In the added suite of rooms at the back of the house, Robin grew
through the years in which It was growing also. On the occasion
when her mother saw her, she realized that she was not at least
going to look like a barmaid. At no period of her least refulgent
moment did she verge upon this type. Dowie took care of her and
Mademoiselle Valle educated her with the assistance of certain
masters who came to give lessons in German and Italian.
"Why only German and Italian and French," said Feather, "why not
Latin and Greek, as well, if she is to be so accomplished?"
"It is modern languages one needs at this period. They ought
to be taught in the Board Schools," Coombe replied. "They are
not accomplishments but workman's tools. Nationalities are not
separated as they once were. To be familiar with the language of
one's friends--and one's enemies--is a protective measure."
"What country need one protect oneself against? When all the
kings and queens are either married to each other's daughters or
cousins or take tea with each other every year or so. Just think
of the friendliness of Germany for instance----"
"I do," said Coombe, "very often. That is one of the reasons I
choose German rather than Latin and Greek. Julius Caesar and Nero
are no longer reasons for alarm."
"Is the Kaiser with his seventeen children and his respectable
Frau?" giggled Feather. "All that he cares about is that women
shall be made to remember that they are born for nothing but to
cook and go to church and have babies. One doesn't wonder at the
clothes they wear."
It was not a month after this, however, when Lord Coombe, again
warming himself at his old friend's fire, gave her a piece of
information.
"The German teacher, Herr Wiese, has hastily returned to his own
country," he said.
She lifted her eyebrows inquiringly.
"He found himself suspected of being a spy," was his answer. "With
most excellent reason. Some first-rate sketches of fortifications
were found in a box he left behind him in his haste. The country--all
countries--are sown with those like him. Mild spectacled students
and clerks in warehouses and manufactories are weighing and
measuring resources; round-faced, middle-aged governesses are
making notes of conversation and of any other thing which may be
useful. In time of war--if they were caught at what are now their
simple daily occupations--they would be placed against a wall and
shot. As it is, they are allowed to play about among us and slip
away when some fellow worker's hint suggests it is time."
"German young men are much given to spending a year or so here
in business positions," the Duchess wore a thoughtful air. "That
has been going on for a decade or so. One recognizes their Teuton
type in shops and in the streets. They say they come to learn the
language and commercial methods."
"Not long ago a pompous person, who is the owner of a big shop,
pointed out to me three of them among his salesmen," Coombe said.
"He plumed himself on his astuteness in employing them. Said they
worked for low wages and cared for very little else but finding
out how things were done in England. It wasn't only business
knowledge they were after, he said; they went about everywhere--into
factories and dock yards, and public buildings, and made funny
little notes and sketches of things they didn't understand--so
that they could explain them in Germany. In his fatuous, insular
way, it pleased him to regard them rather as a species of aborigines
benefiting by English civilization. The English Ass and the
German Ass are touchingly alike. The shade of difference is that
the English Ass's sublime self-satisfaction is in the German Ass
self-glorification. The English Ass smirks and plumes himself;
the German Ass blusters and bullies and defies."
"Do you think of engaging another German Master for the little
girl?" the Duchess asked the question casually.
"I have heard of a quiet young woman who has shown herself thorough
and well-behaved in a certain family for three years. Perhaps
she also will disappear some day, but, for the present, she will
serve the purpose."
As he had not put into words to others any explanation of the
story of the small, smart establishment in the Mayfair street, so
he had put into words no explanation to her. That she was aware
of its existence he knew, but what she thought of it, or imagined
he himself thought of it, he had not at any period inquired.
Whatsoever her point of view might be, he knew it would be unbiassed,
clear minded and wholly just. She had asked no question and made
no comment. The rapid, whirligig existence of the well-known
fashionable groups, including in their circles varieties of the
Mrs. Gareth-Lawless type, were to be seen at smart functions and
to be read of in newspapers and fashion reports, if one's taste
lay in the direction of a desire to follow their movements. The
time had passed when pretty women of her kind were cut off by
severities of opinion from the delights of a world they had thrown
their dice daringly to gain. The worldly old axiom, "Be virtuous
and you will be happy," had been ironically paraphrased too often.
"Please yourself and you will be much happier than if you were
virtuous," was a practical reading.
