Brownlows. Маргарет Олифант

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СКАЧАТЬ she could take. “The child” all this time had to all appearance lain fast asleep under her wraps, with the red cloak laid over her, a childlike, fragile creature. She began to stir at this moment, and her mother’s face cleared as if by magic. She went up to the little hard couch, and murmured her inquiries over it with that indescribable voice which belongs only to doves, and mothers croodling over their sick children. Pamela considered it the most ordinary utterance in the world, and never found out that it was totally unlike the usually almost harsh tones of the same voice when addressing other people. The girl threw off her coverings with a little impatience, and came with tottering steps to the big black easy-chair. The limpid eyes which had struck Jack Brownlow when they gazed wistfully out of the carrier’s cart, were almost too bright, as her color was almost too warm, for the moment; but it was the flush of weakness and sleep, not of fever. She too, like her mother, wore rusty black; but neither that poor and melancholy garb, nor any other disadvantageous circumstance, could impair the sweetness of the young tender face. It was lovely with the sweetness of spring as are the primroses and anemones; dew, and fragrance, and growth, and all the possibilities of expansion, were in her lovely looks. You could not have told what she might not grow to. Seeing her, it was possible to understand the eagerness with which the poor old mother, verging on threescore, counted her chances of a dozen years longer in this life. These dozen years might make all the difference to Pamela; and Pamela was all that she had in the world.

      “You have had a long sleep, my darling. I am sure you feel better,” she said.

      “I feel quite well, mamma,” said the girl; and she sat down and held out her hands to the fire. Then the mother began to talk, and give an account of the conversation she had been holding. She altered it a little, it must be acknowledged. She omitted all Mrs. Swayne’s anxieties about Jack Brownlow, and put various orthodox sentiments into her mouth instead. When she had gone on so for some ten minutes, Pamela, who had been making evident efforts to restrain herself, suddenly opened her red lips with a burst of soft ringing laughter, so that the mother stopped confused.

      “I am afraid it was very naughty,” said the girl; “but I woke up, and I did not want to disturb you, and I could not help listening. Oh, mamma, how clever you are to make up conversation like that. When you know Mrs. Swayne was talking of Mr. John, and was such fun! Why shouldn’t I hear about Mr. John? Because one has been ill, is one never to have any more fun? You don’t expect me to die now?”

      “God forbid!” said the mother. “But what do you know about Mr. John? Mrs. Swayne said nothing—”

      “She said he came a-knocking at the knocker,” Pamela said, with a merry little conscious laugh; “and you asked if he came to ask for Mr. Swayne. I thought I should have laughed out and betrayed myself then.”

      “But, my dear,” said Mrs. Preston, steadily, “why shouldn’t he have come to ask for Mr. Swayne?”

      “Yes, why indeed?” said Pamela, with another merry peal of laughter, which made her mother’s face relax, though she was not herself very sensible wherein the joke lay.

      “Well,” she said, “if he did, or if he didn’t, it does not matter very much to us. We know nothing about Mr. John.”

      “Oh, but I do,” said Pamela; “it was he that was standing by that lady’s chair on the ice—I saw him as plain as possible. I knew him in a minute when he carried me in. Wasn’t it nice and kind of him? and he knew—us;—I am sure he did. Why shouldn’t he come and ask for me? I think it is the most natural thing in the world.”

      “How could he know us?” said Mrs. Preston, wondering. “My darling, now you are growing older you must not think so much about fun. I don’t say it is wrong, but—For you see, you have grown quite a woman now. It would be nice if you could know Miss Sara,” she added, melting; “but she is a little great lady, and you are but a poor little girl—”

      “I must know Miss Sara,” cried Pamela. “We shall see her every day. I want to know them both. We shall be always seeing them any time they go out. I wonder if she is pretty. The lady was, that was in the chair.”

      “How can you see every thing like that, Pamela?” said her mother, with mild reproof. “I don’t remember any lady in a chair.”

      “But I’ve got a pair of eyes,” said Pamela, with a laugh. She was not thinking that they were pretty eyes, but she certainly had a pleasant feeling that they were clear and sharp, and saw every thing and every body within her range of vision. “I like traveling in that cart,” she said, after a moment, “if it were not so cold. It would be pleasant in summer to go jogging along and see every thing—but then, to be sure, in summer there’s no ice, and no nice bright fires shining through the windows. But mamma, please,” the little thing added, with a doubtful look that might be saucy or sad as occasion required, “why are you so dreadfully anxious to find me kind friends?”

      This was said with a little laugh, though her eyes were not laughing; but when she saw the serious look her mother cast upon her, she got up hastily and threw herself down, weak as she was, at the old woman’s knee.

      “Don’t you think if we were to live both as long as we could and then to die both together!” cried the changeable girl, with a sudden sob. “Oh, mamma, why didn’t you have me when you were young, when you had Florry, that we might have lived ever so long, ever so long together? Would it be wrong for me to die when you die? why should it be wrong? God would know what we meant by it. He would know it wasn’t for wickedness. And it would make your mind easy whatever should happen,” cried the child, burying her pretty face in her mother’s lap. Thus the two desolate creatures clung together, the old woman yearning to live, the young creature quite ready at any word of command that might reach her to give up her short existence. They had nobody in the world belonging to them that they knew of, and in the course of nature their companionship could only be so short, so short! And it was not as if God saw only the outside like men. He would know what they meant by it; that was what poor little Pamela thought.

      But she was as lively as a little bird half an hour after, being a creature of a variable mind. Not a magnificent little princess, self-possessed and reflective, like Sara over the way—a little soul full of fancies, and passions, and sudden impulses of every kind—a kitten for fun, a heroine for any thing tragic, such as she, not feared, but hoped, might perhaps fall in her way. And the mother, who understood the passion, did not know very much about either the fun or the fancy, and was puzzled by times, and even vexed when she had no need to be vexed. Mrs. Preston was greatly perplexed even that night after this embrace and the wild suggestion that accompanied it to see how swiftly and fully Pamela’s light heart came back to her. She could not comprehend such a proposal of despair; but how the despair should suddenly flit off and leave the sweetest fair skies of delight and hope below was more than the poor woman could understand. However, the fact was that hope and despair were quite capable of living next door in Pamela’s fully occupied mind, and that despair itself was but another kind of hope when it got into those soft quarters where the air was full of the chirping of birds and the odors of the spring. She could not sing, to call singing, but yet she went on singing all the evening long over her bits of work, and planned drives in Mr. Swayne’s spring-cart, and even in the carrier’s wagon, much more joyfully than Sara ever anticipated the use of her grays. Yet she had but one life, one worn existence, old and shattered by much suffering, between her and utter solitude and destitution. No wonder her mother looked at her with silent wonder, she who could never get this woful possibility out of her mind.

      CHAPTER X.

      AT THE GATE

      It was not to be expected that Sara could be long unconscious of her humble neighbors. She, too, as well as Jack, had seen them in the carrier’s cart; and though Jack had kept his little adventure to himself, Sara had no reason to omit due notice of her encounter. СКАЧАТЬ