Books: The Head of the House of Coombe

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

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She had always been rather grave about her little son and when
her husband's early death left him and his dignified but not large
estate in her care she realized that there lay in her hands the
power to direct a life as she chose, in as far as was humanly
possible. The pure blood and healthy tendencies of a long and
fine ancestry expressing themselves in the boy's splendid body
and unusual beauty had set the minds of two imaginative people
working from the first. One of Muir's deepest interests was the
study of development of the race. It was he who had planted in
her mind that daringly fearless thought of a human perfection as
to the Intention of the Creative Cause. They used to look at the
child as he lay asleep and note the beauty of him--his hands, his
feet, his torso, the tint and texture and line of him.

"This is what was MEANT--in the plan for every human being--How
could there be scamping and inefficiency in Creation. It is
we ourselves who have scamped and been incomplete in our thought
and life. Here he is. Look at him. But he will only develop as he
is--if living does not warp him." This was what his father said.
His mother was at her gravest as she looked down at the little god
in the crib.

"It's as if some power had thrust a casket of loose jewels into
our hands and said, 'It is for you to see that not one is lost',"
she murmured. Then the looked up and smiled.

"Are we being solemn--over a baby?" she said.

"Perhaps," he was always even readier to smile than she was. "I've
an idea, however, that there's enough to be solemn about--not too
solemn, but just solemn enough. You are a beautiful thing, Fair
Helen! Why shouldn't he be like you? Neither of us will forget
what we have just said."

Through her darkest hours of young bereavement she remembered
the words many times and felt as if they were a sort of light she
might hold in her hand as she trod the paths of the "Afterwards"
which were in the days before her. She lived with Donal at Braemarnie
and lived FOR him without neglecting her duty of being the head
of a household and an estate and also a good and gracious neighbour
to things and people. She kept watch over every jewel in his
casket, great and small. He was so much a part of her religion
that sometimes she realized that the echoes from the subterranean
chamber were perhaps making her a little strict but she tried to
keep guard over herself.

He was handsome and radiant with glowing health and vitality. He
was a friendly, rejoicing creature and as full of the joy of life
as a scampering moor pony. He was clever enough but not too clever
and he was friends with the world. Braemarnie was picturesquely
ancient and beautiful. It would be a home of sufficient ease and
luxury to be a pleasure but no burden. Life in it could be perfect
and also supply freedom. Coombe Court and Coombe Keep were huge
and castellated and demanded great things. Even if the Head of the
House had been a man to like and be proud of--the accession of a
beautiful young Marquis would rouse the hounds of war, so to speak,
and set them racing upon his track. Even the totally unalluring
"Henry" had been beset with temptations from his earliest years.
That he promptly succumbed to the first only brought forth others.
It did not seem fair that a creature so different, a splendid
fearless thing, should be dragged from his hills and moors and
fair heather and made to breathe the foul scent of things, of whose
poison he could know nothing. She was not an ignorant childish
woman. In her fine aloof way she had learned much in her stays in
London with her husband and in their explorings of foreign cities.

This was the reason for her views of her boy's training and
surroundings. She had not asked questions about Coombe himself,
but it had not been necessary. Once or twice she had seen Feather
by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and
then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or
at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to
verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed.
On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned
up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he
had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting
to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite
objections to Henry.

Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with
unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from
all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy.
Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough
for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be
no intercourse if it could be avoided.

She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the
hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame
of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it
HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still
by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight
on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years
when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she
was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy
of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight. Those
were divine years. They were so safe then. Donal was living
through those years now. He did not know that any happiness could
be taken from him. He was hers and she was his. It would be horrible
if there were anything one could not let him keep--in this early
unshadowed time!

She was looking out at the Spring night with all its stars lit
and gleaming over the Park which she could see from her window.
Suddenly she left her chair and rang for Nanny.

"Nanny," she said when the old nurse came, "tell me something about
the little girl Donal plays with in the Square gardens."

