Part 46 (1/2)
In the serious little room the d.u.c.h.ess 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 doc.u.ments, 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 polis.h.i.+ng 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 doc.u.ment ”in the dark.” She was punctuality's self and held herself in readiness at any moment to appear at the d.u.c.h.ess' 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 to 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 fas.h.i.+on.”
”Mademoiselle Valle 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 doc.u.ments for the d.u.c.h.ess, 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 scholars.h.i.+p 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 pa.s.sed 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 d.u.c.h.ess' 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 d.u.c.h.ess thought it out slowly.
”She thinks not, poor lamb, but she is,” Dowie answered. The d.u.c.h.ess' eyes met hers and they looked at each other for a moment.
Dowie tried to retain a non-committal steadiness and the d.u.c.h.ess observing the intention knew that she was free to speak.
”Lord Coombe confided to me that she had pa.s.sed 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.”