CHAPTER XIV

A SUMMONS TO TOWN

SARA sped down the hill again, with an ache in her heart for all that

she was leaving. And then a longing came over her to pay a last visit

to the lake. She made her way down to it, and gazed dreamily and rather

sadly across its waters. It was a cold grey afternoon, but she always

loved to see its unruffled surface in the stillness of winter-time. The

black branches of birch and elm stood out against the cold silver sky

like delicate lacework; the rich tints of amber and ruddy brown of the

rushes and dead bracken, the brilliant green moss of its banks, and the

soft purple blue of the firs and pines in the background all made a

delightful picture of colour to her eyes. Suddenly she was conscious of

some other person near her, and turning quickly round, she saw Graham

coming towards her.

"I have followed you here," he said; "all day I have been trying to

speak to you, but you have eluded me. Am I disturbing you now?"

"No," said Sara, quickly, "I am only saying good-bye to my dear lake.

I don't know why I love it so. I think it's because of its still

aloofness, its unchangeable beauty, and its attitude of patient

waiting."

He did not speak for a moment, then he said—

"That was the first spark of warmth that crept into my heart, when

you looked at it as if you loved it. Do you remember our first drive

together?"

He did not wait for an answer.

"I expect you will think me a laggard for putting off till to-day what

I have been burning to say to you for months and months. I have grown

so used to sternly repressing my feelings that it is difficult to

make the plunge. You know what a fresh sphere awaits us in the north.

I can go to it gladly and joyfully, and take up all the burdens and

difficulties that I know await me, if you can give me the hope of your

coming to me later.

"And if you don't feel for me as I feel for you, Sara—I hardly can

hope that you do, for there is little in me to attract a woman of your

sort—will you bear this in mind, that there is work to be done there

which I cannot do, but which you can? I cannot think of anything more

sublime than for you and me to work together, you doing the spiritual

part, teaching and helping and befriending the poor and ignorant, and I

the sterner harder business part of the whole concern.

"I can't pretend to be what I am not. I am not a religious man. Nor

do I think I ever shall be, but I honour and reverence those who are,

and no woman to my mind fulfils her part in life unless she is. I

shall fail in carrying out my cousin's wishes if I tackle her work

single-handed, but I shall not fail with you by my side. Will you give

me yourself? Will you let me have the right to stand by you and keep

you and guard you through life as the most precious treasure a man can

have given him?"

It was a strange declaration of love. Perhaps if Graham had put his

passion and love foremost, and his work last, Sara would have been

sorely tempted to yield. As it was, she turned to him very sorrowfully.

"Oh, Mr. Laird, what can I say? I do thank you for the honour you have

done me. But I fear it cannot be."

"Why not?"

He moved closer to her, and his words snapped like steel.

"I could not live the life you describe to me, I working in a perfectly

different sphere to you, and both of us without any unity or sympathy

with each other in the vital questions of life."

"We have been living in the same house with each other for a full

year," he said; "and speaking for myself, I have never been so happy

before in my life. Why should we not continue to do the same?"

"But would it be the same?"

"No," he said, with a break in his voice; "of course it would not. But

believe me, I could and would make you happy. You would have perfect

liberty to do what you chose or thought best. Oh, Sara—I may call you

so, may I not? Don't answer me in a hurry. If you doubt my sympathy, I

swear here that you would have it in full. And think of my mother's joy

and happiness! It would give her a new lease of life. May I tell you it

has been her crowning desire to have you as her daughter? It will break

her heart, I believe, if you refuse."

There was silence, then Sara said softly—

"Your greatest inducements are work and a mother-in-law; a woman wants

more than that. But it is as well that you should put it so, for I feel

it is easier to refuse."

"You shall not refuse me on that account!" Passion and fire shot from

his eyes. "I have kept my own feelings in the background because until

I had your leave, I was not going to unlock my heart. You know without

my telling you that you are enshrined there. A man who comes to my age

without falling in love with a woman is bitten very deeply when his

time comes. I told my mother long ago you were the one woman in the

world to me. But what had I to offer you! Now I can at least offer

you a comfortable home and a life free from money anxieties. And I

want you, Sara, I want you! I would move heaven and earth to win your

love! Is it quite impossible? Is your heart absolutely indifferent to

me? Do you know that to have you in the same room with me is heaven?

Life itself is darkness without you. Are you going to make religion

the paltry reason for refusing me? Your principles are utterly at

fault, if because I can't feign to believe in all that a woman finds so

easy, you must separate yourself from me. Don't you realize what your

influence has been in our house? If you take it away from me—I will be

personal—shall I be nearer your God and heaven?"

"What do you believe?" Sara asked desperately. She was walking slowly

along the lake and he paced by her side.

"I believe in the Creator of the Universe, but I cannot associate Him

with my daily life. I can't believe He manages and guides me in all I

do. I live an upright life—at least I have a try at it—and as far as

the other world goes, nobody knows anything about it. Let theologians

surmise and disagree as they always do, it has nothing to do with

me. You are not going to tell me that this matter of religion is the

obstacle to our union?"

"I am afraid it is," said Sara, slowly. "If I married a man—and I could

not do that unless I loved him with all my soul—life in this world only

would not content me. I should want to be with him always, and if he

did not attempt to desire to know God in this world, he most certainly

would not care to live in His Presence in the next. And I should never

be able to talk with him of the things I loved best. I should always

have to keep back the thoughts of my heart, and we would drift further

and further apart. You have planned out two separate lives for each of

us, lived in the same house, but as far apart as the north and south

poles. I would be in one life, you in another. You would be bored to

death by hearing any details of mine, I should feel that I had my

province, and must keep in it; and you would keep in yours. No, Mr.

Laird, I have the greatest respect and confidence in you—but we cannot

join our lives together. I grieve to refuse, for you are offering me

much, but I dare not do otherwise. It would mean misery and disaster to

both of us."

"Then I say, as I said the other day, you good people are Pharisees of

the deepest dye."

Tears came to Sara's eyes.

"It sounds so, but if you only saw into my heart, you would think

differently. What can I say? Marriage is bound to be a failure if the

two bound together have not the same aims and objects in life, if they

do not revolve round the same centre."

"Oh, leave all these theories alone, let your heart speak, not your

head. Love is the foundation for a happy marriage. Do you love me? Look

me in the face, and tell me the truth."

He had got in front of her, and seizing hold of both of her hands drew

her with a gentle force towards himself.

Sara stood perfectly still with downcast eyes, but he felt her hands

tremble in his.

"Look me in the face," he said; but Sara would not.

Then she gave a weary little sigh.

"Love is very strong," she said, "but if it is only love for this

life, it is not worth much. What good would love do if you and I

were drowning? Supposing I got safely to a rock, and you were still

struggling in the water, if you refused the rock, would our love be

worth much?"

He dropped her hands.

"You are as cold and hard as ice!" he said bitterly. "I will say no

more."

In silence they retraced their steps to the house. Then just as he

opened the gate for her, Sara put her hand on his arm. It was dusk, but

he saw that tears were in her eyes.

"Forgive me for having hurt you," she said; "you can have the assurance

that I am if anything more unhappy than you are at present. I would

give a good deal to be able to give you the answer you would like."

"You are wrapped up in unassailable self-righteousness," was the quick

reply, "too celestial to mate with men on the earth!"

He had hurt her now, and he knew it, but he was in a seething state of

wild rebellion and bitter disappointment. He went straight off to his

study and stayed there, and Sara shut herself into her room and had a

very miserable hour.

"I have allowed myself to love him," she moaned; "and now I am dealing

him a real blow. How I long to go straight down to the study and

into his arms! If only he had the one thing! He is so unselfish, so

honourable, so chivalrous and kind to women in need! I could trust him

so utterly and entirely! And yet I know it would spoil his life and

mine if we married each other. He would shunt all the religious work

off on me and never give it a thought. If he has to tackle it alone,

isn't it possible that it may lead him to think more seriously! Oh, I

hope it may, for I feel as if I have now destroyed something in his

soul, and I must, I do, seem a self-righteous prig! How difficult it

is! If he only knew that I am deliberately shutting the gate of golden

romance and love in front of me. I have only now a lonely old age to

look forward to, and I love him. I can't do anything but love him with

all my heart and with all my soul."

Tears would have been a relief to her, but she fought them bravely,

this was no time for tears. Mrs. Laird was expecting her even now in

the drawing-room to pour out afternoon tea. She must go down, and wear

a bright face as usual.

She was rather relieved when she did go to find that Ina was out. Mrs.

Laird and she were quite alone. Graham sent in word that he was busy

and did not want any tea. Sara was glad of the message. Not so his

mother. Instinctively she knew something was wrong. She looked across

at Sara in perplexity.

"Did you not come in together, Sara? Is he upset at your going away?

Has anything passed between you?"

"A good deal," said Sara, gently; "and we are both unhappy in

consequence. Your son has made me an offer of marriage, dear Mrs.

Laird, and I have refused him."

Mrs. Laird uttered a little piteous cry.

"Oh, Sara, it has been the hope of my heart lately. Don't say that you

mean it! I longed for him to speak to you before. He has loved you ever

since the first day that you entered the house; he told me so. But he

has been diffident of himself, and with his rare unselfishness was

afraid of your refusal, and then feared for my sake that his proposal

would drive you away from us. He has been so happy lately. He hoped the

congenial work waiting for you might induce you to look upon him more

favourably. He has such humble ideas of his own power to attract, and

he is so proud and reticent that a refusal from you will be very bitter

to him. Don't you love him, dear? I have seen a look in your eyes

sometimes when he is speaking that makes me think you must."

Sara knelt down by Mrs. Laird's chair, and tried to speak calmly.

"Oh, dear Mrs. Laird, I know how I am disappointing you, but much as I

like and admire your son as a friend, I could not make him my husband.

We should not be suited to each other. We should not make each other

happy."

"Why not? He worships the ground you tread on, he has never given me a

day's anxiety in his life; a good son makes a good husband. Is he not

good enough for you?"

Tears rose in Sara's eyes, and could not be repressed.

"I fear you will not understand," she whispered; "I could not marry any

one who did not put God first in his life. I am not a woman who can

marry easily. I am no mere girl, and I have my ideals. No happiness

comes to those who are not absolutely one in the matter of eternal

things."

Mrs. Laird was speechless. But she stooped and kissed Sara.

"That will come," she said with conviction; "a mother's prayers will be

answered. Is that your only reason for refusing him?"

Sara nodded. She could not speak.

