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

own and carried her into the Tango or Fox Trot or Antelope Galop, whichsoever it chanced to be.

“If she were really aware of it that would be ‘the worst’ for other people—for us probably. She could look out from under her lashes to sufficient purpose to call what she wanted and take and keep it. As she is not aware, it will make things less easy for herself—under the circumstances.”

“The circumstance of being Mrs. Gareth-Lawless’ daughter is not an agreeable one,” said Lady Lothwell.

“It might give some adventurous boys ideas when they had time to realize all it means. Do you know I am rather sorry for her myself. I shouldn’t be surprised if she were rather a dear little thing. She looks tender and cuddle-some. Perhaps she is like the heroine of a sentimental novel I read the other day. Her chief slave said of her ‘She walks into a man’s heart through his eyes and sits down there and makes a warm place which will never get cold again.’ Rather nice, I thought.”

The Duchess thought it rather nice also.

“‘Never get cold again,’” she repeated. “What a heavenly thing to happen to a pair of creatures—if—” she paused and regarded Robin, who at the other side of the room was trying to decide some parlous question of dances to which there was more than one claimant. She was sweetly puckering her brow over her card and round her were youthful male faces looking eager and even a trifle tense with repressed anxiety for the victory of the moment.

“Oh!” Lady Lothwell laughed. “As Kitty says ‘There’s something about her’ and it’s not mere eyelashes. You have let loose a germ among us, mamma my sweet, and you can’t do anything with a germ when you have let it loose. To quote Kitty again, ‘Look at George!’”

The music which came from the bower behind which the musicians were hidden seemed to gain thrill and wildness as the hours went on. As the rooms grew warmer the flowers breathed out more reaching scent. Now and again Robin paused for a moment to listen to strange delightful chords and to inhale passing waves of something like mignonette and lilies, and apple blossoms in the sun. She thought there must be some flower which was like all three in one. The rushing stream was carrying her with it as it went—one of the happy petals on its surface. Could it ever cast her aside and leave her on the shore again? While the violins went singing on and the thousand wax candles shone on the faint or vivid colours which mingled into a sort of lovely haze, it did not seem possible that a thing so enchanting and so real could have an end at all. All the other things in her life seemed less real tonight.

In the conservatory there was a marble fountain which had long years ago been brought from a palace garden in Rome. It was not as large as it was beautiful and it had been placed among palms and tropic ferns whose leaves and fronds it splashed merrily among and kept deliciously cool and wet-looking. There was a quite intoxicating hothouse perfume of warm damp moss and massed flowers and it was the kind of corner any young man would feel it necessary to gravitate towards with a partner.

George led Robin to it and she naturally sat upon the edge of the marble basin and as naturally drew off a glove and dipped her hand into the water, splashing it a little because it felt deliciously cool. George stood near at first and looked down at her bent head. It was impossible not also to take in her small fine ear and the warm velvet white of the lovely little nape of her slim neck. He took them in with elated appreciation. He was not subtle minded enough to be aware that her reply to a casual remark he had made to her at dinner had had a remote effect upon him.

“One of the loveliest creatures I ever saw was a Mrs. Gareth-Lawless,” he had said. “Are you related to her?”

“I am her daughter,” Robin had answered and with a slightly startled sensation he had managed to slip into amiably deft generalities while he had secretly wondered how much his grandmother knew or did not know.

An involuntary thought of Feather had crossed his mind once or twice during the evening. This was the girl who, it was said, had actually been saved up for old Coombe. Ugly morbid sort of idea if it was true. How had the Duchess got hold of her and why and what was Coombe really up to? Could he have some elderly idea of wanting a youngster for a wife? Occasionally an old chap did. Serve him right if some young chap took the wind out of his sails. He was not a desperate character, but he had been very intimate with Mrs. Alan Stacy and her friends and it had made him careless. Also Robin had drawn him—drawn him more than he knew.

“Is it still heavenly?” he asked. (How pointed her fingers were and how soft and crushable her hand looked as it splashed like a child’s.)

“More heavenly every minute,” she answered. He laughed outright.

“The heavenly thing is the way you are enjoying it yourself. I never saw a girl light up a whole room before. You throw out stars as you dance.”

“That’s like a skyrocket,” Robin laughed back. “And it’s because in all my life I never went to a dance before.”

“Never! You mean except to children’s parties?”

“There were no children’s parties. This is the first—first—first.”

“Well, I don’t see how that happened, but I am glad it did because it’s been a great thing for me to see you at your first—first—first.”

He sat down on the fountain’s edge near her.

“I shall not forget it,” he said.

“I shall remember it as long as I live,” said Robin and she lifted her unsafe eyes again and smiled into his which made them still more unsafe.

