The Complete Works of Frances Hodgson Burnett. Frances Hodgson Burnett

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ MacNairn has always seemed more so than any one else. This is what her son once said of her:

      “She is not merely beautiful; she is Beauty—Beauty’s very spirit moving about among us mortals; pure Beauty.”

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      “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.”

      We were walking about among the flowerbeds 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.

      “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.”

      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!

      “Mr. Le Breton!” Mr. MacNairn said in a rather startled tone. “The girl with her hand in his arm?”

      “Yes. You see how fair she is,” I answered.

      “And she has that transparent look. It is so lovely. Don’t you think so? SHE is one of the White People.”

      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.

      “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?”

      “She looks like a white iris herself, doesn’t she?” I said. “Now you know.”

      “Yes; now I know,” he answered.

      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.

      “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?”

      Mrs. MacNairn paused a moment and looked puzzled.

      “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.

      “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.”

      There was a second’s silence before Mrs. MacNairn smilingly gave me one of her light, thrilling touches on my arm.

      “Ah! I remember,” she said. “Hector told me about the White People. He rather fancied I might be one.”

      I am afraid I rather stared at her as I slowly shook my head. You see she was almost one, but not quite.

      “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.”

      CHAPTER VI

      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 faraway 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.

      “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.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