She was a woman of about sixty, with very dark eyes and very white
hair--a tall woman, quite unbent by the weight of her years, and
unshaken by anything she could have met with in them; and yet she did
not look as if she had encountered little, or found life an easy passage
from the one unknown to the skirts of the other. She did not look
younger than her age, and yet there was no sentiment of age about her.
She was not the kind of woman of whom one says that they have been
beautiful, or have been pretty. She had perhaps never been either one or
the other; but all that she had ever been, or more, she was now. Her
eyes were still perfectly clear and bright, and they had depths in them
which could never have belonged to them in youth. The outline of her
face was not the round and perfect outline which belongs to the young,
but every wrinkle had its meaning. It was not mere years of which they
spoke, but of many experiences, varied knowledge, deep acquaintance with
that hardest of all sciences--life. Not a trace of its original colour
belonged to the hair--slightly rippled, with an irregularity which gave
a strange impression of life and vigour to it--which appeared under her
cap. The cap was dead white too, tied under her chin with a solid bow of
white ribbon; and this mass of whiteness brought out the pure tints of
her face like a picture. These tints had deepened a little in tone from
the red and white of youth, but were as clear as a child’s complexion of
lilies and roses. The slight shades of brown did but mellow the
countenance, as it does in so many painted faces. The eyes were full of
energy and animation, not like the eyes of a spectator, but of one
accustomed to do and to struggle--acting, not looking on. The whole
party assembled in old Sarah’s living-room turned round and looked at
her as she came in, and there was not one who did not feel abashed when
they became conscious that for a moment this inspection was not quite
respectful to the stranger. So far as real individuality and personal
importance went, she was a more notable personage than any one of them.
The Rector, who was the nearest to her in age, drew a little aside from
before the clear eyes of this old woman. He had been a quiet man,
harboured from all the storms, or almost all the storms of existence;
but here was one who had gone through them all. As for Edgar, there was
something in her looks which won his heart in a moment. He went up to
her with his natural frankness, while the others stood looking on
doubtfully. “I am sure it is you whom Perfitt has been talking to me
about,” he said. “I hope you like Arden. I hope your granddaughter is
better. And I trust you will tell Perfitt if there is anything than can
be done to make you more comfortable; my sister and I will be too
glad----”
Here Clare stepped forward, feeling that she must not permit herself to
be committed. “I am sure Sarah will do her very best to make you
comfortable,” she said, with great distinctness, not hurrying over her
words, as Edgar did--and not disposed to permit any vague large promises
to be made in her name. She was not particularly anxious about the
stranger’s comfort; but Edgar was hasty, and would always have his way.
“I am much obliged to ye both,” said the newcomer, her strong yet soft
Scotch voice, with its broad vowels, sounding large and ample, like her
person. She gave but one glance at Clare, but her eyes dwelt upon Edgar
with curious interest and eagerness. No one else in the place seemed to
attract her as he did. She returned the touch of his hand with a
vigorous clasp, which startled even him. “I hear ye’re but late come
hame,” she said, in a deep melodious tone, lingering upon the words.
“Yes,” said Edgar, somewhat surprised by her air of interest. “I am
almost as much a stranger here as you are. Perfitt tells me you have
come from the hills. I hope Arden will agree with the little girl.”
“Is there some one ill?” said Clare.
“My granddaughter,” said the stranger, “but no just a little
girl--little enough, poor thing--the weakliest I ever trained; but she’s
been seventeen years in this world--a weary world to her. Her life is a
thread. I cannot tell where she got her weakness from--no from my side.”
“Na; not from your side,” echoed Perfitt, who had been standing behind.
“But Mr. Arden has other things ado than listen to our clavers about our
family. I’ll go with you, with his leave, up the stair.”
“Has Dr. Somers been to see her?” said Clare. “If she is Mr Perfitt’s
relation, perhaps we could be of some use; some jelly perhaps, or
fruit----”
“I am much obliged to the young lady, but I’ll not trouble anybody,” was
the answer. “Thank ye all. If I might ask the liberty, when Jeanie is
able, of a walk about your park----”
She had turned to Edgar again, upon whom her eyes dwelt with growing
interest. Even Mr. Fielding thought it strange. “If she wants anything,
surely I am the fit person to help her,” Clare could not help saying
within herself. But it was Edgar to whom the stranger turned. He, too,
was a little surprised by her look. “The park is open to everybody” he
said; “that is no favour. But if you would like to go through the
gardens and the private grounds--or even the house--Perfitt, you can
arrange all that. And perhaps you might speak to the gardener, Clare?”
“Whatever you wish, Edgar,” said his sister, turning away. She was
displeased. It was she who ought naturally to have been appealed to, and
she was left out. But the new-comer evidently was honestly oblivious of
Clare’s very presence. She had no intention of disrespect to the young
lady, or of neglecting her claims; but she forgot her simply, being
fascinated by her brother. It was him whom she thanked with concise and
reserved words, but a certain strange fulness of tone and expression.
And then she made the party a little bow, which took in the whole, and
turned and led the way up the narrow cottage stair--Perfitt following
her--leaving them all considerably puzzled, and more moved than Clare
would have allowed to be possible. “If this is your Scotchwoman,” she
said, turning to the Rector, “I don’t wonder you found her original;”
and Clare went hastily out of the cottage, without a word to Sarah,
followed by the gentlemen, who did not know what to say.
“Listen to her story before you begin to dislike her,” said Edgar.
“Perfitt told me as we came along. It appears she had her daughter’s
family thrown on her hands a great many years ago. She has a little farm
in Scotland somewhere, and manages it herself. When these children came
to her, she set to work as if she had been six men. She has brought up
and educated every one of them,--not to be ploughmen, as you would
think--but educated them in the Scotch way; one is a doctor, another a
clergyman, and so on. If you don’t respect a woman like that, I do.
