Books: The Head of the House of Coombe

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

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She went to the dressing table and looked at herself in the glass,
leaning forward that she might see herself closely. The face
which drew nearer and nearer had the effect of some tropic flower,
because it was so alive with colour which seemed to palpitate
instead of standing still. Her soft mouth was warm and brilliant
with it, and the darkness of her eyes was--as it had always
been--like dew. Her brow were a slender black velvet line, and her
lashes made a thick, softening shadow. She saw they were becoming.
She cupped her round chin in her hands and studied herself with a
desire to be sure of the truth without prejudice or self conceit.
The whole effect of her was glowing, and she felt the glow as
others did. She put up a finger to touch the velvet petal texture
of her skin, and she saw how prettily pointed and slim her hand
was. Yes, that was pretty--and her hair--the way it grew about
her forehead and ears and the back of her neck. She gazed at her
young curve and colour and flame of life's first beauty with deep
curiosity, singularly impersonal for her years.

She liked it; she began to be grateful as Mademoiselle had said
she and Dowie were. Yes, if other people liked it, there was no
use in pretending it would not count.

"If I am going to earn my living," she thought, with entire
gravity, "it may be good for me. If I am a governess, it will be
useful because children like pretty people. And if I am a secretary
and work in an office, I daresay men like one to be pretty because
it is more cheerful."

She mentioned this to Mademoiselle Valle, who was very kind about
it, though she looked thoughtful afterwards. When, a few days later,
Mademoiselle had an interview with Coombe in Benby's comfortable
room, he appeared thoughtful also as he listened to her recital
of the incidents of the long walk during which her charge had
revealed her future plans.

"She is a nice child," he said. "I wish she did not dislike me
so much. I understand her, villain as she thinks me. I am not a
genuine villain," he added, with his cold smile. But he was saying
it to himself, not to Mademoiselle.

This, she saw, but--singularly, perhaps--she spoke as if in reply.

"Of that I am aware."

He turned his head slightly, with a quick, unprepared movement.

"Yes?" he said.

"Would your lordship pardon me if I should say that otherwise I
should not ask your advice concerning a very young girl?"

He slightly waved his hand.

"I should have known that--if I had thought of it. I do know it."

Mademoiselle Valle bowed.

"The fact," she said, "that she seriously thinks that perhaps
beauty may be an advantage to a young person who applies for work
in the office of a man of business because it may seem bright and
cheerful to him when he is tired and out of spirits--that gives one
furiously to think. Yes, to me she said it, milord--with the eyes
of a little dove brooding over her young. I could see her--lifting
them like an angel to some elderly vaurien, who would merely think
her a born cocotte."

Here Coombe's rigid face showed thought indeed.

"Good God!" he muttered, quite to himself, "Good God!" in a low,
breathless voice. Villain or saint, he knew not one world but
many.

"We must take care of her," he said next. "She is not an insubordinate
child. She will do nothing yet?"

"I have told her she is not yet ready," Mademoiselle Valle answered.
"I have also promised to tell her when she is--And to help her."

"God help her if we do not!" he said. "She is, on the whole, as
ignorant as a little sheep--and butchers are on the lookout for
such as she is. They suit them even better than the little things
whose tendencies are perverse from birth. An old man with an evil
character may be able to watch over her from a distance."

Mademoiselle regarded him with grave eyes, which took in his tall,
thin erectness of figure, his bearing, the perfection of his attire
with its unfailing freshness, which was not newness.

"Do you call yourself an old man, milord?" she asked.

"I am not decrepit--years need not bring that," was his answer. "But
I believe I became an old man before I was thirty. I have grown no
older--in that which is really age--since then."

In the moment's silence which followed, his glance met Mademoiselle
Valle's and fixed itself.

"I am not old enough--or young enough--to be enamoured of Mrs.
Gareth-Lawless' little daughter," he said. "YOU need not be told
that. But you have heard that there are those who amuse themselves
by choosing to believe that I am."

"A few light and not too clean-minded fools," she admitted without
flinching.

"No man can do worse for himself than to explain and deny," he
responded with a smile at once hard and fine. "Let them continue
to believe it."