But for a certain secret which she alone knew and which no one
would in the least have believed, if she had proclaimed it from
the housetops, Feather would really have been entirely happy.
And, after all, the fly in her ointment was merely an odd sting
a fantastic Fate had inflicted on her vanity and did not in any
degree affect her pleasures. So many people lived in glass houses
that the habit of throwing stones had fallen out of fashion as an
exercise. There were those, too, whose houses of glass, adroitly
given the air of being respectable conservatories, engendered in
the dwellers therein a leniency towards other vitreous constructions.
As a result of this last circumstance, there were times when
quite stately equipages drew up before Mrs. Gareth-Lawless' door
and visiting cards bearing the names of acquaintances much to be
desired were left upon the salver presented by Jennings. Again,
as a result of this circumstance, Feather employed some laudable
effort in her desire to give her own glass house the conservatory
aspect. Her little parties became less noisy, if they still remained
lively. She gave an "afternoon" now and then to which literary
people and artists, and persons who "did things" were invited.
She was pretty enough to allure an occasional musician to "do
something", some new poet to read or recite. Fashionable people
were asked to come and hear and talk to them, and, in this way,
she threw out delicate fishing lines here and there, and again
and again drew up a desirable fish of substantial size. Sometimes
the vague rumour connected with the name of the Head of the House
of Coombe was quite forgotten and she was referred to amiably as
"That beautiful creature, Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." She was left a
widow when she was nothing but a girl. If she hadn't had a little
money of her own, and if her husband's relatives hadn't taken care
of her, she would have had a hard time of it. She is amazingly
clever at managing her, small income, they added. Her tiny house
is one of the jolliest little places in London--always full of
good looking people and amusing things.
But, before Robin was fourteen, she had found out that the house
she lived in was built of glass and that any chance stone would
break its panes, even if cast without particular skill in aiming.
She found it out in various ways, but the seed from which all
things sprang to the fruition of actual knowledge was the child
tragedy through which she had learned that Donal had been taken
from her--because his mother would not let him love and play with
a little girl whose mother let Lord Coombe come to her house--because
Lord Coombe was so bad that even servants whispered secrets about
him. Her first interpretation of this had been that of a mere baby,
but it had filled her being with detestation of him, and curious
doubts of her mother. Donal's mother, who was good and beautiful,
would not let him come to see her and kept Donal away from him.
If the Lady Downstairs was good, too, then why did laugh and
talk to him and seem to like him? She had thought this over for
hours--sometimes wakening in the night to lie and puzzle over
it feverishly. Then, as time went by, she had begun to remember
that she had never played with any of the children in the Square
Gardens. It had seemed as though this had been because Andrews
would not let her. But, if she was not fit to play with Donal,
perhaps the nurses and governesses and mothers of the other children
knew about it and would not trust their little girls and boys to
her damaging society. She did not know what she could have done
to harm them--and Oh! how COULD she have harmed Donal!--but there
must be something dreadful about a child whose mother knew bad
people--something which other children could "catch" like scarlet
fever. From this seed other thoughts had grown. She did not remain
a baby long. A fervid little brain worked for her, picked up hints
and developed suggestions, set her to singularly alert reasoning
which quickly became too mature for her age. The quite horrid little
girl, who flouncingly announced that she could not be played with
any more "because of Lord Coombe" set a spark to a train. After
that time she used to ask occasional carefully considered questions
of Dowson and Mademoiselle Valle, which puzzled them by their
vagueness. The two women were mutually troubled by a moody habit
she developed of sitting absorbed in her own thoughts, and with
a concentrated little frown drawing her brows together. They did
not know that she was silently planning a subtle cross examination
of them both, whose form would be such that neither of them could
suspect it of being anything but innocent. She felt that she was
growing cunning and deceitful, but she did not care very much.
She possessed a clever and determined, though very young brain.
She loved both Dowson and Mademoiselle, but she must find out
about things for herself, and she was not going to harm or trouble
them. They would never know she had found out: Whatsoever she
discovered, she would keep to herself.
