The White People

F >> Frances Hodgson Burnett >> The White People


"You are a wise woman, Jean," Angus said, looking long at her grave
face. "A wise woman."

He wrote to the London book-shops for the best modern books, and I began
to read them. I felt at first as if they plunged me into a world I did
not understand, and many of them I could not endure. But I persevered,
and studied them as I had studied the old ones, and in time I began to
feel as if perhaps they were true. My chief weariness with them came
from the way they had of referring to the things I was so intimate with
as though they were only the unauthenticated history of a life so
long passed by that it could no longer matter to any one. So often the
greatest hours of great lives were treated as possible legends. I
knew why men had died or were killed or had borne black horror. I knew
because I had read old books and manuscripts and had heard the stories
which had come down through centuries by word of mouth, passed from
father to son.

But there was one man who did not write as if he believed the world had
begun and would end with him. He knew he was only one, and part of
all the rest. The name I shall give him is Hector MacNairn. He was a
Scotchman, but he had lived in many a land. The first time I read a book
he had written I caught my breath with joy, again and again. I knew I
had found a friend, even though there was no likelihood that I should
ever see his face. He was a great and famous writer, and all the world
honored him; while I, hidden away in my castle on a rock on the edge of
Muircarrie, was so far from being interesting or clever that even in my
grandest evening dress and tiara of jewels I was as insignificant as a
mouse. In fact, I always felt rather silly when I was obliged to wear my
diamonds on state occasions as custom sometimes demanded.

Mr. MacNairn wrote essays and poems, and marvelous stories which were
always real though they were called fiction. Wheresoever his story was
placed--howsoever remote and unknown the scene--it was a real place, and
the people who lived in it were real, as if he had some magic power to
call up human things to breathe and live and set one's heart beating.
I read everything he wrote. I read every word of his again and again. I
always kept some book of his near enough to be able to touch it with my
hand; and often I sat by the fire in the library holding one open on
my lap for an hour or more, only because it meant a warm, close
companionship. It seemed at those times as if he sat near me in the dim
glow and we understood each other's thoughts without using words, as Wee
Brown Elspeth and I had understood--only this was a deeper thing.

I had felt near him in this way for several years, and every year he had
grown more famous, when it happened that one June my guardian, Sir Ian,
required me to go to London to see my lawyers and sign some important
documents connected with the management of the estate. I was to go
to his house to spend a week or more, attend a Drawing-Room, and show
myself at a few great parties in a proper manner, this being considered
my duty toward my relatives. These, I believe, were secretly afraid that
if I were never seen their world would condemn my guardian for
neglect of his charge, or would decide that I was of unsound mind and
intentionally kept hidden away at Muircarrie. He was an honorable man,
and his wife was a well-meaning woman. I did not wish to do them an
injustice, so I paid them yearly visits and tried to behave as they
wished, much as I disliked to be dressed in fine frocks and to wear
diamonds on my little head and round my thin neck.

It was an odd thing that this time I found I did not dread the visit
to London as much as I usually did. For some unknown reason I became
conscious that I was not really reluctant to go. Usually the thought
of the days before me made me restless and low-spirited. London always
seemed so confused and crowded, and made me feel as if I were being
pushed and jostled by a mob always making a tiresome noise. But this
time I felt as if I should somehow find a clear place to stand in, where
I could look on and listen without being bewildered. It was a curious
feeling; I could not help noticing and wondering about it.

I knew afterward that it came to me because a change was drawing near. I
wish so much that I could tell about it in a better way. But I have only
my own way, which I am afraid seems very like a school-girl's.

Jean Braidfute made the journey with me, as she always did, and it was
like every other journey. Only one incident made it different, and when
it occurred there seemed nothing unusual in it. It was only a bit of
sad, everyday life which touched me. There is nothing new in seeing a
poor woman in deep mourning.

Jean and I had been alone in our railway carriage for a great part of
the journey; but an hour or two before we reached London a man got in
and took a seat in a corner. The train had stopped at a place where
there is a beautiful and well-known cemetery. People bring their friends
from long distances to lay them there. When one passes the station, one
nearly always sees sad faces and people in mourning on the platform.

