A DIFFICULT MEETING
THE next morning Sara was too busy to spend much time in thinking.
Visitors had not been to any meal in the house for years, and Mrs.
Thwaites and Izzie seemed quite unequal to the occasion. Sara was
in the garden gathering flowers, then dusting and arranging the two
sitting-rooms, and finally out in the kitchen helping Mrs. Thwaites,
who was a very indifferent cook, to prepare an appetizing little
luncheon.
Mrs. Laird was very quiet and resigned. She refused to come down to
lunch, but said she would see Mrs. Jeffery afterwards. The piteous,
nervous look in her eyes haunted Sara. She felt that she would like to
have taken Graham by his two broad shoulders and given him a thorough
good shaking.
Mrs. Jeffery arrived at half-past twelve, and walked about the garden
with Graham till lunch was ready. She greeted Sara pleasantly, but a
little indifferently. And when they sat down to lunch, confined her
remarks to Graham.
At last, Mrs. Laird's name was mentioned.
"I hope it will not distress her to see me," Mrs. Jeffery said in her
sweet plaintive voice. "If she only knew what a longing I have had to
see her again! And she is really much better in health now, is she not?
I dare say time has healed things."
Then Sara spoke. It was quite unpremeditated, and afterwards she
wondered that she had done so.
"Mrs. Laird is better, or she would not be able to see you to-day," she
said. "But time has not effaced the past. And of course, your presence
here reopens much. She is agitated and perturbed in consequence. But
I believe you could do much to ease her mind. I hope you will be able
to do it. She is certain to refer to the past. If she does, will you
assure her of the fact that she never laid her hand upon her little
grandchild when her accident happened. She did not touch her, as you
know."
Graham looked up quickly.
There was a quiet challenge in Sara's eyes as she faced Mrs. Jeffery
that brought the colour to the young widow's cheeks.
"No, of course she did not touch her," she said hastily. "I was in the
hall below, and saw the child fall."
"Just assure Mrs. Laird of that," said Sara, quietly. "Though she
knows the fact herself, in her ill health she has sometimes imagined
otherwise; and it is good for her to be reassured on that point."
"But—" began Graham.
Sara flashed such an imperious frowning glance upon him that he stopped
short.
"Perhaps my mother would rather not talk of the past at all," he said a
little lamely.
But neither Mrs. Jeffery nor Sara responded to this.
Half an hour afterwards, Sara was sitting by Mrs. Laird's side, when
Mrs. Jeffery was brought in by Graham.
It was a tense moment for all, and perhaps Mrs. Jeffery was the one who
saved the situation.
"Dear Cousin Rachael, thank you for seeing me. Please don't get up. I
have so often wanted to ask your forgiveness for my unwise behaviour in
the past."
She had both Mrs. Laird's hands in hers as she spoke, and in a pretty
foreign fashion bent her lips to them and kissed them.
Mrs. Laird made an effort to speak, but could not.
Graham hurriedly began to make conversation.
"Eva has been living at a farm on the Fells, mother. Her little girl
is delicate, but she is now going to Brighton with her mother. Do you
remember our first visit to Brighton—when we were boys? We had had the
whooping cough." He stopped.
The allusion to his brother brought a shadow across his mother's face.
She sank back in her chair. Then she said—
"Will you wait downstairs, Graham? There are too many of us in the
room. I feel I cannot breathe. No, Sara, do not leave me. You are the
only one I want. Now, Eva, what is it you want to say to me?"
Sara was surprised at the quiet composure of her tone.
Mrs. Jeffery looked a little disconcerted.
"I don't know that I want to say more than I have already said. I want
you to be friends with me again."
She glanced nervously at Graham as he was leaving the room. She had not
imagined that he would desert her at this juncture.
"I think," said Sara, slowly, "that you were going to tell Mrs. Laird
that you saw that she did not touch the child when she fell. That she
never laid her hand upon her."
Mrs. Laird lent forward in her chair. Her dark sad eyes were fixed
intently upon the young widow. "I should like to hear the truth," she
said.
"Of course, Cousin Rachael, you did not touch her. Why should you
imagine that you did?"
Mrs. Jeffery spoke feverishly. She had spoken hastily downstairs
without a thought of the consequences of her admission. Now she began
to remember more of the past, and wondered if Mrs. Laird did. She was
not left in doubt.
"I imagined I might have done so though my heart told me I did not,
when you told my son that you saw me strike her down. But let the past
be past, Eva. May you find, as I have done, the source of peace for
misdeeds of words and acts. You cannot undo what you have done, but you
can be sorry for it. And I am not going to judge you. If you have a
child, train her to guard her lips against hypocrisy and untruths."
Sara had turned away whilst Mrs. Laird was speaking. She felt
uncomfortable at being forced to be present at this interview, and
stood looking out of the window upon the blue lake and encircling hills
in the distance.
She heard a little sob come from Mrs. Jeffery.
