"I am not going to offer an opinion. You must see and judge for yourself. If I were young, I should like to be under her wing."
Jean looked up at him meditatively.
"I wish we could change places," she said with a sigh. "It must be so delightful to be a man, and to go where you like and do what you like, without any one questioning proprieties. Do you know that Mary and Elsie were both quite shocked that I went to see you in London? Now was it a very dreadful thing to do? Put yourself in my place. What would you have done?"
Colonel Douglas laughed aloud.
"Probably the same as you did, if I were give back my youth again, but at my present age and outlook, I don't think I should have left home at all."
"Ah, you don't know what it is to pant and long to do things that you are forbidden! Not wrong things; I don't think I want to do them; but painting is not a sin, and I cannot keep from it."
It was in this way they walked and talked, Jean doing most of the talking. As they neared the house again, Colonel Douglas said, "Will you take a bit or advice from one who has seen something of the world into which you are going?"
"Of course I will, gladly," was the eager response.
"Seek the best thing first, not last."
"That sounds vague. What is it?"
"The one thing that will bring no disillusion nor bitter disappointment. It must be the genuine thing, not a sham or counterfeit."
Jean raised a puzzled face to the speaker.
"What is it? Fame, I suppose? I am going to work for that."
The Colonel smiled.
"You have a lot to learn. Well, you will be in good hands. Frances Lorraine will be a safe counsellor."
He turned the conversation by asking her about her drawings, and once embarked on the present love of her life, Jean grew eloquent.
She came home in radiant spirits.
"Elsie," she said, as the maid came into her room with a message, "Colonel Douglas is the very nicest man I have ever seen. He is the only man I know that listens and doesn't talk!"
A NEW LIFE
"I am young, happy, and free.I can devote myself: I have a lifeTo give."—Browning.
IT was five o'clock in the afternoon, and the end of April. A cab with luggage was threading its way along Knightsbridge. As it approached Kensington Gardens, and the fresh green of the trees formed a refreshing contrast to the rows of buildings just passed, an eager young face looked out.
It was Jean on her way to her new home, and she was in an excited frame of mind.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "I am glad London has no marshland! How I love trees! And how few I have seen in my life."
Then she laughed at her thought.
"To come to London to see trees! What would Londoners say?"
The cab moved on through the busy thoroughfares and then suddenly turned down a quiet side street. When it stopped, and Jean jumped out, she found herself in front of a small old-fashioned terrace facing a green square; balconies were outside the upper windows; it reminded her of seaside lodgings, and she gazed at her surroundings with eager interest.
The door was opened by a neat servantmaid, who took her through a dark hall, up a narrow staircase, and ushered her into a quaint drawing-room. But though the room was rich in foreign curiosities, old lacquered screens, and rare china, Jean's eyes were fixed on the centre of it all—an unpretentious, quiet little lady seated at her tea-table.
She rose, and came forward at once.
"I am very glad to see you. You will be glad of a cup of tea. Come and sit down."
Jean's face brightened. The words were not much, but the handclasp was firm and true, and the tone brightness itself.
Miss Lorraine carried with her everywhere the impression of sincerity and truth; her blue eyes sought her friends' faces with compelling persuasion and goodwill. They seemed to say, "I see through you and all your outside artificiality, and I like you."
The consequence was she was a general favourite. Her plain-spoken words were always accompanied with a humorous smile that made the truth palatable. A well-known hostess in society said of her once, "Frances Lorraine is a living wonder. She tells the truth to every one, and yet gives no offence. She is the only person in town that can do it."
When Jean was sipping her tea, her eyes found time to look round her. After the large stately rooms at her grandfather's this was a welcome change. It was essentially a living-room, the well-worn books lying about, the work-table, the business-like writing-desk, all testified to that fact; but the fragrant flowers and well-cared-for ferns, the choice pictures and numerous pretty knick-knacks, bespoke the owner's refinement and good taste. A rough-haired Irish terrier sat up with ears erect and eager eyes watching his mistress's every movement. Jean put down her hand and patted him.
"I'm so glad you have a dog," she said.
"You are fond of them? Doughty and I have lived together for many years. It is good to have a silent friend who receives confidences but never passes them on."
Jean pondered over this. Then she looked up and encountered Miss Lorraine's kind blue eyes.
Impulsively she put her cup down and exclaimed, "Oh, Miss Lorraine, I hope you will like me and help me. I am taking a step in the dark, and London is an unknown place to me. Colonel Douglas said you would advise me. Do begin at once. I am longing, bursting, to be at work!"
"We won't waste time, I assure you. London is the place for those who don't like waiting. Everything is rushed."
"You are laughing at me."
"No, I am not. In ten minutes, I can tell you all you want to know, and then you will like to go upstairs to your room, will you not? Now I conclude from what I have heard, that a School of Art is the best place for you at present. You have never received any lessons, have you?"
"Never."
"Pick out your best sketches, and to-morrow morning we will go and get the first interview over. If you are advanced enough to be put into the life model class, you will be told so at once. If you have to start from the bottom of the ladder, and be put with beginners, I suppose you will be equally willing."
"Yes," said Jean promptly. "I don't mind what I have to do. I shall love it all. Can I go to the Art School easily from here?"
"Quite easily. It is within a walk, if you are a good walker, and I would advise you for the good of your health to take as much exercise as possible. Doughty and I walk a great deal. Hansoms are expensive, omnibuses stuffy, and I would rather pay a shoemaker's bill than a doctor's any day!"
"Will attending a School of Art be expensive?" asked Jean. "How many years do you think it will be before I can start a studio of my own?"
Miss Lorraine shook her head and laughed.
"An old music master of mine used to be very fond of this saying: 'The top of the tree is not jumped at!' How long will your patience and perseverance last? Have you a good stock of those necessary and useful virtues?"
"I don't think I have a stock of anything," Jean replied, "except wishes, and I've crowds and crowds of them!"
"They are the handle to the saw. Now, shall we come upstairs? I don't think you will find this School of Art at all beyond your means."
Jean followed her hostess up to a cosy-looking room above the drawing-room. A good-sized table and easy chair were drawn up to one of the windows which overlooked the square.
"You will want to get away from me sometimes," said Miss Lorraine with a smile, "so I hope you will have space to read or write. I advise you to keep your painting entirely for your school."
Then resting her hand lightly on the girl's shoulder, she added with much feeling—
"My dear child, I mean to take the best care of you that I can without worrying you. Use me as you like. As a safety valve, if you are in need of one; as an 'Inquire Within' or directory or a modest encyclopedia. I am quite sure that we shall be happy together. Later on, you shall tell me as little or as much as you like about yourself. I am very interested in you."
Jean's eyes filled with sudden tears.
