The Head of the House of Coombe

  Andrews’ sister in her pride had attired the small creature like a flower of Spring. Her exquisiteness and her physical brilliancy gave Mrs. Muir something not unlike a slight shock. Oh! no wonder—since she was like that. She stooped and kissed the round cheek delicately.

  “Donal wanted me to see his little friend,” she said. “I always want to see his playmates. Shall we walk round the Garden together and you shall show me where you play and tell me all about it.”

  She took the small hand and they walked slowly. Robin was at first too much awed to talk but as Donal was not awed at all and continued his prancing and the Mother lady said pretty things about the flowers and the grass and the birds and even about the pony at Braemarnie, she began now and then to break into a little hop herself and presently into sudden ripples of laughter like a bird’s brief bubble of song. The tall lady’s hand was not like Andrews, or the hand of Andrews’ sister. It did not pull or jerk and it had a lovely feeling. The sensation she did not know was happiness again welled up within her. Just one walk round the Garden and then the tall lady sat down on a seat to watch them play. It was wonderful. She did not read or work. She sat and watched them as if she wanted to do that more than anything else. Donal kept calling out to her and making her smile: he ran backwards and forwards to her to ask questions and tell her what they were “making up” to play. When they gathered leaves to prick stars and circles on, they did them on the seat on which she sat and she helped them with new designs. Several times, in the midst of her play, Robin stopped and stood still a moment with a sort of puzzled expression. It was because she did not feel like Robin. Two people—a big boy and a lady—letting her play and talk to them as if they liked her and had time!

  The truth was that Mrs. Muir’s eyes followed Robin more than they followed Donal. Their clear deeps yearned over her. Such a glowing vital little thing! No wonder! No wonder! And as she grew older she would be more vivid and compelling with every year. And Donal was of her kind. His strength, his beauty, his fearless happiness-claiming temperament. How could one—with dignity and delicacy—find out why she had this obvious air of belonging to nobody? Donal was an exact little lad. He had had foundation for his curious scraps of her story. No mother—no playthings or books—no one had ever kissed her! And she dressed and soignee like this! Who was the Lady Downstairs?

  A victoria was driving past the Gardens. It was going slowly because the two people in it wished to look at the spring budding out of hyacinths and tulips. Suddenly one of the pair—a sweetly-hued figure whose early season attire was hyacinth-like itself—spoke to the coachman.

  “Stop here!” she said. “I want to get out.”

  As the victoria drew up near a gate she made a light gesture.

  “What do you think, Starling,” she laughed. “ The very woman we are talking about is sitting in the Gardens there. I know her perfectly though I only saw her portrait at the Academy years ago. Yes, there she is. Mrs. Muir, you know.” She clapped her hands and her laugh became a delighted giggle. “And my Robin is playing on the grass near her—with a boy! What a joke! It must be the boy! And I wanted to see the pair together. Coombe said couldn’t be done. And more than anything I want to speak to her. Let’s get out.”

  They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals.

  Because Mrs. Muir’s glance turned towards her, Robin’s turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir’s knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light.

  “It is—” she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, “the Lady Downstairs!”

  Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling.

  “Where is your nurse, Robin?” she said.

  Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine.

  “She is reading under the tree,” she answered tremulously.

  “She is only a few yards away,” said Mrs. Muir. “ She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?” amiably.

  “Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don’t let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless.”

  There was a little silence—a delicate little silence.

  “I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once,” said Feather. Unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, “ I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,—“the line” was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather’s eyes.

  Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something.

  “Is this Donal?” Feather said.

  “Are you the Lady Downstairs, please?” Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know.

  Feather’s pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews’ story of the name.

  “Yes, I believe that’s what she calls me. It’s a nice name for a mother, isn’t it?”

  Donal took a quick step forward.

  “Are you her mother?” he asked eagerly.

  “Of course I am.”

  Donal quite flushed with excitement.

  “She doesn’t know,” he said.

  He turned on Robin.

  “She’s your Mother! You thought you hadn’t one! She’s your Mother!”

  “But I am the Lady Downstairs, too.” Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. “I wanted very much to see your boy,” she said.

  “Yes,” still gently from Mrs. Muir.

  “Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn’t know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. good morning. Goodbye, children.”

  While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air.

  Mrs. Muir had sat down again and Donal and Robin leaned against her. They saw she was not laughing any more but they did not know that her eyes had something like grief in them.

  “She’s her Mother!” Donal cried. “She’s lovely, too. But she’s—her mother!” and his voice and face were equally puzzled.

  Robin’s little hand delicately touched Mrs. Muir.

  “Is—she?” she faltered.

  Helen Muir took her in her arms and held her quite close. She kissed her.

  “Yes, she is, my lamb,” she said. “She’s your mother.”

