Part 33 (1/2)

It was Robin he was enclosing in his network of questions. And she had seen him look at Robin when he had pa.s.sed or spoken to them.

An illuminating flash brought back to her that he had cleverly found out from her when they were to walk together, and where they were to go. She had not been quick enough to detect this before, but she saw it now. Girls who looked like that--yes! But it could not be--serious. An English girl of such family--with such a mother! A momentary caprice, such as all young men of his cla.s.s amused themselves with and forgot--but nothing permanent. It would not, indeed, be approved in those High Places where obedience was the first commandment of the Decalogue.

But he did not go. He even descended a shade from his inaccessible plane. It was not difficult for him to obtain details of the odd loneliness of the girl's position. Fraulein Hirsch was quite ready to explain that, in spite of the easy morals and leniency of rank and fas.h.i.+on in England, she was a sort of little outcast from sacred inner circles. There were points she burned to make clear to him, and she made them so. She was in secret fiercely desirous that he should realize to the utmost, that, whatsoever rashness this young flame of loveliness inspired in him, it was NOT possible that he could regard it with any shadow of serious intention.

She had always disliked the girl, and now her weak mildness and humility suddenly transformed themselves into something else--a sort of maternal wolfishness. It did not matter what happened to the girl--and whatsoever befell or did not befall her, she--Mathilde Hirsch--could neither gain nor lose hope through it. But, if she did not displease him and yet saved him from final disaster, he would, perhaps, be grateful to her--and perhaps, speak with approval--or remember it--and his n.o.ble Mother most certainly would--if she ever knew. But behind and under and through all these specious reasonings, was the hot choking burn of the mad jealousy only her type of luckless woman can know--and of whose colour she dare not show the palest hint.

”I have found out that, for some reason, she thinks of taking a place as governess,” she said.

”Suggest that she go to Berlin. There are good places there,” was his answer.

”If she should go, her mother will not feel any anxiety about her,” returned Fraulein Hirsch.

”If, then, some young man she meets in the street makes love to her and they run away together, she will not be pursued by her relatives.”

Fraulein Hirsch's flat mouth looked rather malicious.

”Her mother is too busy to pursue her, and there is no one else--unless it were Lord Coombe, who is said to want her himself.”

Von Hillern shrugged his fine shoulders.

”At his age! After the mother! That is like an Englishman!”

Upon this, Fraulein Hirsch drew a step nearer and fixed her eyes upon his, as she had never had the joy of fixing them before in her life. She dared it now because she had an interesting story to tell him which he would like to hear. It WAS like an Englishman.

Lord Coombe had the character of being one of the worst among them, but was too subtle and clever to openly offend people. It was actually said that he was educating the girl and keeping her in seclusion and that it was probably his colossal intention to marry her when she was old enough. He had no heir of his own--and he must have beauty and innocence. Innocence and beauty his viciousness would have.

”Pah!” exclaimed von Hillern. ”It is youth which requires such things--and takes them. That is all imbecile London gossip. No, he would not run after her if she ran away. He is a proud man and he knows he would be laughed at. And he could not get her back from a young man--who was her lover.”

Her lover! How it thrilled the burning heart her poor, flat chest panted above. With what triumphant knowledge of such things he said it.

”No, he could not,” she answered, her eyes still on his. ”No one could.”

He laughed a little, confidently, but almost with light indifference.

”If she were missing, no particular search would be made then,”

he said. ”She is pretty enough to suit Berlin.”

He seemed to think pleasantly of something as he stood still for a moment, his eyes on the floor. When he lifted them, there was in their blue a hint of ugly exulting, though Mathilde Hirsch did not think it ugly. He spoke in a low voice.

”It will be an exciting--a colossal day when we come to London--as we shall. It will be as if an ocean had collected itself into one huge mountain of a wave and swept in and overwhelmed everything.

There will be confusion then and the rus.h.i.+ng up of untrained soldiers--and shouts--and yells----”

”And Zeppelins dropping bombs,” she so far forgot herself as to pant out, ”and buildings cras.h.i.+ng and pavements and people smashed!

Westminster and the Palaces rocking, and fat fools running before bayonets.”

He interrupted her with a short laugh uglier than the gleam in his eyes. He was a trifle excited.