and looked at her\ncompanion with grave eyes.\n\n\"Her mother has never kissed her in her life that I am aware of,\"\nshe said.\n\n\"Has never--!\" Mademoiselle ejaculated. \"Never!\"\n\n\"Just as you see her, she is, Mademoiselle,\" Dowson said. \"Any\nsensible woman would know, when she heard her talk about her\nchild. I found it all out bit by bit when first I came here. I'm\ngoing to talk plain and have done with it. Her first six years\nshe spent in a sort of dog kennel on the top floor of this house.\nNo sun, no real fresh air. Two little holes that were dingy and\ngloomy to dull a child's senses. Not a toy or a bit of colour\nor a picture, but clothes fine enough for Buckingham Palace\nchildren--and enough for six. Fed and washed and taken out every\nday to be shown off. And a bad nurse, Miss--a bad one that kept\nher quiet by pinching her black and blue.\"\n\n\"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! That little angel!\" cried Mademoiselle,\ncovering her eyes.\n\nDowson hastily wiped her own eyes. She had shed many a motherly\ntear over the child. It was a relief to her to open her heart to\na sympathizer.\n\n\"Black and blue!\" she repeated. \"And laughing and dancing and all\nsorts of fast fun going on in the drawing-rooms.\" She put out her\nhand and touched Mademoiselle's arm quite fiercely. \"The little\nthing didn't know she HAD a mother! She didn't know what the word\nmeant. I found that out by her innocent talk. She used to call\nHER 'The Lady Downstairs'.\"\n\n\"Mon Dieu!\" cried the Frenchwoman again. \"What a woman!\"\n\n\"She first heard of mothers from a little boy she met in the Square\nGardens. He was the first child she had been allowed to play with.\nHe was a nice child and he had a good mother. I only got it bit\nby bit when she didn't know how much she was telling me. He told\nher about mothers and he kissed her--for the first time in her\nlife. She didn't understand but it warmed her little heart. She's\nnever forgotten.\"\n\nMademoiselle even started slightly in her chair. Being a clever\nFrenchwoman she felt drama and all its subtle accompaniments.\n\n\"Is that why----\" she began.\n\n\"It is,\" answered Dowson, stoutly. \"A kiss isn't an ordinary thing\nto her. It means something wonderful. She's got into the way of\nloving me, bless her, and every now and then, it's my opinion,\nshe suddenly remembers her lonely days when she didn't know what\nlove was. And it just wells up in her little heart and she wants\nto kiss me. She always says it that way, 'Dowie, I want to KISS\nyou,' as if it was something strange and, so to say, sacred. She\ndoesn't know it means almost nothing to most people. That's why\nI always lay down my work and hug her close.\"\n\n\"You have a good heart--a GOOD one!\" said Mademoiselle with strong\nfeeling.\n\nThen she put a question:\n\n\"Who was the little boy?\"\n\n\"He was a relation of--his lordship's.\"\n\n\"His lordship's?\" cautiously.\n\n\"The Marquis. Lord Coombe.\"\n\nThere was a few minutes' silence. Both women were thinking of a\nnumber of things and each was asking herself how much it would be\nwise to say.\n\nIt was Dowson who made her decision first, and this time, as\nbefore, she laid down her work. What she had to convey was the\nthing which, above all others, the Frenchwoman must understand if\nshe was to be able to use her power to its best effect.\n\n\"A woman in my place hears enough talk,\" was her beginning. \"Servants\nare given to it. The Servants' Hall is their theatre. It doesn't\nmatter whether tales are true or not, so that they're spicy. But\nit's been my way to credit just as much as I see and know and to\nsay little about that. If a woman takes a place in a house, let her\ngo or stay as suits her best, but don't let her stay and either\ncomplain or gossip. My business here is Miss Robin, and I've found\nout for myself that there's just one person that, in a queer,\nunfeeling way of his own, has a fancy for looking after her. I\nsay 'unfeeling' because he never shows any human signs of caring\nfor the child himself. But if there's a thing that ought to be\ndone for her and a body can contrive to let him know it's needed,\nit'll be done. Downstairs' talk that I've seemed to pay no attention\nto has let out that it was him that walked quietly upstairs to\nthe Nursery, where he'd never set foot before, and opened the door\non Andrews pinching the child. She packed her box and left that\nnight. He inspected the nurseries and, in a few days, an architect\nwas planning these rooms,--for Miss Robin and for no one else,\nthough there was others wanted them. It was him that told me to\norder her books and playthings--and not let her know it because\nshe hates him. It was him I told she needed a governess. And he\nfound you.\"\n\nMademoiselle Valle had listened with profound attention. Here she\nspoke.\n\n\"You say continually 'he' or 'him'. He is--?\"\n\n\"Lord Coombe. I'm not saying I've seen much of him. Considering--\"\nDowson paused--\"it's queer how seldom he comes here. He goes\nabroad a good deal. He's mixed up with the highest and it's said\nhe's in favour because he's satirical and clever. He's one that's\ngossiped about and he cares nothing for what's said. What business\nof mine is it whether or not he has all sorts of dens on the\nContinent where he goes to racket. He might be a bishop for all I\nsee. And he's the only creature in this world of the Almighty's\nthat remembers that child's a human being. Just him--Lord Coombe.\nThere, Mademoiselle,--I've said a good deal.\"\n\nMore and more interestedly had the Frenchwoman listened and with\nan increasing hint of curiosity in her intelligent eyes. She\npressed Dowson's needle-roughened fingers warmly.\n\n\"You have not said too much. It is well that I should know this\nof this gentleman. As you say, he is a man who is much discussed.\nI myself have heard much of him--but of things connected with\nanother part of his character. It is true that he is in favour\nwith great personages. It is because they are aware that he has\nobserved much for many years. He is light and ironic, but he tells\ntruths which sometimes startle those who hear them.\"\n\n\"Jennings tells below stairs that he says things it's queer for a\nlord to say. Jennings is a sharp young snip and likes to pick up\nthings to repeat. He believes that his lordship's idea is that\nthere's a time coming when the high ones will lose their places\nand thrones and kings will be done away with. I wouldn't like to\ngo that far myself,\" said Dowson, gravely, \"but I must say that\nthere's not that serious respect paid to Royalty that there was\nin my young days. My word! When Queen Victoria was in her prime,\nwith all her young family around her,--their little Royal Highnesses\nthat were princes in their Highland kilts and the princesses\nin their crinolines and hats with drooping ostrich feathers and\nbroad satin streamers--the people just went wild when she went to\na place to unveil anything!\"\n\n\"When the Empress Eugenie and the Prince Imperial appeared, it was\nthe same thing,\" said Mademoiselle, a trifle sadly. \"One recalls\nit now as a dream passed away--the Champs Elysees in the afternoon\nsunlight--the imperial carriage and the glittering escort trotting\ngaily--the beautiful woman with the always beautiful costumes--her\ncharming smile--the Emperor, with his waxed moustache and saturnine\nface! It meant so much and it went so quickly. One moment,\" she made\na little gesture, \"and it is gone--forever! An Empire and all the\nsplendour of it! Two centuries ago it could not have disappeared\nso quickly. But now the world is older. It does not need toys\nso much. A Republic is the people--and there are more people than\nkings.\"\n\n\"It's things like that his lordship says, according to Jennings,\"\nsaid Dowson. \"Jennings is never quite sure he's in earnest. He\nhas a satirical way--And the company always laugh.\"\n\nMademoiselle had spoken thoughtfully and as if half to her inner\nself instead of to Dowson. She added something even more thoughtfully\nnow.\n\n\"The same kind of people laughed before the French Revolution,\"\nshe murmured.\n\n\"I'm not scholar enough to know much about that--that was a long\ntime ago, wasn't it?\" Dowson remarked.\n\n\"A long time ago,\" said Mademoiselle.\n\nDowson's reply was quite free from tragic reminiscence.\n\n\"Well, I must say, I like a respectable Royal Family myself,\" she\nobserved. \"There's something solid and comfortable about it--besides\nthe coronations and weddings and procession with all the pictures\nin the Illustrated London News. Give me a nice, well-behaved Royal\nFamily.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\n\n\n\n\"A nice, well-behaved Royal Family.\" There had been several of them\nin Europe for some time. An appreciable number of them had prided\nthemselves, even a shade ostentatiously, upon their domesticity.\nThe moral views of a few had been believed to border upon the\nhigh principles inscribed in copy books. Some, however, had not.\nA more important power or so had veered from the exact following\nof these commendable axioms--had high-handedly behaved according\nto their royal will and tastes. But what would you? With a nation\nmaking proper obeisance before one from infancy; with trumpets\nblaring forth joyous strains upon one's mere appearance on any\nscene; with the proudest necks bowed and the most superb curtseys\nswept on one's mere passing by, with all the splendour of the Opera\non gala night rising to its feet to salute one's mere entry into\nthe royal or imperial box, while the national anthem bursts forth\nwith adulatory and triumphant strains, only a keen and subtle\nsense of humour, surely, could curb errors of judgment arising\nfrom naturally mistaken views of one's own importance and value to\nthe entire Universe. Still there remained the fact that a number\nof them WERE well-behaved and could not be complained of as bearing\nany likeness to the bloodthirsty tyrants and oppressors of past\ncenturies.\n\nThe Head of the House of Coombe had attended the Court Functions\nand been received at the palaces and castles of most of them.\nFor in that aspect of his character of which Mademoiselle Valle\nhad heard more than Dowson, he was intimate with well-known and\nmuch-observed personages and places. A man born among those whose\ndaily life builds, as it passes, at least a part of that which\nmakes history and so records itself, must needs find companions,\nacquaintances, enemies, friends of varied character, and if he\nbe, by chance, a keen observer of passing panoramas, can lack no\nmaterial for private reflection and the accumulation of important\nfacts.\n\nThat part of his existence which connected itself with the slice\nof a house on the right side of the Mayfair street was but a\nsmall one. A feature of the untranslatableness of his character\nwas that he was seen there but seldom. His early habit of crossing\nthe Channel frequently had gradually reestablished itself as years\npassed. Among his acquaintances his \"Saturday to Monday visits\" to\ncontinental cities remote or unremote were discussed with humour.\nPossibly, upon these discussions, were finally founded the rumours\nof which Dowson had heard but which she had impartially declined\nto \"credit\". Lively conjecture inevitably figured largely in their\narguments and, when persons of unrestrained wit devote their\nattention to airy persiflage, much may be included in their points\nof view.\n\nOf these conjectural discussions no one was more clearly aware\nthan Coombe himself, and the finished facility--even felicity--of\nhis evasion of any attempt at delicately valued cross examination\nwas felt to be inhumanly exasperating.\n\nIn one of the older Squares which still remained stately, through\nthe splendour of modern fashion had waned in its neighbourhood,\nthere was among the gloomy, though imposing, houses one in particular\nupon whose broad doorsteps--years before the Gareth-Lawlesses had\nappeared in London--Lord Coombe stood oftener than upon any other.\nAt times his brougham waited before it for hours, and, at others,\nhe appeared on foot and lifted the heavy knocker with a special\naccustomed knock recognized at once by any footman in waiting in\nthe hall, who, hearing it, knew that his mistress--the old Dowager\nDuchess of Darte--would receive this visitor, if no other.\n\nThe interior of the house was of the type which, having from the\nfirst been massive and richly sombre, had mellowed into a darker\nsombreness and richness as it had stood unmoved amid London years\nand fogs. The grandeur of decoration and furnishing had been too\nsolid to depreciate through decay, and its owner had been of no\nfickle mind led to waver in taste by whims of fashion. The rooms\nwere huge and lofty, the halls and stairways spacious, the fireplaces\nfurnished with immense grates of glittering steel, which held in\nwinter beds of scarlet glowing coal, kept scarlet glowing by a\nspecial footman whose being, so to speak, depended on his fidelity\nto his task.\n\nThere were many rooms whose doors were kept closed because they\nwere apparently never used; there were others as little used but\nthrown open, warmed and brightened with flowers each day, because\nthe Duchess chose to catch glimpses of their cheerfulness as she\npassed them on her way up or downstairs. The house was her own\nproperty, and, after her widowhood, when it was emptied of her\nchildren by their admirable marriages, and she herself became Dowager\nand, later, a confirmed rheumatic invalid, it became doubly her\nhome and was governed by her slightest whim. She was not indeed\nan old woman of caprices, but her tastes, not being those of the\nlater day in which she now lived, were regarded as a shade eccentric\nbeing firmly defined.\n\n\"I will not have my house glaring with electricity as if it were\na shop. In my own rooms I will be lighted by wax candles. Large\nones--as many as you please,\" she said. \"I will not be 'rung up'\nby telephone. My servants may if they like. It is not my affair\nto deprive them of the modern inconveniences, if they find them\nconvenient. My senility does not take the form of insisting that\nthe world shall cease to revolve upon its axis. It formed that\nhabit without my assistance, and it is to be feared that it would\ncontinue it in the face of my protests.\"\n\nIt was, in fact, solely that portion of the world affecting herself\nalone which she preferred to retain as it had been in the brilliant\nearly years of her life. She had been a great beauty and also\na wit in the Court over which Queen Victoria had reigned. She had\npossessed the delicate high nose, the soft full eyes, the \"polished\nforehead,\" the sloping white shoulders from which scarves floated\nor India shawls gracefully drooped in the Books of Beauty of the\nday. Her carriage had been noble, her bloom perfect, and, when\nshe had driven through the streets \"in attendance\" on her Royal\nMistress, the populace had always chosen her as \"the pick of\n'em all\". Young as she had then been, elderly statesmen had found\nher worth talking to, not as a mere beauty in her teens, but as a\ncreature of singular brilliance and clarity of outlook upon a world\nwhich might have dazzled her youth. The most renowned among them\nhad said of her, before she was twenty, that she would live to be\none of the cleverest women in Europe, and that she had already the\nlogical outlook of a just man of fifty.\n\nShe married early and was widowed in middle life. In her later\nyears rheumatic fever so far disabled her as to confine her to her\nchair almost entirely. Her sons and daughter had homes and families\nof their own to engage them. She would not allow them to sacrifice\nthemselves to her because her life had altered its aspect.\n\n\"I have money, friends, good servants and a house I particularly\nlike,\" she summed the matter up; \"I may be condemned to sit by\nthe fire, but I am not condemned to be a bore to my inoffensive\nfamily. I can still talk and read, and I shall train myself to\nbecome a professional listener. This will attract. I shall not\nonly read myself, but I will be read to. A strong young man with\na nice voice shall bring magazines and books to me every day, and\nshall read the best things aloud. Delightful people will drop in\nto see me and will be amazed by my fund of information.\"\n\nIt was during the first years of her enforced seclusion that\nCoombe's intimacy with her began. He had known her during certain\nblack days of his youth, and she had comprehended things he did not\ntell her. She had not spoken of them to him but she had silently\ngiven him of something which vaguely drew him to her side when\ndarkness seemed to overwhelm him. The occupations of her life\nleft her in those earlier days little leisure for close intimacies,\nbut, when she began to sit by her fire letting the busy world pass\nby, he gradually became one of those who \"dropped in\".\n\nIn one of the huge rooms she had chosen for her own daily use,\nby the well-tended fire in its shining grate, she had created\nan agreeable corner where she sat in a chair marvellous for ease\nand comfort, enclosed from draughts by a fire screen of antique\nChinese lacquer, a table by her side and all she required within\nher reach. Upon the table stood a silver bell and, at its sound,\nher companion, her reader, her maid or her personally trained\nfootman, came and went quietly and promptly as if summoned by\nmagic. Her life itself was simple, but a certain almost royal\ndignity surrounded her loneliness. Her companion, Miss Brent, an\nintelligent, mature woman who had known a hard and pinched life,\nfound at once comfort and savour in it.\n\n\"It is not I who am expensive,\"--this in one of her talks with\nCoombe, \"but to live in a house of this size, well kept by excellent\nservants who are satisfied with their lot, is not a frugal thing.\nA cap of tea for those of my friends who run in to warm themselves\nby my fire in the afternoon; a dinner or so when I am well enough\nto sit at the head of my table, represent almost all I now do for\nthe world. Naturally, I must see that my tea is good and that my\ndinners cannot be objected to. Nevertheless, I sit here in my chair\nand save money--for what?\"\n\nAmong those who \"warmed themselves by her fire\" this man had\nsingularly become her friend and intimate. When they had time\nto explore each other's minds, they came upon curious discoveries\nof hidden sympathies and mutual comprehensions which were rich\ntreasures. They talked of absorbing things with frankness. He came\nto sit with her when others were not admitted because she was in\npain or fatigued. He added to neither her fatigue nor her pain,\nbut rather helped her to forget them.\n\n\"For what?\" he answered on this day. \"Why not for your grandchildren?\"\n\n\"They will have too much money. There are only four of them. They\nwill make great marriages as their parents did,\" she said. She\npaused a second before she added, \"Unless our World Revolution has\nbroken into flame by that time--And there are no longer any great\nmarriages to make.\"\n\nFor among the many things they dwelt on in their talks along, was\nthe Chessboard, which was the Map of Europe, over which he had\nwatched for many years certain hands hover in tentative experimenting\nas to the possibilities of the removal of the pieces from one\nsquare to another. She, too, from her youth had watched the game\nwith an interest which had not waned in her maturity, and which,\nin her days of sitting by the fire, had increased with every move\nthe hovering hands made. She had been familiar with political\nparties and their leaders, she had met heroes and statesmen; she\nhad seen an unimportant prince become an emperor, who, from his\ngreen and boastful youth, aspired to rule the world and whose\ntheatrical obsession had been the sly jest of unwary nations, too\ncarelessly sure of the advance of civilization and too indifferently\nself-indulgent to realize that a monomaniac, even if treated as a\nsource of humour, is a perilous thing to leave unwatched. She had\nknown France in all the glitter of its showy Empire, and had seen\nits imperial glories dispersed as mist. Russia she had watched with\ncuriosity and dread. On the day when the ruler, who had bestowed\nfreedom on millions of his people, met his reward in the shattering\nbomb which tore him to fragments, she had been in St. Petersburg. A\nking, who had been assassinated, she had known well and had well\nliked; an empress, whom a frenzied madman had stabbed to the heart,\nhad been her friend.\n\nHer years had been richly full of varied events, giving a strong\nand far-seeing mind reason for much unspoken thought of the kind\nwhich leaps in advance of its day's experience and exact knowledge.\nShe had learned when to speak and when to be silent, and she oftener\nchose silence. But she had never ceased gazing on the world with\nkeen eyes, and reflecting upon its virtues and vagaries, its depths\nand its shallows, with the help of a clear and temperate brain.\n\nBy her fire she sat, an attracting presence, though only fine,\nstrong lines remained of beauty ravaged by illness and years. The\n\"polished forehead\" was furrowed by the chisel of suffering; the\ndelicate high nose springing from her waxen, sunken face seemed\nsomewhat eaglelike, but the face was still brilliant in its intensity\nof meaning and the carriage of her head was still noble. Not able\nto walk except with the assistance of a cane, her once exquisite\nhands stiffened almost to uselessness, she held her court from\nher throne of mere power and strong charm. On the afternoons when\npeople \"ran in to warm themselves\" by her fire, the talk was never\ndull and was often wonderful. There were those who came quietly\ninto the room fresh from important scenes where subjects of weight\nto nations were being argued closely--perhaps almost fiercely.\nSometimes the argument was continued over cups of perfect tea near\nthe chair of the Duchess, and, howsoever far it led, she was able\nbrilliantly to follow. With the aid of books and pamphlets and\nmagazines, and the strong young man with the nice voice, who was\nher reader, she kept pace with each step of the march of the world.\n\nIt was, however, the modern note in her recollections of her world's\nmarch in days long past, in which Coombe found mental food and fine\nflavour. The phrase, \"in these days\" expressed in her utterance neither\ndisparagement nor regret. She who sat in state in a drawing-room\nlighted by wax candles did so as an affair of personal preference,\nand denied no claim of higher brilliance to electric illumination.\nDriving slowly through Hyde Park on sunny days when she was able\nto go out, her high-swung barouche hinted at no lofty disdain of\npetrol and motor power. At the close of her youth's century, she\nlooked forward with thrilled curiosity to the dawning wonders of\nthe next.\n\n\"If the past had not held so much, one might not have learned\nto expect more,\" was her summing up on a certain afternoon, when\nhe came to report himself after one of his absences from England.\n\"The most important discovery of the last fifty years has been the\nrevelation that no man may any longer assume to speak the last\nword on any subject. The next man--almost any next man--may evolve\nmore. Before that period all elderly persons were final in their\ndictum. They said to each other--and particularly to the young--'It\nhas not been done in my time--it was not done in my grandfather's\ntime. It has never been done. It never can be done'.\"\n\n\"The note of today is 'Since it has never been done, it will surely\nbe done soon',\" said Coombe.\n\n\"Ah! we who began life in the most assured and respectable of\nreigns and centuries,\" she answered him, \"have seen much. But these\nothers will see more. Crinolines, mushroom hats and large families\nseemed to promise a decorum peaceful to dullness; but there have\nbeen battles, murders and sudden deaths; there have been almost\nsupernatural inventions and discoveries--there have been marvels\nof new doubts and faiths. When one sits and counts upon one's\nfingers the amazements the 19th century has provided, one gasps\nand gazes with wide eyes into the future. I, for one, feel rather\nas though I had seen a calm milch cow sauntering--at first\nslowly--along a path, gradually evolve into a tiger--a genie with\na hundred heads containing all the marvels of the world--a flying\ndragon with a thousand eyes! Oh, we have gone fast and far!\"\n\n\"And we shall go faster and farther,\" Coombe added.\n\n\"That is it,\" she answered. \"Are we going too fast?\"\n\n\"At least so fast that we forget things it would be well for us\nto remember.\" He had come in that day with a certain preoccupied\ngrimness of expression which was not unknown to her. It was generally\nafter one of his absences that he looked a shade grim.\n\n\"Such as--?\" she inquired.\n\n\"Such as catastrophes in the history of the world, which forethought\nand wisdom might have prevented. The French Revolution is the obvious\ntype of figure which lies close at hand so one picks it up. The\nFrench Revolution--its Reign of Terror--the orgies of carnage--the\ncataclysms of agony--need not have been, but they WERE. To put it\nin words of one syllable.\"\n\n\"What!\" was her involuntary exclamation. \"You are seeking such\nsimiles as the French Revolution!\"\n\n\"Who knows how far a madness may reach and what Reign of Terror may\ntake form?\" He sat down and drew an atlas towards him. It always lay\nupon the table on which all the Duchess desired was within reach.\nIt was fat, convenient of form, and agreeable to look at in its\ncover of dull, green leather. Coombe's gesture of drawing it towards\nhim was a familiar one. It was frequently used as reference.\n\n\"The atlas again?\" she said.\n\n\"Yes. Just now I can think of little else. I have realized too\nmuch.\"\n\nThe continental journey had lasted a month. He had visited more\ncountries than one in his pursuit of a study he was making of\nthe way in which the wind was blowing particular straws. For long\nhe had found much to give thought to in the trend of movement in\none special portion of the Chessboard. It was that portion of it\ndominated by the ruler of whose obsession too careless nations made\nsly jest. This man he had known from his arrogant and unendearing\nyouth. He had looked on with unbiassed curiosity at his development\ninto arrogance so much greater than its proportions touched the\ngrotesque. The rest of the world had looked on also, but apparently,\nmerely in the casual way which good-naturedly smiles and leaves to\nevery man--even an emperor--the privilege of his own eccentricities.\nCoombe had looked on with a difference, so also had his friend by\nher fireside. This man's square of the Chessboard had long been\nthe subject of their private talks and a cause for the drawing\ntowards them of the green atlas. The moves he made, the methods\nof his ruling, the significance of these methods were the evidence\nthey collected in their frequent arguments. Coombe had early begun\nto see the whole thing as a process--a life-long labour which was\na means to a monstrous end.\n\nThere was a certain thing he believed of which they often spoke\nas \"It\". He spoke of it now.\n\n\"Through three weeks I have been marking how It grows,\" he said; \"a\nwhole nation with the entire power of its commerce, its education,\nits science, its religion, guided towards one aim is a curious\nstudy. The very babes are born and bred and taught only that\none thought may become an integral part of their being. The most\ninnocent and blue eyed of them knows, without a shadow of doubt,\nthat the world has but one reason for existence--that it may be\nconquered and ravaged by the country that gave them birth.\"\n\n\"I have both heard and seen it,\" she said. \"One has smiled in\nspite of oneself, in listening to their simple, everyday talk.\"\n\n\"In little schools--in large ones--in little churches, and in\nimposing ones, their Faith is taught and preached,\" Coombe\nanswered. \"Sometimes one cannot believe one's hearing. It is all\nso ingenuously and frankly unashamed--the mouthing, boasting, and\nthreats of their piety. There exists for them no God who is not\nthe modest henchman of their emperor, and whose attention is not\nrivetted on their prowess with admiration and awe. Apparently,\nthey are His business, and He is well paid by being allowed to\nretain their confidence.\"\n\n\"A lack of any sense of humour is a disastrous thing,\" commented\nthe Duchess. \"The people of other nations may be fools--doubtless\nwe all are--but there is no other which proclaims the fact abroad\nwith such guileless outbursts of raucous exultation.\"\n\n\"And even we--you and I who have thought more than others\" he\nsaid, restlessly, \"even we forget and half smile. There been too\nmuch smiling.\"\n\nShe picked up an illustrated paper and opened it at a page filled\nby an ornate picture.\n\n\"See!\" she said. \"It is because he himself has made it so easy,\nwith his amazing portraits of his big boots, and swords, and\neruption of dangling orders. How can one help but smile when\none finds him glaring at one from a newspaper in his superwarlike\nattitude, defying the Universe, with his comic moustachios and their\nferocious waxed and bristling ends. No! One can scarcely believe\nthat a man can be stupid enough not to realize that he looks\nas if he had deliberately made himself up to represent a sort of\nterrific military bogey intimating that, at he may pounce and say\n'Boo?\"\n\n\"There lies the peril. His pretensions seem too grotesque to be\ntreated seriously. And, while he should be watched as a madman is\nwatched, he is given a lifetime to we attack on a world that has\nceased to believe in the sole thing which is real to himself.\"\n\n\"You are fresh from observation.\" There was new alertness in her\neyes, though she had listened before.\n\n\"I tell you it GROWS!\" he gave back and lightly struck the table\nin emphasis. \"Do you remember Carlyle--?\"\n\n\"The French Revolution again?\"\n\n\"Yes. Do you recall this? 'Do not fires, fevers, seeds, chemical\nmixtures, GO ON GROWING. Observe, too, that EACH GROWS with a\nrapidity proportioned to the madness and unhealthiness there is in\nit.' A ruler who, in an unaggressive age such as this, can concentrate\nhis life and his people's on the one ambition of plunging the\nworld in an ocean of blood, in which his own monomania can bathe\nin triumph--Good God! there is madness and unhealthiness to flourish\nin!\"\n\n\"The world!\" she said. \"Yes--it will be the world.\"\n\n\"See,\" he said, with a curve of the finger which included most of\nthe Map of Europe. \"Here are countries engaged--like the Bandarlog--in\ntheir own affairs. Quarrelling, snatching things from each other,\nblustering or amusing themselves with transitory pomps and displays\nof power. Here is a huge empire whose immense, half-savage population\nhas seethed for centuries in its hidden, boiling cauldron of\nrebellion. Oh! it has seethed! And only cruelties have repressed\nit. Now and then it has boiled over in assassination in high places,\nand one has wondered how long its autocratic splendour could hold\nits own. Here are small, fierce, helpless nations overrun and\noutraged into a chronic state of secret ever-ready hatred. Here\nare innocent, small countries, defenceless through their position\nand size. Here is France rich, careless, super-modern and cynic.\nHere is England comfortable to stolidity, prosperous and secure to\ndullness in her own half belief in a world civilization, which\nno longer argues in terms of blood and steel. And here--in a\nwell-entrenched position in the midst of it all--within but a few\nhundreds of miles of weakness, complicity, disastrous unreadiness\nand panic-stricken uncertainty of purpose, sits this Man of One\nDream--who believes God Himself his vassal. Here he sits.\"\n\n\"Yes his One Dream. He has had no other.\" The Duchess was poring\nover the map also. They were as people pondering over a strange\nand terrible game.\n\n\"It is his monomania. It possessed him when he was a boy. What\nNapoleon hoped to accomplish he has BELIEVED he could attain by\nconcentrating all the power of people upon preparation for it--and\nby not flinching from pouring forth their blood as if it were the\nrefuse water of his gutters.\"\n\n\"Yes--the blood--the blood!\" the Duchess shuddered. \"He would pour\nit forth without a qualm.\"\n\nCoombe touched the map first at one point and then at another.\n\n\"See!\" he said again, and this time savagely. \"This empire flattered\nand entangled by cunning, this country irritated, this deceived,\nthis drawn into argument, this and this and this treated with\nprofessed friendship, these tricked and juggled with--And then, when\nhis plans are ripe and he is made drunk with belief in himself--just\none sodden insult or monstrous breach of faith, which all humanity\nmust leap to resent--And there is our World Revolution.\"\n\nThe Duchess sat upright in her chair.\n\n\"Why did you let your youth pass?\" she said. \"If you had begun\nearly enough, you could hare made the country listen to you. Why\ndid you do it?\"\n\n\"For the same reason that all selfish grief and pleasure and\nindifference let the world go by. And I am not sure they would have\nlistened. I speak freely enough now in some quarters. They listen,\nbut they do nothing. There is a warning in the fact that, as he\nhas seen his youth leave him without giving him his opportunity,\nhe has been a disappointed man inflamed and made desperate. At the\noutset, he felt that he must provide the world with some fiction\nof excuse. As his obsession and arrogance have swollen, he sees\nhimself and his ambition as reason enough. No excuse is needed.\nDeutschland uber alles--is sufficient.\"\n\nHe pushed the map away and his fire died down. He spoke almost in\nhis usual manner.\n\n\"The conquest of the world,\" he said. \"He is a great fool. What\nwould he DO with his continents if he got them?\"\n\n\"What, indeed,\" pondered her grace. \"Continents--even kingdoms are\nnot like kittens in a basket, or puppies to be trained to come to\nheel.\"\n\n\"It is part of his monomania that he can persuade himself that\nthey are little more.\" Coombe's eye-glasses had been slowly swaying\nfrom the ribbon in his fingers. He let them continue to sway a\nmoment and then closed them with a snap.\n\n\"He is a great fool,\" he said. \"But we,--oh, my friend--and by 'we'\nI mean the rest of the Map of Europe--we are much greater fools.\nA mad dog loose among us and we sit--and smile.\"\n\nAnd this was in the days before the house with the cream-coloured\nfront had put forth its first geraniums and lobelias in Feather's\nwindow boxes. Robin was not born.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\n\n\n\nIn the added suite of rooms at the back of the house, Robin grew\nthrough the years in which It was growing also. On the occasion\nwhen her mother saw her, she realized that she was not at least\ngoing to look like a barmaid. At no period of her least refulgent\nmoment did she verge upon this type. Dowie took care of her and\nMademoiselle Valle educated her with the assistance of certain\nmasters who came to give lessons in German and Italian.\n\n\"Why only German and Italian and French,\" said Feather, \"why not\nLatin and Greek, as well, if she is to be so accomplished?\"\n\n\"It is modern languages one needs at this period. They ought\nto be taught in the Board Schools,\" Coombe replied. \"They are\nnot accomplishments but workman's tools. Nationalities are not\nseparated as they once were. To be familiar with the language of\none's friends--and one's enemies--is a protective measure.\"\n\n\"What country need one protect oneself against? When all the\nkings and queens are either married to each other's daughters or\ncousins or take tea with each other every year or so. Just think\nof the friendliness of Germany for instance----\"\n\n\"I do,\" said Coombe, \"very often. That is one of the reasons I\nchoose German rather than Latin and Greek. Julius Caesar and Nero\nare no longer reasons for alarm.\"\n\n\"Is the Kaiser with his seventeen children and his respectable\nFrau?\" giggled Feather. \"All that he cares about is that women\nshall be made to remember that they are born for nothing but to\ncook and go to church and have babies. One doesn't wonder at the\nclothes they wear.\"\n\nIt was not a month after this, however, when Lord Coombe, again\nwarming himself at his old friend's fire, gave her a piece of\ninformation.\n\n\"The German teacher, Herr Wiese, has hastily returned to his own\ncountry,\" he said.\n\nShe lifted her eyebrows inquiringly.\n\n\"He found himself suspected of being a spy,\" was his answer. \"With\nmost excellent reason. Some first-rate sketches of fortifications\nwere found in a box he left behind him in his haste. The country--all\ncountries--are sown with those like him. Mild spectacled students\nand clerks in warehouses and manufactories are weighing and\nmeasuring resources; round-faced, middle-aged governesses are\nmaking notes of conversation and of any other thing which may be\nuseful. In time of war--if they were caught at what are now their\nsimple daily occupations--they would be placed against a wall and\nshot. As it is, they are allowed to play about among us and slip\naway when some fellow worker's hint suggests it is time.\"\n\n\"German young men are much given to spending a year or so here\nin business positions,\" the Duchess wore a thoughtful air. \"That\nhas been going on for a decade or so. One recognizes their Teuton\ntype in shops and in the streets. They say they come to learn the\nlanguage and commercial methods.\"\n\n\"Not long ago a pompous person, who is the owner of a big shop,\npointed out to me three of them among his salesmen,\" Coombe said.\n\"He plumed himself on his astuteness in employing them. Said they\nworked for low wages and cared for very little else but finding\nout how things were done in England. It wasn't only business\nknowledge they were after, he said; they went about everywhere--into\nfactories and dock yards, and public buildings, and made funny\nlittle notes and sketches of things they didn't understand--so\nthat they could explain them in Germany. In his fatuous, insular\nway, it pleased him to regard them rather as a species of aborigines\nbenefiting by English civilization. The English Ass and the\nGerman Ass are touchingly alike. The shade of difference is that\nthe English Ass's sublime self-satisfaction is in the German Ass\nself-glorification. The English Ass smirks and plumes himself;\nthe German Ass blusters and bullies and defies.