Read FICTION books online

Reading books fiction Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself.



Fiction genre suitable for people of all ages. Everyone will find something interesting for themselves. Our electronic library is always at your service. Reading online free books without registration. Nowadays ebooks are convenient and efficient. After all, don’t forget: literature exists and develops largely thanks to readers.
The genre of fiction is interesting to read not only by the process of cognition and the desire to empathize with the fate of the hero, this genre is interesting for the ability to rethink one's own life. Of course the reader may accept the author's point of view or disagree with them, but the reader should understand that the author has done a great job and deserves respect. Take a closer look at genre fiction in all its manifestations in our elibrary.



Read books online » Fiction » The Head of the House of Coombe by Frances Hodgson Burnett (best life changing books .TXT) 📖

Book online «The Head of the House of Coombe by Frances Hodgson Burnett (best life changing books .TXT) đŸ“–Â». Author Frances Hodgson Burnett



1 ... 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 ... 57
Go to page:
“something” which had drawn her eyes downward was that she had stood so long without moving that her tense feet had begun vaguely to hurt her and the ache attracted her attention. She changed her position slightly and turned her eyes upon the gate again. He was coming very soon. He would be sure to run fast now and he would be laughing. Donal! Donal! She even laughed a little low, quivering laugh herself.

“What is that child waiting for? I should really like to know,” the distant nurse said again curiously.

If she had been eighteen years old she would have said to herself that she was waiting hours and hours. She would have looked at a little watch a thousand times; she would have walked up and down and round and round the garden never losing sight of the gate—or any other point for that matter—for more than a minute. Each sound of the church clock striking a few streets away would have brought her young heart thumping into her throat.

But a child has no watch, no words out of which to build hopes and fears and reasons, arguments battling against anguish which grows—palliations, excuses. Robin, could only wait in the midst of a slow dark, rising tide of something she had no name for. This slow rising of an engulfing flood she felt when pins and needles began to take possession of her feet, when her legs ached, and her eyes felt as if they had grown big and tightly strained. Donal! Donal! Donal!

Who knows but that some echo of the terror against which she had fought and screamed on the night when she had lain alone in the dark in her cradle and Feather had hid her head under the pillow—came back and closed slowly around and over her, filling her inarticulate being with panic which at last reached its unbearable height? She had not really stood waiting the entire morning, but she was young enough to think that she had and that at any moment Anne might come and take her away. He had not come running—he had not come laughing—he had not come with his plaid swinging and his feather standing high! There came a moment when her strained eyes no longer seemed to see clearly! Something like a big lump crawled up into her throat! Something of the same sort happened the day she had burst into a wail of loneliness and Andrews had pinched her. Panic seized her; she clutched the breast of her rose-coloured frock and panic-driven turned and fled into a thick clump of bushes where there was no path and where even Donal had never pierced.

“That child has run away at last,” the distant nurse remarked, “I’d like to find out what she WAS waiting for.”

The shrubs were part of the enclosing planting of the Gardens. The children who came to play on the grass and paths felt as if they formed a sort of forest. Because of this, Robin had made her frantic dash to their shelter. No one would come—no one would see her—no one would hear her, beneath them it was almost dark. Bereft, broken and betrayed, a little mad thing, she pushed her way into their shadow and threw herself face downward, a small, writhing, rose-coloured heap, upon the damp mould. She could not have explained what she was doing or why she had given up all, as if some tidal wave had overwhelmed her. Suddenly she knew that all her new world had gone—forever and ever. As it had come so it had gone. As she had not doubted the permanence of its joy, so she KNEW that the end had come. Only the wisdom of the occult would dare to suggest that from her child mate, squaring his sturdy young shoulders against the world as the flying train sped on its way, some wave of desperate, inchoate thinking rushed backward. There was nothing more. He would not come back running. He was GONE!

There was no Andrews to hear. Hidden in the shadow under the shrubs, the rattle and roar of the street outside the railing drowned her mad little cries. All she had never done before, she did then. Her hands beat on the damp mould and tore at it—her small feet beat it and dug into it. She cried, she sobbed; the big lump in her throat almost strangled her—she writhed and did not know she was writhing. Her tears pouring forth wet her hair, her face, her dress. She did not cry out, “Donal! Donal!” because he was nowhere—nowhere. If Andrews had seen her she would have said she was “in a tantrum,” But she was not. The world had been torn away.

A long time afterwards, as it seemed to her, she crawled out from under the shrubs, carrying her pretty flopping hat in her earth-stained hand. It was not pretty any more. She had been lying on it and it was crushed and flat. She crept slowly round the curve to Anne.

Seeing her, Anne sprang to her feet. The rose was a piteous thing beaten to earth by a storm. The child’s face was swollen and stained, her hair was tangled and damp there were dark marks of mould on her dress, her hat, her hands, her white cheeks; her white shoes were earth-stained also, and the feet in the rose-coloured socks dragged themselves heavily—slowly.

“My gracious!” the young woman almost shrieked. “What’s happened! Where have you been? Did you fall down? Ah, my good gracious! Mercy me!”

Robin caught her breath but did not say a word.

“You fell down on a flower bed where they’d been watering the plants!” almost wept Anne. “You must have. There isn’t that much dirt anywhere else in the Gardens.”