CHAPTER XX

Sixteen passed by with many other things much more disturbing
and important to the world than a girl's birthday; seventeen was
gone, with passing events more complicated still and increasingly
significant, but even the owners of the hands hovering over the
Chessboard, which was the Map of Europe, did not keep a watch on
all of them as close as might have been kept with advantage. Girls
in their teens are seldom interested in political and diplomatic
conditions, and Robin was not fond of newspapers. She worked well
and steadily under Mademoiselle's guidance, and her governess
realized that she was not losing sight of her plans for self
support. She was made aware of this by an occasional word or so,
and also by a certain telepathic union between them. Little as she
cared for the papers, the child had a habit of closely examining
the advertisements every day. She read faithfully the columns
devoted to those who "Want" employment or are "Wanted" by employers.

"I look at all the paragraphs which begin 'Wanted, a young lady'
or a 'young woman' or a 'young person,' and those which say that
'A young person' or 'a young woman' or 'a young lady' desires a
position. I want to find out what is oftenest needed."

She had ceased to be disturbed by the eyes which followed her,
or opened a little as she passed. She knew that nothing had come
undone or was crooked and that untidiness had nothing to do with
the matter. She accepted being looked at as a part of everyday
life. A certain friendliness and pleasure in most of the glances she
liked and was glad of. Sometimes men of the flushed, middle-aged
or elderly type displeased her by a sort of boldness of manner
and gaze, bet she thought that they were only silly, giddy, old
things who ought to go home to their families and stay with than.
Mademoiselle or Dowie was nearly always with her, but, as she was
not a French jemme fille, this was not because it was supposed
that she could not be trusted out alone, but because she enjoyed
their affectionate companionship.

There was one man, however, whom she greatly disliked, as young
girls will occasionally dislike a member of the opposite sex for
no special reason they can wholly explain to themselves.

He was an occasional visitor of her mother's--a personable young
Prussian officer of high rank and title. He was blonde and military
and good-looking; he brought his bearing and manner from the Court
at Berlin, and the click of his heels as he brought them smartly
together, when he made his perfect automatic bow, was one of the
things Robin knew she was reasonless in feeling she detested in
him.

"It makes me feel as if he was not merely bowing as a a man who
is a gentleman does," she confided to Mademoiselle Valle, "but
as if he had been taught to do it and to call attention to it as
if no one had ever known how to do it properly before. It is so
flourishing in its stiff way that it's rather vulgar."

"That is only personal fancy on your part," commented Mademoiselle.

"I know it is," admitted Robin. "But--" uneasily, "--but that
isn't what I dislike in him most. It's his eyes, I suppose they
are handsome eyes. They are blue and full--rather too full. They
have a queer, swift stare--as if they plunged into other people's
eyes and tried to hold them and say something secret, all in one
second. You find yourself getting red and trying to look away."

"I don't," said Mademoiselle astutely--because she wanted to hear
the rest, without asking too many questions.

Robin laughed just a little.

"You have not seen him do it. I have not seen him do it myself very
often. He comes to call on--Mamma"--she never said "Mother"--"when
he is in London. He has been coming for two or three seasons. The
first time I saw him I was going out with Dowie and he was just
going upstairs. Because the hall is so small, we almost knocked
against each other, and he jumped back and made his bow, and he
stared so that I felt silly and half frightened. I was only fifteen
then."

"And since then?" Mademoiselle Valle inquired.

"When he is here it seems as if I always meet him somewhere. Twice,
when Fraulein Hirsch was with me in the Square Gardens, he came
and spoke to us. I think he must know her. He was very grand and
condescendingly polite to her, as if he did not forget she was
only a German teacher and I was only a little girl whose mamma
he knew. But he kept looking at me until I began to hate him."

"You must not dislike people without reason. You dislike Lord
Coombe."

"They both make me creep. Lord Coombe doesn't plunge his eyes
into mine, but he makes me creep with his fishy coldness. I feel
as if he were like Satan in his still way."

"That is childish prejudice and nonsense."

"Perhaps the other is, too," said Robin. "But they both make me
creep, nevertheless. I would rather DIE than be obliged to let
one of them touch me. That was why I would never shake hands with
Lord Coombe when I was a little child."

"You think Fraulein Hirsch knows the Baron?" Mademoiselle inquired
further.

