The Head of the House of Coombe - Frances Hodgson Burnett (best books to read for teens txt) 📗

a dropped voice. “She will not sit down. She says the chairs are grubby.”

“Doesn’t she LOVE you at all?” persisted Donal. “Doesn’t she KISS you?”

There was a thing she had known for what seemed to her a long time—God knows in what mysterious fashion she had learned it, but learned it well she had. That no human being but herself was aware of her knowledge was inevitable. To whom could she have told it? But Donal—Donal wanted to know all about her. The little click made itself felt in her throat again.

“She—she doesn’t LIKE me!” Her dropped voice was the whisper of one humbled to the dust by confession, “She—doesn’t LIKE me!” And the click became another thing which made her put up her arm over her eyes—her round, troubled child eyes, which, as she had looked into Donal’s, had widened with sudden, bewildered tears.

Donal flung his arms round her and squeezed his buttons into her tender chest. He hugged her close; he kissed her; there was a choking in his throat. He was hot all over.

“She does like you. She must like you. I’ll make her!” he cried passionately. “She’s not your mother. If she was, she’d LOVE you! She’d LOVE you!”

“Do Mothers l-love you?” the small voice asked with a half sob. “What’s—what’s LOVE you?” It was not vulgar curiosity. She only wanted to find out.

He loosed his embrace, sitting back on his heels to stare.

“Don’t you KNOW?”

She shook her head with soft meekness.

“N-no,” she answered.

Big boys like himself did not usually play with such little girls. But something had drawn him to her at their first moment of encounter. She wasn’t like any other little girls. He felt it all the time and that was part of the thing which drew him. He was not, of course, aware that the male thrill at being regarded as one who is a god had its power over the emotions. She wasn’t making silly fun and pretending. She really didn’t know—because she was different.

“It’s liking very much. It’s more,” he explained. “My mother loves ME. I—I LOVE you!” stoutly. “Yes, I LOVE you. That’s why I kissed you when you cried.”

She was so uplifted, so overwhelmed with adoring gratitude that as she knelt on the grass she worshipped him.

“I love YOU,” she answered him. “I LOVE you—LOVE you!” And she looked at him with such actual prayerfulness that he caught at her and, with manly promptness, kissed her again-this being mere Nature.

Because he was eight years old and she was six her tears flashed away and they both laughed joyously as they sat down on the grass again to talk it over.

He told her all the pleasant things he knew about Mothers. The world was full of them it seemed—full. You belong to them from the time you were a baby. He had not known many personally because he had always lived at Braemarnie, which was in the country in Scotland. There were no houses near his home. You had to drive miles and miles before you came to a house or a castle. He had not seen much of other children except a few who lived at the Manse and belonged to the minister. Children had fathers as well as mothers. Fathers did not love you or take care of you quite as much as Mothers—because they were men. But they loved you too. His own father had died when he was a baby. His mother loved him as much as he loved her. She was beautiful but—it seemed to reveal itself—not like the Lady Downstairs. She did not laugh very much, though she laughed when they played together. He was too big now to sit on her knee, but squeezed into the big chair beside her when she read or told him stories. He always did what his mother told him. She knew everything in the world and so knew what he ought to do. Even when he was a big man he should do what his mother told him.

Robin listened to every word with enraptured eyes and bated breath. This was the story of Love and Life and it was the first time she had ever heard it. It was as much a revelation as the Kiss. She had spent her days in the grimy Nursery and her one close intimate had been a bony woman who had taught her not to cry, employing the practical method of terrifying her into silence by pinching her—knowing it was quite safe to do it. It had not been necessary to do it often. She had seen people on the streets, but she had only seen them in passing by. She had not watched them as she had watched the sparrows. When she was taken down for a few minutes into the basement, she vaguely knew that she was in the way and that Mrs. Blayne’s and Andrews’ and Jennings’ low voices and occasional sidelong look meant that they were talking about her and did not want her to hear.

“I have no mother and no father,” she explained quite simply to Donal. “No one kisses me.”

“No one!” Donal said, feeling curious. “Has no one ever kissed you but me?”

“No,” she answered.

Donal laughed—because children always laugh when they do not know what else to do.

“Was that why you looked as if you were frightened when I said good-bye to you yesterday?”

“I-I didn’t know,” said Robin, laughing a little too—but not very much, “I wasn’t frightened. I liked you.”

“I’ll kiss you as often as you want me to,” he volunteered nobly. “I’m used to it—because of my mother. I’ll kiss you again now.” And he did it quite without embarrassment. It was a sort of manly gratuity.