"I have never had any one take an interest in me," she said; "at least not since I left school. And do you know, it is only since I have grown-up, that I have begun to miss my mother."
Miss Lorraine stooped and kissed her and Jean laid her head on her pillow that night without a fear for the future, or a shadow of regret for the step she had taken.
The next few months were rosy ones to her. She plunged into her beloved art with an energy and dogged perseverance that astonished Miss Lorraine. She could talk of, and think of, nothing else. Art and artists were all the world to her. She read and studied when not employed with her brush, any books that she could get hold of, provided they bore the stamp and impress of Art. Other subjects did not interest her.
Miss Lorraine watched her with some amusement and a little concern.
"Don't live your life so fast," she would say to her. "You will get to the end of it too soon. Enlarge your borders."
And when Jean would wax indignant at the idea of her borders being confined and narrow, Miss Lorraine would shake her head wisely, but say no more.
Jean made many friends, and when not actually painting, visited a good many picture galleries and studios. When the hot months of summer came, she went into the country with a young couple to whom she was devoted, a Mr. and Mrs. Blake. They were both of them rising artists, and had taken a fancy to the impulsive, earnest-hearted girl. Miss Lorraine at first demurred, but when she had made inquiries amongst her numerous friends, and discovered that the Blakes were steady and quietly disposed, she gave her consent, and Jean came back to her in the autumn with roses in her cheeks and a light in her eyes which bore testimony to the good it had done her.
One afternoon, Colonel Douglas dropped in to tea. Jean was gazing dreamily out of the window, and did not notice his arrival.
She announced thoughtfully—
"I used to think that beautiful faces and figures have been the highest ideals in Art; but my eyes been opened this summer. I think nature itself without them is better."
"Hear! Hear!"
Jean turned hastily.
"Oh, Colonel Douglas, is it you? Do you agree?"
"Yes, I think I do. I see you have enjoyed your country jaunt."
"Oh, so much!"
Jean turned round from the window with an eager, glowing face—
"I have been down to Devonshire, Colonel Douglas. I have never seen such delicious haunts before. Every square inch of Devonshire ground seems rich in beauty. I suppose it is my home having been amongst the flat, monotonous marshes that makes the hills and dales in Devonshire such a delight. It has made me wonder why artists spend the greater part of the year in town."
"I think you will find that landscape painters are oftener out of town than in it. How is your painting getting on? Is it a success? Is life satisfying you?"
"Oh yes! Everything is perfect, except my own productions, but I am getting on, am I not?" She appealed to Miss Lorraine.
"Yes, your friends the Blakes told me you were considered to have real talent."
"And," said Jean, standing up and clasping her hands behind her, and addressing herself to the Colonel, "the next step is Paris!"
Colonel Douglas's amused look died away. His face fell. Then he glanced at Miss Lorraine, who was in the act of pouring him out a second cup of tea. She looked at him gravely in response.
"I have heard a good deal about Paris lately," she said.
The Colonel shook his head at Jean.
"Oh, you young people! Nothing satisfies you! You have not been in London a year yet, and now you want to leave it!"
"Not directly. I am going to work hard all this winter, but the Blakes are going to Paris next spring, and they want me to go with them. They are going to a studio there, and I can join them. I do hope you approve. I feel," here she laughed merrily, "that you are a kind of guardian to me."
"I do not approve of Paris," said the Colonel shortly.
"Oh, please do! I must go there. It is an education, and I can afford it. I have talked over ways and means with the Blakes. All artists drift off to Paris. I shall not take up my abode there. If Miss Lorraine is not tired of me, I shall return to her. But perhaps I shall have painted a picture by that time that will bring me money and fame."
She looked somewhat wistfully at the Colonel.
Though she saw him seldom she valued his good opinion, and she felt that her Paris scheme had been a distinct shock to him.
"I saw your grandfather yesterday," Colonel Douglas said.
"Did you?" Jean responded in an indifferent tone. She was disappointed that the Colonel purposely changed the subject.
"He was full of animation over a young cousin of his, the son of a man who died in Australia. He has invited him to take up his quarters with him, and told me he intended making him his heir."
"I am so glad," Jean said cheerfully. "I shall like to think that there will be some young life in that stagnant place. He is a man, so he will be able to come and go. And now I must say goodbye, Colonel Douglas, for I promised to go to see a friend of mine—an art student who is ill."
She left the room, and there was silence for a few minutes. Colonel Douglas put his empty cup down on the tea tray, then took up his favourite position on the hearthrug with his back to the fire. His keen eyes roved over the dainty old-fashioned room, and then at last rested on Miss Lorraine's face with an amused tenderness in their gaze. "Your duckling is about to take to the water," he said.
Miss Lorraine looked up at him with a smile. "Yes," she said. "I want your advice. What am I to do? I have not full control over her. She is so wilfully determined about this, that I have thought it wiser not to object. She is a dear warm-hearted child, but at present her whole heart and soul is in her art. And, of course, she is influenced by those with whom she is so much."
"Will they make a real artist of her?"
"Ah! That is the question. I have had a long talk with one of the masters who is interested in her. He says she has talent, perhaps genius; yet he does not think she will do anything great. But who would have the heart to say that to her? She is so buoyant and hopeful about the future, so perfectly happy with her taste of Bohemian life!"
"She must buy her experience," Colonel Douglas said. "You will have to let her go to Paris."
Then he gave a little sigh. "I want your advice, Frances. It always rests me to come here and have a chat with you. I told you about the widow of my old friend Thompson?"
"Yes," said Miss Lorraine brightly. "How is she getting on? You have helped her a good deal. Are her boys doing well?"
"Yes. Alf is getting on in old Grand's office; and the younger, Bob, is articled to a lawyer. It is their mother whom I am anxious about. She is not strong, and has not the means to buy the nourishing food she needs. I have been in the habit of taking her down little trifles now and then, and sometimes sending a small hamper to her, but—"
He hesitated and a dull flush mounted to his cheek. "Certain uncharitable people have been annoying her by foolish remarks, and she has begged me to visit her less frequently and send her nothing more. I wondered if I could still befriend her through you."
Miss Lorraine looked at him with a funny little smile.
"Poor Benefactor!" she said. "I know how difficult your path must be sometimes! Of course, I shall be only too glad to be your almoner. I know Mrs. Thompson a little, and my visits will be beyond any suspicions or surmises."
"Thank you," the Colonel said heartily, and then for the next half-hour, he sat talking over his various protégés and plans for befriending the needy and destitute.
Miss Lorraine listened and advised, and when he went at last, sat back in her chair with a long-drawn sigh and smile.
"Doughty," she said, caressing her dog, "Platonic friendship is possible, when it is deep and real."
