CHAPTER V
I went to tea under the big apple-tree. It
was very big and old and wonderful. No
wonder Mr. MacNairn and his mother loved it.
Its great branches spread out farther than I
had ever seen the branches of an apple-tree
spread before. They were gnarled and knotted
and beautiful with age. Their shadows upon
the grass were velvet, deep and soft. Such a
tree could only have lived its life in such a
garden. At least it seemed so to me. The
high, dim-colored walls, with their curious,
low corner towers and the leafage of the wall
fruits spread against their brick, inclosed it
embracingly, as if they were there to take care
of it and its beauty. But the tree itself seemed
to have grown there in all its dignified loveliness
of shadow to take care of Mrs. MacNairn, who
sat under it. I felt as if it loved and was proud
of her.
I have heard clever literary people speak of
Mrs. MacNairn as a "survival of type." Sometimes
clever people bewilder me by the terms
they use, but I thought I understood what they
meant in her case. She was quite unlike the
modern elderly woman, and yet she was not in
the least old-fashioned or demodee. She was
only exquisitely distinct.
When she rose from her chair under the
apple-tree boughs and came forward to meet me
that afternoon, the first things which struck me
were her height and slenderness and her light
step. Then I saw that her clear profile seemed
cut out of ivory and that her head was a beautiful
shape and was beautifully set. Its every
turn and movement was exquisite. The mere
fact that both her long, ivory hands enfolded
mine thrilled me. I wondered if it were possible
that she could be unaware of her loveliness.
Beautiful people are thrilling to me, and Mrs.
MacNairn has always seemed more so than any
one else. This is what her son once said of her:
"She is not merely beautiful; she is Beauty--
Beauty's very spirit moving about among us
mortals; pure Beauty."
She drew me to a chair under her tree, and
we sat down together. I felt as if she were glad
that I had come. The watching look I had seen
in her son's eyes was in hers also. They watched
me as we talked, and I found myself telling her
about my home as I had found myself telling
him. He had evidently talked to her about it
himself. I had never met any one who thought
of Muircarrie as I did, but it seemed as if they
who were strangers were drawn by its wild,
beautiful loneliness as I was.
I was happy. In my secret heart I began to
ask myself if it could be true that they made me
feel a little as if I somehow belonged to some one.
I had always seemed so detached from every
one. I had not been miserable about it, and I
had not complained to myself; I only accepted
the detachment as part of my kind of life.
Mr. MacNairn came into the garden later
and several other people came in to tea. It was
apparently a sort of daily custom--that people
who evidently adored Mrs. MacNairn dropped
in to see and talk to her every afternoon. She
talked wonderfully, and her friends' joy in her
was wonderful, too. It evidently made people
happy to be near her. All she said and did
was like her light step and the movements of
her delicate, fine head--gracious and soft and
arrestingly lovely. She did not let me drift
away and sit in a corner looking on, as I usually
did among strangers. She kept me near her,
and in some subtle, gentle way made me a part
of all that was happening--the talk, the charming
circle under the spreading boughs of the
apple-tree, the charm of everything. Sometimes
she would put out her exquisite, long-
fingered hand and touch me very lightly, and
each time she did it I felt as if she had given
me new life.
There was an interesting elderly man who
came among the rest of the guests. I was
interested in him even before she spoke to me of
him. He had a handsome, aquiline face which
looked very clever. His talk was brilliantly
witty. When he spoke people paused as if they
could not bear to lose a phrase or even a word.
But in the midst of the trills of laughter
surrounding him his eyes were unchangingly sad.
His face laughed or smiled, but his eyes never.
"He is the greatest artist in England and the
most brilliant man," Mrs. MacNairn said to me,
quietly. "But he is the saddest, too. He had
a lovely daughter who was killed instantly, in
his presence, by a fall. They had been
inseparable companions and she was the delight
of his life. That strange, fixed look has been in
his eyes ever since. I know you have noticed
it."
We were walking about among the flower-
beds after tea, and Mr. MacNairn was showing
me a cloud of blue larkspurs in a corner when I
saw something which made me turn toward
him rather quickly.
"There is one!" I said. "Do look at her!
Now you see what I mean! The girl standing
with her hand on Mr. Le Breton's arm."
Mr. Le Breton was the brilliant man with the
sad eyes. He was standing looking at a mass
of white-and-purple iris at the other side of the
garden. There were two or three people with
him, but it seemed as if for a moment he had
forgotten them--had forgotten where he was.
I wondered suddenly if his daughter had been
fond of irises. He was looking at them with
such a tender, lost expression. The girl, who
was a lovely, fair thing, was standing quite close
to him with her hand in his arm, and she was
smiling, too--such a smile!
"Mr. Le Breton!" Mr. MacNairn said in a
rather startled tone. "The girl with her hand in
his arm?"
"Yes. You see how fair she is," I answered.
"And she has that transparent look. It is so
lovely. Don't you think so? SHE is one of the
White People."
He stood very still, looking across the flowers
at the group. There was a singular interest and
intensity in his expression. He watched the
pair silently for a whole minute, I think.
"Ye-es," he said, slowly, at last, "I do see what
you mean--and it IS lovely. I don't seem to
know her well. She must be a new friend of my
mother's. So she is one of the White People?"
"She looks like a white iris herself, doesn't
she?" I said. "Now you know."
"Yes; now I know," he answered.
I asked Mrs. MacNairn later who the girl was,
but she didn't seem to recognize my description
of her. Mr. Le Breton had gone away by that
time, and so had the girl herself.
"The tall, very fair one in the misty, pale-
gray dress," I said. "She was near Mr. Le
Breton when he was looking at the iris-bed.
You were cutting some roses only a few yards
away from her. That VERY fair girl?"
Mrs. MacNairn paused a moment and looked
puzzled.
"Mildred Keith is fair," she reflected, "but
she was not there then. I don't recall seeing
a girl. I was cutting some buds for Mrs.
Anstruther. I--" She paused again and turned
toward her son, who was standing watching
us. I saw their eyes meet in a rather arrested way.
"It was not Mildred Keith," he said. "Miss
Muircarrie is inquiring because this girl was one
of those she calls the White People. She was
not any one I had seen here before."
There was a second's silence before Mrs.
MacNairn smilingly gave me one of her light,
thrilling touches on my arm.
"Ah! I remember," she said. "Hector told
me about the White People. He rather fancied
I might be one."
I am afraid I rather stared at her as I slowly
shook my head. You see she was almost one,
but not quite.
"I was so busy with my roses that I did not
notice who was standing near Mr. Le Breton,"
she said. "Perhaps it was Anabel Mere. She
is a more transparent sort of girl than Mildred,
and she is more blond. And you don't know
her, Hector? I dare say it was she."
