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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The White People + +Author: Frances Hodgson Burnett + +Release Date: March 14, 2006 [EBook #459] +Last Updated: September 17, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE PEOPLE *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Keller and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE WHITE PEOPLE + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Frances Hodgson Burnett + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary=""> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>THE WHITE PEOPLE</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <blockquote> + <p> + TO LIONEL<br /> <br /> “The stars come nightly to the sky; <br /> The tidal + wave unto the sea; <br /> Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high <br /> + Can keep my own away from me.” <br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + THE WHITE PEOPLE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + Perhaps the things which happened could only have happened to me. I do not + know. I never heard of things like them happening to any one else. But I + am not sorry they did happen. I am in secret deeply and strangely glad. I + have heard other people say things—and they were not always sad + people, either—which made me feel that if they knew what I know it + would seem to them as though some awesome, heavy load they had always + dragged about with them had fallen from their shoulders. To most people + everything is so uncertain that if they could only see or hear and know + something clear they would drop upon their knees and give thanks. That was + what I felt myself before I found out so strangely, and I was only a girl. + That is why I intend to write this down as well as I can. It will not be + very well done, because I never was clever at all, and always found it + difficult to talk. + </p> + <p> + I say that perhaps these things could only have happened to me, because, + as I look back over my life, I realize that it has always been a rather + curious one. Even when those who took care of me did not know I was + thinking at all, I had begun to wonder if I were not different from other + children. That was, of course, largely because Muircarrie Castle was in + such a wild and remote part of Scotland that when my few relations felt + they must pay me a visit as a mere matter of duty, their journey from + London, or their pleasant places in the south of England, seemed to them + like a pilgrimage to a sort of savage land; and when a conscientious one + brought a child to play with me, the little civilized creature was as + frightened of me as I was of it. My shyness and fear of its strangeness + made us both dumb. No doubt I seemed like a new breed of inoffensive + little barbarian, knowing no tongue but its own. + </p> + <p> + A certain clannish etiquette made it seem necessary that a relation should + pay me a visit sometimes, because I was in a way important. The huge, + frowning feudal castle standing upon its battlemented rock was mine; I was + a great heiress, and I was, so to speak, the chieftainess of the clan. But + I was a plain, undersized little child, and had no attraction for any one + but Jean Braidfute, a distant cousin, who took care of me, and Angus + Macayre, who took care of the library, and who was a distant relative + also. They were both like me in the fact that they were not given to + speech; but sometimes we talked to one another, and I knew they were fond + of me, as I was fond of them. They were really all I had. + </p> + <p> + When I was a little girl I did not, of course, understand that I was an + important person, and I could not have realized the significance of being + an heiress. I had always lived in the castle, and was used to its + hugeness, of which I only knew corners. Until I was seven years old, I + think, I imagined all but very poor people lived in castles and were + saluted by every one they passed. It seemed probable that all little girls + had a piper who strode up and down the terrace and played on the bagpipes + when guests were served in the dining-hall. + </p> + <p> + My piper’s name was Feargus, and in time I found out that the guests from + London could not endure the noise he made when he marched to and fro, + proudly swinging his kilts and treading like a stag on a hillside. It was + an insult to tell him to stop playing, because it was his religion to + believe that The Muircarrie must be piped proudly to; and his ancestors + had been pipers to the head of the clan for five generations. It was his + duty to march round the dining-hall and play while the guests feasted, but + I was obliged in the end to make him believe that he could be heard better + from the terrace—because when he was outside his music was not + spoiled by the sound of talking. It was very difficult, at first. But + because I was his chieftainess, and had learned how to give orders in a + rather proud, stern little voice, he knew he must obey. + </p> + <p> + Even this kind of thing may show that my life was a peculiar one; but the + strangest part of it was that, while I was at the head of so many people, + I did not really belong to any one, and I did not know that this was + unusual. One of my early memories is that I heard an under-nursemaid say + to another this curious thing: “Both her father and mother were dead when + she was born.” I did not even know that was a remarkable thing to say + until I was several years older and Jean Braidfute told me what had been + meant. + </p> + <p> + My father and mother had both been very young and beautiful and wonderful. + It was said that my father was the handsomest chieftain in Scotland, and + that his wife was as beautiful as he was. They came to Muircarrie as soon + as they were married and lived a splendid year there together. Sometimes + they were quite alone, and spent their days fishing or riding or wandering + on the moor together, or reading by the fire in the library the ancient + books Angus Macayre found for them. The library was a marvelous place, and + Macayre knew every volume in it. They used to sit and read like children + among fairy stories, and then they would persuade Macayre to tell them the + ancient tales he knew—of the days when Agricola forced his way in + among the Men of the Woods, who would die any savage death rather than be + conquered. Macayre was a sort of heirloom himself, and he knew and + believed them all. + </p> + <p> + I don’t know how it was that I myself seemed to see my young father and + mother so clearly and to know how radiant and wildly in love they were. + Surely Jean Braidfute had not words to tell me. But I knew. So I + understood, in a way of my own, what happened to my mother one brilliant + late October afternoon when my father was brought home dead—followed + by the guests who had gone out shooting with him. His foot had caught in a + tuft of heather, and his gun in going off had killed him. One moment he + had been the handsomest young chieftain in Scotland, and when he was + brought home they could not have let my mother see his face. + </p> + <p> + But she never asked to see it. She was on the terrace which juts over the + rock the castle is built on, and which looks out over the purple world of + climbing moor. She saw from there the returning party of shooters and + gillies winding its way slowly through the heather, following a burden + carried on a stretcher of fir boughs. Some of her women guests were with + her, and one of them said afterward that when she first caught sight of + the moving figures she got up slowly and crept to the stone balustrade + with a crouching movement almost like a young leopardess preparing to + spring. But she only watched, making neither sound nor movement until the + cortege was near enough for her to see that every man’s head was bowed + upon his breast, and not one was covered. + </p> + <p> + Then she said, quite slowly, “They—have—taken off—their + bonnets,” and fell upon the terrace like a dropped stone. + </p> + <p> + It was because of this that the girl said that she was dead when I was + born. It must have seemed almost as if she were not a living thing. She + did not open her eyes or make a sound; she lay white and cold. The + celebrated physicians who came from London talked of catalepsy and + afterward wrote scientific articles which tried to explain her condition. + She did not know when I was born. She died a few minutes after I uttered + my first cry. + </p> + <p> + I know only one thing more, and that Jean Braidfute told me after I grew + up. Jean had been my father’s nursery governess when he wore his first + kilts, and she loved my mother fondly. + </p> + <p> + “I knelt by her bed and held her hand and watched her face for three hours + after they first laid her down,” she said. “And my eyes were so near her + every moment that I saw a thing the others did not know her well enough, + or love her well enough, to see. + </p> + <p> + “The first hour she was like a dead thing—aye, like a dead thing + that had never lived. But when the hand of the clock passed the last + second, and the new hour began, I bent closer to her because I saw a + change stealing over her. It was not color—it was not even a shadow + of a motion. It was something else. If I had spoken what I felt, they + would have said I was light-headed with grief and have sent me away. I + have never told man or woman. It was my secret and hers. I can tell you, + Ysobel. The change I saw was as if she was beginning to listen to + something—to listen. + </p> + <p> + “It was as if to a sound—far, far away at first. But cold and white + as stone she lay content, and listened. In the next hour the far-off sound + had drawn nearer, and it had become something else—something she saw—something + which saw her. First her young marble face had peace in it; then it had + joy. She waited in her young stone body until you were born and she could + break forth. She waited no longer then. + </p> + <p> + “Ysobel, my bairn, what I knew was that he had not gone far from the body + that had held him when he fell. Perhaps he had felt lost for a bit when he + found himself out of it. But soon he had begun to call to her that was + like his own heart to him. And she had heard. And then, being half away + from earth herself, she had seen him and known he was waiting, and that he + would not leave for any far place without her. She was so still that the + big doctors thought more than once she had passed. But I knew better.” + </p> + <p> + It was long before I was old enough to be told anything like this that I + began to feel that the moor was in secret my companion and friend, that it + was not only the moor to me, but something else. It was like a thing alive—a + huge giant lying spread out in the sun warming itself, or covering itself + with thick, white mist which sometimes writhed and twisted itself into + wraiths. First I noticed and liked it some day, perhaps, when it was + purple and yellow with gorse and heather and broom, and the honey scents + drew bees and butterflies and birds. But soon I saw and was drawn by + another thing. + </p> + <p> + How young was I that afternoon when I sat in the deep window and watched + the low, soft whiteness creeping out and hovering over the heather as if + the moor had breathed it? I do not remember. It was such a low little mist + at first; and it crept and crept until its creeping grew into something + heavier and whiter, and it began to hide the heather and the gorse and + broom, and then the low young fir-trees. It mounted and mounted, and + sometimes a breath of wind twisted it into weird shapes, almost like human + creatures. It opened and closed again, and then it dragged and crept and + grew thicker. And as I pressed my face against the window-pane, it mounted + still higher and got hold of the moor and hid it, hanging heavy and white + and waiting. That was what came into my child mind: that it had done what + the moor had told it to do; had hidden things which wanted to be hidden, + and then it waited. + </p> + <p> + Strangers say that Muircarrie moor is the most beautiful and the most + desolate place in the world, but it never seemed desolate to me. From my + first memory of it I had a vague, half-comforted feeling that there was + some strange life on it one could not exactly see, but was always + conscious of. I know now why I felt this, but I did not know then. + </p> + <p> + If I had been older when I first began to see what I did see there, I + should no doubt have read things in books which would have given rise in + my mind to doubts and wonders; but I was only a little child who had lived + a life quite apart from the rest of the world. I was too silent by nature + to talk and ask questions, even if I had had others to talk to. I had only + Jean and Angus, and, as I found out years later, they knew what I did not, + and would have put me off with adroit explanations if I had been curious. + But I was not curious. I accepted everything as it came and went. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + I only six when Wee Brown Elspeth was brought to me. Jean and Angus were + as fond of each other in their silent way as they were of me, and they + often went together with me when I was taken out for my walks. I was kept + in the open air a great deal, and Angus would walk by the side of my + small, shaggy Shetland pony and lead him over rough or steep places. + Sheltie, the pony, was meant for use when we wished to fare farther than a + child could walk; but I was trained to sturdy marching and climbing even + from my babyhood. Because I so loved the moor, we nearly always rambled + there. Often we set out early in the morning, and some simple food was + carried, so that we need not return to the castle until we chose. I would + ride Sheltie and walk by turns until we found a place I liked; then Jean + and Angus would sit down among the heather, Sheltie would be secured, and + I would wander about and play in my own way. I do not think it was in a + strange way. I think I must have played as almost any lonely little girl + might have played. I used to find a corner among the bushes and pretend it + was my house and that I had little friends who came to play with me. I + only remember one thing which was not like the ordinary playing of + children. It was a habit I had of sitting quite still a long time and + listening. That was what I called it—“listening.” I was listening to + hear if the life on the moor made any sound I could understand. I felt as + if it might, if I were very still and listened long enough. + </p> + <p> + Angus and Jean and I were not afraid of rain and mist and change of + weather. If we had been we could have had little outdoor life. We always + carried plaids enough to keep us warm and dry. So on this day I speak of + we did not turn back when we found ourselves in the midst of a sudden + mist. We sat down in a sheltered place and waited, knowing it would lift + in time. The sun had been shining when we set out. + </p> + <p> + Angus and Jean were content to sit and guard me while I amused myself. + They knew I would keep near them and run into no danger. I was not an + adventurous child. I was, in fact, in a more than usually quiet mood that + morning. The quiet had come upon me when the mist had begun to creep about + and inclose us. I liked it. I liked the sense of being shut in by the soft + whiteness I had so often watched from my nursery window in the castle. + </p> + <p> + “People might be walking about,” I said to Angus when he lifted me from + Sheltie’s back. + </p> + <p> + “We couldn’t see them. They might be walking.