"Oh, you are still hard upon me! You never liked me, and I have always
craved for your affection. I am alone in the world now. They say there
is nothing like kinship. I hoped we might draw nearer together."
"You have your child to live for. I am alone in the world too, but I
have a son, and I am content."
"I hope you are not angry at my coming to-day?"
"No, I am not angry. Let us bury the past. The world is large enough
for you and me to live our own lives in it without jarring one another.
Now, as this is my rest time I must say good-bye to you."
Then Sara turned.
Without a word Mrs. Jeffery took the hand Mrs. Laird offered her, and
left the room.
When the door had closed upon her, Mrs. Laird lay back in her chair
with a weary sigh.
Sara arranged her cushions with loving care.
"Now I am going to leave you for an hour. Get some sleep if you can.
And we won't think or talk about this visit any more to-day."
Mrs. Laird smiled at her.
"You are one of the most tactful people I have ever met. I can't talk.
My heart is so lacerated and hurt. I will try to rest, but sleep is
impossible."
Then Sara left her and went to her room where she tried to write some
letters. But she was painfully conscious of the young widow pacing up
and down the garden paths with Graham, and talking in low earnest tones
as she did so.
At last, the dog-cart came round, and Graham drove her away in it.
Sara purposely did not go down. She knew that Mrs. Jeffery had bitterly
resented her being present at the interview with Mrs. Laird, and had
she known that the old lady would show such force and composure, she
would not have stayed.
At tea-time she went back to Mrs. Laird, but talked brightly to her on
different topics, and then brought out her guitar and began to sing.
Graham slipped into the room before she finished.
And then Sara left mother and son together. She did not see Graham
alone till late in the evening. And then as she came into the
sitting-room, she saw him at his writing-desk, turning over packets of
old letters and carefully reading them through.
He looked up at her.
"Well," he said, "I can hardly say my cousin's visit has been a
success, but at least my mother seems none the worse for it in spite of
all your gloomy prognostications!"
"No," said Sara, quietly. "The relief at finding her instincts true,
after all, has done her good. As I know all the sad story, can I speak?"
"Of course."
Graham turned in his chair as Sara took a seat by the open window.
"Do you realize the tremendous importance to your mother of your
cousin's assertion that she never laid a hand upon the child?"
"Yes," said Graham, slowly; "and I am trying to find my brother's
letter to me at the time. He misunderstood the facts."
"He got the facts from your cousin."
"You speak as bitterly as my mother. I hardly think that is the case.
Or in his grief he must have distorted them. Ah, this is his letter
which he wrote to me at the time."
For a moment there was silence, whilst Graham unfolded the
foreign-looking letter in his hand. His brows were knitted in
perplexity as he read. He folded it up with a sigh.
"He says in it that my mother struck the child, that Eva saw her do it.
It is very sad, perplexing, but does it do any good now to rake up all
the past? It was an accident."
"Yes, let us leave it at that. But your mother knows now that it was
not her actual hand that killed the child, and I am glad for her
sake that that point has been cleared. Is Mrs. Jeffery leaving the
neighbourhood this week?"
"I do not know exactly. I think she is."
"You will not bring her over here again?"
Graham made an impatient movement in his chair.
"Upon my word, Miss Darlington, you do try to manage us all!"
Sara rose. "I beg your pardon," she said, and left the room.
They did not meet again that evening. She felt vexed with him, and he
was angry with her.
But the next morning they met at breakfast as if nothing had occurred
to annoy them. Only just as Graham was leaving the table, he spoke to
her—
"Forgive my hasty words last night, Miss Darlington. I know you have my
mother's interests at heart, and nobody else is of any consequence at
all!"
He smiled as he finished his sentence, and Sara looked up at him with
her frank pleasant laugh.
"You are right," she said; "I think of no one but your mother. I want
her to get perfectly happy and well, and would sweep away all the
hindrances to it with a ruthless hand."
"Shall we take her out upon the lake this afternoon? I shall have a
couple of hours' leisure; and it is a lovely day."
"It will be delightful if I can manage it."
So peace was made between them, and Mrs. Jeffery was not mentioned
again.
What Mrs. Laird had said to her son Sara never knew. She was singularly
calm now that the dreaded visit was over.
When Sara came to tell her of the proposed boating expedition, she laid
her hand on her arm and said—
"I will come if Graham wishes it. Sara, cannot you and I make him happy
here?"
Sara knew what was her underlying thought. She answered lightly—
"I think he is happy, Mrs. Laird. We all are, are we not?"
"I never thought I could be," said Mrs. Laird in a low tone, "but the
relief that came to me yesterday has almost made me so. I am not going
to look back at the past. I prayed this morning that as my sins had
been forgiven me, so I might forgive hers. One sinner has no right to
condemn another sinner. And I am not going to fear the future. I am
even anticipating a delightful old age, if what I wish comes to pass."