Once Anne, with her book in her hand, came round the shrubs to see how her charge was employing herself, and seeing her looking at pictures with a handsomely dressed companion, she returned to “Lady Audley’s Secret” feeling entirely safe.

The lilac and the hawthorn tree continued to breathe forth warmed scents of paradise in the sunshine, the piano organ went on playing, sometimes nearer, sometimes farther away, but evidently finding the neighbourhood a desirable one. Sometimes the children laughed at each other, sometimes at pictures Donal showed, or stories he told, or at his own extreme wit. The boundaries were removed from Robin’s world. She began to understand that there was another larger one containing wonderful and delightful things she had known nothing about. Donal was revealing it to her in everything he said even when he was not aware that he was telling her anything. When Eve was formed from the rib of Adam the information it was necessary for him to give her regarding her surroundings must have filled her with enthralling interest and a reverence which adored. The planted enclosure which was the central feature of the soot sprinkled, stately London Square was as the Garden of Eden.

 

*

 

The Garden of Eden it remained for two weeks. Andrews’ cold was serious enough to require a doctor and her sister Anne continued to perform their duties. The weather was exceptionally fine and, being a vain young woman, she liked to dress Robin in her pretty clothes and take her out because she was a beauty and attracted attention to her nurse as well as to herself. Mornings spent under the trees reading were entirely satisfactory. Each morning the children played together and each night Robin lay awake and lived again the delights of the past hours. Each day she learned more wonders and her young mind and soul were fed. There began to stir in her brain new thoughts and the beginning of questioning. Scotland, Braemarnie, Donal’s mother, even the Manse and the children in it, combined to form a world of enchantment. There were hills with stags living in them, there were moors with purple heather and yellow brome and gorse; birds built their nests under the bushes and Donal’s pony knew exactly where to step even in the roughest places. There were two boys and two girls at the Manse and they had a father and a mother. These things were enough for a new heaven and a new earth to form themselves around. The centre of the whole Universe was Donal with his strength and his laugh and his eyes which were so alive and glowing that she seemed always to see them. She knew nothing about the thing which was their somehow—not-to-be-denied allure. They were ASKING eyes—and eyes which gave. The boy was in truth a splendid creature. His body and beauty were perfect life and joyous perfect living. His eyes asked other eyes for everything. “Tell me more,” they said. “Tell me more! Like me! Answer me! Let us give each other everything in the world.” He had always been well, he had always been happy, he had always been praised and loved. He had known no other things.

During the first week in which the two children played together, his mother, whose intense desire it was to understand him, observed in him a certain absorption of mood when he was not talking or amusing himself actively. He began to fall into a habit of standing at the windows, often with his chin in his hand, looking out as if he were so full of thought that he saw nothing. It was not an old habit, it was a new one.

“What are you thinking about, Donal?” she asked one afternoon.

He seemed to awaken, as it were, when he heard her. He turned about with his alluring smile.

“I am thinking it is FUNNY,” he said. “It is funny that I should like such a little girl such a lot. She is years and years younger than I am. But I like her so. It is such fun to tell her things.” He marched over to his mother’s writing table and leaned against it. What his mother saw was that he had an impassioned desire to talk about this child. She felt it was a desire even a trifle abnormal in its eagerness.

“She has such a queer house, I think,” he explained. “She has a nurse and such pretty clothes and she is so pretty herself, but I don’t believe she has any toys or books in her nursery.”

“Where is her mother?”

“She must be dead. There is no lady in her house but the Lady Downstairs. She is very pretty and is always laughing. But she is not her mother because she doesn’t like her and she never kisses her. I think that’s the queerest thing of all. No one had EVER kissed her till I did.”

His mother was a woman given to psychological analysis. Her eyes began to dwell on his face with slightly anxious questioning.

“Did you kiss her?” she inquired.

“Yes. I kissed her when I said good morning the first day. I thought she didn’t like me to do it but she did. It was only because no one had ever done it before. She likes it very much.”

He leaned farther over the writing table and began to pour forth, his smile growing and his eyes full of pleasure. His mother was a trifle alarmedly struck by the feeling that he was talking like a young man in love who cannot keep his tongue still, though in his case even the youngest manhood was years away, and he made no effort to conceal his sentiments which a young man would certainly have striven to do.

“She’s got such a pretty little face and such a pretty mouth and cheeks,” he touched a Jacqueminot rose in a vase. “They are the colour of that. Today a robin came with the sparrows and hopped about near