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing that would hurt ye, bairnie,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “No, they wouldn’t hurt me,” I said. I had never been afraid that anything + on the moor would hurt me. + </p> + <p> + I played very little that day. The quiet and the mist held me still. Soon + I sat down and began to “listen.” After a while I knew that Jean and Angus + were watching me, but it did not disturb me. They often watched me when + they thought I did not know they were doing it. + </p> + <p> + I had sat listening for nearly half an hour when I heard the first + muffled, slow trampling of horses’ hoofs. I knew what it was even before + it drew near enough for me to be conscious of the other sounds—the + jingling of arms and chains and the creaking of leather one notices as + troopers pass by. Armed and mounted men were coming toward me. That was + what the sounds meant; but they seemed faint and distant, though I knew + they were really quite near. Jean and Angus did not appear to hear them. I + knew that I only heard them because I had been listening. + </p> + <p> + Out of the mist they rode a company of wild-looking men wearing garments + such as I had never seen before. Most of them were savage and uncouth, and + their clothes were disordered and stained as if with hard travel and + fight. I did not know—or even ask myself—why they did not + frighten me, but they did not. Suddenly I seemed to know that they were + brave men and had been doing some brave, hard thing. Here and there among + them I caught sight of a broken and stained sword, or a dirk with only a + hilt left. They were all pale, but their wild faces were joyous and + triumphant. I saw it as they drew near. + </p> + <p> + The man who seemed their chieftain was a lean giant who was darker but, + under his darkness, paler than the rest. On his forehead was a queer, + star-shaped scar. He rode a black horse, and before him he held close with + his left arm a pretty little girl dressed in strange, rich clothes. The + big man’s hand was pressed against her breast as he held her; but though + it was a large hand, it did not quite cover a dark-red stain on the + embroideries of her dress. Her dress was brown, and she had brown hair and + soft brown eyes like a little doe’s. The moment I saw her I loved her. + </p> + <p> + The black horse stopped before me. The wild troop drew up and waited + behind. The great, lean rider looked at me a moment, and then, lifting the + little girl in his long arms, bent down and set her gently on her feet on + the mossy earth in the mist beside me. I got up to greet her, and we stood + smiling at each other. And in that moment as we stood the black horse + moved forward, the muffled trampling began again, the wild company swept + on its way, and the white mist closed behind it as if it had never passed. + </p> + <p> + Of course I know how strange this will seem to people who read it, but + that cannot be helped and does not really matter. It was in that way the + thing happened, and it did not even seem strange to me. Anything might + happen on the moor—anything. And there was the fair little girl with + the eyes like a doe’s. + </p> + <p> + I knew she had come to play with me, and we went together to my house + among the bushes of broom and gorse and played happily. But before we + began I saw her stand and look wonderingly at the dark-red stain on the + embroideries on her childish breast. It was as if she were asking herself + how it came there and could not understand. Then she picked a fern and a + bunch of the thick-growing bluebells and put them in her girdle in such a + way that they hid its ugliness. + </p> + <p> + I did not really know how long she stayed. I only knew that we were happy, + and that, though her way of playing was in some ways different from mine, + I loved it and her. Presently the mist lifted and the sun shone, and we + were deep in a wonderful game of being hidden in a room in a castle + because something strange was going to happen which we were not told + about. She ran behind a big gorse bush and did not come back. When I ran + to look for her she was nowhere. I could not find her, and I went back to + Jean and Angus, feeling puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “Where did she go?” I asked them, turning my head from side to side. + </p> + <p> + They were looking at me strangely, and both of them were pale. Jean was + trembling a little. + </p> + <p> + “Who was she, Ysobel?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “The little girl the men brought to play with me,” I answered, still + looking about me. + </p> + <p> + “The big one on the black horse put her down—the big one with the + star here.” I touched my forehead where the queer scar had been. + </p> + <p> + For a minute Angus forgot himself. Years later he told me. + </p> + <p> + “Dark Malcolm of the Glen,” he broke out. “Wee Brown Elspeth.” + </p> + <p> + “But she is white—quite white!” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Where did she go?” + </p> + <p> + Jean swept me in her warm, shaking arms and hugged me close to her breast. + </p> + <p> + “She’s one of the fair ones,” she said, kissing and patting me. “She will + come again. She’ll come often, I dare say. But she’s gone now and we must + go, too. Get up, Angus, man. We’re for the castle.” + </p> + <p> + If we three had been different—if we had ever had the habit of + talking and asking questions—we might surely have asked one another + questions as I rode on Sheltie’s back, with Angus leading us. But they + asked me nothing, and I said very little except that I once spoke of the + wild-looking horsemen and their pale, joyous faces. + </p> + <p> + “They were glad,” was all I said. + </p> + <p> + There was also one brief query from Angus. + </p> + <p> + “Did she talk to you, bairnie?” he said. + </p> + <p> + I hesitated and stared at him quite a long time. Then I shook my head and + answered, slowly, “N-no.” + </p> + <p> + Because I realized then, for the first time, that we had said no words at + all. But I had known what she wanted me to understand, and she had known + what I might have said to her if I had spoken—and no words were + needed. And it was better. + </p> + <p> + They took me home to the castle, and I was given my supper and put to bed. + Jean sat by me until I fell asleep; she was obliged to sit rather a long + time, because I was so happy with my memories of Wee Brown Elspeth and the + certainty that she would come again. It was not Jean’s words which had + made me sure. I knew. + </p> + <p> + She came many times. Through all my childish years I knew that she would + come and play with me every few days—though I never saw the wild + troopers again or the big, lean man with the scar. Children who play + together are not very curious about one another, and I simply accepted her + with delight. Somehow I knew that she lived happily in a place not far + away. She could come and go, it seemed, without trouble. Sometimes I found + her—or she found me upon the moor; and often she appeared in my + nursery in the castle. When we were together Jean Braidfute seemed to + prefer that we should be alone, and was inclined to keep the under-nurse + occupied in other parts of the wing I lived in. I never asked her to do + this, but I was glad that it was done. Wee Elspeth was glad, too. After + our first meeting she was dressed in soft blue or white, and the red stain + was gone; but she was always Wee Brown Elspeth with the doelike eyes and + the fair, transparent face, the very fair little face. As I had noticed + the strange, clear pallor of the rough troopers, so I noticed that she was + curiously fair. And as I occasionally saw other persons with the same sort + of fairness, I thought it was a purity of complexion special to some, but + not to all. I was not fair like that, and neither was any one else I knew. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + It was when I was ten years old that Wee Elspeth ceased coming to me, and + though I missed her at first, it was not with a sense of grief or final + loss. She had only gone somewhere. + </p> + <p> + It was then that Angus Macayre began to be my tutor. He had been a + profound student and had lived among books all his life. He had helped + Jean in her training of me, and I had learned more than is usually taught + to children in their early years. When a grand governess was sent to + Muircarrie by my guardian, she was amazed at the things I was familiar + with, but she abhorred the dark, frowning castle and the loneliness of the + place and would not stay. In fact, no governess would stay, and so Angus + became my tutor and taught me old Gaelic and Latin and Greek, and we read + together and studied the ancient books in the library. It was a strange + education for a girl, and no doubt made me more than ever unlike others. + But my life was the life I loved. + </p> + <p> + When my guardian decided that I must live with him in London and be + educated as modern girls were, I tried to be obedient and went to him; but + before two months had passed my wretchedness had made me so ill that the + doctor said I should go into a decline and die if I were not sent back to + Muircarrie. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not only the London air that seems to poison her,” he said when Jean + talked to him about me; “it is something else. She will not live, that’s + all. Sir Ian must send her home.” + </p> + <p> + As I have said before, I had been an unattractive child and I was a plain, + uninteresting sort of girl. I was shy and could not talk to people, so of + course I bored them. I knew I did not look well when I wore beautiful + clothes. I was little and unimportant and like a reed for thinness. + Because I was rich and a sort of chieftainess I ought to have been tall + and rather stately, or at least I ought to have had a bearing which would + have made it impossible for people to quite overlook me. But; any one + could overlook me—an insignificant, thin girl who slipped in and out + of places and sat and stared and listened to other people instead of + saying things herself; I liked to look on and be forgotten. It interested + me to watch people if they did not notice me. + </p> + <p> + Of course, my relatives did not really like me. How could they? They were + busy in their big world and did not know what to do with a girl who ought + to have been important and was not. I am sure that in secret they were + relieved when I was sent back to Muircarrie. + </p> + <p> + After that the life I loved went on quietly. I studied with Angus, and + made the book-walled library my own room. I walked and rode on the moor, + and I knew the people who lived in the cottages and farms on the estate. I + think they liked me, but I am not sure, because I was too shy to seem very + friendly. I was more at home with Feargus, the piper, and with some of the + gardeners than I was with any one else. I think I was lonely without + knowing; but I was never unhappy. Jean and Angus were my nearest and + dearest. Jean was of good blood and a stanch gentlewoman, quite + sufficiently educated to be my companion as she had been my early + governess. + </p> + <p> + It was Jean who told Angus that I was giving myself too entirely to the + study of ancient books and the history of centuries gone by. + </p> + <p> + “She is living to-day, and she must not pass through this life without + gathering anything from it.” + </p> + <p> + “This life,” she put it, as if I had passed through others before, and + might pass through others again. That was always her way of speaking, and + she seemed quite unconscious of any unusualness in it. + </p> + <p> + “You are a wise woman, Jean,” Angus said, looking long at her grave face. + “A wise woman.” + </p> + <p> + He wrote to the London book-shops for the best modern books, and I began + to read them. I felt at first as if they plunged me into a world I did not + understand, and many of them I could not endure. But I persevered, and + studied them as I had studied the old ones, and in time I began to feel as + if perhaps they were true. My chief weariness with them came from the way + they had of referring to the things I was so intimate with as though they + were only the unauthenticated history of a life so long passed by that it + could no longer matter to any one. So often the greatest hours of great + lives were treated as possible legends. I knew why men had died or were + killed or had borne black horror. I knew because I had read old books and + manuscripts and had heard the stories which had come down through + centuries by word of mouth, passed from father to son. + </p> + <p> + But there was one man who did not write as if he believed the world had + begun and would end with him. He knew he was only one, and part of all the + rest. The name I shall give him is Hector MacNairn. He was a Scotchman, + but he had lived in many a land. The first time I read a book he had + written I caught my breath with joy, again and again. I knew I had found a + friend, even though there was no likelihood that I should ever see his + face. He was a great and famous writer, and all the world honored him; + while I, hidden away in my castle on a rock on the edge of Muircarrie, was + so far from being interesting or clever that even in my grandest evening + dress and tiara of jewels I was as insignificant as a mouse. In fact, I + always felt rather silly when I was obliged to wear my diamonds on state + occasions as custom sometimes demanded. + </p> + <p> + Mr. MacNairn wrote essays and poems, and marvelous stories which were + always real though they were called fiction. Wheresoever his story was + placed—howsoever remote and unknown the scene—it was a real + place, and the people who lived in it were real, as if he had some magic + power to call up human things to breathe and live and set one’s heart + beating. I read everything he wrote. I read every word of his again and + again. I always kept some book of his near enough to be able to touch it + with my hand; and often I sat by the fire in the library holding one open + on my lap for an hour or more, only because it meant a warm, close + companionship. It seemed at those times as if he sat near me in the dim + glow and we understood each other’s thoughts without using words, as Wee + Brown Elspeth and I had understood—only this was a deeper thing. + </p> + <p> + I had felt near him in this way for several years, and every year he had + grown more famous, when it happened that one June my guardian, Sir Ian, + required me to go to London to see my lawyers and