The Head of the House of Coombe by Frances Hodgson Burnett (cool books to read .txt) 📕

earth for another than itself. Blood and iron will clear the world of the inferior peoples. To the masses that is their God’s will. Their God is an understudy of their Kaiser.”

“You are not saying that as part of the trick of making a jest of things?”

“I wish to God I were. The poor huge inhuman thing he has built does not know that when he was a boy he did not play at war and battles as other boys do, but as a creature obsessed. He has played at soldiers with his people as his toys throughout all his morbid life—and he has hungered and thirsted as he has done it.”

A Bible lay upon the table and the Duchess drew it towards her.

“There is a verse here—” she said “—I will find it.” She turned the pages and found it. “Listen! ‘Know this and lay it to thy heart this day. Jehovah is God in heaven above and on the earth beneath. There is none else.’ That is a power which does not confine itself to Germany or to England or France or to the Map of Europe. It is the Law of the Universe—and even Wilhelm the Second cannot bend it to his almighty will. ‘There is none else.’”

“‘There is none else’,” repeated Coombe slowly. “If there existed a human being with the power to drive that home as a truth into his delirious brain, I believe he would die raving mad. To him there is no First Cause which was not ‘made in Germany.’ And it is one of his most valuable theatrical assets. It is part of his paraphernalia—like the jangling of his sword and the glitter of his orders. He shakes it before his people to arrest the attention of the simple and honest ones as one jingles a rattle before a child. There are those among them who are not so readily attracted by terms of blood and iron.”

“But they will be called upon to shed blood and to pour forth their own. There will be young things like Donal Muir—lads with ruddy cheeks and with white bodies to be torn to fragments.” She shuddered as she said it. “I am afraid!” she said. “I am afraid!”

“So am I,” Coombe answered. “Of what is coming. What a FOOL I have been!”

“How long will it be before other men awaken to say the same thing?”

“Each man’s folly is his own shame.” He drew himself stiffly upright as a man might who stood before a firing squad. “I had a life to live or to throw away. Because I was hideously wounded at the outset I threw it aside as done for. I said ‘there is neither God nor devil, vice nor virtue, love nor hate. I will do and leave undone what I choose.’ I had power and brain and money. A man who could see clearly and who had words to choose from might have stood firmly in the place to which he was born and have spoken in a voice which might have been listened to. He might have fought against folly and blindness and lassitude. I deliberately chose privately to sneer at the thought of lifting a hand to serve any thing but the cold fool who was myself. Life passes quickly. It does not turn back.” He ended with a short harsh laugh. “This is Fear,” he said. “Fear clears a man’s mind of rubbish and non-essentials. It is because I am AFRAID that I accuse myself. And it is not for myself or you but for the whole world which before the end comes will seem to fall into fragments.”

“You have been seeing ominous signs?” the Duchess said leaning forward and speaking low.

“There have been affectionate visits to Vienna. There is a certain thing in the air—in the arrogance of the bearing of men clanking their sabres as they stride through the streets. There is an exultant eagerness in their eyes. Things are said which hold scarcely concealed braggart threats. They have always been given to that sort of thing—but now it strikes one as a thing unleashed—or barely leashed at all. The background of the sound of clashing arms and the thudding of marching feet is more unendingly present. One cannot get away from it. The great munition factories are working night and day. In the streets, in private houses, in the shops, one hears and recognizes signs. They are signs which might not be clear to one who has not spent years in looking on with interested eyes. But I have watched too long to see only the surface of things. The nation is waiting for something—waiting.”

“What will be the pretext—what,” the Duchess pondered.

“Any pretext will do—or none—except that Germany must have what she wants and that she is strong enough to take it—after forty years of building her machine.”

“And we others have built none. We almost deserve whatever comes to us.” The old woman’s face was darkly grave.

“In three villages where I chance to be lord of the manor I have, by means of my own, set lads drilling and training. It is supposed to be a form of amusement and an eccentric whim of mine and it is a change from eternal cricket. I have given prizes and made an occasional speech on the ground that English brawn is so enviable a possession that it ought to develop itself to the utmost. When I once went to the length of adding that each Englishman should be muscle fit and ready in case of England’s sudden need, I saw the lads grin cheerfully at the thought of England in any such un-English plight. Their innocent swaggering belief that the country is always ready for everything moved my heart of stone. And it is men like myself who are to blame—not merely men of my class, but men of my KIND. Those who have chosen to detach themselves from everything but the living of life as it best pleased their tastes or served their personal ambitions.”

“Are we going to be taught that man cannot argue without including his fellow man? Are we going to be forced to learn it?” she said.

“Yes—forced. Nothing but force could reach us. The race is an undeveloped thing. A few centuries later it will have evolved another sense. This century may see the first huge step—because the power of a cataclysm sweeps it forward.”

He turned his glance towards the opening door. Robin came in with some letters in her hand. He was vaguely aware that she wore an aspect he was unfamiliar with. The girl of Mrs. Gareth-Lawless had in the past, as it went without saying, expressed the final note of priceless simplicity and mode. The more finely simple she looked, the more priceless. The unfamiliarity in her outward seeming lay in the fact that her quiet dun tweed dress with its lines of white at neck and wrists was not priceless though it was well made. It, in fact, unobtrusively suggested that it was meant for service rather than for adornment. Her hair was dressed closely and her movements were very quiet. Coombe realized that her greeting of him was delicately respectful.

“I have finished the letters,” she said to the Duchess. “I hope they are what you want. Sometimes I am afraid–-”

“Don’t be afraid,” said the Duchess kindly. “You write very correct and graceful little letters. They are always what I want. Have you been out today?”

“Not yet.” Robin hesitated a little. “Have I your permission to ask Mrs. James if it will be convenient to her to let Dowie go with me for an hour?”

“Yes,” as kindly as before. “For two hours if you like. I shall not drive this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” said Robin and went out of the room as quietly as she had entered it.

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.”