She saw him again during the following week and was obliged to
tell him that she had not been able to take her charge to Kensington
Gardens on the morning that he had appointed but that, as the girl
was fond of the place and took pleasure in watching the children
sailing their boats on the Round Pond, it would be easy to lead
her there. He showed her a photograph of the woman she would find
sitting on a particular bench, and he required she should look
at it long enough to commit the face to memory. It was that of a
quietly elegant woman with gentle eyes.
"She will call herself Lady Etynge," he said. "You are to remember
that you once taught her little girl in Paris. There must be no haste
and no mistakes. It be well for them to meet--by accident--several
times."
Later he aid to her:
"When Lady Etynge invites her to go to her house, you will, of
course, go with her. You will not stay. Lady Etynge will tell you
what to do."
In words, he did not involve himself by giving any hint of his
intentions. So far as expression went, he might have had none,
whatever. Her secret conclusion was that he knew, if he could see
the girl under propitious circumstances--at the house of a clever
and sympathetic acquaintance, he need have no shadow of a doubt
as to the result of his efforts to please her. He knew she was
a lonely, romantic creature, who had doubtless read sentimental
books and been allured by their heroes. She was, of course, just
ripe for young peerings into the land of love making. His had
been no peerings, thought the pale Hirsch sadly. What girl--or
woman--could resist the alluring demand of his drooping eyes, if
he chose to allow warmth to fill them? Thinking of it, she almost
gnashed her teeth. Did she not see how he would look, bending his
high head and murmuring to a woman who shook with joy under his
gaze? Had she not seen it in her own forlorn, hopeless dreams?
What did it matter if what the world calls disaster befell the
girl? Fraulein Hirsch would not have called it disaster. Any woman
would have been paid a thousand times over. His fancy might last
a few months. Perhaps he would take her to Berlin--or to some
lovely secret spot in the mountains where he could visit her.
What heaven--what heaven! She wept, hiding her face on her hot,
dry hands.
But it would not last long--and he would again think only of the
immense work--the august Machine, of which he was a mechanical
part--and he would be obliged to see and talk to her, Mathilde
Hirsch, having forgotten the rest. She could only hold herself
decently in check by telling herself again and again that it was
only natural that such things should come and go in his magnificent
life, and that the sooner it began the sooner it would end.
It was a lovely morning when her pupil walked with her in Kensington
Gardens, and, quite naturally, strolled towards the Round Pond.
Robin was happy because there were flutings of birds in the air,
gardeners were stuffing crocuses and hyacinths into the flower
beds, there were little sweet scents floating about and so it was
Spring. She pulled a bare looking branch of a lilac bush towards
her and stooped and kissed the tiny brown buttons upon it, half
shyly.
"I can't help it when I see the first ones swelling on the twigs.
They are working so hard to break out into green," she said. "One
loves everything at this time--everything! Look at the children
round the pond. That fat, little boy in a reefer and brown leather
leggings is bursting with joy. Let us go and praise his boat,
Fraulein."
They went and Robin praised the boat until its owner was breathless
with rapture. Fraulein Hirsch, standing near her, looked furtively
at all the benches round the circle, giving no incautiously interested
glance to any one of them in particular. Presently, however, she
said:
"I think that is Lady Etynge sitting on the third bench from
here. I said to you that I had heard she was in London. I wonder
if her daughter is still in the Convent at Tours?"
When Robin returned, she saw a quiet woman in perfect mourning
recognize Fraulein Hirsch with a a bow and smile which seemed to
require nearer approach.
"We must go and speak to her." Fraulein Hirsch said. "I know she
wil wish me to present you. She is fond of young girls--because
of Helene."
Robin went forward prettily. The woman was gentle looking and
attracting. She had a sweet manner and was very kind to Fraulein
Hirsch. She seemed to know her well and to like her. Her daughter,
Helene, was still in the Convent at Tours but was expected home
very shortly. She would be glad to find that Fraulein Hirsch was
in London.
