Chapter V: An Unexpected Visitor

IN a very few days, Peggy had settled into the routine of life at Lower Brimley, and had become well known by sight to the villagers, who took a kindly interest in Mrs. Tiddy's guest—"the pretty little maid," as they called her, who, though she was blind, could play the piano, so the servants at the farm reported, and was so clever that wherever she went once she could go by herself a second time.

Accompanied by the lean, long-legged sheep-dog, she was now a familiar figure on the beach, where she would sit for hours, listening to the incessant murmur of the sea or talking to the fishermen, whose deep voices insensibly softened in addressing her. For nowhere so much as in Cornwall is more respect shown to those whom God has afflicted; and, though Peggy knew it not, she was continually watched by friendly eyes to see that she came to no harm.

Mrs. Tiddy, who had been nervous about letting her visitor wander out of her sight at first, soon grew less vigilant, and was quite satisfied if she knew Wolf was with her, for the dog had constituted himself her faithful companion, and showed marked signs of jealousy, if any stranger came near her.

One afternoon, about a week after her arrival at Lower Brimley, Peggy was standing in a gateway waiting for Mr. Tiddy, who had gone across a meadow to look at some sheep, when Wolf, as usual at her side, gave a low, warning growl and drew closer to her. She put her hand on the dog's collar and listened, hearing at length the sound of footsteps slowly approaching. Some one was evidently ascending the hill which led from the village to the farm.

After that one growl, Wolf remained silent, and Peggy did not move as the footsteps drew near. But when they suddenly stopped, the little girl, still holding the dog by the collar, turned her face, with an inquiring expression upon it, towards the spot where she knew some one—a woman, she thought, from the sound of the footsteps—to be.

"Can you tell me, if this is the way to Lower Brimley Farm?" asked a somewhat patronising voice—the voice of a lady, Peggy's sharp ears informed her at once.

"Yes," the little girl answered. "You will come within sight of the house, I know, when you turn the next corner. Are you going to call on Mrs. Tiddy? Perhaps you are a friend of hers? She is not at home; she has driven in to Penzance."

"And I have driven from Penzance. But I have no acquaintance with Mrs. Tiddy—the mistress at the farm, I presume? I have no desire to see her, but I want to have a look at her flowers. I am told the daffodils and narcissi at Lower Brimley are especially fine. People talk so much nowadays of the flower-farms of Cornwall that I am curious to see one."

The speaker—a tall, thin, erect old lady, with snow-white hair and very sharp dark eyes, looked carelessly at the child, and proceeded to question her: "Do you live here? Are you the farmer's daughter?"

"No; I am no relation to either Mr. or Mrs. Tiddy, although they are so very kind to me," Peggy answered simply. "My home is in London; I am only here on a visit. I am sure Mr. Tiddy will let you look at his flowers; he is very proud of them, and no wonder, for they are so beautiful! He has gone across the meadow, but he will return directly. Perhaps you can see him?"

"Do you mean that big man in breeches and leggings?"

"Yes, that's Mr. Tiddy. I promised to wait here with Wolf—that's the dog—till he came back. Is he far off? Is he coming this way?"

"Cannot you use your eyes, child?" began the lady, a trifle impatiently. Then she paused abruptly, and scanned the little girl's face with keener scrutiny.

"I cannot see," Peggy responded, "because I am blind."

"Blind! How shocking!"

The stranger's voice had softened perceptibly, and sounded no longer indifferent. Peggy, conscious of the change, smiled, and a faint colour rose to her pale cheeks as she remarked:

"Every one is surprised to hear I am blind, but it is quite true."

"And have you been blind long?"

"All my life."

"And yet you look happy!" was the wondering exclamation.

"I am very happy. Mother says I must always remember how many blessings God has given me, and so I do. Oh, here is Mr. Tiddy!" the little girl cried, with a sudden change of tone.

The farmer came up, glancing curiously at Peggy's companion, who now put forward a request—it sounded almost like a command—to see his flowers, adding that she had come from Penzance on purpose to look at them, and had left her carriage at the foot of the hill.

"You are just in time to see them at their best," Mr. Tiddy told her pleasantly. "In another week, I shall have cut them all: we rear them for the London markets. Lead the way, Peggy. A little friend of ours from town," he explained, lowering his voice as the child and the dog went on ahead. "She's been laid up ill and hasn't picked up her health and spirits yet. We're trying what our Cornish air will do for her."

