THE SECRET TROUBLE
SARA was fond of walking, and she reached the pine ridge in very good
time. But when she saw a small grey house tucked away in the corner,
she followed Graham's advice, and went in for some tea. Mrs. Gates, a
plump, motherly looking woman, gave her a warm welcome.
"I've heard tell of you, miss. You're with the poor lady at Felstone
Corner—Mrs. Laird. We're very fond of Mr. Laird—my husband and I—he's
so thorough and just in all his dealings, and there's nothing too small
for him to look into! Sir Malcolm has never had an agent like him
before! And when he comes over here on business, he's so good to my
little girls—they just dote on him. But there! We all see what a burden
his mother's illness be to him. I went up to the house when first they
come here just to help them in, and she fair depressed me, she were so
overcome with wretchedness."
"It is ill health," said Sara.
Then not wishing to discuss her employer, she asked Mrs. Gates if she
did not feel lonely.
"Not when I'm busy, and I'm generally that. But just now I have a lady
lodger. She have come up here for the health of her little girl. They
live out in the pine wood most of the day, and when my little girls
come back from school, they and Miss True have rare games together."
She gave Sara tea in a spotless little kitchen. The home-made loaf of
bread, the currant cake, the honey and golden butter set before her
were all appetizing, and she drank her tea with great relish. After a
little more chat, she went out into the pine wood, rather dreading lest
she should come across the lodgers.
"It seems to me," she said, smiling at the thought, "that my day out by
myself away from every living creature has been anything but solitary,
for I have done nothing but come across people the whole time."
She stepped softly upon the pine drift, looking about her with
the greatest appreciation. It took her back to a pine wood in her
childhood's home; the scent of the pines, the stillness and majesty of
their slender trunks, with the far-away sound of the wind swaying their
dark heads, so high above her!
And then she suddenly longed to do as she and her brother had always
done—to make a fire of the cones and pine-needles! She took a little
silver matchbox from her pocket, and gathering some sticks together,
she soon had a blaze. Then she sat down by it, and taking her book from
her pocket, she began to read. Her back was resting against a tree. She
was so deep in her book that she did not see a little figure stealing
up in her direction. Suddenly she was startled.
"Please, are you a gipsy?"
She looked up. Standing in front of her was a tiny, short-frocked girl
with a crop of short curls and a white face, with large dark eyes and
pointed chin.
Sara's heart always had a warm place in it for children.
"Let us pretend I am," she said. "Come and sit down by my fire, and
tell me your name."
"Yes, that will be lovely! My name is True—at least that's what Mummy
calls me, my proper name is Gertrude. Mummy is close by, but I leaves
her when I wants to do adventuring."
"I expect you are lodging with Mrs. Gates."
"Now I b'lieve you're a fairy, for I didn't tell you that."
"Would you rather I was a fairy than a gipsy? I can be anything you
like."
"Oh, you 'are' glorious!"
The small creature clasped her hands in ecstasy.
"Then will you be the wicked witch making spells over a fire, and I'll
be the princess—?"
"True, what are you doing?"
The child started, for her mother had come upon the scene. She was very
young, and looked a mere girl in her simple black dress and wide shady
hat. She had a sweet face, very gentle and appealing in its expression,
and her voice was very low in tone.
"She is not disturbing me," said Sara with a pleasant smile. "We were
just beginning to play together."
"It is time to go to tea," said the mother, taking her small child by
the hands. Then she looked at Sara with friendly eyes.
"We were so accustomed to monopolize the wood, that my little girl was
quite curious when she saw the smoke from your fire. We do not see many
people here."
"No," said Sara. "I have come over from Felstone Corner. I am staying
with Mrs. Laird."
"Are you really? How extraordinary! I haven't been here long, but I
am a distant cousin of Mrs. Laird's. I used often to stay with her
before—before her trouble. I went over to Felstone Corner once since
they have been there, but Mrs. Laird would not see me, and Graham drove
me back to the station the same day. That was when my husband was
alive. We were staying in Lancaster for a few weeks."
"Does Mr. Laird know you are here?" asked Sara.
"I wrote to him a couple of days ago. Our doctor recommended me this
high air for True. She is very delicate."