"Never mind, my dear. I have learnt to wait, and I can wait still. You

will pray for him with me."

Ina came in at this moment, and their talk was interrupted.

Sara was busy for the rest of the day packing and leaving instructions

for Ina and the servants.

The next morning the post was late, and letters were opened at the

breakfast table. Graham made an exclamation as he read one of his. His

mother's quick eyes had seen that it was from Eva.

"I must go up to town at once," he said. "I was going to drive you to

the station, Miss Darlington. I think now that I shall accompany you to

town if you will allow me."

Sara murmured that she would be very pleased, though she hardly felt so.

"Is it business?" asked Mrs. Laird. "You have heard from Eva, have you

not?"

"Yes, it is her business. She is staying in town and wants to see me.

It is rather important."

So very shortly afterwards Graham was driving Sara to the station, and

though both were silent, both were thinking of the first drive when

they met each other for the first time. It was a cold foggy day. He was

very particular about her comfort, and when they were settled in the

train, wrapped his own plaid round her knees to keep her warm. Then,

when they were really off, he spoke.

"A night's rest has made me ashamed of myself," he said; "I want to

apologize for my lack in courtesy yesterday—I promise you I am not

going to refer to the matter again. You have a perfect right to act in

life as you think best. And I bow to your decision. For my mother's

sake there need not be a break in our friendship, need there?"

Sara looked up at him and smiled.

"No," she said; "and I shall go away the happier for feeling that there

is no bitterness between us."

Peace was made. Though they did not talk much, all awkwardness

disappeared between them, and when they arrived at Euston Station, it

was with mutual good will that they parted.

And then Sara found herself in her brother's house again, being

welcomed with tears from Lacy, and with real gratitude and affection

from Arnold. He took her straight upstairs to the nursery, and himself

took his baby son out of his cot and put him in her arms.

"He has suffered, poor mite, from being motherless, and the first days

were torment to me, hearing his incessant wail for her. But now he is

all right, nurse tells me."

Sara bent down and kissed the tiny puckered face.

"I will do my best to be a mother to him," she said softly.

The baby opened his eyes and looked up, then a faint smile came to his

lips.

"There!" said the old monthly nurse triumphantly. "He has taken you

into his little heart, ma'am."

And Sara felt that from that moment she had taken him into hers.

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

A MOVE TO THE COUNTRY

"WELL, my dear Sara, and how are you? And the infant? I've come in for

a regular good long gossip. I only got back to town last night, and two

months' absence is an unheard-of thing for me!"

It was little Miss Grafton who spoke. Sara had been living in her

brother's house for six months, and it was now June. She was sitting

in the upstairs drawing-room by the open window. The balcony outside

was gay with flowers. Inside, the room was fragrant with pots of lilies

of the valley and mignonette. Sara herself always gave her friends the

idea of fresh fragrance. She was in a pale blue linen gown, and she was

sewing some dainty white for the chubby baby, who was sprawling on a

soft rug at her feet.

"I am always delighted to see you, as you know," she said. "Come and

have my chair. It is very comfortable."

"So is this one, thank you. I don't want to disturb the pretty picture

before me. Bless me! How the boy has grown!"

The baby, seeing a stranger, began to whimper. Sara put down her work,

and took him upon her lap. With coaxing words and smiles she comforted

him. And pillowing his head on her arm, he put his thumb in his mouth,

and placidly regarded the old lady in front of him.

"Isn't he a darling? Nurse had to go out and I am minding him. Well!

We are going along very smoothly. I don't see much of Arnold. He is

out a good deal, and is working very hard at present. He is not the

same man since his wife's death, Miss Grafton. He seems restless and

preoccupied. Yesterday evening he told me he had a chance of going

abroad, and he thought he would take it."

"And does he want you to go with him?"

"Oh, dear no! I suppose I shall stay on here."

"Not through the very hot weather, will you?"

"It would be nice to take baby to the sea," said Sara, reflectively. "I

must talk to Arnold about it."

"And how are your friends in the North? Do you hear from them still?"

"Mrs. Laird is a very regular correspondent. I heard from her this

month. They have quite settled down in their new home. They went

straight into the old cousin's house. I think I told you about her, did

I not? I heard one pleasant bit of news. Ina, the nice girl who is with

Mrs. Laird and who took my place, is just engaged to be married."

"Oh, ho! To that immaculate son, I suppose. What is his name? Gerald,

isn't it?"

"Graham. No, not to him, but to his great friend, a Colonel Fleming.

I am so very glad! He is such a cheery delightful little man, and so

good!"

"And they are going to be married soon? She'll be leaving the old lady.

What a pity she did not marry the other man, and then they could have

still remained the same happy family! Do you know, at one time I was

almost afraid you would have engaged yourself to him. I am sure he must

have adored you."

Sara looked down at the baby in her arms. His eyes were heavy with

sleep. She altered his position a little, and then was able to meet her

old friend's bright eyes with equanimity.

"He and I would not have suited each other, Miss Grafton."

"Ah, Sara, my dear, you must marry! The way you hold that child makes

me know you were meant for a mother. Don't be too fastidious. Don't

drift into a single life as I did, because I was always waiting for an

impossible bird in the bush."

Sara laughed her low happy laugh, but there was a wistful look in her

eyes, which did not escape Miss Grafton.

"What a pity they have left that lovely country place by the lake and

mountains!" continued the old lady. "For you and baby could have paid

them a visit. I am sure they would have loved to have you. But as it

is, a colliery town is not the most attractive place in summer."

"No, I don't think that place would be at all feasible," replied Sara.

A little silence fell upon them, broken by the entrance of Lacy

ushering in a visitor.

And the visitor was Colonel Fleming.

"I took the chance of finding you at home. This is good."

He came forward in his usual hearty, impetuous fashion, and Sara

welcomed him gladly.

She introduced him to Miss Grafton.

"I've never looked her up before," he said to the old lady in a

confidential manner, "but I was up on particular business, and I wanted

her advice. I always admire her taste, and it's a serious matter.

Oh, don't go! I'm an old fogy and ought not to be bashful! It's the

important question of an engagement ring. I've got a lot of them, in my

pocket somewhere—hope I haven't lost them!"

He was pulling things furiously out of his pockets, talking hard as he

did so.

"Funny to see you handling a baby! But, whether it's a baby, or sick

bird, or a pot of bulbs, you always do seem made for it! Ever see such

a young person for establishing herself as a protector and caretaker

for every human being she comes across?"

He had turned to Miss Grafton now, who, much against her inclination,

was rising to go.

"I'm sure you two will like a good talk together. No, I won't stay. I

only live opposite, and can run in any time. Good-bye, my dear Sara.

And I hope you will be able to give the needed help and advice."

She was out of the room as briskly as if she had never been an invalid.

In the summer, Miss Grafton always revived in a most marvellous fashion.

Colonel Fleming found his packet, but there was another interruption in

the entrance of the nurse who took her charge away, and Sara was now

able to give her whole attention to the excited little Colonel.

"I must give you my warm congratulations," she said. "I have only just

heard the news. I don't know which of you is most to be congratulated."

"That's very nice of you, but I'm a lucky man. She's so different to

the usual modern girls, now isn't she? Such a thorough home-loving

little soul, as unselfish as they're made! And such cheery company for

an old duffer like myself. Do you think I'm too old for her? She says

she doesn't like young men. And I'll give her a happy time, God helping

me, such as she has never had before!"

"It's delightful," said Sara. "I hoped you two would come together. She

is a darling, and is so true and constant to those she loves."

"She's tons too good for me," said Colonel Fleming.

And then he produced his case of rings, fingering them doubtfully.

"I came off at once. I was determined to get her a nice one, and then

I thought of you—if old Lambert hadn't known me all his life, he might

have thought I was going to rob him! I caught up this case—told him I

would be back in an hour's time—hailed a taxi in passing, and here I

am! Now, what do you think I ought to give her? Pearls are more her

sort, aren't they? I always think diamonds are vulgarized by the kind

who wear them. But I like this old emerald and diamonds. What do you

think? Will you choose for her?"

Sara bent her mind to the task. They finally selected a beautiful pearl

ring with a diamond in the centre. That business over, he settled down

to talk.

"We have missed you, 'pon my word we have. And Ina is quaking now as

to what her duty is. She feels you left Mrs. Laird to her as a trust,

and she at first—would you believe it?—wouldn't listen to me, said Mrs.

Laird had been so good and kind to her that she couldn't leave her. She

got quite distressed, so I let the matter drop, and then got hold of

Graham on the sly, and he told his mother, and she of course made it

all right. I can't get over the change in Mrs. Laird, I really can't!

She isn't the same woman. Why, she's visiting some of the old people

round her and taking the greatest interest in all her neighbours!"

"I'm so glad! And how is Mr. Laird getting on in his new sphere?"

The Colonel hesitated.

"He's not himself at all. Can't make the chap out. Look here, you

and I are chums, you know! You won't take offence. I guessed what

had happened—and Graham let out to me the trouble—and though I see

your point, I'm awfully disappointed—he's such a good fellow—except

perhaps the one thing—but, do you know, I think he poses as being more

indifferent than he really is about religion. He takes his mother to

church now as a regular thing.

"What I can't understand is the hold Mrs. Jeffery has over him. That

little woman never leaves him alone for a week at a time. She's always

writing to him, or sending for him—and she's moved up to Chester

now—within a few hours' reach of him by train, and the amount of

business she and he do together would appal you! I always told you

that she's after him! And I suppose you don't care. I don't often feel

afraid of women, but she does give me the squirms! If Graham is fool

enough to marry her, he will rue it. His mother and I are kindred

spirits on that point. I can see she is very uneasy."

"Are you staying in town for long?" Sara asked, wishing to change the

subject.

"I go to-morrow—am putting up at my club for the night."

"I have not asked yet where you have settled?"

"I've got an awfully snug little place—couldn't cotton to the town,

so scoured the suburbs and country round. And one day I found what I

wanted, only two miles out, but it lies in the corner of the moor in

a sheltered hollow—is called Beckdale Hollow. An artist fellow built

it—thatched roof—and a big studio which I have turned into a kind of

hall, and the garden is well-stocked and secluded, and the stables'

yard. I'm going to keep some live stock—a cow and fowls and piggeries,

etcetera, but I'm not going to farm—have had enough of that. I have

taken over a colliers' club and am running it—and on Sundays I go in

and meet them—not as a parson, but a friend—and then I give them a

little Sunday talk, and we have singing. You should hear those chaps

sing! And I do a lot of odd jobs for Graham—quite good for me to keep

me from getting rusty."