Then she sat dreamily gazing into the fire, and her thoughts went back to another autumn day about ten years before, when she and Colonel Douglas had been standing together in the firelight alone. He had pleaded very earnestly, and all the sunshine in her life seemed to slip away, when she told him it could not be. She gave him no reasons; a delicate mother who had taken an unreasonable dislike to the Colonel had come between them. Her duty as a devoted daughter came first, and Colonel Douglas, with the extreme diffidence of his nature, took his dismissal as final. He went abroad to get over it, and returned a quiet grave man, who after a few interviews with her, slipped into the role of an old family friend. She had kept her friend, but lost her lover.
DISILLUSION
"To know the world, not love her is thy point:She gives but little, nor that little long."
WINTER passed. Jean studied hard at her beloved art, spending her leisure time in seeing her various friends and being initiated into Bohemian society. Miss Lorraine did not often interfere with her. Jean was intolerant of any criticism on her friends, but once Miss Lorraine seriously remonstrated.
"Jean," she said, "who was that man you were walking with, when I met you out to-day?"
"He is a great friend of Mr. Blake's-Herbert L'Estrange. He has just had a picture accepted for the Academy. He has been helping me lately. I never knew any one get such rich effects in colour as he does. You would like him, if you knew him, Miss Lorraine."
"Is he French or English?"
"A little of both. His father was French, and he was brought up in France. He is such a well-read man, not like many of them, who never read at all, and he is very fond of poetry. It is strange how he and I like the same authors."
Jean's tone was eager and her face flushed. Miss Lorraine looked keenly at her.
"He does not look prepossessing, Jean. Did the Blakes introduce him to you?"
"I am sure I do not remember. He is coming with us to Paris. I meet him everywhere. I think he is so intellectual looking. He may not be handsome, but if you knew him as I do, you would not mind his looks."
"Jean, dear," Miss Lorraine said kindly, "take a word of caution from me in good part. You have no mother, and an artist's life is full of dangers. Be careful, very careful, whom you make your friends. You will find, as your life goes on, that there are many people whose influence and friendship will hurt instead of help you."
Jean's eyes flashed.
"Mr. L'Estrange does not deserve this. You cannot understand my friends, Miss Lorraine; I do not expect you to. Mr. L'Estrange is a gentleman, and he never forgets it. He and I have mutual likes and dislikes, we have both suffered from our relations on account of art. He is a genius, and I am honoured by his friendship."
"He may be a genius and all that you say, but I do not think he is a good man. It is not often that I speak so strongly, but I know I am a good reader of faces, and his—. I can only say it does not read well."
"You are prejudiced and uncharitable."
Jean dashed out of the room, and Miss Lorraine sighed. When the spring came, the girl went to Paris. She wrote at first pretty frequently; then her letters flagged, finally ceased altogether, and Miss Lorraine took counsel with the Colonel about her.
"It sometimes strikes me, how strangely we are brought into contact with one another," she said, with a little laugh. "Here are you and I worrying ourselves over a girl who has no particular claim upon us, and who resents our interference in her affairs. Shall we put her out of our lives, and let her, as you say, buy her experience?"
The Colonel looked into the fire with knitted brow.
"I am responsible for her leaving her home," he said. "I should never forgive myself, if she came to grief in any way. Write to her continually, Frances, whether she replies or not. Let her see you mean to keep a hold over her. Write to Mrs. Blake."
"I have, but she does not answer. However, I know Jean is in good health, for my friend Miss Greer saw her working at the Louvre the other day."
"Did she speak to her?"
"Just for a few minutes. Jean was not communicative."
"We cannot put her out of our lives," the Colonel went on seriously. "She has been brought into them with a purpose."
Miss Lorraine smiled.
"I was not in earnest, Philip. I know she is one of your big family, and for that reason alone, I shall always take an interest in her. She has much to learn, but there is, if I am not mistaken, a capability and individuality which will never rest until much is learnt."
"May the Great Teacher take her in hand," said the Colonel musingly.
Miss Lorraine took her friend's advice. She wrote to Jean regularly and continuously through all the summer months. Once she had a short, hurried letter.
And then in October, Jean came back to her. She was sitting at her tea on a wet and stormy afternoon. Doughty was by her side. She had been out to see a sick woman in her district, and had come home tired and a little depressed. Leaning back in her chair, she was meditating upon the suffering in some lives and the impossibility to relieve it, when the door burst open, and Jean almost threw herself into her arms.
"Will you have me, Miss Lorraine? I am sick of everything, and I've come back to you!"
Miss Lorraine kissed her affectionately.
"I knew I had not lost you," she said, and then she made her sit down, and would hear nothing, till she had had some tea and had lost some of the tired lines in her young face.
She was looking very pretty, and had a certain indescribable French daintiness about her that had evidently been acquired in Paris.
"I am dying to tell you everything!" she said. "Don't have lights, let me tell you in the dusk."
So, when the maid had removed the tea things, Jean sat down on the rug and rested her head against Hiss Lorraine's knee. But she did not speak for some minutes, and when she did all eagerness had vanished from her tone.
"I have been doing a lot of thinking lately," she began slowly. "Why is it, I wonder, that artists in their love and appreciation of all that is beautiful seem to fail in—well—in moral beauty? Their lives don't correspond with their creed. Why should art, which ought to be such an ennobling pursuit, be attended on all sides by such enervating, demoralising effects?"
Miss Lorraine was silent. Then after a pause, she said—
"It is too often mere eye worship, perhaps."
"I am sick of it all!"
Jean's tone was vehement and bitter.
She went on—
"I haven't a friend left! Every one has failed and disappointed me."
"What about the Blakes?"
Jean looked uncomfortable.
"I have parted with them as friends. I am sorry for him, very, but I never wish to see her again. He is miserable, and she makes him so. I don't wish to tell tales of other people, Miss Lorraine, but her head has been turned by a—a horrid man. I don't think she means any harm, but she is for ever with him, and he is painting a picture with her. Do you remember how I told you the Blakes painted their pictures together?—she putting the landscape in, and her husband the figures? This man has taken her husband's place; he puts in his figures, and she paints the background. I hate his figures, and I hate his models. Mrs. Blake laughed, and told me I was prudish, but other people, as well as I, dislike Monsieur Tillôt's work. Oh, I can't tell you all; but I have felt lately that I will never touch a paint-brush again. The accessories of art in Paris have sickened me!"
Miss Lorraine listened. She knew she had not heard all, nor arrived at the true cause of Jean's distaste for her Bohemian life.
Then she asked very quietly—
"And has Mr. L'Estrange disappointed you?"
Jean gave a little shiver, and buried her hot cheeks in Miss Lorraine's gown.
"If I don't tell you to-night, I never shall," she said, with a note of desperation in her tone.