Sara wondered to herself that she had not been told of these visitors,
and then took herself to task for expecting to be taken into Graham's
confidence about everything.
"How is Mrs. Laird?" was the next question put to her.
"I am hoping she will be better when the warm weather comes."
"Then you—you nurse her?"
"I am her companion," said Sara, quickly.
She saw that the young widow was scrutinizing her closely. Was it fancy
that made Sara think she noticed a certain hardening of lips and smile?
"I suppose you have not been long with her? No one stays very long, I
hear. It's a terrible life for Graham."
Sara made no reply.
Then the young widow passed on, saying with a little bow and smile—
"I dare say we will meet before long. You can tell them you have seen
me. I wish we were not so far-away, but we are nearer the town than
they are. Felstone Corner seems the other end of nowhere!"
True kissed her hand.
"Come another day, when it isn't tea-time," she called out in her
shrill little voice. "Then we'll have time to play all sorts of games!"
Sara was left alone to her fire and to solitude. She could read no
longer. Her thoughts again centred in Mrs. Laird.
"I am making no way with her at all; oh, I wish, I wish I could bring
her comfort!"
She was interested in the widow and her child. And when she at length
turned homewards, she wondered again why Graham Laird had not mentioned
them, when he advised her to have tea at the farm in which they were
lodging.
She did not arrive home till dusk had set in. She found Graham sitting
with his mother. Contrary to his custom, he did not leave the room when
she came into it.
"Come and tell the mother of your adventures," he said with a little
smile. "She wants to hear about poor Snooks."
"How is he?"
"Doing very well. He'll be about again in a few days. Reuben is
first-rate with animals!"
Then Sara sat down, and gave Mrs. Laird a very full account of her day.
When she came to her meeting with the widow and child, Mrs. Laird said
irritably—
"A cousin of mine? I have no cousins living—"
"It is Eva, mother. She married, you know, soon after we came here. Her
name is Jeffery now. Her husband died last year. I heard from her the
other day, and have not had time to answer her—"
"She is not to come into the house," said Mrs. Laird, excitedly. "I
will not see her. I wonder she dares come near us! What is her object?"
"She told me her little girl was delicate, and wants country air," said
Sara.
"I can't think why you need have spoken to her," said Mrs. Laird. "I
don't wish you to have anything to do with her."
"It was quite an accident. In fact I was only thinking as I came home,
how differently my day has been spent from what I intended. I went out
to the hills to have a lovely time of solitude. I have instead been
making acquaintance with six strange people."
"And you couldn't even get away from me," said Graham with a little
laugh.
Then he got up to go. Mrs. Laird was strangely restless and upset.
When she was alone with Sara, she said—
"Give me your promise you won't speak to that woman again. She has done
untold harm to me in the past."
"I will try and not meet her, but I never give promises that I am
doubtful about keeping. She might insist upon speaking to me. She looks
such a sweet gentle girl."
"She's a snake—a snake in the grass," said Mrs. Laird, angrily.
"Well, don't let us think about her."
"But I must. I shan't sleep to-night. She'll be getting hold of you and
telling you a lot of falsehoods. A cousin of mine indeed! She's the
stepdaughter of a cousin of mine, and when her mother went abroad, she
came to stay with me. She was only a schoolgirl then, about seventeen,
but she wrought mischief between the ones I loved best, and myself. She
was the cause of it all! I could curse her!"
Mrs. Laird broke down and sobbed miserably. Sara knelt by her side.
"Dear Mrs. Laird, do tell me all about it. I can't bear seeing you so
miserable. I wish I could comfort you!"
Mrs. Laird raised her head, and a fierce light came into her eyes.
"I will tell you. And you can leave me to-morrow, for you won't want to
stay with me when you hear. But if I don't tell you, she will! She has
followed us here on purpose to rake up the old story. I know her too
well! Lock the door. Come here and listen."
She took hold of Sara's hands with her hot trembling ones.
Sara caught her breath. At last she was going to be told the secret.
"Did you think Graham my only son? I had another, my firstborn, Edmund.
