_BLANCHE CLIFFORD._
IN one of the southern counties there stood a stately English home, with
silent halls and closed gates, awaiting the time when Blanche Clifford
should be of age. It had been her birthplace, though she never
remembered having seen it. Her young and beautiful mother had died there
on the Christmas Eve when Blanche was born, and her father had not cared
to revisit it since. Even his baby-daughter had been only a painful
reminder of his loss, and he had left her in his great dreary London
house, with a retinue of servants to wait upon her, and had gone away
for years of travel in many lands.
During Blanche's helpless infant years, she had been carefully nursed by
a faithful old soul, who had been her mother's nurse when she was young.
Mrs. Paterson, or Patty, as Blanche always called her, was guardian,
nurse, friend, and playmate all in one. She romped with her little
charge till her old legs ached again; sang songs and ballads to her
with unwearied fervor in her old quivering voice, which, though thin,
was still true, and Blanche thought it the sweetest voice in all the
world.
The old nursery which they inhabited underwent wonderful and various
transformations during those early days. Now it was the sea where she
bathed, or her dolls sailed, in stately ships of varied manufacture,
into their haven on the rug; sometimes it was the Zoological Gardens,
and Patty became the bear, receiving Good Friday buns, and every
available cupboard contained a ravening animal. And when Blanche got
wearied with her romps, she would coil herself on Patty's knee, and the
hours till bedtime would pass all too quickly, as she listened to
delightful stories, which never grew old, of the time when mamma was a
little girl.
But these pleasant old nursery days had passed away as a tale that is
told, long before the time when our story begins. Dear old Patty was
struck down by painful illness, and had to leave her little lamb in
strangers' hands; and now Miss Prosser reigned in her stead. Then
lessons had begun. Blanche's governess, being a skilled instructress of
youth, was disturbed to find her little pupil sadly backward in all
branches of education; for of actual lessons she had none while under
Patty's care. Her acquirements consisted in being able to read her
favorite story-books, and to repeat and sing an unlimited number of
songs and ballads, for many of which she had found notes to suit on the
grand piano that stood in the deserted white-draped drawing-room, where
she and Patty used to resort for their walk on wet afternoons.
We shall not linger over the years that elapsed between Miss Prosser's
coming and our introduction to her and her pupil. We should only have to
tell of long days of school-room routine, when Blanche at last got
fairly into educational harness, and came to know many things which it
was right and proper that she should know. She could tell a great deal
of the geography of several countries, was quite at home among the
Plantagenets and various other dynasties, could repeat an unlimited
number of French irregular verbs, and knew something of the elements of
more than one science.
When Mr. Clifford, after years of absence, at last ventured to return to
his deserted home, it was something of the nature of a surprise to find
an eager, loving little woman's heart awaiting him, and he rejoiced
over his child as over a new-found treasure. And though Blanche never
remembered having seen her father, yet he had always been her cherished
ideal. Constantly she had dreamt of him by night, and talked of him by
day; and her favorite occupation was to write a letter to papa ever
since she had been in the pot-hook stage of that acquirement. His return
home was the greatest event of her life, and brought a brightness into
it that was unknown before. It is true that she did not see much of him,
even when he was at home; for the hope of an hour's play and prattle
with him, in the precious after-dinner hour, was often disappointed by
the presence of gentlemen friends, who would talk politics, and discuss
other dark and uninteresting subjects, till Blanche at last glided away
in a disconsolate frame of mind, and went to bed with a disappointed
heart. Occasionally, however, she had her papa all to herself, and these
were precious, never-to-be-forgotten hours. Sometimes a half-holiday was
granted, and she went for a ride in the Park on her pretty little white
pony, Neige, and these were always memorable happy occasions. But every
light has its shadow. After having known the pleasure of being with her
father, Blanche pined for him when he was absent, and looked forward
longingly to the time when she should be quite grown-up, and able to be
his companion always.
These autumn days in the Highlands, Blanche had hoped to spend entirely
with her father. She did not guess how engrossed he would be in sport,
nor that her governess thought it wise and well to provide the means for
a few hours of lessons, daily. She took her place among her schoolbooks
with a smouldering sense of wrong and grief in her little breast, which
did not get extinguished by an hour's bending over an open "History of
England." Indeed, the prospect of committing the Wars of the Roses to
memory, seemed to promise to turn out as lingering a process as the
triumph of the White Rose, recorded in English annals. Blanche looked
wistfully round, in the hope of finding some pleasant distraction, some
trace of the mountain-land which she could not forget that she had
actually reached at last, though certainly her present surroundings did
not suggest it.
