Sarah's Cottage (Sarah Morris Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  Eigor was fifteen when he came to Scotland with his mother; they visited several MacDonald relations and had a delightful holiday. The descriptions of Skye were entrancing; they brought back to my mind the wild and beautiful scenery of the island and the dignified manners of its inhabitants. It was in Skye, on the seashore, that Eigor first met a distant cousin, Margaret MacDonald, and became friends with her.

  In Margaret I recognised my own portrait . . . and I recognised a number of incidents which had happened in real life when I was a child.

  All this was very interesting but the mixture of fact and fiction was so muddling that I decided I must read the story—simply as a story—without trying to connect Charles’s Rainbow dream with the events of real life.

  The children were grown up now; Eigor went to Oxford and discovered that it was the city of his dream. He was very happy there; he felt quite at home and everyone was kind to him. In Oxford he met Margaret again and their childhood friendship deepened. When Eigor went home for the long vacation Margaret went with him and spent a holiday at the Schloss . . . and Eigor was able to show her the countryside where he had been born and bred. They went for long rides together and visited the peasants on the estate. Finally there was a delightful little scene in a cherry orchard; the fruit had ripened in the warm golden sunshine and the friendship of Eigor and Margaret had ripened into love.

  It was a happy story, there were no sorrows, it bowled along with a vim and vigour which was very beguiling; I found myself chuckling over some of Eigor’s experiences in Oxford and lingering over an evocative account of the Austrian country and the lives of the country folk.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  When I had come to the end of Charles’s “Rainbow” I sat for a few minutes, thinking about it. The story was incomplete, there were several gaps, but in spite of that, in spite of the roughness and the mistakes, it had left me with a clear bright picture, an unforgettable picture of the people and the places. Was this because I knew Charles and his background, or was there real magic in the tale?

  I had turned back to the first page and had begun to read the manuscript again, slowly and carefully, when Charles came in.

  “Oh, you’ve just begun!” he exclaimed.

  “I’ve read it from beginning to end. I’ve been reading it all day. I couldn’t stop. I’ve just begun to read it again, more carefully.”

  “I’m afraid it’s very rough—just hasty notes in some places—and the grammar may be a bit shaky. You see I wrote it so quickly; I wanted to catch the dream before it faded.”

  “You’ve caught the dream and made it real to me. I know what it means.”

  “You know what it means?”

  “I can interpret your dream,” I told him. “All the people are real people . . . and the story is what you would have liked to happen to them.”

  “No, no! It was just—just a dream that came into my head.”

  “The story is what you would have liked to happen,” I repeated. “Perhaps it would have happened if your father had been kind and unselfish and your mother had been free to come home to Scotland and bring you with her . . . that’s what you saw in your dream.”

  He sat down and looked at me in dawning comprehension. “I believe you’re right, Sarah.”

  “I know I’m right.”

  “Yes,” said Charles with a sigh. “Yes, I saw my life as it might have been. . . .”

  For a little while there was silence. Then he said, “Thank heaven it’s finished! It has been like an illness but I’ve got rid of it now. I’ve got the wretched thing out of my system so I needn’t think of it any more.”

  “You’ll have to make a few corrections. For instance——”

  “No,” he interrupted, shaking his head emphatically. “No, it’s over. I had to write it—and I’ve written it. Finish!”

  “You want to have it published, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t want to think of it.”

  “It’s good,” I told him. “I enjoyed it immensely; other people would enjoy it.”

  “You were interested because you’re interested in me.”

  “It’s good,” I repeated. “It wouldn’t take long to——”

  “No,” said Charles firmly.

  I hesitated for a moment. Then I said, “You haven’t mentioned the war in your story. Does the action take place between the wars?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied vaguely. “I don’t know when the action takes place. How can I explain? I just wrote down what came into my head. It isn’t a real-life story; it’s a fairy-tale.”

  This was true—in a way. It was the story of Charles’s life as it might have been; there were no troubles and sorrows in the story. “But people enjoy fairy-tales,” I said.

  “You can have it. You can do what you like with it. I’m glad I’ve written it—and accomplished it more or less successfully—because writing it seems to have taken a load off my mind. I’ve got rid of all the unhappy memories of the past. The clouds have vanished. I’m free now, Sarah,” he declared, rising and stretching his arms above his head and smiling cheerfully. “Let’s do things together! You’ve had a miserable time lately; what would you like to do?”

  “Let’s go to ‘Kirkoobry’,” I suggested.

  “Goodness!” cried Charles laughing. “I was prepared to take you to Rome—or Athens—or Timbuctoo!”

  “I only want you,” I said seriously. “I want you here, in mind and body. I want us to have fun together. That’s all I want.”

  *

  The Rainbow manuscript was lying on the table so I took it upstairs and put it away in a locked drawer. I thought that when Charles had recovered we could go over it together and put it in proper order.

  Charles had said, “It has been like an illness”—and to tell the truth he was so worn out with his labours that he looked as if he had been seriously ill! Now that he was convalescent we were very happy; we had a second honeymoon; we went for expeditions in the car and walked for miles over the hills. Charles was in tremendous spirits, we laughed at the feeblest jokes.

  One very fine morning we set out for “Kirkoobry.”

  “You said you wanted to go there—and perhaps we could buy a picture,” explained Charles. “It would be nice to have a picture, wouldn’t it?”

  I agreed that it would be very nice indeed. The walls of our sitting-room were still bare except for the mirror over the chimney-piece which grandmama had given us for Christmas.

  It was now November but the day was fine and mild for the time of year and, after we had lunched at the hotel, we walked round the little town to see if any of the painters had been tempted out by the sunshine.