Perfitt says she never flinched nor complained, but went at her work
like a hero. And this is a granddaughter of another family whom she has
taken charge of in the same way.”
“I felt sure she was something remarkable,” said Mr. Fielding, “I told
Clare I had never seen any one quite like her; now, didn’t I? Scotch,
you know--very Scotch; but to me a new type.”
“I think I prefer the old type,” said Clare, with a feeling of
opposition, which she herself scarcely understood; “one knows what to do
with them; and then they are civil, at least. I am going to see some
now,” and she turned back suddenly, waving her hand to her companions,
and went on past Sarah’s cottage to pay her visits. The people she was
going to see were quite of the old type. They had no susceptibilities to
_menagér_, no over-delicate feelings to be studied. They were ready to
accept all that could be procured, and to ask for more. Clare knew, when
she entered these cottages, that she was about to hear a long list of
wants, and to have it made apparent to her that the comfort, and health,
and happiness of her pensioners was entirely in her hands. It was more
flattering than the independence of the stranger, who wanted nothing;
but yet the contrast confused the mind of the girl, who had never had
anything of the kind made so clearly apparent to her before. One of her
old women had an orphan granddaughter too; but her complaints were many
of the responsibility this threw upon her, and the trouble she had in
keeping her charge in order. “Them young lasses, they eats and they
drinks, and they’re never done; when a cup o’ tea would serve me,
there’s a cooking and a messing for Lizzy; and out o’ evenings when I
just want her; and every penny a going for nonsense. At my time o’ life,
Miss, it ain’t bother as one wants; it’s quiet as does best for ou’d
folks.”
“But she has nobody to take care of her except you,” said Clare,
pondering her new lesson.
“Eh, Miss! They ben’t good for nothing for taking care o’ young ones
ben’t ou’d folks.”
Clare turned away with a little disgust. She promised to supply all the
wants that had been indicated to her, and they were many. But she did it
with less than her usual kindness, and a sensation of indignation in her
mind. How different was this servile dependence and denial of all
individual responsibility from the story she had just heard! She was
wrong, as was natural; for the old egotist was in reality very fond of
her Lizzy, and only made use of her name in order to derive a more
plentiful supply from the open hand of the young lady. Had there been no
young lady to depend on, probably old Betty would have made no
complaint, but done her best, and grudged nothing she had to her
grandchild. Clare, however, was too young and inexperienced in human
kind to know that what is bad often comes uppermost, concealing the
good, and that there are quantities of people who always show their
worst, not their best, face to the world. She went away in suppressed
discontent, revolving in her mind without knowing it those questions of
social philosophy with which every alms-giver must more or less come in
contact. It was right for the Ardens, as lords of the manor, to watch
over their dependents; of that there could be no doubt. Clare would have
felt, as one might imagine a benevolent slaveholder to feel, had there
been any destitution or unrelieved misery in her village: but the
question had never occurred to her whether it was good for the people to
be so watched over and taken care of? Supposing, for instance, such a
case as that of Mr. Perfitt’s relative, Sarah’s lodger. Was it best for
a woman in such circumstances to toil and strive, and deny herself all
ease and pleasure, and bring up the children thus cast upon her with the
sweat of her brow, according to that primeval curse or blessing which
was not laid upon woman? Or would it be better to appeal to others, and
make interest, and establish the helpless beings in orphan schools and
benevolent institutions? The last was the plan which Clare had been
chiefly cognisant of. When any one died in the village, it had been her
wont to bestir herself instantly about their children, as if the
responsibility was not upon the widow or the relatives, but upon her.
She had disposed of them in all sorts of places--here one, and there
another; and she had found, in most cases, that the villagers were but
too willing to transfer their burdens to the young shoulders which were
so ready to undertake them. But was that the best? If Edgar had
enunciated this new doctrine in words, no doubt she would have combated
it with all her might, and would have been very eloquent about the
duties of property and the bond between superiors and inferiors. But
Edgar had not said a word on the subject, probably had not thought at
all about it. He was as liberal as she was, even lavish in his bounty,
ready to give to anybody or everybody. He had said nothing on the
subject; but he had told the story of that strange new-comer, who was
(surely) so out of place, so unlike everything else in the little Arden
world.
Clare passed by Sarah’s house again as the thoughts went through her
mind. The window of the upper room was a broad lattice window with
diamond panes, half concealed by honeysuckles, which were not in very
good trim, but waved their long branches in sweet disorder over the
half-red half-white wall, where the original bricks, all stained with
lichens, peered through the whitewash. The casement was open, and
against it leaned a little figure, the sight of which sent a thrill
through the young lady’s heart. The face looked very young, and was
surrounded by softly curling masses of hair, of that ruddy golden hue
which is so often to be seen in children’s hair in Scotland, and which
is almost always accompanied by the sweetest purity of complexion. It
was a lovely face, like an angel’s, with something of the half-divine
abstraction about it of Raphael’s angel children. She had never seen
anything so strangely visionary, fair, and wild, like something from
another world. Clare stood still and gazed, forgetting everything but
this strange beautiful vision. The stranger’s eyes were turned towards
Arden, to the great banks of foliage which stood up against the sky,
hiding the house within their depths. What was she thinking of? whom was
she looking for? or was she thinking of, looking for no one, abstracted
in some dream? Clare’s heart began to beat as she stood unconscious and
gazed. She was brought back to herself and to the ordinary rules of life
by seeing that the old woman had come to the window, and was looking
down upon her with equal earnestness. Then she went on with a little
start, trembling, she could not tell why. Was it a child or a woman she
had seen? and why had she come here?