Then she blurted out bluntly—
"He—he never rested, till he made me like him, and two days ago—is it? It seems a year—I found out, he was a married man."
"My poor little Jean!"
Miss Lorraine put her hand softly on her head. And then the tired, excited girl burst into a passion of tears.
"I never wish to see any of them again!" she sobbed. "Every one seems a lie and a fraud, and Paris is a hateful city. It seems to make every one vile? Fancy his wife coming to me! A little half-starved woman supporting herself by needlework, and he—oh, I can't tell you! I will never, never believe in any one again!"
Much more she said in the dusky twilight, and though Miss Lorraine's heart ached for the girl's distress, she could not but be thankful that she had not sunk under the demoralising influence of her Parisian life.
When dinner-time came, Jean recovered herself, but her white cheeks and dark circles round her eyes told of her fatigue.
She talked of other matters for the rest of the evening, but when bed-time came, she put her arms round Miss Lorraine's neck.
"If I had not had you to come to, what should I have done? I knew you would receive me, though I have behaved so badly. I have been infatuated all the summer, and now I seem like Marius among the ruins! I said to myself, 'I will go back to her; it would be bliss to be one of her servants, for I should feel so safe!'"
And when Miss Lorraine had given her a good-night kiss and retired to her own room that evening, she thanked God that she had been able to preserve the link unbroken between this impetuous young girl and herself.
Jean was very quiet for the next few days. She unpacked her things, and settled down into Miss Lorraine's even, regular life. But when visitors arrived in the afternoon, she slipped away to her own room.
"I don't want to see anybody," she said; "not even Colonel Douglas."
Miss Lorraine respected her wish. She knew that she needed time and quiet to recover the mental shock that she had received.
And Jean's strong vigorous nature would not be suppressed for long. Of that she felt positively certain.
One afternoon, Miss Lorraine came in, and found Jean lying back in an easy chair with "Aurora Leigh" in her hand.
She dropped the book on the floor, and clasped her hands behind her head.
Looking up at her friend she said, with some of the old mischievous light in her eyes—
"Poets are shams, are they not? They dress everything up in such beautiful language that you begin to think that life is a beautiful thing after all, instead of being such a hollow delusion as it is!"
"You remind me of the story of the chaffinch, who built her nest upon a rotten branch of an old elm. When a storm came, it fell, and her nest was a ruin. 'Ah,' she said to a group of sympathising birds who gathered around her, 'let this be a lesson to you, not to trust to trees. They look so strong but they're all sham, rotten through and through. They were never meant to bear the weight of a nest!'"
Jean smiled, and then shook her head.
"I am not going to build again, Miss Lorraine. My life is ruined. My art was my god, and like Dagon it has fallen, and has broken into a thousand pieces!"
"May all such gods fall!" said Miss Lorraine gravely.
Jean looked at her in astonishment.
"That sounds like a curse. Do you hate art, Miss Lorraine?"
"No, but it ought not to be raised up as a god."
Jean was silent. Then she said suddenly—
"What is to become of me? What am I to do with my life?"
This egotistical question was not answered, for, visitors were announced, and they proved to be Colonel Douglas and his sister, Mrs. Talbot. Jean for an instant looked as if she meditated flight, then she thought better of it. She had seen the Colonel several times, and though she had not told him as much as she told Miss Lorraine, he knew pretty well what had caused her sudden return. He had had several long discussions with Miss Lorraine, and had now come with a formulated plan in his head for Jean's welfare.
The conversation was general for a time, then Mrs. Talbot said suddenly—
"Frances, I am come to ask a favour. I want Jean to take pity on me. I have promised a great friend of mine to send some one down to paint a picture of her little girl, and I can find no one to do it. Everybody seems too busy. It must be a lady, as she wants her to stay in the house, and it is her fastidiousness on this point that makes my task so difficult. Would Jean undertake it? My brother thought it possible she might."
Miss Lorraine looked across at Jean with a little smile.
"Well, Jean, speak for yourself."
"I have given up painting," Jean said shortly.
"But I heard from some one who knows you that you are so good at children's faces," said Mrs. Talbot persuasively. "And this child is a true artist's subject. She is a lovely little thing, I believe, but chained to her couch. It is her mother's greatest grief, for she is a hopeless cripple."
"I am not good enough at portrait painting to go," said Jean, but she seemed to be wavering.
"Mrs. Gordon is not particular. As long as you make a pretty picture of her child, she will be satisfied."
"Where do they live?"
"In Scotland. I am sure you will be happy there. It is a delightful old house to stay in."
"Think it over, Jean," said Colonel Douglas. "I am going to Scotland myself next week to shoot, and if you liked the idea, we could travel down together."
"We were just talking over winter plans when you came in," Miss Lorraine remarked. "I was hoping to have Jean with me, but I will spare her willingly, if she likes to go. It seems a chance for her."
"A chance for what?" asked Jean quickly, and a little rebelliously.
"For doing a kindness to others," the Colonel said gravely.
Jean looked at him in silence, and then a twinkle came into her eyes.
"You always think everybody is like yourself, Colonel Douglas. I don't live for others as you do, but entirely for myself."
"You mustn't make such a confession," said Mrs. Talbot, laughing. "We keep such facts to ourselves. There are very few people in the world who are able to be entirely selfish. Our circumstances and our families generally step in and spoil such a rôle."
"What a blessing they do!" Miss Lorraine remarked.
Jean said no more.
Two days afterwards, she asked Miss Lorraine to come out and shop with her.
"If I go to this place, I shall want some warm things," she said. "I have always heard that Scotland is like the Arctic Regions in winter."
Miss Lorraine responded at once. As they were walking towards the shops Jean said—
"Do you think me weak in changing my mind so soon? I meant to give it all up, but in spite of all that I have been through, I feel a longing to be at work again."
"My dear child, I am so glad to hear you say so. Your Paris experience was unfortunate, but it isn't your art that is to blame."
"No," said Jean. "You take Ruskin's view that it can be a great moral teacher. But why is it not? There must be something wrong somewhere."
"Every gift that is given to us can either be used for good or evil, I believe," said Miss Lorraine gently.
"I had a friend once who was a Dutch painter, and what do you think he used to say? 'Either God or the devil holds the painter's brush.' It seems strong language, but I believe he had got hold of a great truth. It applies to every talent that is given to us. Take music, or literature. It is just the same. We think we are so strong and independent, but in reality our lives and actions are being shaped by one or other of the two great powers. If the Prince of this World holds our brush, our pen, our voice, then our talent will further his cause."
Miss Lorraine was a reserved woman, and did not often touch on serious subjects. Jean listened, and was impressed.