"And soon," said Sara, smiling, "you will have a dear little wife to

take care of, and will no longer be lonely in your home. Oh, I am very,

very glad for you both!"

"I knew you would be."

His voice softened—

"If you only knew the loneliness of the past years! I can hardly

believe in my good fortune! I shall have her love always in my future

now! My cup runs over, doesn't it?"

"You deserve it."

He shook his head.

"Well—I must get back with these rings, or I shall have the police on

my track. Any messages? I've got the picture of you photographed on my

brain—here in this pretty room, in your blue gown, and the sleeping

baby in your arms—a good thing for you to have the interest of him, eh?

You're looking a trifle thin! Miss the keen air on those hills, eh?

London soon takes an outer rim off one!"

"Give them my dear love," said Sara, the light coming to her eyes;

"and—and Colonel Fleming—I speak plainly like yourself—don't forget Mr.

Laird in your new happiness. He is a lonely man too remember, and a

more difficult nature to understand than—than yours. Don't let him feel

you're not interested in him. Don't drive him into Mrs. Jeffery's arms!"

Colonel Fleming shot a keen glance at her.

"I believe he's there already!" he blurted out. "But bless your kind

little soul! Graham and I are old pals. I'll stick to him as I always

have. Wife or no wife. Good-bye—awfully nice seeing you again. May I

look you up when I'm next in town? And I say—remember you're booked for

the wedding. Coming off in September, I believe. Don't you fail us!"

He was out of the room before he had finished speaking.

He had brought Sara a whiff of the old life; and the ache at her

heart made itself felt. How she longed to go back with him! But she

resolutely set herself to think of other things. Vain regrets would not

be profitable, she assured herself. She had acted as she felt right;

she must not torture herself now by questioning her decision. She could

only pray and hope that Graham would not rush recklessly into taking a

step that he would afterwards regret.

And then, as she sat dreaming by the open window, her brother came in,

and claimed her attention.

"Sara, Talbot Gray is going out to the Rockies for a year. He wants me

to go with him."

"And are you going?" Sara asked, looking up with a smile. "You told me

last night you might have the chance of going abroad. I suppose this is

it?"

"Yes. Will you mind? I can't settle to my work. I think a year's break

will do me good. Will you look after my boy?"

"Assuredly I will. I think you are wise, Arnold. You will come back

fresh and ready for your work again. But now we must talk business.

What about this house? Could we not let it? I have got a little tired

of town life. Baby and I will be better and happier in the country."

"Really? Surely you would have more friends in town?"

"I think not, and running this house is an expense, and rather an

unnecessary one. Let me find a small cottage in the country, and take

nurse and another good servant. May I?"

"If you would prefer it, of course. Sara, why don't you marry?"

He spoke abruptly, and Sara looked up at him with astonishment in her

eyes.

"Why should you ask me such a question?"

"Because you're too good to be wasted," said her brother promptly.

"You're one of the women in the world who have the art of making men

really comfortable. My poor little wife never had it. Things were

always going wrong and worrying her to death. Nothing ever seems to go

wrong when you're in a house, or else you have the art of hiding it

away from us men!"

Sara laughed merrily—

"You poor men! You do value a life of comfort, don't you? It won't

hurt you to miss your home comforts, Arnold, for a while! But, joking

apart, I thank you for the compliment paid me. And I assure you that I

am perfectly happy in my single state, and wish nothing better than to

go on making people comfortable. Now then, let us talk about the money

part of this plan of yours. How much will your trip cost? How much can

you afford to leave me?"

Brother and sister were soon deep in calculation. Sara never made a

fuss about any impending changes. She immediately adapted herself to

her new circumstances. But when she went to bed that night, she did

have a few lonely reflections.

"I shall miss him dreadfully. To be shut up with a baby and two

servants, and have no sensible intellect with which I can exchange a

few sentiments will be a trial. But, after all, I have the darling boy

to train, and I am not a person without resources. Yes, I think I will

venture upon the country. It will suit us better, especially in the hot

weather coming!"

Her brother rapidly made his arrangements to leave.

At the last moment in parting, he looked at his sister with

affectionate scrutinizing eyes.

"You have been an angel to leave your own life, and come back to me.

And I'm making you a shabby return by going off away from you. But I

felt that you were wasting yourself on some second-rate uninteresting

people, so that made me bold in asking you to leave them."

"They are not second-rate," said Sara, quickly; "I count them as dear

friends now."

"Do you want to go back to them?"

"No, I can never do that."

"You see, Sara, the fact is I can't settle down. The house reminds me

so of her! I have got to hate every room in it. It has been different

since you came, but I feel still that I must get away. And you are very

fond of my small Oliver, aren't you?"

"Oliver is a darling!" said Sara, brightly. "He will keep me busy and

occupied, till you come back."

So her brother went.

And Sara and her old friend Miss Grafton were much together whilst she

was arranging to let the house, and trying to find a suitable home for

herself and the baby.

At last, she settled upon a certain farmhouse in Devon, a farmhouse

which possessed four good airy rooms for letting. She went down herself

to inspect them, and fell in love with the place.

The house stood on a slope of a hill facing south, and was in a lonely

bit of wooded country. There was an apple orchard in front, and the

four rooms composed a complete wing of the house, two downstairs, one

of which was the kitchen, the other a very comfortable sitting-room,

and two large rooms above. The farmer's wife said she could let a

smaller room as well, if desired, and Sara took this. The baby's nurse

was a staid elderly woman, and the other maid she meant to take with

her was Lacy, who had implored not to be left behind.

"I am quite a good hand at cooking, and I would gladly be a one-handed

general if only you'll keep me with you. I've endured a lot since you

went away, ma'am. But I've always said to myself, 'Miss Sara will come

back one day, and then she'll want to see me here.' And you've come

now, and you'll let me stay with you for the rest of your days I'm

hoping!"

"Oh, Lacy, you dear old thing!" said Sara, smiling through sudden

tears. "Of course you shall come, and you and I will study cooking

together. I have told nurse she must be willing to take her meals in

the kitchen with you. She and baby will have a big room upstairs to

themselves, and you must be content with a small room if you come."

"I'm content with anything," said Lacy, in a satisfied tone.

And Sara was delighted at the thought of having her, for she knew what

a treasure she would prove.

It was the middle of July when they journeyed down to Devon, and Sara

never forgot that first summer evening when they arrived at the farm.

An old-fashioned roomy jingle met them at the station, driven by a very

self-possessed small boy, who informed Sara he was Master Shiplake, and

had left school for good the week before.

"So I'm helpin' feyther to the farm, an' the hay is out, an' one thing

an' another will kep me busy till winter, an' then I means to have a

try at a writin' clerk's place in Lunnon. I thought as ye were strange

to Rattlecombe, I'd best meet ye instead of old Sam."

He talked most of the way; the old white pony stepped very leisurely

up the hill. Sara with nurse and baby were inside the jingle. Lacy

preferred to walk. A station luggage-cart brought up the rear.

They passed along a road arched over with leafy elms; they saw some

red cows sauntering on in front going home to be milked. And then they

turned in at a white gate, and the old yellow cob-walled farmhouse

with its thatched roof lay before them. It was a quite drowsy time of

day, an old sheep dog lay outside the porch door fast asleep. A row

of beehives was along the garden path next the old cob garden wall, a

border of bright hollyhocks, sunflowers, and Madonna lilies were behind

them.

There were striped holland blinds outside the windows, and a little

breeze was flapping them to and fro. In the orchard beyond the garden

were some turkeys, and fowls strutting up and down; the humming of the

bees hovering over the hollyhocks, the clucking of the hens and turkeys

were the only sounds to disturb the stillness that reigned. Then the

sheep dog suddenly raised his head and barked, and in an instant there

was life and bustle around them.

Mrs. Shiplake, a good-looking, matronly woman, came to the door. Then

she called a ruddy-checked servant, and the farmer himself came down to

the gate to welcome them.

When Sara got into her sitting-room, she found an appetizing tea

already prepared, and there was a delicious smell of hot baked bread in

the house. She turned to Lacy with shining eyes.

"Oh, Lacy, isn't this better than London? Look at this nosegay of

flowers on the table. Did you ever smell anything sweeter than these

old-fashioned cabbage roses?"

And Lacy smiled, as well pleased as her mistress.

"I've just slipped into the kitchen, ma'am, and had a squint at the

stove. Quite a nice little oven, and plenty of crockery and cupboards.

I think we shall settle in beautiful!"

And later on, when Sara wandered out by herself in the dusky orchard

and heard the owls begin to hoot, and the frogs croak in the stream

beyond, she lifted up her face to the starlit heavens, and thanked God

for having brought her to such a peaceful home.

CHAPTER II

UNWELCOME NEWS

THE first day at the farm was one of keen enjoyment to Sara. She was

very busy adjusting and arranging things, so as to make every one

comfortable in the simple life to which they had come. Mrs. Shiplake

was a keen brisk worker, and had enough to do in her part of the farm

to keep her busy there all the day. Lacy settled down into her kitchen

with great content. Nurse was the only one who had to be kept in a good

temper, for she was a Londoner, and missed her town comforts.

Little Oliver was out all day long in his pram or rolling on his

crawling rug. He was a fair bonny boy, sweet-tempered and full of

spirits. Sara grew fonder of him day by day; and he now welcomed her

with a smile and crow of recognition, holding out his dimpled arms to

be taken up whenever he saw her.

One day of peace Sara had. And then upon the second morning after their

arrival, she got a letter from Mrs. Laird.

"MY DEAREST SARA,

"The blow has fallen, and my fears have been justified. Graham came

to me this morning, and told me that he had married Eva quietly in a

church in Chester, where she has been staying for the last two months.

I asked him why he had concealed his engagement. Eva, of course, had

begged him to do so, fearing that I might be upset. I won't write the

bitterness that is in my heart. You will feel for me, but I am going to

pray hard for the grace that I shall need when I have to receive her

as my daughter-in-law. Oh, Sara! I won't reproach you, but it is the

losing you that has made him reckless. And Eva has tightened her hold

of him, and has never let him go, till she has gained her object. And

my son is not happy. There is a harassed look on his face.

"One thing I am determined upon, and that is to find myself a little

house, where I can live alone. I have told him to-day, and he is vexed

with me, but I mean to be quite firm. He does not like this house and

Eva wants to live in the best part of the town, so perhaps till Ina

marries, she and I will stay on where we are."

