A vague restlessness, and something even akin to despair, had brought her hither. For of course like other young people of the day she had coquetted with the modern doctrine that in times of trouble our great and gentle Mother Nature is the true consoler and comforter; she had read Wordsworth; and she had read Matthew Arnold upon Wordsworth:
"He too upon a wintry clime Had fallen—on this iron time Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. He found us when the age had bound Our souls in its benumbing round— He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. He laid us as we lay at birth On the cool flowery lap of earth; Smiles broke from us and we had ease. The hills were round us, and the breeze Went o’er the sun-lit fields again; Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. Our youth return’d; for there was shed On spirits that had long been dead, Spirits dried up and closely furl’d, The freshness of the early world."
And now if she wished to forget the untowardness of human nature—if she wished to escape from her bitter disappointment on beholding her large and generous schemes met and checked on every hand by a sullen ingratitude—surely here was a seclusion that should have brought balm to her wounded heart. Moreover the morning light was cheerful; April as it was, a quiet warmth prevailed; she tried to please herself by recollecting that this fairy paradise actually belonged to her. And if human beings were so hard and unapproachable, why, then, she could interest herself in these harmless living creatures that were all so busy around her, under the quickening influences of the spring. From the dusty pathway in the opener glades the yellow-hammers were picking up bits of withered grass for their nest-building; black-caps swung back-downward from the sprays, to wrench the buds off with their bills; she stopped here and there to watch a beautiful beetle—shining bronze, or opaque green with a touch of scarlet on its legs; a tiny grey lizard, with its small eye bright as a diamond, lay basking on a shelf of rock, and remained absolutely motionless, hoping to be passed unnoticed. Then she came upon a little tuft of primroses—so shining pale—so full of dim suggestions—and of associations with the poets. Well, she looked at the primroses. They were very pretty. But somehow she could not keep thinking of them, nor of the fine things the poets had said of them. The fact was, in her present straits her heart was craving for human sympathy; she wanted to be of some use in the world; she wished to see eyes brighten when she appeared at the door, however poor the cottage might be. Primroses were pretty, no doubt—the firstlings of the year awoke pleasant and tender memories—but—but why were those people so obdurate? No, there was no solace for her; the sweet and soothing influences of nature were intruded upon, were obliterated, by the harsh facts and problems of human life. With those men and women almost openly declared her enemies, and with all her grand schemes gone away, what good could she get from primroses? And so, humiliating herself with the conviction that she was nothing but another Peter Bell, she passed on through the woods, and eventually got down to the sheltered little bay where she had first met Anna Chlannach.
