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. The Head of the House of Coombe by Frances Hodgson Burnett (best life changing books .TXT) 📖
- Author: Frances Hodgson Burnett
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“I have found out that, for some reason, she thinks of taking a place as governess,” she said.
“Suggest that she go to Berlin. There are good places there,” was his answer.
“If she should go, her mother will not feel any anxiety about her,” returned Fraulein Hirsch.
“If, then, some young man she meets in the street makes love to her and they run away together, she will not be pursued by her relatives.”
Fraulein Hirsch’s flat mouth looked rather malicious.
“Her mother is too busy to pursue her, and there is no one else—unless it were Lord Coombe, who is said to want her himself.”
Von Hillern shrugged his fine shoulders.
“At his age! After the mother! That is like an Englishman!”
Upon this, Fraulein Hirsch drew a step nearer and fixed her eyes upon his, as she had never had the joy of fixing them before in her life. She dared it now because she had an interesting story to tell him which he would like to hear. It WAS like an Englishman. Lord Coombe had the character of being one of the worst among them, but was too subtle and clever to openly offend people. It was actually said that he was educating the girl and keeping her in seclusion and that it was probably his colossal intention to marry her when she was old enough. He had no heir of his own—and he must have beauty and innocence. Innocence and beauty his viciousness would have.
“Pah!” exclaimed von Hillern. “It is youth which requires such things—and takes them. That is all imbecile London gossip. No, he would not run after her if she ran away. He is a proud man and he knows he would be laughed at. And he could not get her back from a young man—who was her lover.”
Her lover! How it thrilled the burning heart her poor, flat chest panted above. With what triumphant knowledge of such things he said it.
“No, he could not,” she answered, her eyes still on his. “No one could.”
He laughed a little, confidently, but almost with light indifference.
“If she were missing, no particular search would be made then,” he said. “She is pretty enough to suit Berlin.”
He seemed to think pleasantly of something as he stood still for a moment, his eyes on the floor. When he lifted them, there was in their blue a hint of ugly exulting, though Mathilde Hirsch did not think it ugly. He spoke in a low voice.
“It will be an exciting—a colossal day when we come to London—as we shall. It will be as if an ocean had collected itself into one huge mountain of a wave and swept in and overwhelmed everything. There will be confusion then and the rushing up of untrained soldiers—and shouts—and yells–-”
“And Zeppelins dropping bombs,” she so far forgot herself as to pant out, “and buildings crashing and pavements and people smashed! Westminster and the Palaces rocking, and fat fools running before bayonets.”
He interrupted her with a short laugh uglier than the gleam in his eyes. He was a trifle excited.
“And all the women running about screaming and trying to hide and being pulled out. We can take any of their pretty, little, high nosed women we choose—any of them.”
“Yes,” she answered, biting her lip. No one would take her, she knew.
He put on his overcoat and prepared to leave her. As he stood at the door before opening it, he spoke in his usual tone of mere command.
“Take her to Kensington Gardens tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Sit in one of the seats near the Round Pond and watch the children sailing their boats. I shall not be there but you will find yourself near a quiet, elegant woman in mourning who will speak to you. You are to appear to recognize her as an old acquaintance. Follow her suggestions in everything.”
After this he was gone and she sat down to think it over.
She saw him again during the following week and was obliged to tell him that she had not been able to take her charge to Kensington Gardens on the morning that he had appointed but that, as the girl was fond of the place and took pleasure in watching the children sailing their boats on the Round Pond, it would be easy to lead her there. He showed her a photograph of the woman she would find sitting on a particular bench, and he required she should look at it long enough to commit the face to memory. It was that of a quietly elegant woman with gentle eyes.
“She will call herself Lady Etynge,” he said. “You are to remember that you once taught her little girl in Paris. There must be no haste and no mistakes. It be well for them to meet—by accident—several times.”
Later he aid to her:
“When Lady Etynge invites her to go to her house, you will, of course, go with her. You will not stay. Lady Etynge will tell you what to do.”