There was more than one group there that day, and the man who sat in the
corner looked out at them with gentle eyes. He had fine, deep eyes and a
handsome mouth. When the poor woman in mourning almost stumbled into
the carriage, followed by her child, he put out his hand to help her
and gave her his seat. She had stumbled because her eyes were dim with
dreadful crying, and she could scarcely see. It made one's heart stand
still to see the wild grief of her, and her unconsciousness of the world
about her. The world did not matter. There was no world. I think there
was nothing left anywhere but the grave she had just staggered blindly
away from. I felt as if she had been lying sobbing and writhing and
beating the new turf on it with her poor hands, and I somehow knew that
it had been a child's grave she had been to visit and had felt she left
to utter loneliness when she turned away.

It was because I thought this that I wished she had not seemed so
unconscious of and indifferent to the child who was with her and clung
to her black dress as if it could not bear to let her go. This one was
alive at least, even if she had lost the other one, and its little face
was so wistful! It did not seem fair to forget and ignore it, as if
it were not there. I felt as if she might have left it behind on the
platform if it had not so clung to her skirt that it was almost dragged
into the railway carriage with her. When she sank into her seat she did
not even lift the poor little thing into the place beside her, but left
it to scramble up as best it could. She buried her swollen face in her
handkerchief and sobbed in a smothered way as if she neither saw, heard,
nor felt any living thing near her.

How I wished she would remember the poor child and let it comfort her!
It really was trying to do it in its innocent way. It pressed close to
her side, it looked up imploringly, it kissed her arm and her crape
veil over and over again, and tried to attract her attention. It was
a little, lily-fair creature not more than five or six years old and
perhaps too young to express what it wanted to say. It could only cling
to her and kiss her black dress, and seem to beg her to remember that
it, at least, was a living thing. But she was too absorbed in her
anguish to know that it was in the world. She neither looked at nor
touched it, and at last it sat with its cheek against her sleeve, softly
stroking her arm, and now and then kissing it longingly. I was obliged
to turn my face away and look out of the window, because I knew the man
with the kind face saw the tears well up into my eyes.

The poor woman did not travel far with us. She left the train after a
few stations were passed. Our fellow-traveler got out before her to help
her on to the platform. He stood with bared head while he assisted her,
but she scarcely saw him. And even then she seemed to forget the child.
The poor thing was dragged out by her dress as it had been dragged in. I
put out my hand involuntarily as it went through the door, because I was
afraid it might fall. But it did not. It turned its fair little face
and smiled at me. When the kind traveler returned to his place in the
carriage again, and the train left the station, the black-draped woman
was walking slowly down the platform and the child was still clinging to
her skirt.



CHAPTER IV

My guardian was a man whose custom it was to give large and dignified
parties. Among his grand and fashionable guests there was nearly always
a sprinkling of the more important members of the literary world. The
night after I arrived there was to be a particularly notable dinner. I
had come prepared to appear at it. Jean had brought fine array for
me and a case of jewels. I knew I must be "dressed up" and look as
important as I could. When I went up-stairs after tea, Jean was in my
room laying things out on the bed.

"The man you like so much is to dine here to-night, Ysobel," she said.
"Mr. Hector MacNairn."

I believe I even put my hand suddenly to my heart as I stood and looked
at her, I was so startled and so glad.

"You must tell him how much you love his books," she said. She had a
quiet, motherly way.

"There will be so many other people who will want to talk to him," I
answered, and I felt a little breathless with excitement as I said it.

"And I should be too shy to know how to say such things properly."

"Don't be afraid of him," was her advice. "The man will be like his
books, and they're the joy of your life."

She made me look as nice as she could in the new dress she had brought;
she made me wear the Muircarrie diamonds and sent me downstairs. It does
not matter who the guests were; I scarcely remember. I was taken in to
dinner by a stately elderly man who tried to make me talk, and at last
was absorbed by the clever woman on his other side.

