“Why only German and Italian and French,” said Feather, “why not Latin and Greek, as well, if she is to be so accomplished6?”
“It is modern languages one needs at this period. They ought to be taught in the Board Schools,” Coombe replied. “They are not accomplishments7 but workman’s tools. Nationalities are not separated as they once were. To be familiar with the language of one’s friends—and one’s enemies—is a protective measure.”
“What country need one protect oneself against? When all the kings and queens are either married to each other’s daughters or cousins or take tea with each other every year or so. Just think of the friendliness8 of Germany for instance——”
“I do,” said Coombe, “very often. That is one of the reasons I choose German rather than Latin and Greek. Julius Cæsar and Nero are no longer reasons for alarm.”
“Is the Kaiser with his seventeen children and his respectable Frau?” giggled9 Feather. “All that he cares about is that women shall be made to remember that they are born for nothing but to cook and go to church and have babies. One doesn’t wonder at the clothes they wear.”
It was not a month after this, however, when Lord Coombe, again warming himself at his old friend’s fire, gave her a piece of information.
“The German teacher, Herr Wiese, has hastily returned to his own country,” he said.
“He found himself suspected of being a spy,” was his answer. “With most excellent reason. Some first-rate sketches12 of fortifications were found in a box he left behind him in his haste. The country—all countries—are sown with those like him. Mild spectacled students and clerks in warehouses13 and manufactories are weighing and measuring resources; round-faced, middle-aged14 governesses are making notes of conversation and of any other thing which may be useful. In time of war—if they were caught at what are now their simple daily occupations—they would be placed against a wall and shot. As it is, they are allowed to play about among us and slip away when some fellow worker’s hint suggests it is time.”
“German young men are much given to spending a year or so here in business positions,” the Duchess wore a thoughtful air. “That has been going on for a decade or so. One recognizes their Teuton type in shops and in the streets. They say they come to learn the language and commercial methods.”
“Not long ago a pompous15 person, who is the owner of a big shop, pointed16 out to me three of them among his salesmen,” Coombe said. “He plumed17 himself on his astuteness18 in employing them. Said they worked for low wages and cared for very little else but finding out how things were done in England. It wasn’t only business knowledge they were after, he said; they went about everywhere—into factories and dock yards, and public buildings, and made funny little notes and sketches of things they didn’t understand—so that they could explain them in Germany. In his fatuous19, insular20 way, it pleased him to regard them rather as a species of aborigines benefiting by English civilization. The English Ass5 and the German Ass are touchingly21 alike. The shade of difference is that the English Ass’s sublime22 self-satisfaction is in the German Ass self-glorification. The English Ass smirks23 and plumes24 himself; the German Ass blusters25 and bullies26 and defies.”
“Do you think of engaging another German Master for the little girl?” the Duchess asked the question casually27.
“I have heard of a quiet young woman who has shown herself thorough and well-behaved in a certain family for three years. Perhaps she also will disappear some day, but, for the present, she will serve the purpose.”
As he had not put into words to others any explanation of the story of the small, smart establishment in the Mayfair street, so he had put into words no explanation to her. That she was aware of its existence he knew, but what she thought of it, or imagined he himself thought of it, he had not at any period inquired. Whatsoever28 her point of view might be, he knew it would be unbiassed, clear minded and wholly just. She had asked no question and made no comment. The rapid, whirligig existence of the well-known fashionable groups, including in their circles varieties of the Mrs. Gareth-Lawless type, were to be seen at smart functions and to be read of in newspapers and fashion reports, if one’s taste lay in the direction of a desire to follow their movements. The time had passed when pretty women of her kind were cut off by severities of opinion from the delights of a world they had thrown their dice29 daringly to gain. The worldly old axiom, “Be virtuous30 and you will be happy,” had been ironically paraphrased31 too often. “Please yourself and you will be much happier than if you were virtuous,” was a practical reading.
