Chapter VIII: An "outsider"

"We are wrong always when we think too much
Of 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."

"We are going to sing hymns," said Sunnie eagerly. "We always do on Sunday, and we like all the people we can get to help us. Nurse rings a bell down the back stairs, and we sing for an hour, don't we, Cousin Leslie?"

Jean sat down.

"I'm not a singer," she said, "but I'll do what I can."

"This is Sunnie's service," said Dr. Fergusson, as he struck a few chords on the piano.

"What do you do with yourself all day on Sunday?" Jean asked the child.

"Oh, lots and lots of things. Nurse and I make up sermons in the morning and say them to each other, and I paint texts for hospitals, and in the afternoon we always look at the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' Have you seen it? It has a picture on every single page. I did want Cousin Leslie to play it on the piano, but nurse says the Sabbath would be broken, if he did. I think I should like to hear the lions roar on the piano and shake their chains when they can't get at poor Christian, wouldn't you? Here comes nurse. Now you must have a hymn-book, and we each choose in turn."

Jean wondered, but said nothing. Quite a number of servants filed in. Four maids, the old cook, two young grooms, the old butler, and a very small stable boy.

Sunnie nodded to each as they came in. She was complete mistress of the ceremony, and when the singing began, Jean was astonished at the heartiness of it all, and still more at the sweetness and power of the child's voice.

Some of the hymns were strange ones to her, some took her back to her school days. When her turn came to choose, she hesitated.

"I'll leave you to choose for me, Sunnie."

"Oh no, that won't be fair. You must know one you'd like."

Jean shook her head, then as her eye fell on the old hymn, "Jesu, lover of my soul," she chose it without a thought of the words or meaning.

Every one sang away with cheerful smiling faces, but after the last one came to a conclusion, Dr. Fergusson surprised Jean by standing up to speak. He took every hymn that had been sung in succession, saying a few simple words on each.

Jean had never heard any one speak so before, and when her hymn came to be commented on, she listened with special interest.

The doctor only took the first line. "It is the key to the whole," he said. "We think a good deal of our bodies, and have a selfish love for ourselves, but what care are we taking of our souls? There is One who knows the value of them better than we do, and who loves them. He would not have given up His life for a light thing, nor left His glorious throne and lived a life of poverty and scorn for a trifle. What brought Him from heaven to earth? My soul. He has proved His love for it, and He asks us now to hand it into His keeping."

He passed on to another hymn, but Jean was profoundly touched by his words. She thought of her letter to Miss Lorraine written only an hour before.

"An outsider to every one in the world but you." Here was One who
loved the best and immortal part of her.

"I can't be an outsider to Him. I can't get outside His love."

She repeated this over and over to herself. It was another link in the chain of love that was gradually drawing her nearer to the great Soul-lover.