\"\n\n\"Do you think of engaging another German Master for the little\ngirl?\" the Duchess asked the question casually.\n\n\"I have heard of a quiet young woman who has shown herself thorough\nand well-behaved in a certain family for three years. Perhaps\nshe also will disappear some day, but, for the present, she will\nserve the purpose.\"\n\nAs he had not put into words to others any explanation of the\nstory of the small, smart establishment in the Mayfair street, so\nhe had put into words no explanation to her. That she was aware\nof its existence he knew, but what she thought of it, or imagined\nhe himself thought of it, he had not at any period inquired.\nWhatsoever her point of view might be, he knew it would be unbiassed,\nclear minded and wholly just. She had asked no question and made\nno comment. The rapid, whirligig existence of the well-known\nfashionable groups, including in their circles varieties of the\nMrs. Gareth-Lawless type, were to be seen at smart functions and\nto be read of in newspapers and fashion reports, if one's taste\nlay in the direction of a desire to follow their movements. The\ntime had passed when pretty women of her kind were cut off by\nseverities of opinion from the delights of a world they had thrown\ntheir dice daringly to gain. The worldly old axiom, \"Be virtuous\nand you will be happy,\" had been ironically paraphrased too often.\n\"Please yourself and you will be much happier than if you were\nvirtuous,\" was a practical reading.\n\nBut for a certain secret which she alone knew and which no one\nwould in the least have believed, if she had proclaimed it from\nthe housetops, Feather would really have been entirely happy.\nAnd, after all, the fly in her ointment was merely an odd sting\na fantastic Fate had inflicted on her vanity and did not in any\ndegree affect her pleasures. So many people lived in glass houses\nthat the habit of throwing stones had fallen out of fashion as an\nexercise. There were those, too, whose houses of glass, adroitly\ngiven the air of being respectable conservatories, engendered in\nthe dwellers therein a leniency towards other vitreous constructions.\nAs a result of this last circumstance, there were times when\nquite stately equipages drew up before Mrs. Gareth-Lawless' door\nand visiting cards bearing the names of acquaintances much to be\ndesired were left upon the salver presented by Jennings. Again,\nas a result of this circumstance, Feather employed some laudable\neffort in her desire to give her own glass house the conservatory\naspect. Her little parties became less noisy, if they still remained\nlively. She gave an \"afternoon\" now and then to which literary\npeople and artists, and persons who \"did things\" were invited.\nShe was pretty enough to allure an occasional musician to \"do\nsomething\", some new poet to read or recite. Fashionable people\nwere asked to come and hear and talk to them, and, in this way,\nshe threw out delicate fishing lines here and there, and again\nand again drew up a desirable fish of substantial size. Sometimes\nthe vague rumour connected with the name of the Head of the House\nof Coombe was quite forgotten and she was referred to amiably as\n\"That beautiful creature, Mrs. Gareth-Lawless. She was left a\nwidow when she was nothing but a girl. If she hadn't had a little\nmoney of her own, and if her husband's relatives hadn't taken care\nof her, she would have had a hard time of it. She is amazingly\nclever at managing her, small income,\" they added. \"Her tiny house\nis one of the jolliest little places in London--always full of\ngood looking people and amusing things.\"\n\nBut, before Robin was fourteen, she had found out that the house\nshe lived in was built of glass and that any chance stone would\nbreak its panes, even if cast without particular skill in aiming.\nShe found it out in various ways, but the seed from which all\nthings sprang to the fruition of actual knowledge was the child\ntragedy through which she had learned that Donal had been taken\nfrom her--because his mother would not let him love and play with\na little girl whose mother let Lord Coombe come to her house--because\nLord Coombe was so bad that even servants whispered secrets about\nhim. Her first interpretation of this had been that of a mere baby,\nbut it had filled her being with detestation of him, and curious\ndoubts of her mother. Donal's mother, who was good and beautiful,\nwould not let him come to see her and kept Donal away from him.\nIf the Lady Downstairs was good, too, then why did laugh and\ntalk to him and seem to like him? She had thought this over for\nhours--sometimes wakening in the night to lie and puzzle over\nit feverishly. Then, as time went by, she had begun to remember\nthat she had never played with any of the children in the Square\nGardens. It had seemed as though this had been because Andrews\nwould not let her. But, if she was not fit to play with Donal,\nperhaps the nurses and governesses and mothers of the other children\nknew about it and would not trust their little girls and boys to\nher damaging society. She did not know what she could have done\nto harm them--and Oh! how COULD she have harmed Donal!--but there\nmust be something dreadful about a child whose mother knew bad\npeople--something which other children could \"catch\" like scarlet\nfever. From this seed other thoughts had grown. She did not remain\na baby long. A fervid little brain worked for her, picked up hints\nand developed suggestions, set her to singularly alert reasoning\nwhich quickly became too mature for her age. The quite horrid little\ngirl, who flouncingly announced that she could not be played with\nany more \"because of Lord Coombe\" set a spark to a train. After\nthat time she used to ask occasional carefully considered questions\nof Dowson and Mademoiselle Valle, which puzzled them by their\nvagueness. The two women were mutually troubled by a moody habit\nshe developed of sitting absorbed in her own thoughts, and with\na concentrated little frown drawing her brows together. They did\nnot know that she was silently planning a subtle cross examination\nof them both, whose form would be such that neither of them could\nsuspect it of being anything but innocent. She felt that she was\ngrowing cunning and deceitful, but she did not care very much.\nShe possessed a clever and determined, though very young brain.\nShe loved both Dowson and Mademoiselle, but she must find out\nabout things for herself, and she was not going to harm or trouble\nthem. They would never know she had found out: Whatsoever she\ndiscovered, she would keep to herself.\n\nBut one does not remain a baby long, and one is a little girl\nonly a few years, and, even during the few years, one is growing\nand hearing and seeing all the time. After that, one is beginning\nto be a rather big girl and one has seen books and newspapers, and\noverheard scraps of things from servants. If one is brought up\nin a convent and allowed to read nothing but literature selected\nby nuns, a degree of aloofness from knowledge may be counted\nupon--though even convent schools, it is said, encounter their\ndifficulties in perfect discipline.\n\nRobin, in her small \"Palace\" was well taken care of but her library\nwas not selected by nuns. It was chosen with thought, but it was\nthe library of modern youth. Mademoiselle Valle's theories of a\ngirl's education were not founded on a belief that, until marriage,\nshe should be led about by a string blindfolded, and with ears\nstopped with wax.\n\n\"That results in a bleating lamb's being turned out of its fold to\nmake its way through a jungle full of wild creatures and pitfalls\nit has never heard of,\" she said in discussing the point with Dowson.\nShe had learned that Lord Coombe agreed with her. He, as well as\nshe, chose the books and his taste was admirable. Its inclusion\nof an unobtrusive care for girlhood did not preclude the exercise\nof the intellect. An early developed passion for reading led the\nchild far and wide. Fiction, history, poetry, biography, opened\nup vistas to a naturally quick and eager mind. Mademoiselle found\nher a clever pupil and an affection-inspiring little being even\nfrom the first.\n\nShe always felt, however, that in the depths of her something held\nitself hidden--something she did not speak of. It was some thought\nwhich perhaps bewildered her, but which something prevented her\nmaking clear to herself by the asking of questions. Mademoiselle\nValle finally became convinced that she never would ask the\nquestions.\n\nArrived a day when Feather swept into the Palace with some\nvisitors. They were two fair and handsome little girls of thirteen\nand fourteen, whose mother, having taken them shopping, found it\nwould suit her extremely well to drop then somewhere for an hour\nwhile she went to her dressmaker. Feather was quite willing that\nthey should be left with Robin and Mademoiselle until their own\ngoverness called for them.\n\n\"Here are Eileen and Winifred Erwyn, Robin,\" she said, bringing\nthem in. \"Talk to them and show them your books and things until\nthe governess comes. Dowson, give them some cakes and tea.\"\n\nMrs. Erwyn was one of the most treasured of Feather's circle. Her\nlittle girls' governess was a young Frenchwoman, entirely unlike\nMademoiselle Valle. Eileen and Winifred saw Life from their\nschoolroom windows as an open book. Why not, since their governess\nand their mother's French maid conversed freely, and had rather\npenetrating voices even when they were under the impression that\nthey lowered them out of deference to blameless youth. Eileen and\nWinifred liked to remain awake to listen as long as they could\nafter they went to bed. They themselves had large curious eyes\nand were given to whispering and giggling.\n\nThey talked a good deal to Robin and assumed fashionable little\ngrown up airs. They felt themselves mature creatures as compared\nto her, since she was not yet thirteen. They were so familiar\nwith personages and functions that Robin felt that they must have\ncommitted to memory every morning the column in the Daily Telegraph\nknown as \"London Day by Day.\" She sometimes read it herself,\nbecause it was amusing to her to read about parties and weddings\nand engagements. But it did not seem easy to remember. Winifred\nand Eileen were delighted to display themselves in the character\nof instructresses. They entertained Robin for a short time, but,\nafter that, she began to dislike the shared giggles which so often\nbroke out after their introduction of a name or an incident. It\nseemed to hint that they were full of amusing information which\nthey held back. Then they were curious and made remarks and asked\nquestions. She began to think them rather horrid.\n\n\"We saw Lord Coombe yesterday,\" said Winifred at last, and the\nunnecessary giggle followed.\n\n\"We think he wears the most beautiful clothes we ever saw! You\nremember his overcoat, Winnie?\" said Eileen. \"He MATCHES so--and\nyet you don't know exactly how he matches,\" and she giggled also.\n\n\"He is the best dressed man in London,\" Winifred stated quite\ngrandly. \"I think he is handsome. So do Mademoiselle and Florine.\"\n\nRobin said nothing at all. What Dowson privately called \"her\nsecret look\" made her face very still. Winifred saw the look and,\nnot understanding it or her, became curious.\n\n\"Don't you?\" she said.\n\n\"No,\" Robin answered. \"He has a wicked face. And he's old, too.\"\n\n\"You think he's old because you're only about twelve,\" inserted\nEileen. \"Children think everybody who is grown-up must be old.\nI used to. But now people don't talk and think about age as they\nused to. Mademoiselle says that when a man has distinction he is\nalways young--and nicer than boys.\"\n\nWinifred, who was persistent, broke in.\n\n\"As to his looking wicked, I daresay he IS wicked in a sort of\ninteresting way. Of course, people say all sorts of things about\nhim. When he was quite young, he was in love with a beautiful\nlittle royal Princess--or she was in love with him--and her husband\neither killed her or she died of a broken heart--I don't know\nwhich.\"\n\nMademoiselle Valle had left them for a short time feeling that\nthey were safe with their tea and cakes and would feel more at ease\nrelieved of her presence. She was not long absent, but Eileen and\nWinifred, being avid of gossip and generally eliminated subjects,\n\"got in their work\" with quite fevered haste. They liked the idea\nof astonishing Robin.\n\nEileen bent forward and lowered her voice.\n\n\"They do say that once Captain Thorpe was fearfully jealous of\nhim and people wonder that he wasn't among the co-respondents.\"\nThe word \"co-respondent\" filled her with self-gratulation even\nthough she only whispered it.\n\n\"Co-respondents?\" said Robin.\n\nThey both began to whisper at once--quite shrilly in their haste.\nThey knew Mademoiselle might return at any moment.\n\n\"The great divorce case, you know! The Thorpe divorce case the\npapers are so full of. We get the under housemaid to bring it to\nus after Mademoiselle has done with it. It's so exciting! Haven't\nyou been reading it? Oh!\"\n\n\"No, I haven't,\" answered Robin. \"And I don't know about co-respondents,\nbut, if they are anything horrid, I daresay he WAS one of them.\"\n\nAnd at that instant Mademoiselle returned and Dowson brought\nin fresh cakes. The governess, who was to call for her charges,\npresented herself not long afterwards and the two enterprising\nlittle persons were taken away.\n\n\"I believe she's JEALOUS of Lord Coombe,\" Eileen whispered to\nWinifred, after they reached home.\n\n\"So do I,\" said Winifred wisely. \"She can't help but know how he\nADORES Mrs. Gareth-Lawless because she's so lovely. He pays for\nall her pretty clothes. It's silly of her to be jealous--like a\nbaby.\"\n\nRobin sometimes read newspapers, though she liked books better.\nNewspapers were not forbidden her. She been reading an enthralling\nbook and had not seen a paper for some days. She at once searched for\none and, finding it, sat down and found also the Thorpe Divorce\nCase. It was not difficult of discovery, as it filled the principal\npages with dramatic evidence and amazing revelations.\n\nDowson saw her bending over the spread sheets, hot-eyed and intense\nin her concentration.\n\n\"What are you reading, my love?\" she asked.\n\nThe little flaming face lifted itself. It was unhappy, obstinate,\nresenting. It wore no accustomed child look and Dowson felt rather\nstartled.\n\n\"I'm reading the Thorpe Divorce Case, Dowie,\" she answered\ndeliberately and distinctly.\n\nDowie came close to her.\n\n\"It's an ugly thing to read, my lamb,\" she faltered. \"Don't you\nread it. Such things oughtn't to be allowed in newspapers. And\nyou're a little girl, my own dear.\" Robin's elbow rested firmly\non the table and her chin firmly in her hand. Her eyes were not\nlike a bird's.\n\n\"I'm nearly thirteen,\" she said. \"I'm growing up. Nobody can stop\nthemselves when they begin to grow up. It makes them begin to find\nout things. I want to ask you something, Dowie.\"\n\n\"Now, lovey--!\" Dowie began with tremor. Both she and Mademoiselle\nhad been watching the innocent \"growing up\" and fearing a time\nwould come when the widening gaze would see too much. Had it come\nas soon as this?\n\nRobin suddenly caught the kind woman's wrists in her hands and\nheld them while she fixed her eyes on her. The childish passion\nof dread and shyness in them broke Dowson's heart because it was\nso ignorant and young.\n\n\"I'm growing up. There's something--I MUST know something! I never\nknew how to ask about it before.\" It was so plain to Dowson that\nshe did not know how to ask about it now. \"Someone said that Lord\nCoombe might have been a co-respondent in the Thorpe case----\"\n\n\"These wicked children!\" gasped Dowie. \"They're not children at\nall!\"\n\n\"Everybody's horrid but you and Mademoiselle,\" cried Robin, brokenly.\nShe held the wrists harder and ended in a sort of outburst. \"If\nmy father were alive--could he bring a divorce suit----And would\nLord Coombe----\"\n\nDowson burst into open tears. And then, so did Robin. She dropped\nDowson's wrists and threw her arms around her waist, clinging to\nit in piteous repentance.\n\n\"No, I won't!\" she cried out. \"I oughtn't to try to make you tell\nme. You can't. I'm wicked to you. Poor Dowie--darling Dowie! I\nwant to KISS you, Dowie! Let me--let me!\"\n\nShe sobbed childishly on the comfortable breast and Dowie hugged\nher close and murmured in a choked voice,\n\n\"My lamb! My pet lamb!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\n\n\n\nMademoiselle Valle and Dowson together realized that after this\nthe growing up process was more rapid. It always seems incredibly\nrapid to lookers on, after thirteen. But these two watchers felt\nthat, in Robin's case, it seemed unusually so. Robin had always\nbeen interested in her studies and clever at them, but, suddenly,\nshe developed a new concentration and it was of an order which her\ngoverness felt denoted the secret holding of some object in view.\nShe devoted herself to her lessons with a quality of determination\nwhich was new. She had previously been absorbed, but not determined.\nShe made amazing strides and seemed to aspire to a thoroughness\nand perfection girls did not commonly aim at--especially at the\nfrequently rather preoccupied hour of blossoming. Mademoiselle\nencountered in her an eagerness that she--who knew girls--would\nhave felt it optimistic to expect in most cases. She wanted to\nwork over hours; she would have read too much if she had not been\nwatched and gently coerced.\n\nShe was not distracted by the society of young people of her own age.\nShe, indeed, showed a definite desire to avoid such companionship.\nWhat she said to Mademoiselle Valle one afternoon during a long walk\nthey took together, held its own revelation for the older woman.\n\nThey had come upon the two Erwyns walking with their attendant\nin Kensington Gardens, and, seeing them at some distance, Robin\nasked her companion to turn into another walk.\n\n\"I don't want to meet them,\" she said, hurriedly. \"I don't think I\nlike girls. Perhaps it's horrid of me--but I don't. I don't like\nthose two.\" A few minutes later, after they had walked in an opposite\ndirection, she said thoughtfully.\n\n\"Perhaps the kind of girls I should like to know would not like to\nknow me.\"\n\nFrom the earliest days of her knowledge of Lord Coombe, Mademoiselle\nValle had seen that she had no cause to fear lack of comprehension\non his part. With a perfection of method, they searched each other's\nintelligence. It had become understood that on such occasions as\nthere was anything she wished to communicate or inquire concerning,\nMr. Benby, in his private room, was at Mademoiselle's service, and\nthere his lordship could also be met personally by appointment.\n\n\"There have been no explanations,\" Mademoiselle Valle said to\nDowson. \"He does not ask to know why I turn to him and I do not\nask to know why he cares about this particular child. It is taken\nfor granted that is his affair and not mine. I am paid well to\ntake care of Robin, and he knows that all I say and do is part of\nmy taking care of her.\"\n\nAfter the visit of the Erwyn children, she had a brief interview\nwith Coombe, in which she made for him a clear sketch. It was a\nsketch of unpleasant little minds, avid and curious on somewhat\nexotic subjects, little minds, awake to rather common claptrap\nand gossipy pinchbeck interests.\n\n\"Yes--unpleasant, luckless, little persons. I quite understand.\nThey never appeared before. They will not appear again. Thank you,\nMademoiselle,\" he said.\n\nThe little girls did not appear again; neither did any others of\ntheir type, and the fact that Feather knew little of other types\nwas a sufficient reason for Robin's growing up without companions\nof her own age.\n\n\"She's a lonely child, after all,\" Mademoiselle said.\n\n\"She always was,\" answered Dowie. \"But she's fond of us, bless\nher heart, and it isn't loneliness like it was before we came.\"\n\n\"She is not unhappy. She is too blooming and full of life,\"\nMademoiselle reflected. \"We adore her and she has many interests.\nIt is only that she does not know the companionship most young\npeople enjoy. Perhaps, as she has never known it, she does not\nmiss it.\"\n\nThe truth was that if the absence of intercourse with youth\nproduced its subtle effect on her, she was not aware of any lack,\nand a certain uncompanioned habit of mind, which gave her much\ntime for dreams and thought, was accepted by her as a natural\ncondition as simply as her babyhood had accepted the limitations\nof the Day and Night Nurseries.\n\nShe was not a self-conscious creature, but the time came when she\nbecame rather disturbed by the fact that people looked at her very\noften, as she walked in the streets. Sometimes they turned their\nheads to look after her; occasionally one person walking with\nanother would say something quietly to his or her companion, and\nthey even paused a moment to turn quite round and look. The first\nfew times she noticed this she flushed prettily and said nothing\nto Mademoiselle Valle who was generally with her. But, after her\nattention had been attracted by the same thing on several different\ndays, she said uneasily:\n\n\"Am I quite tidy, Mademoiselle?\"\n\n\"Quite,\" Mademoiselle answered--just a shade uneasy herself.\n\n\"I began to think that perhaps something had come undone or my\nhat was crooked,\" she explained. \"Those two women stared so. Then\ntwo men in a hansom leaned forward and one said something to the\nother, and they both laughed a little, Mademoiselle!\" hurriedly,\n\"Now, there are three young men!\" quite indignantly. \"Don't let\nthem see you notice them--but I think it RUDE!\"\n\nThey were carelessly joyous and not strictly well-bred youths,\nwho were taking a holiday together, and their rudeness was quite\nunintentional and without guile. They merely stared and obviously\nmuttered comments to each other as they passed, each giving\nthe hasty, unconscious touch to his young moustache, which is the\nautomatic sign of pleasurable observation in the human male.\n\n\"If she had had companions of her own age she would have known\nall about it long ago,\" Mademoiselle was thinking.\n\nHer intelligent view of such circumstances was that the simple\nfact they arose from could--with perfect taste--only be treated\nsimply. It was a mere fact; therefore, why be prudish and affected\nabout it.\n\n\"They did not intend any rudeness,\" she said, after they had gone\nby. \"They are not much more than boys and not perfectly behaved.\nPeople often stare when they see a very pretty girl. I am afraid\nI do it myself. You are very pretty,\" quite calmly, and as one\nspeaking without prejudice.\n\nRobin turned and looked at her, and the colour, which was like a\nJacqueminot rose, flooded her face. She was at the flushing age.\nHer gaze was interested, speculative, and a shade startled--merely\na shade.\n\n\"Oh,\" she said briefly--not in exclamation exactly, but in a sort\nof acceptance. Then she looked straight before her and went on\nwalking, with the lovely, slightly swaying, buoyant step which in\nitself drew attracted eyes after her.\n\n\"If I were a model governess, such as one read of long before\nyou were born,\" Mademoiselle Valle continued, \"I should feel it\nmy duty to tell you that beauty counts for nothing. But that is\nnonsense. It counts a great deal--with some women it counts for\neverything. Such women are not lucky. One should thank Heaven\nfor it and make the best of it, without exaggerated anxiety. Both\nDowie and I, who love you, are GRATEFUL to le bon Dieu that you\nare pretty.\"\n\n\"I have sometimes thought I was pretty, when I saw myself in the\nglass,\" said Robin, with unexcited interest. \"It seemed to me that\nI LOOKED pretty. But, at the same time, I couldn't help knowing\nthat everything is a matter of taste and that it might be because\nI was conceited.\"\n\n\"You are not conceited,\" answered the Frenchwoman.\n\n\"I don't want to be,\" said Robin. \"I want to be--a serious person\nwith--with a strong character.\"\n\nMademoiselle's smile was touched with affectionate doubt. It had\nnot occurred to her to view this lovely thing in the light of a\n\"strong\" character. Though, after all, what exactly was strength?\nShe was a warm, intensely loving, love compelling, tender being.\nHaving seen much of the world, and of humanity and inhumanity,\nMademoiselle Valle had had moments of being afraid for\nher--particularly when, by chance, she recalled the story Dowson\nhad told her of the bits of crushed and broken leaves.\n\n\"A serious person,\" she said, \"and strong?\"\n\n\"Because I must earn my own living,\" said Robin. \"I must be strong\nenough to take care of myself. I am going to be a governess--or\nsomething.\"\n\nHere, it was revealed to Mademoiselle as in a flash, was the reason\nwhy she had applied herself with determination to her studies. This\nhad been the object in view. For reasons of her own, she intended\nto earn her living. With touched interest, Mademoiselle Valle\nwaited, wondering if she would be frank about the reason. She\nmerely said aloud:\n\n\"A governess?\"\n\n\"Perhaps there may be something else I can do. I might be a\nsecretary or something like that. Girls and women are beginning\nto do so many new things,\" her charge explained herself. \"I do not\nwant to be--supported and given money. I mean I do not want--other\npeople--to buy my clothes and food--and things. The newspapers are\nfull of advertisements. I could teach children. I could translate\nbusiness letters. Very soon I shall be old enough to begin. Girls\nin their teens do it.\"\n\nShe had laid some of her cards on the table, but not all, poor\nchild. She was not going into the matter of her really impelling\nreasons. But Mademoiselle Valle was not dull, and her affection\nadded keenness to her mental observations. Also she had naturally\nheard the story of the Thorpe lawsuit from Dowson. Inevitably\nseveral points suggested themselves to her.\n\n\"Mrs. Gareth-Lawless----\" she began, reasonably.\n\nBut Robin stopped her by turning her face full upon her once more,\nand this time her eyes were full of clear significance.\n\n\"She will let me go,\" she said. \"You KNOW she will let me\ngo, Mademoiselle, darling. You KNOW she will.\" There was a frank\ncomprehension and finality in the words which made a full revelation\nof facts Mademoiselle herself had disliked even to allow to form\nthemselves into thoughts. The child knew all sorts of things and\nfelt all sorts of things. She would probably never go into details,\nbut she was extraordinarily, harrowingly, AWARE. She had been\nlearning to be aware for years. This had been the secret she had\nalways kept to herself.\n\n\"If you are planning this,\" Mademoiselle said, as reasonably as\nbefore, \"we must work very seriously for the next few years.\"\n\n\"How long do you think it will take?\" asked Robin. She was nearing\nsixteen--bursting into glowing blossom--a radiant, touching thing\nwhom one only could visualize in flowering gardens, in charming,\nenclosing rooms, figuratively embraced by every mature and kind\narm within reach of her. This presented itself before Mademoiselle\nValle with such vividness that it was necessary for her to control\na sigh.\n\n\"When I feel that you are ready, I will tell you,\" she answered.\n\"And I will do all I can to help you--before I leave you.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" Robin gasped, in an involuntarily childish way, \"I--hadn't\nthought of that! How could I LIVE without you--and Dowie?\"\n\n\"I know you had not thought of it,\" said Mademoiselle, affectionately.\n\"You are only a dear child yet. But that will be part of it, you\nknow. A governess or a secretary, or a young lady in an office\ntranslating letters cannot take her governess and maid with her.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Robin again, and her eyes became suddenly so dewy that\nthe person who passed her at the moment thought he had never seen\nsuch wonderful eyes in his life. So much of her was still child\nthat the shock of this sudden practical realization thrust the mature\nand determined part of her being momentarily into the background,\nand she could scarcely bear her alarmed pain. It was true that she\nhad been too young to face her plan as she must.\n\nBut, after the long walk was over and she found herself in her\nbedroom again, she was conscious of a sense of being relieved of\na burden. She had been wondering when she could tell Mademoiselle\nand Dowie of her determination. She had not liked to keep it a secret\nfrom them as if she did not love them, but it had been difficult\nto think of a way in which to begin without seeming as if she\nthought she was quite grown up--which would have been silly. She\nhad not thought of speaking today, but it had all come about quite\nnaturally, as a result of Mademoiselle's having told her that she\nwas really very pretty--so pretty that it made people turn to look\nat her in the street. She had heard of girls and women who were\nlike that, but she had never thought it possible that she----!\nShe had, of course, been looked at when she was very little, but\nshe had heard Andrews say that people looked because she had so\nmuch hair and it was like curled silk.\n\nShe went to the dressing table and looked at herself in the glass,\nleaning forward that she might see herself closely. The face\nwhich drew nearer and nearer had the effect of some tropic flower,\nbecause it was so alive with colour which seemed to palpitate\ninstead of standing still. Her soft mouth was warm and brilliant\nwith it, and the darkness of her eyes was--as it had always\nbeen--like dew. Her brow were a slender black velvet line, and her\nlashes made a thick, softening shadow. She saw they were becoming.\nShe cupped her round chin in her hands and studied herself with a\ndesire to be sure of the truth without prejudice or self conceit.\nThe whole effect of her was glowing, and she felt the glow as\nothers did. She put up a finger to touch the velvet petal texture\nof her skin, and she saw how prettily pointed and slim her hand\nwas. Yes, that was pretty--and her hair--the way it grew about\nher forehead and ears and the back of her neck. She gazed at her\nyoung curve and colour and flame of life's first beauty with deep\ncuriosity, singularly impersonal for her years.\n\nShe liked it; she began to be grateful as Mademoiselle had said\nshe and Dowie were. Yes, if other people liked it, there was no\nuse in pretending it would not count.\n\n\"If I am going to earn my living,\" she thought, with entire\ngravity, \"it may be good for me. If I am a governess, it will be\nuseful because children like pretty people. And if I am a secretary\nand work in an office, I daresay men like one to be pretty because\nit is more cheerful.\"\n\nShe mentioned this to Mademoiselle Valle, who was very kind about\nit, though she looked thoughtful afterwards. When, a few days later,\nMademoiselle had an interview with Coombe in Benby's comfortable\nroom, he appeared thoughtful also as he listened to her recital\nof the incidents of the long walk during which her charge had\nrevealed her future plans.\n\n\"She is a nice child,\" he said. \"I wish she did not dislike me\nso much. I understand her, villain as she thinks me. I am not a\ngenuine villain,\" he added, with his cold smile. But he was saying\nit to himself, not to Mademoiselle.\n\nThis, she saw, but--singularly, perhaps--she spoke as if in reply.\n\n\"Of that I am aware.\"\n\nHe turned his head slightly, with a quick, unprepared movement.\n\n\"Yes?\" he said.\n\n\"Would your lordship pardon me if I should say that otherwise I\nshould not ask your advice concerning a very young girl?\"\n\nHe slightly waved his hand.\n\n\"I should have known that--if I had thought of it. I do know it.\"\n\nMademoiselle Valle bowed.\n\n\"The fact,\" she said, \"that she seriously thinks that perhaps\nbeauty may be an advantage to a young person who applies for work\nin the office of a man of business because it may seem bright and\ncheerful to him when he is tired and out of spirits--that gives one\nfuriously to think. Yes, to me she said it, milord--with the eyes\nof a little dove brooding over her young. I could see her--lifting\nthem like an angel to some elderly vaurien, who would merely think\nher a born cocotte.\"\n\nHere Coombe's rigid face showed thought indeed.\n\n\"Good God!\" he muttered, quite to himself, \"Good God!\" in a low,\nbreathless voice. Villain or saint, he knew not one world but\nmany.\n\n\"We must take care of her,\" he said next. \"She is not an insubordinate\nchild. She will do nothing yet?\"\n\n\"I have told her she is not yet ready,\" Mademoiselle Valle answered.\n\"I have also promised to tell her when she is--And to help her.\"\n\n\"God help her if we do not!\" he said. \"She is, on the whole, as\nignorant as a little sheep--and butchers are on the lookout for\nsuch as she is. They suit them even better than the little things\nwhose tendencies are perverse from birth. An old man with an evil\ncharacter may be able to watch over her from a distance.\"\n\nMademoiselle regarded him with grave eyes, which took in his tall,\nthin erectness of figure, his bearing, the perfection of his attire\nwith its unfailing freshness, which was not newness.\n\n\"Do you call yourself an old man, milord?\" she asked.\n\n\"I am not decrepit--years need not bring that,\" was his answer. \"But\nI believe I became an old man before I was thirty. I have grown no\nolder--in that which is really age--since then.\"\n\nIn the moment's silence which followed, his glance met Mademoiselle\nValle's and fixed itself.\n\n\"I am not old enough--or young enough--to be enamoured of Mrs.\nGareth-Lawless' little daughter,\" he said. \"YOU need not be told\nthat. But you have heard that there are those who amuse themselves\nby choosing to believe that I am.\"\n\n\"A few light and not too clean-minded fools,\" she admitted without\nflinching.\n\n\"No man can do worse for himself than to explain and deny,\" he\nresponded with a smile at once hard and fine. \"Let them continue\nto believe it.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\n\n\n\n\nSixteen passed by with many other things much more disturbing\nand important to the world than a girl's birthday; seventeen was\ngone, with passing events more complicated still and increasingly\nsignificant, but even the owners of the hands hovering over the\nChessboard, which was the Map of Europe, did not keep a watch on\nall of them as close as might have been kept with advantage. Girls\nin their teens are seldom interested in political and diplomatic\nconditions, and Robin was not fond of newspapers. She worked well\nand steadily under Mademoiselle's guidance, and her governess\nrealized that she was not losing sight of her plans for self\nsupport. She was made aware of this by an occasional word or so,\nand also by a certain telepathic union between them. Little as she\ncared for the papers, the child had a habit of closely examining\nthe advertisements every day. She read faithfully the columns\ndevoted to those who \"Want\" employment or are \"Wanted\" by employers.\n\n\"I look at all the paragraphs which begin 'Wanted, a young lady'\nor a 'young woman' or a 'young person,' and those which say that\n'A young person' or 'a young woman' or 'a young lady' desires a\nposition. I want to find out what is oftenest needed.\"\n\nShe had ceased to be disturbed by the eyes which followed her,\nor opened a little as she passed. She knew that nothing had come\nundone or was crooked and that untidiness had nothing to do with\nthe matter. She accepted being looked at as a part of everyday\nlife. A certain friendliness and pleasure in most of the glances she\nliked and was glad of. Sometimes men of the flushed, middle-aged\nor elderly type displeased her by a sort of boldness of manner\nand gaze, but she thought that they were only silly, giddy, old\nthings who ought to go home to their families and stay with them.\nMademoiselle or Dowie was nearly always with her, but, as she was\nnot a French jemme fille, this was not because it was supposed\nthat she could not be trusted out alone, but because she enjoyed\ntheir affectionate companionship.\n\nThere was one man, however, whom she greatly disliked, as young\ngirls will occasionally dislike a member of the opposite sex for\nno special reason they can wholly explain to themselves.\n\nHe was an occasional visitor of her mother's--a personable young\nPrussian officer of high rank and title. He was blonde and military\nand good-looking; he brought his bearing and manner from the Court\nat Berlin, and the click of his heels as he brought them smartly\ntogether, when he made his perfect automatic bow, was one of the\nthings Robin knew she was reasonless in feeling she detested in\nhim.\n\n\"It makes me feel as if he was not merely bowing as a a man who\nis a gentleman does,\" she confided to Mademoiselle Valle, \"but\nas if he had been taught to do it and to call attention to it as\nif no one had ever known how to do it properly before. It is so\nflourishing in its stiff way that it's rather vulgar.\"\n\n\"That is only personal fancy on your part,\" commented Mademoiselle.\n\n\"I know it is,\" admitted Robin. \"But--\" uneasily, \"--but that\nisn't what I dislike in him most. It's his eyes, I suppose they\nare handsome eyes. They are blue and full--rather too full. They\nhave a queer, swift stare--as if they plunged into other people's\neyes and tried to hold them and say something secret, all in one\nsecond. You find yourself getting red and trying to look away.\"\n\n\"I don't,\" said Mademoiselle astutely--because she wanted to hear\nthe rest, without asking too many questions.\n\nRobin laughed just a little.\n\n\"You have not seen him do it. I have not seen him do it myself very\noften. He comes to call on--Mamma\"--she never said \"Mother\"--\"when\nhe is in London. He has been coming for two or three seasons. The\nfirst time I saw him I was going out with Dowie and he was just\ngoing upstairs. Because the hall is so small, we almost knocked\nagainst each other, and he jumped back and made his bow, and he\nstared so that I felt silly and half frightened. I was only fifteen\nthen.\"\n\n\"And since then?\" Mademoiselle Valle inquired.