"I am sure she does. Several times, when she has gone out to walk
with me, we have met him. Sometimes he only passes us and salutes,
but sometimes he stops and says a few words in a stiff, magnificent
way. But he always bores his eyes into mine, as if he were finding
out things about me which I don't know myself. He has passed
several times when you have been with me, but you may not remember."

Mademoiselle Valle chanced, however, to recall having observed
the salute of a somewhat haughty, masculine person, whose military
bearing in itself was sufficient to attract attention, so markedly
did it suggest the clanking of spurs and accoutrements, and the
high lift of a breast bearing orders.

"He is Count von Hillern, and I wish he would stay in Germany,"
said Robin.

Fraulein Hirsch had not been one of those who returned hastily to
her own country, giving no warning of her intention to her employers.
She had remained in London and given her lessons faithfully. She
was a plain young woman with a large nose and pimpled, colourless
face and shy eyes and manner. Robin had felt sure that she stood
in awe of the rank and military grandeur of her fellow countryman.
She looked shyer than ever when he condescended to halt and address
her and her charge--so shy, indeed, that her glances seemed furtive.
Robin guessed that she admired him but was too humble to be at
ease when he was near her. More than once she had started and turned
red and pale when she saw him approaching, which had caused Robin
to wonder if she herself would feel as timid and overpowered by
her superiors, if she became a governess. Clearly, a man like
Count von Hillern would then be counted among her superiors, and
she must conduct herself becomingly, even if it led to her looking
almost stealthy. She had, on several occasions, asked Fraulein
certain questions about governesses. She had inquired as to the age
at which one could apply for a place as instructress to children
or young girls. Fraulein Hirsch had begun her career in Germany
at the age of eighteen. She had lived a serious life, full of
responsibilities at home as one of a large family, and she had
perhaps been rather mature for her age. In England young women
who wished for situations answered advertisements and went to see
the people who had inserted them in the newspapers, she explained.
Sometimes, the results were very satisfactory. Fraulein Hirsch
was very amiable in her readiness to supply information. Robin did
not tell her of her intention to find work of some sort--probably
governessing--but the young German woman was possessed of a mind
"made in Germany" and was quite well aware of innumerable things
her charge did not suspect her of knowing. One of the things
she knew best was that the girl was a child. She was not a child
herself, and she was an abjectly bitter and wretched creature who
had no reason for hope. She lived in small lodgings in a street
off Abbey Road, and, in a drawer in her dressing table, she kept
hidden a photograph of a Prussian officer with cropped blond head,
and handsome prominent blue eyes, arrogantly gazing from beneath
heavy lids which drooped. He was of the type the German woman, young
and slim, or mature and stout, privately worships as a god whose
relation to any woman can only be that of a modern Jove stooping
to command service. In his teens he had become accustomed to the
female eye which lifts itself adoringly or casts the furtively
excited glance of admiration or appeal. It was the way of mere
nature that it should be so--the wise provision of a masculine
God, whose world was created for the supply and pleasure of males,
especially males of the Prussian Army, whose fixed intention it
was to dominate the world and teach it obedience.

To such a man, so thoroughly well trained in the comprehension of
the power of his own rank and values, a young woman such as Fraulein
Hirsch--subservient and without beauty--was an unconsidered object
to be as little regarded as the pavement upon which one walks. The
pavement had its uses, and such women had theirs. They could, at
least, obey the orders of those Heaven had placed above them, and,
if they showed docility and intelligence, might be re warded by a
certain degree of approval.

A presumption, which would have dared to acknowledge to the existence
of the hidden photograph, could not have been encompassed by the
being of Fraulein Hirsch. She was, in truth, secretly enslaved
by a burning, secret, heart-wringing passion which, sometimes, as
she lay on her hard bed at night, forced from her thin chest hopeless
sobs which she smothered under the bedclothes.

Figuratively, she would have licked the boots of her conquering
god, if he would have looked at her--just looked-as if she were
human. But such a thing could not have occurred to him. He did
not even think of her as she thought of herself, torturingly--as
not young, not in any degree good-looking, not geboren, not even
female. He did not think of her at all, except as one of those born
to serve in such manner as their superiors commanded. She was in
England under orders, because she was unobtrusive looking enough
to be a safe person to carry on the work she had been given to
do. She was cleverer than she looked and could accomplish certain
things without attracting any attention whatsoever.

