There was the bitterness of death in what, by a mere8 trick of chance, came about. As she turned a corner telling herself for the hundredth time that she must go home, she found herself face to face with a splendid figure swinging furiously along. She staggered at the sight of the tigerish rage in the white face she recognized with a gasp9. It was enough merely to behold10 it. He had met with some disastrous11 humiliation12!
As for him, the direct intervention13 of that Heaven whose special care he was, had sent him a woman to punish—which, so far, was at least one thing arranged as it should be. He knew so well how he could punish her with his mere contempt and displeasure—as he could lash14 a spaniel crawling at his feet. He need not deign15 to tell her what had happened, and he did not. He merely drew back and stood in stiff magnificence looking down at her.
“It is through some folly16 of yours,” he dropped in a voice of vitriol. “Women are always foolish. They cannot hold their tongues or think clearly. Return to Berlin at once. You are not of those whose conduct I can commend to be trusted in the future.”
He was gone before she could have spoken even if she had dared. Sobbing17 gasps18 caught her breath as she stood and watched him striding pitilessly and superbly away with, what seemed to her abject19 soul, the swing and tread of a martial20 god. Her streaming tears tasted salt indeed. She might never see him again—even from a distance. She would be disgraced and flung aside as a blundering woman. She had obeyed his every word and done her straining best, as she had licked the dust at his feet—but he would never cast a glance at her in the future or utter to her the remotest word of his high commands. She so reeled as she went her wretched way that a good-natured policeman said to her as he passed,
“Steady on, my girl. Best get home and go to bed.”
To Mrs. Gareth-Lawless, it was stated by Coombe that Fräulein Hirsch had been called back to Germany by family complications. That august orders should recall Count Von Hillern, was easily understood. Such magnificent persons never shone upon society for any length of time.
That Feather had been making a country home visit when her daughter had faced tragedy was considered by Lord Coombe as a fortunate thing.
“We will not alarm Mrs. Gareth-Lawless by telling her what has occurred,” he said to Mademoiselle Vallé. “What we most desire is that no one shall suspect that the hideous21 thing took place. A person who was forgetful or careless might, unintentionally, let some word escape which—”
What he meant, and what Mademoiselle Vallé knew he meant—also what he knew she knew he meant—was that a woman, who was a heartless fool, without sympathy or perception, would not have the delicacy22 to feel that the girl must be shielded, and might actually see a sort of ghastly joke in a story of Mademoiselle Vallé’s sacrosanct23 charge simply walking out of her enshrining arms into such a “galere” as the most rackety and adventurous24 of pupils could scarcely have been led into. Such a point of view would have been quite possible for Feather—even probable, in the slightly spiteful attitude of her light mind.
“She was away from home. Only you and I and Dowie know,” answered Mademoiselle.
They both knew that. She had been feverish26 and ill for several days and Dowie had kept her in bed saying that she had caught cold. Neither of the two women had felt it possible to talk to her. She had lain staring with a deadly quiet fixedness27 straight before her, saying next to nothing. Now and then she shuddered29, and once she broke into a mad, heart-broken fit of crying which she seemed unable to control.
“Everything is changed,” she said to Dowie and Mademoiselle who sat on either side of her bed, sometimes pressing her head down onto a kind shoulder, sometimes holding her hand and patting it. “I shall be afraid of everybody forever. People who have sweet faces and kind voices will make me shake all over. Oh! She seemed so kind—so kind!”
It was Dowie whose warm shoulder her face hidden on this time, and Dowie was choked with sobs30 she dared not let loose. She could only squeeze hard and kiss the “silk curls all in a heap”—poor, tumbled curls, no longer a child’s!
“Aye, my lamb!” she managed to say. “Dowie’s poor pet lamb!”
“It’s the knowing that kind eyes—kind ones—!” she broke off, panting. “It’s the knowing! I didn’t know before! I knew nothing. Now, it’s all over. I’m afraid of all the world!”
“Not all, chèrie,” breathed Mademoiselle.
She sat upright against her pillows. The mirror on a dressing31 table reflected her image—her blooming tear-wet youth, framed in the wonderful hair falling a shadow about her. She stared at the reflection hard and questioningly.
“I suppose,” her voice was pathos32 itself in its helplessness, “it is because what you once told me about being pretty, is true. A girl who looks like that,” pointing her finger at the glass, “need not think she can earn her own living. I loathe33 it,” in fierce resentment34 at some bitter injustice35. “It is like being a person under a curse!”