There was a break in the letter here. Then an addition came—

"She has come over this afternoon. Very sweet and gentle, but that she

always is. She does not look at all well; she is very thin, and looks

ten years older than when I saw her before. I was as kind as I could

be, and I am thankful to say she did not stay long. Her little girl is

still at a boarding-school. She begged me to forgive the secrecy of

their engagement and wedding. 'I wanted to be married very quietly,'

she said; 'I have been worried and depressed lately, but I mean to

take a new lease of life now. Graham and I have planned out lots of

delightful things together.' 'Your husband is a very busy man,' I said;

'this new estate and all the business connected with it entails a lot

of arduous work.' And then she laughed.

"'I shall make him play!' she said. And I could not help smiling,

though I was nearer tears. Graham is not a man who knows how to take

life lightly, and recreation is always difficult to him. Well, my dear

Sara, this is my news. My heart seems stunned with it, but I have

courage now to face troubles which I could never have faced before.

"Write and tell me all you are doing. I am very angry with your brother

for going off and leaving you all alone. How I wish I could see you

with your little nephew in your arms! Will you not be photographed and

send me a print? I should love to have one of you.

"Yours always lovingly,

"RACHAEL LAIRD."

Sara sat reading this letter at her breakfast. It was placed for her

on a round table by the window, where she could look out upon the rich

meadowland below her, and feel the sweet scented air fan her cheeks as

it came through the open window. She had been rejoicing in this sunny

summer's morning a moment or two before. Now as she gazed out with

shadowed eyes, there seemed no golden buttercup meadows, no sun sending

flickers of colour across the valley down below, no scent of roses and

pinks in the borders outside her window. It was a grey hard world she

was seeing before her, a dusty monotonous never-ending climb uphill.

Her hand clenched upon the letter, and her lips took a straight firm

line. She had had to go through troublous times before in her life, but

never yet had any trouble touched her heart as this one was doing now.

Her unspoken thought was—

"Why am I punished for acting rightly? Why have I brought punishment

and misery upon those I care for, and love? If I had been less

single-hearted, less high-principled, if I had followed my heart's

desire, and taken the sunny easy path, this would not have happened!"

Then the hard bitterness passed away from her eyes, and they grew misty

with tears.

"It does not matter about me, but dear Mrs. Laird! I hoped she was

going to enjoy a little sunshine in her old age. It is enough to shake

her faith! Oh, how could he! How could he! He has a home and a mother

who loves him. He has lived for years in a grey clouded atmosphere, and

now that the clouds have gone, he might have been content. I cannot

understand it. Surely he is too self-contained, too sane to act on a

hot angry impulse. I cannot believe it is I who drove him to it! Poor

dear Mrs. Laird! How can I comfort her?"

"If you please, ma'am, can you have baby?"

Sara turned. Nurse stood in the doorway with the laughing crowing child

in her arms.

Sara caught hold of him. The touch of his soft baby fingers in her

hair, the warmth and sweetness of his little body in her arms, brought

a strange comfort to her aching heart.

"Oh, my little Oliver," she murmured, "will you grow up and bring

trouble upon those you love, I wonder? Is it in you to bring sadness

and tears to one who is weak and helpless and old? But we'll come out

into the sunshine, baby, and put dull care away!"

No one seeing Sara a few minutes later as she played with her little

nephew upon the sunny grass and pelted him with fallen rose petals,

whilst he kicked and laughed with glee, could have imagined that she

had just received a death knell to her secret hopes. For in her heart

of hearts, Sara had not doubted that sooner or later she and Graham

would come together. She had prayed for him earnestly, she felt that

like the young ruler in the Gospels he was "not far from the Kingdom of

God," but that, like him, he was not willing or ready to cast in his

life and lot with his Saviour, and meekly follow Him day by day.

Now she knew that Eva's influence would not bring him nearer the life

she coveted for him. And her own life looked bleak and grey before her.

When her hour with her little nephew was over, she went back to the

sitting-room, and replied to Mrs. Laird as follows:—

"MY DEAREST MRS. LAIRD,

"Your news perplexes and astonishes me, but do not let it fill you

with dismay. In life, to use a common platitude, what can't be cured,

must be endured. I love to think that you will not fail your son, and

already your courage has risen to the occasion. His welfare is your

first thought, I know. Do not blame me for this step which he has

taken. Mrs. Jeffery has had a strange hold upon him for a long time. I

think it is her weakness and helplessness that appeal to him. He has

always been ready to lend his strength to the weak, has he not? And I

cannot help feeling that his absolutely unselfish life will mould and

influence her character. She may regret the past. In any case, it is

buried and done with, is it not? Remember, if I had linked my life to

his as you wished, he would not have broken with Eva. Complications

might have ensued, and I might have become a jealous miserable wife.

God, I am sure, has it all in His Hands to work out as He sees fit. My

heart may sometimes misgive me for my decision, my conscience never

does. Now, please let this chapter in my life be buried with the

others. I cannot and will not speak of it again.

"At present, I am sure you are happy with dear Ina, and when she

marries, do you think you could come and pay me a little visit? I think

I shall be still here if all goes well. It is not like your hill and

lake country, it is like living in one of those pretty pictures we see

depicting rural life. The church is just as picturesque as it should

be, I see its tower peeping through the elm trees which surround it,

and which of course contain a rookery. The rectory is close to it, a

cob-walled house with thatched roof very like our farm. There is a

mill, and a river, and buttercup meadows, and much pasture land about

us. In the distance from my window, I get a glimpse of a stately white

house amongst trees, the Hall, Mr. Shiplake tells me. The Squire is

very typical of his race, I should think. He hunts in the winter, and

is very keen on farming. Mrs. Shiplake tells me he is the cleverest

farmer in the county. He is a widower with a grown-up daughter. His son

is in the Navy. I don't expect I shall see anything of them.

"I have discovered that there is an old friend of my father's living

near this. An Admiral Burke and his wife. They have a pretty place

about three miles away. But I am quite content to enjoy the country in

solitude. I have books and work, and my darling little Oliver for the

comfort and joy of my heart. You inspire me to be photographed. There

is a country town four miles away. We will borrow the jingle and drive

over one day and see what a country photographer can produce!

"Oh, dear Mrs. Laird, I am chattering away, but I feel for you, how I

feel for you! And yet I know God has you in His keeping, and He Himself

will guide and cheer you every step of the way.

"Your loving

"SARA."

After sending this cheerful letter, Sara abandoned herself to her

feelings, and she had a very miserable day in consequence.

The next day was Sunday, and in the quiet peaceful little church she

received the peace of mind and consolation which she so much needed.

The Rector was a middle-aged man with a careworn face, but when he

preached, his shining eyes and intensely earnest voice made his

congregation realize that his religion was a living vital force within

him. Sara was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to notice any of the

congregation. She came home with the Rector's text ringing through her

head.

"'One thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and

reaching forth unto those things which are before.'"

And for the rest of that day a quiet happy light glowed in her grey

eyes, as she thought over some of the things which were "before her."

On Monday afternoon Sara was with the baby in the orchard, when Mrs.

Shiplake came hurriedly out to her.

"The Rector's wife has called, please ma'am. I showed her into your

sitting-room. 'Tisn't often her comes our way. Her 's not one who

favours us workin' folk with her visits. But her went so far as to step

inside my kitchen and say how clean it looked! I was fair inclined to

tell how drab an' dusty I thought her hall when I was left standin'

there when I were after arrangin' for my niece's baby's christening! I—"

Sara stopped the breathless flow of talk.

"Will you call nurse, please, Mrs. Shiplake? She is ironing, I believe.

She had better come out here. It is a shame to take baby in."

And then with a little sigh, Sara went into the house. She was pale

to-day, with dark circles round her eyes, but in her cool linen dress

and with her free easy step, and high lift of her head, Sara could not

but look a very graceful and attractive woman.

Young Mrs. Peel put out her hand in a very friendly fashion. She looked

a mere girl in her short white skirt, showing a good deal of slim

ankle. She wore a white panama hat, and soft white silk shirt with pale

blue tie. She was a handsome girl, dark-haired and eyed, with warm

colour in her cheeks.

"How do you do, Miss Darlington? I know all about you, but never

meant to call upon you till I saw you yesterday in church, and then I

suddenly wanted to come."

"I don't think I saw you," said Sara, smiling upon her in her usual

caressing fashion; "and if I had, I should never have guessed you were

the Rector's wife."

"No, I'm generally taken for his daughter, but there's only ten years

between us in age. 'An old maid and a baby,' I said to my husband in

disgust when I heard you were coming. Last summer Mrs. Shiplake had two

artists lodging there, and they were great fun! But you're not an old

maid, and you're not a rustic, and in church yesterday, I determined to

get my next hat trimmed like yours!"

She laughed, and in sheer sympathy, Sara laughed too.

"That's right. I don't shock you? Of course you'll know without saying

that it was before the service began I was thinking such vain thoughts!

But I'd better tell you at once that I'm not a model rector's wife. And

I told him when I married him that I would not be his curate. If I keep

his house, and give him good food, and see that his clothes are mended,

and cheer him up when he is downhearted, is not that enough? I don't

know why I am running on like this. Now do tell me why you came down to

this quiet spot."

"For the same reason that other lodgers have come," said Sara, gaily,

"from love of the country, and pure air; and the longing to get out of

smoky foggy London."

Mrs. Peel settled herself comfortably into the one easy-chair, and

crossed her legs in careless fashion.

"Yes, that was what I felt once. I was born and brought up in a London

vicarage; and I used to think the country must be a dream of delight.

There were five of us girls. We lived in a high-terraced house, and

a backyard by way of a garden. My husband was my father's curate. He

worked himself to death nearly, and then when he was told he must get

away from town if he wished to live, he was presented with this living,

and he asked me to come with him. I saw a photo of the house and

garden, and that decided me."

She paused, and looked swiftly across at Sara.

"I don't know why I am talking of my own affairs like this. You won't

be interested."

"But indeed I am. I was interested in you the first moment I saw you.

It is sweet of you to be so friendly. Please tell me more."

Sara looked as interested as she felt.

The young wife rattled on—

"Well, I came; we had a delicious honeymoon, and then we took

possession, and for the first six months it seemed one long battle

against dilapidation, bad drains, dry rot, and unwholesome water! Last,

but not least, a batch of bills that would have frightened a Croesus.

Country servants, oil lamps, rats and mice, a mouldy fusty church which

always reeked of damp, and suspicious unfriendly villagers soon cured

me of romance. I've lived here for five years, and I hate and detest

it!"