And when she took her charge home that was the story she told Andrews. Out of Robin she could get nothing, and it was necessary to have an explanation.

The truth, of which she knew nothing, was but the story of a child’s awful dismay and a child’s woe at one of Life’s first betrayals. It would be left behind by the days which came and went—it would pass—as all things pass but the everlasting hills—but in this way it was that it came and wrote itself upon the tablets of a child’s day.

CHAPTER XI

“The child’s always been well, ma’am,” Andrews was standing, the image of exact correctness, in her mistress’ bedroom, while Feather lay in bed with her breakfast on a convenient and decorative little table. “It’s been a thing I’ve prided myself on. But I should say she isn’t well now.”

“Well, I suppose it’s only natural that she should begin sometime,” remarked Feather. “They always do, of course. I remember we all had things when we were children. What does the doctor say? I hope it isn’t the measles, or the beginning of anything worse?”

“No, ma’am, it isn’t. It’s nothing like a child’s disease. I could have managed that. There’s good private nursing homes for them in these days. Everything taken care of exactly as it should be and no trouble of disinfecting and isolating for the family. I know what you’d have wished to have done, ma’am.”

“You do know your business, Andrews,” was Feather’s amiable comment.

“Thank you, ma’am,” from Andrews. “Infectious things are easy managed if they’re taken away quick. But the doctor said you must be spoken to because perhaps a change was needed.”

“You could take her to Ramsgate or somewhere bracing.” said Feather. “But what did he SAY?”

“He seemed puzzled, ma’am. That’s what struck me. When I told him about her not eating—and lying awake crying all night—to judge from her looks in the morning—and getting thin and pale—he examined her very careful and he looked queer and he said, ‘This child hasn’t had a SHOCK of any kind, has she? This looks like what we should call shock—if she were older’.”

Feather laughed.

“How could a baby like that have a shock?”

“That’s what I thought myself, ma’am,” answered Andrews. “A child that’s had her hours regular and is fed and bathed and sleeps by the clock, and goes out and plays by herself in the Gardens, well watched over, hasn’t any chance to get shocks. I told him so and he sat still and watched her quite curious, and then he said very slow: ‘Sometimes little children are a good deal shaken up by a fall when they are playing. Do you remember any chance fall when she cried a good deal?’”

“But you didn’t, of course,” said Feather.

“No, ma’am, I didn’t. I keep my eye on her pretty strict and shouldn’t encourage wild running or playing. I don’t let her play with other children. And she’s not one of those stumbling, falling children. I told him the only fall I ever knew of her having was a bit of a slip on a soft flower bed that had just been watered—to judge from the state her clothes were in. She had cried because she’s not used to such things, and I think she was frightened. But there wasn’t a scratch or a shadow of a bruise on her. Even that wouldn’t have happened if I’d been with her. It was when I was ill and my sister Anne took my place. Ann thought at first that she’d been playing with a little boy she had made friends with—but she found out that the boy hadn’t come that morning—”

“A boy!” Andrews was sharp enough to detect a new and interested note. “What boy?”

“She wouldn’t have played with any other child if I’d been there” said Andrews, “I was pretty sharp with Anne about it. But she said he was an aristocratic looking little fellow—”

“Was he in Highland costume?” Feather interrupted.

“Yes, ma’am. Anne excused herself by saying she thought you must know something about him. She declares she saw you come into the Gardens and speak to his Mother quite friendly. That was the day before Robin fell and ruined her rose-coloured smock and things. But it wasn’t through playing boisterous with the boy—because he didn’t come that morning, as I said, and he never has since.”

Andrews, on this, found cause for being momentarily puzzled by the change of expression in her mistress’ face. Was it an odd little gleam of angry spite she saw?

“And never has since, has he?” Mrs. Gareth-Lawless said with a half laugh.

“Not once, ma’am,” answered Andrews. “And Anne thinks it queer the child never seemed to look for him. As if she’d lost interest. She just droops and drags about and doesn’t try to play at all.”

“How much did she play with him?”

“Well, he was such a fine little fellow and had such a respectable, elderly, Scotch looking woman in charge of him that Anne owned up that she hadn’t thought there was any objections to them playing together. She says they were as well behaved and quiet as children could be.” Andrews thought proper to further justify herself by repeating, “She didn’t think there could be any objection.”

“There couldn’t,” Mrs. Gareth-Lawless remarked. “I do know the boy. He is a relation of Lord Coombe’s.”

“Indeed, ma’am,” with colourless civility, “Anne said he was a big handsome child.”

Feather took a small bunch of hothouse grapes from her breakfast tray and, after picking one off, suddenly began to laugh.

“Good gracious, Andrews!” she said. “He was the ‘shock’! How perfectly ridiculous! Robin had never played with a boy before and she fell in love with him. The little thing’s actually pining away for him.” She dropped the grapes and gave herself up to delicate mirth. “He was taken away and disappeared. Perhaps she fainted and fell into the wet flower bed and spoiled her frock, when she first realized that he wasn’t coming.”

1 ... 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 ... 57
Go to page:

Free ebook «The Head of the House of Coombe by Frances Hodgson Burnett (best life changing books .TXT) đŸ“–Â» - read online now

Comments (0)

There are no comments yet. You can be the first!
Add a comment