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

gives to children, even of the fortunate class, struck Mademoiselle Valle at once. Madame Gareth-Lawless had not done this. Who then, had?

The good Dowson she at once affiliated with. She knew the excellence of her type as it had revealed itself to her in the best peasant class. Trustworthy, simple, but of kindly, shrewd good sense and with the power to observe. Dowson was not a chatterer or given to gossip, but, as a silent observer, she would know many things and, in time, when they had become friendly enough to be fully aware that each might trust the other, gentle and careful talk would end in unconscious revelation being made by Dowson.

That the little girl was almost singularly attached to her nurse, she had marked early. There was something unusual in her manifestations of her feeling. The intense eyes followed the woman often, as if making sure of her presence and reality. The first day of Mademoiselle’s residence in the place she saw the little thing suddenly stop playing with her doll and look at Dowson earnestly for several moments. Then she left her seat and went to the kind creature’s side.

“I want to KISS you, Dowie,” she said.

“To be sure, my lamb,” answered Dowson, and, laying down her mending, she gave her a motherly hug. After which Robin went back contentedly to her play.

The Frenchwoman thought it a pretty bit of childish affectionateness. But it happened more than once during the day, and at night Mademoiselle commented upon it.

“She has an affectionate heart, the little one,” she remarked. “Madame, her mother, is so pretty and full of gaieties and pleasures that I should not have imagined she had much time for caresses and the nursery.”

Even by this time Dowson had realized that with Mademoiselle she was upon safe ground and was in no danger of betraying herself to a gossip. She quietly laid down her sewing and looked at her companion with grave eyes.

“Her mother has never kissed her in her life that I am aware of,” she said.

“Has never—!” Mademoiselle ejaculated. “Never!”

“Just as you see her, she is, Mademoiselle,” Dowson said. “Any sensible woman would know, when she heard her talk about her child. I found it all out bit by bit when first I came here. I’m going to talk plain and have done with it. Her first six years she spent in a sort of dog kennel on the top floor of this house. No sun, no real fresh air. Two little holes that were dingy and gloomy to dull a child’s senses. Not a toy or a bit of colour or a picture, but clothes fine enough for Buckingham Palace children—and enough for six. Fed and washed and taken out every day to be shown off. And a bad nurse, Miss—a bad one that kept her quiet by pinching her black and blue.”

“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! That little angel!” cried Mademoiselle, covering her eyes.

Dowson hastily wiped her own eyes. She had shed many a motherly tear over the child. It was a relief to her to open her heart to a sympathizer.

“Black and blue!” she repeated. “And laughing and dancing and all sorts of fast fun going on in the drawing-rooms.” She put out her hand and touched Mademoiselle’s arm quite fiercely. “The little thing didn’t know she HAD a mother! She didn’t know what the word meant. I found that out by her innocent talk. She used to call HER ‘The Lady Downstairs’.”

“Mon Dieu!” cried the Frenchwoman again. “What a woman!”

“She first heard of mothers from a little boy she met in the Square Gardens. He was the first child she had been allowed to play with. He was a nice child and he had a good mother. I only got it bit by bit when she didn’t know how much she was telling me. He told her about mothers and he kissed her—for the first time in her life. She didn’t understand but it warmed her little heart. She’s never forgotten.”

Mademoiselle even started slightly in her chair. Being a clever Frenchwoman she felt drama and all its subtle accompaniments.

“Is that why–-” she began.

“It is,” answered Dowson, stoutly. “A kiss isn’t an ordinary thing to her. It means something wonderful. She’s got into the way of loving me, bless her, and every now and then, it’s my opinion, she suddenly remembers her lonely days when she didn’t know what love was. And it just wells up in her little heart and she wants to kiss me. She always says it that way, ‘Dowie, I want to KISS you,’ as if it was something strange and, so to say, sacred. She doesn’t know it means almost nothing to most people. That’s why I always lay down my work and hug her close.”

“You have a good heart—a GOOD one!” said Mademoiselle with strong feeling.

Then she put a question:

“Who was the little boy?”

“He was a relation of—his lordship’s.”

“His lordship’s?” cautiously.

“The Marquis. Lord Coombe.”

There was a few minutes’ silence. Both women were thinking of a number of things and each was asking herself how much it would be wise to say.

It was Dowson who made her decision first, and this time, as before, she laid down her work. What she had to convey was the thing which, above all others, the Frenchwoman must understand if she was to be able to use her power to its best effect.