She looked frankly rebellious, and yet her youth and beauty and fresh

audacity had a rare charm to Sara.

"My dear child," she said, "in another five years, you may learn to

love it."

"Never, never! Why was I ever induced to marry a parson? He is too good

for me, Miss Darlington, miles too good! He thought he would make me

as good as himself, but he couldn't. The continual stream of services

worry me; I am a perpetual thorn in his flesh. He is getting like them

all, a mere mechanical church machine, going round and round on a

treadmill of penance and duty, an austere mystic, and I who am still

flesh and blood tied to him by unbreakable bonds, oh, what am I saying?

I love him still, of course I do. But I hate visiting the poor, I'm

not fit to teach in Sunday school, and there are times when I hate the

sound of the clanging church bell.

"The only relief to me is to get up to the Hall. May and I are great

friends, but even she thinks I ought to be quite content with my life.

As if I could be! We see no one, we go nowhere. In summer we have a few

clerical garden parties, and if we are invited to the places round, the

county look upon us as quite a different class to themselves.

"'Who is she?' 'Oh, a parson's wife.'

"Interest dies away at once. And of course amongst my kind—other

parsons' wives, you know—I'm everything that is shocking. Dear me! I

can't conceive what you must think of me talking to you like this! But

I don't seem able to help myself!"

She stopped speaking, and looked at Sara with a mixture of defiance and

wistfulness in her eyes.

"I am so glad to hear it all, glad to think you will let me into a

corner of your life. Now I wish I could help you! But you have youth

and health, and love for your husband. Couldn't you try to find the

only thing that would make your life a joy to you instead of a burden?"

"What do you mean? What could make stagnation different? Oh, don't let

us talk any more about myself! Tell me a little of your history. Do

you know that this morning a poisonous little reptile of a creature,

a village dressmaker who goes out to work at various parsons' houses,

suggested to me that there might be a mystery about you? Such a

handsome young lady, and single, and an infant baby! Can't you hear

her? I jumped down her throat, and was glad to be able to say that

Admiral Burke was a great friend of yours. Has he called yet? He told

us that you and your brother were a devoted pair before your brother

married. What a sad thing for him to lose his wife and only have this

infant in her stead! I wish—"

She stopped and thought better of uttering her wish.

"What are you going to do with yourself here?"

"Read a great deal," said Sara, smiling at her visitor. "Write some

letters, and fill up my other time with sewing, and playing with baby.

What do you do with yourself? Have you any hobbies?"

"Yes, one. I paint—but not landscapes—figures and miniatures. I believe

I could have been an artist, if I had not married. Then I should have

been some good. Here I am a failure."

"You musn't say that to me," said Sara, briskly; "failures are such

miserably depressing things. Why, you have hope and buoyancy in your

face! I should think the villagers love a visit from you, don't they?"

"I hardly ever go near them. I told you, I hate visiting the poor. We

haven't an idea in common. I did try to paint one of their children

once, and what do you think the mother said after a few sittings?

That she wasn't going to have her child tired out, just to bring more

money to the rich. She said if she wasn't to be paid for it well, she

shouldn't let her come. So I sent the child home at once. I suppose she

thought I was going to paint a picture and sell it. I wonder if you

would let me sketch you one day? You, and the wonderful baby! I saw

you with him in the orchard as I came up the garden. You made quite a

picture!"

Sara promised to give her a sitting, and she promptly arranged that she

would come over the next day and make a start. Then she got up to go.

Sara asked her to stay to tea, but she said she had promised her

husband to be back to tea with him.

"You must come to us. Come to tea with us to-morrow, after I have

started my sketch. You see how unconventional I am; I ought to wait

till you return my call. But I'm lonely and dull, and the very minute

I saw your face, I wanted to know you. And now I'm going, and I've

talked, as usual, of nobody but myself, and I know nothing of your

interests, your life! You must talk to-morrow and I will listen.

Good-bye."

Sara walked down to the garden gate with her visitor, rather breathless

at the sudden onslaught which had been made upon her time and interest.

But she had noted the lonely wistful spirit behind the heedless

self-centred talk, and her heart warmed to the young wife. She was glad

that she had called.

When Mrs. Shiplake came in with the tea, she said—

"Well-a-day, ma'am, you've had Mrs. Peel a long time. Her don't dress

or talk or act like our Rector's wife should, do her? Her be but a

giddy thoughtless child, an' they say, her leadeth her husband a

terrible life!"

"I thought she was a very bright pleasant little person," said Sara.

"She is very young certainly, but that is a fault that will mend

itself."

She would not discuss Mrs. Peel further with Mrs. Shiplake.

That good woman retired discomfited, but relieved her feelings by

taking Lacy into her confidence. And when that worthy heard a list of

young Mrs. Peel's indiscretions, she quietly said—

"Then the more she comes here the better, for Miss Darlington will do

her good."

And Mrs. Shiplake had not a word to say.

CHAPTER III

MAKING FRIENDS

SARA was not left without visitors. Besides Mrs. Peel, Admiral Burke

and his wife came over in an old-fashioned pony-chaise to call upon

her, followed by Miss Agnew from the Hall. Sara was delighted to see

the old people. They were an ideal couple, as devoted now to each

other as they had been when lovers, and were determined to show her

hospitality.

"You must come and spend a long day with us, my dear," said the old

lady; "we have pretty gardens, and I should like to show you an oil

painting presented to us on our marriage by your father. He painted

it himself. We have also a photograph of you and your brother as tiny

children."

Sara promised she would come, and they had hardly taken their departure

before Miss Agnew was announced.

Sara looked at the tall slim handsome girl with much interest. She

was dressed in a plain brown holland coat and skirt, and coarse straw

hat. Her face was alive with interest and expectation. She was not so

impulsive, or so confidential as Mrs. Peel had been, and Sara saw at

once that she was of a more thoughtful nature. She told Sara a great

deal about the village and places of local interest, and spoke as if

she loved it all.

"I have grown up here and never want to leave it. My father and I go to

town once every year, so as to widen our outlook and prevent us from

running in a groove, but I am always glad to get back here again. Don't

you think it is a lovely bit of country?"

"Indeed I do. It strikes me as such luxuriant rich pasture land!

Everything looks so flourishing and prosperous."

"Oh, we have our bad times, I assure you, but father farms most of his

land himself. He puts a lot of money into it, and I think he gets its

worth. I'm so glad you appreciate our part. Have you met Nellie Peel?

She's enough to turn a pail of milk sour sometimes."

"Aren't you two great friends?"

The girl laughed.

"In a way I suppose we are. But I hate her grumbling. Why on earth did

she marry a parson if she didn't like his life? She's always trying to

get out of her sphere into another. She's a parson's daughter, so she

ought to be content to be a parson's wife. She's always trying to run

down her own sort. She has a very good time, I consider. Her husband is

a saint; she has no children, nothing to tie her to the house. And our

village is a very pleasant one, and the people happy and well-to-do.

She ought to like visiting them and having meetings and clubs and that

sort of thing. As it is, I take the clothing and coal club off her

shoulders. Nellie is always trying to occupy herself with things that

have nothing to do with the parish."

"I think you are hard upon her," said Sara, pleasantly. "Young people

are very intolerant sometimes of others' likes and dislikes. She is of

no different flesh and blood to yourself—"

May Agnew drew her head up proudly at this and Sara saw she did not

like it, but she went on firmly—

"Parochial work does not come easily to every one. She tells me she

paints. An artistic nature must find its vent in some way. She may not

have been born with that gift of sympathy and interest in her fellow

creatures which you perhaps possess, and what comes easy to you as the

Squire's daughter and, may I say, as Lady Bountiful of the parish,

comes hardly with her. I am a newcomer, and I don't know either of you

yet, but my first impressions are pleasant of you both. I feel sorry

for Mrs. Peel, she is so young, with such great expectations from life;

and those who expect much meet with many disappointments."

"You think she is a square peg in a round hole? By her own showing

she is. When first she came here, I felt sorry for her, and had her

continually up at the Hall. She comes now, and whenever we have

company, I send for her. But she expects to spend her whole time with

us. And then when I happen not to ask her if anything is going on, she

gets huffy and sulky. Oh, what am I saying? You have bewitched me! What

must you think of me! Sitting up and slanging our Rector's wife in this

fashion!"

"I will never abuse your confidence," said Sara, quietly. "It is good

of you to have talked so openly with me. Don't be too impatient; life

slowly impresses its lessons on each one. And Mrs. Peel will learn her

lessons like the rest of us."

May Agnew smiled.

"You think me a prig, I expect. It is so easy to see the motes in our

neighbours' eyes, is it not? Are you fond of reading? Father has rather

a good library, and he would be flattered if you came up and made use

of it!"

"How very kind of you! I shall be delighted. A library is always so

attractive! I have so much idle time on my hands now, that reading will

be possible to me, and I do love it."

When she had gone, Sara mused upon these two girls' lives, running side

by side, and yet with such different outlooks. And though in her heart

she knew that May Agnew was more high-principled and right-minded than

Nellie Peel, her sympathies were most with the latter.

Nellie came to make the promised sketch. And they had an interesting

talk about art and its different schools and fashions. Sara went to

the Rectory to tea and found Mr. Peel a charming man to talk to. He

was very devoted to his young wife, but the latter chose to be in one

of her flippant moods that day; and more than once Sara saw the Rector

wince at things she said.

She came away rather sad at heart. The home was picturesque in its

setting, there was no lack of comfort in it, yet the atmosphere seemed

charged with friction.

The contrast when she went to lunch with Admiral and Mrs. Burke was

very marked. The old couple were delighted to see her, they talked of

the past with many fragrant memories. And Sara told them when she came

away that she had never spent such a happy day anywhere for years, as

she had now with them.

"My dear," said Mrs. Burke, kissing her, "it is good of a young thing

like you to be interested in the old."

"I don't feel at all young," said Sara. "I always feel I have much more

in common with those who are getting through their journey than with

those who have just begun it."

"There are two young people close to you who will be glad of your

advice and help," said Mrs. Burke, gently. "We know them both; and

wonder often how things will go with them. May is a dear girl. She is

her father's right hand—such a useful life she leads—but it makes her a

little hard on the less energetic ones. And she can never forget that

she is the Squire's daughter. I think I may tell you in confidence

that she was engaged to a nephew of ours for six months. He is in the

Horse Artillery, and always spent his leave with us. It was broken off

because she wanted to manage him, and he would not have it. She has

managed everybody since she was twelve years old, when her mother died.