"I have turned the entire top story of my big house into a pretty
suite for her. She has a fancy for living high above the street,"
smiled Lady Etynge, indulgently. Perhaps she was a "Mother" person,
Robin thought.
Both her looks and talk were kind, and she was very nice in her
sympathetic interest in the boats and the children's efforts to
sail them.
"I often bring my book here and forget to read, because I find I
am watching them," she said. "They are so eager and so triumphant
when a boat gets across the Pond."
She went away very soon and Robin watched her out of sight with
interest.
They saw her again a few days later and talked a little more. She
was not always near the Pond when they came, and they naturally
did not go there each time they walked together, though Fraulein
Hirsch was fond of sitting and watching the children.
She had been to take tea with her former employer, she told Robin
one day, and she was mildly excited by the preparations for Helene,
who had been educated entirely in a French convent and was not
like an English girl at all. She had always been very delicate
and the nuns seemed to know how to take care of her and calm her
nerves with their quiet ways.
"Her mother is rather anxious about her coming to London. She has,
of course, no young friends here and she is so used to the quiet
of convent life," the Fraulein explained. "That is why the rooms
at the top of the house have been arranged for her. She will hear
so little sound. I confess I am anxious about her myself. Lady
Etynge is wondering if she can find a suitable young companion to
live in the house with her. She must be a young lady and perfectly
educated--and with brightness and charm. Not a person like myself,
but one who can be treated as an equal and a friend--almost a
playmate."
"It would be an agreeable position," commented Robin, thoughtfully.
"Extremely so," answered Fraulein Hirsch. "Helene is a most lovable
and affectionate girl. And Lady Etynge is rich enough to pay a
large salary. Helene is her idol. The suite of rooms is perfect.
In Germany, girls are not spoiled in that way. It is not considered
good for them."
It was quite natural, since she felt an interest in Helene, that,
on their next meeting, Robin should find pleasure in sitting on
the green bench near the girl's mother and hear her speak of her
daughter. She was not diffuse or intimate in her manner. Helene
first appeared in the talk as a result of a polite inquiry made
by Fraulein Hirsch. Robin gathered, as she listened, that this
particular girl was a tenderly loved and cared for creature and
was herself gentle and intelligent and loving. She sounded like
the kind of a girl one would be glad to have for a friend. Robin
wondered and wondered--if she would "do." Perhaps, out of tactful
consideration for the feelings of Fraulein Hirsch who would not
"do"--because she was neither bright, nor pretty, nor a girl--Lady
Etynge touched but lightly on her idea that she might find a sort
of sublimated young companion for her daughter.
"It would be difficult to advertise for what one wants," she said.
"Yes. To state that a girl must be clever and pretty and graceful,
and attractive, would make it difficult for a modest young lady
to write a suitable reply," said Fraulein Hirsch grimly, and both
Lady Etynge and Robin smiled.
"Among your own friends," Lady Etynge said to Robin, a little
pathetically in her yearning, "do you know of anyone--who might
know of anyone who would fit in? Sometimes there are poor little
cousins, you know?"
"Or girls who have an independent spirit and would like to support
themselves," said the Fraulein. "There are such girls in these
advanced times."
"I am afraid I don't know anyone," answered Robin. Modesty also
prevented her from saying that she thought she did. She herself
was well educated, she was good tempered and well bred, and she
had known for some time that she was pretty.
"Perhaps Fraulein Hirsch may bring you in to have tea with me some
afternoon when you are out," Lady Etynge said kindly before she
left them. "I think you would like to see Helene's rooms. I should
be glad to hear what another girl thinks of them."
Robin was delighted. Perhaps this was a way opening to her. She
talked to Mademoiselle Valle about it and so glowed with hope that
Mademoiselle's heart was moved.
"Do you think I might go?" she said. "Do you think there is any
chance that I might be the right person? AM I nice enough--and
well enough educated, and ARE my manners good?"