At this Dowie broke down openly and let her tears run fast. “No, no! You mustn’t say it or think it, my dearie!” she wept. “It might call down a blight36 on it. You a young thing like a garden flower! And someone—somewhere—God bless him—that some day’ll glory in it—and you’ll glory too. Somewhere he is—somewhere!”
“Let none of them look at me!” cried Robin. “I loathe them, too. I hate everything—and everybody—but you two—just you two.”
Mademoiselle took her in her arms this time when she sobbed37 again. Mademoiselle knew how at this hour it seemed to her that all her world was laid bare forever more. When the worst of the weeping was over and she lay quiet, but for the deep catching38 breaths which lifted her breast in slow, childish shudders39 at intervals40, she held Mademoiselle Vallé’s hand and looked at her with a faint, wry41 smile.
“You were too kind to tell me what a stupid little fool I was when I talked to you about taking a place in an office!” she said. “I know now that you would not have allowed me to do the things I was so sure I could do. It was only my ignorance and conceit42. I can’t answer advertisements. Any bad person can say what they choose in an advertisement. If that woman had advertised, she would have described Hélène. And there was no Hélène.” One of the shuddering43 catches of her breath broke in here. After it, she said, with a pitiful girlishness of regret: “I—I could see Hélène. I have known so few people well enough to love them. No girls at all. I though—perhaps—we should begin to love each other. I can’t bear to think of that—that she never was alive at all. It leaves a sort of empty place.”
When she had sufficiently44 recovered herself to be up again, Mademoiselle Vallé said to her that she wished her to express her gratitude45 to Lord Coombe.
“I will if you wish it,” she answered.
“Don’t you feel that it is proper that you should do it? Do you not wish it yourself?” inquired Mademoiselle. Robin looked down at the carpet for some seconds.
“I know,” she at last admitted, “that it is proper. But I don’t wish to do it.”
“No?” said Mademoiselle Vallé.
“It is because of—reasons,” she said. “It is part of the horror I want to forget. Even you mayn’t know what it has done to me. Perhaps I am turning into a girl with a bad mind. Bad thoughts keep swooping46 down on me—like great black ravens47. Lord Coombe saved me, but I think hideous things about him. I heard Andrews say he was bad when I was too little to know what it meant. Now, I know, I remember that he knew because he chose to know—of his own free will. He knew that woman and she knew him. How did he know her?” She took a forward step which brought her nearer to Mademoiselle. “I never told you but I will tell you now,” she confessed, “When the door opened and I saw him standing48 against the light I—I did not think he had come to save me.”
“Mon Dieu!” breathed Mademoiselle in soft horror.
“He knows I am pretty. He is an old man but he knows. Fräulein Hirsch once made me feel actually sick by telling me, in her meek49, sly, careful way, that he liked beautiful girls and the people said he wanted a young wife and had his eye on me. I was rude to her because it made me so furious. How did he know that woman so well? You see how bad I have been made!”
“He knows nearly all Europe. He has seen the dark corners as well as the bright places. Perhaps he has saved other girls from her. He brought her to punishment, and was able to do it because he has been on her track for some time. You are not bad—but unjust. You have had too great a shock to be able to reason sanely50 just yet.”
“I think he will always make me creep a little,” said Robin, “but I will say anything you think I ought to say.”
On an occasion when Feather had gone again to make a visit in the country, Mademoiselle came into the sitting room with the round window in which plants grew, and Coombe followed her. Robin looked up from her book with a little start and then stood up.
“I have told Lord Coombe that you wish—that I wish you to thank him,” Mademoiselle Vallé said.
“I came on my own part to tell you that any expression of gratitude is entirely51 unnecessary,” said Coombe.
“I must be grateful. I am grateful.” Robin’s colour slowly faded as she said it. This was the first time she had seen him since he had supported her down the staircase which mounted to a place of hell.
“There is nothing to which I should object so much as being regarded as a benefactor,” he answered definitely, but with entire lack of warmth. “The role does not suit me. Being an extremely bad man,” he said it as one who speaks wholly without prejudice, “my experience is wide. I chance to know things. The woman who called herself Lady Etynge is of a class which—which does not count me among its clients. I had put certain authorities on her track—which was how I discovered your whereabouts when Mademoiselle Vallé told me that you had gone to take tea with her. Mere chance you see. Don’t be grateful to me, I beg of you, but to Mademoiselle Vallé.”
“Because,” he answered—Oh, the cold inhumanness of his gray eye!—“you happened to live in—this house.”
