Chapter VII: Sunnie

"A . . . face, with its sweet spirit smiles,
Babe wonderings, and little tender ways."

* * * * *

"She brought Heaven to us just within the space
Of 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.