Sarah's Cottage (Sarah Morris Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  Lottie laughed. “I thought you’d soon get tired of Frederica’s tantrums.”

  At that moment I almost hated her—it was quite frightful to discover such wickedness in my heart—but I swallowed my wrath and said quietly, “She’s a dear little girl and I’m very fond of her, but I think it will be better for me to go. Charles wants me to join him in Oxford; he said he would come and fetch me so I’ll tell him to come for me the day after tomorrow.”

  “Just as you like,” said Lottie casually—but I could see she was pleased.

  Chapter Eight

  Charles came for me on Saturday afternoon. Lottie was out when he arrived, she had gone to a luncheon party. We had said good-bye and had kissed each other . . . and she had thanked me for “coming to the rescue,” but I had the feeling that it would be a long time before she asked me to come again. Clive had thanked me warmly and had asked me to give his kindest regards to Charles.

  “You must both come back soon and stay longer; we’ll have some music next time,” said Clive.

  When I went to say good-bye to Freddie she was in the nursery with Vera, they were looking at a picture-book together.

  Freddie clung round my neck and covered my face with kisses. “Come back soon,” she said. “I want you to play with me.”

  “Yes, darling, I’ll come back as soon as I can . . . but you’ve got Vera to play with, haven’t you?”

  “Will Vera let me have Mookie in bed?” asked Freddie anxiously.

  “Oh, what a funny little girl!” exclaimed Vera, laughing. “Isn’t she funny, madam? She’s got all those beautiful dolls but she prefers awful old Mookie that I made for her out of some pieces of rag. I tell you what, Miss Freddie, I’ll make a new Mookie for you.”

  “No.”

  “Why not? He would be nice and new and clean.”

  “He wouldn’t be Mookie. I won’t go to sleep without my own Mookie.”

  This seemed to settle the matter. I put Freddie down and rose to go.

  “Don’t go!” cried Freddie, clinging round my waist.

  “I must, darling. Uncle Charles is waiting for me. It’s nice to have Vera, isn’t it? You must show Vera the doll’s house.”

  “Oh, yes! Please show me!” exclaimed Vera. “Let’s get it out now, Miss Freddie.”

  It required a little persuasion but Vera was tactful and when I came away they were sitting on the floor with the doll’s house open and the boxes of furniture beside them. As I paused for a moment, before shutting the door, I heard Freddie say, “Look, Vera! Isn’t this a sweet little barf? We must put it in the barfroom. You do it, Vera.”

  Then I ran downstairs and out to the car where Charles was waiting for me.

  “Darling, you’re upset!” exclaimed Charles.

  “Yes, but it’s all right; I’ll be better in a minute. Vera is a nice girl, very kind and sensible—and Freddie is fond of her. As a matter of fact, it would be better if Nurse didn’t come back. Nurse was good when Freddie was a baby but she isn’t used to older children.” I sighed and added, “I wonder how long it will be before I see Freddie again.”

  “You’ll see her the next time Lottie is left in the lurch and wants you to help her out.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Was the row as bad as that?”

  “Oh, we made it up—in a way—but Lottie is jealous of me.”

  “Nonsense! She’s bored stiff with the child. She told me that ‘Frederica gets on her nerves’.”

  “They get on each other’s nerves . . . but, all the same, she didn’t like it when she saw her child was fond of me.”

  “She’s crazy!”

  “No, Charles. No, she isn’t crazy; I understand her feeling perfectly well . . . but I couldn’t help it. That was why it was better that I should come away as soon as possible.”

  “Perhaps if you told me exactly what happened I’d be able to understand.”

  The story took some time to tell. I ended up by giving him an account of the frightful scene when Lottie’s string of pearls was broken and of the black lie, which was still troubling my conscience off and on.

  To my surprise Charles began to chuckle. “Your conscience must be a tender plant, Sarah.”

  “But it was awful of me!”

  “I’d have done the same.”

  “You’d have done the same?”

  “Yes—if I’d been clever enough to think of it.”