\n\n\"When he is here it seems as if I always meet him somewhere. Twice,\nwhen Fraulein Hirsch was with me in the Square Gardens, he came\nand spoke to us. I think he must know her. He was very grand and\ncondescendingly polite to her, as if he did not forget she was\nonly a German teacher and I was only a little girl whose mamma\nhe knew. But he kept looking at me until I began to hate him.\"\n\n\"You must not dislike people without reason. You dislike Lord\nCoombe.\"\n\n\"They both make me creep. Lord Coombe doesn't plunge his eyes\ninto mine, but he makes me creep with his fishy coldness. I feel\nas if he were like Satan in his still way.\"\n\n\"That is childish prejudice and nonsense.\"\n\n\"Perhaps the other is, too,\" said Robin. \"But they both make me\ncreep, nevertheless. I would rather DIE than be obliged to let\none of them touch me. That was why I would never shake hands with\nLord Coombe when I was a little child.\"\n\n\"You think Fraulein Hirsch knows the Baron?\" Mademoiselle inquired\nfurther.\n\n\"I am sure she does. Several times, when she has gone out to walk\nwith me, we have met him. Sometimes he only passes us and salutes,\nbut sometimes he stops and says a few words in a stiff, magnificent\nway. But he always bores his eyes into mine, as if he were finding\nout things about me which I don't know myself. He has passed\nseveral times when you have been with me, but you may not remember.\"\n\nMademoiselle Valle chanced, however, to recall having observed\nthe salute of a somewhat haughty, masculine person, whose military\nbearing in itself was sufficient to attract attention, so markedly\ndid it suggest the clanking of spurs and accoutrements, and the\nhigh lift of a breast bearing orders.\n\n\"He is Count von Hillern, and I wish he would stay in Germany,\"\nsaid Robin.\n\nFraulein Hirsch had not been one of those who returned hastily to\nher own country, giving no warning of her intention to her employers.\nShe had remained in London and given her lessons faithfully. She\nwas a plain young woman with a large nose and pimpled, colourless\nface and shy eyes and manner. Robin had felt sure that she stood\nin awe of the rank and military grandeur of her fellow countryman.\nShe looked shyer than ever when he condescended to halt and address\nher and her charge--so shy, indeed, that her glances seemed furtive.\nRobin guessed that she admired him but was too humble to be at\nease when he was near her. More than once she had started and turned\nred and pale when she saw him approaching, which had caused Robin\nto wonder if she herself would feel as timid and overpowered by\nher superiors, if she became a governess. Clearly, a man like\nCount von Hillern would then be counted among her superiors, and\nshe must conduct herself becomingly, even if it led to her looking\nalmost stealthy. She had, on several occasions, asked Fraulein\ncertain questions about governesses. She had inquired as to the age\nat which one could apply for a place as instructress to children\nor young girls. Fraulein Hirsch had begun her career in Germany\nat the age of eighteen. She had lived a serious life, full of\nresponsibilities at home as one of a large family, and she had\nperhaps been rather mature for her age. In England young women\nwho wished for situations answered advertisements and went to see\nthe people who had inserted them in the newspapers, she explained.\nSometimes, the results were very satisfactory. Fraulein Hirsch\nwas very amiable in her readiness to supply information. Robin did\nnot tell her of her intention to find work of some sort--probably\ngovernessing--but the young German woman was possessed of a mind\n\"made in Germany\" and was quite well aware of innumerable things\nher charge did not suspect her of knowing. One of the things\nshe knew best was that the girl was a child. She was not a child\nherself, and she was an abjectly bitter and wretched creature who\nhad no reason for hope. She lived in small lodgings in a street\noff Abbey Road, and, in a drawer in her dressing table, she kept\nhidden a photograph of a Prussian officer with cropped blond head,\nand handsome prominent blue eyes, arrogantly gazing from beneath\nheavy lids which drooped. He was of the type the German woman, young\nand slim, or mature and stout, privately worships as a god whose\nrelation to any woman can only be that of a modern Jove stooping\nto command service. In his teens he had become accustomed to the\nfemale eye which lifts itself adoringly or casts the furtively\nexcited glance of admiration or appeal. It was the way of mere\nnature that it should be so--the wise provision of a masculine\nGod, whose world was created for the supply and pleasure of males,\nespecially males of the Prussian Army, whose fixed intention it\nwas to dominate the world and teach it obedience.\n\nTo such a man, so thoroughly well trained in the comprehension of\nthe power of his own rank and values, a young woman such as Fraulein\nHirsch--subservient and without beauty--was an unconsidered object\nto be as little regarded as the pavement upon which one walks. The\npavement had its uses, and such women had theirs. They could, at\nleast, obey the orders of those Heaven had placed above them, and,\nif they showed docility and intelligence, might be re warded by a\ncertain degree of approval.\n\nA presumption, which would have dared to acknowledge to the existence\nof the hidden photograph, could not have been encompassed by the\nbeing of Fraulein Hirsch. She was, in truth, secretly enslaved\nby a burning, secret, heart-wringing passion which, sometimes, as\nshe lay on her hard bed at night, forced from her thin chest hopeless\nsobs which she smothered under the bedclothes.\n\nFiguratively, she would have licked the boots of her conquering\ngod, if he would have looked at her--just looked-as if she were\nhuman. But such a thing could not have occurred to him. He did\nnot even think of her as she thought of herself, torturingly--as\nnot young, not in any degree good-looking, not geboren, not even\nfemale. He did not think of her at all, except as one of those born\nto serve in such manner as their superiors commanded. She was in\nEngland under orders, because she was unobtrusive looking enough\nto be a safe person to carry on the work she had been given to\ndo. She was cleverer than she looked and could accomplish certain\nthings without attracting any attention whatsoever.\n\nVon Hillern had given her instructions now and then, which had\nmade it necessary for him to see and talk to her in various places.\nThe fact that she had before her the remote chance of seeing him\nby some chance, gave her an object in life. It was enough to be\nallowed to stand or sit for a short time near enough to have been\nable to touch his sleeve, if she had had the mad audacity to do\nit; to quail before his magnificent glance, to hear his voice, to\nALMOST touch his strong, white hand when she gave him papers, to\nsee that he deigned, sometimes, to approve of what she had done,\nto assure him of her continued obedience, with servile politeness.\n\nShe was not a nice woman, or a good one, and she had, from her\nbirth, accepted her place in her world with such finality that her\ndesires could not, at any time, have been of an elevated nature.\nIf he had raised a haughty hand and beckoned to her, she would have\nfollowed him like a dog under any conditions he chose to impose.\nBut he did not raise his hand, and never would, because she had no\nattractions whatsoever. And this she knew, so smothered her sobs\nin her bed at night or lay awake, fevered with anticipation when\nthere was a vague chance that he might need her for some reason\nand command her presence in some deserted park or country road\nor cheap hotel, where she could take rooms for the night as if\nshe were a passing visitor to London.\n\nOne night--she had taken cheap lodgings for a week in a side street,\nin obedience to orders--he came in about nine o'clock dressed in\na manner whose object was to dull the effect of his grandeur and\ncause him to look as much like an ordinary Englishman as possible.\n\nBut, when the door was closed and he stood alone in the room\nwith her, she saw, with the blissful pangs of an abjectly adoring\nwoman, that he automatically resumed his magnificence of bearing.\nHis badly fitting overcoat removed, he stood erect and drawn to\nhis full height, so dominating the small place and her idolatrously\ncringing being that her heart quaked within her. Oh! to dare to\ncast her unloveliness at his feet, if it were only to be trampled\nupon and die there! No small sense of humour existed in her brain\nto save her from her pathetic idiocy. Romantic humility and touching\nsacrifice to the worshipped one were the ideals she had read of\nin verse and song all her life. Only through such servitude and\nsacrifice could woman gain man's love--and even then only if she\nhad beauty and the gifts worthy of her idol's acceptance.\n\nIt was really his unmitigated arrogance she worshipped and crawled\nupon her poor, large-jointed knees to adore. Her education, her\nvery religion itself had taught that it was the sign of his nobility\nand martial high breeding. Even the women of his own class believed\nsomething of the same sort--the more romantic and sentimental\nof them rather enjoying being mastered by it. To Fraulein Hirsch's\nmental vision, he was a sublimated and more dazzling German\nRochester, and she herself a more worthy, because more submissive,\nJane Eyre. Ach Gott! His high-held, cropped head--his so beautiful\nwhite hands--his proud eyes which deigned to look at her from\ntheir drooping lids! His presence filled the shabby room with the\natmosphere of a Palace.\n\nHe asked her a few questions; he required from her certain notes she\nhad made; without wasting a word or glance he gave her in detail\ncertain further orders.\n\nHe stood by the table, and it was, therefore, necessary that she\nshould approach him--should even stand quite near that she might\nsee clearly a sketch he made hastily--immediately afterwards tearing\nit into fragments and burning it with a match. She was obliged\nto stand so near him that her skirt brushed his trouser leg. His\nnearness, and a vague scent of cigar smoke, mingled with the\nsuggestion of some masculine soap or essence, were so poignant\nin their effect that she trembled and water rose in her eyes. In\nfact--and despite her terrified effort to control it, a miserable\ntear fell on her cheek and stood there because she dared not wipe\nit away.\n\nBecause he realized, with annoyance, that she was trembling, he\ncast a cold, inquiring glance at her and saw the tear. Then he\nturned away and resumed his examination of her notes. He was not\nhere to make inquiries as to whether a sheep of a woman was crying\nor had merely a cold in her head. \"Ach!\" grovelled poor Hirsch in\nher secret soul,--his patrician control of outward expression and\nhis indifference to all small and paltry things! It was part,\nnot only of his aristocratic breeding, but of the splendour of\nhis military training.\n\nIt was his usual custom to leave her at once, when the necessary\nformula had been gone through. Tonight--she scarcely dared to\nbelieve it--he seemed to have some reason for slight delay. He\ndid not sit down or ask Fraulein Hirsch to do so--but he did not\nat once leave the room. He lighted a quite marvellous cigar--deigning\na slight wave of the admired hand which held it, designating that\nhe asked permission. Oh! if she dared have darted to him with a\nmatch! He stood upon the hearth and asked a casual-sounding question\nor so regarding her employer, her household, her acquaintances,\nher habits.\n\nThe sole link between them was the asking of questions and the\ngiving of private information, and, therefore, the matter of taste\nin such matters did not count as a factor. He might ask anything\nand she must answer. Perhaps it was necessary for her to seek some\nspecial knowledge among the guests Mrs. Gareth-Lawless received.\nBut training, having developed in her alertness of mind, led her\npresently to see that it was not Mrs. Gareth-Lawless he was chiefly\ninterested in--but a member of her family--the very small family\nwhich consisted of herself and her daughter.\n\nIt was Robin he was enclosing in his network of questions. And she\nhad seen him look at Robin when he had passed or spoken to them.\nAn illuminating flash brought back to her that he had cleverly\nfound out from her when they were to walk together, and where they\nwere to go. She had not been quick enough to detect this before,\nbut she saw it now. Girls who looked like that--yes! But it could\nnot be--serious. An English girl of such family--with such a\nmother! A momentary caprice, such as all young men of his class\namused themselves with and forgot--but nothing permanent. It would\nnot, indeed, be approved in those High Places where obedience was\nthe first commandment of the Decalogue.\n\nBut he did not go. He even descended a shade from his inaccessible\nplane. It was not difficult for him to obtain details of the odd\nloneliness of the girl's position. Fraulein Hirsch was quite ready\nto explain that, in spite of the easy morals and leniency of rank\nand fashion in England, she was a sort of little outcast from\nsacred inner circles. There were points she burned to make clear\nto him, and she made them so. She was in secret fiercely desirous\nthat he should realize to the utmost, that, whatsoever rashness\nthis young flame of loveliness inspired in him, it was NOT possible\nthat he could regard it with any shadow of serious intention.\nShe had always disliked the girl, and now her weak mildness and\nhumility suddenly transformed themselves into something else--a\nsort of maternal wolfishness. It did not matter what happened to\nthe girl--and whatsoever befell or did not befall her, she--Mathilde\nHirsch--could neither gain nor lose hope through it. But, if\nshe did not displease him and yet saved him from final disaster,\nhe would, perhaps, be grateful to her--and perhaps, speak with\napproval--or remember it--and his Noble Mother most certainly\nwould--if she ever knew. But behind and under and through all these\nspecious reasonings, was the hot choking burn of the mad jealousy\nonly her type of luckless woman can know--and of whose colour she\ndare not show the palest hint.\n\n\"I have found out that, for some reason, she thinks of taking a\nplace as governess,\" she said.\n\n\"Suggest that she go to Berlin. There are good places there,\" was\nhis answer.\n\n\"If she should go, her mother will not feel any anxiety about\nher,\" returned Fraulein Hirsch.\n\n\"If, then, some young man she meets in the street makes love to\nher and they run away together, she will not be pursued by her\nrelatives.\"\n\nFraulein Hirsch's flat mouth looked rather malicious.\n\n\"Her mother is too busy to pursue her, and there is no one\nelse--unless it were Lord Coombe, who is said to want her himself.\"\n\nVon Hillern shrugged his fine shoulders.\n\n\"At his age! After the mother! That is like an Englishman!\"\n\nUpon this, Fraulein Hirsch drew a step nearer and fixed her eyes\nupon his, as she had never had the joy of fixing them before in\nher life. She dared it now because she had an interesting story to\ntell him which he would like to hear. It WAS like an Englishman.\nLord Coombe had the character of being one of the worst among\nthem, but was too subtle and clever to openly offend people. It\nwas actually said that he was educating the girl and keeping her\nin seclusion and that it was probably his colossal intention to\nmarry her when she was old enough. He had no heir of his own--and\nhe must have beauty and innocence. Innocence and beauty his\nviciousness would have.\n\n\"Pah!\" exclaimed von Hillern. \"It is youth which requires such\nthings--and takes them. That is all imbecile London gossip. No, he\nwould not run after her if she ran away. He is a proud man and he\nknows he would be laughed at. And he could not get her back from\na young man--who was her lover.\"\n\nHer lover! How it thrilled the burning heart her poor, flat chest\npanted above. With what triumphant knowledge of such things he\nsaid it.\n\n\"No, he could not,\" she answered, her eyes still on his. \"No one\ncould.\"\n\nHe laughed a little, confidently, but almost with light indifference.\n\n\"If she were missing, no particular search would be made then,\"\nhe said. \"She is pretty enough to suit Berlin.\"\n\nHe seemed to think pleasantly of something as he stood still for\na moment, his eyes on the floor. When he lifted them, there was\nin their blue a hint of ugly exulting, though Mathilde Hirsch did\nnot think it ugly. He spoke in a low voice.\n\n\"It will be an exciting--a colossal day when we come to London--as\nwe shall. It will be as if an ocean had collected itself into one\nhuge mountain of a wave and swept in and overwhelmed everything.\nThere will be confusion then and the rushing up of untrained\nsoldiers--and shouts--and yells----\"\n\n\"And Zeppelins dropping bombs,\" she so far forgot herself as to\npant out, \"and buildings crashing and pavements and people smashed!\nWestminster and the Palaces rocking, and fat fools running before\nbayonets.\"\n\nHe interrupted her with a short laugh uglier than the gleam in\nhis eyes. He was a trifle excited.\n\n\"And all the women running about screaming and trying to hide and\nbeing pulled out. We can take any of their pretty, little, high\nnosed women we choose--any of them.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered, biting her lip. No one would take her, she\nknew.\n\nHe put on his overcoat and prepared to leave her. As he stood at\nthe door before opening it, he spoke in his usual tone of mere\ncommand.\n\n\"Take her to Kensington Gardens tomorrow afternoon,\" he said. \"Sit\nin one of the seats near the Round Pond and watch the children\nsailing their boats. I shall not be there but you will find\nyourself near a quiet, elegant woman in mourning who will speak\nto you. You are to appear to recognize her as an old acquaintance.\nFollow her suggestions in everything.\"\n\nAfter this he was gone and she sat down to think it over.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\n\n\n\n\nShe saw him again during the following week and was obliged to\ntell him that she had not been able to take her charge to Kensington\nGardens on the morning that he had appointed but that, as the girl\nwas fond of the place and took pleasure in watching the children\nsailing their boats on the Round Pond, it would be easy to lead\nher there. He showed her a photograph of the woman she would find\nsitting on a particular bench, and he required she should look\nat it long enough to commit the face to memory. It was that of a\nquietly elegant woman with gentle eyes.\n\n\"She will call herself Lady Etynge,\" he said. \"You are to remember\nthat you once taught her little girl in Paris. There must be no haste\nand no mistakes. It be well for them to meet--by accident--several\ntimes.\"\n\nLater he aid to her:\n\n\"When Lady Etynge invites her to go to her house, you will, of\ncourse, go with her. You will not stay. Lady Etynge will tell you\nwhat to do.\"\n\nIn words, he did not involve himself by giving any hint of his\nintentions. So far as expression went, he might have had none,\nwhatever. Her secret conclusion was that he knew, if he could see\nthe girl under propitious circumstances--at the house of a clever\nand sympathetic acquaintance, he need have no shadow of a doubt\nas to the result of his efforts to please her. He knew she was\na lonely, romantic creature, who had doubtless read sentimental\nbooks and been allured by their heroes. She was, of course, just\nripe for young peerings into the land of love making. His had\nbeen no peerings, thought the pale Hirsch sadly. What girl--or\nwoman--could resist the alluring demand of his drooping eyes, if\nhe chose to allow warmth to fill them? Thinking of it, she almost\ngnashed her teeth. Did she not see how he would look, bending his\nhigh head and murmuring to a woman who shook with joy under his\ngaze? Had she not seen it in her own forlorn, hopeless dreams?\n\nWhat did it matter if what the world calls disaster befell the\ngirl? Fraulein Hirsch would not have called it disaster. Any woman\nwould have been paid a thousand times over. His fancy might last\na few months. Perhaps he would take her to Berlin--or to some\nlovely secret spot in the mountains where he could visit her.\nWhat heaven--what heaven! She wept, hiding her face on her hot,\ndry hands.\n\nBut it would not last long--and he would again think only of the\nimmense work--the august Machine, of which he was a mechanical\npart--and he would be obliged to see and talk to her, Mathilde\nHirsch, having forgotten the rest. She could only hold herself\ndecently in check by telling herself again and again that it was\nonly natural that such things should come and go in his magnificent\nlife, and that the sooner it began the sooner it would end.\n\nIt was a lovely morning when her pupil walked with her in Kensington\nGardens, and, quite naturally, strolled towards the Round Pond.\nRobin was happy because there were flutings of birds in the air,\ngardeners were stuffing crocuses and hyacinths into the flower\nbeds, there were little sweet scents floating about and so it was\nSpring. She pulled a bare looking branch of a lilac bush towards\nher and stooped and kissed the tiny brown buttons upon it, half\nshyly.\n\n\"I can't help it when I see the first ones swelling on the twigs.\nThey are working so hard to break out into green,\" she said. \"One\nloves everything at this time--everything! Look at the children\nround the pond. That fat, little boy in a reefer and brown leather\nleggings is bursting with joy. Let us go and praise his boat,\nFraulein.\"\n\nThey went and Robin praised the boat until its owner was breathless\nwith rapture. Fraulein Hirsch, standing near her, looked furtively\nat all the benches round the circle, giving no incautiously interested\nglance to any one of them in particular. Presently, however, she\nsaid:\n\n\"I think that is Lady Etynge sitting on the third bench from\nhere. I said to you that I had heard she was in London. I wonder\nif her daughter is still in the Convent at Tours?\"\n\nWhen Robin returned, she saw a quiet woman in perfect mourning\nrecognize Fraulein Hirsch with a a bow and smile which seemed to\nrequire nearer approach.\n\n\"We must go and speak to her.\" Fraulein Hirsch said. \"I know she\nwil wish me to present you. She is fond of young girls--because\nof Helene.\"\n\nRobin went forward prettily. The woman was gentle looking and\nattracting. She had a sweet manner and was very kind to Fraulein\nHirsch. She seemed to know her well and to like her. Her daughter,\nHelene, was still in the Convent at Tours but was expected home\nvery shortly. She would be glad to find that Fraulein Hirsch was\nin London.\n\n\"I have turned the entire top story of my big house into a pretty\nsuite for her. She has a fancy for living high above the street,\"\nsmiled Lady Etynge, indulgently. Perhaps she was a \"Mother\" person,\nRobin thought.\n\nBoth her looks and talk were kind, and she was very nice in her\nsympathetic interest in the boats and the children's efforts to\nsail them.\n\n\"I often bring my book here and forget to read, because I find I\nam watching them,\" she said. \"They are so eager and so triumphant\nwhen a boat gets across the Pond.\"\n\nShe went away very soon and Robin watched her out of sight with\ninterest.\n\nThey saw her again a few days later and talked a little more. She\nwas not always near the Pond when they came, and they naturally\ndid not go there each time they walked together, though Fraulein\nHirsch was fond of sitting and watching the children.\n\nShe had been to take tea with her former employer, she told Robin\none day, and she was mildly excited by the preparations for Helene,\nwho had been educated entirely in a French convent and was not\nlike an English girl at all. She had always been very delicate\nand the nuns seemed to know how to take care of her and calm her\nnerves with their quiet ways.\n\n\"Her mother is rather anxious about her coming to London. She has,\nof course, no young friends here and she is so used to the quiet\nof convent life,\" the Fraulein explained. \"That is why the rooms\nat the top of the house have been arranged for her. She will hear\nso little sound. I confess I am anxious about her myself. Lady\nEtynge is wondering if she can find a suitable young companion to\nlive in the house with her. She must be a young lady and perfectly\neducated--and with brightness and charm. Not a person like myself,\nbut one who can be treated as an equal and a friend--almost a\nplaymate.\"\n\n\"It would be an agreeable position,\" commented Robin, thoughtfully.\n\n\"Extremely so,\" answered Fraulein Hirsch. \"Helene is a most lovable\nand affectionate girl. And Lady Etynge is rich enough to pay a\nlarge salary. Helene is her idol. The suite of rooms is perfect.\nIn Germany, girls are not spoiled in that way. It is not considered\ngood for them.\"\n\nIt was quite natural, since she felt an interest in Helene, that,\non their next meeting, Robin should find pleasure in sitting on\nthe green bench near the girl's mother and hear her speak of her\ndaughter. She was not diffuse or intimate in her manner. Helene\nfirst appeared in the talk as a result of a polite inquiry made\nby Fraulein Hirsch. Robin gathered, as she listened, that this\nparticular girl was a tenderly loved and cared for creature and\nwas herself gentle and intelligent and loving. She sounded like\nthe kind of a girl one would be glad to have for a friend. Robin\nwondered and wondered--if she would \"do.\" Perhaps, out of tactful\nconsideration for the feelings of Fraulein Hirsch who would not\n\"do\"--because she was neither bright, nor pretty, nor a girl--Lady\nEtynge touched but lightly on her idea that she might find a sort\nof sublimated young companion for her daughter.\n\n\"It would be difficult to advertise for what one wants,\" she said.\n\n\"Yes. To state that a girl must be clever and pretty and graceful,\nand attractive, would make it difficult for a modest young lady\nto write a suitable reply,\" said Fraulein Hirsch grimly, and both\nLady Etynge and Robin smiled.\n\n\"Among your own friends,\" Lady Etynge said to Robin, a little\npathetically in her yearning, \"do you know of anyone--who might\nknow of anyone who would fit in? Sometimes there are poor little\ncousins, you know?\"\n\n\"Or girls who have an independent spirit and would like to support\nthemselves,\" said the Fraulein. \"There are such girls in these\nadvanced times.\"\n\n\"I am afraid I don't know anyone,\" answered Robin. Modesty also\nprevented her from saying that she thought she did. She herself\nwas well educated, she was good tempered and well bred, and she\nhad known for some time that she was pretty.\n\n\"Perhaps Fraulein Hirsch may bring you in to have tea with me some\nafternoon when you are out,\" Lady Etynge said kindly before she\nleft them. \"I think you would like to see Helene's rooms. I should\nbe glad to hear what another girl thinks of them.\"\n\nRobin was delighted. Perhaps this was a way opening to her. She\ntalked to Mademoiselle Valle about it and so glowed with hope that\nMademoiselle's heart was moved.\n\n\"Do you think I might go?\" she said. \"Do you think there is any\nchance that I might be the right person? AM I nice enough--and\nwell enough educated, and ARE my manners good?\"\n\nShe did not know exactly where Lady Etynge lived, but believed\nit was one of those big houses in a certain dignified \"Place\"\nthey both knew--a corner house, she was sure, because--by mere\nchance--she had one day seen Lady Etynge go into such a house as\nif it were her own. She did not know the number, but they could\nask Fraulein.\n\nFraulein Hirsch was quite ready with detail concerning her former\npatroness and her daughter. She obviously admired them very much.\nHer manner held a touch of respectful reverence. She described\nHelene's disposition and delicate nerves and the perfection of the\nnuns' treatment of her.\n\nShe described the beauty of the interior of the house, its luxury\nand convenience, and the charms of the suite of apartments prepared\nfor Helene. She thought the number of the house was No. 97 A. Lady\nEtynge was the kindest employer she had ever had. She believed that\nMiss Gareth-Lawless and Helene would be delighted with each other,\nif they met, and her impression was that Lady Etynge privately\nhoped they would become friends.\n\nHer mild, flat face was so modestly amiable that Mademoiselle\nValle, who always felt her unattractive femininity pathetic, was\na little moved by her evident pleasure in having been the humble\nmeans of providing Robin with acquaintances of an advantageous\nkind.\n\nNo special day had been fixed upon for the visit and the cup of tea.\nRobin was eager in secret and hoped Lady Etynge would not forget\nto remind them of her invitation.\n\nShe did not forget. One afternoon--they had not seen her for several\ndays and had not really expected to meet her, because they took\ntheir walk later than usual--they found her just rising from her\nseat to go home as they appeared.\n\n\"Our little encounters almost assume the air of appointments,\" she\nsaid. \"This is very nice, but I am just going away, I am sorry to\nsay. I wonder--\" she paused a moment, and then looked at Fraulein\nHirsch pleasantly; \"I wonder if, in about an hour, you would bring\nMiss Gareth-Lawless to me to have tea and tell me if she thinks\nHelene will like her new rooms. You said you would like to see\nthem,\" brightly to Robin.\n\n\"You are very kind. I should like it so much,\" was Robin's answer.\n\nFraulein Hirsch was correctly appreciative of the condescension\nshown to her. Her manner was the perfection of the exact shade\nof unobtrusive chaperonship. There was no improper suggestion of\na mistaken idea that she was herself a guest, or, indeed, anything,\nin fact, but a proper appendage to her charge. Robin had never\nbeen fond of Fraulein as she was fond of Mademoiselle and Dowie,\nstill she was not only an efficient teacher, but also a good walker\nand very fond of long tramps, which Mademoiselle was really not\nstrong enough for, but which Robin's slender young legs rejoiced\nin.\n\nThe two never took cabs or buses, but always walked everywhere.\nThey walked on this occasion, and, about an hour later, arrived at\na large, corner house in Berford Place. A tall and magnificently\nbuilt footman opened the door for them, and they were handed into\na drawing room much grander than the one Robin sometimes glanced\ninto as she passed it, when she was at home. A quite beautiful\ntea equipage awaited them on a small table, but Lady Etynge was\nnot in the room.\n\n\"What a beautiful house to live in,\" said Robin, \"but, do you know,\nthe number ISN'T 97 A. I looked as we came in, and it is No. 25.\"\n\n\"Is it? I ought to have been more careful,\" answered Fraulein\nHirsch. \"It is wrong to be careless even in small matters.\"\n\nAlmost immediately Lady Etynge came in and greeted them, with a\nsort of gentle delight. She drew Robin down on to a sofa beside\nher and took her hand and gave it a light pat which was a caress.\n\n\"Now you really ARE here,\" she said, \"I have been so busy that\nI have been afraid I should not have time to show you the rooms\nbefore it was too late to make a change, if you thought anything\nmight be improved.\"\n\n\"I am sure nothing can improve them,\" said Robin, more dewy-eyed\nthan usual and even a thought breathless, because this was really\na sort of adventure, and she longed to ask if, by any chance,\nshe would \"do.\" And she was so afraid that she might lose this\namazingly good opportunity, merely because she was too young and\ninexperienced to know how she ought to broach the subject. She\nhad not thought yet of asking Mademoiselle Valle how it should be\ndone.\n\nShe was not aware that she looked at Lady Etynge with a heavenly,\nlittle unconscious appeal, which made her enchanting. Lady Etynge\nlooked at her quite fixedly for an instant.\n\n\"What a child you are! And what a colour your cheeks and lips\nare!\" she said. \"You are much--much prettier than Helene, my dear.\"\n\nShe got up and brought a picture from a side table to show it to\nher.\n\n\"I think she is lovely,\" she said. \"Is it became I am her mother?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! Not because you are her mother!\" exclaimed Robin. \"She is\nangelic!\"\n\nShe was rather angelic, with her delicate uplifted face and her\ncommunion veil framing it mistily.\n\nThe picture was placed near them and Robin looked at is many times\nas they took their tea. To be a companion to a girl with a face\nlike that would be almost too much to ask of one's luck. There\nwas actual yearning in Robin's heart. Suddenly she realized that\nshe had missed something all her life, without knowing that she\nmissed it. It was the friendly nearness of youth like her own.\nHow she hoped that she might make Lady Etynge like her. After tea\nwas over, Lady Etynge spoke pleasantly to Fraulein Hirsch.\n\n\"I know that you wanted to register a letter. There is a post-office\njust around the corner. Would you like to go and register it while\nI take Miss Gareth-Lawless upstairs? You have seen the rooms. You\nwill only be away a few minutes.\"\n\nFraulein Hirsch was respectfully appreciative again. The letter\nreally was important. It contained money which she sent monthly\nto her parents. This month she was rather late, and she would be\nvery glad to be allowed to attend to the matter without losing a\npost.\n\nSo she went out of the drawing-room and down the stairs, and Robin\nheard the front door close behind her with a slight thud. She had\nevidently opened and closed it herself without waiting for the\nfootman.\n\nThe upper rooms in London houses--even in the large ones--are\nusually given up to servants' bedrooms, nurseries, and school\nrooms. Stately staircases become narrower as they mount, and the\nclimber gets glimpses of apartments which are frequently bare,\nwhatsoever their use, and, if not grubby in aspect, are dull and\nuninteresting.\n\nBut, in Lady Etynge's house, it was plain that a good deal had\nbeen done. Stairs had been altered and widened, walls had been\ngiven fresh and delicate tints, and one laid one's hand on cream\nwhite balustrades and trod on soft carpets. A good architect had\ntaken interest in the problems presented to him, and the result was\nadmirable. Partitions must have been removed to make rooms larger\nand of better shape.\n\n\"Nothing could be altered without spoiling it!\" exclaimed Robin,\nstanding in the middle of a sitting room, all freshness and exquisite\ncolour--the very pictures on the wall being part of the harmony.\n\nAll that a girl would want or love was there. There was nothing\nleft undone--unremembered. The soft Chesterfield lounge, which\nwas not too big and was placed near the fire, the writing table,\nthe books, the piano of satinwood inlaid with garlands; the lamp\nto sit and read by.\n\n\"How glad she must be to come back to anyone who loves her so,\"\nsaid Robin.\n\nHere was a quilted basket with three Persian kittens purring in\nit, and she knelt and stroked their fluffiness, bending her slim\nneck and showing how prettily the dark hair grew up from it. It was,\nperhaps, that at which Lady Etynge was looking as she stood behind\nher and watched her. The girl-nymph slenderness and flexibility\nof her leaning body was almost touchingly lovely.\n\nThere were several other rooms and each one was, in its way, more\ncharming than the other. A library in Dresden blue and white, and\nwith peculiarly pretty windows struck the last note of cosiness.\nAll the rooms had pretty windows with rather small square panes\nenclosed in white frames.\n\nIt was when she was in this room that Robin took her courage in\nher hands. She must not let her chance go by. Lady Etynge was so\nkind. She wondered if it would seem gauche and too informal to\nspeak now.\n\nShe stood quite upright and still, though her voice was not quite\nsteady when she began.\n\n\"Lady Etynge,\" she said, \"you remember what Fraulein Hirsch said\nabout girls who wish to support themselves? I--I am one of them.\nI want very much to earn my own living. I think I am well educated.\nI have been allowed to read a good deal and my teachers, Mademoiselle\nValle and Fraulein Hirsch, say I speak and write French and German\nwell for an English girl. If you thought I could be a suitable\ncompanion for Miss Etynge, I--should be very happy.\"\n\nHow curiously Lady Etynge watched her as she spoke. She did not\nlook displeased, but there was something in her face which made\nRobin afraid that she was, perhaps, after all, not the girl who\nwas fortunate enough to quite \"do.\"\n\nShe felt her hopes raised a degree, however, when Lady Etynge\nsmiled at her.\n\n\"Do you know, I feel that is very pretty of you!\" she said. \"It\nquite delights me--as I am an idolizing mother--that my mere talk\nof Helene should have made you like her well enough to think you\nmight care to live with her. And I confess I am modern enough to\nbe pleased with your wishing to earn your own living.\"\n\n\"I must,\" said Robin. \"I MUST! I could not bear not to earn it!\"\nShe spoke a little suddenly, and a flag of new colour fluttered\nin her cheek.\n\n\"When Helene comes, you must meet. If you like each other, as I\nfeel sure you will, and if Mrs. Gareth-Lawless does not object--if\nit remains only a matter of being suitable--you are suitable, my\ndear--you are suitable.\"\n\nShe touched Robin's hand with the light pat which was a caress,\nand the child was radiant.\n\n\"Oh, you are kind to me!\" The words broke from her involuntarily.\n\"And it is such GOOD fortune! Thank you, thank you, Lady Etynge.\"\n\nThe flush of her joy and relief had not died out before the\nfootman, who had opened the door, appeared on the threshold. He\nwas a handsome young fellow, whose eyes were not as professionally\nimpassive as his face. A footman had no right to dart a swift side\nlook at one as people did in the street. He did dart such a glance.\nRobin saw, and she was momentarily struck by its being one of those\nshe sometimes objected to.\n\nOtherwise his manner was without flaw. He had only come to announce\nto his mistress the arrival of a caller.\n\nWhen Lady Etynge took the card from the salver, her expression\nchanged. She even looked slightly disturbed.