Here, it was revealed to Mademoiselle as in a flash, was the reason why she had applied herself with determination to her studies. This had been the object in view. For reasons of her own, she intended to earn her living. With touched interest, Mademoiselle Vallé waited, wondering if she would be frank about the reason. She merely said aloud:
“A governess?”
“Perhaps there may be something else I can do. I might be a secretary or something like that. Girls and women are beginning to do so many new things,” her charge explained herself. “I do not want to be—supported and given money. I mean I do not want—other people—to buy my clothes and food—and things. The newspapers are full of advertisements. I could teach children. I could translate business letters. Very soon I shall be old enough to begin. Girls in their teens do it.”
She had laid some of her cards on the table, but not all, poor child. She was not going into the matter of her really impelling reasons. But Mademoiselle Vallé was not dull, and her affection added keenness to her mental observations. Also she had naturally heard the story of the Thorpe lawsuit from Dowson. Inevitably several points suggested themselves to her.
“Mrs. Gareth-Lawless——” she began, reasonably.
But Robin stopped her by turning her face full upon her once more, and this time her eyes were full of clear significance.
“She will let me go,” she said. “You know she will let me go, Mademoiselle, darling. You know she will.” There was a frank comprehension and finality in the words which made a full revelation of facts Mademoiselle herself had disliked even to allow to form themselves into thoughts. The child knew all sorts of things and felt all sorts of things. She would probably never go into details, but she was extraordinarily, harrowingly, aware. She had been learning to be aware for years. This had been the secret she had always kept to herself.
“If you are planning this,” Mademoiselle said, as reasonably as before, “we must work very seriously for the next few years.”
“How long do you think it will take?” asked Robin. She was nearing sixteen—bursting into glowing blossom—a radiant, touching thing whom one only could visualize in flowering gardens, in charming, enclosing rooms, figuratively embraced by every mature and kind arm within reach of her. This presented itself before Mademoiselle Vallé with such vividness that it was necessary for her to control a sigh.
“When I feel that you are ready, I will tell you,” she answered. “And I will do all I can to help you—before I leave you.”