"But, Miss Lorraine," she said hesitatingly, "that seems a crude statement. I daren't say that God influences my actions, but I would be horrified to think that the devil did."
"From the power of Satan unto God."
Miss Lorraine seemed to murmur the words rather than say them.
It was a strange prelude to shopping, but Jean had much to feed her thoughts that morning, in addition to her purchases.
She was very busy for the next few days, and very sorry when the time came to part with her friend.
"Promise me," she said impulsively, "that if I make a mess of this second step of mine, that you will receive me back with just as warm a welcome as you have done now. I am making a fresh start, but I don't feel so sure of myself as I did before, nor yet so young!"
"Lesson number one," said Miss Lorraine to herself, as she gave the promise required.
SUNNIE
"A . . . face, with its sweet spirit smiles,Babe wonderings, and little tender ways."* * * * *"She brought Heaven to us just within the spaceOf the dear depths of her large dream-like eyes."—Gerald Massey."Would I might give thee back, my little one,But half the good that I have got from thee!"—H. Coleridge.
IT was a cold grey afternoon, when Jean arrived at her destination. She had travelled with Colonel Douglas as far as Edinburgh, then they parted company and she proceeded alone. In spite of her wraps and a well-heated carriage, Jean got colder and colder, and when at last she stepped out of the train, and encountered a bitter icy north wind which seemed to pierce her very bones, her spirits failed her entirely. It was a tiny station; bleak bare hills surrounded it, and no one seemed to be expecting her. She sorted out her luggage, and spoke to the stationmaster, who looked her up and down very thoughtfully.
"Ye'll be goin' up to Strathglen ye say? There be no carriage. I havna heard tell o' yer appearance."
This seemed to Jean to be the height of impertinence. She walked away from him and called a porter.
"Can you get me any conveyance to take me to Mrs. Gordon's?" she asked, and her voice faltered in spite of herself.
The man rubbed his chin meditatively, but made no reply.
"How far is it?" asked Jean impatiently. "Can I walk there?"
"I'll no be sayin' ye couldna, but 'tis ower lang for a delicate body."
"How many miles?"
"Weel, 'tis a mile an' a wee bit to St. Andrew's Cross, an' twa mile as the crow flies to Dyke Farm; but ye must allow for the steep descent to the Old Man's Head, an' 'twill be near on a mile after ye cross the turn pike—"
Jean turned away from him sharply, for she heard the sound of wheels.
A high dog-cart swung up in style, and out of it, sprang a tall broad-shouldered man in thick ulster and cap. Giving the reins to a groom, he came swiftly out upon the platform and lost no time in greeting Jean.
"Is it Miss Desmond? I am very sorry to be late in welcoming you. Mrs. Gordon was in such trouble to-day over her coachman, who is very ill, that she was prevented from sending her brougham. As I had to come to the station to fetch a parcel, I told her, I would meet you, but I have been delayed on the road. I am afraid you have had a long cold journey."
Jean was glad to meet with one man who could move and speak briskly. In a few minutes, her modest luggage was piled in the back of the cart, and she herself, with a fur rug tucked well round her, was perched up in front with the driver.
As they drove away, she said with energy—
"I was just feeling that I could give them all a good shaking."
Her companion looked down upon her with much amusement.
"You mustn't try to hurry a Scot," he said. "It can't be done."
Jean did not answer. She wondered who he was, and then the biting wind driving full in her face, turned her thoughts upon herself. She looked around her. A few grey stone cottages scattered here and there, wide stretches of bleak moorland, and a straight highroad. Was this the romantic and picturesque country she had read about in her favourite Sir Walter Scott's poems and novels? She gave an involuntary shudder.
"Are you very cold?" her companion asked her, cheerfully. "It is a long drive, and not a very pretty one."
"I was wishing," said Jean suddenly, "that I could find myself back in Kensington again, having a cup of tea before a roaring fire."
"I am sorry Scotland is so ungracious to you; but be thankful you have not arrived in a snow blizzard."
"Is it all as ugly and bleak as this?" asked Jean, bluntly.
"What do you consider beautiful? Houses and streets? You will get few of them in this part of the world."
Jean winced under his tone.
"I thought Scotland was rich in mountains and wooded valleys. We have hardly passed a tree. It reminds me of the Essex marshes where I spent most of my childhood."
"Oh, if it is trees you are wanting, we shall be able to give you those. Do you see against the sky line that belt of firs? That is the beginning of the Strathglen property."
"Does it all belong to Mrs. Gordon?" Jean asked, with interest.
"Yes, and to her poor mite of a daughter at her death. It is a fine heritage for her. The pity of it is, that she can only enjoy so little of it. Her world is bounded by her view from her window at present."
"Does the child never go out?"
"In the summer she can be wheeled out. She is a hopeless little invalid, and will never be strong."
"How sad!"
For a moment, Jean forgot herself in the thought of such a fate.
Presently she asked quietly—
"Do you mind telling me who you are? Do you live at Strathglen?"
The stranger laughed.
"I ought to have introduced myself. I am nobody particular. I am Mrs. Gordon's first cousin, and am her general adviser, confidant, and physician. I live about three miles off, and consider Sunnie my favourite patient. I hope you will find her an interesting subject. Her mother is very keen about her picture."
"I will do my best," said Jean. Then she relapsed into silence. They drove on, reached the fir-wood, and now their road lay right through the midst of it. Jean roused herself out of her torpor, when she saw the sun setting like a ball of fire behind the pines. It marked with its red-gold rays, the outline of the slender sterns, and seemed to be running like liquid gold along the carpet of brown cones underfoot.
"Oh how lovely!" she exclaimed. "Please drive slowly."
But her companion never slackened the speed of his horse.
"You are too cold to wait about. We have only a couple of miles to do now."
They passed a frozen lake, then climbed a steep hill, and turned in at some lodge gates, up a long avenue of chestnuts, and finally drew up before a sombre old grey stone building. It was too dark to distinguish much. When Jean found her feet, she could hardly stand, and the sudden blaze and warmth of a richly lighted square hall, dazzled and confused her. She was ushered into the drawing-room, where two ladies sat over their tea by the fire. The elder of these came forward.
"Miss Desmond, I expect? I am so sorry you have had such a cold drive. Come to the fire."
She was a tall, commanding-looking woman, handsome still, though she was no longer young, but her expression was cold, almost stern, and her face, in repose, seemed like a block of stone.
Her companion was her niece, by name Meta Worth. She was a girl of Jean's own age, and was a pretty, graceful little thing.
"Isn't Leslie coming in?" she asked.
"No," Mrs. Gordon replied. "He has sent a message in to say that he must get back. I wish I could have sent the brougham for you, Miss Desmond, but the horses are fresh, and I do not like the groom to drive them. My coachman is laid up with a shocking cold."