But for a certain secret which she alone knew and which no one would in the least have believed, if she had proclaimed it from the housetops, Feather would really have been entirely32 happy. And, after all, the fly in her ointment33 was merely an odd sting a fantastic Fate had inflicted35 on her vanity and did not in any degree affect her pleasures. So many people lived in glass houses that the habit of throwing stones had fallen out of fashion as an exercise. There were those, too, whose houses of glass, adroitly36 given the air of being respectable conservatories37, engendered38 in the dwellers39 therein a leniency40 towards other vitreous constructions. As a result of this last circumstance, there were times when quite stately equipages drew up before Mrs. Gareth-Lawless’ door and visiting cards bearing the names of acquaintances much to be desired were left upon the salver presented by Jennings. Again, as a result of this circumstance, Feather employed some laudable effort in her desire to give her own glass house the conservatory41 aspect. Her little parties became less noisy, if they still remained lively. She gave an “afternoon” now and then to which literary people and artists, and persons who “did things” were invited. She was pretty enough to allure42 an occasional musician to “do something”, some new poet to read or recite. Fashionable people were asked to come and hear and talk to them, and, in this way, she threw out delicate fishing lines here and there, and again and again drew up a desirable fish of substantial size. Sometimes the vague rumour43 connected with the name of the Head of the House of Coombe was quite forgotten and she was referred to amiably44 as “That beautiful creature, Mrs. Gareth-Lawless. She was left a widow when she was nothing but a girl. If she hadn’t had a little money of her own, and if her husband’s relatives hadn’t taken care of her, she would have had a hard time of it. She is amazingly clever at managing her, small income,” they added. “Her tiny house is one of the jolliest little places in London—always full of good looking people and amusing things.”
But, before Robin was fourteen, she had found out that the house she lived in was built of glass and that any chance stone would break its panes45, even if cast without particular skill in aiming. She found it out in various ways, but the seed from which all things sprang to the fruition of actual knowledge was the child tragedy through which she had learned that Donal had been taken from her—because his mother would not let him love and play with a little girl whose mother let Lord Coombe come to her house—because Lord Coombe was so bad that even servants whispered secrets about him. Her first interpretation46 of this had been that of a mere34 baby, but it had filled her being with detestation of him, and curious doubts of her mother. Donal’s mother, who was good and beautiful, would not let him come to see her and kept Donal away from him. If the Lady Downstairs was good, too, then why did she laugh and talk to him and seem to like him? She had thought this over for hours—sometimes wakening in the night to lie and puzzle over it feverishly47. Then, as time went by, she had begun to remember that she had never played with any of the children in the Square Gardens. It had seemed as though this had been because Andrews would not let her. But, if she was not fit to play with Donal, perhaps the nurses and governesses and mothers of the other children knew about it and would not trust their little girls and boys to her damaging society. She did not know what she could have done to harm them—and Oh! how could she have harmed Donal!—but there must be something dreadful about a child whose mother knew bad people—something which other children could “catch” like scarlet49 fever. From this seed other thoughts had grown. She did not remain a baby long. A fervid50 little brain worked for her, picked up hints and developed suggestions, set her to singularly alert reasoning which quickly became too mature for her age. The quite horrid51 little girl, who flouncingly announced that she could not be played with any more “because of Lord Coombe” set a spark to a train. After that time she used to ask occasional carefully considered questions of Dowson and Mademoiselle Vallé, which puzzled them by their vagueness. The two women were mutually troubled by a moody52 habit she developed of sitting absorbed in her own thoughts, and with a concentrated little frown drawing her brows together. They did not know that she was silently planning a subtle cross examination of them both, whose form would be such that neither of them could suspect it of being anything but innocent. She felt that she was growing cunning and deceitful, but she did not care very much. She possessed53 a clever and determined54, though very young brain. She loved both Dowson and Mademoiselle, but she must find out about things for herself, and she was not going to harm or trouble them. They would never know she had found out: Whatsoever she discovered, she would keep to herself.
But one does not remain a baby long, and one is a little girl only a few years, and, even during the few years, one is growing and hearing and seeing all the time. After that, one is beginning to be a rather big girl and one has seen books and newspapers, and overheard scraps55 of things from servants. If one is brought up in a convent and allowed to read nothing but literature selected by nuns56, a degree of aloofness57 from knowledge may be counted upon—though even convent schools, it is said, encounter their difficulties in perfect discipline.
Robin, in her small “Palace” was well taken care of but her library was not selected by nuns. It was chosen with thought, but it was the library of modern youth. Mademoiselle Vallé’s theories of a girl’s education were not founded on a belief that, until marriage, she should be led about by a string blindfolded58, and with ears stopped with wax.