  She was clear as to what she must do for Donal’s sake. It was the only safe and sane course. But—at this age—the child was a lamb and she could not help holding her close for a moment. Her little body was deliciously soft and warm and the big silk curls all in a heap were a fragrance against her breast.

  Chapter 10

  Donal talked a great deal as he pranced home. Feather had excited as well as allured him. Why hadn’t she told Robin she was her mother? Why did she never show her pictures in the Nursery and hold her on her knee? She was little enough to be held on knees! Did some mothers never tell their children and did the children never find out? This was what he wanted to hear explained. He took the gloved hand near him and held it close and a trifle authoritatively.

  “I am glad I know you are my mother,” he said, “I always knew.”

  He was not sure that the matter was explained very clearly. Not as clearly as things usually were. But he was not really disturbed. He had remem
bered a book he could show Robin tomorrow and he thought of that. There was also a game in a little box which could be easily carried under his arm. His mother was “thinking” and he was used to that. It came on her sometimes and of his own volition he always, on such occasion, kept as quiet as was humanly possible.

  After he was asleep, Helen sent for Nanny.

  “You’re tired, ma’am,” the woman said when she saw her, “I’m afraid you’ve a headache.”

  “I have had a good deal of thinking to do since this afternoon,” her mistress answered, “You were right about the nurse. The little girl might have been playing with any boy chance sent in her way—boys quite unlike Donal.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” And because she loved her and knew her face and voice Nanny watched her closely.

  “You will be as—startled—as I was. By some queer chance the child’s mother was driving by and saw us and came in to speak to me. Nanny—she is Mrs. Gareth-Lawless.”

  Nanny did start; she also reddened and spoke sharply.

  “And she came in and spoke to you, ma’am!”

  “Things have altered and are altering every day,” Mrs. Muir said. “Society is not at all inflexible. She has a smart set of her own—and she is very pretty and evidently well provided for. Easy-going people who choose to find explanations suggest that her husband was a relation of Lord Lawdor’s.”

  “And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie,” offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir’s hands clasped strongly as they lay on the table before her.

  “That doesn’t come within my bailiewick,” she said in her quiet voice. “ Her life is her own and not mine. Words are the wind that blows.” She stopped just a moment and began again. “We must leave for Scotland by the earliest train.”

  “What’ll he do?” the words escaped from the woman as if involuntarily. She even drew a quick breath. “He’s a strong feeling bairn—strong!”

  “He’ll be stronger when he is a young man, Nanny!” desperately. “That is why I must act now. There is no half way. I don’t want to be hard. Oh, am I hard—am I hard?” she cried out low as if she were pleading.

  “No, ma’am. You are not. He’s your own flesh and blood.” Nanny had never before seen her mistress as she saw her in the next curious almost exaggerated moment.

  Her hand flew to her side.

  “He’s my heart and my soul—” she said, “—he is the very entrails of me! And it will hurt him so and I cannot explain to him because he is too young to understand. He is only a little boy who must go where he is taken. And he cannot help himself. It’s—unfair!”

  Nanny was prone to become more Scotch as she became moved. But she still managed to look grim.

  “He canna help himsel,” she said, “an waur still, you canna.”

  There was a moment of stillness and then she said:

  “I must go and pack up.” And walked out of the room.

  Donal always slept like a young roe in the bracken, and in deep and rapturous ease he slept this night. Another perfectly joyful day had passed and his Mother had liked Robin and kissed her. All was well with the world. As long as he had remained awake—and it had not been long—he had thought of delightful things unfeverishly. Of Robin, somehow at Braemarnie, growing bigger very quickly—big enough for all sorts of games—learning to ride Chieftain, even to gallop. His mother would buy another pony and they could ride side by side. Robin would laugh and her hair would fly behind her if they went fast. She would see how fast he could go—she would see him make Chieftain jump. They would have picnics—catch sight of deer and fawns delicately lifting their feet as they stepped. She would always look at him with that nice look in her eyes and the little smile which came and went in a second. She was quite different from the minister’s little girls at the Manse. He liked her—he liked her! He was wakened by a light in his room and by the sound of moving about. He sat up quickly and found his Mother standing by his bed and Nanny putting things into a travelling bag. He felt as if his Mother looked taller than she had looked yesterday—and almost thin—and her face was anxious and—shy.

  “We let you sleep as late as we could, Donal,” she said. “ You must get up quickly now and have breakfast. Something has happened. We are obliged to go back to Scotland by very early train. There is not a minute to waste.”

  At first he only said:

  “Back!”

  “Yes, dear. Get up.”

  “To Braemarnie?”

  “Yes, dear laddie!”

  He felt himself grow hot and cold.

  “Away! Away!” he said again vaguely.

  “Yes. Get up, dear.”

