Brownlows. Mrs. Oliphant
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by this speech. Its frankness amazed and yet attracted her. It drove her into deep bewilderment as to the rank of her little companion. Was she a lady? She would scarcely have taken so much pleasure in the sight, had it been within the range of possibility that she could herself join such a party; but then her voice was a refined voice, and her lovely looks might, as Sara had thought before, have belonged to a princess. The young mistress of Brownlows looked very curiously at Pamela, but she could not fathom her. The red cloak was a little the worse for wear, but still it was such a garb as any one might have worn. There was no sort of finery, no sort of pretension, about the little personage. And then Sara had already made up her mind in any case to take her pretty neighbor under her protection. The end of the matter was, that in turning it over in her mind, the amusing side of the question at last caught her eye. How strange it was! While the awful moment before dinner was being got through at the great house, this little creature at the gate was clapping her hands over the sounds and sights out-of-doors. To her it was not heavy people coming to dinner, to be entertained in body and mind for three or four mortal hours; but prancing horses and rolling wheels, and the lamps making their shining progress two and two, and all the cheerful commotion. How odd it was! She must be (whatever her “position”) an original little thing, to see so tedious a business in such a novel light.
“It is very odd,” said Sara, “that I never thought of that before. I almost think I shouldn’t mind having stupid people now and then if I had thought of that. And so you think it fun? You wouldn’t think it fun if you had to watch them eating their dinner, and amuse them all the evening. It is such hard work; and then to ask them to sing when you know they can’t sing, no more than peacocks, and to stand and say Thank you when it is all over! I wonder what made you think of looking at the lamps. It is very clever of you, you know, to describe them like that. Do you read a great deal? Are you fond of it? Do you play, or do you draw, or what do you like best?”
This question staggered Pamela as much as her description had done Sara. She grew pale and then she grew red. “I am—not in the least clever,” she said, “nor—nor accomplished—nor—I am not a great lady like you, Miss Brownlow,” the little girl added, with a sudden pang of mortification. She had not been in the least envious of Sara, nor desirous of claiming equality with her. And yet when she thus suddenly perceived the difference, it went to her heart so sharply that she had hard ado not to cry.
As for Sara, she laughed softly, not knowing of any bitterness beneath that reply. She laughed, knowing she was not a great lady, and yet a little disposed to think she was, and pleased to appear so in her companion’s eyes. “If you were to speak like that to Lady Motherwell, I wonder what she would say,” said Sara; “but I don’t want you to be a great lady. I think you are the prettiest little thing I ever saw in my life. There now—I suppose it is wrong to say it, but it is quite true. It is a pleasure just to look at you. If you are not nice and good, it is a great shame, and very ungrateful of you, when God has made you so pretty; but I think you must be nice. Don’t blush and tremble like that, as if I were a gentleman. I am just nineteen. How old are you?”
“Seventeen last midsummer,” said Pamela, under her breath.
“I knew you were quite a child,” said Sara, with dignity. “Don’t look so frightened. I mean to come and see you almost every day. And you shall come home with me, and see the flowers, and the pictures, and all my pretty things. I have quantities of pretty things. Papa is so very kind. I have no mother; but that—that—old—lady—is your mother, is she? or your grandmother? Look, there is old Betty at the door. Wicked old woman! what business has she to come out to the door and make her rheumatism worse? Come along a little quicker; but, you poor little dear, what is the matter? Can’t you run?”
“I sprained my ankle,” said Pamela, blushing more and more, and wondering if Mr. John had perhaps kept that little incident to himself.
“And I trying to make you run!” cried the penitent Sara. “Never mind, take my arm. I am not in the least in a hurry. Lean upon me—there’s a good child. They should not let you come so far alone.”
Thus it was that the two arrived at Betty’s cottage, to the old woman’s intense amazement. Pamela herself was flattered by the kind help afforded her, but it is doubtful whether she enjoyed it; and in the exciting novelty of the position, she was glad to sit down in a corner and collect herself while her brilliant young patroness fulfilled her benevolent mission. Betty’s lodge was a creation of Miss Brownlow’s from beginning to end. It was Sara’s design, and Sara had furnished it, up to the pictures on the wall, which were carefully chosen in accordance with what might be supposed to be an old woman’s taste, and the little book-shelf, which was filled on the same principles. The fact was, however, that Betty had somewhat mortified Sara by pinning up a glorious colored picture out of the “Illustrated News,” and by taking in a tale of love and mystery in penny numbers, showing illegitimate tastes both in literature and art. But she was suffering, and eventually at such a moment her offenses ought to be forgiven.
“You should not stand at the door like that, and go opening the gate in such weather,” said Sara. “I came to say you must have one of your son’s children to help you—that one you had last year.”
“She’s gone to service, Miss,” said Betty, with a bob.
“Then one of your daughter’s—the daughter you have at Masterton—she has dozens and dozens of children. Why can not one of them come out and take care of you?”
“Please, Miss,” said Betty, “a poor man’s childer is his fortune—leastways in a place where there’s mills and things. They’re all a-doing of something, them little things. I’m awful comfortable, Miss, thanks to you and your good papa”—at this and all other intervals of her speech, Betty made a courtesy—“but I ain’t got money like to pay ’em wages, and saving when one’s a bit delicate, or that—”
“Betty, sit down, please, and don’t make so many courtesies. I don’t understand that. If I had a nice old grandmother like you”—said Sara; and then she paused and blushed, and bethought herself—perhaps it might be as well not to enter upon that question.
“Anyhow it is very easy to pay them something,” she said. “I will pay it for you till your rheumatism is better. And then there is your other son, who was a tailor or something—where is he?”
“Oh, if I could but tell!” said Betty. “Oh, Miss, he’s one o’ them as brings down gray hairs wi’ sorrow—not as I have a many to lose, though when I was a young lass, the likes o’ me for a ’ead of ’air wasn’t in all Dewsbury. But Tom, I’m afeard, I’m afeard, has tooken to terrible bad ways.”
“Drinking or something?” asked Sara, in the tone of a woman experienced in such inevitable miseries.
“Worse than that, Miss. I don’t say as it ain’t bad enough when a man takes to drinking. Many a sore heart it’s giv’ me, but it always comes kind o’ natural like,” said Betty, with her apron at her eyes. “But poor Tom, he’s gone and come out for a Radical, Miss, and sets hisself up a-making speeches and things. It’s that as brought it on me so bad. I’ve not been so bad before, not sin’ his poor father died.”
“Then don’t stand and courtesy like that, please,” said Sara. “A Radical—is that all? I am a little of a Radical myself, and so is papa.”
“Ah, the like of you don’t know,” said Betty. “Mr. John wouldn’t say nothing for him. He said, ‘That’s very bad, very bad, Betty,’ when I went and told him; and a young gentleman like that is the one to know.”
“He knows nothing about it,” said Sara; “he’s a University man, and Eton, you know; he is all in the old world way; but papa and I are Radicals, like Tom. Are you?—but I suppose you are too young to know. And oh, here it is just time for luncheon, and you have never told me your name. Betty, make haste and send for Tom or somebody to help you. And there’s something coming in a basket; and if you want any thing you must send up to the house.”
“You’re very kind, Miss,” said Betty, “and