He was in a Government office in London. We lived out of town, half
an hour's run by train. Graham was abroad. Edmund lived with me, but
the day came when he married. She was a nice little thing—his wife.
I had my own rooms in the house, and did not interfere with them. Of
course we had differences occasionally. I'll confess it. I have a quick
passionate temper, and there were times when she exasperated me by her
helpless babyish ways. But we were good friends. We only lived together
a year. She died when her baby was born. Edmund was inconsolable, he
got his chief to send him out abroad on some foreign mission, and he
left his child with me—"
Mrs. Laird paused, for her voice broke.
Seeing her agitation, Sara said—
"Don't tell me any more now, if you would rather not."
"I shall not stop now I have once begun," Mrs. Laird said sharply. Then
she looked up at Sara with weary pitiful eyes—
"I loved that child, loved her as I had loved her father. Do you
believe me when I say it? I 'adored' her!"
"I am sure you did," said Sara gently, seeing a fierce light leap into
the old lady's eyes again.
"Dorothy, her name was. We called her Dorrie. She slept in a
dressing-room next mine. I taught her myself to read and write. She was
always with me. She was high-spirited, and I suppose I indulged her too
much. Her governesses used to say she was a handful! Then came the time
when Eva Routledge came to stay with us. I had her for her mother's
sake. She was a favourite cousin of mine. Eva was a girl whose rôle in
life was to be popular. She craved and sought for the affection of all
she came across, but she would not share this affection with others.
Dorrie looked up to her as a child of eleven does look up to a girl of
seventeen, and Eva got such an influence over her that she would do
anything for her.
"Then Edmund came home on leave, and Eva being a born flirt began to
amuse herself with him. She always did, as you say, look quiet and
gentle—but she was very deep. I knew how she acted behind my back—and
I exposed her falseness one day before Edmund. She never forgave me
for it, and systematically tried to turn Dorrie against me. It was her
revenge. I did not realize then how bitterly she felt towards me. But
when Dorrie flouted me to my face, refused to stay with me, and spent
all her time with Eva, I began to see it must be stopped, and I told
Eva her visit must come to an end.
"I really believe now that she was trying to make Edmund marry her. He
was very near it, and thought me very harsh in the way I talked about
her. I remember the night before he left us—he was going to spend a
fortnight in the country with some friends.
"'Mother,' he said, 'I think you're very hard on young people. Dorrie
seems frightened of you. Do you find her a trouble? Would she be better
at a boarding-school?'
"I knew who had been poisoning his mind against me.
"'When Dorrie and I are alone,' I said, 'we are perfectly happy. Eva is
having a bad influence over her, and I am very glad she is leaving us.'
"He said no more. He left us the next day, and Eva was to go the day
after."
Mrs. Laird stopped. She hid her face in her hands. Sara waited. She
felt the sooner the story was told, the better it would be.
In a few moments, Mrs. Laird looked up, and went on in a cold metallic
tone of voice.
"I was feeling miserable that day. I hadn't slept, and everything
seemed to get upon my nerves. Eva was packing, and Dorrie spent most of
the day in her room. In the afternoon, I was going to take Dorrie out
to tea somewhere. When the time came, the child sent a message saying
she wasn't coming, she was going to stay with Eva till her cab came. Of
course I ought to have given in. I see now that I ought. If we could
ever foresee the result of some of our actions, how differently we
should behave! I was very angry, and sent for Dorrie to come to me. I
can see her now springing up the stairs, a little slim figure, with her
auburn curls flying, and her dark eyes flashing rather angrily.
"I came out on the broad landing, and she stood balancing herself on
one leg—it was a trick she had—at the head of the stairs.
"'I won't come, Granny!' she said passionately. 'Poor Eva is crying.
You've been very unkind to her!'
"'So you like Eva better than your old Granny!' I said, feeling my
temper rise.
"'A thousand times better!' cried Dorrie.
"My passion overcame me. I can't remember what I said. But my words
were enough to make the child shrink back suddenly, as I sprang towards
her. My instinct was to take her by the arm and bring her into my
room and keep her there till Eva had gone. Even now—I can't say for
certain—I go over and over the scene till my brain gets dizzy—but I do
believe that I never laid my hand on her. In any case, the child was
frightened, lost her balance and fell headlong down that steep long
staircase, striking her head with awful force on the stone pavement
below.