She did not know exactly where Lady Etynge lived, but believed
it was one of those big houses in a certain dignified "Place"
they both knew--a corner house, she was sure, because--by mere
chance--she had one day seen Lady Etynge go into such a house as
if it were her own. She did not know the number, but they could
ask Fraulein.
Fraulein Hirsch was quite ready with detail concerning her former
patroness and her daughter. She obviously admired them very much.
Her manner held a touch of respectful reverence. She described
Helene's disposition and delicate nerves and the perfection of the
nuns' treatment of her.
She described the beauty of the interior of the house, its luxury
and convenience, and the charms of the suite of apartments prepared
for Helene. She thought the number of the house was No. 97 A. Lady
Etynge was the kindest employer she had ever had. She believed that
Miss Gareth-Lawless and Helene would be delighted with each other,
if they met, and her impression was that Lady Etynge privately
hoped they would become friends.
Her mild, flat face was so modestly amiable that Mademoiselle
Valle, who always felt her unattractive femininity pathetic, was
a little moved by her evident pleasure in having been the humble
means of providing Robin with acquaintances of an advantageous
kind.
No special day had been fixed upon for the visit and the cup of tea.
Robin was eager in secret and hoped Lady Etynge would not forget
to remind them of her invitation.
She did not forget. One afternoon--they had not seen her for several
days and had not really expected to meet her, because they took
their walk later than usual--they found her just rising from her
seat to go home as they appeared.
"Our little encounters almost assume the air of appointments," she
said. "This is very nice, but I am just going away, I am sorry to
say. I wonder--" she paused a moment, and then looked at Fraulein
Hirsch pleasantly; "I wonder if, in about an hour, you would bring
Miss Gareth-Lawless to me to have tea and tell me if she thinks
Helene will like her new rooms. You said you would like to see
them," brightly to Robin.
"You are very kind. I should like it so much," was Robin's answer.
Fraulein Hirsch was correctly appreciative of the condescension
shown to her. Her manner was the perfection of the exact shade
of unobtrusive chaperonship. There was no improper suggestion of
a mistaken idea that she was herself a guest, or, indeed, anything,
in fact, but a proper appendage to her charge. Robin had never
been fond of Fraulein as she was fond of Mademoiselle and Dowie,
still she was not only an efficient teacher, but also a good walker
and very fond of long tramps, which Mademoiselle was really not
strong enough for, but which Robin's slender young legs rejoiced
in.
The two never took cabs or buses, but always walked everywhere.
They walked on this occasion, and, about an hour later, arrived at
a large, corner house in Berford Place. A tall and magnificently
built footman opened the door for them, and they were handed into
a drawing room much grander than the one Robin sometimes glanced
into as she passed it, when she was at home. A quite beautiful
tea equipage awaited them on a small table, but Lady Etynge was
not in the room.
"What a beautiful house to live in," said Robin, "but, do you know,
the number ISN'T 97 A. I looked as we came in, and it is No. 25."
"Is it? I ought to have been more careful," answered Fraulein
Hirsch. "It is wrong to be careless even in small matters."
Almost immediately Lady Etynge came in and greeted them, with a
sort of gentle delight. She drew Robin down on to a sofa beside
her and took her hand and gave it a light pat which was a caress.
"Now you really ARE here," she said, "I have been so busy that
I have been afraid I should not have time to show you the rooms
before it was too late to make a change, if you thought anything
might be improved."
"I am sure nothing can improve them," said Robin, more dewy-eyed
than usual and even a thought breathless, because this was really
a sort of adventure, and she longed to ask if, by any chance,
she would "do." And she was so afraid that she might lose this
amazingly good opportunity, merely because she was too young and
inexperienced to know how she ought to broach the subject. She
had not thought yet of asking Mademoiselle Valle how it should be
done.
She was not aware that she looked at Lady Etynge with a heavenly,
little unconscious appeal, which made her enchanting. Lady Etynge
looked at her quite fixedly for an instant.
"What a child you are! And what a colour your cheeks and lips
are!" she said. "You are much--much prettier than Helene, my dear."
She got up and brought a picture from a side table to show it to
her.