  “It wasn’t clever, Charles. In fact, when I thought of it afterwards, I decided that it was very clumsy. It was a wonder Lottie believed I had found her pearl under the rug.”

  “She believed you because you’re a truthful person,” said Charles, with another chuckle. “People who normally are truthful can get away with the most outrageous lie . . . but don’t let’s bother any more about Lottie and her vagaries. I brought you this way because I wanted to show you my favourite view of Oxford.”

  Charles had pulled up at the top of a hill and there, before us, lay the beautiful city, its towers and spires reaching heavenwards. Veiled in mist the buildings seemed insubstantial as a mirage—as though they might fade and vanish into thin air—the narrow, winding river gleamed like a silvery ribbon in the last rays of the sun.

  “It’s like a dream,” I murmured.

  “Yes,” agreed Charles with a little sigh. “Oxford looked just like this the first time I saw it . . . in a dream.”

  “You saw Oxford in a dream?”

  He nodded. “I was a black swan. Have you ever dreamt you were a bird? It’s a wonderful feeling to be clad in warm feathers and to soar over hills and forests with big strong wings . . . to look down on the plains and see towns and meadows and winding rivers. I had flown for miles and miles when I came to Oxford—and I was tired—so I found a little backwater near the river and rested amongst the reeds with my head tucked under my wing.” He looked at me and smiled, “Silly, isn’t it? But that childish dream affected my whole life, it made me come to Oxford and read English history and literature.”

  “Charles! Do you mean you saw Oxford in a dream before you saw it in reality?”

  He nodded. “Long, long before.”

  “That’s the relativity of time, isn’t it?”

  “What do you know about the relativity of time?” he asked in surprise.

  “Just enough to know that I could never, never understand it. Lewis was interested in the subject and tried to explain it to me, but all I can remember is that if you dream about things before they happen—or after they happen—it proves that everything happens at the same time.”

  Charles laughed and said that he, too, had had it explained to him but the idea didn’t seem to make sense. “I suppose I’m too matter-of-fact or something. To me time seems like a river: you drift along comfortably for a while and then you get caught in an eddy, and go round and round, or you’re swept away over a rapid and battered helplessly against jagged rocks.”

  “Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “That’s how it seems to me.”

  “And the strange thing is you never get one trouble at a time. Troubles come in flocks like starlings.”

  His metaphors were a bit mixed but I agreed—and added another: “Mrs White says it never rains but it pours.”

  “Well, let’s hope we’re in for a good long spell of sunshine,” said Charles, laughing. “Meanwhile we’d better go and eat our dinner.”

  Charles knew Oxford well, of course, so he took me about and showed me some of the beautiful old colleges and told me their history and he introduced me to many of his friends. We gave a little luncheon party at the Mitre and we went to tea with some delightful people at Abingdon. I enjoyed my stay in Oxford immensely but all the same I wasn’t really sorry when it came to an end.

  Our own dear little cottage was waiting for us and as Charles opened the door he looked at me and said, “This is a good place to come home to, Sarah.”

  Chapter Nine

  The morning after our arrival home Charles went out to do some shop
ping for me in the town, and to tell Minnie that we had come back. I was busy dusting the sitting-room and putting things to rights when grandpapa came in.

  We hugged each other fondly and I made him sit down in a comfortable chair.

  “It’s good to see you, my dear,” he said, smiling happily. “Grandmama and I were saying it seemed like a month.”

  “How is she?” I asked.

  “She hasn’t been very well, but she’s better. Mark was pleased with her yesterday.”

  “Oh, you have Dr Mark Dunne?”

  “Yes, indeed! We wouldn’t have anyone else. We’ve known Mark since he was a small boy—a very serious small boy. He took a good degree in medicine and worked in a London hospital for years. Then he came to Timperton as partner to old Dr Anderson. When the war started he went into the Navy and became a surgeon-commander—old Dr Anderson carried on without him. Now Mark has come back and Dr Anderson has retired, not before it was time! The poor old chap was becoming very doddery. Mark is on his own; he’s working hard, trying to build up the practice, which went to pieces when he was away. That’s Mark’s history,” declared grandpapa. “He’s a skilful doctor and extremely kind. If you take my advice, you’ll get yourselves on to his panel—or whatever it’s called, nowadays.”