But one does not remain a baby long, and one is a little girl
only a few years, and, even during the few years, one is growing
and hearing and seeing all the time. After that, one is beginning
to be a rather big girl and one has seen books and newspapers, and
overheard scraps of things from servants. If one is brought up
in a convent and allowed to read nothing but literature selected
by nuns, a degree of aloofness from knowledge may be counted
upon--though even convent schools, it is said, encounter their
difficulties in perfect discipline.
Robin, in her small "Palace" was well taken care of but her library
was not selected by nuns. It was chosen with thought, but it was
the library of modern youth. Mademoiselle Valle's theories of a
girl's education were not founded on a belief that, until marriage,
she should be led about by a string blindfolded, and with ears
stopped with wax.
"That results in a bleating lamb's being turned out of its fold to
make its way through a jungle full of wild creatures and pitfalls
it has never heard of," she said in discussing the point with Dowson.
She had learned that Lord Coombe agreed with her. He, as well as
she, chose the books and his taste was admirable. Its inclusion
of an unobtrusive care for girlhood did not preclude the exercise
of the intellect. An early developed passion for reading led the
child far and wide. Fiction, history, poetry, biography, opened
up vistas to a naturally quick and eager mind. Mademoiselle found
her a clever pupil and an affection-inspiring little being even
from the first.
She always felt, however, that in the depths of her something held
itself hidden--something she did not speak of. It was some thought
which perhaps bewildered her, but which something prevented her
making clear to herself by the asking of questions. Mademoiselle
Valle finally became convinced that she never would ask the
questions.
Arrived a day when Feather swept into the Palace with some
visitors. They were two fair and handsome little girls of thirteen
and fourteen, whose mother, having taken them shopping, found it
would suit her extremely well to drop then somewhere for an hour
while she went to her dressmaker. Feather was quite willing that
they should be left with Robin and Mademoiselle until their own
governess called for them.
"Here are Eileen and Winifred Erwyn, Robin," she said, bringing
them in. "Talk to them and show them your books and things until
the governess comes. Dowson, give them some cakes and tea."
Mrs. Erwyn was one of the most treasured of Feather's circle. Her
little girls' governess was a young Frenchwoman, entirely unlike
Mademoiselle Valle. Eileen and Winifred saw Life from their
schoolroom windows as an open book. Why not, since their governess
and their mother's French maid conversed freely, and had rather
penetrating voices even when they were under the impression that
they lowered them out of deference to blameless youth. Eileen and
Winifred liked to remain awake to listen as long as they could
after they went to bed. They themselves had large curious eyes
and were given to whispering and giggling.
They talked a good deal to Robin and assumed fashionable little
grown up airs. They felt themselves mature creatures as compared
to her, since she was not yet thirteen. They were so familiar
with personages and functions that Robin felt that they must have
committed to memory every morning the column in the Daily Telegraph
known as "London Day by Day." She sometimes read it herself,
because it was amusing to her to read about parties and weddings
and engagements. But it did not seem easy to remember. Winifred
and Eileen were delighted to display themselves in the character
of instructresses. They entertained Robin for a short time, but,
after that, she began to dislike the shared giggles which so often
broke out after their introduction of a name or an incident. It
seemed to hint that they were full of amusing information which
they held back. Then they were curious and made remarks and asked
questions. She began to think them rather horrid.
"We saw Lord Coombe yesterday," said Winifred at last, and the
unnecessary giggle followed.
"We think he wears the most beautiful clothes we ever saw! You
remember his overcoat, Winnie?" said Eileen. "He MATCHES so--and
yet you don't know exactly how he matches," and she giggled also.
"He is the best dressed man in London," Winifred stated quite
grandly. "I think he is handsome. So do Mademoiselle and Florine."
Robin said nothing at all. What Dowson privately called "her
secret look" made her face very still. Winifred saw the look and,
not understanding it or her, became curious.
"Don't you?" she said.
"No," Robin answered. "He has a wicked face. And he's old, too."
"You think he's old because you're only about twelve," inserted
Eileen. "Children think everybody who is grown-up must be old.
I used to. But now people don't talk and think about age as they
used to. Mademoiselle says that when a man has distinction he is
always young--and nicer than boys."
Winifred, who was persistent, broke in.