"She's a bonny thing and finely dressed, ma'am," was the woman's
careful answer, "but I don't make friends with strange nurses and
I don't think much of hers. She's a young dawdler who sits novel
reading and if Master Donal were a young pickpocket with the
measles, the child would be playing with him just the same as far
as I can see. The young woman sits under a tree and reads and the
pretty little thing may do what she likes. I keep my eye on them,
however, and they're in no mischief. Master Donal reads out of
his picture books and shows himself off before her grandly and she
laughs and looks up to him as if he were a king. Every lad child
likes a woman child to look up to him. It's pretty to see the
pair of them. They're daft about each other. Just wee things in
love at first sight."

"Donal has known very few girls. Those plain little things at the
Manse are too dull for him," his mother said slowly.

"This one's not plain and she's not dull," Nanny answered. "My
word! but she's like a bit of witch fire dancing--with her colour
and her big silk curls in a heap. Donal stares at her like a young
man at a beauty. I wish, ma'am, we knew more of her forbears."

"I must see her," Mrs. Muir said. "Tomorrow I'll go with you both
to the Gardens."

Therefore the following day Donal pranced proudly up the path to
his trysting place and with him walked a tall lady at whom people
looked as she passed. She was fair like Donal and had a small head
softly swathed with lovely folds of hair. Also her eyes were very
clear and calm. Donal was plainly proud and happy to be with her
and was indeed prancing though his prance was broken by walking
steps at intervals.

Robin was waiting behind the lilac bushes and her nurse was already
deep in the mystery of Lady Audley.

"There she is!" cried Donal, and he ran to her. "My mother has come
with me. She wants to see you, too," and he pulled her forward by
her hand. "This is Robin, Mother! This is Robin." He panted with
elation and stood holding his prize as if she might get away before
he had displayed her; his eyes lifted to his tall mother's were
those of an exultant owner.

Robin had no desire to run away. To adore anything which belonged
to Donal was only nature. And this tall, fair, wonderful person
was a Mother. No wonder Donal talked of her so much. The child could
only look up at her as Donal did. So they stood hand in hand like
little worshippers before a deity.

Andrews' sister in her pride had attired the small creature like
a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy
gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder--since
she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately.

"Donal wanted me to see his little friend," she said. "I always
want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together
and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it."

She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at
first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and
continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things
about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the
pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little
hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like
a bird's brief bubble of song. The tall lady's hand was not like
Andrews, or the hand of Andrews' sister. It did not pull or jerk
and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was
happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the
Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play.
It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched
them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal
kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards
and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were
"making up" to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and
circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she
helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of
her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of
puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin.
Two people--a big boy and a lady--letting her play and talk to
them as if they liked her and had time!

The truth was that Mrs. Muir's eyes followed Robin more than they
followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing
vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she
would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was
of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming
temperament. How could one--with dignity and delicacy--find out
why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was
an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps
of her story. No mother--no playthings or books--no one had ever
kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the
Lady Downstairs?

A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because
the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of
hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair--a sweetly-hued
figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself--spoke
to the coachman.

"Stop here!" she said. "I want to get out."

As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture.

"What do you think, Starling," she laughed. "The very woman
we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her
perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago.
Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know." She clapped her hands and
her laugh became a delighted giggle. "And my Robin is playing on
the grass near her--with a boy! What a joke! It must be THE boy!
And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn't be
done. And more than anything I want to speak to HER. Let's get
out."

They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment
from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards
her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident
intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect
of being made of hyacinth petals.

Because Mrs. Muir's glance turned towards her, Robin's turned
also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir's knee,
her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a
sudden worshipping light.

"It is--" she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, "the Lady
Downstairs!"

Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling.

"Where is your nurse, Robin?" she said.

Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course
shine.

"She is reading under the tree," she answered tremulously.

"She is only a few yards away," said Mrs. Muir. "She knows Robin
is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your
little girl?" amiably.

"Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don't let her
bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless."

There was a little silence--a delicate little silence.

"I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once," said Feather. unperturbed
and smiling brilliantly, "I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor."

"Yes," said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully
tall,--"the line" was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm
into Feather's eyes.

Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made
an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something.

"Is this Donal?" Feather said.

"ARE you the Lady Downstairs, please?" Donal put in politely,
because he wanted so to know.

Feather's pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs.
Her maid had told her Andrews' story of the name.

"Yes, I believe that's what she calls me. It's a nice name for a
mother, isn't it?"

Donal took a quick step forward.

"ARE you her mother?" he asked eagerly.