  “We shall,” I said. “If he’s as nice as his wife he’s very nice indeed.”

  “Oh, you’ve met Deb, have you? She’s a dear girl. Grandmama loves her.”

  “We met her at a displenishing,” I told him. I was rather proud of the word.

  “Did you?” said grandpapa smiling. “And may I ask what you bought at the displenishing?”

  “A picture, for one thing. It was a mistake, really. Charles thought he had bought a small medicine cupboard for seven and sixpence and then discovered that he had bought a picture in a fretwork frame. I’ll get it and show it to you.”

  I left grandpapa laughing heartily—he loved a joke—and ran upstairs to find it. Charles had been so disgusted with the picture that he had stowed it away in the attic and neither of us had given it another thought.

  I dusted the picture and propped it up on a chair and waited to hear grandpapa’s verdict.

  “Take it out of that ghastly frame,” he said.

  I did as I was told. It wasn’t easy, for the clips had rusted, but I got an old knife and broke them. “There,” I said. “That’s the picture.”

  “Did Charles pay seven and sixpence for that?”

  “Yes. He didn’t mean to, of course.”

  Grandpapa rose, lifted the picture and took it to the window. He put on his spectacles and examined it carefully. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I thought so. It’s a Stubbs—and very nice indeed. If Charles wants to sell it I’ll give him five hundred for it.”

  “What!”

  “You heard,” said grandpapa, grinning mischievously. “It’s very decent of me. I could have offered you ten pounds and gone home with the picture under my arm. Couldn’t I, Sarah?”

  I was dumb.

  “Couldn’t I, Sarah?” he repeated.

  “Yes,” I said breathlessly. “Yes, of course you could! Charles would have been delighted to get rid of it.”

  “Ah me!” said grandpapa, heaving a heavy sigh. “A conscience is an uncomfortable thing to have. One way and another my conscience has cost me an awful lot of money. I should have asked the surgeon to remove it when he removed my appendix.”

  “I didn’t know you had had your appendix removed!”

  “Oh, yes, several years ago. It was nothing to make a fuss about—much less painful than the extraction of a tooth.”

  “Grandpapa, is it really worth all that?”

  “My tooth or my appendix?”

  “Grandpapa, tell me!”

  “More or less,” he replied. “You can have it valued, of course, but apart from its intrinsic value I like it. In fact I like it immensely. You had better ask Charles and let me know.” He rose and added, “I just wanted to see if you had survived your foreign travels without permanent injury; England is a dangerous place. Come soon and see Grandmama, she has missed you badly.”

  I went to the little gate with him and watched him walk down the path; a straight soldierly figure, with the sun shining on his silver hair.

  *

  The picture was still propped up on the chair, where grandpapa had put it. I went and looked at it carefully: it was a peaceful country scene with trees and meadows which sloped up to a distant ridge; in the foreground was a small pond. A white horse was browsing quietly amongst the green herbage. Now that the hideous frame and the smudged glass had been removed the colours of the paint had sprung to life and the picture seemed to glow softly with a light of its own. The more I looked at it the more I liked it. I was still admiring it when Charles came in.

  “Hallo, where did you get that?” he asked.

  “It’s yours, Charles. You bought it for seven and sixpence.”

  “Goodness, it looks quite different! In fact it’s rather nice.”

  “Would you like to sell it for five hundred pounds?”

  He stared at me in amazement.

  “Would you?” I repeated. “I’ve just had an offer for it.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “No, I’m perfectly serious. Grandpapa was here and took a fancy to it.”

  I told him what grandpapa had said and we discussed the matter at lunch. For some reason Charles didn’t seem as excited about it as I had expected.

  “We ought to have it valued,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Grandpapa said it was worth that, more or less, but apart from its value he liked it. In fact he was delighted with it.”

