Маргарет Олифант: Squire Arden; volume 2 of 3

“I don’t think she ought to be left by herself,” said Clare, drawing back with a certain repugnance. Jeanie was seated in a low chair, and looked like a child—her pretty head, with its golden hair closely braided about it, bent over her work. She looked so serious, so absorbed in her occupation, so far removed from the feverish regions in which Clare felt herself to be wandering, that the dislike she had felt for this mysterious child suddenly warmed into a certain curiosity and interest. She paused on the threshold, looking in, feeling as if the step she was about to take was much more important than an innocent every-day entrance into Sarah’s cottage; but after that momentary hesitation she went in, causing the little recluse to raise her head. When she saw who it was Jeanie rose, and gave Miss Arden a chair—not as Mary or Ellen would have done, but with simple courtesy. She stood until her visitor was seated, and then sat down again. But still she did not give to Clare that curtsey which she felt to be her due.

“I am glad to see you are better,” Clare said, with a little stiffness; and then she was melted in spite of herself by the soft wistful look in little Jeanie’s eyes. “Has your mother left you alone?” she said. “It must be strange to you to be left alone in such a place as this.”

“They are all kind, kind,” said Jeanie. “I’m no lonely, as if it was new to me; and then I have something to do. My head has been so strange, I have never had a seam for so long. And now it is as if I was coming back–”

“Poor child!” said Clare, “does it make you suffer much? Do you feel ill when– I mean when—your head has been strange, as you say–?”

“I canna think about it,” said Jeanie, softly; “I mustna think about it; the world begins to swim and swim, and the light to go out of my eyes– I will sew my seam, if ye please.”

And then there was a little pause, and everything was still. Old Sarah and her pupils stayed outside, and the murmur of their voices sounded softly in the summer air; but within the clock ticked, and the white ashes from the half-dead fire fell now and then faintly on the hearth, and Jeanie’s “seam” rustled as she worked; that was all. Though there was that ghost of a fire, the room, with its tiny window and thick walls, was cooler than many a much better ventilated house; and the light was cool and green and shadowy, coming through the tall woody branches of a geranium trained upon a fanshaped framework, which answered instead of a curtain to the little window. Clare sat embarrassed, not knowing how to address this creature, who was so unlike anything she had known or encountered before.

“Do you remember your home? I suppose it is a place very different from Arden?” she said at last.

“Home! oh it’s bonnie, bonnie!—bonnier than Arden,” cried Jeanie, and then she paused with instinctive courtesy. “But Arden is beautiful,” she said. “It’s a’ so beautiful that God has made. I canna’ bide towns and streets and places that are built—but Arden– and the green grass and the bonnie trees–”

Where had the child learned to think of other people’s sentiments—was it natural to her nation—or only to her individual character? Clare felt that the Marys and Ellens of the village would not have thought of any such refinement. “Do you live among the hills?” she said.

“On Loch Arroch side. The trees are very bonnie, and so are all the parks and pleasant fields,” said Jeanie; “but if you were to see the hills up among the clouds, and the bonnie water at their feet! and then when you live always there, and your heart gets full–”

“Poor child!” said Clare again, growing more and more interested in spite of herself. “You are too young to have felt your heart grow full as you say.”

“I am seventeen,” said Jeanie. “Plenty folk have learned trouble before that. Granny says she had nobody to take care of her when she was seventeen—neither father nor mother, nor– And I have always her– Oh, if you had seen my Willie!” she said suddenly, “he was aye so bright and so kind. Miss Arden, you have a brother too–”

“My poor child!” cried Clare. “Jeanie, Jeanie, if that is your name, don’t think of that. For your poor grandmother’s sake don’t do anything to bring it on.”

“I cannot bring it on,” said Jeanie; “it comes when I am not thinking of Willie, if there is ever a time I am not thinking of him. It’s best to let me cry. Oh my bonnie boy! and in the sea, Miss Arden; think of that! no a grave under the sod, where I could go and greet, but in yon great, great, wild stormy sea—it is that I cannot bear.”

“Let us talk of something else,” said Clare, trembling. “Do you like old Sarah? I hope she is very attentive to you and does everything you want. You must come to the hall some day and see me; I am all alone in the hall.”

“Where has he gone that you are your lane?” said Jeanie; and she raised her head with a look of anxiety which startled Clare.

“He! whom?” cried Miss Arden; she drew herself up and looked at Jeanie from her altitude, feeling all her prejudices reawaken. Jeanie, for her part, put down her work in her lap, and crossed her hands softly with a smile and a sigh.

“I am meaning your bonnie brother, Miss Arden. Oh, I wish he was my brother! We dinna know him, but we’re awfu’ fond of him, both grannie and me.”

“Fond of him!” exclaimed Clare, more and more bewildered. “Do you know what you say?”

“Oh aye, real fond,” said innocent Jeanie; “he has such a bonnie light in his eyes.”

And while Clare sat in a state of partial stupefaction wondering what this might mean, there was a little stir at the door, and Mrs. Murray came in, as it were to the rescue, before her child could commit herself more.

“I am speaking of Miss Arden’s brother,” said Jeanie, introducing her grandmother into the conversation without a moment’s pause. “Granny, tell Miss Arden. He’s like faces we ken, and his voice is like a kent voice. If I was in trouble I would go and ask him. I would trust him, and I would be safe. Granny!”

“She speaks as others of her age would scarcely speak,” said the grandmother, quietly. “She’s no like others, Miss Arden. Her trouble is like a shield about her, like an angel o’ the Lord. You think she should not name like that a gentleman that’s far, far above her, but it’s in her innocence she speaks. She has taken a fancy into her head that your brother is like her brother–”

“So he is,” said Jeanie, softly. “She would have thought so too, if she had seen my Willie; no like yon grand, dark, hard man that comes and troubles me with his e’en; but oh, so friendly and so kind, and like a real brother. The other gives me a thrill at my heart. I’m feared still, though it’s no him !”

“What other?” said Clare in some amazement. Except the Rector and the Doctor there was no gentleman in Arden of whom Jeanie could have spoken, and neither of them could be so described—a grand, dark, hard man! Her heart began to flutter painfully, and no one answered her question. Perhaps it was because there was a rustle and movement outside, and Sarah appeared on the threshold. “Mrs. Pimpernel’s acoming, Miss Clare, with her daughter and the gentlemen,” said Old Sarah. “T’ou’d lady’s awful pushing, and you’re not one as likes that sort; and Mrs. Murray, it’s best for you and for me as Jeanie should go upstairs.”

“I will go upstairs too,” said Clare, hurriedly; and she rose and went hastily up the narrow staircase, forgetting that any invitation was necessary. But Mrs. Murray did not forget. She made a little ceremonious speech to the unceremonious young lady of the manor. “It’s a poor place,” she said, “but such as it is Miss Arden is very welcome.” Clare, however, was far too deeply convinced of her own importance to see any reproof in these words.