sign some important + documents connected with the management of the estate. I was to go to his + house to spend a week or more, attend a Drawing-Room, and show myself at a + few great parties in a proper manner, this being considered my duty toward + my relatives. These, I believe, were secretly afraid that if I were never + seen their world would condemn my guardian for neglect of his charge, or + would decide that I was of unsound mind and intentionally kept hidden away + at Muircarrie. He was an honorable man, and his wife was a well-meaning + woman. I did not wish to do them an injustice, so I paid them yearly + visits and tried to behave as they wished, much as I disliked to be + dressed in fine frocks and to wear diamonds on my little head and round my + thin neck. + </p> + <p> + It was an odd thing that this time I found I did not dread the visit to + London as much as I usually did. For some unknown reason I became + conscious that I was not really reluctant to go. Usually the thought of + the days before me made me restless and low-spirited. London always seemed + so confused and crowded, and made me feel as if I were being pushed and + jostled by a mob always making a tiresome noise. But this time I felt as + if I should somehow find a clear place to stand in, where I could look on + and listen without being bewildered. It was a curious feeling; I could not + help noticing and wondering about it. + </p> + <p> + I knew afterward that it came to me because a change was drawing near. I + wish so much that I could tell about it in a better way. But I have only + my own way, which I am afraid seems very like a school-girl’s. + </p> + <p> + Jean Braidfute made the journey with me, as she always did, and it was + like every other journey. Only one incident made it different, and when it + occurred there seemed nothing unusual in it. It was only a bit of sad, + everyday life which touched me. There is nothing new in seeing a poor + woman in deep mourning. + </p> + <p> + Jean and I had been alone in our railway carriage for a great part of the + journey; but an hour or two before we reached London a man got in and took + a seat in a corner. The train had stopped at a place where there is a + beautiful and well-known cemetery. People bring their friends from long + distances to lay them there. When one passes the station, one nearly + always sees sad faces and people in mourning on the platform. + </p> + <p> + There was more than one group there that day, and the man who sat in the + corner looked out at them with gentle eyes. He had fine, deep eyes and a + handsome mouth. When the poor woman in mourning almost stumbled into the + carriage, followed by her child, he put out his hand to help her and gave + her his seat. She had stumbled because her eyes were dim with dreadful + crying, and she could scarcely see. It made one’s heart stand still to see + the wild grief of her, and her unconsciousness of the world about her. The + world did not matter. There was no world. I think there was nothing left + anywhere but the grave she had just staggered blindly away from. I felt as + if she had been lying sobbing and writhing and beating the new turf on it + with her poor hands, and I somehow knew that it had been a child’s grave + she had been to visit and had felt she left to utter loneliness when she + turned away. + </p> + <p> + It was because I thought this that I wished she had not seemed so + unconscious of and indifferent to the child who was with her and clung to + her black dress as if it could not bear to let her go. This one was alive + at least, even if she had lost the other one, and its little face was so + wistful! It did not seem fair to forget and ignore it, as if it were not + there. I felt as if she might have left it behind on the platform if it + had not so clung to her skirt that it was almost dragged into the railway + carriage with her. When she sank into her seat she did not even lift the + poor little thing into the place beside her, but left it to scramble up as + best it could. She buried her swollen face in her handkerchief and sobbed + in a smothered way as if she neither saw, heard, nor felt any living thing + near her. + </p> + <p> + How I wished she would remember the poor child and let it comfort her! It + really was trying to do it in its innocent way. It pressed close to her + side, it looked up imploringly, it kissed her arm and her crape veil over + and over again, and tried to attract her attention. It was a little, + lily-fair creature not more than five or six years old and perhaps too + young to express what it wanted to say. It could only cling to her and + kiss her black dress, and seem to beg her to remember that it, at least, + was a living thing. But she was too absorbed in her anguish to know that + it was in the world. She neither looked at nor touched it, and at last it + sat with its cheek against her sleeve, softly stroking her arm, and now + and then kissing it longingly. I was obliged to turn my face away and look + out of the window, because I knew the man with the kind face saw the tears + well up into my eyes. + </p> + <p> + The poor woman did not travel far with us. She left the train after a few + stations were passed. Our fellow-traveler got out before her to help her + on to the platform. He stood with bared head while he assisted her, but + she scarcely saw him. And even then she seemed to forget the child. The + poor thing was dragged out by her dress as it had been dragged in. I put + out my hand involuntarily as it went through the door, because I was + afraid it might fall. But it did not. It turned its fair little face and + smiled at me. When the kind traveler returned to his place in the carriage + again, and the train left the station, the black-draped woman was walking + slowly down the platform and the child was still clinging to her skirt. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + My guardian was a man whose custom it was to give large and dignified + parties. Among his grand and fashionable guests there was nearly always a + sprinkling of the more important members of the literary world. The night + after I arrived there was to be a particularly notable dinner. I had come + prepared to appear at it. Jean had brought fine array for me and a case of + jewels. I knew I must be “dressed up” and look as important as I could. + When I went up-stairs after tea, Jean was in my room laying things out on + the bed. + </p> + <p> + “The man you like so much is to dine here to-night, Ysobel,” she said. + “Mr. Hector MacNairn.” + </p> + <p> + I believe I even put my hand suddenly to my heart as I stood and looked at + her, I was so startled and so glad. + </p> + <p> + “You must tell him how much you love his books,” she said. She had a + quiet, motherly way. + </p> + <p> + “There will be so many other people who will want to talk to him,” I + answered, and I felt a little breathless with excitement as I said it. + </p> + <p> + “And I should be too shy to know how to say such things properly.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be afraid of him,” was her advice. “The man will be like his books, + and they’re the joy of your life.” + </p> + <p> + She made me look as nice as she could in the new dress she had brought; + she made me wear the Muircarrie diamonds and sent me downstairs. It does + not matter who the guests were; I scarcely remember. I was taken in to + dinner by a stately elderly man who tried to make me talk, and at last was + absorbed by the clever woman on his other side. + </p> + <p> + I found myself looking between the flowers for a man’s face I could + imagine was Hector MacNairn’s. I looked up and down and saw none I could + believe belonged to him. There were handsome faces and individual ones, + but at first I saw no Hector MacNairn. Then, on bending forward a little + to glance behind an epergne, I found a face which it surprised and pleased + me to see. It was the face of the traveler who had helped the woman in + mourning out of the railway carriage, baring his head before her grief. I + could not help turning and speaking to my stately elderly partner. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know who that is—the man at the other side of the table?” I + asked. + </p> + <p> + Old Lord Armour looked across and answered with an amiable smile. “It is + the author the world is talking of most in these days, and the talking is + no new thing. It’s Mr. Hector MacNairn.” + </p> + <p> + No one but myself could tell how glad I was. It seemed so right that he + should be the man who had understood the deeps of a poor, passing stranger + woman’s woe. I had so loved that quiet baring of his head! All at once I + knew I should not be afraid of him. He would understand that I could not + help being shy, that it was only my nature, and that if I said things + awkwardly my meanings were better than my words. Perhaps I should be able + to tell him something of what his books had been to me. I glanced through + the flowers again—and he was looking at me! I could scarcely believe + it for a second. But he was. His eyes—his wonderful eyes—met + mine. I could not explain why they were wonderful. I think it was the + clearness and understanding in them, and a sort of great interestedness. + People sometimes look at me from curiosity, but they do not look because + they are really interested. + </p> + <p> + I could scarcely look away, though I knew I must not be guilty of staring. + A footman was presenting a dish at my side. I took something from it + without knowing what it was. Lord Armour began to talk kindly. He was + saying beautiful, admiring things of Mr. MacNairn and his work. I listened + gratefully, and said a few words myself now and then. I was only too glad + to be told of the great people and the small ones who were moved and + uplifted by his thoughts. + </p> + <p> + “You admire him very much, I can see,” the amiable elderly voice said. + </p> + <p> + I could not help turning and looking up. “It is as if a great, great + genius were one’s friend—as if he talked and one listened,” I said. + “He is like a splendid dream which has come true.” + </p> + <p> + Old Lord Armour looked at me quite thoughtfully, as if he saw something + new in me. + </p> + <p> + “That is a good way of putting it, Miss Muircarrie,” he answered. + “MacNairn would like that. You must tell him about it yourself.” + </p> + <p> + I did not mean to glance through the flowers again, but I did it + involuntarily. And I met the other eyes—the wonderful, interested + ones just as I had met them before. It almost seemed as if he had been + watching me. It might be, I thought, because he only vaguely remembered + seeing me before and was trying to recall where we had met. + </p> + <p> + When my guardian brought his men guests to the drawing-room after dinner, + I was looking over some old prints at a quiet, small table. There were a + few minutes of smiling talk, and then Sir Ian crossed the room toward me, + bringing some one with him. It was Hector MacNairn he brought. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. MacNairn tells me you traveled together this afternoon without + knowing each other,” he said. “He has heard something of Muircarrie and + would like to hear more, Ysobel. She lives like a little ghost all alone + in her feudal castle, Mr. MacNairn. We can’t persuade her to like London.” + </p> + <p> + I think he left us alone together because he realized that we should get + on better without a companion. + </p> + <p> + Mr. MacNairn sat down near me and began to talk about Muircarrie. There + were very few places like it, and he knew about each one of them. He knew + the kind of things Angus Macayre knew—the things most people had + either never heard of or had only thought of as legends. He talked as he + wrote, and I scarcely knew when he led me into talking also. Afterward I + realized that he had asked me questions I could not help answering because + his eyes were drawing me on with that quiet, deep interest. It seemed as + if he saw something in my face which made him curious. + </p> + <p> + I think I saw this expression first when we began to speak of our meeting + in the railway carriage, and I mentioned the poor little fair child my + heart had ached so for. + </p> + <p> + “It was such a little thing and it did so want to comfort her! Its white + little clinging hands were so pathetic when they stroked and patted her,” + I said. “And she did not even look at it.” + </p> + <p> + He did not start, but he hesitated in a way which almost produced the + effect of a start. Long afterward I remembered it. + </p> + <p> + “The child!” he said. “Yes. But I was sitting on the other side. And I was + so absorbed in the poor mother that I am afraid I scarcely saw it. Tell me + about it.” + </p> + <p> + “It was not six years old, poor mite,” I answered. “It was one of those + very fair children one sees now and then. It was not like its mother. She + was not one of the White People.” + </p> + <p> + “The White People?” he repeated quite slowly after me. “You don’t mean + that she was not a Caucasian? Perhaps I don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + That made me feel a trifle shy again. Of course he could not know what I + meant. How silly of me to take it for granted that he would! + </p> + <p> + “I beg pardon. I forgot,” I even stammered a little. “It is only my way of + thinking of those fair people one sees, those very fair ones, you know—the + ones whose fairness looks almost transparent. There are not many of them, + of course; but one can’t help noticing them when they pass in the street + or come into a room. You must have noticed them, too. I always call them, + to myself, the White People, because they are different from the rest of + us. The poor mother wasn’t one, but the child was. Perhaps that was why I + looked at it, at first. It was such a lovely little thing; and the + whiteness made it look delicate, and I could not help thinking—” I + hesitated, because it seemed almost unkind to finish. + </p> + <p> + “You thought that if she had just lost one child she ought to take more + care of the other,” he ended for me. There was a deep thoughtfulness in + his look, as if he were watching me. I wondered why. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I had paid more attention to the little creature,” he said, very + gently. “Did it cry?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” I answered. “It only clung to her and patted her black sleeve and + kissed it, as if it wanted to comfort her. I kept expecting it to cry, but + it didn’t. It made me cry because it seemed so sure that it could comfort + her if she would only remember that it was alive and loved her. I wish, I + wish death did not make people feel as if it filled all the world—as + if, when it happens, there is no life left anywhere. The child who was + alive by her side did not seem a living thing to her. It didn’t matter.” + </p> + <p> + I had never said as much to any one before, but his watching eyes made me + forget my shy worldlessness. + </p> + <p> + “What do you feel about it—death?