CHAPTER I_The Convert

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THE CONVERT

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Transcriber's note:

Lists of Macmillan titles from this spot have been moved to

the end of the text. Following the moved section, the reader

will find a list of corrections made to the text.

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THE CONVERT

ELIZABETH ROBINS

Author of "A Dark Lantern," "The Magnetic North," Etc.

New York

The MacMillan Company

1913

Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1907. Reprinted

March, 1910; March, 1912; August, 1913.

Norwood Press

J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.

Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

THE CONVERT

CHAPTER I

The tall young lady who arrived fifteen minutes before the Freddy

Tunbridges' dinner-hour, was not taken into the great empty

drawing-room, but, as though she were not to be of the party expected

that night, straight upstairs she went behind the footman, and then up

more stairs behind a maid. The smart, white-capped domestic paused, and

her floating muslin streamers cut short their aerial gyrations subsiding

against her straight black back as she knocked at the night-nursery

door. It was opened by a middle-aged head nurse of impressive demeanour.

She stood there an instant eyeing the intruder with the kind of

overbearing hauteur that in these days does duty as the peculiar

hall-mark of the upper servant, being seldom encountered in England

among even the older generation of the so-called governing class.

'It's too late to see the baby, miss. He's asleep.'

'Yes, I know; but the others are expecting me, aren't they?'

Question hardly necessary, perhaps, with the air full of cries from

beyond the screen: 'Yes, yes.' 'We're waiting!' 'Mummy promised'--cut

short by the nurse saying sharply, 'Not so much noise, Miss Sara.' But

the presiding genius of the Tunbridge nursery opened the door a little

wider and stood aside. Handsome compensation for her studied coldness

was offered in the shrill shrieks of joy with which a little girl and a

very small boy celebrated the lady's entrance. She, for her part, joined

the austere nurse in saying, 'Sh! sh!' and in simulating consternation

at the spectacle behind the screen, Miss Sara jumping up and down in the

middle of her bed with wild brown hair swirling madly about a laughing

but mutinous face. The visitor, hurrying forward, received the impetuous

little girl in her arms, while the nurse described her own sentiments

of horror and detestation of such performances, and hinted vaguely at

Retribution that might with safety be looked for no later than the

morrow. Nobody listened. Miss Levering nodded smiling across Sara's

nightgowned figure to the little boy hanging over the side of the

neighbouring cot. But he kept remonstrating, 'You always go to her

first.'

The lady drew a flat, shiny wooden box out of the inside pocket of her

cloak. The little girl seized it rapturously.

'Oh, did you only bring Sara's bock?' wailed the smaller Tunbridge. 'I

told you expecially we wanted _two_ bocks.'

'I've got two pockets and I've got two bocks. Let me give him his, Sara

darling.'

But 'Sara darling' dropped her own 'bock' the better to cling round the

neck of the giver.

Naturally Master Cecil sounded the horn of indignation.

'Hush!' commanded his sister. 'Don't you know his little lordship never

did that?' And to emphasize this satirical appeal to a higher standard

of manners, Sara loosened her tight-locked arms an instant; but still

holding to the visitor with one hand, she picked up the pillow and

deftly hurled it at the neighbouring cot, extinguishing the little boy.

Through the general recriminations that ensued, the culprit cried with

shrill rapture, 'Lady Gladys never pillow-fought! Lady Gladys was a

little lady and never did _any_thing!' The merry eyes shamelessly

invited Miss Levering to mock at Dampney's former charges. But the

visitor detached herself from Miss Sara, and wishing apparently to

ingratiate herself with the offended majesty of the nurse, Miss Levering

said gravely over her shoulder, 'Now, lie down, Sara, and be a good

girl.' Sara's reply to that was to (what she called) 'diddle up and

down' on her knees and emit shrill squeals of some pleasurable emotion

not defined. This, too, in spite of the fact that Dampney had picked up

the pillow and was advancing upon Miss Sara with an expression

calculated to shake the stoutest heart. It obviously shook the

visitor's. 'Listen, Sara! If you don't be quiet and let nurse cover you

up, she won't want me to stay.' Miss Levering actually got up off the

little boy's bed, and stood as though ready to carry the obnoxious

suggestion into instant effect.

Sara darted under the bedclothes like a rabbit into its burrow. The

rigid woman, without words, restored the tousled pillow to the head of

the bed, extracted Miss Sara from her hiding-place with one hand,

smoothed out the rebellious legs with the other, covered the child

firmly over, and tucked the bedclothes in.

'What's the use of all that? Mother always does it over again.'

'You know very well she's been and done it once already.'

'She's coming again if father doesn't need her.'

'There's a whole big dinner-party needing her, so you needn't think she

can come twice to say good-night to a Jumping-Jack like you.'

'You ought to say a Jumping-Jill,' amended Sara.

During this interchange Master Cecil was complaining to the visitor--

'I can't see you with that thing all round your head.'