She insisted then, though she had a governess, upon dining with her

father every night; and she would take her seat at the foot of the long

dining-room table opposite him like any old woman."

"Both Mrs. Peel and Miss Agnew are inclined to be very friendly," said

Sara. "I don't think there is any danger of my feeling dull."

And there was not. Time slipped rapidly by, the baby Oliver growing

bigger and bonnier every day, and Sara, with her usual aptitude for

making friends and winning confidences, was continually in request by

either the Squire's daughter or the Rector's wife.

Nellie Peel made a water-colour sketch of her. It was cleverly done,

and she caught the sunshine in Sara's face and eyes, as she sat against

a background of apple-trees, with her small nephew in her arms.

It was a bright and vivid portrait.

"The only pity," said Nellie, "is that you aren't the baby's mother.

For nobody would believe that you were not. You have such a motherly

face! I shall call this sketch, 'Sunshine.' Now, would you like to have

it? I should love to give it to you."

"My dear, I could not take it."

"Why not? I love painting for painting's sake."

"If you are really going to make me a present of it, I should like to

send it to an old lady, a very great friend of mine. But I hope I am

not taking advantage of your generosity."

"I never give away anything unless I want to," said Nellie, carelessly.

Then she looked down upon the sketch on her knee.

"You're a very happy person, aren't you? I wish I could feel as happy

as you do, but I suppose you have always had your own way, and have

done what you liked."

"Oh, Nellie dear, that doesn't make a person happy."

"Yes, it does. It makes me happy, but something or somebody is always

crossing my will, and then I'm angry."

"I don't think any of us can sail through life without any buffetings

or storms," said Sara.

For a moment a shadow dimmed her eyes. There was not a day or an

hour that Graham Laird did not figure in her thoughts. She knew he

belonged to another woman now. She tried to think of him in a detached

impersonal way, but she had an intense longing to know if he was happy,

and this longing brought an ache into her heart which stayed there.

"People say we can't cultivate happiness," Sara went on thoughtfully;

"for the more we think about it, the less we feel it. Happiness is a

very elusive thing, isn't it? But certain habits bring it to us."

"What habits? I like to hear you talk. Go on. I am just putting the

finishing touches to my sketch."

"I think the habit of recognizing the good things which we possess is

one. If we take an inventory of our possessions sometimes, we shall

find it is a pretty long one. And the habit of taking an interest

in other people and things outside ourselves is a great help. I was

feeling rather sad the other morning before I came down to breakfast.

But I had two distinct bits of cheer, and thinking of them warmed my

heart up."

"Do tell me what they are."

"Don't laugh at my first bit of cheer. It was a mother thrush out

of my window. She was taking a walk with three of her young ones.

Our tabby cat saw her, and came stalking through the long grass. The

mother saw the creature and gave her cry of alarm, and two of her

nestlings fluttered up to the high laurel bush where their nest had

been. The third little bird was either weak on his legs or else he had

entangled himself in the grass. He fluttered his wings but could not

rise. Then the mother flew over the tabby's head and tried to distract

her attention, and after several struggles the little thrush rose

successfully, and joined the others in their refuge. The mother flew

after him, Tabby crept away disappointed, and the little family of

thrushes rejoiced in their safety; I couldn't help rejoicing too."

"How ridiculous you are! What was the other event?"

"I knew you would laugh at me! I came down to breakfast, and Mrs.

Shiplake came in with a beaming face—

"'Oh, ma'am, I've had a piece of luck this morning. I were worritin'

over a new gown for the Flower Show up tu the Hall. I'm that shabby,

I felt like staying at home, an' if I haven't heard from my sister

what married last spring, and she sends me one poun' forward for eggs

an' cream an' chicken she have ordered for a gran' entertainment tu

her part. Her husband be land steward to Sir Philip Baker! An' las'

market-day I saw a nice grey skirt and coat marked up at Taylor's for

nineteen shillings and elevenpence. An' it were my fit jus' as if it

were made for me, but times have been bad, and I didn't have the money.

Now 'tis ready and I'll go straight off to Taylor's this very afternoon

and send off some chickens and eggs at the same time!'

"You should have seen her face. It was like a round shining sun! I

began my breakfast in quite good spirits."

"You are an extraordinary person!"

Nellie had laid her sketch down, and was regarding Sara with puzzled

eyes.

"Those kind of things would never touch me at all. Do you remember

saying to me the first day I called upon you that I ought to find the

one thing that would make my life a joy instead of a burden? I have

often thought of it since. What did you mean?"

"Something very real, and deep and lasting," said Sara, quietly.

"You don't mean anything religious, do you? That sounds like it."

"Do you dislike everything connected with religion?"

"Yes, I don't want it in my life. I want to enjoy myself."

Then Sara said very softly—

"'Thou hast put gladness in my heart, more than in the time that their

corn and wine increased.'"

"I never thought you would preach me a sermon!"

Nellie got up quickly. She put her sketch into Sara's hands.

"Don't thank me any more. If you're a good person, you're rather a nice

sort, but I don't want any goody talk. I get plenty of that from my

husband."

She was off and away before Sara could say another word.

A few days afterwards, Sara heard from Mrs. Laird, in acknowledgment of

the sketch which she had sent.

"MY DEAR, DEAR SARA,

"I cried when I opened the parcel. It is you to the life! Just the

light in your eyes that I always loved to watch. And what a dainty,

delicate bit of work it is! The colouring is so sweet. Your soft blue

dress which matches the sky in the background, and the golden-haired,

happy child. Oh, Sara, Sara, why didn't you marry my son? Excuse my

outburst. But you are wasted where you are. Well, your portrait will

bring sunshine into my room. I shall place it where I can always see it.

"Graham came in for a moment to-day. He quite started when he saw it.

I put it on the mantelpiece for the time being. He is worn and weary.

This colliery is giving him a great deal of anxiety and trouble, and

Eva is, as I thought, no help to him. She has developed great delicacy

since their marriage, is quite the nervous invalid. She told Ina that

she had a weak heart, but I think it must be fancy. She has never

looked strong, but she has always rushed about from place to place, and

has had far more energy and strength than most. They have settled into

their new house.

"Eva has insisted upon having a motor, and is very luxurious. I have

been to see her once or twice. She never comes here. Her little girl

has gone to stay with a little schoolfellow for the summer holidays.

Graham says that Eva does not feel strong enough to have her at home.

"I am looking forward to seeing you in September. You will not

disappoint us, will you? I don't think I must pay you a visit this

summer. When Ina goes, I shall have one or two of her classes to look

after, and I do not give up this house till Christmas. I am happy

when I am busy, so I keep myself always occupied; but my thoughts are

perpetually with you, and with my poor boy. Why did he marry her? I

keep asking myself. For, Sara, he does not love her, he is sorry for

her with his usual wonderful compassion for everybody who is weak and

helpless. And she apparently, even at this early stage of their wedded

life, has lost her love for him. She is entirely self-centred, and

thinks that by day and night he ought to be her willing devoted slave.

She looks ill, but will not speak of her health to me. She has become a

peevish discontented woman. I will not write about her any more. And I

am ready to go to her at any time, should she want me.

"As I look at your happy smiling face, I feel a warmth in my heart.

We have much in common to make us happy, Sara. I hope this is not a

wail, for I am happy—happier than I have ever been for years. And heart

happiness gets deeper than mere surface enjoyment. Good-bye. May God

bless you!

"Your loving old friend,

"RACHAEL LAIRD."

Sara read this letter over and over again. She hungered for news of her

friends, and longed to know every detail of their daily life.

As September drew near, she wondered if it would be wise to go up there

amongst them all again. And then the matter was taken out of her hands.

Little Oliver was taken ill. It was not very serious, but enough to

make and keep her anxious. It began with an internal chill, and then

fever. He soon pulled round, but had lost weight, and was a shadow of

his former self.

When the time for the wedding drew near, he still wanted the greatest

care and attention, and Sara felt that she could not leave him. She

wrote very regretfully, for she knew that both Mrs. Laird and Ina would

be disappointed, and she herself, now that she was prevented from

going, began to think of all that she would miss.

But the baby occupied all her time, for which she was thankful. She

heard all about the wedding from Mrs. Laird. Eva was not well enough

to be present, but Graham gave away the bride. And Colonel Fleming was

like a boy in his excitement and delight.

Ina wrote to her during her honeymoon.

"I can hardly believe that I am on earth at all," she finished up with;

"Jack spoils me utterly and entirely. Mrs. Laird used to say I was much

older than he in my talk and behaviour: I feel like a child again now.

He is so gay and cheerful and so full of fun, and then suddenly he gets

quite grave and opens a sacred corner of his heart to me, and I know

then what a really good husband I have got. I have made a resolve that

I will always be his comfort and help, for he never thinks of himself

at all, only of doing good and helping others."

Sara smiled and sighed.

"An ideal couple," she murmured, "but then they revolve round the same

Centre. There is no gulf between their respective goals."

CHAPTER IV

GRAHAM AND HIS WIFE

IT was a wet wild night the beginning of October.

Graham, hurrying along the pavements of the town, began to look forward

to the firelight and warmth and comfort of his home. He came to it

at last, a handsome stone house in a quiet street, a small drive and

shrubbery stood between it and the passers-by. He mounted the broad

stone steps with some weariness. Mentally and physically he was tired.

There was a threatened strike at the colliery; all day he had been

interviewing people. First the masters of several collieries round,

then the miners' representatives, then his agent with several others.

It had been an exhausting day: Graham would never let himself or any

one else rest till he had mastered every technicality, every point of

law connected with the dispute, and he now had it at his finger ends.

But it had not been a cheering process, and the future loomed black

and frowning before him. He knew himself to be inexperienced; he felt

in honour bound to stand by and with those in the same position as

himself. And yet his keen sense of justice more than once made him put

his finger on a weak spot in some of the masters' arguments. He felt

fettered and bound in the course that was laid down for him to take. He

longed to break with them all, and act on his own responsibility, and

yet he knew at the present juncture of affairs, he dared not do it.

He let himself into his house with his latchkey. A maid came forward to

meet him in the hall.

"If you please, sir, the mistress would like to see you at once."

"Is anything the matter?" he asked quickly, slipping out of his

overcoat as he spoke.

"The mistress has fainted, sir; she's had two faints, but she is better

now."