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The low gentleness of his voice seemed something I had known always. + </p> + <p> + “I never saw it,” I answered. “I have never even seen any one dangerously + ill. I—It is as if I can’t believe it.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t believe it? That is a wonderful thing,” he said, even more + quietly than before. + </p> + <p> + “If none of us believed, how wonderful that would be! Beautiful, too.” + </p> + <p> + “How that poor mother believed it!” I said, remembering her swollen, + distorted, sobbing face. “She believed nothing else; everything else was + gone.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder what would have happened if you had spoken to her about the + child?” he said, slowly, as if he were trying to imagine it. + </p> + <p> + “I’m a very shy person. I should never have courage to speak to a + stranger,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I’m a coward, too. She might have thought me interfering.” + </p> + <p> + “She might not have understood,” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + “It was clinging to her dress when she walked away down the platform,” I + went on. “I dare say you noticed it then?” + </p> + <p> + “Not as you did. I wish I had noticed it more,” was his answer. “Poor + little White One!” + </p> + <p> + That led us into our talk about the White People. He said he did not think + he was exactly an observant person in some respects. Remembering his + books, which seemed to me the work of a man who saw and understood + everything in the world, I could not comprehend his thinking that, and I + told him so. But he replied that what I had said about my White People + made him feel that he must be abstracted sometimes and miss things. He did + not remember having noticed the rare fairness I had seen. He smiled as he + said it, because, of course, it was only a little thing—that he had + not seen that some people were so much fairer than others. + </p> + <p> + “But it has not been a little thing to you, evidently. That is why I am + even rather curious about it,” he explained. “It is a difference definite + enough to make you speak almost as if they were of a different race from + ours.” + </p> + <p> + I sat silent a few seconds, thinking it over. Suddenly I realized what I + had never realized before. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know,” I said, as slowly as he himself had spoken, “I did not know + that was true until you put it into words. I am so used to thinking of + them as different, somehow, that I suppose I do feel as if they were + almost like another race, in a way. Perhaps one would feel like that with + a native Indian, or a Japanese.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say that is a good simile,” he reflected. “Are they different when + you know them well?” + </p> + <p> + “I have never known one but Wee Brown Elspeth,” I answered, thinking it + over. + </p> + <p> + He did start then, in the strangest way. + </p> + <p> + “What!” he exclaimed. “What did you say?” + </p> + <p> + I was quite startled myself. Suddenly he looked pale, and his breath + caught itself. + </p> + <p> + “I said Wee Elspeth, Wee Brown Elspeth. She was only a child who played + with me,” I stammered, “when I was little.” + </p> + <p> + He pulled himself together almost instantly, though the color did not come + back to his face at once and his voice was not steady for a few seconds. + But he laughed outright at himself. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” he apologized. “I have been ill and am rather + nervous. I thought you said something you could not possibly have said. I + almost frightened you. And you were only speaking of a little playmate. + Please go on.” + </p> + <p> + “I was only going to say that she was fair like that, fairer than any one + I had ever seen; but when we played together she seemed like any other + child. She was the first I ever knew.” + </p> + <p> + I told him about the misty day on the moor, and about the pale troopers + and the big, lean leader who carried Elspeth before him on his saddle. I + had never talked to any one about it before, not even to Jean Braidfute. + But he seemed to be so interested, as if the little story quite fascinated + him. It was only an episode, but it brought in the weirdness of the moor + and my childish fancies about the things hiding in the white mist, and the + castle frowning on its rock, and my baby face pressed against the nursery + window in the tower, and Angus and the library, and Jean and her goodness + and wise ways. It was dreadful to talk so much about oneself. But he + listened so. His eyes never left my face—they watched and held me as + if he were enthralled. Sometimes he asked a question. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder who they were—the horsemen?” he pondered. “Did you ever + ask Wee Elspeth?” + </p> + <p> + “We were both too little to care. We only played,” I answered him. “And + they came and went so quickly that they were only a sort of dream.” + </p> + <p> + “They seem to have been a strange lot. Wasn’t Angus curious about them?” + he suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Angus never was curious about anything,” I said. “Perhaps he knew + something about them and would not tell me. When I was a little thing I + always knew he and Jean had secrets I was too young to hear. They hid sad + and ugly things from me, or things that might frighten a child. They were + very good.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, they were good,” he said, thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + I think any one would have been pleased to find herself talking quietly to + a great genius—as quietly as if he were quite an ordinary person; + but to me the experience was wonderful. I had thought about him so much + and with such adoring reverence. And he looked at me as if he truly liked + me, even as if I were something new—a sort of discovery which + interested him. I dare say that he had never before seen a girl who had + lived so much alone and in such a remote and wild place. + </p> + <p> + I believe Sir Ian and his wife were pleased, too, to see that I was + talking. They were glad that their guests should see that I was + intelligent enough to hold the attention even of a clever man. If Hector + MacNairn was interested in me I could not be as silly and dull as I + looked. But on my part I was only full of wonder and happiness. I was a + girl, and he had been my only hero; and it seemed even as if he liked me + and cared about my queer life. + </p> + <p> + He was not a man who had the air of making confidences or talking about + himself, but before we parted I seemed to know him and his surroundings as + if he had described them. A mere phrase of his would make a picture. Such + a few words made his mother quite clear to me. They loved each other in an + exquisite, intimate way. She was a beautiful person. Artists had always + painted her. He and she were completely happy when they were together. + They lived in a house in the country, and I could not at all tell how I + discovered that it was an old house with beautiful chimneys and a very big + garden with curious high walls with corner towers round it. He only spoke + of it briefly, but I saw it as a picture; and always afterward, when I + thought of his mother, I thought of her as sitting under a great and + ancient apple-tree with the long, late-afternoon shadows stretching on the + thick, green grass. I suppose I saw that just because he said: + </p> + <p> + “Will you come to tea under the big apple-tree some afternoon when the + late shadows are like velvet on the grass? That is perhaps the loveliest + time.” + </p> + <p> + When we rose to go and join the rest of the party, he stood a moment and + glanced round the room at our fellow-guests. + </p> + <p> + “Are there any of your White People here to-night?” he said, smiling. “I + shall begin to look for them everywhere.” + </p> + <p> + I glanced over the faces carelessly. “There are none here to-night,” I + answered, and then I flushed because he had smiled. “It was only a + childish name I gave them,” I hesitated. “I forgot you wouldn’t + understand. I dare say it sounds silly.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at me so quickly. + </p> + <p> + “No! no! no!” he exclaimed. “You mustn’t think that! Certainly not silly.” + </p> + <p> + I do not think he knew that he put out his hand and gently touched my arm, + as one might touch a child to make it feel one wanted it to listen. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t know,” he said in his low, slow voice, “how glad I am that you + have talked to me. Sir Ian said you were not fond of talking to people, + and I wanted to know you.” + </p> + <p> + “You care about places like Muircarrie. That is why,” I answered, feeling + at once how much he understood. “I care for Muircarrie more than for all + the rest of the world. And I suppose you saw it in my face. I dare say + that the people who love that kind of life cannot help seeing it there.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, “it is in your eyes. It was what I saw and found myself + wondering about when I watched you in the train. It was really the moor + and the mist and the things you think are hidden in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you watch me?” I asked. “I could not help watching you a little, when + you were so kind to the poor woman. I was afraid you would see me and + think me rude.” + </p> + <p> + “It was the far look in your face I watched,” he said. “If you will come + to tea under the big apple-tree I will tell you more about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I will come,” I answered. “Now we must go and sit among the other + people—those who don’t care about Muircarrie at all.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + I went to tea under the big apple-tree. It was very big and old and + wonderful. No wonder Mr. MacNairn and his mother loved it. Its great + branches spread out farther than I had ever seen the branches of an + apple-tree spread before. They were gnarled and knotted and beautiful with + age. Their shadows upon the grass were velvet, deep and soft. Such a tree + could only have lived its life in such a garden. At least it seemed so to + me. The high, dim-colored walls, with their curious, low corner towers and + the leafage of the wall fruits spread against their brick, inclosed it + embracingly, as if they were there to take care of it and its beauty. But + the tree itself seemed to have grown there in all its dignified loveliness + of shadow to take care of Mrs. MacNairn, who sat under it. I felt as if it + loved and was proud of her. + </p> + <p> + I have heard clever literary people speak of Mrs. MacNairn as a “survival + of type.” Sometimes clever people bewilder me by the terms they use, but I + thought I understood what they meant in her case. She was quite unlike the + modern elderly woman, and yet she was not in the least old-fashioned or + demodee. She was only exquisitely distinct. + </p> + <p> + When she rose from her chair under the apple-tree boughs and came forward + to meet me that afternoon, the first things which struck me were her + height and slenderness and her light step. Then I saw that her clear + profile seemed cut out of ivory and that her head was a beautiful shape + and was beautifully set. Its every turn and movement was exquisite. The + mere fact that both her long, ivory hands enfolded mine thrilled me. I + wondered if it were possible that she could be unaware of her loveliness. + Beautiful people are thrilling to me, and Mrs. MacNairn has always seemed + more so than any one else. This is what her son once said of her: + </p> + <p> + “She is not merely beautiful; she is Beauty—Beauty’s very spirit + moving about among us mortals; pure Beauty.” + </p> + <p> + She drew me to a chair under her tree, and we sat down together. I felt as + if she were glad that I had come. The watching look I had seen in her + son’s eyes was in hers also. They watched me as we talked, and I found + myself telling her about my home as I had found myself telling him. He had + evidently talked to her about it himself. I had never met any one who + thought of Muircarrie as I did, but it seemed as if they who were + strangers were drawn by its wild, beautiful loneliness as I was. + </p> + <p> + I was happy. In my secret heart I began to ask myself if it could be true + that they made me feel a little as if I somehow belonged to some one. I + had always seemed so detached from every one. I had not been miserable + about it, and I had not complained to myself; I only accepted the + detachment as part of my kind of life. + </p> + <p> + Mr. MacNairn came into the garden later and several other people came in + to tea. It was apparently a sort of daily custom—that people who + evidently adored Mrs. MacNairn dropped in to see and talk to her every + afternoon. She talked wonderfully, and her friends’ joy in her was + wonderful, too. It evidently made people happy to be near her. All she + said and did was like her light step and the movements of her delicate, + fine head—gracious and soft and arrestingly lovely. She did not let + me drift away and sit in a corner looking on, as I usually did among + strangers. She kept me near her, and in some subtle, gentle way made me a + part of all that was happening—the talk, the charming circle under + the spreading boughs of the apple-tree, the charm of everything. Sometimes + she would put out her exquisite, long-fingered hand and touch me very + lightly, and each time she did it I felt as if she had given me new life. + </p> + <p> + There was an interesting elderly man who came among the rest of the + guests. I was interested in him even before she spoke to me of him. He had + a handsome, aquiline face which looked very clever. His talk was + brilliantly witty. When he spoke people paused as if they could not bear + to lose a phrase or even a word. But in the midst of the trills of + laughter surrounding him his eyes were unchangingly sad. His face laughed + or smiled, but his eyes never. + </p> + <p> + “He is the greatest artist in England and the most brilliant man,” Mrs. + MacNairn said to me, quietly. “But he is the saddest, too. He had a lovely + daughter who was killed instantly, in his presence, by a fall. They had + been inseparable companions and she was the delight of his life. That + strange, fixed look has been in his eyes ever since. I know you have + noticed it.” + </p> + <p> + We were walking about among the flower-beds after tea, and Mr. MacNairn + was showing me a cloud of blue larkspurs in a corner when I saw something + which made me turn toward him rather quickly. + </p> + <p> + “There is one!” I said. “Do look at her! Now you see what I mean! The girl + standing with her hand on Mr. Le Breton’s arm.