"I think she is lovely," she said. "Is it became I am her mother?"
"Oh, no! Not because you are her mother!" exclaimed Robin. "She is
angelic!"
She was rather angelic, with her delicate uplifted face and her
communion veil framing it mistily.
The picture was placed near them and Robin looked at is many times
as they took their tea. To be a companion to a girl with a face
like that would be almost too much to ask of one's luck. There
was actual yearning in Robin's heart. Suddenly she realized that
she had missed something all her life, without knowing that she
missed it. It was the friendly nearness of youth like her own.
How she hoped that she might make Lady Etynge like her. After tea
was over, Lady Etynge spoke pleasantly to Fraulein Hirsch.
"I know that you wanted to register a letter. There is a post-office
just around the corner. Would you like to go and register it while
I take Miss Gareth-Lawless upstairs? You have seen the rooms. You
will only be away a few minutes."
Fraulein Hirsch was respectfully appreciative again. The letter
really was important. It contained money which she sent monthly
to her parents. This month she was rather late, and she would be
very glad to be allowed to attend to the matter without losing a
post.
So she went out of the drawing-room and down the stairs, and Robin
heard the front door close behind her with a slight thud. She had
evidently opened and closed it herself without waiting for the
footman.
The upper rooms in London houses--even in the large ones--are
usually given up to servants' bedrooms, nurseries, and school
rooms. Stately staircases become narrower as they mount, and the
climber gets glimpses of apartments which are frequently bare,
whatsoever their use, and, if not grubby in aspect, are dull and
uninteresting.
But, in Lady Etynge's house, it was plain that a good deal had
been done. Stairs had been altered and widened, walls had been
given fresh and delicate tints, and one laid one's hand on cream
white balustrades and trod on soft carpets. A good architect had
taken interest in the problems presented to him, and the result was
admirable. Partitions must have been removed to make rooms larger
and of better shape.
"Nothing could be altered without spoiling it!" exclaimed Robin,
standing in the middle of a sitting room, all freshness and exquisite
colour--the very pictures on the wall being part of the harmony.
All that a girl would want or love was there. There was nothing
left undone--unremembered. The soft Chesterfield lounge, which
was not too big and was placed near the fire, the writing table,
the books, the piano of satinwood inlaid with garlands; the lamp
to sit and read by.
"How glad she must be to come back to anyone who loves her so,"
said Robin.
Here was a quilted basket with three Persian kittens purring in
it, and she knelt and stroked their fluffiness, bending her slim
neck and showing how prettily the dark hair grew up from it. It was,
perhaps, that at which Lady Etynge was looking as she stood behind
her and watched her. The girl-nymph slenderness and flexibility
of her leaning body was almost touchingly lovely.
There were several other rooms and each one was, in its way, more
charming than the other. A library in Dresden blue and white, and
with peculiarly pretty windows struck the last note of cosiness.
All the rooms had pretty windows with rather small square panes
enclosed in white frames.
It was when she was in this room that Robin took her courage in
her hands. She must not let her chance go by. Lady Etynge was so
kind. She wondered if it would seem gauche and too informal to
speak now.
She stood quite upright and still, though her voice was not quite
steady when she began.
"Lady Etynge," she said, "you remember what Fraulein Hirsch said
about girls who wish to support themselves? I--I am one of them.
I want very much to earn my own living. I think I am well educated.
I have been allowed to read a good deal and my teachers, Mademoiselle
Valle and Fraulein Hirsch, say I speak and write French and German
well for an English girl. If you thought I could be a suitable
companion for Miss Etynge, I--should be very happy."
How curiously Lady Etynge watched her as she spoke. She did not
look displeased, but there was something in her face which made
Robin afraid that she was, perhaps, after all, not the girl who
was fortunate enough to quite "do."
She felt her hopes raised a degree, however, when Lady Etynge
smiled at her.