"Of course I am."

Donal quite flushed with excitement.

"She doesn't KNOW," he said.

He turned on Robin.

"She's your Mother! You thought you hadn't one! She's your Mother!"

"But I am the Lady Downstairs, too." Feather was immensely amused.
She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of
pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that
it led her into a touch of vulgarity. "I wanted very much to see
your boy," she said.

"Yes," still gently from Mrs. Muir.

"Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer
that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn't know.
I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the
portrait. GOOD morning. Goodbye, children."

While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up
her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed,
had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until
her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike
parasol fluttering in the air.

Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against
her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know
that her eyes had something like grief in them.

"She's her Mother!" Donal cried. "She's lovely, too. But she's--her
MOTHER!" and his voice and face were equally puzzled.

Robin's little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir.

"IS--she?" she faltered.

Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She
kissed her.

"Yes, she is, my lamb," she said. "She's your mother."

She was clear as to what she must do for Donal's sake. It was the
only safe and sane course. But--at this age--the child WAS a lamb
and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little
body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in
a heap were a fragrance against her breast.

CHAPTER X

Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited
as well as allured him. Why hadn't she told Robin she was her
mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and
hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees!
Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children
never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took
the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively.

"I am glad I know you are my mother," he said, "I always knew."

He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as
clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed.
He had remembered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought
of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be
easily carried under his arm. His mother was "thinking" and he was
used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he
always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible.

After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny.

"You're tired, ma'am," the woman said when she saw her, "I'm afraid
you've a headache."

"I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon,"
her mistress answered, "You were right about the nurse. The
little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in
her way--boys quite unlike Donal."

"Yes, ma'am." And because she loved her and knew her face and
voice Nanny watched her closely.

"You will be as--startled--as I was. By some queer chance the
child's mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to
me. Nanny--she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless."

Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply.

"And she came in and spoke to you, ma'am!"

"Things have altered and are altering every day," Mrs. Muir said.
"Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own--and
she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going
people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband
was a relation of Lord Lawdor's."

"And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie,"
offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir's hands clasped
strongly as they lay on the table before her.

"That doesn't come within my bailiewick," she said in her quiet
voice. "Her life is her own and not mine. Words are the wind that
blows." She stopped just a moment and began again. "We must leave
for Scotland by the earliest train."

"What'll he do?" the words escaped from the woman as if involuntarily.
She even drew a quick breath. "He's a strong feeling bairn--strong!"

"He'll be stronger when he is a young man, Nanny!" desperately.
"That is why I must act now. There is no half way. I don't want
to be hard. Oh, am I hard--am I hard?" she cried out low as if she
were pleading.

"No, ma'am. You are not. He's your own flesh and blood." Nanny had
never before seen her mistress as she saw her in the next curious
almost exaggerated moment.

Her hand flew to her side.

"He's my heart and my soul--" she said, "--he is the very entrails
of me! And it will hurt him so and I cannot explain to him because
he is too young to understand. He is only a little boy who must
go where he is taken. And he cannot help himself. It's--unfair!"

Nanny was prone to become more Scotch as she became moved. But
she still managed to look grim.

"He canna help himsel," she said, "an waur still, YOU canna."

There was a moment of stillness and then she said:

"I must go and pack up." And walked out of the room.

* * * * *

Donal always slept like a young roe in the bracken, and in deep
and rapturous ease he slept this night. Another perfectly joyful
day had passed and his Mother had liked Robin and kissed her. All
was well with the world. As long as he had remained awake--and it
had not been long--he had thought of delightful things unfeverishly.
Of Robin, somehow at Braemarnie, growing bigger very quickly--big
enough for all sorts of games--learning to ride Chieftain, even
to gallop. His mother would buy another pony and they could ride
side by side. Robin would laugh and her hair would fly behind her
if they went fast. She would see how fast he could go--she would
see him make Chieftain jump. They would have picnics--catch sight
of deer and fawns delicately lifting their feet as they stepped.
She would always look at him with that nice look in her eyes and
the little smile which came and went in a second. She was quite
different from the minister's little girls at the Manse. He liked
her--he liked her!

