When the door closed the Duchess was smiling at Lord Coombe.
“I understand her,” she said. “She is sustained and comforted by her pretty air of servitude. She might use Dowie as her personal maid and do next to nothing, but she waits upon herself and punctiliously asks my permission to approach Mrs. James the housekeeper with any request for a favour. Her one desire is to be sure that she is earning her living as other young women do when they are paid for their work. I should really like to pet and indulge her, but it would only make her unhappy. I invent tasks for her which are quite unnecessary. For years the little shut-up soul has been yearning and praying for this opportunity to stand honestly on her own feet and she can scarcely persuade herself that it has been given to her. It must not be spoiled for her. I send her on errands my maid could perform. I have given her a little room with a serious business air. It is full of files and papers and she sits in it and copies things for me and even looks over accounts. She is clever at looking up references. I have let her sit up quite late once or twice searching for detail and dates for my use. It made her bloom with joy.”
“You are quite the most delightful woman in the world,” said Coombe. “Quite.”
CHAPTER XXIX
In the serious little room the Duchess 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 documents, 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 Duchess 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 polishing 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 document “in the dark.” She was punctuality’s self and held herself in readiness at any moment to appear at the Duchess’ 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 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 fashion.”
“Mademoiselle Vallé 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.