In the serious little room the Duchess had given to her Robin built for
herself a condition she called happiness. She drew the spiritual
substance from which it was made from her pleasure in the books of
reference closely fitted into their shelves, in the files for letters
and more imposing documents, in the varieties of letter paper and
envelopes of different sizes and materials which had been provided for
her use in case of necessity.
“You may not use the more substantial ones often, but you must be
prepared for any unexpected contingency,” the Duchess had explained,
thereby smoothing her pathway by the suggestion of responsibilities.
The girl did not know the extent of her employer’s consideration for
her, but she knew that she was kind with a special grace and
comprehension. A subtle truth she also did not recognize was that the
remote flame of her own being was fiercely alert in its readiness to
leap upward at any suspicion that her duties were not worth the payment
made for them and that for any reason which might include Lord Coombe
she was occupying a position which was a sinecure. She kept her serious
little room in order herself, dusting and almost polishing the
reference books, arranging and re-arranging the files with such
exactness of system that she could—as is the vaunt of the model of
orderly perfection—lay her hand upon any document “in the dark.” She
was punctuality’s self and held herself in readiness at any moment to
appear at the Duchess’ side as if a magician had instantaneously
transported her there before the softly melodious private bell
connected with her room had ceased to vibrate. The correctness of her
deference to the convenience of Mrs. James the housekeeper in her
simplest communication with Dowie quite touched that respectable
person’s heart.
“She’s a young lady,” Mrs. James remarked to Dowie. “And a credit to
you and her governess, Mrs. Dowson. Young ladies have gone almost out
of fashion.”
“Mademoiselle Vallé had spent her governessing days among the highest.
My own places were always with gentle-people. Nothing ever came near
her that could spoil her manners. A good heart she was born with,” was
the civil reply of Dowie.
“Nothing ever came _near_ her—?” Mrs. James politely checked what she
became conscious was a sort of unconscious exclamation.
“Nothing,” said Dowie going on with her sheet hemming steadily.
Robin wrote letters and copied various documents for the Duchess, she
went shopping with her and executed commissions to order. She was
allowed to enter into correspondence with the village schoolmistress
and the wife of the Vicar at Darte Norham and to buy prizes for notable
decorum and scholarship in the school, and baby linen and blankets for
the Maternity Bag and other benevolences. She liked buying prizes and
the baby clothes very much because—though she was unaware of the
fact—her youth delighted in youngness and the fulfilling of young
desires. Even oftener and more significantly than ever did eyes turn
towards her—try to hold hers—look after her eagerly when she walked in
the streets or drove with the Duchess in the high-swung barouche. More
and more she became used to it and gradually she ceased to be afraid of
it and began to feel it nearly always—there were sometimes exceptions—a
friendly thing.
She saw friendliness in it because when she caught sight as she so
often did of young things like herself passing in pairs, laughing and
talking and turning to look into each other’s eyes, her being told her
that it was sweet and human and inevitable. They always turned and
looked at each other—these pairs—and then they smiled or laughed or
flushed a little. As she had not known when first she recognized, as
she looked down into the street from her nursery window, that the
children nearly always passed in twos or threes and laughed and skipped
and talked, so she did not know when she first began to notice these
joyous young pairs and a certain touch of exultation in them and feel
that it was sweet and quite a simple common natural thing. Her noting
and being sometimes moved by it was as natural as her pleasure in the
opening of spring flowers or the new thrill of spring birds—but she did
not know that either.
The brain which has worked through many years in unison with the soul
to which it was apportioned has evolved a knowledge which has deep
cognizance of the universal law. The brain of the old Duchess had so
worked, keeping pace always with its guide, never visualizing the
possibility of working alone, also never falling into the abyss of that
human folly whose conviction is that all that one sees and gives a
special name to is all that exists—or that the names accepted by the
world justly and clearly describe qualities, yearnings, moods, as they
are. This had developed within her wide perception and a wisdom which
was sane and kind to tenderness.
As she drove through the streets with Robin beside her she saw the
following eyes, she saw the girl’s soft friendly look at the young
creatures who passed her glowing and uplifted by the joy of life, and
she was moved and even disturbed.
After her return from one particular morning’s outing she sent for
Dowie.
“You have taken care of Miss Robin since she was a little child?” she
began.
“She was not quite six when I first went to her, your grace.”
“You are not of the women who only feed and bathe a child and keep her
well dressed. You have been a sort of mother to her.”
“I’ve tried to, your grace. I’ve loved her and watched over her and
she’s loved me, I do believe.”
“That is why I want to talk to you about her, Dowie. If you were the
woman who merely comes and goes in a child’s life, I could not. She
is—a very beautiful young thing, Dowie.”
“From her little head to her slim bits of feet, your grace. No one
knows better than I do.”
The Duchess’ renowned smile revealed itself.
“A beautiful young thing ought to see and know other beautiful young
things and make friends with them. That is one of the reasons for their
being put in the world. Since she has been with me she has spoken to no
one under forty. Has she never had young friends?”
“Never, your grace. Once two—young baggages—were left to have tea with
her and they talked to her about divorce scandals and corespondents.
She never wanted to see them again.” Dowie’s face set itself in lines
of perfectly correct inexpressiveness and she added, “They set her
asking me questions I couldn’t answer. And she broke down because she
suddenly understood why. No, your grace, she’s not known those of her
own age.”