"As to his looking wicked, I daresay he IS wicked in a sort of
interesting way. Of course, people say all sorts of things about
him. When he was quite young, he was in love with a beautiful
little royal Princess--or she was in love with him--and her husband
either killed her or she died of a broken heart--I don't know
which."
Mademoiselle Valle had left them for a short time feeling that
they were safe with their tea and cakes and would feel more at ease
relieved of her presence. She was not long absent, but Eileen and
Winifred, being avid of gossip and generally eliminated subjects,
"got in their work" with quite fevered haste. They liked the idea
of astonishing Robin.
Eileen bent forward and lowered her voice.
"They do say that once Captain Thorpe was fearfully jealous of
him and people wonder that he wasn't among the co-respondents."
The word "co-respondent" filled her with self-gratulation even
though she only whispered it.
"Co-respondents?" said Robin.
They both began to whisper at once--quite shrilly in their haste.
They knew Mademoiselle might return at any moment.
"The great divorce case, you know! The Thorpe divorce case the
papers are so full of. We get the under housemaid to bring it to
us after Mademoiselle has done with it. It's so exciting! Haven't
you been reading it? Oh!"
"No, I haven't," answered Robin. "And I don't know about co-respondents,
but, if they are anything horrid, I daresay he WAS one of them."
And at that instant Mademoiselle returned and Dowson brought
in fresh cakes. The governess, who was to call for her charges,
presented herself not long afterwards and the two enterprising
little persons were taken away.
"I believe she's JEALOUS of Lord Coombe," Eileen whispered to
Winifred, after they reached home.
"So do I," said Winifred wisely. "She can't help but know how he
ADORES Mrs. Gareth-Lawless because she's so lovely. He pays for
all her pretty clothes. It's silly of her to be jealous--like a
baby."
Robin sometimes read newspapers, though she liked books better.
Newspapers were not forbidden her. She been reading an enthralling
book and had not seen a paper for some days. She at once searched for
one and, finding it, sat down and found also the Thorpe Divorce
Case. It was not difficult of discovery, as it filled the principal
pages with dramatic evidence and amazing revelations.
Dowson saw her bending over the spread sheets, hot-eyed and intense
in her concentration.
"What are you reading, my love?" she asked.
The little flaming face lifted itself. It was unhappy, obstinate,
resenting. It wore no accustomed child look and Dowson felt rather
startled.
"I'm reading the Thorpe Divorce Case, Dowie," she answered
deliberately and distinctly.
Dowie came close to her.
"It's an ugly thing to read, my lamb," she faltered. "Don't you
read it. Such things oughtn't to be allowed in newspapers. And
you're a little girl, my own dear." Robin's elbow rested firmly
on the table and her chin firmly in her hand. Her eyes were not
like a bird's.
"I'm nearly thirteen," she said. "I'm growing up. Nobody can stop
themselves when they begin to grow up. It makes them begin to find
out things. I want to ask you something, Dowie."
"Now, lovey--!" Dowie began with tremor. Both she and Mademoiselle
had been watching the innocent "growing up" and fearing a time
would come when the widening gaze would see too much. Had it come
as soon as this?
Robin suddenly caught the kind woman's wrists in her hands and
held them while she fixed her eyes on her. The childish passion
of dread and shyness in them broke Dowson's heart because it was
so ignorant and young.
"I'm growing up. There's something--I MUST know something! I never
knew how to ask about it before." It was so plain to Dowson that
she did not know how to ask about it now. "Someone said that Lord
Coombe might have been a co-respondent in the Thorpe case----"
"These wicked children!" gasped Dowie. "They're not children at
all!"
"Everybody's horrid but you and Mademoiselle," cried Robin, brokenly.
She held the wrists harder and ended in a sort of outburst. "If
my father were alive--could he bring a divorce suit----And would
Lord Coombe----"
Dowson burst into open tears. And then, so did Robin. She dropped
Dowson's wrists and threw her arms around her waist, clinging to
it in piteous repentance.
"No, I won't!" she cried out. "I oughtn't to try to make you tell
me. You can't. I'm wicked to you. Poor Dowie--darling Dowie! I
want to KISS you, Dowie! Let me--let me!"
She sobbed childishly on the comfortable breast and Dowie hugged
her close and murmured in a choked voice,
"My lamb! My pet lamb!"