The Head of the House of CoombeBurnett, Frances Hodgson
General
The Head of the House of Coombe
Burnett, Frances Hodgson
England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
“You are a very great fool, young woman,” he said. “You have nothing
but your character as a nurse to live on. A scene in a police court
would ruin you. There is a Society which interferes with nursery
torture.”
Robin, freed from the iron grasp, had slunk behind a chair. He was
there again.
Andrews’ body, automatically responsive to rule and habit, rose from
its seat and stood before this member of a class which required an
upright position. She knew better than to attempt to excuse or explain.
She had heard about the Society and she knew publicity would spell ruin
and starvation. She had got herself into an appalling mess. Being
caught—there you were. But that this evil-reputationed swell should
actually have been awakened by some whim to notice and follow her up
was “past her,” as she would have put it.
“You were going to pinch her—by instalments, I suppose,” he said. “You
inferred that it might last three days. When she said you would—in the
drawing-room—it occurred to me to look into it. What are your wages?”
“Thirty pounds a year, my lord.”
“Go tomorrow morning to Benby, who engaged you for Mrs. Gareth-Lawless.
He will be at his office by nine and will pay you what is owed to
you—and a month’s wages in lieu of notice.”
“The mistress—” began Andrews.
“I have spoken to Mrs. Gareth-Lawless.” It was a lie, serenely told.
Feather was doing a new skirt dance in the drawing-room. “She is
engaged. Pack your box. Jennings will call a cab.”
It was the utter idiotic hopelessness of saying anything to him which
finished her. You might as well talk to a front door or a street lamp.
Any silly thing you might try wouldn’t even reach his ears. He had no
ears for you. You didn’t matter enough.
“Shall I leave her here—as she is?” she said, denoting Robin.
“Undress her and put her to bed before you pack your box,” absolutely
certain, fine cold modulations in the voice, which stood for his
special plane of breeding, had their effect on her grovelling though
raging soul. He was so exactly what he was and what she was not and
could never attain. “I will stay here while you do it. Then go.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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