In words, he did not involve himself by giving any hint of his intentions. So far as expression went, he might have had none, whatever. Her secret conclusion was that he knew, if he could see the girl under propitious circumstances—at the house of a clever and sympathetic acquaintance, he need have no shadow of a doubt as to the result of his efforts to please her. He knew she was a lonely, romantic creature, who had doubtless read sentimental books and been allured by their heroes. She was, of course, just ripe for young peerings into the land of love making. His had been no peerings, thought the pale Hirsch sadly. What girl—or woman—could resist the alluring demand of his drooping eyes, if he chose to allow warmth to fill them? Thinking of it, she almost gnashed her teeth. Did she not see how he would look, bending his high head and murmuring to a woman who shook with joy under his gaze? Had she not seen it in her own forlorn, hopeless dreams?
What did it matter if what the world calls disaster befell the girl? Fraulein Hirsch would not have called it disaster. Any woman would have been paid a thousand times over. His fancy might last a few months. Perhaps he would take her to Berlin—or to some lovely secret spot in the mountains where he could visit her. What heaven—what heaven! She wept, hiding her face on her hot, dry hands.
But it would not last long—and he would again think only of the immense work—the august Machine, of which he was a mechanical part—and he would be obliged to see and talk to her, Mathilde Hirsch, having forgotten the rest. She could only hold herself decently in check by telling herself again and again that it was only natural that such things should come and go in his magnificent life, and that the sooner it began the sooner it would end.
It was a lovely morning when her pupil walked with her in Kensington Gardens, and, quite naturally, strolled towards the Round Pond. Robin was happy because there were flutings of birds in the air, gardeners were stuffing crocuses and hyacinths into the flower beds, there were little sweet scents floating about and so it was Spring. She pulled a bare looking branch of a lilac bush towards her and stooped and kissed the tiny brown buttons upon it, half shyly.
“I can’t help it when I see the first ones swelling on the twigs. They are working so hard to break out into green,” she said. “One loves everything at this time—everything! Look at the children round the pond. That fat, little boy in a reefer and brown leather leggings is bursting with joy. Let us go and praise his boat, Fraulein.”
They went and Robin praised the boat until its owner was breathless with rapture. Fraulein Hirsch, standing near her, looked furtively at all the benches round the circle, giving no incautiously interested glance to any one of them in particular. Presently, however, she said:
“I think that is Lady Etynge sitting on the third bench from here. I said to you that I had heard she was in London. I wonder if her daughter is still in the Convent at Tours?”
When Robin returned, she saw a quiet woman in perfect mourning recognize Fraulein Hirsch with a a bow and smile which seemed to require nearer approach.
“We must go and speak to her.” Fraulein Hirsch said. “I know she wil wish me to present you. She is fond of young girls—because of Helene.”
Robin went forward prettily. The woman was gentle looking and attracting. She had a sweet manner and was very kind to Fraulein Hirsch. She seemed to know her well and to like her. Her daughter, Helene, was still in the Convent at Tours but was expected home very shortly. She would be glad to find that Fraulein Hirsch was in London.
“I have turned the entire top story of my big house into a pretty suite for her. She has a fancy for living high above the street,” smiled Lady Etynge, indulgently. Perhaps she was a “Mother” person, Robin thought.
Both her looks and talk were kind, and she was very nice in her sympathetic interest in the boats and the children’s efforts to sail them.
“I often bring my book here and forget to read, because I find I am watching them,” she said. “They are so eager and so triumphant when a boat gets across the Pond.”
She went away very soon and Robin watched her out of sight with interest.
They saw her again a few days later and talked a little more. She was not always near the Pond when they came, and they naturally did not go there each time they walked together, though Fraulein Hirsch was fond of sitting and watching the children.
She had been to take tea with her former employer, she told Robin one day, and she was mildly excited by the preparations for Helene, who had been educated entirely in a French convent and was not like an English girl at all. She had always been very delicate and the nuns seemed to know how to take care of her and calm her nerves with their quiet ways.
“Her mother is rather anxious about her coming to London. She has, of course, no young friends here and she is so used to the quiet of convent life,” the Fraulein explained. “That is why the rooms at the top of the house have been arranged for her. She will hear so little sound. I confess I am anxious about her myself. Lady Etynge is wondering if she can find a suitable young companion to live in the house with her. She must be a young lady and perfectly educated—and with brightness and charm. Not a person like myself, but one who can be treated as an equal and a friend—almost a playmate.”
“It would be an agreeable position,” commented Robin, thoughtfully.
“Extremely
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