A pleasant breeze that swept in at the open window was the only mountain
element that could not be excluded from this school-room, which had
suddenly followed Blanche to the Highlands, and held her captive. The
window was on a level with the ground, and a grassy knoll intercepted
the view beyond; there was nothing really to do or see anywhere, so at
last Blanche gave herself languidly up to her lesson, thinking she was
the most ill-used little girl in all the world. She was gazing absently
at a map of England opposite, in a lazy search after Tewkesbury, when
she noticed a shadow flit across the sunlighted wall, but before she had
time to turn her head, it had vanished, and Blanche again betook herself
to the battle of Tewkesbury, with a strong effort of attention.
Suddenly, as she happened to look up from her book, to fix a fact in her
memory, by repeating it aloud, she saw standing at the window, not a
shadow this time, but a real flesh and blood little girl, gazing
intently at her. A brown little face peeped out from among a mass of
tangled, raven-black, elf-like locks, and a pair of keen dark eyes
rested on Blanche, with admiration and wonder in their gaze. The little
figure was arrayed in a tartan dress of the briefest dimensions, which
hung in fringes, and displayed brown bare arms and legs, well-knit and
nimble-looking. After Blanche's first gasp of astonishment at so
strange and unexpected an apparition, it occurred to her that the image
could probably give some account of itself, and she was wondering what
would be the most suitable mode of address, when, as if divining her
idea, off the creature darted, round the grassy knoll, and out of sight.
Blanche sprung to the window, and looked excitedly round to see if she
could possibly follow. The window was close to the ground, and her foot
was on the sill, ready to start off in pursuit, when just at that moment
in walked Miss Prosser.
"Why, Blanche, what are you about? You look quite excited, child!"
Blanche's first impulse was to confide to her the cause of her
excitement, but, on second thoughts, she resolved not to reveal it. To
her, the sudden apparition of the little elfish-looking maiden was quite
a romantic adventure; but she felt doubtful if it would appear in the
same light to her governess, who frequently objected to Blanche's
friendly advances to the little London flower-girls, and her delicate
attentions to crossing-sweepers. Moreover, Blanche had a vague terror
lest a pursuit of the little unknown might be set on foot, not of such a
friendly character as her's was meant to be, so she resolved to keep
her own counsel. Still the vision of the weird-looking little maiden,
whom she had caught devouring her with great soft eyes, like a gentle
timid animal of the forest, kept haunting her. What did she want? where
did she live? she wondered. Perhaps she might not have any home. She
looked very ragged, certainly, and very poor she must be, for she wore
neither shoes nor stockings, were the reflections that actively coursed
through Blanche's brain, as she narrated the Battle of Tewkesbury to her
governess, who had just reason to complain of a very absent-minded
pupil.
When the hour for the afternoon walk arrived, it did not seem quite so
tame and unattractive as it had done to Blanche in the midst of her more
ambitious morning plans. She was by no means the broken-hearted,
ill-used person which she fancied herself a few hours before, as she
tripped gaily down the broad, flat, grass-grown steps of the old
court-yard, and stood again on the soft turf, waiting for Miss Prosser.
Presently she spied a familiar friend coming towards her, in the shape
of a great black retriever. He came wagging a vigorous welcome to his
little mistress, whom he was quite overjoyed to see after his long and
depressing journey, in company with the pointers and setters. He had
indulged in the most unfriendly feelings towards the whole pack, but
being muzzled, he was not able to give them a bit of his mind, as he
would fain have done.
"Well, old fellow, and how are you? I believe you've been all over Glen
Eagle already, and know every bit. I wish I were you, Chance. You may be
glad enough you can't speak, old dog--though you sometimes look as if
you would very much like to; for if you could, you would be sure to have
lessons, and, instead of scampering about the hills, you would have had
to tell Miss Prosser all about the Battle of Tewkesbury," said Blanche,
laughingly, as she returned his warm welcome.