Sara did not ask what that wish was.
That afternoon, Mrs. Laird was very carefully wheeled down in her chair
to the lake, Graham settled her comfortably in the boat, Sara steered,
and he rowed.
It was an exquisite afternoon. The hills were purple with heather and
ling, the lake reflected the deep blue sky, and a soft breeze fanned
their faces as they slowly glided along.
"You're enjoying it, mother?" Graham asked, looking at her with fond
affection.
"I only wish we three could be always together like this," said Mrs.
Laird with fervour.
Graham smiled.
Sara glanced at him.
With his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, in his white boating
flannels, and his straw hat shading his face, he looked this afternoon
ten years younger than he was. There was a briskness and energy about
him, and a brightness in his eyes, that was quite unusual.
Sara herself irradiated sunshine round her. Her grey eyes were shining
with deep content. And she lapsed into a happy reverie from which she
was roused by Mrs. Laird asking her to sing to them.
"You promised me to bring your guitar."
"So I have," said Sara, "but I cannot steer and play at the same time."
"Oh, I'll manage the boat," said Graham.
"What shall I sing?" asked Sara. "It must be something bright!"
Then she broke into a little song which Mrs. Laird loved.
"Over the water lives my dear love
And I call him when I want him,
Over the water he hies to me
And oftentimes I flaunt him.
"Over the water he thinks of me
He loves me, oh, so dearly!
His heart is too deep for me to reach,
I'm tired of trying—nearly!
"Over the water I love him much,
But when he comes to woo me,
I laugh and make light of all he says
For the fear of love goes through me.
"Over the water my love falls ill,
I die with anxiety—nearly.
Over the water I haste to him,
I love him, oh so dearly!"
Sara's voice always pourtrayed the words she sang. There was a
tremulous intensity in her last notes that made Graham suddenly raise
his eyes and look at her.
And she was startled to see a fire and passion in his face that she had
never conceived could be existent beneath his grave cold exterior. For
a moment, it almost took her breath away, she gazed away over the lake,
feeling her pulses throb in an inexplicable fashion.
Then Mrs. Laird urged her to sing again, and this time she took care
that it should be no love song.
When she put her guitar down, they were silent for a time, then Graham
began to tell a country legend about a certain headland overlooking the
lake.
"Sir Malcolm's house was once a monastery, and long ago the abbot there
used to go up to that headland and pray. One moonlight night, he was
startled by a strange hand being placed on his shoulder, but turn as
he would, he could not see the stranger behind him. All he heard was,
'Pray to the one who holds you.' And he knew it was the Devil who
spoke. Then ensued a fearful struggle, for the abbot said he owned only
the Master to Whom he prayed. The Devil tried to hurl him into the
lake, and at last, as the abbot felt his strength departing, he sank to
his knees crying: 'Into Thy Hands, Lord, I commend my spirit.'
"With a wild cry the Devil fled, the abbot was saved and lived many
years after, but the imprint of his knees, they say, are still to be
seen on the rock over there."
"That's rather nice," Sara said, then she added, almost under her
breath—
"'And Satan trembles when he sees
The weakest saint upon his knees.'"
Mrs. Laird looked at her with a smile.
"It's true," she said quietly. "Prayer is power."
"I wish I could believe that," said Graham, looking at his mother
thoughtfully.
"Sara will make you believe it," said Mrs. Laird, quickly. "She made
me—and I've proved it true. Only prayer, my dear Graham, enabled me to
meet and talk with Eva yesterday. Only prayer makes me able to forgive
her for her false statements so long ago."
"We won't think of the past," Sara said gaily. "Look at the sun on the
hills! What exquisite colouring!"
She saw the shadow coming over Mrs. Laird's face again. If she forgave,
she could not forget, and Sara wanted her mind to have a rest.
They glided on until they nearly reached the opposite side, and then
they found it was time to return.
Mrs. Laird was much the better for her outing. And when she retired to
rest for the night, she called Sara to her.
"I keep thinking of the legend Graham told us of. How true it is to
life! I feel I have been in the Devil's grip for all these years, but
you have taught me to pray, and his power over me has gone. I am so
thankful and happy, my dear. And am even glad that I saw Eva yesterday.
She rolled such a weight off me when she told me that I never touched
my darling. If only Edmund had not believed her when she told him the
contrary! But I won't think of it. I am going to try to make up to my
son for all the gloom and crossness and unsociability of these past
years. You will help me, will you not, and don't lose patience if I
sometimes lapse into gloom? God will help me to conquer. I have been a
selfish woman all my life, but I want to serve the One Who has forgiven
me and given me peace."
Sara kissed her warmly, but could hardly trust herself to speak. Mrs.
Laird was almost like a little child in her simple pathos. She seemed
now to have come out into the clear shining after rain, and Sara could
hardly believe sometimes that she was the same woman as the one who
had greeted her a few months before with such irritable impatience and
scorn.