"Do you know, I feel that is very pretty of you!" she said. "It
quite delights me--as I am an idolizing mother--that my mere talk
of Helene should have made you like her well enough to think you
might care to live with her. And I confess I am modern enough to
be pleased with your wishing to earn your own living."
"I must," said Robin. "I MUST! I could not bear not to earn it!"
She spoke a little suddenly, and a flag of new colour fluttered
in her cheek.
"When Helene comes, you must meet. If you like each other, as I
feel sure you will, and if Mrs. Gareth-Lawless does not object--if
it remains only a matter of being suitable--you are suitable, my
dear--you are suitable."
She touched Robin's hand with the light pat which was a caress,
and the child was radiant.
"Oh, you are kind to me!" The words broke from her involuntarily.
"And it is such GOOD fortune! Thank you, thank you, Lady Etynge."
The flush of her joy and relief had not died out before the
footman, who had opened the door, appeared on the threshold. He
was a handsome young fellow, whose eyes were not as professionally
impassive as his face. A footman had no right to dart a swift side
look at one as people did in the street. He did dart such a glance.
Robin saw, and she was momentarily struck by its being one of those
she sometimes objected to.
Otherwise his manner was without flaw. He had only come to announce
to his mistress the arrival of a caller.
When Lady Etynge took the card from the salver, her expression
changed. She even looked slightly disturbed.
"Oh, I am sorry," she murmured, "I must see her," lifting her eyes
to Robin. "It is an old friend merely passing through London. How
wicked of me to forget that she wrote to say that she might dash
in at any hour."
"Please!" pled Robin, prettily. "I can run away at once. Fraulein
Hirsch must have come back. Please--"
"The lady asked me particularly to say that she has only a few
minutes to stay, as she is catching a train," the footman decorously
ventured.
"If that is the case," Lady Etynge said, even relievedly, "I will
leave you here to look at things until I come back. I really want
to talk to you a little more about yourself and Helene. I can't let
you go." She looked back from the door before she passed through
it. "Amuse yourself, my dear," and then she added hastily to the
man.
"Have you remembered that there was something wrong with the latch,
William? See if it needs a locksmith."
"Very good, my lady."
She was gone and Robin stood by the sofa thrilled with happiness
and relief. How wonderful it was that, through mere lucky chance,
she had gone to watch the children sailing their boats! And
that Fraulein Hirsch had seen Lady Etynge! What good luck and how
grateful she was! The thought which passed through her mind was
like a little prayer of thanks. How strange it would be to be really
intimate with a girl like herself--or rather like Helene. It made
her heart beat to think of it. How wonderful it would be if Helene
actually loved her, and she loved Helene. Something sprang out
of some depths of her being where past things were hidden. The
something was a deadly little memory. Donal! Donal! It would
be--if she loved Helene and Helene loved her--as new a revelation
as Donal. Oh! she remembered.
She heard the footman doing something to the latch of the door,
which caused it to make a clicking sound. He was obeying orders
and examining it. As she involuntarily glanced at him, he--bending
over the door handle--raised his eyes sideways and glanced at
her. It was an inexcusable glance from a domestic, because it was
actually as if he were taking the liberty of privately summing her
up--taking her points in for his own entertainment. She so resented
the unprofessional bad manners of it, that she turned away and
sauntered into the Dresden blue and white library and sat down
with a book.
She was quite relieved, when, only a few minutes later, he went
away having evidently done what he could.
The book she had picked up was a new novel and opened with an
attention-arresting agreeableness, which led her on. In fact it
led her on further and, for a longer time than she was aware of.
It was her way to become wholly absorbed in books when they allured
her; she forgot her surroundings and forgot the passing of time.
This was a new book by a strong man with the gift which makes alive
people, places, things. The ones whose lives had taken possession
of his being in this story were throbbing with vital truth.
She read on and on because, from the first page, she knew them
as actual pulsating human creatures. They looked into her face,
they laughed, she heard their voices, she CARED for every trivial
thing that happened to them--to any of them. If one of them picked
a flower, she saw how he or she held it and its scent was in the
air.