\n\n\"Oh, I am sorry,\" she murmured, \"I must see her,\" lifting her eyes\nto Robin. \"It is an old friend merely passing through London. How\nwicked of me to forget that she wrote to say that she might dash\nin at any hour.\"\n\n\"Please!\" pled Robin, prettily. \"I can run away at once. Fraulein\nHirsch must have come back. Please--\"\n\n\"The lady asked me particularly to say that she has only a few\nminutes to stay, as she is catching a train,\" the footman decorously\nventured.\n\n\"If that is the case,\" Lady Etynge said, even relievedly, \"I will\nleave you here to look at things until I come back. I really want\nto talk to you a little more about yourself and Helene. I can't let\nyou go.\" She looked back from the door before she passed through\nit. \"Amuse yourself, my dear,\" and then she added hastily to the\nman.\n\n\"Have you remembered that there was something wrong with the latch,\nWilliam? See if it needs a locksmith.\"\n\n\"Very good, my lady.\"\n\nShe was gone and Robin stood by the sofa thrilled with happiness\nand relief. How wonderful it was that, through mere lucky chance,\nshe had gone to watch the children sailing their boats! And\nthat Fraulein Hirsch had seen Lady Etynge! What good luck and how\ngrateful she was! The thought which passed through her mind was\nlike a little prayer of thanks. How strange it would be to be really\nintimate with a girl like herself--or rather like Helene. It made\nher heart beat to think of it. How wonderful it would be if Helene\nactually loved her, and she loved Helene. Something sprang out\nof some depths of her being where past things were hidden. The\nsomething was a deadly little memory. Donal! Donal! It would\nbe--if she loved Helene and Helene loved her--as new a revelation\nas Donal. Oh! she remembered.\n\nShe heard the footman doing something to the latch of the door,\nwhich caused it to make a clicking sound. He was obeying orders\nand examining it. As she involuntarily glanced at him, he--bending\nover the door handle--raised his eyes sideways and glanced at\nher. It was an inexcusable glance from a domestic, because it was\nactually as if he were taking the liberty of privately summing her\nup--taking her points in for his own entertainment. She so resented\nthe unprofessional bad manners of it, that she turned away and\nsauntered into the Dresden blue and white library and sat down\nwith a book.\n\nShe was quite relieved, when, only a few minutes later, he went\naway having evidently done what he could.\n\nThe book she had picked up was a new novel and opened with an\nattention-arresting agreeableness, which led her on. In fact it\nled her on further and, for a longer time than she was aware of.\nIt was her way to become wholly absorbed in books when they allured\nher; she forgot her surroundings and forgot the passing of time.\nThis was a new book by a strong man with the gift which makes alive\npeople, places, things. The ones whose lives had taken possession\nof his being in this story were throbbing with vital truth.\n\nShe read on and on because, from the first page, she knew them\nas actual pulsating human creatures. They looked into her face,\nthey laughed, she heard their voices, she CARED for every trivial\nthing that happened to them--to any of them. If one of them picked\na flower, she saw how he or she held it and its scent was in the\nair.\n\nHaving been so drawn on into a sort of unconsciousness of all\nelse, it was inevitable that, when she suddenly became aware that\nshe did not see her page quite clearly, she should withdraw her\neyes from her page and look about her. As she did so, she started\nfrom her comfortable chair in amazement and some alarm. The room\nhad become so much darker that it must be getting late. How careless\nand silly she had been. Where was Fraulein Hirsch?\n\n\"I am only a strange girl and Lady Etynge might so easily have\nforgotten me,\" passed through her mind. \"Her friend may have stayed\nand they may have had so much to talk about, that, of coarse, I\nwas forgotten. But Fraulein Hirsch--how could she!\"\n\nThen, remembering the subservient humility of the Fraulein's mind,\nshe wondered if it could have been possible that she had been too\ntimid to do more than sit waiting--in the hall, perhaps--afraid\nto allow the footman to disturb Lady Etynge by asking her where\nher pupil was. The poor, meek, silly thing.\n\n\"I must get away without disturbing anyone,\" she thought, \"I\nwill slip downstairs and snatch Fraulein Hirsch from her seat and\nwe will go quietly out. I can write a nice note to Lady Etynge\ntomorrow, and explain. I HOPE she won't mind having forgotten me.\nI must make her feel sure that it did not matter in the least.\nI'll tell her about the book.\"\n\nShe replaced the book on the shelf from which she had taken it and\npassed through into the delightful sitting room. The kittens were\nplaying together on the hearth, having deserted their basket. One\nof them gave a soft, airy pounce after her and caught at her dress\nwith tiny claws, rolling over and over after his ineffectual snatch.\n\nShe had not heard the footman close the door when he left the room,\nbut she found he must have done so, as it was now shut. When she\nturned the handle it did not seem to work well, because the door\ndid not open as it ought to have done. She turned it again and\ngave it a little pull, but it still remained tightly shut. She\nturned it again, still with no result, and then she tried the small\nlatch. Perhaps the man had done some blundering thing when he had\nbeen examining it. She remembered hearing several clicks. She\nturned the handle again and again. There was no key in the keyhole,\nso he could not have bungled with the key. She was quite aghast\nat the embarrassment of the situation.\n\n\"How CAN I get out without disturbing anyone, if I cannot open\nthe door!\" she said. \"How stupid I shall seem to Lady Etynge! She\nwon't like it. A girl who could forget where she was--and then not\nbe able to open a door and be obliged to bang until people come!\"\n\nSuddenly she remembered that there had been a door in the bedroom\nwhich had seemed to lead out into the hall. She ran into the room\nin such a hurry that all three kittens ran frisking after her.\nShe saw she had not been mistaken. There was a door. She went to\nit and turned the handle, breathless with excitement and relief.\nBut the handle of that door also would not open it. Neither would\nthe latch. And there was no key.\n\n\"Oh!\" she gasped. \"Oh!\"\n\nThen she remembered the electric bell near the fireplace in the\nsitting room. There was one by the fireplace here, also. No, she\nwould ring the one in the sitting room. She went to it and pressed\nthe button. She could not hear the ghost of a sound and one could\ngenerally hear SOMETHING like one. She rang again and waited.\nThe room was getting darker. Oh, how COULD Fraulein Hirsch--how\ncould she?\n\nShe waited--she waited. Fifteen minutes by her little watch--twenty\nminutes--and, in their passing, she rang again. She rang the bell\nin the library and the one in the bedroom--even the one in the\nbathroom, lest some might be out of order. She slowly ceased to be\nembarrassed and self-reproachful and began to feel afraid, though\nshe did not know quite what she was afraid of. She went to one\nof the windows to look at her watch again in the vanishing light,\nand saw that she had been ringing the bells for an hour. She\nautomatically put up a hand and leaned against the white frame\nof one of the decorative small panes of glass. As she touched it,\nshe vaguely realized that it was of such a solidity that it felt,\nnot like wood but iron. She drew her hand away quickly, feeling a\nsweep of unexplainable fear--yes, it was FEAR. And why should she\nso suddenly feel it? She went back to the door and tried again to\nopen it--as ineffectively as before. Then she began to feel a\nlittle cold and sick. She returned to the Chesterfield and sat\ndown on it helplessly.\n\n\"It seems as if--I had been locked in!\" she broke out, in a faint,\nbewildered wail of a whisper. \"Oh, WHY--did they lock the doors!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\n\n\n\n\nShe had known none of the absolute horrors of life which were\npossible in that underworld which was not likely to touch her own\nexistence in any form.\n\n\"Why,\" had argued Mademoiselle Valle, \"should one fill a white\nyoung mind with ugly images which would deface with dark marks and\nsmears, and could only produce unhappiness and, perhaps, morbid\nbroodings? One does not feel it is wise to give a girl an education\nin crime. One would not permit her to read the Newgate Calendar\nfor choice. She will be protected by those who love her and what\nshe must discover she will discover. That is Life.\"\n\nWhich was why her first discovery that neither door could be\nopened, did not at once fill her with horror. Her first arguments\nwere merely those of a girl who, though her brain was not inactive\npulp, had still a protected girl's outlook. She had been overwhelmed\nby a sense of the awkwardness of her position and by the dread\nthat she would be obliged to disturb and, almost inevitably,\nembarrass and annoy Lady Etynge. Of course, there had been some\nbungling on the part of the impudent footman--perhaps actually at\nthe moment when he had given his sidelong leer at herself instead\nof properly attending to what he was trying to do. That the bedroom\nwas locked might be the result of a dozen ordinary reasons.\n\nThe first hint of an abnormality of conditions came after she had\nrung the bells and had waited in vain for response to her summons.\nThere were servants whose business it was to answer bells at once.\nIf ALL the bells were out of order, why were they out of order when\nHelene was to return in a few days and her apartment was supposed\nto be complete? Even to the kittens--even to the kittens!\n\n\"It seems as if I had been locked in,\" she had whispered to the\nsilence of the room. \"Why did they lock the doors?\"\n\nThen she said, and her heart began to thump and race in her side:\n\n\"It has been done on purpose. They don't intend to let me out--for\nsome HORRIBLE reason!\"\n\nPerhaps even her own growing panic was not so appalling as a sudden\nrushing memory of Lady Etynge, which, at this moment, overthrew\nher. Lady Etynge! Lady Etynge! She saw her gentle face and almost\naffectionately watching eyes. She heard her voice as she spoke of\nHelene; she felt the light pat which was a caress.\n\n\"No! No!\" she gasped it, because her breath had almost left her.\n\"No! No! She couldn't! No one could! There is NOTHING as wicked--as\nthat!\"\n\nBat, even as she cried out, the overthrow was utter, and she threw\nherself forward on the arm of the couch and sobbed--sobbed with\nthe passion she had only known on the day long ago when she had\ncrawled into the shrubs and groveled in the earth. It was the same\nkind of passion--the shaken and heart-riven woe of a creature who\nhas trusted and hoped joyously and has been forever betrayed. The\nface and eyes had been so kind. The voice so friendly! Oh, how\ncould even the wickedest girl in the world have doubted their\nsincerity. Unfortunately--or fortunately--she knew nothing whatever\nof the mental processes of the wicked girls of the world, which\nwas why she lay broken to pieces, sobbing--sobbing, not at the\nmoment because she was a trapped thing, but because Lady Etynge\nhad a face in whose gentleness her heart had trusted and rejoiced.\n\nWhen she sat upright again, her own face, as she lifted it, would\nhave struck a perceptive onlooker as being, as it were, the face\nof another girl. It was tear-stained and wild, but this was not the\ncause of its change. The soft, bird eyes were different--suddenly,\namazingly older than they had been when she had believed in Helene.\n\nShe had no experience which could reveal to her in a moment the\nmonstrousness of her danger, but all she had ever read, or vaguely\ngathered, of law breakers and marauders of society, collected\nitself into an advancing tidal wave of horror.\n\nShe rose and went to the window and tried to open it, but it was\nnot intended to open. The decorative panes were of small size\nand of thick glass. Her first startled impression that the white\nframework seemed to be a painted metal was apparently founded on\nfact. A strong person might have bent it with a hammer, but he\ncould not have broken it. She examined the windows in the other\nrooms and they were of the same structure.\n\n\"They are made like that,\" she said to herself stonily, \"to prevent\npeople from getting OUT.\"\n\nShe stood at the front one and looked down into the broad, stately\n\"Place.\" It was a long way to look down, and, even if the window\ncould be opened, one's voice would not be heard. The street\nlamps were lighted and a few people were to be seen walking past\nunhurriedly.\n\n\"In the big house almost opposite they are going to give a party.\nThere is a red carpet rolled out. Carriages are beginning to drive\nup. And here on the top floor, there is a girl locked up--And they\ndon't know!\"\n\nShe said it aloud, and her voice sounded as though it were not her\nown. It was a dreadful voice, and, as she heard it, panic seized\nher.\n\nNobody knew--nobody! Her mother never either knew or cared where\nshe was, but Dowie and Mademoiselle always knew. They would be\nterrified. Fraulein Hirsch had, perhaps, been told that her pupil\nhad taken a cab and gone home and she would return to her lodgings\nthinking she was safe.\n\nThen--only at this moment, and with a suddenness which produced a\nsense of shock--she recalled that it was Fraulein Hirsch who had\npresented her to Lady Etynge. Fraulein Hirsch herself! It was she\nwho had said she had been in her employ and had taught Helene--Helene!\nIt was she who had related anecdotes about the Convent at Tours\nand the nuns who were so wise and kind! Robin's hand went up to\nher forehead with a panic-stricken gesture. Fraulein Hirsch had\nmade an excuse for leaving her with Lady Etynge--to be brought\nup to the top of the house quite alone--and locked in. Fraulein\nHirsch had KNOWN! And there came back to her the memory of the\nfurtive eyes whose sly, adoring sidelooks at Count Von Hillern\nhad always--though she had tried not to feel it--been, somehow,\nglances she had disliked--yes, DISLIKED!\n\nIt was here--by the thread of Fraulein Hirsch--that Count Von\nHillern was drawn into her mind. Once there, it was as if he stood\nnear her--quite close--looking down under his heavy, drooping lids\nwith stealthy, plunging eyes. It had always been when Fraulein\nHirsch had walked with her that they had met him--almost as if by\narrangement.\n\nThere were only two people in the world who might--because she\nherself had so hated them--dislike and choose in some way to punish\nher. One was Count Von Hillern. The other was Lord Coombe. Lord\nCoombe, she knew, was bad, vicious, did the things people only\nhinted at without speaking of them plainly. A sense of instinctive\nrevolt in the strength of her antipathy to Von Hillern made her\nfeel that he must be of the same order.\n\n\"If either of them came into this room now and locked the door\nbehind him, I could not get out.\"\n\nShe heard herself say it aloud in the strange girl's dreadful\nvoice, as she had heard herself speak of the party in the big\nhouse opposite. She put her soft, slim hand up to her soft, slim\nthroat.\n\n\"I could not get out,\" she repeated.\n\nShe ran to the door and began to beat on its panels. By this time,\nshe knew it would be no use and yet she beat with her hands until\nthey were bruised and then she snatched up a book and beat with\nthat. She thought she must have been beating half an hour when\nshe realized that someone was standing outside in the corridor,\nand the someone said, in a voice she recognized as belonging to\nthe leering footman,\n\n\"May as well keep still, Miss. You can't hammer it down and no\none's going to bother taking any notice,\" and then his footsteps\nretired down the stairs. She involuntarily clenched her hurt hands\nand the shuddering began again though she stood in the middle of\nthe room with a rigid body and her head thrown fiercely back.\n\n\"If there are people in the world as hideous--and monstrous as\nTHIS--let them kill me if they want to. I would rather be killed\nthan live! They would HAVE to kill me!\" and she said it in a frenzy\nof defiance of all mad and base things on earth.\n\nHer peril seemed to force her thought to delve into unknown dark\nplaces in her memory and dig up horrors she had forgotten--newspaper\nstories of crime, old melodramas and mystery romances, in which\npeople disappeared and were long afterwards found buried under\nfloors or in cellars. It was said that the Berford Place houses,\nwinch were old ones, had enormous cellars under them.\n\n\"Perhaps other girls have disappeared and now are buried in the\ncellars,\" she thought.\n\nAnd the dreadful young voice added aloud.\n\n\"Because they would HAVE to kill me.\"\n\nOne of the Persian kittens curled up in the basket wakened because\nhe heard it and stretched a sleepy paw and mewed at her.\n\nCoombe House was one of the old ones, wearing somewhat the aspect\nof a stately barrack with a fine entrance. Its court was enclosed\nat the front by a stone wall, outside which passing London roared\nin low tumult. The court was surrounded by a belt of shrubs strong\nenough to defy the rain of soot which fell quietly upon them day\nand night.\n\nThe streets were already lighted for the evening when Mademoiselle\nValle presented herself at the massive front door and asked for\nLord Coombe. The expression of her face, and a certain intensity\nof manner, caused the serious-looking head servant, who wore no\nlivery, to come forward instead of leaving her to the footmen.\n\n\"His lordship engaged with--a business person--and must not be\ndisturbed,\" he said. \"He is also going out.\"\n\n\"He will see me,\" replied Mademoiselle Valle. \"If you give him\nthis card he will see me.\"\n\nShe was a plainly dressed woman, but she had a manner which removed\nher entirely from the class of those who merely came to importune.\nThere was absolute certainty in the eyes she fixed with steadiness\non the man's face. He took her card, though he hesitated.\n\n\"If he does not see me,\" she added, \"he will be very much displeased.\"\n\n\"Will you come in, ma'am, and take a seat for a moment?\" he\nventured. \"I will inquire.\"\n\nThe great hall was one of London's most celebrated. A magnificent\nstaircase swept up from it to landings whose walls were hung\nwith tapestries the world knew. In a gilded chair, like a throne,\nMademoiselle Valle sat and waited.\n\nBut she did not wait long. The serious-looking man without livery\nreturned almost immediately. He led Mademoiselle into a room\nlike a sort of study or apartment given up to business matters.\nMademoiselle Valle had never seen Lord Coombe's ceremonial evening\neffect more flawless. Tall, thin and finely straight, he waited\nin the centre of the room. He was evidently on the point of going\nout, and the light-textured satin-lined overcoat he had already\nthrown on revealed, through a suggestion of being winged, that he\nwore in his lapel a delicately fresh, cream-coloured carnation.\n\nA respectable, middle-class looking man with a steady,\nblunt-featured face, had been talking to him and stepped quietly\naside as Mademoiselle entered. There seemed to be no question of\nhis leaving the room.\n\nCoombe met his visitor half way:\n\n\"Something has alarmed you very much?\" he said.\n\n\"Robin went out with Fraulein Hirsch this afternoon,\" she said\nquickly. \"They went to Kensington Gardens. They have not come\nback--and it is nine o'clock. They are always at home by six.\"\n\n\"Will you sit down,\" he said. The man with the steady face was\nlistening intently, and she realized he was doing so and that,\nsomehow, it was well that he should.\n\n\"I do not think there is time for any one to sit down,\" she said,\nspeaking more quickly than before. \"It is not only that she has\nnot come back. Fraulein Hirsch has presented her to one of her old\nemployers-a Lady Etynge. Robin was delighted with her. She has a\ndaughter who is in France--,\"\n\n\"Marguerite staying with her aunt in Paris,\" suddenly put in the\nvoice of the blunt-featured man from his side of the room.\n\n\"Helene at a Covent in Tours,\" corrected Mademoiselle, turning a\npaling countenance towards him and then upon Coombe. \"Lady Etynge\nspoke of wanting to engage some nice girl as a companion to her\ndaughter, who is coming home. Robin thought she might have the\ngood fortune to please her. She was to go to Lady Etynge's house\nto tea sine afternoon and be shown the rooms prepared for Helene.\nShe thought the mother charming.\"\n\n\"Did she mention the address?\" Coombe asked at once.\n\n\"The house was in Berford Place-a large house at a corner. She\nchanced to see Lady Etynge go into it one day or we should not\nhave known. She did not notice the number. Fraulein Hirsch thought\nit was 97A. I have the Blue Book, Lord Coombe--through the\nPeerage--through the Directory! There is no Lady Etynge and there\nis no 97A in Berford Place! That is why I came here.\"\n\nThe man who had stood aside, stepped forward again. It was as if\nhe answered some sign, though Lord Coombe at the moment crossed\nthe hearth and rang the bell.\n\n\"Scotland Yard knows that, ma'am,\" said the man. \"We've had our\neyes on that house for two weeks, and this kind of thing is what\nwe want.\"\n\n\"The double brougham,\" was Coombe's order to the servant who\nanswered his ring. Then he came back to Mademoiselle.\n\n\"Mr. Barkstow is a detective,\" he said. \"Among the other things\nhe has done for me, he has, for some time, kept a casual eye on\nRobin. She is too lovely a child and too friendless to be quite\nsafe. There are blackguards who know when a girl has not the\nusual family protection. He came here to tell me that she had been\nseen sitting in Kensington Gardens with a woman Scotland Yard has\nreason to suspect.\"\n\n\"A black 'un!\" said Barkstow savagely. \"If she's the one we think\nshe is-a black, poisonous, sly one with a face that no girl could\nsuspect.\"\n\nCoombe's still countenance was so deadly in the slow lividness,\nwhich Mademoiselle saw began to manifest itself, that she caught\nhis sleeve with a shaking hand.\n\n\"She's nothing but a baby!\" she said. \"She doesn't know what a baby\nshe is. I can see her eyes frantic with terror! She'd go mad.\"\n\n\"Good God!\" he said, in a voice so low it scarcely audible.\n\nHe almost dragged her out of the room, though, as they passed\nthrough the hall, the servants only saw that he had given the\nlady his arm-and two of the younger footmen exchanged glances with\neach other which referred solely to the inimitableness of the cut\nof his evening overcoat.\n\nWhen they entered the carriage, Barkstow entered with them and\nMademoiselle Valle leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and\nher face clutched in her hands. She was trying to shut out from\nher mental vision a memory of Robin's eyes.\n\n\"If--if Fraulein Hirsch is--not true,\" she broke out once. \"Count\nvon Hillern is concerned. It has come upon me like a flash. Why\ndid I not see before?\"\n\nThe party at the big house, where the red carpet was rolled across\nthe pavement, was at full height when they drove into the Place.\nTheir brougham did not stop at the corner but at the end of the\nline of waiting carriages.\n\nCoombe got out and looked up and down the thoroughfare.\n\n\"It must be done quietly. There must be no scandal,\" he said. \"The\npoliceman on the beat is an enormous fellow. You will attend to\nhim, Barkstow,\" and Barkstow nodded and strolled away.\n\nCoombe walked up the Place and down on the opposite side until he\nwas within a few yards of the corner house. When he reached this\npoint, he suddenly quickened his footsteps because he saw that\nsomeone else was approaching it with an air of intention. It was\na man, not quite as tall as himself but of heavier build and with\nsquare held shoulders. As the man set his foot upon the step,\nCoombe touched him on the arm and said something in German.\n\nThe man started angrily and then suddenly stood quite still and\nerect.\n\n\"It will be better for us to walk up the Place together,\" Lord\nCoombe said, with perfect politeness.\n\nIf he could have been dashed down upon the pavement and his head\nhammered in with the handle of a sword, or if he could have been\nrun through furiously again and again, either or both of these\nthings would have been done. But neither was possible. It also was\nnot possible to curse aloud in a fashionable London street. Such\ncurses as one uttered must be held in one's foaming mouth between\none's teeth. Count von Hillern knew this better than most men\nwould have known it. Here was one of those English swine with whom\nGermany would deal in her own way later.\n\nThey walked back together as if they were acquaintances taking a\ncasual stroll.\n\n\"There is nothing which would so infuriate your--Master-as\na disgraceful scandal,\" Lord Coombe's highbred voice suggested\nundisturbedly. \"The high honour of a German officer-the knightly\nbearing of a wearer of the uniform of the All Highest-that sort\nof thing you know. All that sort of thing!\"\n\nVon Hillern ground out some low spoken and quite awful German words.\nIf he had not been trapped-if he had been in some quiet by-street!\n\n\"The man walking ahead of us is a detective from Scotland Yard.\nThe particularly heavy and rather martial tread behind us is that\nof a policeman much more muscular than either of us. There is a\nball going on in the large house with the red carpet spread across\nthe pavement. I know the people who are giving it. There are a\ngood many coachmen and footmen about. Most of them would probably\nrecognize me.\"\n\nIt became necessary for Count von Hillern actually to wipe away\ncertain flecks of foam from his lips, as he ground forth again\nmore varied and awful sentiments in his native tongue.\n\n\"You are going back to Berlin,\" said Coombe, coldly. \"If we English\nwere not such fools, you would not be here. You are, of course,\nnot going into that house.\"\n\nVon Hillern burst into a derisive laugh.\n\n\"You are going yourself,\" he said. \"You are a worn-out old ROUE,\nbut you are mad about her yourself in your senile way.\"\n\n\"You should respect my age and decrepitude,\" answered Coombe. \"A\ncertain pity for my gray hairs would become your youth. Shall we\nturn here or will you return to your hotel by some other way?\"\nHe felt as if the man might a burst a blood vessel if he were\nobliged to further restrain himself.\n\nVon Hillern wheeled at the corner and confronted him.\n\n\"There will come a day--\" he almost choked.\n\n\"Der Toy? Naturally,\" the chill of Coombe's voice was a sound to\ndrive this particular man at this particular, damnably-thwarted\nmoment, raving mad. And not to be able to go mad! Not to be able!\n\n\"Swine of a doddering Englishman! Who would envy you--trembling\non your lean shanks--whatsoever you can buy for yourself. I spit\non you-spit!\"\n\n\"Don't,\" said Coombe. \"You are sputtering to such an extent that\nyou really ARE, you know.\"\n\nVon Hillern whirled round the corner.\n\nCoombe, left alone, stood still a moment.\n\n\"I was in time,\" he said to himself, feeling somewhat nauseated.\n\"By extraordinary luck, I was in time. In earlier days one would\nhave said something about 'Provadence'.\" And he at once walked\nback.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\n\n\n\nIt was not utterly dark in the room, though Robin, after passing\nher hands carefully over the walls, had found no electric buttons\nwithin reach nor any signs of candles or matches elsewhere. The\nnight sky was clear and brilliant with many stars, and this gave\nher an unshadowed and lighted space to look at. She went to the\nwindow and sat down on the floor, huddled against the wall with\nher hands clasped round her knees, looking up. She did this in the\neffort to hold in check a rising tide of frenzy which threatened\nher. Perhaps, if she could fix her eyes on the vault full of\nstars, she could keep herself from going out of her mind. Though,\nperhaps, it would be better if she DID go out of her mind, she\nfound herself thinking a few seconds later.\n\nAfter her first entire acceptance of the hideous thing which\nhad happened to her, she had passed through nerve breaking phases\nof terror-stricken imaginings. The old story of the drowning man\nacross whose brain rush all the images of life, came back to her.\nShe did not know where or when or how she had ever heard or read\nof the ghastly incidents which came trooping up to her and staring\nat her with dead or mad eyes and awful faces. Perhaps they were\nold nightmares-perhaps a kind of delirium had seized her. She tried\nto stop their coming by saying over and over again the prayers\nDowie had taught her when she was a child. And then she thought,\nwith a sob which choked her, that perhaps they were only prayers\nfor a safe little creature kneeling by a white bed-and did not\napply to a girl locked up in a top room, which nobody knew about.\nOnly when she thought of Mademoiselle Valle and Dowie looking for\nher--with all London spread out before their helplessness--did\nshe cry. After that, tears seemed impossible. The images trooped\nby too close to her. The passion hidden within her being--which\nhad broken out when she tore the earth under the shrubbery, and\nwhich, with torture staring her in the face, had leaped in the\nchild's soul and body and made her defy Andrews with shrieks--leaped\nup within her now. She became a young Fury, to whom a mad fight\nwith monstrous death was nothing. She told herself that she was\nstrong for a girl--that she could tear with her nails, she could\nclench her teeth in a flesh, she could shriek, she could battle\nlike a young madwoman so that they would be FORCED to kill her. This\nwas one of the images which rose op before her again yet again,\nA hideous-hideous thing, which would not remain away.\n\nShe had not had any food since the afternoon cap of tea and she\nbegan to feel the need of it. If she became faint-! She lifted\nher face desperately as she said it, and saw the immense blue\ndarkness, powdered with millions of stars and curving over her--as\nit curved over the hideous house and all the rest of the world.\nHow high--how immense--how fathomlessly still it was--how it seemed\nas if there could be nothing else--that nothing else could be\nreal! Her hands were clenched together hard and fiercely, as she\nscrambled to her knees and uttered a of prayer--not a child's--rather\nthe cry of a young Fury making a demand.\n\n\"Perhaps a girl is Nothing,\" she cried, \"-a girl locked up in a\nroom! But, perhaps, she is Something--she may be real too! Save\nme--save me! But if you won't save me, let me be killed!\"\n\nShe knelt silent after it for a few minutes and then she sank down\nand lay on the floor with her face on her arm.\n\nHow it was possible that even young and worn-out as she was, such\npeace as sleep could overcome her at such a time, one cannot say.\nBut in the midst of her torment she was asleep.\n\nBut it was not for long. She wakened with a start and sprang to\nher feet shivering. The carriages were still coming and going with\nguests for the big house opposite. It could not be late, though\nshe seemed to have been in the place for years--long enough to feel\nthat it was the hideous centre of the whole earth and all sane and\nhonest memories were a dream. She thought she would begin to walk\nup and down the room.\n\nBut a sound she heard at this very instant made her stand stock\nstill. She had known there would be a sound at last--she had\nwaited for it all the time--she had known, of course, that it would\ncome, but she had not even tried to guess whether she would hear\nit early or late. It would be the sound of the turning of the\nhandle of the locked door. It had come. There it was! The click\nof the lock first and then the creak of the turned handle!\n\nShe went to the window again and stood with her back against it,\nso that her body was outlined against the faint light. Would the\nperson come in the dark, or would he carry a light? Something\nbegan to whirl in her brain. What was the low, pumping thump she\nseemed to hear and feel at the same time? It was the awful thumping\nof her heart.\n\nThe door opened--not stealthily, but quite in the ordinary way.\nThe person who came in did not move stealthily either. He came\nin as though he were making an evening call. How tall and straight\nhis body was, with a devilish elegance of line against the background\nof light in the hall. She thought she saw a white flower on his\nlapel as his overcoat fell back. The leering footman had opened\nthe for him.\n\n\"Turn on the lights.\" A voice she knew gave the order, the leering\nfootman obeyed, touching a spot high on the wall.\n\nShe had vaguely and sickeningly felt almost sure that it would\nbe either Count von Hillern or Lord Coombe--and it was not Count\nvon Hillern! The cold wicked face--the ironic eyes which made her\ncreep--the absurd, elderly perfection of dress--even the flawless\nflower-made her flash quake with repulsion. If Satan came into\nthe room, he might look like that and make one's revolting being\nquake so.\n\n\"I thought--it might be you,\" the strange girl's voice said to\nhim aloud.\n\n\"Robin,\" he said.\n\nHe was moving towards her and, as she threw out her madly clenched\nlittle hands, he stopped and drew back.\n\n\"Why did you think I might come?\" he asked.\n\n\"Because you are the kind of a man who would do the things only\ndevils would do. I have hated-hated-hated you since I was a baby.\nCome and kill me if you like. Call the footman back to help you,\nif yon like. I can't get away. Kill me--kill me--kill me!\"\n\nShe was lost in her frenzy and looked as if she were mad.\n\nOne moment he hesitated, and then he pointed politely to the sofa.\n\n\"Go and sit down, please,\" he suggested. It was no more then a\ncourteous suggestion. \"I shall remain here. I have no desire to\napproach you--if you'll pardon my saying so.\"\n\nBut she would not leave the window.\n\n\"It is natural that you should be overwrought,\" he said.\n\n\"This is a damnable thing. You are too young to know the worst of\nit.\"\n\n\"You are the worst of it!\" she cried. \"You.\"\n\n\"No\" as the chill of his even voice struck her, she wondered if\nhe were really human. \"Von Hillern would have been the worst of\nit. I stopped him at the front door and knew how to send him away.\nNow, listen, my good child. Hate me as ferociously as you like.\nThat is a detail. You are in the house of a woman whose name\nstands for shame and infamy and crime.\"\n\n\"What are YOU doing in it--\" she cried again, \"--in a place where\ngirls are trapped-and locked up in top rooms--to be killed?\"\n\n\"I came to take you away. I wish to do it quietly. It would be\nrather horrible if the public discovered that you have spent some\nhours here. If I had not slipped in when they were expecting von\nHillern, and if the servants were not accustomed to the quiet\nentrance of well dressed men, I could not have got in without an\nopen row and the calling of the policemen,--which I wished to avoid.\nAlso, the woman downstairs knows me and realized that I was not\nlying when I said the house was surrounded and she was on the\npoint of being 'run in'. She is a woman of broad experience, and\nat once knew that she might as well keep quiet.\"\n\nDespite his cold eyes and the bad smile she hated, despite his\nalmost dandified meticulous attire and the festal note of his\nwhite flower, which she hated with the rest--he was, perhaps, not\nlying to her. Perhaps for the sake of her mother he had chosen\nto save her--and, being the man he was, he had been able to make\nuse of his past experiences.\n\nShe began to creep away from the window, and she felt her legs,\nall at once, shaking under her. By the time she reached the\nChesterfield sofa she fell down by it and began to cry. A sort of\nhysteria seized her, and she shook from head to foot and clutched\nat the upholstery with weak hands which clawed. She was, indeed,\nan awful, piteous sight. He was perhaps not lying, but she was\nafraid of him yet.\n\n\"I told the men who are waiting outside that if I did not bring\nyou out in half an hour, they were to break into the house. I do\nnot wish them to break in. We have not any time to spare. What\nyou are doing is quite natural, but you must try and get up.\" He\nstood by her and said this looking down at her slender, wrung body\nand lovely groveling head.\n\nHe took a flask out of his overcoat pocket--and it was a gem of\ngoldsmith's art. He poured some wine into its cup and bent forward\nto hold it out to her.\n\n\"Drink this and try to stand on your feet,\" he said. He knew better\nthan to try to help her to rise--to touch her in any way. Seeing\nto what the past hours had reduced her, he knew better. There was\nmad fear in her eyes when she lifted her head and threw out her\nhand again.\n\n\"No! No!\" she cried out. \"No, I will drink nothing!\" He understood\nat once and threw the wine into the grate.\n\n\"I see,\" he said. \"You might think it might be drugged. You are\nright. It might be. I ought to have thought of that.\" He returned\nthe flask to his pocket. \"Listen again. You must. The time will\nsoon be up and we must not let those fellows break in and make\na row that will collect a crowd We must go at once. Mademoiselle\nValle is waiting for you in my carriage outside. You will not be\nafraid to drink wine she gives you.\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle!\" she stammered.\n\n\"Yes. In my carriage, which is not fifty yards from the house. Can\nyou stand on your feet?\" She got up and stood but she was still\nshuddering all over.\n\n\"Can you walk downstairs? If you cannot, will you let me carry\nyou? I am strong enough-in spite of my years.\"\n\n\"I can walk,\" she whispered.\n\n\"Will you take my arm?\"\n\nShe looked at him for a moment with awful, broken-spirited eyes.\n\n\"Yes. I will take your arm.\"\n\nHe offered it to her with rigid punctiliousness of manner. He\ndid not even look at her. He led her out of the room and down the\nthree flights of stairs. As they passed by the open drawing-room\ndoor, the lovely woman who had called herself Lady Etynge stood\nnear it and watched them with eyes no longer gentle.