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Le Breton was the brilliant man with the sad eyes. He was standing + looking at a mass of white-and-purple iris at the other side of the + garden. There were two or three people with him, but it seemed as if for a + moment he had forgotten them—had forgotten where he was. I wondered + suddenly if his daughter had been fond of irises. He was looking at them + with such a tender, lost expression. The girl, who was a lovely, fair + thing, was standing quite close to him with her hand in his arm, and she + was smiling, too—such a smile! + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Le Breton!” Mr. MacNairn said in a rather startled tone. “The girl + with her hand in his arm?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You see how fair she is,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “And she has that transparent look. It is so lovely. Don’t you think so? + SHE is one of the White People.” + </p> + <p> + He stood very still, looking across the flowers at the group. There was a + singular interest and intensity in his expression. He watched the pair + silently for a whole minute, I think. + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es,” he said, slowly, at last, “I do see what you mean—and it IS + lovely. I don’t seem to know her well. She must be a new friend of my + mother’s. So she is one of the White People?” + </p> + <p> + “She looks like a white iris herself, doesn’t she?” I said. “Now you + know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; now I know,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + I asked Mrs. MacNairn later who the girl was, but she didn’t seem to + recognize my description of her. Mr. Le Breton had gone away by that time, + and so had the girl herself. + </p> + <p> + “The tall, very fair one in the misty, pale-gray dress,” I said. “She was + near Mr. Le Breton when he was looking at the iris-bed. You were cutting + some roses only a few yards away from her. That VERY fair girl?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. MacNairn paused a moment and looked puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “Mildred Keith is fair,” she reflected, “but she was not there then. I + don’t recall seeing a girl. I was cutting some buds for Mrs. Anstruther. I—” + She paused again and turned toward her son, who was standing watching us. + I saw their eyes meet in a rather arrested way. + </p> + <p> + “It was not Mildred Keith,” he said. “Miss Muircarrie is inquiring because + this girl was one of those she calls the White People. She was not any one + I had seen here before.” + </p> + <p> + There was a second’s silence before Mrs. MacNairn smilingly gave me one of + her light, thrilling touches on my arm. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I remember,” she said. “Hector told me about the White People. He + rather fancied I might be one.” + </p> + <p> + I am afraid I rather stared at her as I slowly shook my head. You see she + was almost one, but not quite. + </p> + <p> + “I was so busy with my roses that I did not notice who was standing near + Mr. Le Breton,” she said. “Perhaps it was Anabel Mere. She is a more + transparent sort of girl than Mildred, and she is more blond. And you + don’t know her, Hector? I dare say it was she.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + I remained in London several weeks. I stayed because the MacNairns were so + good to me. I could not have told any one how I loved Mrs. MacNairn, and + how different everything seemed when I was with her. I was never shy when + we were together. There seemed to be no such thing as shyness in the + world. I was not shy with Mr. MacNairn, either. After I had sat under the + big apple-tree boughs in the walled garden a few times I realized that I + had begun to belong to somebody. Those two marvelous people cared for me + in that way—in a way that made me feel as if I were a real girl, not + merely a queer little awkward ghost in a far-away castle which nobody + wanted to visit because it was so dull and desolate and far from London. + They were so clever, and knew all the interesting things in the world, but + their cleverness and experience never bewildered or overwhelmed me. + </p> + <p> + “You were born a wonderful little creature, and Angus Macayre has filled + your mind with strange, rich furnishings and marvelous color and form,” + Mrs. MacNairn actually said to me one day when we were sitting together + and she was holding my hand and softly, slowly patting it. She had a way + of doing that, and she had also a way of keeping me very near her whenever + she could. She said once that she liked to touch me now and then to make + sure that I was quite real and would not melt away. I did not know then + why she said it, but I understood afterward. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes we sat under the apple-tree until the long twilight deepened + into shadow, which closed round us, and a nightingale that lived in the + garden began to sing. We all three loved the nightingale, and felt as + though it knew that we were listening to it. It is a wonderful thing to + sit quite still listening to a bird singing in the dark, and to dare to + feel that while it sings it knows how your soul adores it. It is like a + kind of worship. + </p> + <p> + We had been sitting listening for quite a long time, and the nightingale + had just ceased and left the darkness an exquisite silence which fell + suddenly but softly as the last note dropped, when Mrs. MacNairn began to + talk for the first time of what she called The Fear. + </p> + <p> + I don’t remember just how she began, and for a few minutes I did not quite + understand what she meant. But as she went on, and Mr. MacNairn joined in + the talk, their meaning became a clear thing to me, and I knew that they + were only talking quite simply of something they had often talked of + before. They were not as afraid of The Fear as most people are, because + they had thought of and reasoned about it so much, and always calmly and + with clear and open minds. + </p> + <p> + By The Fear they meant that mysterious horror most people feel at the + thought of passing out of the world they know into the one they don’t know + at all. + </p> + <p> + How quiet, how still it was inside the walls of the old garden, as we + three sat under the boughs and talked about it! And what sweet night + scents of leaves and sleeping flowers were in every breath we drew! And + how one’s heart moved and lifted when the nightingale broke out again! + </p> + <p> + “If one had seen or heard one little thing, if one’s mortal being could + catch one glimpse of light in the dark,” Mrs. MacNairn’s low voice said + out of the shadow near me, “The Fear would be gone forever.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps the whole mystery is as simple as this,” said her son’s voice “as + simple as this: that as there are tones of music too fine to be registered + by the human ear, so there may be vibrations of light not to be seen by + the human eye; form and color as well as sounds; just beyond earthly + perception, and yet as real as ourselves, as formed as ourselves, only + existing in that other dimension.” + </p> + <p> + There was an intenseness which was almost a note of anguish in Mrs. + MacNairn’s answer, even though her voice was very low. I involuntarily + turned my head to look at her, though of course it was too dark to see her + face. I felt somehow as if her hands were wrung together in her lap. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she said, “if one only had some shadow of a proof that the mystery + is only that WE cannot see, that WE cannot hear, though they are really + quite near us, with us—the ones who seem to have gone away and whom + we feel we cannot live without. If once we could be sure! There would be + no Fear—there would be none!” + </p> + <p> + “Dearest”—he often called her “Dearest,” and his voice had a + wonderful sound in the darkness; it was caress and strength, and it seemed + to speak to her of things they knew which I did not—“we have vowed + to each other that we WILL believe there is no reason for The Fear. It was + a vow between us.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! Yes!” she cried, breathlessly, “but sometimes, Hector—sometimes—” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Muircarrie does not feel it—” + </p> + <p> + “Please say ‘Ysobel’!” I broke in. “Please do.” + </p> + <p> + He went on as quietly as if he had not even paused: + </p> + <p> + “Ysobel told me the first night we met that it seemed as if she could not + believe in it.” + </p> + <p> + “It never seems real to me at all,” I said. “Perhaps that is because I can + never forget what Jean told me about my mother lying still upon her bed, + and listening to some one calling her.” (I had told them Jean’s story a + few days before.) “I knew it was my father; Jean knew, too.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you know?” Mrs. MacNairn’s voice was almost a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “I could not tell you that. I never asked myself HOW it was. But I KNEW. + We both KNEW. Perhaps”—I hesitated—“it was because in the + Highlands people often believe things like that. One hears so many stories + all one’s life that in the end they don’t seem strange. I have always + heard them. Those things you know about people who have the second sight. + And about the seals who change themselves into men and come on shore and + fall in love with girls and marry them. They say they go away now and + then, and no one really knows where but it is believed that they go back + to their own people and change into seals again, because they must plunge + and riot about in the sea. Sometimes they come home, but sometimes they do + not. + </p> + <p> + “A beautiful young stranger, with soft, dark eyes, appeared once not far + from Muircarrie, and he married a boatman’s daughter. He was very restless + one night, and got up and left her, and she never saw him again; but a few + days later a splendid dead seal covered with wounds was washed up near his + cottage. The fishers say that his people had wanted to keep him from his + land wife, and they had fought with him and killed him. His wife had a son + with strange, velvet eyes like his father’s, and she couldn’t keep him + away from the water. When he was old enough to swim he swam out one day, + because he thought he saw some seals and wanted to get near them. He swam + out too far, perhaps. He never came back, and the fishermen said his + father’s people had taken him. When one has heard stories like that all + one’s life nothing seems very strange.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing really IS strange,” said Hector MacNairn. “Again and again + through all the ages we have been told the secrets of the gods and the + wonders of the Law, and we have revered and echoed but never believed. + When we believe and know all is simple we shall not be afraid. You are not + afraid, Ysobel. Tell my mother you are not.” + </p> + <p> + I turned my face toward her again in the darkness. I felt as if something + was going on between them which he somehow knew I could help them in. It + was as though he were calling on something in my nature which I did not + myself comprehend, but which his profound mind saw and knew was stronger + than I was. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly I felt as if I might trust to him and to It, and that, without + being troubled or anxious, I would just say the first thing which came + into my mind, because it would be put there for me by some power which + could dictate to me. I never felt younger or less clever than I did at + that moment; I was only Ysobel Muircarrie, who knew almost nothing. But + that did not seem to matter. It was such a simple, almost childish thing I + told her. It was only about The Dream. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + “The feeling you call The Fear has never come to me,” I said to her. “And + if it had I think it would have melted away because of a dream I once had. + I don’t really believe it was a dream, but I call it one. I think I really + went somewhere and came back. I often wonder why I came back. It was only + a short dream, so simple that there is scarcely anything to tell, and + perhaps it will not convey anything to you. But it has been part of my + life—that time when I was Out on the Hillside. That is what I call + The Dream to myself, ‘Out on the Hillside,’ as if it were a kind of + unearthly poem. But it wasn’t. It was more real than anything I have ever + felt. It was real—real! I wish that I could tell it so that you + would know how real it was.” + </p> + <p> + I felt almost piteous in my longing to make her know. I knew she was + afraid of something, and if I could make her know how REAL that one brief + dream had been she would not be afraid any more. And I loved her, I loved + her so much! + </p> + <p> + “I was asleep one night at Muircarrie,” I went on, “and suddenly, without + any preparatory dreaming, I was standing out on a hillside in moonlight + softer and more exquisite than I had ever seen or known before. Perhaps I + was still in my nightgown—I don’t know. My feet were bare on the + grass, and I wore something light and white which did not seem to touch + me. If it touched me I did not feel it. My bare feet did not feel the + grass; they only knew it was beneath them. + </p> + <p> + “It was a low hill I stood on, and I was only on the side of it. And in + spite of the thrilling beauty of the moon, all but the part I stood on + melted into soft, beautiful shadow, all below me and above me. But I did + not turn to look at or ask myself about anything. You see the difficulty + is that there are no earthly words to tell it! All my being was ecstasy—pure, + light ecstasy! Oh, what poor words— But I know no others. If I said + that I was happy—HAPPY!—it would be nothing. I WAS happiness + itself, I WAS pure rapture! I did not look at the beauty of the night, the + sky, the marvelous melting shadow. I was PART of it all, one with it. + Nothing held me nothing! The beauty of the night, the light, the air WERE + what I was, and I was only thrilling ecstasy and wonder at the rapture of + it.” + </p> + <p> + I stopped and covered my face with my hands, and tears wet my fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I cannot make it real! I was only there such a short, short time. + Even if you had been with me I could not have found words for it, even + then. It was such a short time. I only stood and lifted my face and felt + the joy of it, the pure marvel of joy. I only heard myself murmuring over + and over again: ‘Oh, how beautiful! how beautiful! Oh, how BEAUTIFUL!’ + </p> + <p> + “And then a marvel of new joy swept through me. I said, very softly and + very slowly, as if my voice were trailing away into silence: ‘Oh—h! + I—can—lie—down—here—on—the grass—and—sleep + . . . all—through—the night—under—this—moonlight. + . . . I can sleep—sleep—’ + </p> + <p> + “I began to sink softly down, with the heavenliest feeling of relaxation + and repose, as if there existed only the soul of beautiful rest. I sank so + softly—and just as my cheek almost touched the grass the dream was + over!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” cried Mrs. MacNairn. “Did you awaken?