Von Hillern had given her instructions now and then, which had
made it necessary for him to see and talk to her in various places.
The fact that she had before her the remote chance of seeing him
by some chance, gave her an object in life. It was enough to be
allowed to stand or sit for a short time near enough to have been
able to touch his sleeve, if she had had the mad audacity to do
it; to quail before his magnificent glance, to hear his voice, to
ALMOST touch his strong, white hand when she gave him papers, to
see that he deigned, sometimes, to approve of what she had done,
to assure him of her continued obedience, with servile politeness.

She was not a nice woman, or a good one, and she had, from her
birth, accepted her place in her world with such finality that her
desires could not, at any time, have been of an elevated nature.
If he had raised a haughty hand and beckoned to her, she would have
followed him like a dog under any conditions he chose to impose.
But he did not raise his hand, and never would, because she had no
attractions whatsoever. And this she knew, so smothered her sobs
in her bed at night or lay awake, fevered with anticipation when
there was a vague chance that he might need her for some reason
and command her presence in some deserted park or country road
or cheap hotel, where she could take rooms for the night as if
she were a passing visitor to London.

One night--she had taken cheap lodgings for a week in a side street,
in obedience to orders--he came in about nine o'clock dressed in
a manner whose object was to dull the effect of his grandeur and
cause him to look as much like an ordinary Englishman as possible.

But, when the door was closed and he stood alone in the room
with her, she saw, with the blissful pangs of an abjectly adoring
woman, that he automatically resumed his magnificence of bearing.
His badly fitting overcoat removed, he stood erect and drawn to
his full height, so dominating the small place and her idolatrously
cringing being that her heart quaked within her. Oh! to dare to
cast her unloveliness at his feet, if it were only to be trampled
upon and die there! No small sense of humour existed in her brain
to save her from her pathetic idiocy. Romantic humility and touching
sacrifice to the worshipped one were the ideals she had read of
in verse and song all her life. Only through such servitude and
sacrifice could woman gain man's love--and even then only if she
had beauty and the gifts worthy of her idol's acceptance.

It was really his unmitigated arrogance she worshipped and crawled
upon her poor, large-jointed knees to adore. Her education, her
very religion itself had taught that it was the sign of his nobility
and martial high breeding. Even the women of his own class believed
something of the same sort--the more romantic and sentimental
of them rather enjoying being mastered by it. To Fraulein Hirsch's
mental vision, he was a sublimated and more dazzling German
Rochester, and she herself a more worthy, because more submissive,
Jane Eyre. Ach Gott! His high-held, cropped head--his so beautiful
white hands--his proud eyes which deigned to look at her from
their drooping lids! His presence filled the shabby room with the
atmosphere of a Palace.

He asked her a few questions; he required from her certain notes she
had made; without wasting a word or glance he gave her in detail
certain further orders.

He stood by the table, and it was, therefore, necessary that she
should approach him--should even stand quite near that she might
see clearly a sketch he made hastily--immediately afterwards tearing
it into fragments and burning it with a match. She was obliged
to stand so near him that her skirt brushed his trouser leg. His
nearness, and a vague scent of cigar smoke, mingled with the
suggestion of some masculine soap or essence, were so poignant
in their effect that she trembled and water rose in her eyes. In
fact--and despite her terrified effort to control it, a miserable
tear fell on her cheek and stood there because she dared not wipe
it away.

Because he realized, with annoyance, that she was trembling, he
cast a cold, inquiring glance at her and saw the tear. Then he
turned away and resumed his examination of her notes. He was not
here to make inquiries as to whether a sheep of a woman was crying
or had merely a cold in her head. "Ach!" grovelled poor Hirsch in
her secret soul,--his patrician control of outward expression and
his indifference to all small and paltry things! It was part,
not only of his aristocratic breeding, but of the splendour of
his military training.