Graham caught his breath, then ran lightly up the stairs, and entered

his wife's room. He did not find her in bed, she was sitting up in a

cushioned chair by the fire. Her fair hair was hanging in two plaits

below her waist. She looked very small, very young as she sat there

gazing into the fire, but upon his approach, she turned her face

towards him, and it was wan and pinched and grey.

"Oh, Graham, I thought you would never come! You are hours late! I've

had another of my attacks, and I was all alone! You might think of me a

little more! I believe you forget all about me when you go off to that

horrid office every day."

"My dear, I am sorry, but I could not help myself. I have been delayed.

I suppose you have dined. It is close on nine o'clock."

"I have been ill, I tell you; don't you care at all?"

Eva's tone was more than petulant, it was really angry.

"Indeed, I do care very much. Do you feel better now?"

His tone was gentleness itself.

She turned her face away from him, sullenly.

"I didn't marry you to be left alone in this house day after day with

only servants to speak to."

He did not answer. Then he said—

"Was the pain very bad, dear? Don't you think you would be better in

bed?"

"I don't mean to go to bed. I hate it. I know I shall die in it one

night. And you won't care. You'll be thankful to get rid of me."

Tears crowded into her eyes, she began to sob hysterically.

Graham went to a small table near, and poured out a dose from a

medicine bottle.

"You haven't taken this, I see. Why did you not?"

"Because you always give it to me after dinner, and you weren't here,"

she snapped.

She took it from him and drank it, then leant her head back amongst her

cushions, and looked up at her husband with frightened despairing eyes.

He stood leaning against the mantelpiece and regarding her with a good

deal of tenderness and pity.

"Oh, Graham, I'm afraid of going to sleep! Have pity on me! Be kind to

me! I'm afraid of my own thoughts. Come close to me and hold my hands.

I feel safe with you. What shall I do? Every day that passes brings it

nearer. Comfort me! Is there no comfort for me? How can I go through

it?"

He knelt down by her side, and drew her head to rest against his

shoulder.

"My dear child, don't be frightened. You have been accustomed to these

faints. You are not worse to-day than you have been, and to-morrow you

will be quite yourself again. You have been alone, and so you've got

down in the dumps."

"But I oughtn't to be alone!" Eva roused herself and pushed him away.

"It is cruel of you to leave me so! You promised me you would be with

me always, and help me to bear the pain!"

"You are tired to-night," he said patiently; "and I own I am very

late in coming home, but I could not help it. There is trouble at the

colliery."

"I hate the colliery and everything belonging to it. It takes up your

time more and more. I might as well have never married you—"

Graham was silent for a few minutes. He was becoming accustomed to

his wife's continual reproaches, but he never lost his patience. Long

experience with his invalid mother had taught him self-control. His

heart ached for his wife. He knew he could do so little to relieve her

fears and sufferings.

"I wish you would let my mother come and see you, or Ina. Ina would be

so pleased to know you, and be your friend if you would let her."

"She is young," said Eva, peevishly; "and we don't care for each other.

Why should we pretend that we do? And you know your mother dislikes me.

She always has, and always will. The doctor said I ought to get out as

much as possible, but you have never time to take me: our motor lies

idle, we hardly ever use it."

"Well," said Graham, cheerfully, "we will go out to-morrow afternoon. I

will come home to luncheon if it is fine. We will have a spin together,

before it gets dark."

At this moment, the parlourmaid knocked at the door, and wanted to know

if Graham had dined.

"No, indeed I have not," he said; "and I had no time for lunch, so I am

pretty hungry."

He went off to his dressing-room, and soon returned to his wife.

"Now I'm going downstairs for a short time. Won't you go to bed? I'll

send your maid to you. What is her name? I never can remember. Halkin,

is it?"

"Yes. Please don't be long. I feel so nervous to-night. And I hardly

touched my dinner."

"Then you must have a snack of something now. I will send you up

something, and you must promise me to eat it."

He went downstairs to the empty dining-room and consumed his dinner in

haste. Then he went into his study. His blazing fire and easy-chair

looked inviting. He longed to sit down and smoke a pipe and have a

quiet time to think out various problems that were simmering in his

brain, but he resolutely turned away from the fire. He took up the

evening newspaper and went upstairs to spend the rest of the evening

with his wife.

This was a sample of many evenings in Graham's life. As he looked back

upon his hasty engagement, and marriage, he wondered now if he had done

well for Eva. She had been in delicate health for some time, and then

some friend in town persuaded her to go to a heart specialist. This was

a man who believed in telling his patients the truth about themselves,

and he told Eva that her heart was diseased, and that he feared she had

not two years of life left to her. It was a tremendous shock. She sent

for Graham, and then in her extremity she poured out her soul before

him, telling him that she had loved him for years, and imploring him to

help and comfort her.

"I am absolutely alone," she said. "I have two years of suffering in

front of me, and then death. Nobody wants me. Nobody cares for me. I

shall get some chloroform and end my life now! How can I live on day

after day, dragging myself nearer and nearer the grave, without a soul

to speak to? Oh, Graham, pity me! What can I do?"

And then, tortured by her deep distress, and by her avowal of love for

him, he felt that he could offer her a home with him, for those two

short years. His heart had always been open to women in their need and

weakness, and he knew that he could in a measure soften the dark days

coming upon her. But Eva bound him to secrecy about the state of her

health, not even his mother was to be told. He had faithfully kept the

promise he made to her.

As it often happens, when Eva had got the desire of her heart, it

seemed to turn to ashes. Graham was of too quiet and grave a nature to

cheer her in her times of depression. He was attention itself, but his

attentions were given with great gravity. He showed her sympathy, and

tenderness, and patience, every day of her life. But Eva longed to be

cheered by a gay laugh and a bright word; and this she felt she would

never get from Graham. She did not realize the strain of his business

life, and the ceaseless thought and toil it gave him.

And Graham's heart had received a blow from which it could not recover.

He, like Eva, was tempted to ask himself sometimes what incentive he

had to live. It was a blank grey world to him without Sara. He had

had so little sunshine in his life that her presence in the house had

been an ideal experience for him. Now she was gone; and he had no hope

of ever seeing or speaking to her again. It was no wonder he found it

difficult to be cheerful.

Eva herself had altered greatly. Her sweet pensive smiles and little

graceful speeches were things of the past. She was up against a black

horror which never left her night or day, and she rebelled frantically

against her fate. Now she felt that marriage had not brought her the

ease and comfort she expected; she had really thought that Graham would

act exactly as a trained nurse would, and she resented everything that

took him away from her.

They went for a motor ride the next afternoon. Eva was soothed and

refreshed by it at first, but upon their return, they encountered

a crowd of colliers who had just come up from the pits, and were

congregated around one man who was addressing them in fiery language.

The motor had to slow down, for there was hardly room to pass, and

Graham was instantly recognized.

Some lads began to hoot and hiss. And one hot-tempered little man

sprang to the side of the car and shook his first in Eva's face,

shouting—

"Ye willna ride us doon, you pampered lass of his'n. A fine lot he

cares for them which work to stow money into his pocket. He'd better'n

be in the office preparin' for the day when the pits shut down. They're

surely comin'!"

The chauffeur quietly glided through the crowd, and Graham said

nothing, though silence was much against the grain. He knew that

agitation might be fatal to his wife, and, as it was, she was in a

panic of fright.

"They're savages!" she panted, when they had passed. "Graham, why do

you put up with such insolence? I shall never dare to come out again.

Oh, do take me abroad! Leave this filthy, smoky town, and let us go to

the Riviera before the winter sets in. I feel I should have a fresh

lease of life there."

This idea seized hold of her; she never gave him any peace day or

night till he had half promised to take her. And then before their

arrangements could be completed, she had another very bad heart attack,

and her doctor refused to let her move.

"She would never get there alive," he said. "She is wearing herself out

by her fright and agitation about herself. It is a pity she has not a

more placid disposition; she would give herself a better chance then."

But this nobody could give the sick woman; and Graham looking ahead

could see no ray of light on the path she would have to travel.

One evening, after a specially trying day, when she had at last gone to

bed, and sunk into an exhausted sleep, Colonel Fleming came to see his

friend. Graham saw him in the smoking-room, and gripped his hand with

real pleasure.

"We are becoming strangers!" Graham said. "I haven't set eyes on you

for ages. It's being married men, I suppose."

"So it is! But you're much more married than I am. Ina, bless her

little soul! is as happy as a sandboy alone. She's sent me to look you

up to-night. I've been down town. It's my club night, you know. Lucky

thing your strike didn't come off. But it was touch and go, wasn't it?

I heard that it was you who saved the situation. You got the masters to

give way a bit, didn't you? Well, how's your wife? She's in a poor way,

I hear. I met your doctor just now. He was seeing a chap who got hurt

in the pits, and I was there inquiring for him. We walked a bit of the

way here together. He told me it was serious, and that she couldn't go

abroad. I was glad to hear it. Sick people are best at home, don't you

think so?"

Graham did not answer. He pulled aside the window curtain and looked

out. Then he turned and faced his friend.

"Jack, I feel I must have a whiff of pure wholesome air. Will you let

me walk home with you? I must have a turn on the moor. Will you take

anything first?"

"Not a sip. Come on, we'll start at once. Ripping it will be. The stars

are out, and there's a touch of frost in the air, but there's no wind.

A pity you don't live up our way!"

They went out of the house together, and talked on various subjects

till they reached the open moor. Graham drew in a breath of the keen

pungent air with relief and pleasure.

"I never shall get accustomed to this town life. I have a hankering for

our hills at Felstone Corner."

Then he said abruptly—

"Look here, Jack, I know at bottom you're a religious chap. What can

be said to smooth my poor wife's path in front of her? Her days are

numbered and she knows it. And she's fighting with her fate, and is

terrified at the prospect of death. She won't see the vicar; she has an

idea it is only dying people who send for parsons, and she won't allow

to herself that she's anything like bad enough for a pastoral visit

just at present. What can you tell her?"

The Colonel stopped short in growing excitement—

"Why, man alive, the best of all news—that death is only a dark door

into light! One step will take her through. I should like to have a

talk with her. You must know that our Lord died to take away the sting

of death! Does she read her Bible?"

"No. I don't think so. But I was thinking of reading to her a verse

or two in the evenings. Women always get comfort from it, don't they?

Honestly I don't know what part to read to her."

"Read the Gospel of St. John," said Colonel Fleming, quickly. "That

will give you and your wife all you want."

They walked on in silence. Then Colonel Fleming took Graham's arm.

"I say, old fellow, you've a rare chance of helping a soul through the

valley. What do you—what don't you believe?"