“A woman in my place hears enough talk,” was her beginning. “Servants are given to it. The Servants’ Hall is their theatre. It doesn’t matter whether tales are true or not, so that they’re spicy. But it’s been my way to credit just as much as I see and know and to say little about that. If a woman takes a place in a house, let her go or stay as suits her best, but don’t let her stay and either complain or gossip. My business here is Miss Robin, and I’ve found out for myself that there’s just one person that, in a queer, unfeeling way of his own, has a fancy for looking after her. I say ‘unfeeling’ because he never shows any human signs of caring for the child himself. But if there’s a thing that ought to be done for her and a body can contrive to let him know it’s needed, it’ll be done. Downstairs’ talk that I’ve seemed to pay no attention to has let out that it was him that walked quietly upstairs to the Nursery, where he’d never set foot before, and opened the door on Andrews pinching the child. She packed her box and left that night. He inspected the nurseries and, in a few days, an architect was planning these rooms,—for Miss Robin and for no one else, though there was others wanted them. It was him that told me to order her books and playthings—and not let her know it because she hates him. It was him I told she needed a governess. And he found you.”

Mademoiselle Valle had listened with profound attention. Here she spoke.

“You say continually ‘he’ or ‘him’. He is—?”

“Lord Coombe. I’m not saying I’ve seen much of him. Considering—” Dowson paused—“it’s queer how seldom he comes here. He goes abroad a good deal. He’s mixed up with the highest and it’s said he’s in favour because he’s satirical and clever. He’s one that’s gossiped about and he cares nothing for what’s said. What business of mine is it whether or not he has all sorts of dens on the Continent where he goes to racket. He might be a bishop for all I see. And he’s the only creature in this world of the Almighty’s that remembers that child’s a human being. Just him—Lord Coombe. There, Mademoiselle,—I’ve said a good deal.”

More and more interestedly had the Frenchwoman listened and with an increasing hint of curiosity in her intelligent eyes. She pressed Dowson’s needle-roughened fingers warmly.

“You have not said too much. It is well that I should know this of this gentleman. As you say, he is a man who is much discussed. I myself have heard much of him—but of things connected with another part of his character. It is true that he is in favour with great personages. It is because they are aware that he has observed much for many years. He is light and ironic, but he tells truths which sometimes startle those who hear them.”

“Jennings tells below stairs that he says things it’s queer for a lord to say. Jennings is a sharp young snip and likes to pick up things to repeat. He believes that his lordship’s idea is that there’s a time coming when the high ones will lose their places and thrones and kings will be done away with. I wouldn’t like to go that far myself,” said Dowson, gravely, “but I must say that there’s not that serious respect paid to Royalty that there was in my young days. My word! When Queen Victoria was in her prime, with all her young family around her,—their little Royal Highnesses that were princes in their Highland kilts and the princesses in their crinolines and hats with drooping ostrich feathers and broad satin streamers—the people just went wild when she went to a place to unveil anything!”

“When the Empress Eugenie and the Prince Imperial appeared, it was the same thing,” said Mademoiselle, a trifle sadly. “One recalls it now as a dream passed away—the Champs Elysees in the afternoon sunlight—the imperial carriage and the glittering escort trotting gaily—the beautiful woman with the always beautiful costumes—her charming smile—the Emperor, with his waxed moustache and saturnine face! It meant so much and it went so quickly. One moment,” she made a little gesture, “and it is gone—forever! An Empire and all the splendour of it! Two centuries ago it could not have disappeared so quickly. But now the world is older. It does not need toys so much. A Republic is the people—and there are more people than kings.”

“It’s things like that his lordship says, according to Jennings,” said Dowson. “Jennings is never quite sure he’s in earnest. He has a satirical way—And the company always laugh.”

Mademoiselle had spoken thoughtfully and as if half to her inner self instead of to Dowson. She added something even more thoughtfully now.

“The same kind of people laughed before the French Revolution,” she murmured.

“I’m not scholar enough to know much about that—that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?” Dowson remarked.

“A long time ago,” said Mademoiselle.

Dowson’s reply was quite free from tragic reminiscence.

“Well, I must say, I like a respectable Royal Family myself,” she observed. “There’s something solid and comfortable about it—besides the coronations and weddings and procession with all the pictures in the Illustrated London News. Give me a nice, well-behaved Royal Family.”