“That results in a bleating59 lamb’s being turned out of its fold to make its way through a jungle full of wild creatures and pitfalls60 it has never heard of,” she said in discussing the point with Dowson. She had learned that Lord Coombe agreed with her. He, as well as she, chose the books and his taste was admirable. Its inclusion of an unobtrusive care for girlhood did not preclude61 the exercise of the intellect. An early developed passion for reading led the child far and wide. Fiction, history, poetry, biography, opened up vistas62 to a naturally quick and eager mind. Mademoiselle found her a clever pupil and an affection-inspiring little being even from the first.
She always felt, however, that in the depths of her something held itself hidden—something she did not speak of. It was some thought which perhaps bewildered her, but which something prevented her making clear to herself by the asking of questions. Mademoiselle Vallé finally became convinced that she never would ask the questions.
Arrived a day when Feather swept into the Palace with some visitors. They were two fair and handsome little girls of thirteen and fourteen, whose mother, having taken them shopping, found it would suit her extremely well to drop then somewhere for an hour while she went to her dressmaker. Feather was quite willing that they should be left with Robin and Mademoiselle until their own governess called for them.
“Here are Eileen and Winifred Erwyn, Robin,” she said, bringing them in. “Talk to them and show them your books and things until the governess comes. Dowson, give them some cakes and tea.”
Mrs. Erwyn was one of the most treasured of Feather’s circle. Her little girls’ governess was a young Frenchwoman, entirely unlike Mademoiselle Vallé. Eileen and Winifred saw Life from their schoolroom windows as an open book. Why not, since their governess and their mother’s French maid conversed63 freely, and had rather penetrating64 voices even when they were under the impression that they lowered them out of deference65 to blameless youth. Eileen and Winifred liked to remain awake to listen as long as they could after they went to bed. They themselves had large curious eyes and were given to whispering and giggling66.
They talked a good deal to Robin and assumed fashionable little grown up airs. They felt themselves mature creatures as compared to her, since she was not yet thirteen. They were so familiar with personages and functions that Robin felt that they must have committed to memory every morning the column in the Daily Telegraph known as “London Day by Day.” She sometimes read it herself, because it was amusing to her to read about parties and weddings and engagements. But it did not seem easy to remember. Winifred and Eileen were delighted to display themselves in the character of instructresses. They entertained Robin for a short time, but, after that, she began to dislike the shared giggles67 which so often broke out after their introduction of a name or an incident. It seemed to hint that they were full of amusing information which they held back. Then they were curious and made remarks and asked questions. She began to think them rather horrid.
“We think he wears the most beautiful clothes we ever saw! You remember his overcoat, Winnie?” said Eileen. “He matches so—and yet you don’t know exactly how he matches,” and she giggled also.
“He is the best dressed man in London,” Winifred stated quite grandly. “I think he is handsome. So do Mademoiselle and Florine.”
Robin said nothing at all. What Dowson privately68 called “her secret look” made her face very still. Winifred saw the look and, not understanding it or her, became curious.
“Don’t you?” she said.
“No,” Robin answered. “He has a wicked face. And he’s old, too.”
“You think he’s old because you’re only about twelve,” inserted Eileen. “Children think everybody who is grown-up must be old. I used to. But now people don’t talk and think about age as they used to. Mademoiselle says that when a man has distinction he is always young—and nicer than boys.”
Winifred, who was persistent69, broke in.
“As to his looking wicked, I daresay he is wicked in a sort of interesting way. Of course, people say all sorts of things about him. When he was quite young, he was in love with a beautiful little royal Princess—or she was in love with him—and her husband either killed her or she died of a broken heart—I don’t know which.”
Mademoiselle Vallé had left them for a short time feeling that they were safe with their tea and cakes and would feel more at ease relieved of her presence. She was not long absent, but Eileen and Winifred, being avid70 of gossip and generally eliminated subjects, “got in their work” with quite fevered haste. They liked the idea of astonishing Robin.
“They do say that once Captain Thorpe was fearfully jealous of him and people wonder that he wasn’t among the co-respondents.” The word “co-respondent” filled her with self-gratulation even though she only whispered it.
“Co-respondents?” said Robin.
They both began to whisper at once—quite shrilly72 in their haste. They knew Mademoiselle might return at any moment.
“The great divorce case, you know! The Thorpe divorce case the papers are so full of. We get the under housemaid to bring it to us after Mademoiselle has done with it. It’s so exciting! Haven’t you been reading it? Oh!”
“No, I haven’t,” answered Robin. “And I don’t know about co-respondents, but, if they are anything horrid, I daresay he was one of them.”
