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202 pages

English

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This follow-up to Frances Hodgson Burnett's previous novel, The Head of the House of Coombe, picks up the tale of a pair of childhood sweethearts, Robin and Donal, who reignite their love even as the specter of World War I looms over them. In addition to a sweet romance, Robin offers a fascinating glimpse into the evolving mores and social standards of the era.

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 mai 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776534333
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

ROBIN
* * *
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT

*
Robin First published in 1922 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-433-3 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-434-0 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
The Years Before Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV Chapter XXV Chapter XXVI Chapter XXVII Chapter XXVIII Chapter XXIX Chapter XXX Chapter XXXI Chapter XXXII Chapter XXXIII Chapter XXXIV Chapter XXXV Chapter XXXVI Chapter XXXVII Chapter XXXVIII Chapter XXXIX Chapter XL Chapter XLI Chapter XLII
The Years Before
*
Outline Arranged by Hamilton Williamson
from
THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE OF COOMBE
In the years when Victorian standards and ideals began to dance anincreasingly rapid jig before amazed lookers-on, who presently foundthemselves dancing as madly as the rest—in these years, there lived inMayfair, in a slice of a house, Robert Gareth-Lawless and his lovelyyoung wife. So light and airy was she to earthly vision and sodiaphanous the texture of her mentality that she was known as "Feather."
The slice of a house between two comparatively stately mansions in the"right street" was a rash venture of the honeymoon.
Robert—well born, irresponsible, without resources—evolved a carefullydetailed method of living upon nothing whatever, of keeping out of theway of duns, and telling lies with aptness and outward gaiety. But ayear of giving smart little dinners and going to smart big dinners endedin a condition somewhat akin to the feat of balancing oneself on theedge of a sword.
Then Robin was born. She was an intruder and a calamity, of course. Thata Feather should become a parent gave rise to much wit of light weightwhen Robin was exhibited in the form of a bundle of lace.
It was the Head of the House of Coombe who asked:
"What will you do with her?"
"Do?" Feather repeated. "What is it people 'do' with babies? I don'tknow. I wouldn't touch her for the world. She frightens me."
Coombe said:
"She is staring at me. There is antipathy in her gaze." He stared backunwaveringly also, but with a sort of cold interest.
"The Head of the House of Coombe" was not a title to be found in Burkeor Debrett. It was a fine irony of the Head's own. The peerage recordedhim as a marquis and added several lesser attendant titles.
To be born the Head of the House is a weighty and awe-inspiringthing—one is called upon to be an example.
"I am not sure what I am an example of—or to," he said, on oneoccasion, in his light, rather cold and detached way, "which is why I attimes regard myself in that capacity with a slightly ribald lightness."
A reckless young woman once asked him:
"Are you as wicked as people say you are?"
"I really don't know. It is so difficult to decide," he answered."Perhaps I am as wicked as I know how to be. And I may have painfullimitations or I may not."
He had reached the age when it was safe to apply to him that vague term"elderly," and marriage might have been regarded as imperative. But hehad remained unmarried and seemed to consider his abstinence entirelyhis own affair.
Courts and capitals knew him, and his opportunities were such as gavehim all ease as an onlooker. He saw closely those who sat with knitbrows and cautiously hovering hand at the great chess-board which isformed by the map of Europe.
As a statesman or a diplomat he would have gone far, but he had been toomuch occupied with Life as an entertainment, too self-indulgent for workof any order. Having, however, been born with a certain type of brain,it observed and recorded in spite of him, thereby adding flavour andinterest to existence. But that was all.
Texture and colour gave him almost abnormal pleasure. For this reason,perhaps, he was the most perfectly dressed man in London.
It was at a garden-party that he first saw Feather. When his eyes fellupon her, he was talking to a group of people and he stopped speaking.Some one standing quite near him said afterwards that he had, for asecond or so, became pale—almost as if he saw something whichfrightened him. He was still rather pale when Feather lifted her eyes tohim. But he had not talked to her for fifteen minutes before he knewthat there was no real reason why he should ever again lose his colourat the sight of her. He had thought, at first, there was.