I found myself looking between the flowers for a man's face I could
imagine was Hector MacNairn's. I looked up and down and saw none I could
believe belonged to him. There were handsome faces and individual ones,
but at first I saw no Hector MacNairn. Then, on bending forward a little
to glance behind an epergne, I found a face which it surprised and
pleased me to see. It was the face of the traveler who had helped the
woman in mourning out of the railway carriage, baring his head before
her grief. I could not help turning and speaking to my stately elderly
partner.

"Do you know who that is--the man at the other side of the table?" I
asked.

Old Lord Armour looked across and answered with an amiable smile. "It is
the author the world is talking of most in these days, and the talking
is no new thing. It's Mr. Hector MacNairn."

No one but myself could tell how glad I was. It seemed so right that
he should be the man who had understood the deeps of a poor, passing
stranger woman's woe. I had so loved that quiet baring of his head! All
at once I knew I should not be afraid of him. He would understand that I
could not help being shy, that it was only my nature, and that if I said
things awkwardly my meanings were better than my words. Perhaps I
should be able to tell him something of what his books had been to me.
I glanced through the flowers again--and he was looking at me! I could
scarcely believe it for a second. But he was. His eyes--his wonderful
eyes--met mine. I could not explain why they were wonderful. I think
it was the clearness and understanding in them, and a sort of great
interestedness. People sometimes look at me from curiosity, but they do
not look because they are really interested.

I could scarcely look away, though I knew I must not be guilty of
staring. A footman was presenting a dish at my side. I took something
from it without knowing what it was. Lord Armour began to talk kindly.
He was saying beautiful, admiring things of Mr. MacNairn and his work.
I listened gratefully, and said a few words myself now and then. I was
only too glad to be told of the great people and the small ones who were
moved and uplifted by his thoughts.

"You admire him very much, I can see," the amiable elderly voice said.

I could not help turning and looking up. "It is as if a great, great
genius were one's friend--as if he talked and one listened," I said. "He
is like a splendid dream which has come true."

Old Lord Armour looked at me quite thoughtfully, as if he saw something
new in me.

"That is a good way of putting it, Miss Muircarrie," he answered.
"MacNairn would like that. You must tell him about it yourself."

I did not mean to glance through the flowers again, but I did it
involuntarily. And I met the other eyes--the wonderful, interested
ones just as I had met them before. It almost seemed as if he had been
watching me. It might be, I thought, because he only vaguely remembered
seeing me before and was trying to recall where we had met.

When my guardian brought his men guests to the drawing-room after
dinner, I was looking over some old prints at a quiet, small table.
There were a few minutes of smiling talk, and then Sir Ian crossed the
room toward me, bringing some one with him. It was Hector MacNairn he
brought.

"Mr. MacNairn tells me you traveled together this afternoon without
knowing each other," he said. "He has heard something of Muircarrie and
would like to hear more, Ysobel. She lives like a little ghost all
alone in her feudal castle, Mr. MacNairn. We can't persuade her to like
London."

I think he left us alone together because he realized that we should get
on better without a companion.

Mr. MacNairn sat down near me and began to talk about Muircarrie. There
were very few places like it, and he knew about each one of them. He
knew the kind of things Angus Macayre knew--the things most people had
either never heard of or had only thought of as legends. He talked as he
wrote, and I scarcely knew when he led me into talking also. Afterward
I realized that he had asked me questions I could not help answering
because his eyes were drawing me on with that quiet, deep interest. It
seemed as if he saw something in my face which made him curious.

I think I saw this expression first when we began to speak of our
meeting in the railway carriage, and I mentioned the poor little fair
child my heart had ached so for.

"It was such a little thing and it did so want to comfort her! Its white
little clinging hands were so pathetic when they stroked and patted
her," I said. "And she did not even look at it."

He did not start, but he hesitated in a way which almost produced the
effect of a start. Long afterward I remembered it.

"The child!" he said. "Yes. But I was sitting on the other side. And I
was so absorbed in the poor mother that I am afraid I scarcely saw it.
Tell me about it."

"It was not six years old, poor mite," I answered. "It was one of those
very fair children one sees now and then. It was not like its mother.
She was not one of the White People."

"The White People?" he repeated quite slowly after me. "You don't mean
that she was not a Caucasian? Perhaps I don't understand."