"I trust it will do wonders," said the lady, and her voice, though still cold in tone, was not ungracious. "She looks a delicate child, and she tells me, she is blind."

"Ah, yes, poor dear," sighed Mr. Tiddy. "Though I don't know why I should pity her," he proceeded, "for she's as happy as the day is long. Her father—he's the organist of St. John's in the East End of London—calls her 'little Sunbeam,' and the name just suits her. Her mother and my wife were school friends, and—but here we are!"

The stranger was evidently much gratified by the sight of the flowers, and she was greatly impressed by the knowledge Peggy evinced concerning them. And the more she conversed with Mr. Tiddy, the more gracious her manner became, till by-and-by she asked him if there were comfortable lodgings to be had in the neighbourhood.

"There's a farm higher up the hill, the adjoining farm to this, Higher Brimley it's called—where they let apartments during the summer months," he replied. "I expect they'd consider themselves fortunate, if they obtained a lodger as early in the year as this. Ford, the people are called, and Mrs. Ford is a nice, respectable woman who'd make you very comfortable."

"You never take lodgers here?" the stranger inquired hesitatingly.

"Never," was the decisive answer. "My wife has plenty of work to do in connection with the poultry and the dairy, and—to be plain—we like our home to ourselves."

When the lady had gazed her fill at the daffodils, Mr. Tiddy led the way into the garden, which she declared to be her idea of what a country garden should be. The kindly farmer, pleased at her admiration for his belongings, thereupon invited her into the house, and had tea brought into the parlour. "I wish my wife was at home," he observed regretfully, "but Peggy must play hostess in her place."

"And a very nice little hostess she makes," replied the old lady, her curious gaze upon the child, who was offering her some of Mrs. Tiddy's home-made cake. "Do you always treat strangers as you are treating me?" she inquired, turning to Mr. Tiddy again. "I have heard of Cornish hospitality, but I never believed in it till now. You don't know anything about me—" She paused and laughed rather bitterly, then added: "Most people would not think it worth while to entertain a stranger—one never likely to cross their path in life again."

"Then you do not mean to seek lodgings in the district?" Mr. Tiddy asked gravely.

"I have not made up my mind on that point yet. I almost think I could be contented in a spot like this."

Having finished her tea, she rose and prepared to depart. Mr. Tiddy now noted for the first time, how costly was her dress—evidently she was a woman rich in this world's goods—and he thought as he glanced at the deep lines of discontent around her hard mouth, that, in spite of her undeniably handsome face, she was the most ill-tempered looking old lady he had seen for many a long day, and doubted much if she would be contented anywhere.

"Good-bye, child," she said stretching out her delicately-gloved hand to Peggy. "It is quite possible that we may meet again."

"If we do, I shall remember you," was the grave response. "I shall remember you by your voice. And I can't help thinking that somewhere we have met before, or perhaps it is only that you remind me of some one—that must be it."

The lady looked at Peggy searchingly, and shook her head. Then she went away, leaving the little girl in a very thoughtful frame of mind. When Mr. Tiddy returned, after having accompanied the stranger down the hill and placed her in the hired carriage in which she had been driven from Penzance, he asked Peggy what she thought of their late visitor.

"She seemed rather unhappy, didn't she, Mr. Tiddy?" she questioned.

"Unhappy?" he said, reflectively. "I don't know about that. To me she appeared simply discontented. She is a selfish woman, I'll be bound—so maybe you're right, my dear, for selfish folk are never happy—and wrapped up in her own concerns. But she liked my daffodils, didn't she? I could see she had a real love for flowers. And she was interested in you, too. One mustn't judge by appearances altogether—"

"I judge by her voice," said Peggy, as he broke off, leaving his sentence unfinished.

"A hard, cold voice, wasn't it?" questioned Mr. Tiddy.

"Y-e-s. Was she very old, Mr. Tiddy?"

"Over seventy, I should say."

"That's a great age, isn't it? I wonder if she is always alone like she was to-day. Perhaps she has no one to love and care for her now she is old. How sad that must be! Poor old lady!" And there was deepest sympathy in her tone.

Mr. Tiddy looked at the speaker with a tender smile; but he did not think it worth while to say that, to him, their visitor had appeared anything but poor. Perhaps, he reflected, the child might be right after all, for he knew how often those rich in worldly possessions are poor in heart.