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I came back. In my sleep I suddenly found myself creeping into my bed + again as if I had been away somewhere. I was wondering why I was there, + how I had left the hillside, when I had left it. That part WAS a dream—but + the other was not. I was allowed to go somewhere—outside—and + come back.” + </p> + <p> + I caught at her hand in the dark. + </p> + <p> + “The words are all wrong,” I said. “It is because we have no words to + describe that. But have I made you feel it at all? Oh! Mrs. MacNairn, have + I been able to make you know that it was not a dream?” + </p> + <p> + She lifted my hand and pressed it passionately against her cheek, and her + cheek, too, was wet—wet. + </p> + <p> + “No, it was not a dream,” she said. “You came back. Thank God you came + back, just to tell us that those who do not come back stand awakened in + that ecstasy—in that ecstasy. And The Fear is nothing. It is only + The Dream. The awakening is out on the hillside, out on the hillside! + Listen!” She started as she said it. “Listen! The nightingale is beginning + again.” + </p> + <p> + He sent forth in the dark a fountain—a rising, aspiring fountain—of + golden notes which seemed to reach heaven itself. The night was made + radiant by them. He flung them upward like a shower of stars into the sky. + We sat and listened, almost holding our breath. Oh! the nightingale! the + nightingale! + </p> + <p> + “He knows,” Hector MacNairn’s low voice said, “that it was not a dream.” + </p> + <p> + When there was silence again I heard him leave his chair very quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Good night! good night!” he said, and went away. I felt somehow that he + had left us together for a purpose, but, oh, I did not even remotely dream + what the purpose was! But soon she told me, almost in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “We love you very much, Ysobel,” she said. “You know that?” + </p> + <p> + “I love you both, with all my heart,” I answered. “Indeed I love you.” + </p> + <p> + “We two have been more to each other than mere mother and son. We have + been sufficient for each other. But he began to love you that first day + when he watched you in the railway carriage. He says it was the far look + in your eyes which drew him.” + </p> + <p> + “I began to love him, too,” I said. And I was not at all ashamed or shy in + saying it. + </p> + <p> + “We three might have spent our lives together,” she went on. “It would + have been a perfect thing. But—but—” She stood up as if she + could not remain seated. Involuntarily I stood up with her. She was + trembling, and she caught and held me in her arms. “He cannot stay, + Ysobel,” she ended. + </p> + <p> + I could scarcely hear my own voice when I echoed the words. + </p> + <p> + “He cannot—stay?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! the time will come,” she said, “when people who love each other will + not be separated, when on this very earth there will be no pain, no grief, + no age, no death—when all the world has learned the Law at last. But + we have not learned it yet. And here we stand! The greatest specialists + have told us. There is some fatal flaw in his heart. At any moment, when + he is talking to us, when he is at his work, when he is asleep, he may—cease. + It will just be ceasing. At any moment. He cannot stay.” + </p> + <p> + My own heart stood still for a second. Then there rose before me slowly, + but clearly, a vision—the vision which was not a dream. + </p> + <p> + “Out on the hillside,” I murmured. “Out on the hillside.” + </p> + <p> + I clung to her with both arms and held her tight. I understood now why + they had talked about The Fear. These two who were almost one soul were + trying to believe that they were not really to be torn apart—not + really. They were trying to heap up for themselves proof that they might + still be near each other. And, above all, his effort was to save her from + the worst, worst woe. And I understood, too, why something wiser and + stronger than myself had led me to tell the dream which was not a dream at + all. + </p> + <p> + But it was as she said; the world had not learned the Secret yet. And + there we stood. We did not cry or talk, but we clung to each other—we + CLUNG. That is all human creatures can do until the Secret is known. And + as we clung the nightingale broke out again. + </p> + <p> + “O nightingale! O nightingale!” she said in her low wonder of a voice. + “WHAT are you trying to tell us!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <p> + What I feel sure I know by this time is that all the things we think + happen by chance and accident are only part of the weaving of the scheme + of life. When you begin to suspect this and to watch closely you also + begin to see how trifles connect themselves with one another, and seem in + the end to have led to a reason and a meaning, though we may not be clever + enough to see it clearly. Nothing is an accident. We make everything + happen ourselves: the wrong things because we do not know or care whether + we are wrong or right, the right ones because we unconsciously or + consciously choose the right even in the midst of our ignorance. + </p> + <p> + I dare say it sounds audacious for an ordinary girl to say such things in + an ordinary way; but perhaps I have said them in spite of myself, because + it is not a bad thing that they should be said by an every-day sort of + person in simple words which other every-day people can understand. I am + only expressing what has gradually grown into belief in my mind through + reading with Angus ancient books and modern ones—books about faiths + and religions, books about philosophies and magics, books about what the + world calls marvels, but which are not marvels at all, but only workings + of the Law most people have not yet reasoned about or even accepted. + </p> + <p> + Angus had read and studied them all his life before he began to read them + with me, and we talked them over together sitting by the fire in the + library, fascinated and staring at each other, I in one high-backed chair + and he in another on the opposite side of the hearth. Angus is wonderful—wonderful! + He KNOWS there is no such thing as chance. He KNOWS that we ourselves are + the working of the Law—and that we ourselves could work what now are + stupidly called “miracles” if we could only remember always what the Law + is. + </p> + <p> + What I intended to say at first was merely that it was not by chance that + I climbed to the shelf in the library that afternoon and pushed aside the + books hiding the old manuscript which told the real story of Dark Malcolm + of the Glen and Wee Brown Elspeth. It seemed like chance when it happened, + but it was really the first step toward my finding out the strange, + beautiful thing I knew soon afterward. + </p> + <p> + From the beginning of my friendship with the MacNairns I had hoped they + would come and stay with me at Muircarrie. When they both seemed to feel + such interest in all I told them of it, and not to mind its wild + remoteness, I took courage and asked them if they would come to me. Most + people are bored by the prospect of life in a feudal castle, howsoever + picturesquely it is set in a place where there are no neighbors to count + on. Its ancient stateliness is too dull. But the MacNairns were more + allured by what Muircarrie offered than they were by other and more + brilliant invitations. So when I went back to the castle I was only to be + alone a week before they followed me. + </p> + <p> + Jean and Angus were quite happy in their quiet way when I told them who I + was expecting. They knew how glad I was myself. Jean was full of silent + pleasure as she arranged the rooms I had chosen for my guests, rooms which + had the most sweeping view of the moor. Angus knew that Mr. MacNairn would + love the library, and he hovered about consulting his catalogues and + looking over his shelves, taking down volumes here and there, holding them + tenderly in his long, bony old hand as he dipped into them. He made notes + of the manuscripts and books he thought Mr. MacNairn would feel the + deepest interest in. He loved his library with all his being, and I knew + he looked forward to talking to a man who would care for it in the same + way. + </p> + <p> + He had been going over one of the highest shelves one day and had left his + step-ladder leaning against it when he went elsewhere. It was when I + mounted the steps, as I often did when he left them, that I came upon the + manuscript which related the old story of Dark Malcolm and his child. It + had been pushed behind some volumes, and I took it out because it looked + so old and yellow. And I opened at once at the page where the tale began. + </p> + <p> + At first I stood reading, and then I sat down on the broad top of the + ladder and forgot everything. It was a savage history of ferocious hate + and barbarous reprisals. It had been a feud waged between two clans for + three generations. The story of Dark Malcolm and Ian Red Hand was only + part of it, but it was a gruesome thing. Pages told of the bloody deeds + they wrought on each other’s houses. The one human passion of Dark + Malcolm’s life was his love for his little daughter. She had brown eyes + and brown hair, and those who most loved her called her Wee Brown Elspeth. + Ian Red Hand was richer and more powerful than Malcolm of the Glen, and + therefore could more easily work his cruel will. He knew well of Malcolm’s + worship of his child, and laid his plans to torture him through her. Dark + Malcolm, coming back to his rude, small castle one night after a raid in + which he had lost followers and weapons and strength, found that Wee Brown + Elspeth had been carried away, and unspeakable taunts and threats left + behind by Ian and his men. With unbound wounds, broken dirks and hacked + swords, Dark Malcolm and the remnant of his troop of fighting clansmen + rushed forth into the night. + </p> + <p> + “Neither men nor weapons have we to win her back,” screamed Dark Malcolm, + raving mad, “but we may die fighting to get near enough to her to drive + dirk into her little breast and save her from worse.” + </p> + <p> + They were a band of madmen in their black despair. How they tore through + the black night; what unguarded weak spot they found in Ian’s castle + walls; how they fought their way through it, leaving their dead bodies in + the path, none really ever knew. By what strange chance Dark Malcolm came + upon Wee Brown Elspeth, craftily set to playing hide-and-seek with a child + of Ian’s so that she might not cry out and betray her presence; how, + already wounded to his death, he caught at and drove his dirk into her + child heart, the story only offers guesses at. But kill and save her he + did, falling dead with her body held against his breast, her brown hair + streaming over it. Not one living man went back to the small, rude castle + on the Glen—not one. + </p> + <p> + I sat and read and read until the room grew dark. When I stopped I found + that Angus Macayre was standing in the dimness at the foot of the ladder. + He looked up at me and I down at him. For a few moments we were both quite + still. + </p> + <p> + “It is the tale of Ian Red Hand and Dark Malcolm you are reading?” he + said, at last. + </p> + <p> + “And Wee Brown Elspeth, who was fought for and killed,” I added, slowly. + </p> + <p> + Angus nodded his head with a sad face. “It was the only way for a father,” + he said. “A hound of hell was Ian. Such men were savage beasts in those + days, not human.” + </p> + <p> + I touched the manuscript with my hand questioningly. “Did this fall at the + back there by accident,” I asked, “or did you hide it?” + </p> + <p> + “I did,” he answered. “It was no tale for a young thing to read. I have + hidden many from you. You were always poking about in corners, Ysobel.” + </p> + <p> + Then I sat and thought over past memories for a while and the shadows in + the room deepened. + </p> + <p> + “Why,” I said, laggingly, after the silence—“why did I call the + child who used to play with me ‘Wee Brown Elspeth’?” + </p> + <p> + “It was your own fancy,” was his reply. “I used to wonder myself; but I + made up my mind that you had heard some of the maids talking and the name + had caught your ear. That would be a child’s way.” + </p> + <p> + I put my forehead in my hands and thought again. So many years had passed! + I had been little more than a baby; the whole thing seemed like a + half-forgotten dream when I tried to recall it—but I seemed to dimly + remember strange things. + </p> + <p> + “Who were the wild men who brought her to me first—that day on the + moor?” I said. “I do remember they had pale, savage, exultant faces. And + torn, stained clothes. And broken dirks and swords. But they were glad of + something. Who were they?” + </p> + <p> + “I did not see them. The mist was too thick,” he answered. “They were some + wild hunters, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “It gives me such a strange feeling to try to remember, Angus,” I said, + lifting my forehead from my hands. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t try,” he said. “Give me the manuscript and get down from the + step-ladder. Come and look at the list of books I have made for Mr. + MacNairn.” + </p> + <p> + I did as he told me, but I felt as if I were walking in a dream. My mind + seemed to have left my body and gone back to the day when I sat a little + child on the moor and heard the dull sound of horses’ feet and the + jingling metal and the creak of leather coming nearer in the thick mist. + </p> + <p> + I felt as if Angus were in a queer, half-awake mood, too—as if two + sets of thoughts were working at the same time in his mind: one his + thoughts about Hector MacNairn and the books, the other some queer + thoughts which went on in spite of him. + </p> + <p> + When I was going to leave the library and go up-stairs to dress for dinner + he said a strange thing to me, and he said it slowly and in a heavy voice. + </p> + <p> + “There is a thing Jean and I have often talked of telling you,” he said. + “We have not known what it was best to do. Times we have been troubled + because we could not make up our minds. This Mr. Hector MacNairn is no + common man. He is one who is great and wise enough to decide things plain + people could not be sure of. Jean and I are glad indeed that he and his + mother are coming. Jean can talk to her and I can talk to him, being a man + body. They will tell us whether we have been right or wrong and what we + must do.” + </p> + <p> + “They are wise enough to tell you anything,” I answered. “It sounds as if + you and Jean had known some big secret all my life. But I am not + frightened. You two would go to your graves hiding it if it would hurt + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh, bairn!” he said, suddenly, in a queer, moved way. “Eh, bairn!” And he + took hold of both my hands and kissed them, pressing them quite long and + emotionally to his lips. But he said nothing else, and when he dropped + them I went out of the room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + It was wonderful when Mr. MacNairn and his mother came. It was even more + beautiful than I had thought it would be. They arrived late in the + afternoon, and when I took them out upon the terrace the sun was reddening + the moor, and even the rough, gray towers of the castle were stained + rose-color. There was that lovely evening sound of birds twittering before + they went to sleep in the ivy. The glimpses of gardens below seemed like + glimpses of rich tapestries set with jewels. And there was such stillness! + When we drew our three chairs in a little group together and looked out on + it all, I felt as if we were almost in heaven. + </p> + <p> + “Yes! yes!” Hector said, looking slowly—round; “it is all here.