It was his usual custom to leave her at once, when the necessary
formula had been gone through. Tonight--she scarcely dared to
believe it--he seemed to have some reason for slight delay. He
did not sit down or ask Fraulein Hirsch to do so--but he did not
at once leave the room. He lighted a quite marvellous cigar--deigning
a slight wave of the admired hand which held it, designating that
he asked permission. Oh! if she dared have darted to him with a
match! He stood upon the hearth and asked a casual-sounding question
or so regarding her employer, her household, her acquaintances,
her habits.

The sole link between them was the asking of questions and the
giving of private information, and, therefore, the matter of taste
in such matters did not count as a factor. He might ask anything
and she must answer. Perhaps it was necessary for her to seek some
special knowledge among the guests Mrs. Gareth-Lawless received.
But training, having developed in her alertness of mind, led her
presently to see that it was not Mrs. Gareth-Lawless he was chiefly
interested in--but a member of her family--the very small family
which consisted of herself and her daughter.

It was Robin he was enclosing in his network of questions. And she
had seen him look at Robin when he had passed or spoken to them.
An illuminating flash brought back to her that he had cleverly
found out from her when they were to walk together, and where they
were to go. She had not been quick enough to detect this before,
but she saw it now. Girls who looked like that--yes! But it could
not be--serious. An English girl of such family--with such a
mother! A momentary caprice, such as all young men of his class
amused themselves with and forgot--but nothing permanent. It would
not, indeed, be approved in those High Places where obedience was
the first commandment of the Decalogue.

But he did not go. He even descended a shade from his inaccessible
plane. It was not difficult for him to obtain details of the odd
loneliness of the girl's position. Fraulein Hirsch was quite ready
to explain that, in spite of the easy morals and leniency of rank
and fashion in England, she was a sort of little outcast from
sacred inner circles. There were points she burned to make clear
to him, and she made them so. She was in secret fiercely desirous
that he should realize to the utmost, that, whatsoever rashness
this young flame of loveliness inspired in him, it was NOT possible
that he could regard it with any shadow of serious intention.
She had always disliked the girl, and now her weak mildness and
humility suddenly transformed themselves into something else--a
sort of maternal wolfishness. It did not matter what happened to
the girl--and whatsoever befell or did not befall her, she--Mathilde
Hirsch--could neither gain nor lose hope through it. But, if
she did not displease him and yet saved him from final disaster,
he would, perhaps, be grateful to her--and perhaps, speak with
approval--or remember it--and his Noble Mother most certainly
would--if she ever knew. But behind and under and through all these
specious reasonings, was the hot choking burn of the mad jealousy
only her type of luckless woman can know--and of whose colour she
dare not show the palest hint.

"I have found out that, for some reason, she thinks of taking a
place as governess," she said.

"Suggest that she go to Berlin. There are good places there," was
his answer.

"If she should go, her mother will not feel any anxiety about
her," returned Fraulein Hirsch.

"If, then, some young man she meets in the street makes love to
her and they run away together, she will not be pursued by her
relatives."

Fraulein Hirsch's flat mouth looked rather malicious.

"Her mother is too busy to pursue her, and there is no one
else--unless it were Lord Coombe, who is said to want her himself."

Von Hillern shrugged his fine shoulders.

"At his age! After the mother! That is like an Englishman!"

Upon this, Fraulein Hirsch drew a step nearer and fixed her eyes
upon his, as she had never had the joy of fixing them before in
her life. She dared it now because she had an interesting story to
tell him which he would like to hear. It WAS like an Englishman.
Lord Coombe had the character of being one of the worst among
them, but was too subtle and clever to openly offend people. It
was actually said that he was educating the girl and keeping her
in seclusion and that it was probably his colossal intention to
marry her when she was old enough. He had no heir of his own--and
he must have beauty and innocence. Innocence and beauty his
viciousness would have.

"Pah!" exclaimed von Hillern. "It is youth which requires such
things--and takes them. That is all imbecile London gossip. No, he
would not run after her if she ran away. He is a proud man and he
knows he would be laughed at. And he could not get her back from
a young man--who was her lover."

Her lover! How it thrilled the burning heart her poor, flat chest
panted above. With what triumphant knowledge of such things he
said it.

"No, he could not," she answered, her eyes still on his. "No one
could."

He laughed a little, confidently, but almost with light indifference.

"If she were missing, no particular search would be made then,"
he said. "She is pretty enough to suit Berlin."

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