"Eva saw her fall, and told every one that she saw me strike her down.
I could not contradict her. The horror of it all numbed me. I dashed
downstairs and carried her upstairs to my bedroom. A doctor was sent
for, but she never recovered consciousness. She died in my arms two
hours afterwards—I—and no one else had killed her!"
"You poor—poor soul!" said Sara. And then in a passion of pity and
compassion, she put her arms round the trembling speaker, and kissed
her.
Mrs. Laird gently pushed her away.
"Ah—h—h!" she said, with a drawn-out shudder. "I am in God's sight a
murderer. It was my temper which killed my darling! That sting nobody
can take out of my heart. Let me finish, there is not much more to
tell. Edmund was telegraphed for. He came, but got the version of
the story from Eva first. You can imagine how he felt towards me. My
remorse, my grief was nothing to him. He shut himself up away from
me till after the funeral, then he bade me good-bye, and went abroad
again. What do you think his last words were to me? They are burnt into
my soul:
"'May God forgive you, mother, I cannot. We are best apart, for you
have taken my all from me!'
"He went, and to add to my punishment, he was attacked by fever a year
later, and died out in India. He passed out of this life without a word
of forgiveness for his mother."
"And then your other son came home and comforted you," said Sara,
consolingly.
"Do I look comforted? No. It's a wonder to me now why I was not tried
for murder. Our doctor hushed it up."
"It was an accident," said Sara, firmly. "You could not have been
thought guilty of murder. You say yourself that you did not think you
touched her."
"I delude myself with that fancy. I know I did not strike her
downstairs, as that vile girl insinuated. But the fact remains the
same. She met her death through me. A young happy life destroyed at its
outset by a jealous passionate woman! This is my burden. This is why I
will not face my fellow creatures. They say I am morbid, but God has
forsaken me. How I wrestled all that night in my agony beseeching Him
to save her life, and not lay the loss of it to my charge! He would not
listen to me. He took her. And I have never prayed to Him since."
"But God knows your heart. He knows your sorrow and remorse, and
forgives. I remember a verse in the Bible that brought me great comfort
once, when I had done wrong:
"'Thou drewest near in the day that I called upon Thee. Thou saidst,
Fear not.'
"That's how we're received. Do call upon Him. He will comfort and
relieve you, because He knows, as no one else knows, how you feel about
it."
Mrs. Laird did not speak, her face was turned away.
"So now," she said coldly, "you know that you are living with a woman
who has been guilty of murder."
"No," said Sara, emphatically, "that is not true. You may have sinned
by anger, but I don't believe for a moment that your hand touched the
child. Shall we have our evening reading now?"
"No, I cannot bear it. I am too upset."
Sara took her trembling hand in hers caressingly. She said no more, she
felt she could not, but she just sat silently by her side, praying for
her.
Then Mrs. Laird suddenly raised her head, and spoke in an indifferent
tone.
"You might play and sing to me. I like your music. We will not talk any
more."
Sara never in her life had felt more disinclined to sing than she did
just now.
But she went into her room and got her guitar. And then a sudden
impulse came to her. She sat down in the firelight and sang in her
sweet thrilling voice—
"'Souls of men! why will ye scatter
Like a crowd of frighten'd sheep?
Foolish hearts! why will ye wander
From a love so true and deep?'"
When she came to the verse—
"'There is no place where earth's sorrows
Are more felt than up in Heaven;
There is no place where earth's failings
Have such kindly judgment given—'"
Mrs. Laird heaved a deep sigh, and her lips quivered. Sara went on—
"'For the love of God is broader
Than the measures of man's mind;
And the Heart of the Eternal
Is most wonderfully kind.
"'Pining souls! come nearer Jesus,
And oh! come not doubting thus,
But with faith that trusts more bravely
His huge tenderness for us.'"
Then Mrs. Laird bowed her head in her hands, and tears came.
Sara finished the hymn, then slipped quietly out of the room, and left
the stricken woman alone.