Having been so drawn on into a sort of unconsciousness of all
else, it was inevitable that, when she suddenly became aware that
she did not see her page quite clearly, she should withdraw her
eyes from her page and look about her. As she did so, she started
from her comfortable chair in amazement and some alarm. The room
had become so much darker that it must be getting late. How careless
and silly she had been. Where was Fraulein Hirsch?
"I am only a strange girl and Lady Etynge might so easily have
forgotten me," passed through her mind. "Her friend may have stayed
and they may have had so much to talk about, that, of coarse, I
was forgotten. But Fraulein Hirsch--how could she!"
Then, remembering the subservient humility of the Fraulein's mind,
she wondered if it could have been possible that she had been too
timid to do more than sit waiting--in the hall, perhaps--afraid
to allow the footman to disturb Lady Etynge by asking her where
her pupil was. The poor, meek, silly thing.
"I must get away without disturbing anyone," she thought, "I
will slip downstairs and snatch Fraulein Hirsch from her seat and
we will go quietly out. I can write a nice note to Lady Etynge
tomorrow, and explain. I HOPE she won't mind having forgotten me.
I must make her feel sure that it did not matter in the least.
I'll tell her about the book."
She replaced the book on the shelf from which she had taken it and
passed through into the delightful sitting room. The kittens were
playing together on the hearth, having deserted their basket. One
of them gave a soft, airy pounce after her and caught at her dress
with tiny claws, rolling over and over after his ineffectual snatch.
She had not heard the footman close the door when he left the room,
but she found he must have done so, as it was now shut. When she
turned the handle it did not seem to work well, because the door
did not open as it ought to have done. She turned it again and
gave it a little pull, but it still remained tightly shut. She
turned it again, still with no result, and then she tried the small
latch. Perhaps the man had done some blundering thing when he had
been examining it. She remembered hearing several clicks. She
turned the handle again and again. There was no key in the keyhole,
so he could not have bungled with the key. She was quite aghast
at the embarrassment of the situation.
"How CAN I get out without disturbing anyone, if I cannot open
the door!" she said. "How stupid I shall seem to Lady Etynge! She
won't like it. A girl who could forget where she was--and then not
be able to open a door and be obliged to bang until people come!"
Suddenly she remembered that there had been a door in the bedroom
which had seemed to lead out into the hall. She ran into the room
in such a hurry that all three kittens ran frisking after her.
She saw she had not been mistaken. There was a door. She went to
it and turned the handle, breathless with excitement and relief.
But the handle of that door also would not open it. Neither would
the latch. And there was no key.
"Oh!" she gasped. "Oh!"
Then she remembered the electric bell near the fireplace in the
sitting room. There was one by the fireplace here, also. No, she
would ring the one in the sitting room. She went to it and pressed
the button. She could not hear the ghost of a sound and one could
generally hear SOMETHING like one. She rang again and waited.
The room was getting darker. Oh, how COULD Fraulein Hirsch--how
could she?
She waited--she waited. Fifteen minutes by her little watch--twenty
minutes--and, in their passing, she rang again. She rang the bell
in the library and the one in the bedroom--even the one in the
bathroom, lest some might be out of order. She slowly ceased to be
embarrassed and self-reproachful and began to feel afraid, though
she did not know quite what she was afraid of. She went to one
of the windows to look at her watch again in the vanishing light,
and saw that she had been ringing the bells for an hour. She
automatically put up a hand and leaned against the white frame
of one of the decorative small panes of glass. As she touched it,
she vaguely realized that it was of such a solidity that it felt,
not like wood but iron. She drew her hand away quickly, feeling a
sweep of unexplainable fear--yes, it was FEAR. And why should she
so suddenly feel it? She went back to the door and tried again to
open it--as ineffectively as before. Then she began to feel a
little cold and sick. She returned to the Chesterfield and sat
down on it helplessly.
"It seems as if--I had been locked in!" she broke out, in a faint,
bewildered wail of a whisper. "Oh, WHY--did they lock the doors!"