* * * * *

He was wakened by a light in his room and by the sound of moving
about. He sat up quickly and found his Mother standing by his bed
and Nanny putting things into a travelling bag. He felt as if his
Mother looked taller than she had looked yesterday--and almost
thin--and her face was anxious and--shy.

"We let you sleep as late as we could, Donal," she said. "You must
get up quickly now and have breakfast. Something has happened. We
are obliged to go back to Scotland by very early train. There is
not a minute to waste."

At first he only said:

"Back!"

"Yes, dear. Get up."

"To Braemarnie?"

"Yes, dear laddie!"

He felt himself grow hot and cold.

"Away! Away!" he said again vaguely.

"Yes. Get up, dear."

He was as she had said only a little boy and accustomed to do as
he was told. He was also a fine, sturdy little Scot with a pride
of his own. His breeding had been of the sort which did not include
insubordinate scenes, so he got out of bed and began to dress. But
his mother saw that his hands shook.

"I shall not see Robin," he said in a queer voice. "She won't
find me when she goes behind the lilac bushes. She won't know why
I don't come."

He swallowed very hard and was dead still for a few minutes,
though he did not linger over his dressing. His mother felt that
the whole thing was horrible. He was acting almost like a young
man even now. She did not know how she could bear it. She spoke to
him in a tone which was actually rather humble.

"If we knew where she lived you--you could write a little letter
and tell her about it. But we do not where she lives."

He answered her very low.

"That's it. And she's little--and she won't understand. She's very
little--really." There was a harrowingly protective note in his
voice. "Perhaps--she'll cry."

Helen looking down at him with anguished eyes--he was buttoning his
shoes--made an unearthly effort to find words, but, as she said
them, she knew they were not the right ones.

"She will be disappointed, of course, but she is so little that
she will not feel it as much as if she were bigger. She will get
over it, darling. Very little girls do not remember things long."
Oh, how coarse and crass and stupid it sounded--how course and
crass and stupid to say it to this small defiant scrap of what
seemed the inevitable suffering of the world!

The clear blue of the eyes Robin had dwelt in, lifted itself to
her. There was something almost fierce in it--almost like impotent
hatred of something.

"She won't," he said, and she actually heard him grind his little
teeth after it.

He did not look like Donal when he was dressed and sat at the
breakfast table. He did not eat much of his porridge, but she saw
that he determinedly ate some. She felt several times as if he
actually did not look like anybody she had ever seen. And at the
same time his fair hair, his fair cheeks, and the fair sturdy
knees beneath his swinging kilt made him seem as much a little boy
as she had ever known him. It was his hot blue eyes which were
different.

He obeyed her every wish and followed where she led. When the train
laboured out of the big station he had taken a seat in a corner
and sat with his face turned to the window, so that his back was
towards her. He stared and stared at the passing country and she
could only see part of his cheek and the side of his neck. She
could not help watching them and presently she saw a hot red glow
under the skin as if a flood had risen. It subsided in a few moments,
but presently she saw it rise again. This happened several times
and he was holding his lip with, his teeth. Once she saw his
shoulders more and he coughed obstinately two or three times. She
knew that he would die before he would let himself cry, but she
wished he would descend to it just this once, as the fields and
hedges raced past and he was carried "Away! Away!" It might be
that it was all his manhood she was saving for him.

He really made her heart stand still for a moment just as she was
thinking this and saying it to herself almost fiercely. He suddenly
turned on her; the blue of his eyes was flaming and the tide had
risen again in his cheeks and neck. It was a thing like rage she
saw before her--a child's rage and impotently fierce. He cried out
as if he were ending a sentence he had not finished when he spoke
as he sat on the floor buttoning his shoes.

"She has no one but me to remember!" he said. "No one but me had
ever even kissed her. She didn't know!"

To her amazement he clenched both his savage young fists and shook
them before him.

"It'll kill me!" he raged.

She could not hold herself back. She caught at him with her arms
and meant to drag him to her breast. "No! No! Donal!" she cried.
"Darling! No--No!" But, as suddenly as the queer unchildish thing
had broken out, did he remember himself and boy shame at his
fantastic emotion overtook him. He had never spoken like that to
anyone before! It was almost as bad as bursting out crying! The
red tide ebbed away and he withdrew himself awkwardly from her
embrace. He said not another word and sat down in his corner with
his back turned toward the world.

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