“I thought that was perhaps the reason,” she said—and she felt that he made her “creep” even a shade more.
“I beg your pardon,” she added, suddenly remembering, “Please sit down.”
“Thank you,” as he sat. “I will because I have something more to say to you.”
Robin and Mademoiselle seated themselves also and listened.
“There are many hideous aspects of existence which are not considered necessary portions of a girl’s education,” he began.
“They ought to be,” put in Robin, and her voice was as hard as it was young.
It was a long and penetrating55 look he gave her.
“I am not an instructor56 of Youth. I have not been called upon to decide. I do not feel it my duty to go even now into detail.”
“You need not,” broke in the hard young voice. “I know everything in the world. I’m BLACK with knowing.”
“Mademoiselle will discuss that point with you. What you have, unfortunately, been forced to learn is that it is not safe for a girl—even a girl without beauty—to act independently of older people, unless she has found out how to guard herself against—devils.” The words broke from him sharply, with a sudden incongruous hint of ferocity which was almost startling. “You have been frightened,” he said next, “and you have discovered that there are devils, but you have not sufficient experience to guard yourself against them.”
“I have been so frightened that I shall be a coward—a coward all my life. I shall be afraid of every face I see—the more to be trusted they look, the more I shall fear them. I hate every one in the world!”
Her quite wonderful eyes—so they struck Lord Coombe—flamed with a child’s outraged57 anguish58. A thunder shower of tears broke and rushed down her cheeks, and he rose and, walking quietly to the window full of flowers, stood with his back to her for a few moments. She neither cared nor knew whether it was because her hysteric emotion bored or annoyed him, or because he had the taste to realize that she would not wish to be looked at. Unhappy youth can feel no law but its own.
But all was over during the few moments, and he turned and walked back to his chair.
“You want very much to do some work which will insure your entire independence—to take some situation which will support you without aid from others? You are not yet prepared to go out and take the first place which offers. You have been—as you say—too hideously59 frightened, and you know there are dangers in wandering about unguided. Mademoiselle Vallé,” turning his head, “perhaps you will tell her what you know of the Duchess of Darte?”
Upon which, Mademoiselle Vallé took hold of her hand and entered into a careful explanation.
“She is a great personage of whom there can be no doubt. She was a lady of the Court. She is of advanced years and an invalid60 and has a liking61 for those who are pretty and young. She desires a companion who is well educated and young and fresh of mind. The companion who had been with her for many years recently died. If you took her place you would live with her in her town house and go with her to the country after the season. Your salary would be liberal and no position could be more protected and dignified62. I have seen and talked to her grace myself, and she will allow me to take you to her, if you desire to go.”
“Do not permit the fact that she has known me for many years to prejudice you against the proposal,” said Coombe. “You might perhaps regard it rather as a sort of guarantee of my conduct in the matter. She knows the worst of me and still allows me to retain her acquaintance. She was brilliant and full of charm when she was a young woman, and she is even more so now because she is—of a rarity! If I were a girl and might earn my living in her service, I should feel that fortune had been good to me—good.”
Robin’s eyes turned from one of them to the other—from Coombe to Mademoiselle Vallé, and from Mademoiselle to Coombe pathetically.
“You—you see—what has been done to me,” she said. “A few weeks ago I should have known that God was providing for me—taking care of me. And now—I am still afraid. I feel as if she would see that—that I am not young and fresh any more but black with evil. I am afraid of her—I am afraid of you,” to Coombe, “and of myself.”
Coombe rose, evidently to go away.
“But you are not afraid of Mademoiselle Vallé,” he put it to her. “She will provide the necessary references for the Duchess. I will leave her to help you to decide.”
Robin rose also. She wondered if she ought not to hold out her hand. Perhaps he saw her slight movement. He himself made none.
“I remember you objected to shaking hands as a child,” he said, with an impersonal63 civil smile, and the easy punctiliousness64 of his bow made it impossible for her to go further.
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1
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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morbidness
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| （精神的）病态 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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10
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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15
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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sacrosanct
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| adj.神圣不可侵犯的 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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fixedness
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| n.固定；稳定；稳固 | |
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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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29
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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30
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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32
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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37
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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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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40
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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41
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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42
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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43
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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44
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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45
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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46
swooping
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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47
ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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48
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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49
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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50
sanely
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| ad.神志清楚地 | |
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51
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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52
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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53
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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54
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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55
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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56
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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57
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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58
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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59
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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60
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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61
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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62
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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63
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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64
punctiliousness
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