\n\n\"I have something to say to you, Madam,\" he said; \"When I place\nthis young lady in the hands of her governess, I will come back\nand say it.\"\n\n\"Is her governess Fraulein Hirsch?\" asked the woman lightly.\n\n\"No. She is doubtless on her way back to Berlin--and von Hillern\nwill follow her.\"\n\nThere was only the first floor flight of stairs now. Robin could\nscarcely see her way. But Lord Coombe held her up firmly and, in\na few moments more, the leering footman, grown pale, opened the\nlarge door, they crossed the pavement to the carriage, and she\nwas helped in and fell, almost insensible, across Mademoiselle\nValle's lap, and was caught in a strong arm which shook as she\ndid.\n\n\"Ma cherie,\" she heard, \"The Good God! Oh, the good--good God!--And\nLord Coombe! Lord Coombe!\"\n\nCoombe had gone back to the house. Four men returned with him, two\nin plain clothes and two heavily-built policemen. They remained\nbelow, but Coombe went up the staircase with the swift lightness\nof a man of thirty.\n\nHe merely stood upon the threshold of the drawing-room. This was\nwhat he said, and his face was entirely white his eyes appalling.\n\n\"My coming back to speak to you is--superfluous--and the result of\npure fury. I allow it to myself as mere shameless indulgence. More\nis known against you than this--things which have gone farther and\nfared worse. You are not young and you are facing years of life\nin prison. Your head will be shaved--your hands worn and blackened\nand your nails broken with the picking of oakum. You will writhe\nin hopeless degradation until you are done for. You will have\ntime, in the night blackness if of your cell, to remember--to see\nfaces--to hear cries. Women such as you should learn what hell on\nearth means. You will learn.\"\n\nWhen he ended, the woman hung with her back to the wall she had\nstaggered against, her mouth opening and shutting helplessly but\nletting forth no sound.\n\nHe took out an exquisitely fresh handkerchief and touched his\nforehead because it was damp. His eyes were still appalling, but\nhis voice suddenly dropped and changed.\n\n\"I have allowed myself to feel like a madman,\" he said. \"It has\nbeen a rich experience--good for such a soul as I own.\"\n\nHe went downstairs and walked home because his carriage had taken\nRobin and Mademoiselle back to the slice of a house.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\n\n\n\n\nVon Hillern made no further calls on Mrs. Gareth-Lawless. His return\nto Berlin was immediate and Fraulein Hirsch came no more to give\nlessons in German. Later, Coombe learned from the mam with the\nsteady, blunt-featured face, that she had crossed the Channel on\na night boat not many hours after Von Hillern had walked away from\nBerford Place. The exact truth was that she had been miserably\nprowling about the adjacent streets, held in the neighbourhood\nby some self-torturing morbidness, half thwarted helpless passion,\nhalf triumphing hatred of the young thing she had betrayed. Up\nand down the streets she had gone, round and round, wringing her\nlean fingers together and tasting on her lips the salt of tears\nwhich rolled down her cheeks--tears of torment and rage.\n\nThere was the bitterness of death in what, by a mere trick of\nchance, came about. As she turned a corner telling herself for\nthe hundredth time that she must go home, she found herself face\nto face with a splendid figure swinging furiously along. She\nstaggered at the sight of the tigerish rage in the white face she\nrecognized with a gasp. It was enough merely to behold it. He had\nmet with some disastrous humiliation!\n\nAs for him, the direct intervention of that Heaven whose special\ncare he was, had sent him a woman to punish--which, so far, was at\nleast one thing arranged as it should be. He knew so well how he\ncould punish her with his mere contempt and displeasure--as he\ncould lash a spaniel crawling at his feet. He need not deign to\ntell her what had happened, and he did not. He merely drew back\nand stood in stiff magnificence looking down at her.\n\n\"It is through some folly of yours,\" he dropped in a voice of\nvitriol. \"Women are always foolish. They cannot hold their tongues\nor think clearly. Return to Berlin at once. You are not of those\nwhose conduct I can commend to be trusted in the future.\"\n\nHe was gone before she could have spoken even if she had dared.\nSobbing gasps caught her breath as she stood and watched him\nstriding pitilessly and superbly away with, what seemed to her\nabject soul, the swing and tread of a martial god. Her streaming\ntears tasted salt indeed. She might never see him again--even from\na distance. She would be disgraced and flung aside as a blundering\nwoman. She had obeyed his every word and done her straining best,\nas she had licked the dust at his feet--but he would never cast a\nglance at her in the future or utter to her the remotest word of\nhis high commands. She so reeled as she went her wretched way that\na good-natured policeman said to her as he passed,\n\n\"Steady on, my girl. Best get home and go to bed.\"\n\nTo Mrs. Gareth-Lawless, it was stated by Coombe that Fraulein\nHirsch had been called back to Germany by family complications.\nThat august orders should recall Count Von Hillern, was easily\nunderstood. Such magnificent persons never shone upon society for\nany length of time.\n\nThat Feather had been making a country home visit when her daughter\nhad faced tragedy was considered by Lord Coombe as a fortunate\nthing.\n\n\"We will not alarm Mrs. Gareth-Lawless by telling her what has\noccurred,\" he said to Mademoiselle Valle. \"What we most desire\nis that no one shall suspect that the hideous thing took place. A\nperson who was forgetful or careless might, unintentionally, let\nsome word escape which--\"\n\nWhat he meant, and what Mademoiselle Valle knew he meant--also what\nhe knew she knew he meant--was that a woman, who was a heartless\nfool, without sympathy or perception, would not have the delicacy\nto feel that the girl must be shielded, and might actually see a\nsort of ghastly joke in a story of Mademoiselle Valle's sacrosanct\ncharge simply walking out of her enshrining arms into such a \"galere\"\nas the most rackety and adventurous of pupils could scarcely have\nbeen led into. Such a point of view would have been quite possible\nfor Feather--even probable, in the slightly spiteful attitude of\nher light mind.\n\n\"She was away from home. Only you and I and Dowie know,\" answered\nMademoiselle.\n\n\"Let us remain the only persons who know,\" said Coombe. \"Robin\nwill say nothing.\"\n\nThey both knew that. She had been feverish and ill for several\ndays and Dowie had kept her in bed saying that she had caught cold.\nNeither of the two women had felt it possible to talk to her. She\nhad lain staring with a deadly quiet fixedness straight before\nher, saying next to nothing. Now and then she shuddered, and once\nshe broke into a mad, heart-broken fit of crying which she seemed\nunable to control.\n\n\"Everything is changed,\" she said to Dowie and Mademoiselle who\nsat on either side of her bed, sometimes pressing her head down\nonto a kind shoulder, sometimes holding her hand and patting it.\n\"I shall be afraid of everybody forever. People who have sweet\nfaces and kind voices will make me shake all over. Oh! She seemed\nso kind--so kind!\"\n\nIt was Dowie whose warm shoulder her face hidden on this time,\nand Dowie was choked with sobs she dared not let loose. She could\nonly squeeze hard and kiss the \"silk curls all in a heap\"--poor,\ntumbled curls, no longer a child's!\n\n\"Aye, my lamb!\" she managed to say. \"Dowie's poor pet lamb!\"\n\n\"It's the knowing that kind eyes--kind ones--!\" she broke off,\npanting. \"It's the KNOWING! I didn't know before! I knew nothing.\nNow, it's all over. I'm afraid of all the world!\"\n\n\"Not all, cherie,\" breathed Mademoiselle.\n\nShe sat upright against her pillows. The mirror on a dressing\ntable reflected her image--her blooming tear-wet youth, framed in\nthe wonderful hair falling a shadow about her. She stared at the\nreflection hard and questioningly.\n\n\"I suppose,\" her voice was pathos itself in its helplessness, \"it\nis because what you once told me about being pretty, is true. A\ngirl who looks like THAT,\" pointing her finger at the glass, \"need\nnot think she can earn her own living. I loathe it,\" in fierce\nresentment at some bitter injustice. \"It is like being a person\nunder a curse!\"\n\nAt this Dowie broke down openly and let her tears run fast. \"No,\nno! You mustn't say it or think it, my dearie!\" she wept. \"It\nmight call down a blight on it. You a young thing like a garden\nflower! And someone--somewhere--God bless him--that some day'll\nglory in it--and you'll glory too. Somewhere he is--somewhere!\"\n\n\"Let none of them look at me!\" cried Robin. \"I loather them, too.\nI hate everything--and everybody--but you two--just you two.\"\n\nMademoiselle took her in her arms this time when she sobbed again.\nMademoiselle knew how at this hour it seemed to her that all her\nworld was laid bare forever more. When the worst of the weeping\nwas over and she lay quiet, but for the deep catching breaths\nwhich lifted her breast in slow, childish shudders at intervals,\nshe held Mademoiselle Valle's hand and looked at her with a faint,\nwry smile.\n\n\"You were too kind to tell me what a stupid little fool I was when\nI talked to you about taking a place in an office!\" she said. \"I\nknow now that you would not have allowed me to do the things I\nwas so sure I could do. It was only my ignorance and conceit. I\ncan't answer advertisements. Any bad person can say what they choose\nin an advertisement. If that woman had advertised, she would have\ndescribed Helene. And there was no Helene.\" One of the shuddering\ncatches of her breath broke in here. After it, she said, with\na pitiful girlishness of regret: \"I--I could SEE Helene. I have\nknown so few people well enough to love them. No girls at all. I\nthough--perhaps--we should begin to LOVE each other. I can't bear\nto think of that--that she never was alive at all. It leaves a\nsort of empty place.\"\n\nWhen she had sufficiently recovered herself to be up again,\nMademoiselle Valle said to her that she wished her to express her\ngratitude to Lord Coombe.\n\n\"I will if you wish it,\" she answered.\n\n\"Don't you feel that it is proper that you should do it? Do you\nnot wish it yourself?\" inquired Mademoiselle. Robin looked down\nat the carpet for some seconds.\n\n\"I know,\" she at last admitted, \"that it is proper. But I don't\nwish to do it.\"\n\n\"No?\" said Mademoiselle Valle.\n\nRobin raised her eyes from the carpet and fixed them on her.\n\n\"It is because of--reasons,\" she said. \"It is part of the horror\nI want to forget. Even you mayn't know what it has done to me.\nPerhaps I am turning into a girl with a bad mind. Bad thoughts keep\nswooping down on me--like great black ravens. Lord Coombe saved\nme, but I think hideous things about him. I heard Andrews say he\nwas bad when I was too little to know what it meant. Now, I KNOW,\nI remember that HE knew because he chose to know--of his own free\nwill. He knew that woman and she knew him. HOW did he know her?\"\nShe took a forward step which brought her nearer to Mademoiselle.\n\"I never told you but I will tell you now,\" she confessed, \"When\nthe door opened and I saw him standing against the light I--I did\nnot think he had come to save me.\"\n\n\"MON DIEU!\" breathed Mademoiselle in soft horror.\n\n\"He knows I am pretty. He is an old man but he knows. Fraulein\nHirsch once made me feel actually sick by telling me, in her meek,\nsly, careful way, that he liked beautiful girls and the people\nsaid he wanted a young wife and had his eye on me. I was rude to\nher because it made me so furious. HOW did he know that woman so\nwell? You see how bad I have been made!\"\n\n\"He knows nearly all Europe. He has seen the dark corners as well\nas the bright places. Perhaps he has saved other girls from her.\nHe brought her to punishment, and was able to do it because he\nhas been on her track for some time. You are not bad--but unjust.\nYou have had too great a shock to be able to reason sanely just\nyet.\"\n\n\"I think he will always make me creep a little,\" said Robin, \"but\nI will say anything you think I ought to say.\"\n\nOn an occasion when Feather had gone again to make a visit in the\ncountry, Mademoiselle came into the sitting room with the round\nwindow in which plants grew, and Coombe followed her. Robin looked\nup from her book with a little start and then stood up.\n\n\"I have told Lord Coombe that you wish--that I wish you to thank\nhim,\" Mademoiselle Valle said.\n\n\"I came on my own part to tell you that any expression of gratitude\nis entirely unnecessary,\" said Coombe.\n\n\"I MUST be grateful. I AM grateful.\" Robin's colour slowly faded\nas she said it. This was the first time she had seen him since he\nhad supported her down the staircase which mounted to a place of\nhell.\n\n\"There is nothing to which I should object so much as being regarded\nas a benefactor,\" he answered definitely, but with entire lack of\nwarmth. \"The role does not suit me. Being an extremely bad man,\" he\nsaid it as one who speaks wholly without prejudice, \"my experience\nis wide. I chance to know things. The woman who called herself\nLady Etynge is of a class which--which does not count me among its\nclients. I had put certain authorities on her track--which was how\nI discovered your whereabouts when Mademoiselle Valle told me that\nyou had gone to take tea with her. Mere chance you see. Don't be\ngrateful to me, I beg of you, but to Mademoiselle Valle.\"\n\n\"Why,\" faltered Robin, vaguely repelled as much as ever, \"did it\nmatter to you?\"\n\n\"Because,\" he answered--Oh, the cold inhumanness of his gray\neye!--\"you happened to live in--this house.\"\n\n\"I thought that was perhaps the reason,\" she said--and she felt\nthat he made her \"creep\" even a shade more.\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" she added, suddenly remembering, \"Please sit\ndown.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" as he sat. \"I will because I have something more to\nsay to you.\"\n\nRobin and Mademoiselle seated themselves also and listened.\n\n\"There are many hideous aspects of existence which are not considered\nnecessary portions of a girl's education,\" he began.\n\n\"They ought to be,\" put in Robin, and her voice was as hard as it\nwas young.\n\nIt was a long and penetrating look he gave her.\n\n\"I am not an instructor of Youth. I have not been called upon to\ndecide. I do not feel it my duty to go even now into detail.\"\n\n\"You need not,\" broke in the hard young voice. \"I know everything\nin the world. I'm BLACK with knowing.\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle will discuss that point with you. What you have,\nunfortunately, been forced to learn is that it is not safe for a\ngirl--even a girl without beauty--to act independently of older\npeople, unless she has found out how to guard herself against--devils.\"\nThe words broke from him sharply, with a sudden incongruous hint\nof ferocity which was almost startling. \"You have been frightened,\"\nhe said next, \"and you have discovered that there are devils, but\nyou have not sufficient experience to guard yourself against them.\"\n\n\"I have been so frightened that I shall be a coward--a coward all\nmy life. I shall be afraid of every face I see--the more to be\ntrusted they look, the more I shall fear them. I hate every one\nin the world!\"\n\nHer quite wonderful eyes--so they struck Lord Coombe--flamed with\na child's outraged anguish. A thunder shower of tears broke and\nrushed down her cheeks, and he rose and, walking quietly to the window\nfull of flowers, stood with his back to her for a few moments. She\nneither cared nor knew whether it was because her hysteric emotion\nbored or annoyed him, or because he had the taste to realize that\nshe would not wish to be looked at. Unhappy youth can feel no law\nbut its own.\n\nBut all was over during the few moments, and he turned and walked\nback to his chair.\n\n\"You want very much to do some work which will insure your entire\nindependence--to take some situation which will support you without\naid from others? You are not yet prepared to go out and take the\nfirst place which offers. You have been--as you say--too hideously\nfrightened, and you know there are dangers in wandering about\nunguided. Mademoiselle Valle,\" turning his head, \"perhaps you\nwill tell her what you know of the Duchess of Darte?\"\n\nUpon which, Mademoiselle Valle took hold of her hand and entered\ninto a careful explanation.\n\n\"She is a great personage of whom there can be no doubt. She\nwas a lady of the Court. She is of advanced years and an invalid\nand has a liking for those who are pretty and young. She desires\na companion who is well educated and young and fresh of mind. The\ncompanion who had been with her for many years recently died. If\nyou took her place you would live with her in her town house and\ngo with her to the country after the season. Your salary would\nbe liberal and no position could be more protected and dignified.\nI have seen and talked to her grace myself, and she will allow me\nto take you to her, if you desire to go.\"\n\n\"Do not permit the fact that she has known me for many years\nto prejudice you against the proposal,\" said Coombe. \"You might\nperhaps regard it rather as a sort of guarantee of my conduct in\nthe matter. She knows the worst of me and still allows me to retain\nher acquaintance. She was brilliant and full of charm when she\nwas a young woman, and she is even more so now because she is--of\na rarity! If I were a girl and might earn my living in her service,\nI should feel that fortune had been good to me--good.\"\n\nRobin's eyes turned from one of them to the other--from Coombe to\nMademoiselle Valle, and from Mademoiselle to Coombe pathetically.\n\n\"You--you see--what has been done to me,\" she said. \"A few weeks\nago I should have KNOWN that God was providing for me--taking\ncare of me. And now--I am still afraid. I feel as if she would see\nthat--that I am not young and fresh any more but black with evil.\nI am afraid of her--I am afraid of you,\" to Coombe, \"and of myself.\"\n\nCoombe rose, evidently to go away.\n\n\"But you are not afraid of Mademoiselle Valle,\" he put it to her.\n\"She will provide the necessary references for the Duchess. I will\nleave her to help you to decide.\"\n\nRobin rose also. She wondered if she ought not to hold out her\nhand. Perhaps he saw her slight movement. He himself made none.\n\n\"I remember you objected to shaking hands as a child,\" he said,\nwith an impersonal civil smile, and the easy punctiliousness of\nhis bow made it impossible for her to go further.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\n\n\n\n\nSome days before this the Duchess of Darte had driven out in the\nmorning to make some purchases and as she had sat in her large\nlandau she had greatly missed Miss Brent who had always gone with\nher when she had made necessary visits to the shops. She was not\nfond of shopping and Miss Brent had privately found pleasure in\nit which had made her a cheerful companion. To the quiet elderly\nwoman whose life previous to her service with this great lady had\nbeen spent in struggles with poverty, the mere incident of entering\nshops and finding eager salesmen springing forward to meet her\nwith bows and amiable offers of ministration, was to the end of\nher days an almost thrilling thing. The Duchess bought splendidly\nthough quietly. Knowing always what she wanted, she merely required\nthat it be produced, and after silently examining it gave orders\nthat it should be sent to her. There was a dignity in her decision\nwhich was impressive. She never gave trouble or hesitated. The\nstaffs of employees in the large shops knew and reveled in her\nwhile they figuratively bent the knee. Miss Brent had been a happy\nsatisfied woman while she had lived. She had died peacefully after\na brief and, as it seemed at first, unalarming illness at one of\nher employer's country houses to which she had been amiably sent\ndown for a holiday. Every kindness and attention had been bestowed\nupon her and only a few moments before she fell into her last\nsleep she had been talking pleasantly of her mistress.\n\n\"She is a very great lady, Miss Hallam,\" she had said to her nurse.\n\"She's the last of her kind I often think. Very great ladies seem\nto have gone out--if you know what I mean. They've gone out.\"\n\nThe Duchess had in fact said of Brent as she stood a few days\nlater beside her coffin and looked down at her contentedly serene\nface, something not unlike what Brent had said of herself.\n\n\"You were a good friend, Brent, my dear,\" she murmured. \"I shall\nalways miss you. I am afraid there are no more like you left.\"\n\nShe was thinking of her all the morning as she drove slowly down\nto Bond Street and Piccadilly. As she got out of her carriage to\ngo into a shop she was attracted by some photographs of beauties in\na window and paused to glance at them. Many of them were beauties\nwhom she knew, but among them were some of society's latest\ndiscoveries. The particular photographs which caught her eye were\ntwo which had evidently been purposely placed side by side for\nan interesting reason. The reason was that the two women, while\nobviously belonging to periods of some twenty years apart as the\nfashion of their dress proved, were in face and form so singularly\nalike that they bewilderingly suggested that they were the same\nperson. Both were exquisitely nymphlike, fair and large eyed and\nboth had the fine light hair which is capable of forming itself\ninto a halo. The Duchess stood and looked at them for the moment\nspell-bound. She slightly caught her breath. She was borne back so\nswiftly and so far. Her errand in the next door shop was forgotten.\nShe went into the one which displayed the photographs.\n\n\"I wish to look at the two photographs which are so much alike,\"\nshe said to the man behind the counter.\n\nHe knew her as most people did and brought forth the photographs\nat once.\n\n\"Many people are interested in them, your grace,\" he said. \"It was\nthe amazing likeness which made me put them beside each other.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered. \"It is almost incredible.\" She looked up\nfrom the beautiful young being dressed in the mode of twenty years\npast.\n\n\"This is--WAS--?\" she corrected herself and paused. The man\nreplied in a somewhat dropped voice. He evidently had his reasons\nfor feeling it discreet to do so.\n\n\"Yes--WAS. She died twenty years ago. The young Princess Alixe of\nX--\" he said. \"There was a sad story, your grace no doubt remembers.\nIt was a good deal talked about.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she replied and said no more, but took up the modern\npicture. It displayed the same almost floating airiness of type,\nbut in this case the original wore diaphanous wisps of spangled\ntulle threatening to take wings and fly away leaving the girl\nslimness of arms and shoulders bereft of any covering whatsoever.\n\n\"This one is--?\" she questioned.\n\n\"A Mrs. Gareth-Lawless. A widow with a daughter though she looks\nin her teens. She's older than the Princess was, but she's kept\nher beauty as ladies know how to in these days. It's wonderful to\nsee them side by side. But it's only a few that saw her Highness\nas she was the season she came with the Prince to visit at Windsor\nin Queen Victoria's day. Did your grace--\" he checked himself\nfeeling that he was perhaps somewhat exceeding Bond Street limits.\n\n\"Yes. I saw her,\" said the Duchess. \"If these are for sale I will\ntake them both.\"\n\n\"I'm selling a good many of them. People buy them because the\nlikeness makes them a sort of curiosity. Mrs. Gareth-Lawless is\na very modern lady and she is quite amused.\"\n\nThe Duchess took the two photographs home with her and looked at\nthem a great deal afterwards as she sat in her winged chair.\n\nThey were on her table when Coombe came to drink tea with her in\nthe afternoon.\n\nWhen he saw them he stood still and studied the two faces silently\nfor several seconds.\n\n\"Did you ever see a likeness so wonderful?\" he said at last.\n\n\"Never,\" she answered. \"Or an unlikeness. That is the most wonderful\nof all--the unlikeness. It is the same body inhabited by two souls\nfrom different spheres.\"\n\nHis next words were spoken very slowly.\n\n\"I should have been sure you would see that,\" he commented.\n\n\"I lost my breath for a second when I saw them side by side in the\nshop window--and the next moment I lost it again because I saw--what\nI speak of--the utter world wide apartness. It is in their eyes.\nShe--,\" she touched the silver frame enclosing the young Princess,\n\"was a little saint--a little spirit. There never was a young\nhuman thing so transparently pure.\"\n\nThe rigid modeling of his face expressed a thing which, himself\nrecognizing its presence, he chose to turn aside as he moved towards\nthe mantel and leaned on it. The same thing caused his voice to\nsound hoarse and low as he spoke in answer, saying something she\nhad not expected him to say. Its unexpectedness in fact produced\nin her an effect of shock.\n\n\"And she was the possession of a brute incarnate, mad with unbridled\nlust and drink and abnormal furies. She was a child saint, and\nshook with terror before him. He killed her.\"\n\n\"I believe he did,\" she said unsteadily after a breath space of\npause. \"Many people believed so though great effort was made to\nsilence the stories. But there were too many stories and they were\nso unspeakable that even those in high places were made furiously\nindignant. He was not received here at Court afterwards. His own\nemperor could not condone what he did. Public opinion was too\nstrong.\"\n\n\"The stories were true,\" answered the hoarse low voice. \"I myself,\nby royal command, was a guest at the Schloss in the Bavarian Alps\nwhen it was known that he struck her repeatedly with a dog whip.\nShe was going to have a child. One night I was wandering in the\npark in misery and I heard shrieks which sent me in mad search.\nI do not know what I should have done if I had succeeded, but I\ntried to force an entrance into the wing from which the shrieks\ncame. I was met and stopped almost by open violence. The sounds\nceased. She died a week later. But the most experienced lying could\nnot hide some things. Even royal menials may have human blood in\ntheir veins. It was known that there were hideous marks on her\nlittle dead body.\"\n\n\"We heard. We heard,\" whispered the Duchess.\n\n\"He killed her. But she would have died of horror if he had not\nstruck her a blow. She began to die from the hour the marriage\nwas forced upon her. I saw that when she was with him at Windsor.\"\n\n\"You were in attendance on him,\" the Duchess said after a little\nsilence. \"That was when I first knew you.\"\n\n\"Yes.\" She had added the last sentence gravely and his reply was\nas grave though his voice was still hoarse. \"You were sublime\ngoodness and wisdom. When a woman through the sheer quality of\nher silence saves a man from slipping over the verge of madness\nhe does not forget. While I was sane I dared scarcely utter her\nname. If I had gone mad I should have raved as madmen do. For that\nreason I was afraid.\"\n\n\"I knew. Speech was the greatest danger,\" she answered him. \"She\nwas a princess of a royal house--poor little angel--and she had\na husband whose vileness and violence all Europe knew. How DARED\nthey give her to him?\"\n\n\"For reasons of their own and because she was too humbly innocent\nand obedient to rebel.\"\n\nThe Duchess did not ask questions. The sublime goodness of which\nhe had spoken had revealed its perfection through the fact that\nin the long past days she had neither questioned nor commented.\nShe had given her strong soul's secret support to him and in his\nunbearable hours he had known that when he came to her for refuge,\nwhile she understood his need to the uttermost, she would speak\nno word even to himself.\n\nBut today though she asked no question her eyes waited upon him\nas it were. This was because she saw that for some unknown reason\na heavy veil had rolled back from the past he had chosen to keep\nhidden even from himself, as it were, more than from others.\n\n\"Speech is always the most dangerous thing,\" he said. \"Only the\nsilence of years piled one upon the other will bury unendurable\nthings. Even thought must be silenced. I have lived a lifetime\nsince--\" his words began to come very slowly--as she listened she\nfelt as if he were opening a grave and drawing from its depths\nlong buried things, \"--since the night when I met her alone in a\nwood in the park of the Schloss and--lost hold of myself--lost it\nutterly.\"\n\nThe Duchess' withered hands caught each other in a clasp which\nwas almost like a passionate exclamation.\n\n\"There was such a night. And I was young--young--not an iron bound\nvieillard then. When one is young one's anguish is the Deluge\nwhich ends the world forever. I had lain down and risen up and\nspent every hour in growing torture for months. I had been forced\nto bind myself down with bands of iron. When I found myself, without\nwarning, face to face with her, alone in the night stillness of\nthe wood, the bands broke. She had dared to creep out in secret\nto hide herself and her heartbroken terror in the silence and\ndarkness alone. I knew it without being told. I knew and I went\nquite mad for the time. I was only a boy. I threw myself face\ndownward on the earth and sobbed, embracing her young feet.\"\n\nBoth of them were quite silent for a few moments before he went\non.\n\n\"She was not afraid,\" he said, even with something which was like\na curious smile of tender pity at the memory. \"Afterwards--when I\nstood near her, trembling--she even took my hand and held it. Once\nshe kissed it humbly like a little child while her tears rained\ndown. Never before was there anything as innocently heartbreaking.\nShe was so piteously grateful for love of any kind and so heart\nwrung by my misery.\"\n\nHe paused again and looked down at the carpet, thinking. Then he\nlooked up at her directly.\n\n\"I need not explain to you. You will know. I was twenty-five. My\nheart was pounding in my side, my blood thudded through my veins.\nEvery atom of natural generous manhood in my being was wild with\nfury at the brutal wrong done her exquisiteness. And she--\"\n\n\"She was a young novice fresh from a convent and very pious,\" the\nDuchess' quiet voice put in.\n\n\"You understand,\" he answered. \"She knelt down and prayed for\nher own soul as well as mine. She thanked God that I was kind and\nwould forgive her and go away--and only remember her in my prayers.\nShe believed it was possible. It was not, but I kissed the hem of\nher white dress and left her standing alone--a little saint in a\nwoodland shrine. That was what I thought deliriously as I staggered\noff. It was the next night that I heard her shrieks. Then she\ndied.\"\n\nThe Duchess knew what else had died--the high adventure of youth\nand joy of life in him, the brilliant spirit which had been himself\nand whose utter withdrawal from his being had left him as she had\nseen him on his return to London in those days which now seemed\na memory of a past life in a world which had passed also. He had\nappeared before her late one afternoon and she had for a moment\nbeen afraid to look at him because she was struck to the depths of\nher being by a sense of seeing before her a body which had broken\nthe link holding it to life and walked the earth, the crowded\nstreets, the ordinary rooms where people gathered, a dead thing.\nEven while it moved it gazed out of dead eyes. And the years had\npassed and though they had been friends he had never spoken until\nnow.\n\n\"Such a thing must be buried in a tomb covered with a heavy stone\nand with a seal set upon it. I am unsealing a tomb,\" he said. Then\nafter a silence he added, \"I have, of cause, a reason.\" She bent\nher head because she had known this must be the case.\n\n\"There is a thing I wish you to understand. Every woman could\nnot.\"\n\n\"I shall understand.\"\n\n\"Because I know you will I need not enter into exact detail. You\nwill not find what I say abnormal.\"\n\nThere had been several pauses during his relation. Once or twice\nhe had stopped in the middle of a sentence as if for calmer breath\nor to draw himself back from a past which had suddenly become again\na present of torment too great to face with modern steadiness. He\ntook breath so to speak in this manner again.\n\n\"The years pass, the agony of being young passes. One slowly\nbecomes another man,\" he resumed. \"I am another man. I could not\nbe called a creature of sentiment. I have given myself interests\nin existence--many of them. But the sealed tomb is under one's feet.\nNot to allow oneself to acknowledge its existence consciously is\none's affair. But--the devil of chance sometimes chooses to play\ntricks. Such a trick was played on me.\"\n\nHe glanced down at the two pictures at which she herself was looking\nwith grave eyes. It was the photograph of Feather he took up and\nset a strange questioning gaze upon.\n\n\"When I saw this,\" he said, \"this--exquisitely smiling at me under\na green tree in a sunny garden--the tomb opened under my feet,\nand I stood on the brink of it--twenty-five again.\"\n\n\"You cannot possibly put it into words,\" the Duchess said. \"You\nneed not. I know.\" For he had become for the moment almost livid.\nEven to her who so well knew him it was a singular thing to see\nhim hastily set down the picture and touch his forehead with his\nhandkerchief.\n\nShe knew he was about to tell her his reason for this unsealing\nof the tomb. When he sat down at her table he did so. He did not\nuse many phrases, but in making clear his reasons he also made\nclear to her certain facts which most persons would have ironically\ndisbelieved. But no shadow of a doubt passed through her mind\nbecause she had through a long life dwelt interestedly on the many\nvariations in human type. She was extraordinarily interested when\nhe ended with the story of Robin.\n\n\"I do not know exactly why 'it matters to me'--I am quoting her\nmother,\" he explained, \"but it happens that I am determined to\nstand between the child and what would otherwise be the inevitable.\nIt is not that she has the slightest resemblance to--to anyone--which\nmight awaken memory. It is not that. She and her mother are of\ntotally different types. And her detestation of me is unconquerable.\nShe believes me to be the worst of men. When I entered the room\ninto which the woman had trapped her, she thought that I came as\none of the creature's damnable clients. You will acknowledge that\nmy position presents difficulties in the way of explanation to\na girl--to most adults in fact. Her childish frenzy of desire\nto support herself arises from her loathing of the position of\naccepting support from me. I sympathize with her entirely.\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle Valle is an intelligent woman,\" the Duchess said as\nthough thinking the matter out. \"Send her to me and we will talk\nthe matter over. Then she can bring the child.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\n\n\n\n\nAs a result of this, her grace saw Mademoiselle Valle alone\na few mornings later and talked to her long and quietly. Their\ncomprehension of each other was complete. Before their interview\nwas at an end the Duchess' interest in the adventure she was about\nto enter into had become profound.\n\n\"The sooner she is surrounded by a new atmosphere, the better,\"\nwas one of the things the Frenchwoman had said. \"The prospect of\nan arrangement so perfect and so secure fills me with the profoundest\ngratitude. It is absolutely necessary that I return to my parents\nin Belgium. They are old and failing in health and need me greatly.\nI have been sad and anxious for months because I felt that it\nwould be wickedness to desert this poor child. I have been torn\nin two. Now I can be at peace--thank the good God.\"\n\n\"Bring her to me tomorrow if possible,\" the Duchess said when\nthey parted. \"I foresee that I may have something to overcome in\nthe fact that I am Lord Coombe's old friend, but I hope to be able\nto overcome it.\"\n\n\"She is a baby--she is of great beauty--she has a passionate little\nsoul of which she knows nothing.\" Mademoiselle Valle said it with\nan anxious reflectiveness. \"I have been afraid. If I were her\nmother----\" her eyes sought those of the older woman.\n\n\"But she has no mother,\" her grace answered. Her own eyes were\nserious. She knew something of girls, of young things, of the rush\nand tumult of young life in them and of the outlet it demanded. A\nbaby who was of great beauty and of a passionate soul was no trivial\nundertaking for a rheumatic old duchess, but--\"Bring her to me,\"\nshe said.\n\nSo was Robin brought to the tall Early Victorian mansion in the\nbelatedly stately square. And the chief thought in her mind was\nthat though mere good manners demanded under the circumstances that\nshe should come to see the Dowager Duchess of Darte and be seen\nby her, if she found that she was like Lord Coombe, she would not\nbe able to endure the prospect of a future spent in her service\nhowsoever desirable such service might outwardly appear. This\ndesirableness Mademoiselle Valle had made clear to her. She was\nto be the companion of a personage of great and mature charm and\ngrace who desired not mere attendance, but something more, which\nsomething included the warmth and fresh brightness of happy youth\nand bloom. She would do for her employer the things a young\nrelative might do. She would have a suite of rooms of her own and\na freedom as to hours and actions which greater experience on her\npart would have taught was not the customary portion meted out\nto a paid companion. But she knew nothing of paid service and a\npreliminary talk of Coombe's with Mademoiselle Valle had warned\nher against allowing any suspicion that this \"earning a living\"\nhad been too obviously ameliorated.\n\n\"Her life is unusual. She herself is unusual in a most dignified\nand beautiful way. You will, it might almost be said, hold the\nposition of a young lady in waiting,\" was Mademoiselle's gracefully\nput explanation.