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” his mother added, in her lovely, lovely voice. “It is what made you + Ysobel.” + </p> + <p> + It was so angelic of them to feel it all in that deep, quiet way, and to + think that it was part of me and I a part of it. The climbing moon was + trembling with beauty. Tender evening airs quivered in the heather and + fern, and the late birds called like spirits. + </p> + <p> + Ever since the night when Mrs. MacNairn had held me in her arms under the + apple-tree while the nightingale sang I had felt toward her son as if he + were an archangel walking on the earth. Perhaps my thoughts were + exaggerated, but it seemed so marvelous that he should be moving among us, + doing his work, seeing and talking to his friends, and yet that he should + know that at any moment the great change might come and he might awaken + somewhere else, in quite another place. If he had been like other men and + I had been like other girls, I suppose that after that night when I heard + the truth I should have been plunged into the darkest woe and have almost + sobbed myself to death. Why did I not? I do not know except—except + that I felt that no darkness could come between us because no darkness + could touch him. He could never be anything but alive alive. If I could + not see him it would only be because my eyes were not clear and strong + enough. I seemed to be waiting for something. I wanted to keep near him. + </p> + <p> + I was full of this feeling as we sat together on the terrace and watched + the moon. I could scarcely look away from him. He was rather pale that + evening, but there seemed to be a light behind his pallor, and his eyes + seemed to see so much more than the purple and yellow of the heather and + gorse as they rested on them. + </p> + <p> + After I had watched him silently for a little while I leaned forward and + pointed to a part of the moor where there was an unbroken blaze of gorse + in full bloom like a big patch of gold. + </p> + <p> + “That is where I was sitting when Wee Brown Elspeth was first brought to + me,” I said. + </p> + <p> + He sat upright and looked. “Is it?” he answered. “Will you take me there + to-morrow? I have always wanted to see the place.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you like to go early in the morning? The mist is more likely to be + there then, as it was that day. It is so mysterious and beautiful. Would + you like to do that?” I asked him. + </p> + <p> + “Better than anything else!” he said. “Yes, let us go in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Wee Brown Elspeth seems very near me this evening,” I said. “I feel as if—” + I broke off and began again. “I have a puzzled feeling about her. This + afternoon I found some manuscript pushed behind a book on a high shelf in + the library. Angus said he had hidden it there because it was a savage + story he did not wish me to read. It was the history of the feud between + Ian Red Hand and Dark Malcolm of the Glen. Dark Malcolm’s child was called + Wee Brown Elspeth hundreds of years ago—five hundred, I think. It + makes me feel so bewildered when I remember the one I played with.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a bloody story,” he said. “I heard it only a few days before we + met at Sir Ian’s house in London.” + </p> + <p> + That made me recall something. + </p> + <p> + “Was that why you started when I told you about Elspeth?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Perhaps the one you played with was a little descendant who had + inherited her name,” he answered, a trifle hurriedly. “I confess I was + startled for a moment.” + </p> + <p> + I put my hand up to my forehead and rubbed it unconsciously. I could not + help seeing a woesome picture. + </p> + <p> + “Poor little soul, with the blood pouring from her heart and her brown + hair spread over her dead father’s breast!” I stopped, because a faint + memory came back to me. “Mine,” I stammered—“mine—how strange!—had + a great stain on the embroideries of her dress. She looked at it—and + looked. She looked as if she didn’t like it—as if she didn’t + understand how it came there. She covered it with ferns and bluebells.” + </p> + <p> + I felt as if I were being drawn away into a dream. I made a sudden effort + to come back. I ceased rubbing my forehead and dropped my hand, sitting + upright. + </p> + <p> + “I must ask Angus and Jean to tell me about her,” I said. “Of course, they + must have known. I wonder why I never thought of asking questions before.” + </p> + <p> + It was a strange look I met when I involuntarily turned toward him—such + an absorbed, strange, tender look! + </p> + <p> + I knew he sat quite late in the library that night, talking to Angus after + his mother and I went to our rooms. Just as I was falling asleep I + remember there floated through my mind a vague recollection of what Angus + had said to me of asking his advice about something; and I wondered if he + would reach the subject in their talk, or if they would spend all their + time in poring over manuscripts and books together. + </p> + <p> + The moor wore its most mysterious look when I got up in the early morning. + It had hidden itself in its softest snows of white, swathing mist. Only + here and there dark fir-trees showed themselves above it, and now and then + the whiteness thinned or broke and drifted. It was as I had wanted him to + see it—just as I had wanted to walk through it with him. + </p> + <p> + We had met in the hall as we had planned, and, wrapped in our plaids + because the early morning air was cold, we tramped away together. No one + but myself could ever realize what it was like. I had never known that + there could be such a feeling of companionship in the world. It would not + have been necessary for us to talk at all if we had felt silent. We should + have been saying things to each other without words. But we did talk as we + walked—in quiet voices which seemed made quieter by the mist, and of + quiet things which such voices seemed to belong to. + </p> + <p> + We crossed the park to a stile in a hedge where a path led at once on to + the moor. Part of the park itself had once been moorland, and was dark + with slender firs and thick grown with heather and broom. On the moor the + mist grew thicker, and if I had not so well known the path we might have + lost ourselves in it. Also I knew by heart certain little streams that + rushed and made guiding sounds which were sometimes loud whispers and + sometimes singing babbles. The damp, sweet scent of fern and heather was + in our nostrils; as we climbed we breathed its freshness. + </p> + <p> + “There is a sort of unearthly loveliness in it all,” Hector MacNairn said + to me. His voice was rather like his mother’s. It always seemed to say so + much more than his words. + </p> + <p> + “We might be ghosts,” I answered. “We might be some of those the mist + hides because they like to be hidden.” + </p> + <p> + “You would not be afraid if you met one of them?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No. I think I am sure of that. I should feel that it was only like + myself, and, if I could hear, might tell me things I want to know.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want to know?” he asked me, very low. “You!” + </p> + <p> + “Only what everybody wants to know—that it is really AWAKENING free, + ready for wonderful new things, finding oneself in the midst of wonders. I + don’t mean angels with harps and crowns, but beauty such as we see now; + only seeing it without burdens of fears before and behind us. And knowing + there is no reason to be afraid. We have all been so afraid. We don’t know + how afraid we have been—of everything.” + </p> + <p> + I stopped among the heather and threw my arms out wide. I drew in a great, + joyous morning breath. + </p> + <p> + “Free like that! It is the freeness, the light, splendid freeness, I think + of most.” + </p> + <p> + “The freeness!” he repeated. “Yes, the freeness!” + </p> + <p> + “As for beauty,” I almost whispered, in a sort of reverence for visions I + remembered, “I have stood on this moor a thousand times and seen + loveliness which made me tremble. One’s soul could want no more in any + life. But ‘Out on the Hillside’ I KNEW I was part of it, and it was + ecstasy. That was the freeness.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—it was the freeness,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + We brushed through the heather and the bracken, and flower-bells shook + showers of radiant drops upon us. The mist wavered and sometimes lifted + before us, and opened up mystic vistas to veil them again a few minutes + later. The sun tried to break through, and sometimes we walked in a golden + haze. + </p> + <p> + We fell into silence. Now and then I glanced sidewise at my companion as + we made our soundless way over the thick moss. He looked so strong and + beautiful. His tall body was so fine, his shoulders so broad and splendid! + How could it be! How could it be! As he tramped beside me he was thinking + deeply, and he knew he need not talk to me. That made me glad—that + he should know me so well and feel me so near. That was what he felt when + he was with his mother, that she understood and that at times neither of + them needed words. + </p> + <p> + Until we had reached the patch of gorse where we intended to end our walk + we did not speak at all. He was thinking of things which led him far. I + knew that, though I did not know what they were. When we reached the + golden blaze we had seen the evening before it was a flame of gold again, + because—it was only for a few moments—the mist had blown apart + and the sun was shining on it. + </p> + <p> + As we stood in the midst of it together—Oh! how strange and + beautiful it was!—Mr. MacNairn came back. That was what it seemed to + me—that he came back. He stood quite still a moment and looked about + him, and then he stretched out his arms as I had stretched out mine. But + he did it slowly, and a light came into his face. + </p> + <p> + “If, after it was over, a man awakened as you said and found himself—the + self he knew, but light, free, splendid—remembering all the ages of + dark, unknowing dread, of horror of some black, aimless plunge, and + suddenly seeing all the childish uselessness of it—how he would + stand and smile! How he would stand and SMILE!” + </p> + <p> + Never had I understood anything more clearly than I understood then. Yes, + yes! That would be it. Remembering all the waste of fear, how he would + stand and SMILE! + </p> + <p> + He was smiling himself, the golden gorse about him already losing its + flame in the light returning mist-wraiths closing again over it, when I + heard a sound far away and high up the moor. It sounded like the playing + of a piper. He did not seem to notice it. + </p> + <p> + “We shall be shut in again,” he said. “How mysterious it is, this opening + and closing! I like it more than anything else. Let us sit down, Ysobel.” + </p> + <p> + He spread the plaid we had brought to sit on, and laid on it the little + strapped basket Jean had made ready for us. He shook the mist drops from + our own plaids, and as I was about to sit down I stopped a moment to + listen. + </p> + <p> + “That is a tune I never heard on the pipes before,” I said. “What is a + piper doing out on the moor so early?” + </p> + <p> + He listened also. “It must be far away. I don’t hear it,” he said. + “Perhaps it is a bird whistling.” + </p> + <p> + “It is far away,” I answered, “but it is not a bird. It’s the pipes, and + playing such a strange tune. There! It has stopped!” + </p> + <p> + But it was not silent long; I heard the tune begin again much nearer, and + the piper was plainly coming toward us. I turned my head. + </p> + <p> + The mist was clearing, and floated about like a thin veil through which + one could see objects. At a short distance above us on the moor I saw + something moving. It was a man who was playing the pipes. It was the + piper, and almost at once I knew him, because it was actually my own + Feargus, stepping proudly through the heather with his step like a stag on + the hills. His head was held high, and his face had a sort of elated + delight in it as if he were enjoying himself and the morning and the music + in a new way. I was so surprised that I rose to my feet and called to him. + </p> + <p> + “Feargus!” I cried. “What—” + </p> + <p> + I knew he heard me, because he turned and looked at me with the most + extraordinary smile. He was usually a rather grave-faced man, but this + smile had a kind of startling triumph in it. He certainly heard me, for he + whipped off his bonnet in a salute which was as triumphant as the smile. + But he did not answer, and actually passed in and out of sight in the + mist. + </p> + <p> + When I rose Mr. MacNairn had risen, too. When I turned to speak in my + surprise, he had fixed on me his watchful look. + </p> + <p> + “Imagine its being Feargus at this hour!” I exclaimed. “And why did he + pass by in such a hurry without answering? He must have been to a wedding + and have been up all night. He looked—” I stopped a second and + laughed. + </p> + <p> + “How did he look?” Mr. MacNairn asked. + </p> + <p> + “Pale! That won’t do—though he certainly didn’t look ill.” I laughed + again. “I’m laughing because he looked almost like one of the White + People.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure it was Feargus?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Quite sure. No one else is the least like Feargus. Didn’t you see him + yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know him as well as you do; and there was the mist,” was his + answer. “But he certainly was not one of the White People when I saw him + last night.” + </p> + <p> + I wondered why he looked as he did when he took my hand and drew me down + to my place on the plaid again. He did not let it go when he sat down by + my side. He held it in his own large, handsome one, looking down on it a + moment or so; and then he bent his head and kissed it long and slowly two + or three times. + </p> + <p> + “Dear little Ysobel!” he said. “Beloved, strange little Ysobel.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I strange!” I said, softly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, thank God!” he answered. + </p> + <p> + I had known that some day when we were at Muircarrie together he would + tell me what his mother had told me—about what we three might have + been to one another. I trembled with happiness at the thought of hearing + him say it himself. I knew he was going to say it now. + </p> + <p> + He held my hand and stroked it. “My mother told you, Ysobel—what I + am waiting for?