"It did not matter at all, thank you," said Jean. "Though it was very cold, we had one lovely picture to compensate for it—the sun setting behind some pine-woods."
"Did it warm you up?" asked Meta.
Jean looked straight at her, then laughed.
"Yes, mentally it did. It gave me something to think about, besides myself and my feelings."
"Sit down by the fire, and have a cup of tea," Meta said, drawing a low chair close to her own.
Jean obeyed. The cup of tea Mrs. Gordon handed her was cold and flavourless. But she was one of those people who fail to produce a good cup of tea, however nice their materials may be for doing it.
Jean sat in the firelight, feeling strange and rather forlorn. She was glad, after a little desultory conversation, to be asked by Mrs. Gordon to come upstairs and see her small daughter.
She was too cold and tired to notice the handsome old staircase they ascended, but as they trod a long corridor, the sound of a piano met her ear. Mrs. Gordon pushed aside a heavy curtain, and then as Jean followed her, a picture imprinted itself at once upon her artist's soul.
An old panelled room in the twilight; a blazing log fire throwing its ruddy light upon a velvet couch drawn up beside it; and nestling amongst the cushions, partially covered by a great fur rug, the loveliest little child that Jean had ever seen. Her hair was of that uncommon colour, a pure rich gold without a tint of red in it; her eyes a dark clear grey with long black curling lashes. Her small, delicately cut oval face and features seemed very white in the firelight, but as she caught sight of her mother and Jean, a faint pink flush rose in her cheeks, making her look perfectly lovely. For an instant, her sensitive little mouth quivered, then she straightened herself, and lying back in an easier position, she put up her arms behind her head, and resting it on her clasped hands, she turned her earnest eyes with a steady penetrating gaze upon Jean.
"Go on, cousin Leslie," she said imperatively in her clear, ringing tones. "Now she is come. Describe her on the piano."
Jean impulsively went down on her knees by the couch.
"Will you give me a kiss? We shall be friends, I know."
The child looked at her, then held up her small finger, with a pretty mixture of shyness and audacity.
"Hush! Listen to cousin Leslie's story. We have had the cold wind, and the shivering young lady with the big rug round her, and the trot, trot, trot of the horse's hoofs, and the wood fairies pattering among the brown dead leaves, and then the wind stopping, and the big red sun blazing out, and sinking, sinking in a quiet sad way to sleep; then the fir-trees moan, and the frogs croak, and trot, trot, trot goes the horse, and the iron gates clang, and the chestnuts shake themselves awake to see who comes, and knock, knock at the door, then we were just having the buzz, buzz of talk in the drawing-room over tea cups when you came in. Now, Cousin Leslie, finish it; tell me what she is like, and I'll kiss her!"
But "Cousin Leslie" got up from the piano.
"You see what she is like, Sunnie. I must be off."
"I see what she looks like, but I want you to tell me what she really is!"
"Take me on trust," said Jean, with hot cheeks, yet with a twinkle of humour in her eye. "I am not a wolf in sheep's clothing."
The little girl drew down her hands and held them out.
"Kiss me, and love me," she said.
And Jean found no trouble in doing both.
"I thought you had gone home, Leslie," said Mrs. Gordon, turning to her cousin.
"That was my intention, but a message came from Her Highness, that I was to come to her. What could I do, but obey?"
"Come and have a cup of tea."
"No, thank you; I must be going. Good-night, Sunnie!"
He bent over the couch, and Jean instantly retreated into the background.
She saw that her driver was not so young as she had at first imagined. His hair was slightly streaked with grey, he had thick black eyebrows, which gave a sternness to his somewhat rugged features, and a dark moustache. Though not exactly a handsome man, he was a striking one, and there was power and force in his face, which now, as he bent over the invalid child, was softened and full of gentle humour.
"Sunnie," as she was called, put up her face for a kiss, which was instantly given, then she said, in her sweet, peremptory tone—
"Now bend your head for your blessing."
Down went the dark head immediately, and two little hands were clasped across it.
"God bless you to-night, and give you sleep, and keep you good! Amen!"
Jean furtively glanced at Mrs. Gordon to see how she was taking this.
She was standing on the other side of the wide fireplace, one hand grasping the high over-mantel, and her eyes were fixed intently on her child. Not a glimmer of a smile, not a softened line in her immovable face. Yet when Dr. Fergusson turned and held out his hand to her, her eyes smiled, if her lips did not.
"Good-night. Come to lunch on Sunday, if you can."
"If I can. May I be properly introduced to this young lady?"
"Of course. Do you not know each other's names? Miss Desmond, this is my cousin, Dr. Leslie Fergusson."
Jean smiled up at him.
"Thank you for the care you took of me."
"I hope you will see Scotland in a pleasanter humour to-morrow. Good-night."
He was gone, and again, Jean turned to the couch.
Sunnie smiled up at her.
"I shall take you as my friend," she remarked, with an old-fashioned air. "Cousin Leslie likes you."
"I am going to take Miss Desmond to her room, Sunnie. You will not see her again to-night. Where is nurse?"
"Coming, mem."
Through the folding doors at the farther end of the room came a pleasant-faced elderly woman in white cap and apron.
"Good-night, Miss Desmond," Sunnie said, in her clear, sweet, little voice. "Nurse and I are going to play a game of draughts, and then I'm going to bed, because I want to-morrow to come quick. You're going to paint my picture, and I'm longing to see how you do it!"
As Jean left the room she turned enthusiastically to the mother.
"I wonder you have not had her painted before. What a lovely study she will make, and what a fascinating child!"
"I am glad you are pleased with her."
Even Jean's warm-hearted praise did not seem to stir Mrs. Gordon from her strange calm. She took her to a very comfortable bedroom with a cheerful fire, and left her there.
"She doesn't deserve to have such a child," Jean said to herself indignantly. "But what a study she will be! I long to be at work. Now for a stiff, dull evening with those two ladies in the drawing-room. Oh dear! I should like to go to bed and have my dinner sent up to me."
But Jean found Meta Worth anything but dull. She talked hard through dinner, not seeming to care whether Mrs. Gordon was responsive or not, and still had plenty to say when they settled down in the drawing-room. Mrs. Gordon took out some knitting, and if she did not make many comments, she listened to her young niece's flow of talk.
"You're one of those people who have a purpose in life," Meta said to Jean. "It must be rather nice. Now I haven't a single hobby; I wish I had. I think I like everything too much. And I do nothing well. I'm a smatterer, am I not, Aunt Helen? I paint a little, and play a little, and work a little, and carve a little. I try my hand at everything, and succeed in nothing. How did you like Leslie's music? I heard the piano. Now, he is a born musician. He amuses Sunnie by the hour. I think he is a good musician spoilt."