That made me feel a trifle shy again. Of course he could not know what I
meant. How silly of me to take it for granted that he would!

"I beg pardon. I forgot," I even stammered a little. "It is only my way
of thinking of those fair people one sees, those very fair ones, you
know--the ones whose fairness looks almost transparent. There are not
many of them, of course; but one can't help noticing them when they pass
in the street or come into a room. You must have noticed them, too.
I always call them, to myself, the White People, because they are
different from the rest of us. The poor mother wasn't one, but the child
was. Perhaps that was why I looked at it, at first. It was such a lovely
little thing; and the whiteness made it look delicate, and I could not
help thinking--" I hesitated, because it seemed almost unkind to finish.

"You thought that if she had just lost one child she ought to take more
care of the other," he ended for me. There was a deep thoughtfulness in
his look, as if he were watching me. I wondered why.

"I wish I had paid more attention to the little creature," he said, very
gently. "Did it cry?"

"No," I answered. "It only clung to her and patted her black sleeve and
kissed it, as if it wanted to comfort her. I kept expecting it to cry,
but it didn't. It made me cry because it seemed so sure that it could
comfort her if she would only remember that it was alive and loved her.
I wish, I wish death did not make people feel as if it filled all the
world--as if, when it happens, there is no life left anywhere. The child
who was alive by her side did not seem a living thing to her. It didn't
matter."

I had never said as much to any one before, but his watching eyes made
me forget my shy worldlessness.

"What do you feel about it--death?" he asked.

The low gentleness of his voice seemed something I had known always.

"I never saw it," I answered. "I have never even seen any one
dangerously ill. I--It is as if I can't believe it."

"You can't believe it? That is a wonderful thing," he said, even more
quietly than before.

"If none of us believed, how wonderful that would be! Beautiful, too."

"How that poor mother believed it!" I said, remembering her swollen,
distorted, sobbing face. "She believed nothing else; everything else was
gone."

"I wonder what would have happened if you had spoken to her about the
child?" he said, slowly, as if he were trying to imagine it.

"I'm a very shy person. I should never have courage to speak to a
stranger," I answered.

"I'm afraid I'm a coward, too. She might have thought me interfering."

"She might not have understood," he murmured.

"It was clinging to her dress when she walked away down the platform," I
went on. "I dare say you noticed it then?"

"Not as you did. I wish I had noticed it more," was his answer. "Poor
little White One!"

That led us into our talk about the White People. He said he did not
think he was exactly an observant person in some respects. Remembering
his books, which seemed to me the work of a man who saw and understood
everything in the world, I could not comprehend his thinking that, and
I told him so. But he replied that what I had said about my White People
made him feel that he must be abstracted sometimes and miss things. He
did not remember having noticed the rare fairness I had seen. He smiled
as he said it, because, of course, it was only a little thing--that he
had not seen that some people were so much fairer than others.

"But it has not been a little thing to you, evidently. That is why I
am even rather curious about it," he explained. "It is a difference
definite enough to make you speak almost as if they were of a different
race from ours."

I sat silent a few seconds, thinking it over. Suddenly I realized what I
had never realized before.

"Do you know," I said, as slowly as he himself had spoken, "I did not
know that was true until you put it into words. I am so used to thinking
of them as different, somehow, that I suppose I do feel as if they were
almost like another race, in a way. Perhaps one would feel like that
with a native Indian, or a Japanese."

"I dare say that is a good simile," he reflected. "Are they different
when you know them well?"

"I have never known one but Wee Brown Elspeth," I answered, thinking it
over.

He did start then, in the strangest way.

"What!" he exclaimed. "What did you say?"

I was quite startled myself. Suddenly he looked pale, and his breath
caught itself.

"I said Wee Elspeth, Wee Brown Elspeth. She was only a child who played
with me," I stammered, "when I was little."

He pulled himself together almost instantly, though the color did not
come back to his face at once and his voice was not steady for a few
seconds. But he laughed outright at himself.

"I beg your pardon," he apologized. "I have been ill and am rather
nervous. I thought you said something you could not possibly have
said. I almost frightened you. And you were only speaking of a little
playmate. Please go on."