\n\nWhen, after they had been ushered into the room where her grace\nsat in her beautiful and mellow corner by the fire, Robin advanced\ntowards the highbacked chair, what the old woman was chiefly\nconscious of was the eyes which seemed all lustrous iris. There was\nuncommon appeal and fear in them. The blackness of their setting\nof up-curled lashes made them look babyishly wide.\n\n\"Mademoiselle Valle has told me of your wish to take a position\nas companion,\" the Duchess said after they were seated.\n\n\"I want very much,\" said Robin, \"to support myself and Mademoiselle\nthinks that I might fill such a place if I am not considered too\nyoung.\"\n\n\"You are not too young--for me. I want something young to come and\nbefriend me. Am I too old for YOU?\" Her smile had been celebrated\nfifty years earlier and it had not changed. A smile does not. She\nwas not like Lord Coombe in any degree however remote. She did\nnot belong to his world, Robin thought.\n\n\"If I can do well enough the things you require done,\" she answered\nblushing her Jacqueminot rose blush, \"I shall be grateful if you\nwill let me try to do them. Mademoiselle will tell you that I have\nno experience, but that I am one who tries well.\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle has answered all my questions concerning your\nqualifications so satisfactorily that I need ask you very few.\"\n\nSuch questions as she asked were not of the order Robin had\nexpected. She led her into talk and drew Mademoiselle Valle into the\nconversation. It was talk which included personal views of books,\nold gardens and old houses, people, pictures and even--lightly--politics.\nRobin found herself quite incidentally, as it were, reading aloud\nto her an Italian poem. She ceased to be afraid and was at ease.\nShe forgot Lord Coombe. The Duchess listening and watching her\nwarmed to her task of delicate investigation and saw reason for\nanticipating agreeably stimulating things. She was not taking upon\nherself a merely benevolent duty which might assume weight and\nbecome a fatigue. In fact she might trust Coombe for that. After\nall it was he who had virtually educated the child--little as she\nwas aware of the singular fact. It was he who had dragged her\nforth from her dog kennel of a top floor nursery and quaintly\nincongruous as it seemed, had found her a respectable woman for a\nnurse and an intelligent person for a governess and companion as\nif he had been a domesticated middle class widower with a little\ngirl to play mother to. She saw in the situation more than others\nwould have seen in it, but she saw also the ironic humour of it.\nCoombe--with the renowned cut of his overcoat--the perfection of\nhis line and scarcely to be divined suggestions of hue--Coombe!\n\nShe did not avoid all mention of his name during the interview, but\nshe spoke of him only casually, and though the salary she offered\nwas an excellent one, it was not inordinate. Robin could not feel\nthat she was not being accepted as of the class of young persons\nwho support themselves self-respectingly, though even the most\nmodest earned income would have represented wealth to her ignorance.\n\nBefore they parted she had obtained the position so pleasantly\ndescribed by Mademoiselle Valle as being something like that of\na young lady in waiting. \"But I am really a companion and I will\ndo everything--everything I can so that I shall be worth keeping,\"\nshe thought seriously. She felt that she should want to be kept.\nIf Lord Coombe was a friend of her employer's it was because the\nDuchess did not know what others knew. And her house was not his\nhouse--and the hideous thing she had secretly loathed would be at\nan end. She would be supporting herself as decently and honestly\nas Mademoiselle or Dowie had supported themselves all their lives.\n\nWith an air of incidentally recalling a fact, the Duchess said\nafter they had risen to leave her:\n\n\"Mademoiselle Valle tells me you have an elderly nurse you are\nvery fond of. She seems to belong to a class of servants almost\nextinct.\"\n\n\"I love her,\" Robin faltered--because the sudden reminder brought\nback a pang to her. There was a look in her eyes which faltered\nalso. \"She loves me. I don't know how----\" but there she stopped.\n\n\"Such women are very valuable to those who know the meaning of\ntheir type. I myself am always in search of it. My dear Miss Brent\nwas of it, though of a different class.\"\n\n\"But most people do not know,\" said Robin. \"It seems old-fashioned\nto them--and it's beautiful! Dowie is an angel.\"\n\n\"I should like to secure your Dowie for my housekeeper and\nmyself,\"--one of the greatest powers of the celebrated smile was\nits power to convince. \"A competent person is needed to take charge\nof the linen. If we can secure an angel we shall be fortunate.\"\n\nA day or so later she said to Coombe in describing the visit.\n\n\"The child's face is wonderful. If you could but have seen her\neyes when I said it. It is not the mere beauty of size and shape\nand colour which affect one. It is something else. She is a little\nflame of feeling.\"\n\nThe \"something else\" was in the sound of her voice as she answered.\n\n\"She will be in the same house with me! Sometimes perhaps I may\nsee her and talk to her! Oh! how GRATEFUL I am!\" She might even\nsee and talk to her as often as she wished, it revealed itself\nand when she and Mademoiselle got into their hansom cab to drive\naway, she caught at the Frenchwoman's hand and clung to it, her\neyelashes wet,\n\n\"It is as if there MUST be Goodness which takes care of one,\" she\nsaid. \"I used to believe in it so--until I was afraid of all the\nworld. Dowie means most of all. I did now know how I could bear\nto let her go away. And since her husband and her daughter died,\nshe has no one but me. I should have had no one but her if you\nhad gone back to Belgium, Mademoiselle. And now she will be safe\nin the same house with me. Perhaps the Duchess will keep her until\nshe dies. I hope she will keep me until I die. I will be as good\nand faithful as Dowie and perhaps the Duchess will live until I\nam quite old--and not pretty any more. And I will make economies\nas you have made them, Mademoiselle, and save all my salary--and\nI might be able to end my days in a little cottage in the country.\"\n\nMademoiselle was conscious of an actual physical drag at her\nheartstrings. The pulsating glow of her young loveliness had never\nbeen more moving and oh! the sublime certainty of her unconsciousness\nthat Life lay between this hour and that day when she was \"quite\nold and not pretty any more\" and having made economies could die\nin a little cottage in the country! She believed in her vision as\nshe had believed that Donal would come to her in the garden.\n\nUpon Feather the revelation that her daughter had elected to\njoin the ranks of girls who were mysteriously determined to be\nresponsible for themselves produced a curious combination of effects.\nIt was presented to her by Lord Coombe in the form of a simple\nimpersonal statement which had its air of needing no explanation.\nShe heard it with eyes widening a little and a smile slowly growing.\nHaving heard, she broke into a laugh, a rather high-pitched treble\nlaugh.\n\n\"Really?\" she said. \"She is really going to do it? To take a\nsituation! She wants to be independent and 'live her own life!'\nWhat a joke--for a girl of mine!\" She was either really amused or\nchose to seem so.\n\n\"What do YOU think of it?\" she asked when she stopped laughing.\nHer eyes had curiosity in them.\n\n\"I like it,\" he answered.\n\n\"Of course. I ought to have remembered that you helped her to an\nEarly Victorian duchess. She's one without a flaw--the Dowager\nDuchess of Darte. The most conscientiously careful mother couldn't\nobject. It's almost like entering into the kingdom of heaven--in\na dull way.\" She began to laugh again as if amusing images rose\nsuddenly before her. \"And what does the Duchess think of it?\" she\nsaid after her laughter had ceased again. \"How does she reconcile\nherself to the idea of a companion whose mother she wouldn't have\nin her house?\"\n\n\"We need not enter into that view of the case. You decided some\nyears ago that it did not matter to you whether Early Victorian\nduchesses included you in their visiting lists or did not. More\nmodern ones do I believe--quite beautiful and amusing ones.\"\n\n\"But for that reason I want this one and those like her. They would\nbore me, but I want them. I want them to come to my house and be\npolite to me in their stuffy way. I want to be invited to their\nhideous dinner parties and see them sitting round their tables in\ntheir awful family jewels 'talking of the sad deaths of kings.'\nThat's Shakespeare, you know. I heard it last night at the theatre.\"\n\n\"Why do you want it?\" Coombe inquired.\n\n\"When I ask you why you show your morbid interest in Robin, you\nsay you don't know. I don't know--but I do want it.\"\n\nShe suddenly flushed, she even showed her small teeth. For an\nextraordinary moment she looked like a little cat.\n\n\"Robin will hare it,\" she cried, grinding a delicate fist into\nthe palm on her knee. \"She's not eighteen and she's a beauty and\nshe's taken up by a perfectly decent old duchess. She'll have\nEVERYTHING! The Dowager will marry her to someone important. You'll\nhelp,\" she turned on him in a flame of temper. \"You are capable\nof marrying her yourself!\" There was a a brief but entire silence.\nIt was broken by his saying,\n\n\"She is not capable of marrying ME.\"\n\nThere was brief but entire silence again, and it was he who again\nbroke it, his manner at once cool and reasonable.\n\n\"It is better not to exhibit this kind of feeling. Let us be quite\nfrank. There are few things you feel more strongly than that you do\nnot want your daughter in the house. When she was a child you told\nme that you detested the prospect of having her on your hands.\nShe is being disposed of in the most easily explained and enviable\nmanner.\"\n\n\"It's true--it's true,\" Feather murmured. She began to see advantages\nand the look of a little cat died out, or at least modified itself\ninto that of a little cat upon whom dawned prospects of cream. No\nmood ever held her very long. \"She won't come back to stay,\" she\nsaid. \"The Duchess won't let her. I can use her rooms and I shall\nbe very glad to have them. There's at least some advantage in\nfiguring as a sort of Dame Aux Camelias.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\n\n\n\n\nThe night before Robin went away as she sat alone in the dimness\nof one light, thinking as girls nearly always sit and think on\nthe eve of a change, because to youth any change seems to mean\nthe final closing as well as the opening of ways, the door of\nher room was opened and an exquisite and nymphlike figure in pale\ngreen stood exactly where the rays of the reading lamp seemed\nto concentrate themselves in an effort to reveal most purely its\ndelicately startling effect. It was her mother in a dress whose\nspring-like tint made her a sort of slim dryad. She looked so pretty\nand young that Robin caught her breath as she rose and went forward.\n\n\"It is your aged parent come to give you her blessing,\" said\nFeather.\n\n\"I was wondering if I might come to your room in the morning,\"\nRobin answered.\n\nFeather seated herself lightly. She was not intelligent enough to\nhave any real comprehension of the mood which had impelled her to\ncome. She had merely given way to a secret sense of resentment of\nsomething which annoyed her. She knew, however, why she had put\non the spring-leaf green dress which made her look like a girl.\nShe was not going to let Robin feel as if she were receiving a\nvisit from her grandmother. She had got that far.\n\n\"We don't know each other at all, do we?\" she said.\n\n\"No,\" answered Robin. She could not remove her eyes from her\nloveliness. She brought up such memories of the Lady Downstairs\nand the desolate child in the shabby nursery.\n\n\"Mothers are not as intimate with their daughters as they used\nto be when it was a sort of virtuous fashion to superintend their\nrice pudding and lecture them about their lessons. We have not\nseen each other often.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Robin.\n\nFeather's laugh had again the rather high note Coombe had noticed.\n\n\"You haven't very much to say, have you?\" she commented. \"And you\nstare at me as if you were trying to explain me. I dare say you\nknow that you have big eyes and that they're a good colour, but\nI may as well hint to you that men do not like to be stared at as\nif their deeps were being searched. Drop your eyelids.\"\n\nRobin's lids dropped in spite of herself because she was startled,\nbut immediately she was startled again by a note in her mother's\nvoice--a note of added irritation.\n\n\"Don't make a habit of dropping them too often,\" it broke out, \"or\nit will look as if you did it to show your eyelashes. Girls with\ntricks of that sort are always laughed at. Alison Carr LIVES\nsideways became she has a pretty profile.\"\n\nCoombe would have recognized the little cat look, if he had been\nwatching her as she leaned back in her chair and scrutinized her\ndaughter. The fact was that she took in her every point, being an\nastute censor of other women's charms.\n\n\"Stand up,\" she said.\n\nRobin stood up because she could not well refuse to do so, but\nshe coloured because she was suddenly ashamed.\n\n\"You're not little, but you're not tall,\" her mother said. \"That's\nagainst you. It's the fashion for women to be immensely tall\nnow. Du Maurier's pictures in Punch and his idiotic Trilby did it.\nClothes are made for giantesses. I don't care about it myself, but\na girl's rather out of it if she's much less than six feet high.\nYou can sit down.\"\n\nA more singular interview between mother and daughter had assuredly\nrarely taken place. As she looked at the girl her resentment of her\nincreased each moment. She actually felt as if she were beginning\nto lose her temper.\n\n\"You are what pious people call 'going out into the world',\" she\nwent on. \"In moral books mothers always give advice and warnings\nto their girls when they're leaving them. I can give you some\nwarnings. You think that because you have been taken up by a\ndowager duchess everything will be plain sailing. You're mistaken.\nYou think because you are eighteen and pretty, men will fall at\nyour feet.\"\n\n\"I would rather be hideous,\" cried suddenly passionate Robin. \"I\nHATE men!\"\n\nThe silly pretty thing who was responsible for her being, grew\nsillier as her irritation increased.\n\n\"That's what girls always pretend, but the youngest little idiot\nknows it isn't true. It's men who count. It makes me laugh when\nI think of them--and of you. You know nothing about them and they\nknow everything about you. A clever man can do anything he pleases\nwith a silly girl.\"\n\n\"Are they ALL bad?\" Robin exclaimed furiously.\n\n\"They're none of them bad. They're only men. And that's my warning.\nDon't imagine that when they make love to you they do it as if\nyou were the old Duchess' granddaughter. You will only be her paid\ncompanion and that's a different matter.\"\n\n\"I will not speak to one of them----\" Robin actually began.\n\n\"You'll be obliged to do what the Duchess tells you to do,\" laughed\nFeather, as she realized her obvious power to dull the glitter\nand glow of things which she had felt the girl must be dazzled\nand uplifted unduly by. She was rather like a spiteful schoolgirl\nentertaining herself by spoiling an envied holiday for a companion.\n\"Old men will run after you and you will have to be nice to them\nwhether you like it or not.\" A queer light came into her eyes.\n\"Lord Coombe is fond of girls just out of the schoolroom. But if\nhe begins to make love to you don't allow yourself to feel too\nmuch flattered.\"\n\nRobin sprang toward her.\n\n\"Do you think I don't ABHOR Lord Coombe!\" she cried out forgetting\nherself in the desperate cruelty of the moment. \"Haven't I reason----\"\nbut there she remembered and stopped.\n\nBut Feather was not shocked or alarmed. Years of looking things\nin the face had provided her with a mental surface from which\ntilings rebounded. On the whole it even amused her and \"suited\nher book\" that Robin should take this tone.\n\n\"Oh! I suppose you mean you know he admires me and pays bills for\nme. Where would you have been if he hadn't done it? He's been a\nsort of benefactor.\"\n\n\"I know nothing but that even when I was a little child I could\nnot bear to touch his hand!\" cried Robin. Then Feather remembered\nseveral things she had almost forgotten and she was still more\nentertained.\n\n\"I believe you've not forgotten through all these years that the\nboy you fell so indecently in love with was taken away by his\nmother because Lord Coombe was YOUR mother's admirer and he was\nsuch a sinner that even a baby was contaminated by him! Donal\nMuir is a young man by this time. I wonder what his mother would\ndo now if he turned up at your mistress' house--that's what she\nis, you know, your mistress--and began to make love to you.\" She\nlaughed outright. \"You'll get into all sorts of messes, but that\nwould be the nicest one!\"\n\nRobin could only stand and gaze at her. Her moment's fire had died\ndown. Without warning, out of the past a wave rose and overwhelmed\nher then and there. It bore with it the wild woe of the morning\nwhen a child had waited in the spring sun and her world had fallen\ninto nothingness. It came back--the broken-hearted anguish, the\nutter helpless desolation, as if she stood in the midst of it\nagain, as if it had never passed. It was a re-incarnation. She\ncould not bear it.\n\n\"Do you hate me--as I hate Lord Coombe?\" she cried out. \"Do you WANT\nunhappy things to happen to me? Oh! Mother, why!\" She had never\nsaid \"Mother\" before. Nature said it for her here. The piteous\nappeal of her youth and lonely young rush of tears was almost\nintolerably sweet. Through some subtle cause it added to the thing\nin her which Feather resented and longed to trouble and to hurt.\n\n\"You are a spiteful little cat!\" she sprang up to exclaim, standing\nclose and face to face with her. \"You think I am an old thing\nand that I'm jealous of you! Because you're pretty and a girl you\nthink women past thirty don't count. You'll find out. Mrs. Muir\nwill count and she's forty if she's a day. Her son's such a beauty\nthat people go mad over him. And he worships her--and he's her\nslave. I wish you WOULD get into some mess you couldn't get out\nof! Don't come to me if you do.\"\n\nThe wide beauty of Robin's gaze and her tear wet bloom were too\nmuch. Feather was quite close to her. The spiteful schoolgirl\nimpulse got the better of her.\n\n\"Don't make eyes at me like that,\" she cried, and she actually\ngave the rose cheek nearest her a sounding little slap, \"There!\"\nshe exclaimed hysterically and she turned about and ran out of\nthe room crying herself.\n\nRobin had parted from Mademoiselle Valle at Charing Cross Station\non the afternoon of the same day, but the night before they had\nsat up late together and talked a long time. In effect Mademoiselle\nhad said also, \"You are going out into the world,\" but she had not\napproached the matter in Mrs. Gareth-Lawless' mood. One may have\ncharge of a girl and be her daily companion for years, but there\nare certain things the very years themselves make it increasingly\ndifficult to say to her. And after all why should one state\ndifficult things in exact phrases unless one lacks breeding and\nis curious. Anxious she had been at times, but not curious. So it\nwas that even on this night of their parting it was not she who\nspoke.\n\nIt was after a few minutes of sitting in silence and looking at\nthe fire that Robin broke in upon the quiet which had seemed to\nhold them both.\n\n\"I must learn to remember always that I am a sort of servant.\nI must be very careful. It will be easier for me to realize that\nI am not in my own house than it would be for other girls. I have\nnot allowed Dowie to dress me for a good many weeks. I have learned\nhow to do everything for myself quite well.\"\n\n\"But Dowie will be in the house with you and the Duchess is very\nkind.\"\n\n\"Every night I have begun my prayers by thanking God for leaving\nme Dowie,\" the girl said. \"I have begun them and ended them with\nthe same words.\" She looked about her and then broke out as if\ninvoluntarily. \"I shall be away from here. I shall not wear anything\nor eat anything or sleep on any bed I have not paid for myself.\"\n\n\"These rooms are very pretty. We have been very comfortable\nhere,\" Mademoiselle said. Suddenly she felt that if she waited a\nfew moments she would know definitely things she had previously\nonly guessed at. \"Have you no little regrets?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Robin, \"No.\"\n\nShe stood upon the hearth with her hands behind her. Mademoiselle\nfelt as if her fingers were twisting themselves together and the\nFrenchwoman was peculiarly moved by the fact that she looked like\na slim jeune fille of a creature saying a lesson. The lesson opened\nin this wise.\n\n\"I don't know when I first began to know that I was different from\nall other children,\" she said in a soft, hot voice--if a voice\ncan express heat. \"Perhaps a child who has nothing--nothing--is\nobliged to begin to THINK before it knows what thoughts are. If\nthey play and are loved and amused they have no time for anything\nbut growing and being happy. You never saw the dreadful little\nrooms upstairs----\"\n\n\"Dowie has told me of them,\" said Mademoiselle.\n\n\"Another child might have forgotten them. I never shall. I--I was\nso little and they were full of something awful. It was loneliness.\nThe first time Andrews pinched me was one day when the thing\nfrightened me and I suddenly began to cry quite loud. I used\nto stare out of the window and--I don't know when I noticed it\nfirst--I could see the children being taken out by their nurses.\nAnd there were always two or three of them and they laughed and\ntalked and skipped. The nurses used to laugh and talk too. Andrews\nnever did. When she took me to the gardens the other nurses sat\ntogether and chattered and their children played games with other\nchildren. Once a little girl began to talk to me and her nurse\ncalled her away. Andrews was very angry and jerked me by my arm\nand told me that if ever I spoke to a child again she would pinch\nme.\"\n\n\"Devil!\" exclaimed the Frenchwoman.\n\n\"I used to think and think, but I could never understand. How\ncould I?\"\n\n\"A baby!\" cried Mademoiselle Valle and she got up and took her in\nher arms and kissed her. \"Chere petite ange!\" she murmured. When\nshe sat down again her cheeks were wet. Robin's were wet also, but\nshe touched them with her handkerchief quickly and dried them. It\nwas as if she had faltered for a moment in her lesson.\n\n\"Did Dowie ever tell you anything about Donal?\" she asked\nhesitatingly.\n\n\"Something. He was the little boy you played with?\"\n\n\"Yes. He was the first human creature,\" she said it very slowly\nas if trying to find the right words to express what she meant,\n\"--the first HUMAN creature I had ever known. You see Mademoiselle,\nhe--he knew everything. He had always been happy, he BELONGED\nto people and things. I belonged to nobody and nothing. If I had\nbeen like him he would not have seemed so wonderful to me. I was\nin a kind of delirium of joy. If a creature who had been deaf dumb\nand blind had suddenly awakened, and seeing on a summer day in a\nworld full of flowers and sun--it might have seemed to them as it\nseemed to me.\"\n\n\"You have remembered it through all the years,\" said Mademoiselle,\n\"like that?\"\n\n\"It was the first time I became alive. One could not forget it.\nWe only played as children play but--it WAS a delirium of joy. I\ncould not bear to go to sleep at night and forget it for a moment.\nYes, I remember it--like that. There is a dream I have every now\nand then and it is more real than--than this is--\" with a wave of\nher hand about her. \"I am always in a real garden playing with\na real Donal. And his eyes--his eyes--\" she paused and thought,\n\"There is a look in them that is like--it is just like--that first\nmorning.\"\n\nThe change which passed over her face the next moment might have\nbeen said to seem to obliterate all trace of the childish memory.\n\n\"He was taken away by his mother. That was the beginning of my\nfinding out,\" she said. \"I heard Andrews talking to her sister and\nin a baby way I gathered that Lord Coombe had sent him. I hated\nLord Coombe for years before I found out that he hadn't--and\nthat there was another reason. After that it took time to puzzle\nthings out and piece them together. But at last I found out what\nthe reason had been. Then I began to make plans. These are not my\nrooms,\" glancing about her again, \"--these are not my clothes,\"\nwith a little pull at her dress. \"I'm not 'a strong character',\nMademoiselle, as I wanted to be, but I haven't one little regret--not\none.\" She kneeled down and put her arms round her old friend's\nwaist, lifting her face. \"I'm like a leaf blown about by the\nwind. I don't know what it will do with me. Where do leaves go?\nOne never knows really.\"\n\nShe put her face down on Mademoiselle's knee then and cried with\nsoft bitterness.\n\nWhen she bade her good-bye at Charing Cross Station and stood and\nwatched the train until it was quite out of sight, afterwards she\nwent back to the rooms for which she felt no regrets. And before\nshe went to bed that night Feather came and gave her farewell\nmaternal advice and warning.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\n\n\n\n\nThat a previously scarcely suspected daughter of Mrs. Gareth-Lawless\nhad become a member of the household of the Dowager Duchess of\nDarte stirred but a passing wave of interest in a circle which was\nnot that of Mrs. Gareth-Lawless herself and which upon the whole\nbut casually acknowledged its curious existence as a modern\nabnormality. Also the attitude of the Duchess herself was composedly\nfree from any admission of necessity for comment.\n\n\"I have no pretty young relative who can be spared to come and\nlive with me. I am fond of things pretty and young and I am greatly\npleased with what a kind chance put in my way,\" she said. In her\ndiscussion of the situation with Coombe she measured it with her\ncustomary fine acumen.\n\n\"Forty years ago it could not have been done. The girl would have\nbeen made uncomfortable and outside things could not have been\nprevented from dragging themselves in. Filial piety in the mass\nwould have demanded that the mother should be accounted for. Now\na genial knowledge of a variety in mothers leaves Mrs. Gareth-Lawless\nto play about with her own probably quite amusing set. Once poor\nRobin would have been held responsible for her and so should I. My\nposition would have seemed to defy serious moral issues. But we\nhave reached a sane habit of detaching people from their relations.\nA nice condition we should be in if we had not.\"\n\n\"You, of course, know that Henry died suddenly in some sort of\nfit at Ostend.\" Coombe said it as if in a form of reply. She had\nnaturally become aware of it when the rest of the world did, but\nhad not seen him since the event.\n\n\"One did not suppose his constitution would have lasted so long,\"\nshe answered. \"You are more fortunate in young Donal Muir. Have\nyou seen him and his mother?\"\n\n\"I made a special journey to Braemarnie and had a curious interview\nwith Mrs. Muir. When I say 'curious' I don't mean to imply that it\nwas not entirely dignified. It was curious only because I realize\nthat secretly she regards with horror and dread the fact that her\nboy is the prospective Head of the House of Coombe. She does not\nmake a jest of it as I have had the temerity to do. It's a cheap\ndefense, this trick of making an eternal jest of things, but it\nIS a defense and one has formed the habit.\"\n\n\"She has never done it--Helen Muir,\" his friend said. \"On the\nwhole I believe she at times knows that she has been too grave.\nShe was a beautiful creature passionately in love with her husband.\nWhen such a husband is taken away from such a woman and his child\nis left it often happens that the flood of her love is turned into\none current and that it is almost overwhelming. She is too sane\nto have coddled the boy and made him effeminate--what has she done\ninstead?\"\n\n\"He is a splendid young Highlander. He would be too good-looking\nif he were not as strong and active as a young stag. All she has\ndone is to so fill him with the power and sense of her charm that\nhe has not seen enough of the world or learned to care for it. She\nis the one woman on earth for him and life with her at Braemarnie\nis all he asks for.\"\n\n\"Your difficulty will be that she will not be willing to trust\nhim to your instructions.\"\n\n\"I have not as much personal vanity as I may seem to have,\" Coombe\nsaid. \"I put all egotism modestly aside when I talked to her and\ntried to explain that I would endeavour to see that he came to no\nharm in my society. My heir presumptive and I must see something\nof each other and he must become intimate with the prospect of\nhis responsibilities. More will be demanded of the next Marquis\nof Coombe than has been demanded of me. And it will be DEMANDED\nnot merely hoped for or expected. And it will be the overwhelming\nforces of Fate which will demand it--not mere tenants or constituents\nor the general public.\"\n\n\"Have you any views as to WHAT will be demanded?\" was her interested\nquestion.\n\n\"None. Neither has anyone else who shares my opinion. No one will\nhave any until the readjustment comes. But before the readjustment\nthere will be the pouring forth of blood--the blood of magnificent\nlads like Donal Muir--perhaps his own blood,--my God!\"\n\n\"And there may be left no head of the house of Coombe,\" from the\nDuchess.\n\n\"There will be many a house left without its head--houses great\nand small. And if the peril of it were more generally foreseen at\nthis date it would be less perilous than it is.\"\n\n\"Lads like that!\" said the old Duchess bitterly. \"Lads in their\nstrength and joy and bloom! It is hideous.\"\n\n\"In all their young virility and promise for a next generation--the\nstrong young fathers of forever unborn millions! It's damnable!\nAnd it will be so not only in England, but all over a blood drenched\nworld.\"\n\nIt was in this way they talked to each other of the black tragedy\nfor which they believed the world's stage already being set in\nsecret, and though there were here and there others who felt the\nominous inevitability of the raising of the curtain, the rest of\nthe world looked on in careless indifference to the significance of\nthe open training of its actors and even the resounding hammerings\nof its stage carpenters and builders. In these days the two\ndiscussed the matter more frequently and even in the tone of those\nwho waited for the approach of a thing drawing nearer every day.\n\nEach time the Head of the House of Coombe made one of his so-called\n\"week end\" visits to the parts an Englishman can reach only by\ncrossing the Channel, he returned with new knowledge of the special\ndirection in which the wind veered in the blowing of those straws\nhe had so long observed with absorbed interest.\n\n\"Above all the common sounds of daily human life one hears in that\none land the rattle and clash of arms and the unending thudding\ntread of marching feet,\" he said after one such visit. \"Two\ngenerations of men creatures bred and born and trained to live as\nparts of a huge death dealing machine have resulted in a monstrous\nconstruction. Each man is a part of it and each part's greatest\nambition is to respond to the shouted word of command as a\nmechanical puppet responds to the touch of a spring. To each unit\nof the millions, love of his own country means only hatred of all\nothers and the belief that no other should be allowed existence.\nThe sacred creed of each is that the immensity of Germany is such\nthat there can be no room on the earth for another than itself.\nBlood and iron will clear the world of the inferior peoples. To\nthe masses that is their God's will. Their God is an understudy\nof their Kaiser.\"\n\n\"You are not saying that as part of the trick of making a jest of\nthings?\"\n\n\"I wish to God I were. The poor huge inhuman thing he has built\ndoes not know that when he was a boy he did not play at war and\nbattles as other boys do, but as a creature obsessed. He has played\nat soldiers with his people as his toys throughout all his morbid\nlife--and he has hungered and thirsted as he has done it.\"\n\nA Bible lay upon the table and the Duchess drew it towards her.\n\n\"There is a verse here--\" she said \"--I will find it.\" She turned\nthe pages and found it. \"Listen! 'Know this and lay it to thy\nheart this day. Jehovah is God in heaven above and on the earth\nbeneath. There is none else.' That is a power which does not\nconfine itself to Germany or to England or France or to the Map of\nEurope. It is the Law of the Universe--and even Wilhelm the Second\ncannot bend it to his almighty will. 'There is none else.'\"\n\n\"'There is none else',\" repeated Coombe slowly. \"If there existed\na human being with the power to drive that home as a truth into\nhis delirious brain, I believe he would die raving mad. To him\nthere is no First Cause which was not 'made in Germany.' And it\nis one of his most valuable theatrical assets. It is part of his\nparaphernalia--like the jangling of his sword and the glitter of\nhis orders. He shakes it before his people to arrest the attention\nof the simple and honest ones as one jingles a rattle before a\nchild. There are those among them who are not so readily attracted\nby terms of blood and iron.\"\n\n\"But they will be called upon to shed blood and to pour forth\ntheir own. There will be young things like Donal Muir--lads with\nruddy cheeks and with white bodies to be torn to fragments.\" She\nshuddered as she said it. \"I am afraid!\" she said. \"I am afraid!\"\n\n\"So am I,\" Coombe answered. \"Of what is coming. What a FOOL I have\nbeen!\"\n\n\"How long will it be before other men awaken to say the same\nthing?\"\n\n\"Each man's folly is his own shame.\" He drew himself stiffly\nupright as a man might who stood before a firing squad. \"I had a\nlife to live or to throw away. Because I was hideously wounded at\nthe outset I threw it aside as done for. I said 'there is neither\nGod nor devil, vice nor virtue, love nor hate. I will do and leave\nundone what I choose.' I had power and brain and money. A man\nwho could see clearly and who had words to choose from might have\nstood firmly in the place to which he was born and have spoken in\na voice which might have been listened to. He might have fought\nagainst folly and blindness and lassitude. I deliberately chose\nprivately to sneer at the thought of lifting a hand to serve any\nthing but the cold fool who was myself. Life passes quickly. It\ndoes not turn back.\" He ended with a short harsh laugh. \"This\nis Fear,\" he said. \"Fear clears a man's mind of rubbish and\nnon-essentials. It is because I am AFRAID that I accuse myself. And\nit is not for myself or you but for the whole world which before\nthe end comes will seem to fall into fragments.\"\n\n\"You have been seeing ominous signs?\" the Duchess said leaning\nforward and speaking low.\n\n\"There have been affectionate visits to Vienna. There is a certain\nthing in the air--in the arrogance of the bearing of men clanking\ntheir sabres as they stride through the streets. There is\nan exultant eagerness in their eyes. Things are said which hold\nscarcely concealed braggart threats. They have always been given\nto that sort of thing--but now it strikes one as a thing unleashed--or\nbarely leashed at all. The background of the sound of clashing\narms and the thudding of marching feet is more unendingly present.\nOne cannot get away from it. The great munition factories are\nworking night and day. In the streets, in private houses, in the\nshops, one hears and recognizes signs. They are signs which might\nnot be clear to one who has not spent years in looking on with\ninterested eyes. But I have watched too long to see only the\nsurface of things. The nation is waiting for something--waiting.\"\n\n\"What will be the pretext--what,\" the Duchess pondered.\n\n\"Any pretext will do--or none--except that Germany must have what\nshe wants and that she is strong enough to take it--after forty\nyears of building her machine.\"\n\n\"And we others have built none. We almost deserve whatever comes\nto us.\" The old woman's face was darkly grave.\n\n\"In three villages where I chance to be lord of the manor I have,\nby means of my own, set lads drilling and training. It is supposed\nto be a form of amusement and an eccentric whim of mine and it\nis a change from eternal cricket. I have given prizes and made an\noccasional speech on the ground that English brawn is so enviable\na possession that it ought to develop itself to the utmost. When\nI once went to the length of adding that each Englishman should\nbe muscle fit and ready in case of England's sudden need, I saw\nthe lads grin cheerfully at the thought of England in any such\nun-English plight. Their innocent swaggering belief that the\ncountry is always ready for everything moved my heart of stone.\nAnd it is men like myself who are to blame--not merely men of my\nclass, but men of my KIND. Those who have chosen to detach themselves\nfrom everything but the living of life as it best pleased their\ntastes or served their personal ambitions.\"\n\n\"Are we going to be taught that man cannot argue without including\nhis fellow man? Are we going to be forced to learn it?\" she said.\n\n\"Yes--forced. Nothing but force could reach us. The race is\nan undeveloped thing. A few centuries later it will have evolved\nanother sense. This century may see the first huge step--because\nthe power of a cataclysm sweeps it forward.\"\n\nHe turned his glance towards the opening door. Robin came in with\nsome letters in her hand. He was vaguely aware that she wore an\naspect he was unfamiliar with. The girl of Mrs. Gareth-Lawless had\nin the past, as it went without saying, expressed the final note\nof priceless simplicity and mode. The more finely simple she looked,\nthe more priceless. The unfamiliarity in her outward seeming lay\nin the fact that her quiet dun tweed dress with its lines of white\nat neck and wrists was not priceless though it was well made. It,\nin fact, unobtrusively suggested that it was meant for service\nrather than for adornment. Her hair was dressed closely and her\nmovements were very quiet. Coombe realized that her greeting of\nhim was delicately respectful.