Books: The Head of the House of Coombe

F >> Frances Hodgson Burnett >> The Head of the House of Coombe

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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 panes, 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 interpretation of this had been that of a mere 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 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 feverishly. 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 scarlet
fever. From this seed other thoughts had grown. She did not remain
a baby long. A fervid 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 horrid 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 Valle, which puzzled them by their
vagueness. The two women were mutually troubled by a moody 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 possessed a clever and determined, 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 scraps of things from servants. If one is brought up
in a convent and allowed to read nothing but literature selected
by nuns, a degree of aloofness 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 Valle's theories of a
girl's education were not founded on a belief that, until marriage,
she should be led about by a string blindfolded, and with ears
stopped with wax.

"That results in a bleating lamb's being turned out of its fold to
make its way through a jungle full of wild creatures and pitfalls
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 preclude the exercise
of the intellect. An early developed passion for reading led the
child far and wide. Fiction, history, poetry, biography, opened
up vistas 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
Valle 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 Valle. Eileen and Winifred saw Life from their
schoolroom windows as an open book. Why not, since their governess
and their mother's French maid conversed freely, and had rather
penetrating voices even when they were under the impression that
they lowered them out of deference 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 giggling.

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 giggles 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 saw Lord Coombe yesterday," said Winifred at last, and the
unnecessary giggle followed.

"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 privately 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 persistent, 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 Valle 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 avid of gossip and generally eliminated subjects,
"got in their work" with quite fevered haste. They liked the idea
of astonishing Robin.

Eileen bent forward and lowered her voice.

"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 shrilly 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 enthralling
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, obstinate,
resenting. It wore no accustomed child look and Dowson felt rather
startled.

"I'm reading the Thorpe Divorce Case, Dowie," she answered
deliberately and distinctly.

Dowie came close to her.

"It's an ugly thing to read, my lamb," she faltered. "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 tremor. 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 fixed her eyes on her. The childish passion
of dread 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----"

"These wicked children!" gasped Dowie. "They're not children at
all!"

"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 repentance.

"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 sobbed childishly on the comfortable breast and Dowie hugged
her close and murmured in a choked voice,

"My lamb! My pet lamb!"

CHAPTER XIX

Mademoiselle Valle and Dowson together realized that after this
the growing up process was more rapid. It always seems incredibly
rapid to lookers on, after thirteen. But these two watchers felt
that, in Robin's case, it seemed unusually so. Robin had always
been interested in her studies and clever at them, but, suddenly,
she developed a new concentration and it was of an order which her
governess felt denoted the secret holding of some object in view.
She devoted herself to her lessons with a quality of determination
which was new. She had previously been absorbed, but not determined.
She made amazing strides and seemed to aspire to a thoroughness
and perfection girls did not commonly aim at--especially at the
frequently rather preoccupied hour of blossoming. Mademoiselle
encountered in her an eagerness that she--who knew girls--would
have felt it optimistic to expect in most cases. She wanted to
work over hours; she would have read too much if she had not been
watched and gently coerced.

She was not distracted by the society of young people of her own age.
She, indeed, showed a definite desire to avoid such companionship.
What she said to Mademoiselle Valle one afternoon during a long walk
they took together, held its own revelation for the older woman.

They had come upon the two Erwyns walking with their attendant
in Kensington Gardens, and, seeing them at some distance, Robin
asked her companion to turn into another walk.

"I don't want to meet them," she said, hurriedly. "I don't think I
like girls. Perhaps it's horrid of me--but I don't. I don't like
those two." A few minutes later, after they had walked in an opposite
direction, she said thoughtfully.

"Perhaps the kind of girls I should like to know would not like to
know me."

From the earliest days of her knowledge of Lord Coombe, Mademoiselle
Valle had seen that she had no cause to fear lack of comprehension
on his part. With a perfection of method, they searched each other's
intelligence. It had become understood that on such occasions as
there was anything she wished to communicate or inquire concerning,
Mr. Benby, in his private room, was at Mademoiselle's service, and
there his lordship could also be met personally by appointment.

"There have been no explanations," Mademoiselle Valle said to
Dowson. "He does not ask to know why I turn to him and I do not
ask to know why he cares about this particular child. It is taken
for granted that is his affair and not mine. I am paid well to
take care of Robin, and he knows that all I say and do is part of
my taking care of her."

After the visit of the Erwyn children, she had a brief interview
with Coombe, in which she made for him a clear sketch. It was a
sketch of unpleasant little minds, avid and curious on somewhat
exotic subjects, little minds, awake to rather common claptrap
and gossipy pinchbeck interests.

"Yes--unpleasant, luckless, little persons. I quite understand.
They never appeared before. They will not appear again. Thank you,
Mademoiselle," he said.

The little girls did not appear again; neither did any others of
their type, and the fact that Feather knew little of other types
was a sufficient reason for Robin's growing up without companions
of her own age.

"She's a lonely child, after all," Mademoiselle said.

"She always was," answered Dowie. "But she's fond of us, bless
her heart, and it isn't loneliness like it was before we came."

"She is not unhappy. She is too blooming and full of life,"
Mademoiselle reflected. "We adore her and she has many interests.
It is only that she does not know the companionship most young
people enjoy. Perhaps, as she has never known it, she does not
miss it."