"It is a recreation to him," said Mrs. Gordon.
"Yes, but think what he might do, if he would give up this trade of doctoring. Leslie's mother, Miss Desmond, is of the old school. She thinks that neither doctors nor lawyers can be gentlemen. And bitter was the blow when her favourite son persisted in taking up such a 'degrading profession,' as she terms it."
"Would she have preferred him to be a musician?" asked Jean, with a smile.
"Good gracious, no! The Army, Navy, or Church are the only three professions for gentlemen, she always says. I haven't lived very long, but I know one or two men in those favoured positions that are anything but ornaments to them. You will have to go and see Mrs. Fergusson. She is an amusing old creation, and is cleverer than most people."
By and by, Mrs. Gordon went upstairs to visit her little girl for the last time that night.
Meta looked across at Jean.
"Well," she said, "are you frightened of my aunt?"
"No. Why should I be? I feel sorry for her. Is she always so cold and grave?"
"Always since—since the accident."
Jean looked questioningly at her.
"Don't you know? It was too horrible. Her husband was such a bright genial man, that the house was a popular one, and always filled with visitors. The two children were idolised by their parents. Harry was five, like his mother in looks, but a daring little scamp. He was a little spoilt, being the only son and heir, and Sunnie was just a year younger. It was just about this time of year—I have heard it all from Leslie—and one afternoon Uncle George said he wanted Aunt Helen to come out for a drive."
"She had a headache, and was very comfortable over the fire with a book, so she declined. Then, the children clamoured to go with him, and at first Aunt Helen refused to let them. But Uncle George won her over. Harry stamped into the room before he went, and his noise got upon her nerves. She looked up hastily. 'Oh, do run along,' she said. 'I shall be thankful to get rid of you.'"
"Those were her last words to him. The horse bolted, and dashed over a low stone wall. Uncle George and Harry were killed on the spot. Sunnie was brought back, crippled for life. That is Aunt Helen's story."
"Oh, poor woman!" gasped Jean. "How awful! No wonder she is so grave."
"It has turned her to stone. Sunnie is her only comfort. But think of the pity of it! Strathglen is the biggest estate in the county, and Sunnie is the heir or heiress to it. My aunt has given up all hospitality, and lives alone. Leslie and I are the only ones who have an entrance here."
Mrs. Gordon stopped all further conversation on this subject by coming into the room, but Jean's heart was filled with a great aching pity for her. When she wished her good-night, she said a little wistfully—
"I hope I shall not disappoint you by my painting, Mrs. Gordon. I will do my very best."
"Norah Talbot assured me of your capability," said Mrs. Gordon quietly. "You are young and bright, so Sunnie will be happy with you. She is a difficult child with her strong likes and dislikes, but she seems to have taken a liking to you."
Jean's sleep was disturbed that night by dreams of the bereft wife and mother. She had not as yet seen much of life's troubles, and this seemed the most pitiful story that she had ever heard.
AN "OUTSIDER"
"We are wrong always when we think too muchOf what we think or are."—E. B. Browning.
WHEN Jean rose the next morning, she looked out into a bright and sunny world. It was cold and frosty, but the sky was a brilliant blue, and the sun streamed into her window. She felt light of heart, and was so eager to begin her picture, that she unpacked and arranged her paints and easel before breakfast.
At ten o'clock she was in the old nursery, and Sunnie welcomed her with a radiant face.
"I have been thinking about you in the night," she remarked. "I always think of my friends when I can't sleep."
"But don't you sleep all night? I do," said Jean as she bent to kiss the child.
Sunnie shook her head.
"Not when I'm incited by new people. I dream of them. I dreamt that you and Cousin Leslie were holding hands and running away from me, and I was running after you and begging you to come back. I cried, and then I woke up. You know it's very nice, but I do run in my dreams—always. And I did run long, long ago, when I was awake. Mother remembers it quite well, and I do too."
Mrs. Gordon interrupted the child here.
"Now, Sunnie, Miss Desmond is going to set to work. Can you lie still, do you think?"
"Nobody can lie stiller than I can," responded Sunnie proudly. "But mustn't I speak? How long will she be?"
"I won't be long enough to tire you, and you can talk as much as you like," said Jean, smiling at her. Then turning to Mrs. Gordon she said, "May I paint her as I like, or have you any special wishes to be carried out?"
"I will leave her entirely in your hands."
"Then I should like to paint her as I saw her yesterday in the twilight."
"But I was listening to music," said Sunnie quickly.
"Yes," said Jean, "and your little brain was full of happy thoughts and fancies."
"How did you know what I was thinking about?"
"I saw it in your face and eyes."
Mrs. Gordon stayed till Jean had arranged the child according to her satisfaction, and changed her frock back to the brown velvet one she wore the night before. Then she left them together. Even the old nurse was absent, for Jean wished for no counter attractions. She worked rapidly, and found it easy work to keep Sunnie happy and interested.
"Do you tell stories?" the child asked. "Cousin Leslie does. We make them up together, and he plays stories on the piano. That's why I like winter, because he comes and sits in the dark, when the fire is blazing, and plays such lovely things. He makes the birds twitter, and the fairies' bells tinkle, and the water sparkling and splashing. There isn't anything that I ever hear that he can't make on the piano."
"I expect you are very fond of music."
"Not of Cousin Meta's. She doesn't know how to make the piano speak. She rattles and bangs, and makes a jolly noise, but Cousin Leslie can make it whisper. We are quite quiet sometimes, and we pretend we're inside a big church just before the organ begins, and then the people are praying, and the piano hushes and hushes, and then a very soft whisper sounds, and it goes on, and then goes up in the air—up—up—up—and dies away—for it has gone up straight to God, and it is a poor sinner's prayer."
Jean longed to catch the sweet rapt look on Sunnie's face, but she was busy with the outlines of her figure, and trusted that later on, when she needed it, that same expression would cross the child's face again.
"Go on," she said, "tell me more. I should like to hear this wonderful music."
"I don't know that Cousin Leslie would do it with you in the room. He always stops when mother comes in. We have all kinds of music and stories when we're together, funny ones and sad ones and good ones. We have fairies' music, and angels' music, and dance music, and thunder and lightning."
"And which music do you like best?" Jean asked, as Sunnie paused for breath.
"Oh," she said, gazing dreamily into the fire, "I like angels' music the best."
"Why?"
"Because it reminds me of my good time coming," said Sunnie, quaintly.
"And when is that?"
"When I shall be able to run about again, and play like other children with the little angels."
Jean smiled.
"We will hope that time will be long in coming."
Sunnie looked at her with a pucker in her brow.