"I was only going to say that she was fair like that, fairer than any
one I had ever seen; but when we played together she seemed like any
other child. She was the first I ever knew."

I told him about the misty day on the moor, and about the pale troopers
and the big, lean leader who carried Elspeth before him on his saddle. I
had never talked to any one about it before, not even to Jean Braidfute.
But he seemed to be so interested, as if the little story quite
fascinated him. It was only an episode, but it brought in the weirdness
of the moor and my childish fancies about the things hiding in the white
mist, and the castle frowning on its rock, and my baby face pressed
against the nursery window in the tower, and Angus and the library, and
Jean and her goodness and wise ways. It was dreadful to talk so much
about oneself. But he listened so. His eyes never left my face--they
watched and held me as if he were enthralled. Sometimes he asked a
question.

"I wonder who they were--the horsemen?" he pondered. "Did you ever ask
Wee Elspeth?"

"We were both too little to care. We only played," I answered him. "And
they came and went so quickly that they were only a sort of dream."

"They seem to have been a strange lot. Wasn't Angus curious about them?"
he suggested.

"Angus never was curious about anything," I said. "Perhaps he knew
something about them and would not tell me. When I was a little thing
I always knew he and Jean had secrets I was too young to hear. They hid
sad and ugly things from me, or things that might frighten a child. They
were very good."

"Yes, they were good," he said, thoughtfully.

I think any one would have been pleased to find herself talking quietly
to a great genius--as quietly as if he were quite an ordinary person;
but to me the experience was wonderful. I had thought about him so much
and with such adoring reverence. And he looked at me as if he truly
liked me, even as if I were something new--a sort of discovery which
interested him. I dare say that he had never before seen a girl who had
lived so much alone and in such a remote and wild place.

I believe Sir Ian and his wife were pleased, too, to see that I
was talking. They were glad that their guests should see that I was
intelligent enough to hold the attention even of a clever man. If Hector
MacNairn was interested in me I could not be as silly and dull as I
looked. But on my part I was only full of wonder and happiness. I was a
girl, and he had been my only hero; and it seemed even as if he liked me
and cared about my queer life.

He was not a man who had the air of making confidences or talking about
himself, but before we parted I seemed to know him and his surroundings
as if he had described them. A mere phrase of his would make a picture.
Such a few words made his mother quite clear to me. They loved each
other in an exquisite, intimate way. She was a beautiful person. Artists
had always painted her. He and she were completely happy when they were
together. They lived in a house in the country, and I could not at all
tell how I discovered that it was an old house with beautiful chimneys
and a very big garden with curious high walls with corner towers round
it. He only spoke of it briefly, but I saw it as a picture; and always
afterward, when I thought of his mother, I thought of her as sitting
under a great and ancient apple-tree with the long, late-afternoon
shadows stretching on the thick, green grass. I suppose I saw that just
because he said:

"Will you come to tea under the big apple-tree some afternoon when the
late shadows are like velvet on the grass? That is perhaps the loveliest
time."

When we rose to go and join the rest of the party, he stood a moment and
glanced round the room at our fellow-guests.

"Are there any of your White People here to-night?" he said, smiling. "I
shall begin to look for them everywhere."

I glanced over the faces carelessly. "There are none here to-night,"
I answered, and then I flushed because he had smiled. "It was only
a childish name I gave them," I hesitated. "I forgot you wouldn't
understand. I dare say it sounds silly."

He looked at me so quickly.

"No! no! no!" he exclaimed. "You mustn't think that! Certainly not
silly."

I do not think he knew that he put out his hand and gently touched my
arm, as one might touch a child to make it feel one wanted it to listen.

"You don't know," he said in his low, slow voice, "how glad I am that
you have talked to me. Sir Ian said you were not fond of talking to
people, and I wanted to know you."

"You care about places like Muircarrie. That is why," I answered,
feeling at once how much he understood. "I care for Muircarrie more than
for all the rest of the world. And I suppose you saw it in my face. I
dare say that the people who love that kind of life cannot help seeing
it there."