The truth was that if the absence of intercourse with youth
produced its subtle effect on her, she was not aware of any lack,
and a certain uncompanioned habit of mind, which gave her much
time for dreams and thought, was accepted by her as a natural
condition as simply as her babyhood had accepted the limitations
of the Day and Night Nurseries.

She was not a self-conscious creature, but the time came when she
became rather disturbed by the fact that people looked at her very
often, as she walked in the streets. Sometimes they turned their
heads to look after her; occasionally one person walking with
another would say something quietly to his or her companion, and
they even paused a moment to turn quite round and look. The first
few times she noticed this she flushed prettily and said nothing
to Mademoiselle Valle who was generally with her. But, after her
attention had been attracted by the same thing on several different
days, she said uneasily:

"Am I quite tidy, Mademoiselle?"

"Quite," Mademoiselle answered--just a shade uneasy herself.

"I began to think that perhaps something had come undone or my
hat was crooked," she explained. "Those two women stared so. Then
two men in a hansom leaned forward and one said something to the
other, and they both laughed a little, Mademoiselle!" hurriedly,
"Now, there are three young men!" quite indignantly. "Don't let
them see you notice them--but I think it RUDE!"

They were carelessly joyous and not strictly well-bred youths,
who were taking a holiday together, and their rudeness was quite
unintentional and without guile. They merely stared and obviously
muttered comments to each other as they passed, each giving
the hasty, unconscious touch to his young moustache, which is the
automatic sign of pleasurable observation in the human male.

"If she had had companions of her own age she would have known
all about it long ago," Mademoiselle was thinking.

Her intelligent view of such circumstances was that the simple
fact they arose from could--with perfect taste--only be treated
simply. It was a mere fact; therefore, why be prudish and affected
about it.

"They did not intend any rudeness," she said, after they had gone
by. "They are not much more than boys and not perfectly behaved.
People often stare when they see a very pretty girl. I am afraid
I do it myself. You are very pretty," quite calmly, and as one
speaking without prejudice.

Robin turned and looked at her, and the colour, which was like a
Jacqueminot rose, flooded her face. She was at the flushing age.
Her gaze was interested, speculative, and a shade startled--merely
a shade.

"Oh," she said briefly--not in exclamation exactly, but in a sort
of acceptance. Then she looked straight before her and went on
walking, with the lovely, slightly swaying, buoyant step which in
itself drew attracted eyes after her.

"If I were a model governess, such as one read of long before
you were born," Mademoiselle Valle continued, "I should feel it
my duty to tell you that beauty counts for nothing. But that is
nonsense. It counts a great deal--with some women it counts for
everything. Such women are not lucky. One should thank Heaven
for it and make the best of it, without exaggerated anxiety. Both
Dowie and I, who love you, are GRATEFUL to le bon Dieu that you
are pretty."

"I have sometimes thought I was pretty, when I saw myself in the
glass," said Robin, with unexcited interest. "It seemed to me that
I LOOKED pretty. But, at the same time, I couldn't help knowing
that everything is a matter of taste and that it might be because
I was conceited."

"You are not conceited," answered the Frenchwoman.

"I don't want to be," said Robin. "I want to be--a serious person
with--with a strong character."

Mademoiselle's smile was touched with affectionate doubt. It had
not occurred to her to view this lovely thing in the light of a
"strong" character. Though, after all, what exactly was strength?
She was a warm, intensely loving, love compelling, tender being.
Having seen much of the world, and of humanity and inhumanity,
Mademoiselle Valle had had moments of being afraid for
her--particularly when, by chance, she recalled the story Dowson
had told her of the bits of crushed and broken leaves.

"A serious person," she said, "and strong?"

"Because I must earn my own living," said Robin. "I must be strong
enough to take care of myself. I am going to be a governess--or
something."

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 Valle
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 Valle 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 news 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
Valle 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."

"Oh!" Robin gasped, in an involuntarily childish way, "I--hadn't
thought of that! How could I LIVE without you--and Dowie?"

"I know you had not thought of it," said Mademoiselle, affectionately.
"You are only a dear child yet. But that will be part of it, you
know. A governess or a secretary, or a young lady in an office
translating letters cannot take her governess and maid with her."

"Oh!" said Robin again, and her eyes became suddenly so dewy that
the person who passed her at the moment thought he had never seen
such wonderful eyes in his life. So much of her was still child
that the shock of this sudden practical realization thrust the mature
and determined part of her being momentarily into the background,
and she could scarcely bear her alarmed pain. It was true that she
had been too young to face her plan as she must.

But, after the long walk was over and she found herself in her
bedroom again, she was conscious of a sense of being relieved of
a burden. She had been wondering when she could tell Mademoiselle
and Dowie of her determination. She had not liked to keep it a secret
from them as if she did not love them, but it had been difficult
to think of a way in which to begin without seeming as if she
thought she was quite grown up--which would have been silly. She
had not thought of speaking today, but it had all come about quite
naturally, as a result of Mademoiselle's having told her that she
was really very pretty--so pretty that it made people turn to look
at her in the street. She had heard of girls and women who were
like that, but she had never thought it possible that she----!
She had, of course, been looked at when she was very little, but
she had heard Andrews say that people looked because she had so
much hair and it was like curled silk.

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