Chance was a great friend of Blanche's, and had been presented to her as
a compensation for her banished dolls. His upbringing had, however,
caused her much more anxiety than that of her flaxen darlings. He had
been a terribly troublesome baby, and developed a frightful bump of
destructiveness. He took so very long to cut his teeth, and was always
helping on the process by using various appliances in the shape of
boots, gloves, and muffs. But at length his partiality for these, as
articles of consumption, somewhat abated, and he developed instead the
useful faculty of carrying them, and restoring them to their owners,
generally with much reluctance, but withal in a sound condition. He
possessed various other accomplishments, which Blanche had taken pains
to teach him, but they were of a more striking than graceful character,
it must be allowed. He could shut a door, which feat he performed with
his two great paws, with a terrific bang, to the utter detriment of the
paint and polish, not to speak of the nerves of the household. His
manners were still, even at mature age, sadly wanting in repose, and
when he was in society, Blanche never felt quite comfortable as to what
he might do next, so very gushing was he to his friends, and quite
alarmingly demonstrative in another direction towards strangers. As he
stood on the castle steps with his little mistress, he spied a kilted
native, at some distance off, and was preparing to pounce upon him, when
he was collared by Blanche. Then it occurred to her that she might be
able to get some information from this Highlander about the subject
which was still uppermost in her mind--the mystery of the little
window-visitor; but Miss Prosser just at that moment emerged with
finished toilette, all ready for the promised walk.
On returning from the walk, Blanche wandered in among the old
ash-trees, and seating herself on a lichen-spotted stone, she resolved
to wait there, in order to catch the first glimpse of her father on his
way from the moors. The walk along the dusty high road, by Miss
Prosser's side, had by no means suited Blanche's adventurous plans for
the day. But to-morrow it would be different, she thought, resolving
that she should awake very early in the morning, and as soon as the dogs
began to bark, she would go out and join her papa, and he would be sure
to allow her to go with him.
Presently she heard her father's voice, and saw him coming sauntering
along the avenue of birch-trees which led to the castle. Running forward
to meet him, she said eagerly, "O papa! you will take me to-morrow, will
you not? I do want so very much to get upon those glorious hills."
Blanche stopped suddenly, for, behind her father, she caught sight of a
man, staring intently at her, whom she felt sure she had never seen
before. He was a dark, keen-looking man, with iron-grey hair, a smooth
face, and heavy eyebrows, which met on the straight ridge of his nose.
He was tall and spare and agile-looking, dressed in shepherd-tartan, and
across his shoulder one or two game-pouches were slung. He seemed
rather taken by surprise when Blanche suddenly emerged from among the
ash-trees, and now he stood seemingly absorbed in examining the trophies
of the day's sport, with which a pony by his side was laden; but he was
really surveying the little girl by a series of keen glances.
"Why what an enterprising little puss it is, to be sure!" replied Mr.
Clifford, laughingly. "You shall certainly go to the hills, but we must
first try to find a pony, seeing Neige is not within reach. Look what a
grand day's sport we have had, Blanchie," and taking her hand, Mr.
Clifford, led her to where the pony stood, laden with the game.
Blanche gazed horror-struck. The only dead creature she had ever seen
was a pet canary, on which a stray cat had designed to sup, when the
delicate morsel was taken from between the feline teeth, and had
received a burial worthy of the historical Cock Robin. But here were
more birds than she could count, as beautiful, and perhaps as lovable,
as the canary of pathetic memory, killed, not by stray cats for their
suppers, but by her own kind papa and his friends. There they hung in
masses, with their bronze feathers shining in the sun, the speckled
wings that flapped so merrily in the morning, hanging limp and listless
now, the little heads downward, and the tiny beaks and eyes half open,
just as they had been fixed in their death agony.
"This is my little daughter, Dingwall," said Mr. Clifford, turning to
the man standing alongside, whom Blanche had noticed. "She would give me
no rest till I brought her to see your Glen, and now she actually wants
to go to shoot with us."
"Oh no, papa! indeed I don't--not now," broke in Blanche, in a tone of
distress, and, glancing at the gamekeeper, she saw him still looking at
her with a queer smile on his thin lips. Whether it was from his
connection with the dead spoil, or from something in his face which
repelled her, Blanche made up her mind that she did not like the keeper.
Presently he untied one of the brace of grouse, and lifting a wing under
which the cruel death-wound was visible, he held it up, saying, "Maybe
the leddy would be likin' to hae a wing for her hat: I've heard o' the
gentlefolk wearin' sic things; but 'deed it's but few o' them we hae
seen this mony a day."
