“A beggar, then, either for kirk or town. I have nothing to give.”
“Not so; he is a fair, strong lad, who says you are his aunt.”
“He lies, whoever he is. Let me see the fool, Anita.”
“Here he is, mistress. Let him speak for himself.” And Anita stood aside and permitted David to enter the room.
Matilda sat in a large, uncushioned chair of black wood–the chair of her fore-elder Olaf, who had made it in Iceland from some rare drift, and brought it with his other household goods to Shetland ten generations past. It was a great deal too large for her shrunken form, and her old, old face against its blackness looked as if it had been carved out of the yellow ivory of Sudan. Never had David seen a countenance so void of expression; it was like a scroll made unreadable by the wear and dust of years. Life appeared to have retreated entirely to her eyes, which were fierce and darkly glowing. And the weight and coldness of her great age communicated itself; he was chilled by her simple presence.
“What is your business?” she asked.
“I am the son of your niece Karen.”
“I have no niece.”
“Yea, but you have. Death breaks no kinship. It is souls that are related, not bodies; and souls live forever.”
“Babble! In a word, what brought you here?”