"Oh, I don't know." Graham's tone was weary. "I have never formulated

my belief in my own mind. The shadow of death in our home makes things

different. I believe in God. I went to church last Sunday, and I tested

myself with the Creed. I think I do believe all the statements in it."

"Capital! I always knew you were sounder than you made out! The

forgiveness of sins brings us to the resurrection of the body and the

life everlasting, doesn't it?"

"That's how it winds up."

"Well, get your wife to pray. A few words will be enough. Our Master is

quick to hear and quick to save. He'll blot out her sins, and take her

hand through the River if she asks Him. Nothing could be easier. Don't

trouble her head with doctrines. Get her to speak to the One Who can

help her. He's the only One Who can."

"It sounds simple. I'll have a try. I should like her to get some

comfort and peace of mind. She won't see my mother."

They were silent again. Presently Colonel Fleming stopped and said—

"Look up, old chap! Did you ever see such magnificent heavens stretched

out before us? Doesn't it give you an idea of infinity and glory and

power?"

Graham looked up and heaved a sigh.

"Yes, yes," he said. "It's bringing conviction to me that all things

are easy to our Creator. But I'm—I'm a poor hand with women, Jack, and

that's a fact!"

It was an hour later that he returned home, but hope and fresh courage

were with him. And before he went to bed that night, he took hold of a

Bible and read the whole of the Gospel of St. John through to himself.

He shut up the Book with a lightened heart.

"I believe I have got hold of the cure," he said to himself.

And he went to sleep for the first time since his marriage with peace

and hope creeping into his heart.

The next evening, he suggested reading to his wife, and she, after a

little hesitation, consented to listen. Every night after that, he read

about fifteen to twenty verses of the Gospel of St. John.

Eva never made any remarks. But once she looked at her husband

curiously.

"You read it as if your life depended on it," she said, with a little

funny laugh.

He looked up at her with earnest eyes. "Your life does depend upon it,"

he said. "I mean the life that matters, the life of your soul."

She was dumb; the arrow had sped home and pierced the crust of selfish

indifference and distaste to unseen things.

She said nothing, but he felt she listened in a different spirit

afterwards.

And then one night she woke him up with a frightened cry—

"Oh, Graham, I want to get right with God. But I've never properly

served Him. What can I do? I can't sleep. Do comfort me."

He was ready for her need—and repeated word for word what Colonel

Fleming had said to him.

"You've only to ask to have your sins forgiven, Eva. Christ died to

do it, we've read about it. He'll come and take your soul into His

keeping. Ask Him now."

"Oh, let us ask Him together. I've been a worldly, wicked woman, and I

have never thought of these things before."

So in the dead of night, whilst all the rest of the house lay sleeping,

husband and wife haltingly prayed their way into the Kingdom.

Graham had been learning slowly from the Master Himself. And when the

dawn broke, it found them both with the peace that no man can give, in

their hearts and souls, the peace that passes understanding.

CHAPTER V

TROUBLE AT THE HALL

MAY AGNEW stood in the farmhouse porch listening. It was a rainy day,

but equipped in her macintosh coat and hat, she defied the elements.

She had come over to see Sara, and was spellbound by hearing her sing.

A simple little song, but accompanied by the guitar, the haunting

melody of it surprised and delighted May. She waited till it ended,

then she stepped inside.

And a minute later, Sara was greeting her warmly.

"You never told me you sang, nor that you had a guitar."

"I am not always in a singing mood," said Sara. "I forgot all about my

guitar till the rain and winds of these last few days drove me indoors,

and baby likes music, so now I play and sing to him."

"It is impertinence to pronounce an opinion upon your voice, but it is

one of the most delicious that I have ever heard."

"Thank you," said Sara, laughing, "but I am no musician. I only sing to

amuse myself and others. How are you? I have not seen you lately."

"I have been busy, and now father is beginning his shoots, they keep me

occupied. I've come over to ask you up to dinner to-morrow night. Will

you excuse a short invitation? And will you be an angel and bring up

your guitar and sing to us? Father is so fond of music."

"Thank you for asking me. Yes, I will certainly sing to you if you

would like me to do so. Is it a big party?"

"No, only the men in the house, and one of my aunts is staying with us.

I shall ask Nellie and the Rector up. Then we shall be four ladies to

six men, but I can't help that."

Baby Oliver, who had been sitting on the floor listening to the music,

now demanded attention. Sara rang the bell and gave him to his nurse.

"I know you like children," she said, "but I don't want him to bore my

visitors when they come."

"You don't let him do that as a rule. I love him. I'm so glad you're

staying on here. You won't be going back to town just yet?"

"No," said Sara, clasping her hands tightly round her knees and gazing

dreamily into the fire. "I have been thinking over it, but the fogs are

very bad there, they say, and nurse seems to have settled down here.

I'm inclined to stay on. You say it is never very cold here."

"Splendid! It's never cold in our village; we're sheltered from the

north-east winds. You look so cosy here that I should love to stay and

have a good talk, but I'm busy and I must move on. I shall look forward

to seeing you to-morrow."

She was gone as quickly as she had come, but Sara did not stir from her

seat. Her guitar and the little songs she had been singing had taken

her thoughts back to Felstone Corner where she had sung so often to

Mrs. Laird. She had not heard from her friend lately; and in her quiet

life at the farm, she learnt to look for letters as a real treat.

She had settled down very comfortably in this small Devonshire village.

She knew most of the villagers by this time. And though May had been

quite right in saying there was no want or poverty amongst her father's

tenants, yet Sara had found a good many sad hearts amongst them. If it

was a model village, the inmates of the pretty cottages were much the

same as other country people. They had their quarrels, their family

troubles, their share of sickness.

Sara found an old blind man who loved to be read aloud to, and an old

bedridden woman who welcomed every visitor with keen delight. These she

visited regularly every week. The Rector had asked her to do so. She

never found time heavy on her hands, and she was happy, in spite of the

heartache of Graham's marriage, and all that she felt it entailed.

The next evening she went up to the Hall. It was not the first time

that she had dined there, and she and the Squire were very good

friends. Sometimes he would come to the farm to have a chat with her,

and to bring her one of his favourite books. For though a farmer and a

sportsman, Mr. Agnew was also a lover of books, and he spent an hour

every day in his library amongst them.

Sara loved to watch May moving about amongst her guests. She was a

perfect hostess, and on this night was in the brightest spirits. Sara

wondered if the presence of a favourite cousin, a handsome young

soldier, was accountable for this. He paid her great attention, but so

did two other men, one a barrister, who to Sara's surprise knew her

brother, and the other a young neighbouring squire. Nellie Peel looked

very pretty in her soft white satin gown. May was in black and gold. A

gold braid was threaded through her dark hair, and a crimson rose at

her breast. Sara herself wore russet-brown velvet. Rare lace was in

neck and sleeves, and a single row of pearls was the only ornament she

wore.

Miss Agnew, a tall stout woman with plain features, but with a great

deal of presence and personality about her, said to Sara as they

gathered round the drawing-room fire after dinner was over—

"I never felt so plain in my life. You three young people quite put me

in the shade. My niece has lost her heart to you, Miss Darlington. I

knew you must be something special, for she is very critical as a rule."

"She has been very kind to me a stranger," said Sara, "and I am very

fond of her."

"She ought to marry," her aunt continued, "but I don't know what my

brother would do without her. And he is getting old. I see a great

difference in him this time. I haven't been here for a year. I live in

Bath, and am not fond of moving about. He does too much, I tell him;

and his daughter takes after him that way. A pity that little creature

over there doesn't do more in her husband's parish. What a get-up for a

parson's wife! And yet she is so pretty that one can forgive her a lot!"

When the gentlemen came in, May begged Sara to sing.

"And sing that sweet little song you were singing to yourself and the

baby the other afternoon in the twilight."

"It is very simple," said Sara; "all my songs are. They suit the

guitar, which cannot accomplish much."

She sat where she was, and as she played and sang, she riveted the

attention of all. Her graceful ease, and the happy, shining light in

her big grey eyes, made the Squire turn to his sister—

"If I were twenty years younger, Maria, I should have lost my heart to

her."

And Sara sang—

"Oh, how can you sing, and why do you sing,

Little Robin with voice so gay?

The snow and the frost have whitened the ground,

Your food has been taken away!

"I sing because I am sure of my food,

There is always some one to see

That robins have food when the ground is hard.

I'm certain it's coming to me!

"Oh, how can you sing, and why do you sing,

Gentle thrush with the speckled throat?

The bushes are bare, and the rain beats down;

You have not a sorrowful note!

"I sing because of the sweet coming spring,

I heed not this dismal wet day.

It will not last, for the sun will shine forth,

The clouds will be driven away!

"Oh, how can you sing, and why do you sing,

Fair maid in the gloomy black gown?

Alone in the world in a garret small,

And outside—a dull dreary town!

"I sing because I have joy in my heart,

And my eyes are so far away,

On the hills of gold where my treasures are,

And where I am going one day!

"Oh, Robin, and Thrush, and Maiden so fair,

With your joy and your faith so sure,

We'll all learn to sing in the darkest time,

We'll sing, and we'll learn to endure!"

Sara's voice struck a chord in every heart. The Squire brushed his hand

across his eyes.

"Those simple songs for me," he said. "Can you give us some more?"

Sara complied with his wish. It was her voice perhaps more than the

words that always reached the hearts of those who listened. If her song

was gay, her hearers became so; if it was full of pathos, tears rose to

their eyes; if it touched on some of the deep things in life, a sweet

and softened expression came over the faces of her audience.

That was a very pleasant evening at the Hall; and Sara always looked

back to it afterwards as one of her bright times.

When she left, the Rector and his wife said they would walk home with

her. They were all accustomed to returning from their parties on foot.

Nellie was longer than Sara in equipping herself for her walk home, and

for a moment Sara stood on the broad stone terrace outside the front

door enjoying the beauty of the night.

The Squire came up to her there, and startled her by putting his hand

on her shoulder.

"Thank you, my dear, for the pleasure you have given us to-night. Your

songs have brought back to me many sweet memories. I'm glad to think

you're a friend of my girl's. You'll help her. She's a good girl, but

a wee bit too sure of herself. As we get older, we realize how many

mistakes we have made."

He gave a little sigh, and Sara hardly knew what to say.

"I'm very fond of May," she said, "and think myself fortunate in being

made so welcome by all of you."

And then the Rector came up, and they said good-bye to their host and

came away.