"Oh no! please not. I should not like to have a wing at all," said
Blanche, clasping her hands in a beseeching attitude.
"Why, pussy, what is the matter? Am I not to be forgiven for starting
before you were up this morning? Never mind; we shall beg Miss Prosser
for a holiday to-morrow, and you shall go to the moors, mounted on a
little Shetlander."
"It is not that, papa. I'm afraid I shan't want to go to the moors any
more now. I think it must be very dreadful. These poor killed birds! how
can you stand and see them all die, papa?"
"Well, I can't say I should like to make a microscopic inspection of
their dying moments. After the aim is taken and the shot fired, the fun
is over."
"But, papa, how can you shoot those happy birds flying in the air, and
not doing any harm?"
"Why, goosey, for the same reason as you knock down your nine-pins--for
the sake of sport, to be sure," replied Mr. Clifford laughing at the
distressed face of his little daughter.
"Come and shut up this little philosopher, Major," he continued, turning
to one of his guests, a kindly-looking old gentleman, who had come
sauntering up and joined them. "She is quite shocked at the monstrous
cruelty we have been guilty of to-day. I begin to feel quite like the
Roman Emperor you were telling me of the other day, Blanche; only flies
were his special partiality, were they not?"
"Ah! depend upon it, Blanche has been having a course of Wordsworth,"
said the Major, as he shook hands. "Is it not he who says--
'Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow to the meanest thing that lives?'
But I shouldn't have thought you had arrived at the Wordsworthian stage
yet--eh! Miss Blanchie?" said the kindly old gentleman, as he looked
smilingly at the distressed little damsel.
But Blanche was in no mood for joking just then; she glided away towards
the castle, and, finding her way to her room, she sat down at the window
from which she had got her first glimpse of the glen.
The bright morning light had all vanished now, and the hills looked grey
and solemn in the gathering twilight. A great silence seemed to have
fallen on the moors. Blanche could hear no bleating of sheep, no cry of
the moor-fowl, no merry whirring of wings; and, to her fanciful little
brain, it seemed as if the valley were mourning for its dead, for the
little birds that would never sleep on the heather again, or mount to
the sky with the returning sun.
And as Blanche sat thinking in the gathering darkness, she got among
those crooked things that cannot be made straight by any theories of
ours, those mysteries which we must be content to leave to the wise love
of Him who has told us that not a sparrow falls to the ground without
the knowledge of that heavenly Father who had watched over this little
girl always, counting her of more value than many sparrows.
Blanche was not sorry to have her reveries interrupted by her maid Ellis
coming into the room, bringing lights with her. And as she laid out the
pretty white frock and blue sash, in which Blanche was to be dressed for
the evening, she said, "Well, missie, and how have you enjoyed your
first day in the 'Ighlands of Scotland?--more than I've done, I hope?
There's cook raging, fit to make one's life a burden about all those
birds to pluck. She says it will just be game, game, right on now, till
one feels ashamed to meet a bird."
"Oh! hush, Ellis. Please don't speak to me about those birds. I cannot
get them out of my head. It does seem so very sad."
"Why, Miss Blanche, you're as bad as cook. For my part, I think they're
uncommon good eating."
"It isn't that, Ellis; but only think how happy they all were this
morning among those hills, and now--I wonder how papa could do it! It
does seem so cruel."
"Come now, missie, that's what I won't stand to hear noways--the master
called cruel! A more kinder 'arted gentleman don't step. He wouldn't
hurt a fly--that he wouldn't. You'll be a callin' my old father a
murderer next, because he's a butcher, I suppose, missie?"
"Oh! that's quite different, Ellis," said Blanche, apologetically. "But,
to be sure, what lots of killing there is! It does seem very dreadful,
when one thinks of it."
"Well, missie, you don't think it dreadful to eat a mutton-chop when you
are hungry, I'll warrant." And this retort seemed quite unanswerable at
the moment; so Ellis had the last word, as the last curl was adjusted,
and her little mistress descended to join her father and his guests in
the drawing-room.
Blanche watched wistfully for an opportunity of a quiet talk with her
papa; she had so many things that she wanted to say to him. There was
still a secret hankering in the bottom of her heart to go to the moors,
for she could not bear to think of another day without him. But the
time came to say 'Good-night' before any opportunity for a private talk
offered itself, and Blanche went to sleep after her first day in the
Highlands with a disappointed heart.