'Yes, take it off!' his sister agreed; and when the lady had unwound her

lace scarf--'Now the coat! And you have to sit on my bed this time. It's

my turn.'

As the visitor divested herself of the long ermine-lined garment, 'Oh,

you _are_ pretty to-night!' observed the gallant young gentleman over

the way, seeming not to have heard that these effects don't appeal to

little boys.

Sara silently craned her neck. Even the high and mighty Mrs. Dampney, in

the surreptitious way of the superior servant, without seeming to look,

was covertly taking in the vision that the cloak had hitherto obscured.

The little girl followed with critical eyes the movement of the tall

figure, the graceful fall of the clinging black lace gown embroidered in

yellow irises, the easy bend of the small waist in its jewelled belt of

yellow. The growing approval in the little face culminated in an

ecstatic 'Oh-h-h! let me see what's on your neck! That's new, isn't it?'

'No--very old.'

'I didn't know there were yellow diamonds,' said Sara.

'There are; but these are sapphires.'

'And the little stones round?'

'Yes, they're diamonds.'

'The hanging-down thing is _such_ a pretty shape!'

'Yes, the fleur-de-lys is a pretty shape. It's the flower of France, you

know--just as the thistle is the----'

'There, now!' A penetrating whisper came from the other bed. 'She's

_gone_.'

'It's you who've been keeping her here, you know.' Miss Levering bent

her neat, dark head over the little girl, and the gleaming jewels swung

forward.

'Yes,' said Cecil, in a tone of grandfatherly disgust; 'yelling like a

wild Indian.'

'Well, you _cried_,' said his sister--'just because a feather pillow hit

you.' Her eye never once left the glittering gaud.

'You see, Cecil is younger than you,' Miss Levering reminded her.

'Yes,' said Sara, with conscious superiority--'a whole year and eight

months. But even when I was young _I_ had sense.'

Miss Levering laughed. 'You're a horrid little Pharisee--and as wild as

a young colt.' Contrary to received canons, the visitor seemed to find

something reassuring in the latter reflection, for she kissed the small,

self-righteous face.

'You just ought to have seen Sara this morning!' Cecil chuckled, with a

generous admiration in family achievements. 'We waked up early, and Sara

said, "Let's go mountaineering." So we did. All over the rocks and

presserpittses.' He waved his hand comprehensively at the rugged scenery

of the night-nursery.

'Of course we had to pile up the chairs and things,' his sister

explained.

'And the coal scuttle.'

'And we made snow mountains out of the pillows. When the chairs wobbled,

the coal and the pillows kept falling about; it was quite a real

avalanche,' Sara said conversationally.

'I should think so,' agreed the guest.

'Yes; and it was glorious when Sara excaped to the top of the wardrobe.'

'To the w----' Miss Levering gasped.

'Yes. We were having the most perfectly fascinating time----' Sara took

up the tale.

But Cecil suddenly sat bolt upright, his little face quite pink with

excitement at recollection of these Alpine exploits.

'Yes, Sara had come down off the wardrobe--she'd been sitting on the

carved piece--she says that's the Schreckhorn!--but she'd come down off

it, and we was just jumping about all those mountains like two

shamrocks----'

'Like what?'

'--when _she_ came in.'

'Yes,' agreed Sara. 'Just when we're happiest _she_ always comes

interfiddling.'

'Oh, Sara mine, I rather like you!' said Miss Levering, laying her

laughing face against the tousled hair.

'Now! Now!' cried Cecil, suddenly beating with his two fists on the

counterpane as though he'd seen as much valuable time wasted as he felt

it incumbent upon him to tolerate. 'Go on where you left off.'

'No, it's _my_ visit this time.' Sara held fast to her friend. 'It's for

me to say what we're going to talk about.'

'It's got to be alligators!' said Cecil, waving his arms.

'It _shan't_ be alligators! I want to know more about Doris.'

'Doris!' Cecil's tone implied that the human intelligence could no lower

sink.

'Yes. I expect you like her better than you do us.'

'Don't you think I ought to like my niece best?'

'No'--from Cecil.

'You said we belonged to you, too,' observed Miss Sara.

'Of course.'

'And all aunts,' she pursued, 'don't like their nieces so _dreadfully_.'

'Don't they?' inquired Miss Levering, with an elaborate air of

innocence.

'You didn't say how-do-you-do to me,' said Cecil, with the air of one

who makes a useful discovery.

'_What?_'

'Why, she went to you the minute I threw the pillow.'

'That was just to save me from being dead. It isn't a proper

how-do-you-do when she doesn't hug you.'

'I'll hug you when I go.'

But a better plan than that occurred to Cecil. He flung down the covers

with the decision of one called to set about some urgent business.

'Cecil! I simply won't have you catching cold!'

Before the words were out of Miss Levering's mouth he had tumbled out of

bed and leapt into her lap. He clasped his arms round her neck with an

air of rapturous devotion, but what he said was--

'Go on 'bout the alligator.'