This was the beginning of an acquaintance which gave rise to muchargument over tea-cups regarding the degree of Coombe's interest in her.Remained, however, the fact that he managed to see a great deal of her.Feather was guilelessly doubtless concerning him. She was quite surethat he was in love with her, and very practically aware that the moremen of the class of the Head of the House of Coombe who came in and outof the slice of a house, the more likely the dwellers in it were to getgood invitations and continued credit.
The realisation of these benefits was cut short. Robert, amazingly andunnaturally, failed her by dying. He was sent away in a hearse and thetiny house ceased to represent hilarious little parties.
Bills were piled high everywhere. The rent was long overdue and must bepaid. She had no money to pay it, none to pay the servants' wages.
"It's awful—it's awful—it's awful!" broke out between her sobs.
From her bedroom window—at evening—she watched "Cook," the smartfootman, the nurse, the maids, climb into four-wheelers and be drivenaway.
"They're gone—all of them!" she gasped. "There's no one left in thehouse. It's empty!"
Then was Feather seized with a panic. She had something like hysterics,falling face downward upon the carpet and clutching her hair until itfell down. She was not a person to be judged—she was one of theunexplained incidents of existence.
The night drew in more closely. A prolonged wailing shriek tore throughthe utter soundlessness of the house. It came from the night-nursery. Itwas Robin who had wakened and was screaming.
"I—I won't !" Feather protested, with chattering teeth. "I won't! I won't !"
She had never done anything for the child since its birth. To reach hernow, she would be obliged to go out into the dark—past Robert'sbedroom— the room.
"I—I couldn't—even if I wanted to!" she quaked. "I daren't! Idaren't! I wouldn't do it—for a million pounds !"
The screams took on a more determined note. She flung herself on herbed, burrowing her head under the coverings and pillows she dragged overher ears to shut out the sounds.
*
Feather herself had not known, nor in fact had any other human beingknown why Lord Coombe drifted into seeming rather to follow her about.But there existed a reason, and this it was, and this alone, whichcaused him to appear—the apotheosis of exquisite fitness in form—ather door.
He listened while she poured it all forth, sobbing. Her pretty hairloosened itself and fell about her in wild but enchanting disorder.
"I would do anything— any one asked me, if they would take care ofme."
A shuddering knowledge that it was quite true that she would do anythingfor any man who would take care of her produced an effect on him nothingelse would have produced.
"Do I understand," he said, "that you are willing that I shouldarrange this for you?"
"Do you mean—really?" she faltered. "Will you—will you—?"
Her uplifted eyes were like a young angel's brimming with crystal dropswhich slipped—as a child's tears slip—down her cheeks.
*
The florist came and refilled the window-boxes of the slice of a housewith an admirable arrangement of fresh flowers. It became anestablished fact that the household had not fallen to pieces, and itsfrequenters gradually returned to it, wearing, indeed, the air of peoplewho had never really remained away from it.
As a bird in captivity lives in its cage and, perhaps, believes it to bethe world, Robin lived in her nursery. She was put to bed and taken up,she was fed and dressed in it, and once a day she was taken out of itdownstairs and into the street. That was all.
It is a somewhat portentous thing to realise that a newborn humancreature can only know what it is taught. To Robin the Lady Downstairswas merely a radiant and beautiful being of whom one might catch aglimpse through a door, or if one pressed one's face against the windowpane at the right moment. On the very rare occasions when the Ladyappeared on the threshold of the day-nursery, Robin stood and staredwith immense startled eyes and answered in a whisper the banal littlequestions put to her.
So she remained unaware of mothers and unaware of affection. She neverplayed with other children. Andrews, her nurse—as behooved one employedin a house about which there "was talk" bore herself with a lofty andexclusive air.
"My rule is to keep myself to myself," she said in the kitchen, "and tolook as if I was the one that would turn up noses, if noses was to beturned up. There's those that would snatch away their children if I letRobin begin to make up to them."
But one morning, when Robin was watching some quarrelsome sparrows, anold acquaintance surprised Andrews by appearing in the Gardens andengaged her in a conversation so delightful that Robin was forgotten tothe extent of being allowed to follow her sparrows round a clump ofshrubbery out of sight.
It was while she watched them that she heard foots