KNOTS UNTIED
On Friday afternoon at half-past two Barnabas took Pippa to feed the
monkeys and other animals at the Zoological Gardens. It was by Miss
Mason's special request.
During the time that elapsed between their departure and four o'clock
Miss Mason was distinctly restless. She began to sew at some fine
white cambric into which she was putting her most beautiful stitches.
When she had returned from Hope, Bridget had told her of a Secret that
was to arrive in the spring--a secret which if it was a boy was to be
called Oliver, but Bridget hoped it would be Olive. She and Jasper were
beamingly happy.
Miss Mason put in a few stitches, but she found it impossible to sit
still. She dropped the work into a basket, got up from her chair, and
began to walk up and down the room. Then she would suddenly sit down
and begin to sew again.
"I'm an old fool," she said. "I can no more help interfering than I
can help breathing, and yet I'm as nervous as a cat." And she began to
watch the clock anxiously.
It had just chimed the hour in its silvery tone when Sally opened the
door.
"The Duchessa di Corleone," she said. She had learnt the name by now.
Sara came into the room. She was in a dark blue dress, and because the
day was keen, though bright, she was wrapped in dark sable furs.
"My dear," said Miss Mason, "I am quite delighted to see you. Sally,
bring tea."
Sara sat down and loosened her furs. Miss Mason looked at her. Her
face was paler than even its usual worry warranted. It had lost the
under-glow of warmth, and her eyes looked dark and sad.
"Did you have a good time in Devonshire?" she asked.
"Delightful," said Miss Mason. "A few people grinned fatuously when
they saw my old figure skipping over the rocks. But I said to myself,
'The Duchessa wouldn't see anything to laugh at,' and so I didn't care."
Sara smiled. "You still remember our conversation long ago?"
"I've never forgotten it," said Miss Mason emphatically. "I fancy if I
had not seen you that evening I should have given up all my dreams and
have gone back to the old house for the rest of my life. And what a lot
I should have missed if I had."
"And what a lot a great many people would have missed," said Sara.
"You've woven yourself into a good many lives. Why, dozens of babies
would have been minus white woolly jackets, while several bigger babies
would have lost a good deal of happiness."
"Nice of you to say so," said Miss Mason. And she began to pour out tea.
For the next twenty minutes they talked of little things--the visit to
Devonshire, the donkey-tour, the flat Aurora and Alan had taken, and
Pippa at present feeding the animals at the Zoo. Sara talked lightly
and even gaily. As Barnabas had said, she was a good actress. It was
not till the meal was finished, then Miss Mason spoke on the subject of
her heart.
"My dear," she then said suddenly, "what is the matter?"
Sara flushed. "I can't talk about it," she said. She made no attempt at
denial.
"I don't really want you to tell me," said Miss Mason, "because I know.
But I think I can find a way out of the difficulty."
Sara gave a little sad laugh. "If you can you are clever. I've thought
and thought, and can see none."
Miss Mason coughed. "It's all perfectly simple, really," she said,
"only I don't quite know how to begin to tell you. It seems to me that
money is the most difficult thing in the world to talk about." She took
two envelopes from the table. "Will you, my dear, read the contents of
those. It seems to me the simplest way."
Sara took the envelopes--long ones--and drew out the parchment
contents. She read slowly. At first she could hardly grasp their
meaning, it had been so unexpectedly presented to her.
At last she looked up. Her face was quivering.
"But--but--I simply couldn't----"
"But, my dear, why not?" said Miss Mason. "Will you look at the whole
thing reasonably. If I chose to bequeath certain sums of money to you
and Paul at my death I presume you would not feel it incumbent on you
to refuse them. Why shouldn't you accept them now?"
"But----" began Sara again. And she stopped, looking from the documents
she held to Miss Mason.
"I know," said Miss Mason, "that people often feel a kind of pride
about accepting money, though why on earth they should calmly take it
from dead people and refuse to accept it from living ones, I can't
imagine. Of course their argument might be that dead people can't use
it themselves. That would be true. But then this special living person
can't use all hers. Let me just put things clearly to you. I have a
capital that brings me in fifteen thousand a year. Five thousand a year
I am devoting to a certain scheme in which Barnabas is helping me. I
wish to make over sufficient capital to you and Paul to bring you in
two thousand five hundred a year each. That will leave me with five
thousand a year for my own use. My dear, I don't even spend that."
"But charities----" began Sara vaguely.
"Pooh!" said Miss Mason. "I'm sick of them. If you'd written as many
charitable letters as I have you'd have had enough of charities. I
wrote hundreds for Miss Stanhope. She always filled in the amount she
gave herself. I never knew what it was. But I can give to all the
charities I want out of five thousand. Now, my dear, will you agree.
Will you give me the pleasure of your acceptance and allow me a few
more years on this extremely pleasant planet in which I can see your
happiness, instead of waiting till I'm dead and coming then to drop a
few grateful tears and white flowers on my grave. I'd infinitely prefer
the former I assure you."
Sara gave a little half-laughing sob. "I accept with all my heart," she
said, "and I don't know how ever I am to thank you."
Miss Mason grunted. "Now there's another thing," she said, "please
don't try. Do think if you can that the money just happened into the
bank without any human agency. If you're going to keep an eternal
feeling of gratitude before your mind it will spoil everything. I want
to be able to quarrel with you and Paul and scold you as much as I
like, and if I felt that gratitude was preventing you from answering
me back it would destroy my whole pleasure in the proceeding. Besides,
my dear, if there is any debt owing it is I who owe it. I've never
forgotten the hope you gave me the first evening we met."
Sara stretched out her hands with a little laugh of pure happiness. It
was the first time she had laughed like that for three months.
"And I tried to sermonize a little," she cried. "And then we got
on to fairy tales, and I was happier. Oh, isn't life a fairy tale!
And if we told all the dull, prosaic people of the truly delightful
and unexpected things that happen wouldn't they say that it was all
made-up, and far-fetched, and things like that. When it is just that
they are too stupid to see the happenings, and too heavy and dull to
look over the wall in which they have enclosed themselves. I can't tell
you how happy I am. And will you think me a pig if I run away for a
little while and tell Paul?"
She got up from her chair, radiant, vital, as she had been on the day
she had first entered the studio.
"My dear," said Miss Mason, "if you hadn't said you were going I should
have sent you."
Sara held out both her hands. "It seems," she said, "as if I were
taking it too quietly, and as if I ought to have protested more. But
after everything you said I really couldn't. It was all so absolutely
true. And we'd both so much rather have you here seeing our happiness
in your wonderful legacy, than that we should go to a grave to thank
you, and lay that white flower tenderly on the grass."
Miss Mason gave a gruff laugh. "You can't conceive," she said, "what
pleasure you've given me." Then quite suddenly she took Sara in her
arms and kissed her.
"Now, my dear," she said as she released her, "do, for goodness' sake,
go and make that poor Paul happy."