And at that instant Mademoiselle returned and Dowson brought in fresh cakes. The governess, who was to call for her charges, presented herself not long afterwards and the two enterprising little persons were taken away.
“I believe she’s jealous of Lord Coombe,” Eileen whispered to Winifred, after they reached home.
“So do I,” said Winifred wisely. “She can’t help but know how he adores Mrs. Gareth-Lawless because she’s so lovely. He pays for all her pretty clothes. It’s silly of her to be jealous—like a baby.”
Robin sometimes read newspapers, though she liked books better. Newspapers were not forbidden her. She been reading an enthralling73 book and had not seen a paper for some days. She at once searched for one and, finding it, sat down and found also the Thorpe Divorce Case. It was not difficult of discovery, as it filled the principal pages with dramatic evidence and amazing revelations.
Dowson saw her bending over the spread sheets, hot-eyed and intense in her concentration.
“What are you reading, my love?” she asked.
The little flaming face lifted itself. It was unhappy, obstinate74, resenting. It wore no accustomed child look and Dowson felt rather startled.
“I’m reading the Thorpe Divorce Case, Dowie,” she answered deliberately75 and distinctly.
Dowie came close to her.
“It’s an ugly thing to read, my lamb,” she faltered76. “Don’t you read it. Such things oughtn’t to be allowed in newspapers. And you’re a little girl, my own dear.” Robin’s elbow rested firmly on the table and her chin firmly in her hand. Her eyes were not like a bird’s.
“I’m nearly thirteen,” she said. “I’m growing up. Nobody can stop themselves when they begin to grow up. It makes them begin to find out things. I want to ask you something, Dowie.”
“Now, lovey—!” Dowie began with tremor77. Both she and Mademoiselle had been watching the innocent “growing up” and fearing a time would come when the widening gaze would see too much. Had it come as soon as this?
Robin suddenly caught the kind woman’s wrists in her hands and held them while she fixed78 her eyes on her. The childish passion of dread48 and shyness in them broke Dowson’s heart because it was so ignorant and young.
“I’m growing up. There’s something—I must know something! I never knew how to ask about it before.” It was so plain to Dowson that she did not know how to ask about it now. “Someone said that Lord Coombe might have been a co-respondent in the Thorpe case——”
“Everybody’s horrid but you and Mademoiselle,” cried Robin, brokenly. She held the wrists harder and ended in a sort of outburst. “If my father were alive—could he bring a divorce suit——And would Lord Coombe——”
Dowson burst into open tears. And then, so did Robin. She dropped Dowson’s wrists and threw her arms around her waist, clinging to it in piteous repentance80.
“No, I won’t!” she cried out. “I oughtn’t to try to make you tell me. You can’t. I’m wicked to you. Poor Dowie—darling Dowie! I want to kiss you, Dowie! Let me—let me!”
She sobbed81 childishly on the comfortable breast and Dowie hugged her close and murmured in a choked voice,
“My lamb! My pet lamb!”
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收听单词发音
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1
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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refulgent
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| adj.辉煌的，灿烂的 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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astuteness
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| n.敏锐；精明；机敏 | |
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fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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touchingly
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| adv.令人同情地，感人地，动人地 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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smirks
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| n.傻笑，得意的笑( smirk的名词复数 )v.傻笑( smirk的第三人称单数 ) | |
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plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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blusters
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| n.大声的威吓( bluster的名词复数 )；狂风声，巨浪声v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的第三人称单数 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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bullies
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| n.欺凌弱小者, 开球 vt.恐吓, 威胁, 欺负 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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paraphrased
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| v.释义，意译( paraphrase的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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conservatories
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| n.（培植植物的）温室，暖房( conservatory的名词复数 ) | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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leniency
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| n.宽大（不严厉） | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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blindfolded
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| v.（尤指用布）挡住（某人）的视线( blindfold的过去式 )；蒙住（某人）的眼睛；使不理解；蒙骗 | |
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bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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60
pitfalls
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| （捕猎野兽用的）陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 )； 意想不到的困难，易犯的错误 | |
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61
preclude
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| vt.阻止，排除，防止；妨碍 | |
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62
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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64
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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66
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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67
giggles
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| n.咯咯的笑( giggle的名词复数 )；傻笑；玩笑；the giggles 止不住的格格笑v.咯咯地笑( giggle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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68
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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avid
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| adj.热心的；贪婪的；渴望的；劲头十足的 | |
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71
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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enthralling
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| 迷人的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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81
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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