\n\n\"I have finished the letters,\" she said to the Duchess. \"I hope\nthey are what you want. Sometimes I am afraid----\"\n\n\"Don't be afraid,\" said the Duchess kindly. \"You write very correct\nand graceful little letters. They are always what I want. Have\nyou been out today?\"\n\n\"Not yet.\" Robin hesitated a little. \"Have I your permission to\nask Mrs. James if it will be convenient to her to let Dowie go\nwith me for an hour?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" as kindly as before. \"For two hours if you like. I shall\nnot drive this afternoon.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Robin and went out of the room as quietly as\nshe had entered it.\n\nWhen the door closed the Duchess was smiling at Lord Coombe.\n\n\"I understand her,\" she said. \"She is sustained and comforted by\nher pretty air of servitude. She might use Dowie as her personal maid\nand do next to nothing, but she waits upon herself and punctiliously\nasks my permission to approach Mrs. James the housekeeper with\nany request for a favour. Her one desire is to be sure that she\nis earning her living as other young women do when they are paid\nfor their work. I should really like to pet and indulge her,\nbut it would only make her unhappy. I invent tasks for her which\nare quite unnecessary. For years the little shut-up soul has\nbeen yearning and praying for this opportunity to stand honestly\non her own feet and she can scarcely persuade herself that it has\nbeen given to her. It must not be spoiled for her. I send her on\nerrands my maid could perform. I have given her a little room with\na serious business air. It is full of files and papers and she\nsits in it and copies things for me and even looks over accounts.\nShe is clever at looking up references. I have let her sit up quite\nlate once or twice searching for detail and dates for my use. It\nmade her bloom with joy.\"\n\n\"You are quite the most delightful woman in the world,\" said Coombe.\n\"Quite.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\n\n\n\n\n\nIn the serious little room the Duchess had given to her Robin\nbuilt for herself a condition she called happiness. She drew the\nspiritual substance from which it was made from her pleasure in\nthe books of reference closely fitted into their shelves, in the\nfiles for letters and more imposing documents, in the varieties\nof letter paper and envelopes of different sizes and materials\nwhich had been provided for her use in case of necessity.\n\n\"You may not use the more substantial ones often, but you must be\nprepared for any unexpected contingency,\" the Duchess had explained,\nthereby smoothing her pathway by the suggestion of responsibilities.\n\nThe girl did not know the extent of her employer's consideration\nfor her, but she knew that she was kind with a special grace\nand comprehension. A subtle truth she also did not recognize was\nthat the remote flame of her own being was fiercely alert in its\nreadiness to leap upward at any suspicion that her duties were\nnot worth the payment made for them and that for any reason which\nmight include Lord Coombe she was occupying a position which was\na sinecure. She kept her serious little room in order herself,\ndusting and almost polishing the reference books, arranging and\nre-arranging the files with such exactness of system that she\ncould--as is the vaunt of the model of orderly perfection--lay her\nhand upon any document \"in the dark.\" She was punctuality's self\nand held herself in readiness at any moment to appear at the\nDuchess' side as if a magician had instantaneously transported her\nthere before the softly melodious private bell connected with her\nroom had ceased to vibrate. The correctness of her to deference\nto the convenience of Mrs. James the housekeeper in her simplest\ncommunication with Dowie quite touched that respectable person's\nheart.\n\n\"She's a young lady,\" Mrs. James remarked to Dowie. \"And a credit\nto you and her governess, Mrs. Dowson. Young ladies have gone\nalmost out of fashion.\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle Valle had spent her governessing days among the\nhighest. My own places were always with gentle-people. Nothing\never came near her that could spoil her manners. A good heart she\nwas born with,\" was the civil reply of Dowie.\n\n\"Nothing ever came NEAR her--?\" Mrs. James politely checked what\nshe became conscious was a sort of unconscious exclamation.\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Dowie going on with her sheet hemming steadily.\n\nRobin wrote letters and copied various documents for the Duchess,\nshe went shopping with her and executed commissions to order.\nShe was allowed to enter into correspondence with the village\nschoolmistress and the wife of the Vicar at Darte Norham and to buy\nprizes for notable decorum and scholarship in the school, and baby\nlinen and blankets for the Maternity Bag and other benevolences. She\nliked buying prizes and the baby clothes very much because--though\nshe was unaware of the fact--her youth delighted in youngness and the\nfulfilling of young desires. Even oftener and more significantly\nthan ever did eyes turn towards her--try to hold hers--look after\nher eagerly when she walked in the streets or drove with the\nDuchess in the high-swung barouche. More and more she became used\nto it and gradually she ceased to be afraid of it and began to feel\nit nearly always--there were sometimes exceptions--a friendly thing.\n\nShe saw friendliness in it because when she caught sight as she so\noften did of young things like herself passing in pairs, laughing\nand talking and turning to look into each other's eyes, her being\ntold her that it was sweet and human and inevitable. They always\nturned and looked at each other--these pairs--and then they smiled\nor laughed or flushed a little. As she had not known when first\nshe recognized, as she looked down into the street from her nursery\nwindow, that the children nearly always passed in twos or threes\nand laughed and skipped and talked, so she did not know when\nshe first began to notice these joyous young pairs and a certain\ntouch of exultation in them and feel that it was sweet and quite\na simple common natural thing. Her noting and being sometimes\nmoved by it was as natural as her pleasure in the opening of spring\nflowers or the new thrill of spring birds--but she did not know\nthat either.\n\nThe brain which has worked through many years in unison with the\nsoul to which it was apportioned has evolved a knowledge which\nhas deep cognizance of the universal law. The brain of the old\nDuchess had so worked, keeping pace always with its guide, never\nvisualizing the possibility of working alone, also never falling\ninto the abyss of that human folly whose conviction is that all\nthat one sees and gives a special name to is all that exists--or\nthat the names accepted by the world justly and clearly describe\nqualities, yearnings, moods, as they are. This had developed\nwithin her wide perception and a wisdom which was sane and kind\nto tenderness.\n\nAs she drove through the streets with Robin beside her she saw\nthe following eyes, she saw the girl's soft friendly look at the\nyoung creatures who passed her glowing and uplifted by the joy of\nlife, and she was moved and even disturbed.\n\nAfter her return from one particular morning's outing she sent\nfor Dowie.\n\n\"You have taken care of Miss Robin since she was a little child?\"\nshe began.\n\n\"She was not quite six when I first went to her, your grace.\"\n\n\"You are not of the women who only feed and bathe a child and keep\nher well dressed. You have been a sort of mother to her.\"\n\n\"I've tried to, your grace. I've loved her and watched over her\nand she's loved me, I do believe.\"\n\n\"That is why I want to talk to you about her, Dowie. If you were\nthe woman who merely comes and goes in a child's life, I could\nnot. She is--a very beautiful young thing, Dowie.\"\n\n\"From her little head to her slim bits of feet, your grace. No\none knows better than I do.\"\n\nThe Duchess' renowned smile revealed itself.\n\n\"A beautiful young thing ought to see and know other beautiful young\nthings and make friends with them. That is one of the reasons for\ntheir being put in the world. Since she has been with me she has\nspoken to no one under forty. Has she never had young friends?\"\n\n\"Never, your grace. Once two--young baggages--were left to have\ntea with her and they talked to her about divorce scandals and\ncorespondents. She never wanted to see them again.\" Dowie's face\nset itself in lines of perfectly correct inexpressiveness and she\nadded, \"They set her asking me questions I couldn't answer. And\nshe broke down because she suddenly understood why. No, your grace,\nshe's not known those of her own age.\"\n\n\"She is--of the ignorance of a child,\" the Duchess thought it out\nslowly.\n\n\"She thinks not, poor lamb, but she is,\" Dowie answered. The\nDuchess' eyes met hers and they looked at each other for a moment.\nDowie tried to retain a non-committal steadiness and the Duchess\nobserving the intention knew that she was free to speak.\n\n\"Lord Coombe confided to me that she had passed through a hideous\ndanger which had made a lasting impression on her,\" she said in\na low voice. \"He told me because he felt it would explain certain\nreserves and fears in her.\"\n\n\"Sometimes she wakes up out of nightmares about it,\" said Dowie.\n\"And she creeps into my room shivering and I take her into my bed\nand hold her in my arms until she's over the panic. She says the\nworst of it is that she keeps thinking that there may have been\nother girls trapped like her--and that they did not get away.\"\n\nThe Duchess was very thoughtful. She saw the complications in\nwhich such a horror would involve a girl's mind.\n\n\"If she consorted with other young things and talked nonsense with\nthem and shared their pleasures she would forget it,\" she said.\n\n\"Ah!\" exclaimed Dowie. \"That's it.\"\n\nThe question in the Duchess' eyes when she lifted them required\nan answer and she gave it respectfully.\n\n\"The thing that happened was only the last touch put to what she'd\ngradually been finding out as she grew from child to young girl.\nThe ones she would like to know--she said it in plain words once to\nMademoiselle--might not want to know her. I must take the liberty\nof speaking plain, your grace, or it's no use me speaking at all.\nShe holds it deep in her mind that she's a sort of young outcast.\"\n\n\"I must convince her that she is not--.\" It was the beginning of\nwhat the Duchess had meant to say, but she actually found herself\npausing, held for the moment by Dowie's quiet, civil eye.\n\n\"Was your grace in your kindness thinking--?\" was what the excellent\nwoman said.\n\n\"Yes. That I would invite young people to meet her--help them to\nknow each other and to make friends.\" And even as she said it she\nwas conscious of being slightly under the influence of Dowie's\nwise gaze.\n\n\"Your grace only knows those young people she would like to know.\"\nIt was a mere simple statement.\n\n\"People are not as censorious as they once were.\" Her grace's tone\nwas intended to reply to the suggestion lying in the words which\nhad worn the air of statement without comment.\n\n\"Some are not, but some are,\" Dowie answered. \"There's two worlds\nin London now, your grace. One is your grace's and one is Mrs.\nGareth-Lawless'. I HAVE heard say there are others between, but\nI only know those two.\"\n\nThe Duchess pondered again.\n\n\"You are thinking that what Miss Robin said to Mademoiselle Valle\nmight be true--in mine. And perhaps you are not altogether wrong\neven if you are not altogether right.\"\n\n\"Until I went to take care of Miss Robin I had only had places\nin families Mrs. Gareth-Lawless' set didn't touch anywhere. What\nI'm remembering is that there was a--strictness--shown sometimes\neven when it seemed a bit harsh. Among the servants the older ones\nsaid that is was BECAUSE of the new sets and their fast wicked\nways. One of my young ladies once met another young lady about\nher own age--she was just fifteen--at a charity bazaar and they\nmade friends and liked each other very much. The young lady's\nmother was one there was a lot of talk about in connection with a\nperson of very high station--the highest, your grace--and everyone\nknew. The girl was a lovely little creature and beautifully\nbehaved. It was said her mother wanted to push her into the world\nshe couldn't get into herself. The acquaintance was stopped, your\ngrace--it was put a stop to at once. And my poor little young lady\nquite broke her heart over it, and I heard it was much worse for\nthe other.\"\n\n\"I will think this over,\" the Duchess said. \"It needs thinking\nover. I wished to talk to you because I have seen that she has fixed\nlittle ideas regarding what she thinks is suited to her position\nas a paid companion and she might not be prepared. I wish you to\nsee that she has a pretty little frock or so which she could wear\nif she required them.\"\n\n\"She has two, your grace,\" Dowie smiled affectionately as she said\nit. \"One for evening and one for special afternoon wear in case\nyour grace needed her to attend you for some reason. They are as\nplain as she dare make them, but when she puts one on she can't\nhelp giving it A LOOK.\"\n\n\"Yes--she would give it all it needed,\" her grace said. \"Thank\nyou, Dowie. You may go.\"\n\nWith her sketch of a respectful curtsey Dowie went towards the\ndoor. As she approached it her step became slower; before she\nreached it she had stopped and there was a remarkable look on her\nface--a suddenly heroic look. She turned and made several steps\nbackward and paused again which unexpected action caused the Duchess\nto turn to glance at her. When she glanced her grace recognized\nthe heroic look and waited, with a consciousness of some slight\nnew emotion within herself, for its explanation.\n\n\"Your grace,\" Dowie began, asking God himself to give courage if\nshe was doing right and to check her if she was making a mistake,\n\"When your grace was thinking of the parents of other young ladies\nand gentlemen--did it come to you to put it to yourself whether\nyou'd be willing--\" she caught her breath, but ended quite\nclearly, respectfully, reasonably. \"Lady Kathryn--Lord Halwyn--\"\nLady Kathryn was the Duchess' young granddaughter, Lord Halwyn\nwas her extremely good-looking grandson who was in the army.\n\nThe Duchess understood what the heroic look had meant, and her\nrespect for it was great. Its intention had not been to suggest\ninclusion of George and Kathryn in her pun, it had only with pure\njustice put it to her to ask herself what her own personal decision\nin such a matter would be.\n\n\"You do feel as if you were her mother,\" she said. \"And you are a\npractical, clear-minded woman. It is only if I myself am willing\nto take such a step that I have a right to ask it of other people.\nLady Lothwell is the mother I must speak to first. Her children\nare mine though I am a mere grandmother.\"\n\nLady Lothwell was her daughter and though she was not regarded\nas Victorian either of the Early or the Middle periods, Dowie as\nshe returned to her own comfortable quarters wondered what would\nhappen.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\n\n\n\n\nWhat did occur was not at all complicated. It would not have been\npossible for a woman to have spent her girlhood with the cleverest\nmother of her day and have emerged from her training either\nobstinate or illogical. Lady Lothwell listened to as much of the\nhistory of Robin as her mother chose to tell her and plainly felt\nan amiable interest in it. She knew much more detail and gossip\nconcerning Mrs. Gareth-Lawless than the Duchess herself did. She\nhad heard of the child who was kept out of sight, and she had\nbeen somewhat disgusted by a vague story of Lord Coombe's abnormal\ninterest in it and the ugly hint that he had an object in view.\nIt was too unpleasantly morbid to be true of a man her mother had\nknown for years.\n\n\"Of course you were not thinking of anything large or formal?\"\nshe said after a moment of smiling hesitation.\n\n\"No. I am not launching a girl into society. I only want to help\nher to know a few nice young people who are good-natured and\nwell-mannered. She is not the ordinary old lady's companion and\nif she were not so strict with herself and with me, I confess I\nshould behave towards her very much as I should behave to Kathryn\nif you could spare her to live with me. She is a heart-warming\nyoung thing. Because I am known to have one of my eccentric fancies\nfor her and because after all her father WAS well connected, her\npresent position will not be the obstacle. She is not the first\nmodern girl who has chosen to support herself.\"\n\n\"But isn't she much too pretty?\"\n\n\"Much. But she doesn't flaunt it.\"\n\n\"But heart-warming--and too pretty! Dearest mamma!\" Lady Lothwell\nlaughed again. \"She can do no harm to Kathryn, but I own that\nif George were not at present quite madly in love with a darling\nbeing at least fifteen years older than himself I should pause\nto reflect. Mrs. Stacy will keep him steady--Mrs. Alan Stacy, you\nknow--the one with the magnificent henna hair, and the eyes that\ndroop. No boy of twenty-two can resist her. They call her adorers\n'The Infant School'.\"\n\n\"A small dinner and a small dance--and George and Kathryn may be\nthe beginning of an interesting experiment. It would be pretty\nand kind of you to drop in during the course of the evening.\"\n\n\"Are you hoping to--perhaps--make a marriage for her?\" Lady Lothwell\nasked the question a shade disturbedly. \"You are so amazing,\nmamma darling, that I know you will do it, if you believe in it.\nYou seem to be able to cause the things you really want, to evolve\nfrom the universe.\"\n\n\"She is the kind of girl whose place in the universe is in the\nhome of some young man whose own place in the universe is in the\nheart and soul and life of her kind of girl. They ought to carry\nout the will of God by falling passionately in love with each\nother. They ought to marry each other and have a large number of\nchildren as beautiful and rapturously happy as themselves. They\nwould assist in the evolution of the race.\"\n\n\"Oh! Mamma! how delightful you always are! For a really brilliant\nwoman you are the most adorable dreamer in the world.\"\n\n\"Dreams are the only things which are true. The rest are nothing\nbut visions.\"\n\n\"Angel!\" her daughter laughed a little adoringly as she kissed\nher. \"I will do whatever you want me to do. I always did, didn't\nI? It's your way of making one see what you see when you are\ntalking that does it.\"\n\nIt was understood before they parted that Kathryn and George would\nbe present at the small dinner and the small dance, and that a\nfew other agreeable young persons might be trusted to join them,\nand that Lady Lothwell and perhaps her husband would drop in.\n\n\"It's your being almost Early Victorian, mamma, which makes it\neasy for you to initiate things. You will initiate little Miss\nLawless. It was rather neat of her to prefer to drop the 'Gareth.'\nThere has been less talk in late years of the different classes\n'keeping their places'--'upper' and 'lower' classes really strikes\none as vulgar.\"\n\n\"We may 'keep our places',\" the Duchess said. \"We may hold on to\nthem as firmly as we please. It is the places themselves which\nare moving, my dear. It is not unlike the beginning of a landslide.\"\n\nRobin went to Dowie's room the next evening and stood a moment in\nsilence watching her sewing before she spoke. She looked anxious\nand even pale.\n\n\"Her grace is going to give a party to some young people, Dowie,\"\nshe said. \"She wishes me to be present. I--I don't know what to\ndo.\"\n\n\"What you must do, my dear, is to put on your best evening frock\nand go downstairs and enjoy yourself as the other young people\nwill. Her grace wants you to see someone your own age,\" was Dowie's\nanswer.\n\n\"But I am not like the others. I am only a girl earning her living\nas a companion. How do I know--\"\n\n\"Her grace knows,\" Dowie said. \"And what she asks you to do it is\nyour duty to do--and do it prettily.\"\n\nRobin lost even a shade more colour.\n\n\"Do you realize that I have never been to a party in my life--not\neven to a children's party, Dowie? I shall not know how to behave\nmyself.\"\n\n\"You know how to talk nicely to people, and you know how to sit\ndown and rise from your chair and move about a room like a quiet\nyoung lady. You dance like a fairy. You won't be asked to do\nanything more.\"\n\n\"The Duchess,\" reflected Robin aloud slowly, \"would not let me\ncome downstairs if she did not know that people would--be kind.\"\n\n\"Lady Kathryn and Lord Halwyn are coming. They are her own\ngrandchildren,\" Dowie said.\n\n\"How did you know that?\" Robin inquired.\n\nRobin's colour began to come back.\n\n\"It's not what usually happens to girls in situations,\" she said.\n\n\"Her grace herself isn't what usually happens,\" said Dowie. \"There\nis no one like her for high wisdom and kindness.\"\n\nHaving herself awakened to the truth of this confidence-inspiring\nfact, Robin felt herself supported by it. One knew what\nfar-sighted perception and clarity of experienced vision this one\nwoman had gained during her many years of life. If she had elected\nto do this thing she had seen her path clear before her and was not\noffering a gift which awkward chance might spoil or snatch away\nfrom the hand held out to receive it. A curious slow warmth began\nto creep about Robin's heart and in its mounting gradually fill\nher being. It was true she had been taught to dance, to move about\nand speak prettily. She had been taught a great many things which\nseemed to be very carefully instilled into her mind and body without\nany special reason. She had not been aware that Lord Coombe and\nMademoiselle Valle had directed and discussed her training as if\nit had been that of a young royal person whose equipment must be\na flawless thing. If the Dowager Duchess of Darte had wished to\npresent her at Court some fair morning she would have known the\nlength of the train she must wear, where she must make her curtseys\nand to whom and to what depth, how to kiss the royal hand, and\nhow to manage her train when she retired from the presence. When\nshe had been taught this she had asked Mademoiselle Valle if the\ntraining was part of every girl's education and Mademoiselle had\nanswered,\n\n\"It is best to know everything--even ceremonials which may or may\nnot prove of use. It all forms part of a background and prevents\none from feeling unfamiliar with customs.\"\n\nWhen she had passed the young pairs in the streets she had found\nan added interest in them because of this background. She could\nimagine them dancing together in fairy ball rooms whose lights\nand colours her imagination was obliged to construct for her out\nof its own fabric; she knew what the girls would look like if they\nwent to a Drawing Room and she often wondered if they would feel\nshy when the page spread out their lovely peacock tails for them\nand left them to their own devices. It was mere Nature that she\nshould have pondered and pondered and sometimes unconsciously\nlonged to feel herself part of the flood of being sweeping past\nher as she stood apart on the brink of the river.\n\nThe warmth about her heart made it beat a little faster. She opened\nthe door of her wardrobe when she found herself in her bedroom. The\ndress hung modestly in its corner shrouded from the penetration of\nLondon fogs by clean sheeting. It was only white and as simple as\nshe knew how to order it, but Mademoiselle had taken her to a young\nFrench person who knew exactly what she was doing in all cases,\nand because the girl had the supple lines of a wood nymph and the\neyes of young antelope she had evolved that which expressed her\nas a petal expresses its rose. Robin locked her door and took the\ndress down and found the silk stockings and slippers which belonged\nto it. She put them all on standing before her long mirror and\nhaving left no ungiven last touch she fell a few steps backward and\nlooked at herself, turning and balancing herself as a bird might\nhave done. She turned lightly round and round.\n\n\"Yes. I AM--\" she said. \"I am--very!\"\n\nThe next instant she laughed at herself outright.\n\n\"How silly! How silly!\" she said. \"Almost EVERYBODY is--more\nor less! I wonder if I remember the new steps.\" For she had been\ntaught the new steps--the new walking and swayings and pauses and\nsudden swirls and swoops. And her new dress was as short as other\nfashionable girls' dresses were, but in her case revealed a haunting\ndelicacy of contour and line.\n\nSo before her mirror she danced alone and as she danced her lips\nparted and her breast rose and fell charmingly, and her eyes\nlighted and glowed as any girl's might have done or as a joyous\ngirl nymph's might have lighted as she danced by a pool in her\nforest seeing her loveliness mirrored there.\n\nSomething was awakening as something had awakened when Donal had\nkissed a child under the soot sprinkled London trees.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\n\n\n\n\nThe whole day before the party was secretly exciting to Robin.\nShe knew how much more important it seemed to her than it really\nwas. If she had been six years old she might have felt the same\nkind of uncertain thrills and tremulous wonders. She hid herself\nbehind the window curtains in her room that she might see the\nmen putting up the crimson and white awning from the door to the\ncarriage step. The roll of red carpet they took from their van had\na magic air. The ringing of the door bell which meant that things\nwere being delivered, the extra moving about of servants, the\nflorists' men who went into the drawing-rooms and brought flowers\nand big tropical plants to re-arrange the conservatory and fill\ncorners which were not always decorated--each and every one of\nthem quickened the beating of her pulses. If she had belonged in\nher past to the ordinary cheerful world of children, she would\nhave felt by this time no such elation. But she had only known of\nthe existence of such festivities as children's parties because once\na juvenile ball had been given in a house opposite her mother's\nand she had crouched in an almost delirious little heap by the\nnursery window watching carriages drive up and deposit fluffy pink\nand white and blue children upon the strip of red carpet, and had\nseen them led or running into the house. She had caught sounds\nof strains of music and had shivered with rapture--but Oh! what\nworlds away from her the party had been.\n\nShe found her way into the drawing-rooms which were not usually thrown\nopen. They were lofty and stately and seemed to her immense. There\nwere splendid crystal-dropping chandeliers and side lights which\nshe thought looked as if they would hold a thousand wax candles.\nThere was a delightfully embowered corner for the musicians. It\nwas all spacious and wonderful in its beautiful completeness--its\npreparedness for pleasure. She realized that all of it had always\nbeen waiting to be used for the happiness of people who knew\neach other and were young and ready for delight. When the young\nLothwells had been children they had had dances and frolicking\ngames with other children in the huge rooms and had kicked up\ntheir young heels on the polished floors at Christmas parties and\non birthdays. How wonderful it must have been. But they had not\nknown it was wonderful.\n\nAs Dowie dressed her the reflection she saw in the mirror gave back\nto her an intensified Robin whose curved lips almost quivered as\nthey smiled. The soft silk of her hair looked like the night and\nthe small rings on the back of her very slim white neck were things\nto ensnare the eye and hold it helpless.\n\n\"You look your best, my dear,\" Dowie said as she clasped her little\nnecklace. \"And it is a good best.\" Dowie was feeling tremulous\nherself though she could not have explained why. She thought that\nperhaps it was because she wished that Mademoiselle could have\nbeen with her.\n\nRobin kissed her when the last touch had been given.\n\n\"I'm going to run down the staircase,\" she said. \"If I let myself\nwalk slowly I shall have time to feel queer and shy and I might\nseem to CREEP into the drawing-room. I mustn't creep in. I must\nwalk in as if I had been to parties all my life.\"\n\nShe ran down and as she did so she looked like a white bird\nflying, but she was obliged to stop upon the landing before the\ndrawing-room door to quiet a moment of excited breathing. Still\nwhen she entered the room she moved as she should and held her head\npoised with a delicately fearless air. The Duchess--who herself\nlooked her best in her fine old ivory profiled way--gave her a\npleased smile of welcome which was almost affectionate.\n\n\"What a perfect little frock!\" she said. \"You are delightfully\npretty in it.\"\n\n\"Is it quite right?\" said Robin. \"Mademoiselle chose it for me.\"\n\n\"It is quite right. 'Frightfully right,' George would say. George\nwill sit near you at dinner. He is my grandson--Lord Halwyn you\nknow, and you will no doubt frequently hear him say things are\n'frightfully' something or other during the evening. Kathryn will\nsay things are 'deevy' or 'exquig'. I mention it because you may\nnot know that she means 'exquisite' and 'divine.' Don't let it\nfrighten you if you don't quite understand their language. They\nare dear handsome things sweeping along in the rush of their bit\nof century. I don't let it frighten me that their world seems to\nme an entirely new planet.\"\n\nRobin drew a little nearer her. She felt something as she had\nfelt years ago when she had said to Dowie. \"I want to kiss you,\nDowie.\" Her eyes were pools of childish tenderness because she\nso well understood the infinitude of the friendly tact which drew\nher within its own circle with the light humour of its \"I don't\nlet them frighten ME.\"\n\n\"You are kind--kind to me,\" she said. \"And I am grateful--GRATEFUL.\"\n\nThe extremely good-looking young people who began very soon to\ndrift into the brilliant big room--singly or in pairs of brother\nand sister--filled her with innocent delight. They were so well\nbuilt and gaily at ease with each other and their surroundings, so\nperfectly dressed and finished. The filmy narrowness of delicate\nfrocks, the shortness of skirts accentuated the youth and girlhood and\nadded to it a sort of child fairy-likeness. Kathryn in exquisite\nwisps of silver-embroidered gauze looked fourteen instead of\nnearly twenty--aided by a dimple in her cheek and a small tilted\nnose. A girl in scarlet tulle was like a child out of a nursery\nready to dance about a Christmas tree. Everyone seemed so young\nand so suggested supple dancing, perhaps because dancing was going\non everywhere and all the world whether fashionable or unfashionable\nwas driven by a passion for whirling, swooping and inventing new\npostures and fantastic steps. The young men had slim straight\nbodies and light movements. Their clothes fitted their suppleness\nto perfection. Robin thought they all looked as if they had had\na great deal of delightful exercise and plenty of pleasure all\ntheir lives.\n\nThey were of that stream which had always seemed to be rushing\npast her in bright pursuit of alluring things which belonged to\nthem as part of their existence, but which had had nothing to do\nwith her own youth. Now the stream had paused as if she had for\nthe moment some connection with it. The swift light she was used\nto seeing illuminate glancing eyes as she passed people in the\nstreet, she saw again and again as new arrivals appeared. Kathryn\nwas quite excited by her eyes and eyelashes and George hovered\nabout. There was a great deal of hovering. At the dinner table\nsleek young heads held themselves at an angle which allowed of\ntheir owners seeing through or around, or under floral decorations\nand alert young eyes showed an eager gleam. After dinner was\nover and dancing began the Duchess smiled shrewdly as she saw the\ngravitating masculine movement towards a certain point. It was\nthe point where Robin stood with a small growing circle about her.\n\nIt was George who danced with her first. He was tall and slender\nand flexible and his good shoulders had a military squareness of\nbuild. He had also a nice square face, and a warmly blue eye and\nknew all the latest steps and curves and unexpected swirls. Robin\nwas an ozier wand and there was no swoop or dart or sudden sway\nand change she was not alert at. The swing and lure of the music,\nthe swift movement, the fluttering of airy draperies as slim sister\nnymphs flew past her, set her pulses beating with sweet young joy.\nA brief, uncontrollable ripple of laughter broke from her before\nshe had circled the room twice.\n\n\"How heavenly it is!\" she exclaimed and lifted her eyes to Halwyn's.\n\"How heavenly!\"\n\nThey were not safe eyes to lift in such a way to those of a very\nyoung man. They gave George a sudden enjoyable shock. He had\nheard of the girl who was a sort of sublimated companion to his\ngrandmother. The Duchess herself had talked to him a little about\nher and he had come to the party intending to behave very amiably\nand help the little thing enjoy herself. He had also encountered\nbefore in houses where there were no daughters the smart well-born,\nyoung companion who was allowed all sorts of privileges because\nshe knew how to assume tiresome little responsibilities and how\nto be entertaining enough to add cheer and spice to the life of\nthe elderly and lonely. Sometimes she was a subtly appealing sort\nof girl and given to being sympathetic and to liking sympathy and\nquiet corners in conservatories or libraries, and sometimes she\nwas capable of scientific flirtation and required scientific\nmanagement. A man had to have his wits about him. This one as she\nflew like a blown leaf across the floor and laughed up into his\nface with wide eyes, produced a new effect and was a new kind.\n\n\"It's you who are heavenly,\" he answered with a boy's laugh. \"You\nare like a feather--and a willow wand.\"\n\n\"You are light too,\" she laughed back, \"and you are like steel as\nwell.\"\n\nMrs. Alan Stacy, the lady with the magnificent henna hair, had\nrecently given less time to him, being engaged in the preliminary\ninstruction of a new member of the Infant Class. Such things will,\nof course, happen and though George had quite ingenuously raged\nin secret, the circumstances left him free to \"hover\" and hovering\nwas a pastime he enjoyed.\n\n\"Let us go on like this forever and ever,\" he said sweeping half\nthe length of the room with her and whirling her as if she were\nindeed a leaf in the wind, \"Forever and ever.\"\n\n\"I wish we could. But the music will stop,\" she gave back.\n\n\"Music ought never to stop--never,\" he answered.\n\nBut the music did stop and when it began again almost immediately\nanother tall, flexible young man made a lightning claim on her\nand carried her away only to hand her to another and he in his\nturn to another. She was not allowed more than a moment's rest\nand borne on the crest of the wave of young delight, she did not\nneed more. Young eyes were always laughing into hers and elating\nher by a special look of pleasure in everything she did or said\nor inspired in themselves. How was she informed without phrases\nthat for this exciting evening she was a creature without a flaw,\nthat the loveliness of her eyes startled those who looked into\nthem, that it was a thrilling experience to dance with her, that\nsomehow she was new and apart and wonderful? No sleek-haired, slim\nand straight-backed youth said exactly any of these things to her,\nbut somehow they were conveyed and filled her with a wondering\nrealization of the fact that if they were true, they were no longer\ndreadful and maddening, since they only made people like and want\nto dance with one. To dance, to like people and be liked seemed\nso heavenly natural and right--to be only like air and sky and\nfree, happy breathing. There was, it was true, a blissful little\nuplifted look about her which she herself was not aware of, but\nwhich was singularly stimulating to the masculine beholder. It only\nmeant indeed that as she whirled and swayed and swooped laughing\nshe was saying to herself at intervals,\n\n\"This is what other girls feel like. They are happy like this.\nI am laughing and talking to people just as other girls do. I am\nRobin Gareth-Lawless, but I am enjoying a party like this--a YOUNG\nparty.\"\n\nLady Lothwell sitting near her mother watched the trend of affairs\nwith an occasional queer interested smile.\n\n\"Well, mamma darling,\" she said at last as youth and beauty whirled\nby in a maelstrom of modern Terpsichorean liveliness, \"she is a\ngreat success. I don't know whether it is quite what you intended\nor not.\"\n\nThe Duchess did not explain what she had intended. She was watching\nthe trend also and thinking a good deal. On the whole Lady Lothwell\nhad scarcely expected that she would explain. She rarely did. She\nseldom made mistakes, however.\n\nKathryn in her scant gauzy strips of white and silver having\ndrifted towards them at the moment stood looking on with a funny\nlittle disturbed expression on her small, tip-tilted face.\n\n\"There's something ABOUT her, grandmamma,\" she said.\n\n\"All the girls see it and no one knows what it is. She's sitting\nout for a few minutes and just look at George--and Hal Brunton--and\nCaptain Willys. They are all laughing, of course, and pretending\nto joke, but they would like to eat each other up. Perhaps it's\nher eyelashes. She looks out from under them as if they were a\ncurtain.\"\n\nLady Lothwell's queer little smile became a queer little laugh.\n\n\"Yes. It gives her a look of being ecstatically happy and yet\nalmost shy and appealing at the same time. Men can't stand it of\ncourse.\"\n\n\"None of them are trying to stand it,\" answered little Lady Kathryn\nsomewhat in the tone of a retort.\n\n\"I don't believe she knows she does it,\" Lady Lothwell said quite\nreflectively.