  “He must have it, of course, but I’m not going to take a penny more than it’s worth.”

  “Your conscience seems to be a very tender plant,” I said teasingly.

  Charles didn’t smile. “I’d like to give it to your grandpapa as a present.”

  “Oh well . . . that’s for you to decide,” I told him. I felt a little damped because the money would have been useful. Charles had been left his mother’s money—a substantial sum—but the cottage had cost more than we had anticipated and we were still paying off a debt to the bank.

  Charles had finished his meal but he didn’t move. He was sitting at the table lost in thought . . . and his thoughts seemed somewhat gloomy.

  “You aren’t worrying about it, are you?” I asked.

  “Not about the picture.”

  “What, then?”

  “I saw the doctor this morning when I was in the town; he stopped his car and spoke to me. He’s anxious about your grandmama, Sarah.”

  “But I thought she was better!”

  “Yes, temporarily,” said Charles. He hesitated and then added, “He wanted me to warn you that her heart is in rather a serious condition.”

  “Oh, Charles!”

  “I knew you would be unhappy about it, darling, but I had to tell you.”

  “It’s not me—so much—it’s grandpapa!”

  “He doesn’t know. She won’t let the doctor tell him.”

  “But that’s dreadful! He ought to be told.”

  “Yes, he ought to be told. Dr Dunne tried to persuade her to let him warn the Colonel but it was no good; she became excited—which is the worst thing for her—and made him promise faithfully to keep her condition a secret. Mrs Maitland is a very determined person.”

  I knew that. Grandmama was gentle, but, below the softness, there was a will of steel.

  “Oh, Charles! It’s dreadful.”

  “I know,” he agreed, taking my hand and holding it firmly. “I’m so terribly sorry about it. I know you love her dearly—nobody could help loving her.”

  We were silent for a few minutes, then I said, “We ought to have further advice. If we had had another doctor when mother was ill she might have recovered. I didn’t think of it at the time (I was young and silly and we had always depended upon old Dr Weatherstone) but I’ve often thought of i
t since.”

  “Dr Dunne has had a very good man from Edinburgh. He told me that he had arranged for this man—a heart specialist—to see another patient and had taken the opportunity of having Mrs Maitland examined at the same time. The Colonel doesn’t know about this; it was done when he was out.”

  “What did the specialist say?”

  “His diagnosis agreed with Dr Dunne’s.”

  “But didn’t he tell you——”

  “Oh yes, he used a lot of long words to describe the condition, but when he saw that I didn’t understand he put it as simply as he could. There isn’t any ‘disease,’ it’s just a weakness. We’ve all got a weak spot in our make-up and when we get older the weak spot begins to wear out. With some people it’s their arteries; with other people, it’s their brains . . . and so on. I’m putting it very badly; you had better see Dr Dunne yourself.”

  “Can’t they do anything?” I asked desperately.

  “Dr Dunne is carrying out Dr Hare’s instructions, of course, but the best treatment is rest and freedom from anxiety. With reasonable care she may live for years. Dr Dunne said he just wanted to warn us. We can’t do anything except go and see her as often as possible and keep her happy . . . and of course she must never know that Dr Dunne has told us.”

  “Nobody must ever know! Oh, Charles, that’s a big responsibility!”

  Charles nodded gravely. “I said that to Dr Dunne. His advice is that we should think about it as little as possible; we shouldn’t worry about Mrs Maitland.”

  “How can we help worrying? It was silly of him——”

  “No, it wasn’t silly,” interrupted Charles. “There’s a lot of sense in it. He believes that patients are adversely affected if their nearest and dearest worry about them; it creates the wrong kind of atmosphere. I think you should talk to him, Sarah; he’s an awfully nice fellow and very sound.”

  *

  The morning had been fine and sunny but in the afternoon the wind got up and thick black clouds came rolling in from the west. The hills were blotted out and it began to snow—at first gently and then with increasing severity—the flakes melted as they slid down the window-panes.