Perhaps it was because he was extremely young, perhaps it was because he was immoral, perhaps because he had never held a tight rein on his fleeting emotions, even the next moment he felt that it was because he was an idiot—but suddenly he found he had let himself go and was kissing the warm velvet of the slim little nape—had kissed it twice.

He had not given himself time to think what would happen as a result, but what did happen was humiliating and ridiculous. One furious splash of the curled hand flung water into his face and eyes and mouth while Robin tore herself free from him and stood blazing with fury and woe—for it was not only fury he saw.

“You—You—!” she cried and actually would have swooped to the fountain again if he had not caught her arm.

He was furious himself—at himself and at her.

“You—little fool!” he gasped. “What did you do that for even if I WAS a jackass? There was nothing in it. You’re so pretty–-”

“You’ve spoiled everything!” she flamed, “everything—everything!”

“I’ve spoiled nothing. I’ve only been a fool—and it’s your own fault for being so pretty.”

“You’ve spoiled everything in the world! Now—” with a desolate horrible little sob, “now I can only go back—BACK!”

He had a queer idea that she spoke as if she were Cinderella and he had made the clock strike twelve. Her voice had such absolute grief in it that he involuntarily drew near her.

“I say,” he was really breathless, “don’t speak like that. I beg pardon. I’ll grovel! Don’t—Oh! Kathryn—COME here.”

This last because at this difficult moment from between the banks of hothouse bloom and round the big palms his sister Kathryn suddenly appeared. She immediately stopped short and stared at them both—looking from one to the other.

“What is the matter?” she asked in a low voice.

“Oh! COME and talk to her,” George broke forth. “I feel as if she might scream in a minute and call everybody in. I’ve been a lunatic and she has apparently never been kissed before. Tell her—tell her you’ve been kissed yourself.”

A queer little look revealed itself in Kathryn’s face. A delicate vein of her grandmother’s wisdom made part of her outlook upon a rapidly moving and exciting world. She had never been hide-bound or dull and for a slight gauzy white and silver thing she was astute.

“Don’t be impudent,” she said to George as she walked up to Robin and put a cool hand on her arm. “He’s only been silly. You’d better let him off,” she said. She turned a glance on George who was wiping his sleeve with a handkerchief and she broke into a small laugh, “Did she push you into the fountain?” she asked cheerfully.

“She threw the fountain at me,” grumbled George. “I shall have to dash off home and change.”

“I would,” replied Kathryn still cheerful. “You can apologize better when you’re dry.”

He slid through the palms like a snake and the two girls stood and gazed at each other. Robin’s flame had died down and her face had settled itself into a sort of hardness. Kathryn did not know that she herself looked at her as the Duchess might have looked at another girl in the quite different days of her youth.

“I’ll tell you something now he’s gone,” she said. “I HAVE been kissed myself and so have other girls I know. Boys like George don’t really matter, though of course it’s bad manners. But who has got good manners? Things rush so that there’s scarcely time for manners at all. When an older man makes a snatch at you it’s sometimes detestable. But to push him into the fountain was a good idea,” and she laughed again.

“I didn’t push him in.”

“I wish you had,” with a gleeful mischief. The next moment, however, the hint of a worried frown showed itself on her forehead. “You see,” she said protestingly, “you are so FRIGHTFULLY pretty.”

“I’d rather be a leper,” Robin shot forth.

But Kathryn did not of course understand.

“What nonsense!” she answered. “What utter rubbish! You know you wouldn’t. Come back to the ball room. I came here because my mother was asking for George.”

She turned to lead the way through the banked flowers and as she did so added something.

“By the way, somebody important has been assassinated in one of the Balkan countries. They are always assassinating people. They like it. Lord Coombe has just come in and is talking it over with grandmamma. I can see they are quite excited in their quiet way.”

As they neared the entrance to the ball room she paused a moment with a new kind of impish smile.

“Every girl in the room is absolutely shaky with thrills at this particular moment,” she said. “And every man feels himself bristling a little. The very best looking boy in all England is dancing with Sara Studleigh. He dropped in by chance to call and the Duchess made him stay. He is a kind of miracle of good looks and takingness.”

Robin said nothing. She had plainly not been interested in the Balkan tragedy and she as obviously did not care for the miracle.

“You don’t ask who he is?” said Kathryn.

“I don’t want to know.”

“Oh! Come! You mustn’t feel as sulky as that. You’ll want to ask questions the moment you see him. I did. Everyone does. His name is Donal Muir. He’s Lord Coombe’s heir. He’ll be the Head of the House of Coombe some day. Here he comes,” quite excitedly, “Look!”

It was one of the tricks of Chance—or Fate—or whatever you will. The dance brought him within a few feet of them