'No, no. Go 'way!' protested Sara, pushing him with hands and feet.

'Sh! You really will have nurse back!'

That horrid thought coerced the prudent Sara to endurance of the

interloping brother. And now of his own accord Cecil had taken his arms

from round his friend's neck.

'That's horrid!' he said. 'I don't like that hard thing. Take it off.'

'Let me.' Sara sat up with alacrity. 'Let me.'

But Miss Levering undid the sapphire necklace herself. 'If you'll be

very careful, Sara, I'll let you hold it.' It was as if she well knew

the deft little hands she had delivered the ornament to, and knew

equally well that in her present mood, absorption in the beauty of it

would keep the woman-child still.

'There, that's better!' Cecil replaced his arms firmly where the

necklace had been.

Miss Levering pulled up her long cloak from the bottom of the bed and

wrapped the little boy in the warm lining. The comfort of the

arrangement was so great, and it implied so little necessity for

'hanging on,' that Cecil loosed his arms and lay curled up against his

friend.

She held him close, adapting her lithe slimness to the easy supporting

and enfolding of the childish figure. The little girl was absorbed in

the necklace after her strenuous hour; the boy, content for a moment,

having gained his point, just to lie at his ease; the woman rested her

cheek on his ruffled hair and looked straight before her.

As she sat there holding him, something came into her face, guiltless

though it was of any traceable change, without the verifiable movement

of a muscle, something none the less that would have minded the beholder

uneasily to search the eyes for tears, and, finding no tears there, to

feel no greater sense of reassurance.

So motionless she sat that presently the child turned up his rosy face,

and seeing the brooding look, it was plain he had the sense of being

somehow left behind. He put up his hand to her cheek, and rubbed it

softly with his own.

'I don't like you like that. Tell me about----'

'Like what?' said the lady.

'Like--I don't know.' Then, with a sudden inspiration, 'Uncle Ronald

says you're like the Sphinx. Who are they?'

'Who are who?'

'Why, the Sfinks. Have they got a boy? Is the little Sfink as old as me?

Oh, you only laugh, just like Uncle Ronald. He asked us why we liked

you, and we told him.'

'You've never told me.'

'Oh, didn't we? Well, it's because you aren't beady.'

'Beady?'

'Yes. We hate all beady ladies, don't we, Sara?'

'Yes; but it's my turn.' However, she said it half-heartedly as she

stopped drawing the shining jewels lightly through her slim fingers, and

began gently to swing the fleur-de-lys back and forth like a pendulum

that glanced bewitchingly in the light.

Miss Levering knew that the next phase would be to try it on, but for

the moment Sara had still half an ear for general conversation.

'We hate them to have hard things on their shoulders!' Cecil explained.

'On their shoulders?' Miss Levering asked.

'Here, just in the way of our heads.'

'Yes, bead-trimming on their dresses,' explained the little girl.

'Hard stuff that scratches when they hold you tight.' Cecil cuddled his

impudent round face luxuriously on the soft lace-covered shoulder of the

visitor, and laughed up in her face.

'Aunts are very beady,' said Sara, absent-mindedly, as she tried the

effect of the glitter against her night-gown.

'Grandmothers are worse,' amended Cecil. 'They're beady and bu-gly,

too.'

'What's bewgly?'

'Well, it's what my grandmother called them when I pulled some of them

off. Not proper bugles, you know, what you "too! too! too!" make music

with when you're fighting the enemy. My grandmother thinks bugles are

little shiny black things only about that long'--he measured less than

an inch on his minute forefinger--'with long holes through so they can

sew them on their clothes.'

'On their caps, too,' said Sara; 'only they're usurally white when

they're on caps.'

'Here's your mother coming! Now, what will she say to you, Cecil?'

They turned their eyes to the door, strangely unwelcoming for Laura

Tunbridge's children, and their young faces betrayed no surprise when

the very different figure of Nurse Dampney emerged from behind the tall

chintz screen that protected the cots from any draught through the

opening door. Cecil, with an action of settled despair, turned from the

spectacle, and buried his face for one last moment of comfort in Vida

Levering's shoulder; while Sara, with a baleful glance, muttered--

'I knew it was that old interfiddler.'

'Now, Master Cecil----'

'Yes, nurse.' Miss Levering carried him back to his cot.

'Mrs. Tunbridge has sent up, miss, to know if you've come. They're

waiting dinner.'

'Not really! Is it a quarter past already?'

'More like twenty minutes, miss.'

The lady caught up her necklace, cut short her good-byes, and fled

downstairs, clasping the shining thing round her neck as she went--a

swaying figure in soft flying draperies and gleaming, upraised arms.

She entered the drawing-room with a quiet deliberation greater even than

common. It was the effect that haste and contrition frequently wrought

in her--one of the things that made folk call her 'too self-contained,'

even 'a trifle supercilious.'

But when other young women, recognizing some not easily definable charm

in this new-comer into London life, tried to copy the effect alluded to,

it was found to be less imitable than it looked.