  He was as she had said only a little boy and accustomed to do as he was told. He was also a fine, sturdy little Scot with a pride of his own. His breeding had been of the sort which did not include insubordinate scenes, so he got out of bed and began to dress. But his mother saw that his hands shook.

  “I shall not see Robin,” he said in a queer voice. “She won’t find me when she goes behind the lilac bushes. She won’t know why I don’t come.”

  He swallowed very hard and was dead still for a few minutes, though he did not linger over his dressing. His mother felt that the whole thing was horrible. He was acting almost like a young man even now. She did not know how she could bear it. She spoke to him in a tone which was actually rather humble.

  “If we knew where she lived you—you could write a little letter and tell her about it. But we do not where she lives.”

  He answered her very low.

  “That’s it. And she’s little—and she won’t understand. She’s very little—really.” There was a harrowingly protective note in his voice. “Perhaps—she’ll cry.”

  Helen looking down at him with anguished eyes—he was buttoning his shoes—made an unearthly effort to find words, but, as she said them, she knew they were not the right ones.

  “She will be disappointed, of course, but she is so little that she will not feel it as much as if she were bigger. She will get over it, darling. Very little girls do not remember things long.” Oh, how coarse and crass and stupid it sounded—how course and crass and stupid to say it to this small defiant scrap of what seemed the inevitable suffering of the world!

  The clear blue of the eyes Robin had dwelt in, lifted itself to her. There was something almost fierce in it—almost like impotent hatred of something.

  “She won’t,” he said, and she actually heard him grind his little teeth after it.

  He did not look like Donal when he was dressed and sat at the breakfast table. He did not eat much of his porridge, but she saw that he determinedly ate some. She felt several times as if he actually did not look like anybody she had ever seen. And at the same time his fair hair, his fair cheeks, and the fair sturdy knees beneath his swinging kilt made him seem as much a little boy as she had ever known him. It was his hot blue eyes which were different.

  He obeyed her every wish and followed where she led. When the train laboured out of the big station he had taken a seat in a corner and sat with his face turned to the window, so that his back was towards her. He stared and stared at the passing country and she could only see part of his cheek and the side of his neck. She could not help watching them and presently she saw a hot red glow under the skin as if a flood had risen. It subsided in a few moments, but presently she saw it rise again. This happened several times and he was holding his lip with, his teeth. Once she saw his shoulders more and he coughed obstinately two or three times. She knew that he would die before he would let himself cry, but she wished he would descend to it just this once, as the fields and hedges raced past and he was carried “Away! Away!” It might be that it was all his manhood she was saving for him.

  He really made her heart stand still for a moment just as she was thinking this and saying it to herself almost fiercely. He suddenly turned on her; the blue of his eyes was flaming and the tide had risen again in his cheeks and neck. It was a thing like ra
ge she saw before her—a child’s rage and impotently fierce. He cried out as if he were ending a sentence he had not finished when he spoke as he sat on the floor buttoning his shoes.

  “She has no one but me to remember!” he said. “No one but me had ever even kissed her. She didn’t know!”

  To her amazement he clenched both his savage young fists and shook them before him.

  “It’ll kill me!” he raged.

  She could not hold herself back. She caught at him with her arms and meant to drag him to her breast. “No! No! Donal!” she cried. “Darling! No—No!” But, as suddenly as the queer unchildish thing had broken out, did he remember himself and boy shame at his fantastic emotion overtook him. He had never spoken like that to anyone before! It was almost as bad as bursting out crying! The red tide ebbed away and he withdrew himself awkwardly from her embrace. He said not another word and sat down in his corner with his back turned toward the world.

  That the Lady Downstairs, who was so fond of laughing and who knew so many persons who seemed to laugh nearly all the time, might have been joking about being her mother presented itself to Robin as a vague solution of the problem. The Lady had laughed when she said it, as people so often laughed at children. Perhaps she had only been amusing herself as grown-up persons were apparently entitled to do. Even Donal had not seemed wholly convinced and though his mother had said the Lady Downstairs was—somehow the subject had been changed at once. Mrs. Muir had so soon begun to tell them a story. Robin was not in the least aware that she had swiftly distracted their attention from a question, any discussion of which would have involved explanations she could not have produced. It would have been impossible to make it clear to any child. She herself was helpless before the situation and therefore her only refuge was to make the two think of other things. She had so well done this that Robin had gone home later only remembering the brightly transitory episode as she recalled others as brief and bright, when she had stared at a light and lovely figure standing on the nursery threshold and asking careless questions of Andrews, without coming in and risking the freshness of her draperies by contact with London top-floor grubbiness. The child was, in fact, too full of the reality of her happiness with Donal and Donal’s mother to be more than faintly bewildered by a sort of visionary conundrum.