"I'm talking of heaven," she said, a shade of disapproval in her tone. "You don't want heaven to be a long time in coming. Why, if I could take mother with me, I would like to go to-night. I was talking to Cousin Leslie yesterday about it. I want to go to heaven before I'm grown-up, because I want to play games—proper ones—like other boys and girls, and I can't do it here. Grown-up people don't play games. Cousin Leslie says mother doesn't want all her family in heaven, and I'm meant to stay and take care of her. I s'pose she would rather I didn't go just yet. But when I do get to heaven I shall be happier than anybody else there!"
Jean felt the pathos of this child's life. She listened to her chatter, and wondered she was so light of heart.
"Have you any pets? Or dolls?" she asked her presently.
"I don't care for dolls. I had a dear little puppy, but he didn't like to keep still on my sofa; even the kitten always runs away from me. I have my canary up there. He talks and sings to me. And when he has gone to sleep, and I am alone while nurse is at her tea, do you know who I talk to? You won't laugh if I tell you?"
"Indeed I won't!"
"I talk to my sofa. I often play that he is my horse. Did you ever read a fairy book called 'Grandmother's Chair'? The chair takes a little girl into fairyland, and my sofa does the same. I get nurse to tie two strings on to the legs at the bottom, and then I pretend they're my reins, and I take hold of them and shut my eyes, and we go to the loveliest places. If Cousin Leslie comes and tells me where I am, it is splendid!"
After a time, Sunnie left off talking about herself, and demanded to know all about Jean's life. Jean told her about her lonely life in her grandfather's house, and the luncheon bell rang before she had finished her reminiscences. When she took her easel and paints away, she said to herself, "I have painted a good many pictures in different atmospheres, but never one so near heaven's gate as this is!"
That afternoon, she went for a drive with Mrs. Gordon. Meta did not accompany them. At first Jean felt a little shy with her companion, but not for long. Mrs. Gordon began by asking questions about Miss Lorraine.
"You are fortunate in being with her. Frances always was my ideal of a good woman. She does not say much unless it is necessary, and then it is always to the point. Her life tells."
"Yes," assented Jean. "She often gives me good advice."
"Do you always follow it?"
"I am afraid not. Mrs. Gordon, do you think girls can always follow the advice of those much older than themselves? You see they have lived their lives, and have a different outlook: they look back—girls look forward."
"How long does life last, if you think that Frances has finished hers?"
"I don't mean that exactly."
"I hardly think you do. Women don't lose their individuality, their ambitions, their hopes and fears, so soon as you imagine."
Jean felt snubbed.
"I think," she said meekly, "that when you're young, you look forward to being a success, you work with that object, and you are always hoping and looking for that to be accomplished. I have been bitterly disappointed already in some people and things, but I don't feel I have got to the end of it. Miss Lorraine seems living in a quiet little peaceful backwater, while I am pushing my way down the river to the sea."
"And what is your goal?" asked Mrs. Gordon.
"If you had asked me that a few months ago, I should have said fame, but I am sure now that I shall never be famous, only I want to leave some marks behind me. I don't want to have a wasted life to look back upon."
"And so you think that Frances Lorraine is leading a passive life; and you an active?"
Jean blushed.
"I am not fit to black her shoes," she said impulsively. And then she changed the conversation.
She told Mrs. Gordon a little of her art life in Paris.
"I feel now that it wasn't my art that was wrong, but my atmosphere. You don't know what a pleasure it is to me to paint Sunnie. She is so sweet and pure, it seems to take away the bad taste in my mouth that the Paris studio gave me."
"Sunnie is too old for her age," said Mrs. Gordon. "But her life is so entirely with grown-up people, that one cannot wonder at it."
"I don't know much about children," admitted Jean, "but she fascinates me. And I believe she will influence me, too. Miss Lorraine makes me wish to be good, but I believe Sunnie will make me try to be so."
"What is your idea of goodness?"
Jean looked at her companion with wistful eyes. "I don't know," she said. "I am not religious, but I believe we ought to carry out the teaching of Christ in the Bible, ought we not? I wish I felt as sure of heaven as Sunnie does."
A rather bitter look swept over Mrs. Gordon's face. "Who is sure except children?" she said. "That makes their happiness: their sublime trust in every one—and in God."
"Miss Lorraine is sure," said Jean musingly, "and I think Colonel Douglas."
"And my Cousin Leslie," said Mrs. Gordon. "Yes, and they are happy in their faith, but it has not been tried."
"Do you think it would fail them?"
Mrs. Gordon did not answer. When next she spoke, it was to draw Jean's attention to some local landmark.
Jean wondered when she got home, how she could have touched upon some of the deep things in life with a comparative stranger, especially with such a reserved one as Mrs. Gordon. But she liked her the better for their talk, and she hoped the liking was mutual.
The next day was Sunday, and it was a very strange one to Jean. She went to the little Scotch church with Mrs. Gordon and Meta, and found the service long and dreary. The novelty of her surroundings could not compensate for the length of time she was listening to the old Scotch minister.
Dr. Fergusson came to lunch, and Jean began to brighten up. He always seemed to bring a fresh and breezy atmosphere into the house with him. When lunch was over, Jean went up to her bedroom and wrote to Miss Lorraine.
"DEAR MISS LORRAINE,—I know you will like my first impressions of this house. It is an interesting one, and to me a very luxurious one.""Mrs. Gordon looks like a tragedy queen, her little daughter is all that I could desire from a painter's view. As a subject, she satisfies me, as a child, she fascinates me. I am wondering when I have my brush in hand who is wielding it. Do you remember our talk in Kensington High Street? I miss our cosy teas, and have come to the conclusion that I like small rooms better than big ones.""Mrs. Gordon is very kind, and treats me as she would a guest. Keep a corner of your heart for me. I am an outsider to every one in the world but you.""Your affectionate,""JEAN."
"Not much in that," was Miss Lorraine's mental comment, "but our plan for her has succeeded. She will get good, not harm, in her present surroundings."
Jean was sitting by her bedroom fire an hour or so after writing that letter, and indulging in a little nap, when a knock at her door roused her. It was the old Scotch nurse.
"If you please, mem, Miss Sunnie be askin' for ye. Wull ye gie the bairn the pleasure o' yer presence?"
Jean started up.
"I will come at once. I think your nursery is the most delightful room in the house."
It looked the picture of comfort when she entered it. The red carpet and curtains, and the blazing fire, the canary, singing his loudest in the deep bay window, the bright pictures on the panelled walls, and lastly, but not least, the sunny presence of the little invalid, all combined to infect every visitor with a sense of cheer and contentment.
Dr. Fergusson was seated in an easy chair by the fire. He got up and relinquished his seat at once. When Jean protested, he said, "I am going to the piano. You have been summoned for a purpose."