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know I love you?” he said, very low. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I love you, too. My whole life would have been heaven if we could + always have been together,” was my answer. + </p> + <p> + He drew me up into his arms so that my cheek lay against his breast as I + went on, holding fast to the rough tweed of his jacket and whispering: “I + should have belonged to you two, heart and body and soul. I should never + have been lonely again. I should have known nothing, whatsoever happened, + but tender joy.” + </p> + <p> + “Whatsoever happened?” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + “Whatsoever happens now, Ysobel, know nothing but tender joy. I think you + CAN. ‘Out on the Hillside!’ Let us remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” I said; “‘Out on the Hillside.’” And our two faces, damp with + the sweet mist, were pressed together. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <p> + The mist had floated away, and the moor was drenched with golden sunshine + when we went back to the castle. As we entered the hall I heard the sound + of a dog howling, and spoke of it to one of the men-servants who had + opened the door. + </p> + <p> + “That sounds like Gelert. Is he shut up somewhere?” + </p> + <p> + Gelert was a beautiful sheep-dog who belonged to Feargus and was his + heart’s friend. I allowed him to be kept in the courtyard. + </p> + <p> + The man hesitated before he answered me, with a curiously grave face. + </p> + <p> + “It is Gelert, miss. He is howling for his master. We were obliged to shut + him in the stables.” + </p> + <p> + “But Feargus ought to have reached here by this time,” I was beginning. + </p> + <p> + I was stopped because I found Angus Macayre almost at my elbow. He had + that moment come out of the library. He put his hand on my arm. + </p> + <p> + “Will ye come with me?” he said, and led me back to the room he had just + left. He kept his hand on my arm when we all stood together inside, Hector + and I looking at him in wondering question. He was going to tell me + something—we both saw that. + </p> + <p> + “It is a sad thing you have to hear,” he said. “He was a fine man, + Feargus, and a most faithful servant. He went to see his mother last night + and came back late across the moor. There was a heavy mist, and he must + have lost his way. A shepherd found his body in a tarn at daybreak. They + took him back to his father’s home.” + </p> + <p> + I looked at Hector MacNairn and again at Angus. “But it couldn’t be + Feargus,” I cried. “I saw him an hour ago. He passed us playing on his + pipes. He was playing a new tune I had never heard before a wonderful, + joyous thing. I both heard and SAW him!” + </p> + <p> + Angus stood still and watched me. They both stood still and watched me, + and even in my excitement I saw that each of them looked a little pale. + </p> + <p> + “You said you did not hear him at first, but you surely saw him when he + passed so near,” I protested. “I called to him, and he took off his + bonnet, though he did not stop. He was going so quickly that perhaps he + did not hear me call his name.” + </p> + <p> + What strange thing in Hector’s look checked me? Who knows? + </p> + <p> + “You DID see him, didn’t you?” I asked of him. + </p> + <p> + Then he and Angus exchanged glances, as if asking each other to decide + some grave thing. It was Hector MacNairn who decided it. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he answered, very quietly, “I neither saw nor heard him, even when + he passed. But you did.” + </p> + <p> + “I did, quite plainly,” I went on, more and more bewildered by the way in + which they kept a sort of tender, awed gaze fixed on me. “You remember I + even noticed that he looked pale. I laughed, you know, when I said he + looked almost like one of the White People—” + </p> + <p> + Just then my breath caught itself and I stopped. I began to remember + things—hundreds of things. + </p> + <p> + Angus spoke to me again as quietly as Hector had spoken. + </p> + <p> + “Neither Jean nor I ever saw Wee Brown Elspeth,” he said—“neither + Jean nor I. But you did. You have always seen what the rest of us did not + see, my bairn—always.” + </p> + <p> + I stammered out a few words, half in a whisper. “I have always seen what + you others could not see? WHAT—HAVE—I—SEEN?” + </p> + <p> + But I was not frightened. I suppose I could never tell any one what + strange, wide, bright places seemed suddenly to open and shine before me. + Not places to shrink back from—oh no! no! One could be sure, then—SURE! + Feargus had lifted his bonnet with that extraordinary triumph in his look—even + Feargus, who had been rather dour. + </p> + <p> + “You called them the White People,” Hector MacNairn said. + </p> + <p> + Angus and Jean had known all my life. A very old shepherd who had looked + in my face when I was a baby had said I had the eyes which “SAW.” It was + only the saying of an old Highlander, and might not have been remembered. + Later the two began to believe I had a sight they had not. The night + before Wee Brown Elspeth had been brought to me Angus had read for the + first time the story of Dark Malcolm, and as they sat near me on the moor + they had been talking about it. That was why he forgot himself when I came + to ask them where the child had gone, and told him of the big, dark man + with the scar on his forehead. After that they were sure. + </p> + <p> + They had always hidden their knowledge from me because they were afraid it + might frighten me to be told. I had not been a strong child. They kept the + secret from my relatives because they knew they would dislike to hear it + and would not believe, and also would dislike me as a queer, abnormal + creature. Angus had fears of what they might do with doctors and severe + efforts to obliterate from my mind my “nonsense,” as they would have been + sure to call it. The two wise souls had shielded me on every side. + </p> + <p> + “It was better that you should go on thinking it only a simple, natural + thing,” Angus said. “And as to natural, what IS natural and what is not? + Man has not learned all the laws of nature yet. Nature’s a grand, rich, + endless thing, always unrolling her scroll with writings that seem new on + it. They’re not new. They were always written there. But they were not + unrolled. Never a law broken, never a new law, only laws read with + stronger eyes.” + </p> + <p> + Angus and I had always been very fond of the Bible—the strange old + temple of wonders, full of all the poems and tragedies and histories of + man, his hates and battles and loves and follies, and of the Wisdom of the + universe and the promises of the splendors of it, and which even those of + us who think ourselves the most believing neither wholly believe nor will + understand. We had pored over and talked of it. We had never thought of it + as only a pious thing to do. The book was to us one of the mystic, + awe-inspiring, prophetic marvels of the world. + </p> + <p> + That was what made me say, half whispering: “I have wondered and wondered + what it meant—that verse in Isaiah: ‘Behold the former things are + come to pass and new things do I declare; before they spring forth I tell + you of them.’ Perhaps it means only the unrolling of the scroll.” + </p> + <p> + “Aye, aye!” said Angus; “it is full of such deep sayings, and none of us + will listen to them.” + </p> + <p> + “It has taken man eons of time,” Hector MacNairn said, thinking it out as + he spoke—“eons of time to reach the point where he is beginning to + know that in every stock and stone in his path may lie hidden some power + he has not yet dreamed of. He has learned that lightning may be commanded, + distance conquered, motion chained and utilized; but he, the one CONSCIOUS + force, has never yet begun to suspect that of all others he may be the one + as yet the least explored. How do we know that there does not lie in each + of us a wholly natural but, so far, dormant power of sight—a power + to see what has been called The Unseen through all the Ages whose + sightlessness has made them Dark? Who knows when the Shadow around us may + begin to clear? Oh, we are a dull lot—we human things—with a + queer, obstinate conceit of ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + “Complete we think we are,” Angus murmured half to himself. “Finished + creatures! And look at us! How many of us in a million have beauty and + health and full power? And believing that the law is that we must crumple + and go to pieces hour by hour! Who’d waste the time making a clock that + went wrong as often? Nay, nay! We shall learn better than this as time + goes on. And we’d better be beginning and setting our minds to work on it. + ‘Tis for us to do—the minds of us. And what’s the mind of us but the + Mind that made us? Simple and straight enough it is when once you begin to + think it out. The spirit of you sees clearer than we do, that’s all,” he + said to me. “When your mother brought you into the world she was listening + to one outside calling to her, and it opened the way for you.” + </p> + <p> + At night Hector MacNairn and his mother and I sat on the terrace under + stars which seemed listening things, and we three drew nearer to one + another, and nearer and nearer. + </p> + <p> + “When the poor mother stumbled into the train that day,” was one of the + things Hector told me, “I was thinking of The Fear and of my own mother. + You looked so slight and small as you sat in your corner that I thought at + first you were almost a child. Then a far look in your eyes made me begin + to watch you. You were so sorry for the poor woman that you could not look + away from her, and something in your face touched and puzzled me. You + leaned forward suddenly and put out your hand protectingly as she stepped + down on to the platform. + </p> + <p> + “That night when you spoke quite naturally of the child, never doubting + that I had seen it, I suddenly began to suspect. Because of The Fear”—he + hesitated—“I had been reading and thinking many things new to me. I + did not know what I believed. But you spoke so simply, and I knew you were + speaking the truth. Then you spoke just as naturally of Wee Brown Elspeth. + That startled me because not long before I had been told the tale in the + Highlands by a fine old story-teller who is the head of his clan. I saw + you had never heard the story before. And yet you were telling me that you + had played with the child.” + </p> + <p> + “He came home and told me about you,” Mrs. MacNairn said. “His fear of The + Fear was more for me than for himself. He knew that if he brought you to + me, you who are more complete than we are, clearer-eyed and nearer, + nearer, I should begin to feel that he was not going—out. I should + begin to feel a reality and nearness myself. Ah, Ysobel! How we have clung + to you and loved you! And then that wonderful afternoon! I saw no girl + with her hand through Mr. Le Breton’s arm; Hector saw none. But you saw + her. She was THERE!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she was there,” I answered. “She was there, smiling up at him. I + wish he could have known.” + </p> + <p> + What does it matter if this seems a strange story? To some it will mean + something; to some it will mean nothing. To those it has a meaning for it + will open wide windows into the light and lift heavy loads. That would be + quite enough, even if the rest thought it only the weird fancy of a queer + girl who had lived alone and given rein to her silliest imaginings. I + wanted to tell it, howsoever poorly and ineffectively it was done. Since I + KNEW I have dropped the load of ages—the black burden. Out on the + hillside my feet did not even feel the grass, and yet I was standing, not + floating. I had no wings or crown. I was only Ysobel out on the hillside, + free! + </p> + <p> + This is the way it all ended. + </p> + <p> + For three weeks that were like heaven we three lived together at + Muircarrie. We saw every beauty and shared every joy of sun and dew and + love and tender understanding. + </p> + <p> + After one lovely day we had spent on the moor in a quiet dream of joy + almost strange in its perfectness, we came back to the castle; and, + because the sunset was of such unearthly radiance and changing wonder we + sat on the terrace until the last soft touch of gold had died out and left + the pure, still, clear, long summer twilight. + </p> + <p> + When Mrs. MacNairn and I went in to dress for dinner, Hector lingered a + little behind us because the silent beauty held him. + </p> + <p> + I came down before his mother did, and I went out upon the terrace again + because I saw he was still sitting there. I went to the stone balustrade + very quietly and leaned against it as I turned to look at him and speak. + </p> + <p> + Then I stood quite still and looked long—for some reason not + startled, not anguished, not even feeling that he had gone. He was more + beautiful than any human creature I had ever seen before. But It had + happened as they said it would. He had not ceased—but something else + had. Something had ceased. + </p> + <p> + It was the next evening before I came out on the terrace again. The day + had been more exquisite and the sunset more wonderful than before. Mrs. + MacNairn was sitting by her son’s side in the bedroom whose windows looked + over the moor. I am not going to say one word of what had come between the + two sunsets. Mrs. MacNairn and I had clung—and clung. We had + promised never to part from each other. I did not quite know why I went + out on the terrace; perhaps it was because I had always loved to sit or + stand there. + </p> + <p> + This evening I stood and leaned upon the balustrade, looking out far, far, + far over the moor. I stood and gazed and gazed. I was thinking about the + Secret and the Hillside. I was very quiet—as quiet as the twilight’s + self. And there came back to me the memory of what Hector had said as we + stood on the golden patch of gorse when the mist had for a moment or so + blown aside, what he had said of man’s awakening, and, remembering all the + ages of—childish, useless dread, how he would stand— I did not + turn suddenly, but slowly. I was not startled in the faintest degree. He + stood there close to me as he had so often stood. + </p> + <p> + And he stood—and smiled. + </p> + <p> + I have seen him many times since. I shall see him many times again. And + when I see him he always stands—and smiles. + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The White People, by Frances Hodgson Burnett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE PEOPLE *** + +***** This file should be named 459-h.htm or 459-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/459/ + +Produced by Charles Keller and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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