\n\n\"She does not know at all. That is the worst of it,\" commented the\nDuchess.\n\n\"Then you see that there IS a worst,\" said her daughter.\n\nThe Duchess glanced towards Kathryn, but fortunately the puzzled\nfret of the girl's forehead was even at the moment melting into\na smile as a young man of much attraction descended upon her with\nsmiles of his own and carried her into the Tango or Fox Trot or\nAntelope Galop, whichsoever it chanced to be.\n\n\"If she were really aware of it that would be 'the worst' for\nother people--for us probably. She could look out from under her\nlashes to sufficient purpose to call what she wanted and take and\nkeep it. As she is not aware, it will make things less easy for\nherself--under the circumstances.\"\n\n\"The circumstance of being Mrs. Gareth-Lawless' daughter is not\nan agreeable one,\" said Lady Lothwell.\n\n\"It might give some adventurous boys ideas when they had time to\nrealize all it means. Do you know I am rather sorry for her myself.\nI shouldn't be surprised if she were rather a dear little thing.\nShe looks tender and cuddle-some. Perhaps she is like the heroine\nof a sentimental novel I read the other day. Her chief slave said\nof her 'She walks into a man's heart through his eyes and sits\ndown there and makes a warm place which will never get cold again.'\nRather nice, I thought.\"\n\nThe Duchess thought it rather nice also.\n\n\"'Never get cold again,'\" she repeated. \"What a heavenly thing\nto happen to a pair of creatures--if--\" she paused and regarded\nRobin, who at the other side of the room was trying to decide\nsome parlous question of dances to which there was more than one\nclaimant. She was sweetly puckering her brow over her card and\nround her were youthful male faces looking eager and even a trifle\ntense with repressed anxiety for the victory of the moment.\n\n\"Oh!\" Lady Lothwell laughed. \"As Kitty says 'There's something\nabout her' and it's not mere eyelashes. You have let loose a germ\namong us, mamma my sweet, and you can't do anything with a germ\nwhen you have let it loose. To quote Kitty again, 'Look at George!'\"\n\nThe music which came from the bower behind which the musicians\nwere hidden seemed to gain thrill and wildness as the hours went\non. As the rooms grew warmer the flowers breathed out more reaching\nscent. Now and again Robin paused for a moment to listen to strange\ndelightful chords and to inhale passing waves of something like\nmignonette and lilies, and apple blossoms in the sun. She thought\nthere must be some flower which was like all three in one. The\nrushing stream was carrying her with it as it went--one of the\nhappy petals on its surface. Could it ever cast her aside and\nleave her on the shore again? While the violins went singing on\nand the thousand wax candles shone on the faint or vivid colours\nwhich mingled into a sort of lovely haze, it did not seem possible\nthat a thing so enchanting and so real could have an end at all.\nAll the other things in her life seemed less real tonight.\n\nIn the conservatory there was a marble fountain which had long\nyears ago been brought from a palace garden in Rome. It was not\nas large as it was beautiful and it had been placed among palms\nand tropic ferns whose leaves and fronds it splashed merrily among\nand kept deliciously cool and wet-looking. There was a quite\nintoxicating hot-house perfume of warm damp moss and massed flowers\nand it was the kind of corner any young man would feel it necessary\nto gravitate towards with a partner.\n\nGeorge led Robin to it and she naturally sat upon the edge of the\nmarble basin and as naturally drew off a glove and dipped her hand\ninto the water, splashing it a little because it felt deliciously\ncool. George stood near at first and looked down at her bent head.\nIt was impossible not also to take in her small fine ear and the\nwarm velvet white of the lovely little nape of her slim neck. He\ntook them in with elated appreciation. He was not subtle minded\nenough to be aware that her reply to a casual remark he had made\nto her at dinner had had a remote effect upon him.\n\n\"One of the loveliest creatures I ever saw was a Mrs. Gareth-Lawless,\"\nhe had said. \"Are you related to her?\"\n\n\"I am her daughter,\" Robin had answered and with a slightly startled\nsensation he had managed to slip into amiably deft generalities\nwhile he had secretly wondered how much his grandmother knew or\ndid not know.\n\nAn involuntary thought of Feather had crossed his mind once or\ntwice during the evening. This was the girl who, it was said, had\nactually been saved up for old Coombe. Ugly morbid sort of idea\nif it was true. How had the Duchess got hold of her and why and\nwhat was Coombe really up to? Could he have some elderly idea\nof wanting a youngster for a wife? Occasionally an old chap did.\nServe him right if some young chap took the wind out of his sails.\nHe was not a desperate character, but he had been very intimate\nwith Mrs. Alan Stacy and her friends and it had made him careless.\nAlso Robin had drawn him--drawn him more than he knew.\n\n\"Is it still heavenly?\" he asked. (How pointed her fingers were\nand how soft and crushable her hand looked as it splashed like a\nchild's.)\n\n\"More heavenly every minute,\" she answered. He laughed outright.\n\n\"The heavenly thing is the way you are enjoying it yourself. I\nnever saw a girl light up a whole room before. You throw out stars\nas you dance.\"\n\n\"That's like a skyrocket,\" Robin laughed back. \"And it's because\nin all my life I never went to a dance before.\"\n\n\"Never! You mean except to children's parties?\"\n\n\"There were no children's parties. This is the first--first--first.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't see how that happened, but I am glad it did because\nit's been a great thing for me to see you at your first--first--first.\"\n\nHe sat down on the fountain's edge near her.\n\n\"I shall not forget it,\" he said.\n\n\"I shall remember it as long as I live,\" said Robin and she lifted\nher unsafe eyes again and smiled into his which made them still\nmore unsafe.\n\nPerhaps it was because he was extremely young, perhaps it was\nbecause he was immoral, perhaps because he had never held a tight\nrein on his fleeting emotions, even the next moment he felt that\nit was because he was an idiot--but suddenly he found he had let\nhimself go and was kissing the warm velvet of the slim little\nnape--had kissed it twice.\n\nHe had not given himself time to think what would happen as a\nresult, but what did happen was humiliating and ridiculous. One\nfurious splash of the curled hand flung water into his face and\neyes and mouth while Robin tore herself free from him and stood\nblazing with fury and woe--for it was not only fury he saw.\n\n\"You--You--!\" she cried and actually would have swooped to the\nfountain again if he had not caught her arm.\n\nHe was furious himself--at himself and at her.\n\n\"You--little fool!\" he gasped. \"What did you do that for even if\nI WAS a jackass? There was nothing in it. You're so pretty----\"\n\n\"You've spoiled everything!\" she flamed, \"everything--everything!\"\n\n\"I've spoiled nothing. I've only been a fool--and it's your own\nfault for being so pretty.\"\n\n\"You've spoiled everything in the world! Now--\" with a desolate\nhorrible little sob, \"now I can only go back--BACK!\"\n\nHe had a queer idea that she spoke as if she were Cinderella and\nhe had made the clock strike twelve. Her voice had such absolute\ngrief in it that he involuntarily drew near her.\n\n\"I say,\" he was really breathless, \"don't speak like that. I beg\npardon. I'll grovel! Don't--Oh! Kathryn--COME here.\"\n\nThis last because at this difficult moment from between the banks\nof hot-house bloom and round the big palms his sister Kathryn\nsuddenly appeared. She immediately stopped short and stared at\nthem both--looking from one to the other.\n\n\"What is the matter?\" she asked in a low voice.\n\n\"Oh! COME and talk to her,\" George broke forth. \"I feel as if she\nmight scream in a minute and call everybody in. I've been a lunatic\nand she has apparently never been kissed before. Tell her--tell\nher you've been kissed yourself.\"\n\nA queer little look revealed itself in Kathryn's face. A delicate\nvein of her grandmother's wisdom made part of her outlook upon a\nrapidly moving and exciting world. She had never been hide-bound\nor dull and for a slight gauzy white and silver thing she was\nastute.\n\n\"Don't be impudent,\" she said to George as she walked up to Robin\nand put a cool hand on her arm. \"He's only been silly. You'd better\nlet him off,\" she said. She turned a glance on George who was\nwiping his sleeve with a handkerchief and she broke into a small\nlaugh, \"Did she push you into the fountain?\" she asked cheerfully.\n\n\"She threw the fountain at me,\" grumbled George. \"I shall have to\ndash off home and change.\"\n\n\"I would,\" replied Kathryn still cheerful. \"You can apologize\nbetter when you're dry.\"\n\nHe slid through the palms like a snake and the two girls stood\nand gazed at each other. Robin's flame had died down and her face\nhad settled itself into a sort of hardness. Kathryn did not know\nthat she herself looked at her as the Duchess might have looked\nat another girl in the quite different days of her youth.\n\n\"I'll tell you something now he's gone,\" she said. \"I HAVE been\nkissed myself and so have other girls I know. Boys like George\ndon't really matter, though of course it's bad manners. But who\nhas got good manners? Things rush so that there's scarcely time\nfor manners at all. When an older man makes a snatch at you it's\nsometimes detestable. But to push him into the fountain was a\ngood idea,\" and she laughed again.\n\n\"I didn't push him in.\"\n\n\"I wish you had,\" with a gleeful mischief. The next moment, however,\nthe hint of a worried frown showed itself on her forehead. \"You\nsee,\" she said protestingly, \"you are so FRIGHTFULLY pretty.\"\n\n\"I'd rather be a leper,\" Robin shot forth.\n\nBut Kathryn did not of course understand.\n\n\"What nonsense!\" she answered. \"What utter rubbish! You know you\nwouldn't. Come back to the ball room. I came here because my mother\nwas asking for George.\"\n\nShe turned to lead the way through the banked flowers and as she\ndid so added something.\n\n\"By the way, somebody important has been assassinated in one of\nthe Balkan countries. They are always assassinating people. They\nlike it. Lord Coombe has just come in and is talking it over with\ngrandmamma. I can see they are quite excited in their quiet way.\"\n\nAs they neared the entrance to the ball room she paused a moment\nwith a new kind of impish smile.\n\n\"Every girl in the room is absolutely shaky with thrills at this\nparticular moment,\" she said. \"And every man feels himself bristling\na little. The very best looking boy in all England is dancing with\nSara Studleigh. He dropped in by chance to call and the Duchess\nmade him stay. He is a kind of miracle of good looks and takingness.\"\n\nRobin said nothing. She had plainly not been interested in the\nBalkan tragedy and she as obviously did not care for the miracle.\n\n\"You don't ask who he is?\" said Kathryn.\n\n\"I don't want to know.\"\n\n\"Oh! Come! You mustn't feel as sulky as that. You'll want to ask\nquestions the moment you see him. I did. Everyone does. His name\nis Donal Muir. He's Lord Coombe's heir. He'll be the Head of the\nHouse of Coombe some day. Here he comes,\" quite excitedly, \"Look!\"\n\nIt was one of the tricks of Chance--or Fate--or whatever you will.\nThe dance brought him within a few feet of them at that very moment\nand the slow walking steps he was taking held him--they were some\nof the queer stealthy almost stationary steps of the Argentine\nTango. He was finely and smoothly fitted as the other youngsters\nwere, his blond glossed head was set high on a heroic column of\nneck, he was broad of shoulder, but not too broad, slim of waist,\nbut not too slim, long and strong of leg, but light and supple\nand firm. He had a fair open brow and a curved mouth laughing to\nshow white teeth. Robin felt he ought to wear a kilt and plaid and\nthat an eagle's feather ought to be standing up from a chieftain's\nbonnet on the fair hair which would have waved if it had been\nallowed length enough. He was scarcely two yards from her now and\nsuddenly--almost as if he had been called--he turned his eyes away\nfrom Sara Studleigh who was the little thing in Christmas tree\nscarlet. They were blue like the clear water in a tarn when the\nsun shines on it and they were still laughing as his mouth was.\nStraight into hers they laughed--straight into hers.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\n\n\n\n\nThrough all aeons since all the worlds were made it is at least not\nunthinkable that in all the worlds of which our own atom is one,\nthere has ruled a Force illimitable, unconquerable and inexplicable\nand whichsoever its world and whatsoever the sign denoting or the\nname given it, the Force--the Thing has been the same. Upon our\nown atom of the universe it is given the generic name of Love and\nits existence is that which the boldest need not defy, the most profound\nneed not attempt to explain with clarity, the most brilliantly\nsophistical to argue away. Its forms of beauty, triviality,\nmagnificence, imbecility, loveliness, stupidity, holiness, purity\nand bestiality neither detract from nor add to its unalterable\npower. As the earth revolves upon its axis and reveals night and\nday, Spring, Summer and Winter, so it reveals this ceaselessly\nworking Force. Men who were as gods have been uplifted or broken\nby it, fools have trifled with it, brutes have sullied it, saints\nhave worshipped, poets sung and wits derided it. As electricity\nis a force death dealing, or illuminating and power bestowing, so\nis this Great Impeller, and it is fatuous--howsoever worldly wise\nor moderately sardonic one would choose to be--to hint ironically\nthat its proportions are less than the ages have proved them.\nWhether a world formed without a necessity for the presence and\nassistance of this psychological factor would have been a better\nor a worse one, it is--by good fortune--not here imperative that\none should attempt to decide. What is--exists. None of us created\nit. Each one will deal with the Impeller as he himself either\nsanely or madly elects. He will also bear the consequences--and so\nalso may others.\n\nOf this force the Head of the House of Coombe and his old friend\nknew much and had often spoken to each other. They had both been\naccustomed to recognizing its signs subtle or crude, and watching\ntheir development. They had seen it in the eyes of creatures young\nenough to be called boys and girls, they had heard it in musical\nlaughter and in silly giggles, they had seen it express itself in\ntragedy and comedy and watched it end in union or in a nothingness\nwhich melted away like a wisp of fog. But they knew it was a thing\nomnipresent and that no one passed through life untouched by it\nin some degree.\n\nYears before this evening two children playing in a garden had\nnot know that the Power--the Thing--drew them with its greatest\nstrength because among myriads of atoms they two were created for\noneness. Enraptured and unaware they played together, their souls\nand bodies drawn nearer each other every hour.\n\nSo it was that--without being portentous--one may say that when\nan unusually beautiful and unusually well dressed and perfectly\nfitted young man turned involuntarily in the particular London ball\nroom in which Mrs. Gareth-Lawless' daughter watched the dancers,\nand looked unintentionally into the eyes of a girl standing\nfor a moment near the wide entrance doors, the inexplicable and\nunconquerable Force reconnected its currents again.\n\nDonal Muir's eyes only widened a little for a second's time. He\nhad not known why he had suddenly looked around and he did not\nknow why he was conscious of something which startled him a little.\nYou could not actually stare at a girl because your eyes chanced\nto get entangled in hers for a second as you danced past her. It\nwas true she was of a startling prettiness and there was something--.\nYes, there was SOMETHING which drew the eye and--. He did not know\nwhat it was. It had actually given him a sort of electric shock.\nHe laughed at himself a little and then his open brow looked\npuzzled for a moment.\n\n\"You saw Miss Lawless,\" said Sara Studleigh who was at the moment\ndancing prettily with him. She was guilty of something which might\nhave been called a slight giggle, but it was good-natured. \"I\nknow, you saw Miss Lawless--the pretty one near the door.\"\n\n\"There are so many pretty ones near everything. You can't lift your\neyes without seeing one,\" Donal answered. \"What a lot of them!\"\n(The sense of having received a slight electric shock made you\nfeel that you must look again and find out what had caused it, he\nwas thinking.)\n\n\"She is the one with the eyelashes.\"\n\n\"I have eyelashes--so have you,\" looking down at hers with a very\ntaking expression. Hers were in fact nice ones.\n\n\"But ours are not two inches long and they don't make a big soft\ncircle round our eyes when we look at anyone.\"\n\n\"Please look up and let me see,\" said Donal. \"When I asked you to\ndance with me I thought--\"\n\nWhat a \"way\" he had, Sara Studleigh was thinking. But \"perhaps it\nWAS the eyelashes\" was passing through Donal's mind. Very noticeable\neyelashes were rather arresting.\n\n\"I knew you saw her,\" said Sara Studleigh, \"because I have happened\nto be near two or three people this evening when they caught their\nfirst sight of her.\"\n\n\"What happens to them?\" asked Donal Muir.\n\n\"They forget where they are,\" she laughed, \"and don't say anything\nfor a few seconds.\"\n\n\"I should not want to forget where I am. It wouldn't be possible\neither,\" answered Donal. (\"But that was it,\" he thought. \"For a\nminute I forgot.\")\n\nOne should not dance with one girl and talk to her about another.\nWisely he led her to other subjects. The music was swinging through\nthe air performing its everlasting miracle of swinging young souls\nand pulses with it, the warmed flowers breathed more perceptible\nscent, sweet chatter and laughter, swaying colour and glowing eyes\nconcentrated in making magic. This beautiful young man's pulses\nonly beat with the rest--as one with the pulse of the Universe.\nLady Lothwell acting for the Duchess was very kind to him finding\nhim another partner as soon as a new dance began--this time her\nown daughter, Lady Kathryn.\n\nEven while he had been tangoing with Sara Studleigh he had seen\nthe girl with the eyelashes, whirling about with someone, and\nwhen he began his dance with Kathryn, he caught a glimpse of her\nat the other end of the room. And almost immediately Kathryn spoke\nof her.\n\n\"I don't know when you will get a dance with Miss Lawless,\" she\nsaid. \"She is obliged to work out mathematical problems on her\nprogramme.\"\n\n\"I have a setter who fixes his eyes on you and waits without\nmoving until you look at him and then he makes a dart and you're\nobliged to pat him,\" he said. \"Perhaps if I go and stand near her\nand do that she will take notice of me.\"\n\n\"Take notice of him, the enslaving thing!\" thought Kathryn. \"She'd\njump--for all her talk about lepers--any girl would. He's TOO nice!\nThere's something about HIM too.\"\n\nRobin did not jump. She had no time to do it because one dance\nfollowed another so quickly and some of them were even divided in\ntwo or three pieces. But the thrill of the singing sound of the\nviolins behind the greenery, the perfume and stately spaces and\nthousand candlelights had suddenly been lifted on to another plane\nthough she had thought they could reach no higher one. Her whole\nbeing was a keen fine awareness. Every moment she was AWARE. After\nall the years--from the far away days--he had come back. No one\nhad dreamed of the queer half abnormal secret she had always kept\nto herself as a child--as a little girl--as a bigger one when she\nwould have died rather than divulge that in her loneliness there\nhad been something she had remembered--something she had held on\nto--a memory which she had actually made a companion of, making\npictures, telling herself stories in the dark, even inventing\nconversations which not for one moment had she thought would\nor could ever take place. But they had been living things to her\nand her one near warm comfort--closer, oh, so weirdly closer than\nkind, kind Dowie and dearly beloved Mademoiselle. She had wondered\nif the two would have disapproved if they had known--if Mademoiselle\nwould have been shocked if she had realized that sometimes when\nthey walked together there walked with them a growing, laughing\nboy in a swinging kilt and plaid and that he had a voice and eyes\nthat drew the heart out of your breast for joy. At first he had\nonly been a child like herself, but as she had grown he had grown\nwith her--but always taller, grander, marvellously masculine and\nbeyond compare. Yet never once had she dared to believe or hope\nthat he could take form before her eyes--a living thing. He had\nonly been the shadow she had loved and which could not be taken\naway from her because he was her secret and no one could ever know.\n\nThe music went swinging and singing with notes which were almost a\npain. And he was in the very room with her! Donal! Donal! He had\nnot known and did not know. He had laughed into her eyes without\nknowing--but he had come back. A young man now like all the rest,\nbut more beautiful. What a laugh, what wonderful shoulders, what\nwonderful dancing, how long and strongly smooth and supple he was\nin the line fabric of his clothes! Though her mind did not form\nthese things in words for her, it was only that her eyes saw all\nthe charm of him from head to foot, and told her that he was only\nmore than ever what he had been in the miraculous first days.\n\n\"Perhaps he will not find out at all,\" she thought, dancing all\nthe while and trying to talk as well as think. \"I was too little\nfor him to remember. I only remembered because I had nothing else.\nOh, if he should not find out!\" She could not go and tell him.\nEven if a girl could do such a thing, perhaps he could not recall\na childish incident of so long ago--such a small, small thing. It\nhad only been immense to her and so much water had flowed under\nhis bridge bearing so many flotillas. She had only stood and\nlooked down at a thin trickling stream which carried no ships at\nall. It was very difficult to keep her eyes from stealing--even\ndarting--about in search of him. His high fair head with the\nclipped wave in its hair could be followed if one dared be alert.\nHe danced with an auburn haired girl, he spun down the room with\na brown one, he paused for a moment to show the trick of a new step\nto a tall one with black coils. He was at the end of the room, he\nwas tangoing towards her and she felt her heart beat and beat.\nHe passed close by and his eyes turned upon her and after he had\npassed a queer little inner trembling would not cease. Oh! if he\nhad looked a little longer--if her partner would only carry her\npast him! And how dreadful she was to let herself feel so excited\nwhen he could not be EXPECTED to remember such a little thing--just\na baby playing with him in a garden. Oh!--her heart giving a leap--if\nhe would look--if he would LOOK!\n\nWhen did she first awaken to a realization--after what seemed years\nand years of waiting and not being able to conquer the inwardly\ntrembling feeling--that he was BEGINNING to look--that somehow he\nhad become aware of her presence and that it drew his eyes though\nthere was no special recognition in them? Down the full length\nof the room they met hers first, and again as he passed with yet\nanother partner. Then when he was resting between danced and being\nvery gay indeed--though somehow he always seemed gay. He had been\ngay when they played in the Gardens. Yes, his eyes cane and found\nher. She thought he spoke of her to someone near him. Of course\nRobin looked away and tried not to look again too soon. But when\nin spite of intention and even determination, something forced her\nglance and made it a creeping, following glance--there were his\neyes again. She was frightened each time it happened, but he was\nnot. She began to know with new beatings of the pulse that he no\nlonger looked by chance, but because he wanted to see her--and\nwished her to see him, as if he had begun to call to her with a\ngay Donal challenge. It was like that, though his demeanour was\nfaultlessly correct.\n\nThe incident of their meeting was faultlessly correct, also, when\nafter one of those endless lapses of time Lady Lothwell appeared\nand presented him as if the brief ceremony were one of the most\nordinary in existence. The conventional grace of his bow said no\nmore than George's had said to those looking on, but when he put\nhis arm round her and they began to sway together in the dance,\nRobin wondered in terror if he could not feel the beating of her\nheart under his hand. If he could it would be horrible--but it\nwould not stop. To be so near--to try to believe it--to try to\nmake herself remember that she could mean nothing to him and that\nit was only she who was shaking--for nothing! But she could not\nhelp it. This was the disjointed kind of thing that flew past her\nmental vision. She was not a shy girl, but she could not speak.\nCuriously enough he also was quite silent for several moments.\nThey danced for a space without a word and they did not notice\nthat people began to watch them because they were an attracting\npair to watch. And the truth was that neither of the two knew in\nthe least what the other thought.\n\n\"That--is a beautiful waltz,\" he said at last. He said it in a\nlow meaning voice as if it were a sort of emotional confidence.\nHe had not actually meant to speak in such a tone, but when he\nrealized what its sound had been he did not care in the least.\nWhat was the matter with him?\n\n\"Yes,\" Robin answered. (Only \"Yes.\")\n\nHe had not known when he glanced at her first, he was saying\nmentally. He could not, of course, swear to her now. But what an\nextraordinary thing that--! She was like a swallow--she was like\nany swift flying thing on a man's arm. One could go on to the end\nof time. Once round the great ball room, twice, and as the third\nround began he gave a little laugh and spoke again.\n\n\"I am going to ask you a question. May I?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Is your name Robin?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she could scarcely breathe it.\n\n\"I thought it was,\" in the voice in which he had spoken of the\nmusic. \"I hoped it was--after I first began to suspect. I HOPED\nit was.\"\n\n\"It is--it is.\"\n\n\"Did we--\" he had not indeed meant that his arm should hold her\na shade closer, but--in spite of himself--it did because he was\nafter all so little more than a boy, \"--did we play together in\na garden?\"\n\n\"Yes--yes,\" breathed Robin. \"We did.\" Surely she heard a sound\nas if he had caught a quick breath. But after it there were a few\nmore steps and another brief space of silence.\n\n\"I knew,\" he said next, very low. \"I KNEW that we played together\nin a garden.\"\n\n\"You did not know when you first looked at me tonight.\" Innocently\nrevealing that even his first glance had been no casual thing to\nher.\n\nBut his answer revealed something too.\n\n\"You were near the door--just coming into the room. I didn't know\nwhy you startled me. I kept looking for you afterwards in the\ncrowd.\"\n\n\"I didn't see you look,\" said Robin softly, revealing still more\nin her utter inexperience.\n\n\"No, because you wouldn't look at me--you were too much engaged.\nDo you like this step?\"\n\n\"I like them all.\"\n\n\"Do you always dance like this? Do you always make your partner\nfeel as if he had danced with you all his life?\"\n\n\"It is--because we played together in the garden,\" said Robin\nand then was quite terrified at herself. Because after all--after\nall they were only two conventional young people meeting for the\nfirst time at a dance, not knowing each other in the least. It\nwas really the first time. The meeting of two children could not\ncount. But the beating and strange elated inward tremor would not\nstop.\n\nAs for him he felt abnormal also and he was usually a very normal\ncreature. It was abnormal to be so excited that he found himself,\nas it were, upon another plane, because he had recognized and was\ndancing with a girl he had not seen since she was five or six.\nIt was not normal that he should be possessed by a desire to keep\nnear to her, overwhelmed by an impelling wish to talk to her--to\nask her questions. About what--about herself--themselves--the years\nbetween--about the garden.\n\n\"It began to come back bit by bit after I had two fair looks. You\npassed me several times though you didn't know.\" (Oh! had she not\nknown!) \"I had been promised some dances by other people. But I\nwent to Lady Lothwell. She's very kind.\"\n\nBack swept the years and it had all begun again, the wonderful\nhappiness--just as the anguish had swept back on the night her\nmother had come to talk to her. As he had brought it into her\ndreary little world then, he brought it now. He had the power.\nShe was so happy that she seemed to be only waiting to hear what\nhe would say--as if that were enough. There are phases like this--rare\nones--and it was her fate that through such a phase she was passing.\n\nIt was indeed true that much more water had passed under his\nbridge than under hers, but now--! Memory reproduced for him with\nan acuteness like actual pain, a childish torment he thought he had\nforgotten. And it was as if it had been endured only yesterday--and\nas if the urge to speak and explain was as intense as it had been\non the first day.\n\n\"She's very little and she won't understand,\" he had said to his\nmother. \"She's very little, really--perhaps she'll cry.\"\n\nHow monstrous it had seemed! Had she cried--poor little soul!\nHe looked down at her eyelashes. Her cheek had been of the same\ncolour and texture then. That came back to him too. The impulse to\ntighten his arms was infernally powerful--almost automatic.\n\n\"She has no one but me to remember!\" he heard his own child voice\nsaying fiercely. Good Lord, it WAS as if it had been yesterday.\nHe actually gulped something down in his throat.\n\n\"You haven't rested much,\" he said aloud. \"There's a conservatory\nwith marble seats and corners and a fountain going. Will you let\nme take you there when we stop dancing? I want to apologize to\nyou.\"\n\nThe eyelashes lifted themselves and made round her eyes the\nbig soft shadow of which Sara Studleigh had spoken. A strong and\nhealthy valvular organ in his breast lifted itself curiously at\nthe same time.\n\n\"To apologize?\"\n\nWas he speaking to her almost as if she were still four or five?\nIt was to the helplessness of those years he was about to explain--and\nyet he did not feel as though he were still eight.\n\n\"I want to tell you why I never came back to the garden. It was\na broken promise, wasn't it?\"\n\nThe music had not ceased, but they stopped dancing.\n\n\"Will you come?\" he said and she went with him like a child--just\nas she had followed in her babyhood. It seemed only natural to do\nwhat he asked.\n\nThe conservatory was like an inner Paradise now. The tropically\nscented warmth--the tiers on tiers of bloom above bloom--the\nsoftened swing of music--the splash of the fountain on water and\nleaves. Their plane had lifted itself too. They could hear the\nsplashing water and sometimes feel it in the corner seat of marble\nhe took her to. A crystal drop fell on her hand when she sat down.\nThe blue of his eyes was vaguely troubled and he spoke as if he\nwere not certain of himself.\n\n\"I was wakened up in what seemed to me the middle of the night,\"\nhe said, as if indeed the thing had happened only the day before.\n\"My mother was obliged to go back suddenly to Scotland. I was only\na little chap, but it nearly finished me. Parents and guardians\ndon't understand how gigantic such a thing can be. I had promised\nyou--we had promised each other--hadn't we?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Robin. Her eyes were fixed upon his face--open and\nunmoving. Such eyes! Such eyes! All the touchingness of the past\nwas in their waiting on his words.\n\n\"Children--little boys especially--are taught that they must not\ncry out when they are hurt. As I sat in the train through the\njourney that day I thought my heart would burst in my small breast.\nI turned my back and stared out of the window for fear my mother\nwould see my face. I'd always loved her. Do you know I think that\njust then I HATED her. I had never hated anything before. Good\nLord! What a thing for a little chap to go through! My mother was\nan angel, but she didn't KNOW.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Robin in a small strange voice and without moving her\ngaze. \"She didn't KNOW.\"\n\nHe had seated himself on a sort of low marble stool near her and\nhe held a knee with clasped hands. They were hands which held each\nother for the moment with a sort of emotional clinch. His position\nmade him look upward at her instead of down.\n\n\"It was YOU I was wild about,\" he said. \"You see it was YOU. I\ncould have stood it for myself. The trouble was that I felt I was\nsuch a big little chap. I thought I was years--ages older than\nyou--and mountains bigger,\" his faint laugh was touched with pity\nfor the smallness of the big little chap. \"You seemed so tiny and\npretty--and lonely.\"\n\n\"I was as lonely as a new-born bird fallen out of its nest.\"\n\n\"You had told me you had 'nothing.' You said no one had ever kissed\nyou. I'd been loved all my life. You had a wondering way of fixing\nyour eyes on me as if I could give you everything--perhaps it was\na coxy little chap's conceit that made me love you for it--but\nperhaps it wasn't.\"\n\n\"You WERE everything,\" Robin said--and the mere simpleness of\nthe way in which she said it brought the garden so near that he\nsmelt the warm hawthorn and heard the distant piano organ and it\nquickened his breath.\n\n\"It was because I kept seeing your eyes and hearing your laugh\nthat I thought my heart was bursting. I knew you'd go and wait for\nme--and gradually your little face would begin to look different.\nI knew you'd believe I'd come. 'She's little'--that was what I kept\nsaying to myself again and again. 'And she'll cry--awfully--and\nshe'll think I did it. She'll never know.' There,\"--he hesitated\na moment--\"there was a kind of mad shame in it. As if I'd BETRAYED\nyour littleness and your belief, though I was too young to know\nwhat betraying was.\"\n\nJust as she had looked at him before, \"as if he could give her\neverything,\" she was looking at him now. In what other way could\nshe look while he gave her this wonderful soothing, binding softly\nall the old wounds with unconscious, natural touch because he had\nreally been all her child being had been irradiated and warmed\nby. There was no pose in his manner--no sentimental or flirtatious\nyouth's affecting of a picturesque attitude. It was real and he\ntold her this thing because he must for his own relief.\n\n\"Did you cry?\" he said. \"Did my little chap's conceit make too\nmuch of it? I suppose I ought to hope it did.\"\n\nRobin put her hand softly against her heart.\n\n\"No,\" she answered. \"I was only a baby, but I think it KILLED\nsomething--here.\"\n\nHe caught a big hard breath.\n\n\"Oh!\" he said and for a few seconds simply sat and gazed at her.\n\n\"But it came to life again?\" he said afterwards.\n\n\"I don't know. I don't know what it was. Perhaps it could only\nlive in a very little creature. But it was killed.\"\n\n\"I say!\" broke from him. \"It was like wringing a canary's neck\nwhen it was singing in the sun!\"\n\nA sudden swelling of the music of a new dance swept in to them\nand he rose and stood up before her.\n\n\"Thank you for giving me my chance to tell you,\" he said. \"This\nwas the apology. You have been kind to listen.\"\n\n\"I wanted to listen,\" Robin said. \"I am glad I didn't live a long\ntime and grow old and die without your telling me. When I saw you\ntonight I almost said aloud, 'He's come back!'\"\n\n\"I'm glad I came. It's queer how one can live a thing over again.\nThere have been all the years between for us both. For me there's\nbeen all a lad's life--tutors and Eton and Oxford and people and\nlots of travel and amusement. But the minute I set eyes on you\nnear the door something must have begun to drag me back. I'll own\nI've never liked to let myself dwell on that memory. It wasn't a\ngood thing because it had a trick of taking me back in a fiendish\nway to the little chap with his heart bursting in the railway\ncarriage--and the betrayal feeling. It's morbid to let yourself\ngrouse over what can't be undone. So you faded away. But when I\ndanced past you somehow I knew I'd come on SOMETHING. It made me\nrestless. I couldn't keep my eyes away decently. Then all at once\nI KNEW! I couldn't tell you what the effect was. There you were\nagain--I was as much obliged to tell you as I should have been if\nI'd found you at Braemarnie when I got there that night. Conventions\nhad nothing to do with it. It would not have mattered even if\nyou'd obviously thought I was a fool. You might have thought so,\nyou know.\"\n\n\"No, I mightn't,\" answered Robin. \"There have been no Eton and\nOxford and amusements for me. This is my first party.\"\n\nShe rose as he had done and they stood for a second or so with their\neyes resting on each other's--each with a young smile quivering\ninto life which neither was conscious of. It was she who first\nwakened and came back. He saw a tiny pulse flutter in her throat\nand she lifted her hand with a delicate gesture.\n\n\"This dance was Lord Halwyn's and we've sat it out. We must go\nback to the ball room.\"\n\n\"I--suppose--we must,\" he answered with slow reluctance--but he\ncould scarcely drag his eyes away from hers--even though he obeyed,\nand they turned and went.\n\nIn the shining ball room the music rose and fell and swelled again\ninto ecstasy as he took her white young lightness in his arm and\nthey swayed and darted and swooped like things of the air--while\nthe old Duchess and Lord Coombe looked on almost unseeing and\ntalked in murmurs of Sarajevo."