“She is—of the ignorance of a child,” the Duchess thought it out
slowly.
“She thinks not, poor lamb, but she is,” Dowie answered. The Duchess’
eyes met hers and they looked at each other for a moment. Dowie tried
to retain a non-committal steadiness and the Duchess observing the
intention knew that she was free to speak.
“Lord Coombe confided to me that she had passed through a hideous
danger which had made a lasting impression on her,” she said in a low
voice. “He told me because he felt it would explain certain reserves
and fears in her.”
“Sometimes she wakes up out of nightmares about it,” said Dowie. “And
she creeps into my room shivering and I take her into my bed and hold
her in my arms until she’s over the panic. She says the worst of it is
that she keeps thinking that there may have been other girls trapped
like her—and that they did not get away.”
The Duchess was very thoughtful. She saw the complications in which
such a horror would involve a girl’s mind.
“If she consorted with other young things and talked nonsense with them
and shared their pleasures she would forget it,” she said.
“Ah!” exclaimed Dowie. “That’s it.”
The question in the Duchess’ eyes when she lifted them required an
answer and she gave it respectfully.
“The thing that happened was only the last touch put to what she’d
gradually been finding out as she grew from child to young girl. The
ones she would like to know—she said it in plain words once to
Mademoiselle—might not want to know her. I must take the liberty of
speaking plain, your grace, or it’s no use me speaking at all. She
holds it deep in her mind that she’s a sort of young outcast.”
“I must convince her that she is not—.” It was the beginning of what
the Duchess had meant to say, but she actually found herself pausing,
held for the moment by Dowie’s quiet, civil eye.
“Was your grace in your kindness thinking—?” was what the excellent
woman said.
“Yes. That I would invite young people to meet her—help them to know
each other and to make friends.” And even as she said it she was
conscious of being slightly under the influence of Dowie’s wise gaze.
“Your grace only knows those young people she would like to know.” It
was a mere simple statement.
“People are not as censorious as they once were.” Her grace’s tone was
intended to reply to the suggestion lying in the words which had worn
the air of statement without comment.
“Some are not, but some are,” Dowie answered. “There’s two worlds in
London now, your grace. One is your grace’s and one is Mrs.
Gareth-Lawless’. I _have_ heard say there are others between, but I
only know those two.”
The Duchess pondered again.
“You are thinking that what Miss Robin said to Mademoiselle Vallé might
be true—in mine. And perhaps you are not altogether wrong even if you
are not altogether right.”
“Until I went to take care of Miss Robin I had only had places in
families Mrs. Gareth-Lawless’ set didn’t touch anywhere. What I’m
remembering is that there was a—strictness—shown sometimes even when it
seemed a bit harsh. Among the servants the older ones said that is was
_because_ of the new sets and their fast wicked ways. One of my young
ladies once met another young lady about her own age—she was just
fifteen—at a charity bazaar and they made friends and liked each other
very much. The young lady’s mother was one there was a lot of talk
about in connection with a person of very high station—the highest,
your grace—and everyone knew. The girl was a lovely little creature and
beautifully behaved. It was said her mother wanted to push her into the
world she couldn’t get into herself. The acquaintance was stopped, your
grace—it was put a stop to at once. And my poor little young lady quite
broke her heart over it, and I heard it was much worse for the other.”
“I will think this over,” the Duchess said. “It needs thinking over. I
wished to talk to you because I have seen that she has fixed little
ideas regarding what she thinks is suited to her position as a paid
companion and she might not be prepared. I wish you to see that she has
a pretty little frock or so which she could wear if she required them.”
“She has two, your grace,” Dowie smiled affectionately as she said it.
“One for evening and one for special afternoon wear in case your grace
needed her to attend you for some reason. They are as plain as she dare
make them, but when she puts one on she can’t help giving it _a look_.”
“Yes—she would give it all it needed,” her grace said. “Thank you,
Dowie. You may go.”
With her sketch of a respectful curtsey Dowie went towards the door. As
she approached it her step became slower; before she reached it she had
stopped and there was a remarkable look on her face—a suddenly heroic
look. She turned and made several steps backward and paused again which
unexpected action caused the Duchess to turn to glance at her. When she
glanced her grace recognized the heroic look and waited, with a
consciousness of some slight new emotion within herself, for its
explanation.
“Your grace,” Dowie began, asking God himself to give courage if she
was doing right and to check her if she was making a mistake, “When
your grace was thinking of the parents of other young ladies and
gentlemen—did it come to you to put it to yourself whether you’d be
willing—” she caught her breath, but ended quite clearly, respectfully,
reasonably. “Lady Kathryn—Lord Halwyn—” Lady Kathryn was the Duchess’
young granddaughter, Lord Halwyn was her extremely good-looking
grandson who was in the army.
The Duchess understood what the heroic look had meant, and her respect
for it was great. Its intention had not been to suggest inclusion of
George and Kathryn in her plan, it had only with pure justice put it to
her to ask herself what her own personal decision in such a matter
would be.
“You do feel as if you were her mother,” she said. “And you are a
practical, clear-minded woman. It is only if I myself am willing to
take such a step that I have a right to ask it of other people. Lady
Lothwell is the mother I must speak to first. Her children are mine
though I am a mere grandmother.”
Lady Lothwell was her daughter and though she was not regarded as
Victorian either of the Early or the Middle periods, Dowie as she
returned to her own comfortable quarters wondered what would happen.