  “There’s one!” cried Charles, letting go of my arm and plunging into a narrow alley.

  I followed more slowly and found myself in a little courtyard with houses all round. Some of the houses had crooked steps up to the first floor and little gardens with flowers in them. It was such a sheltered place that the flowers were still in bloom; Michaelmas daisies and gladioli and bushes of bronze and golden chrysanthemums. A young man with dark curly hair was sitting on a stool and before him on an easel was an unfinished picture . . .

  “Oh, I can see it isn’t finished,” Charles was saying. “All the same I’m sure I shall like it.”

  “Look here, I think you’re making a mistake,” said the young painter. “Probably you’re under the impression that I’m one of the well-known people who live here.”

  “It doesn’t matter who you are,” declared Charles. “I just want a bit of Kirkcudbright—and this is a particularly nice bit.”

  “Yes, I know, but——”

  “Don’t you want to sell it?”

  “Well, I don’t usually sell my pictures. I mean, I just paint for fun, really.”

  “But you would sell it—if someone wanted it,” I suggested, breaking in to the conversation. I could see that Charles liked it—and I, too, was pleased with it. The colouring was delightful.
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  “It isn’t finished—not nearly finished. I may not be able to finish it,” replied the young painter. “Out-of-door painting depends on the weather. If you really want a picture of Kirkcudbright I could show you some I’ve got in my studio.”

  We assured him that we really wanted a picture.

  Then he said he was going home now—the light had gone for the day—and he took us to his little flat, where he had a studio, and invited us to look round.

  There were several delightful pictures, so it was difficult to choose, but eventually we decided on a picture of the same little court, seen from a different angle. The gardens were gay with summer flowers; there was a mass of wistaria hanging over an old wall and a shaft of golden sunshine fell upon a flight of crooked steps where an old man was sitting.

  “Why not take it home and live with it for a bit?” suggested our new friend—we had discovered that his name was Alexander Wisdom.

  “You mean on approval?” asked Charles.

  “Yes, I don’t want you to have it unless you’re sure you like it.”

  We were quite sure we liked it so Charles gave him a cheque for twenty pounds—which was what he had asked—and we took it home with us in the car.

  It had been an interesting afternoon and we were delighted with our purchase, it looked extremely well on the sitting-room wall.

  A few days later, when grandpapa came in to see us, he spotted it at once. “Hallo,” he exclaimed. “Where did you get that? I like it. The colouring is very fine indeed.”

  I told him the story.

  Grandpapa smiled and said, “Well, he may do it for fun—and of course it would be fun to be able to do a thing like that—but I shall be very much surprised if we don’t hear more of Mr Alexander Wisdom. In a few years from now you won’t be able to buy one of his pictures for twenty pounds.”

  (Grandpapa was right of course. In a few years our young friend had become famous.)

  When Charles had had a little holiday and we had bought our picture it was time for us to go to Larchester for Freddie’s half-term week-end. I had intended to go by myself, but it was much more pleasant to go together. We took rooms at The Golden Hind and fetched Freddie from St Elizabeth’s on Friday morning. As always, she was delighted to see us and full of excitement at the prospect of her week-end at the hotel.

  We had intended to take her on the river after lunch but it was cold and misty so the three of us settled down in the lounge and played canasta. Freddie hadn’t played the game before but she picked it up quickly and enjoyed it. We had dinner early and sent her up to bed soon afterwards—she was tired out with all the excitement. When I went up to see her and say good night I was distressed to find her in floods of tears.

  “Darling, what’s the matter?” I exclaimed.

  “It’s all right,” she replied, dabbing her eyes with a somewhat grubby handkerchief. “It’s just that I’m so terribly happy.”

  Fortunately I understood. I, myself, suffered from the same curious complaint . . . intense happiness always produced tears.

  “I wish—I wish—I wish——” she added with a sob.

  “What do you wish? Could I make your wish come true?”

  “Nothing could make it come true. Not even a miracle.”

  “Are you going to tell me about it, Freddie?”

  She shook her head. Her hair, which was soft and thick and brown, fell over her eyes and she shook it back impatiently.

  I looked at the untidy mop and wondered if we could get it trimmed in Larchester; we had promised to take Freddie to lunch at Allington to see father and I wanted her to look her best.

  “We’re going to lunch with Grandfather tomorrow, aren’t we?” said Freddie, who seemed to have read my thoughts. “And Uncle Lewis will be there,” she added.

  “Uncle Lewis?” I was surprised: Lewis was with the British Army of Occupation in Germany and although he had written to me quite recently he had said nothing about leave.

  “Oh, perhaps I shouldn’t have told you!” exclaimed Freddie in dismay. “Perhaps he wanted it to be a surprise. Could you possibly pretend to be surprised when you see him?”

  I smiled and assured her that it would be quite easy . . . the manifestations of surprise and pleasure are so alike that nobody would notice the difference.

  “You love him, don’t you?” said Freddie. “I do wish I had a brother to love.”

  “Was that your big wish, Freddie?”

  “No.” She hesitated and then added, “I don’t wonder you love him. He’s marvellous—so big and strong and brave! He won the Military Cross in the war, didn’t he? I wanted him to tell me about it but he wouldn’t. He just said the King gave it to him for being a good boy.”

  I was quite willing to tell her: “He was commanding a small detachment of armoured cars. They came to a village which they thought had been cleared of Germans but there were still some who had been left behind and were hiding in the cellars. Uncle Lewis knew that the village was important—it was in a strategic position at a crossroad—so, although he and his men were outnumbered, he decided that it must be taken. They had a fight and killed some of the Germans and took a lot of prisoners.”

  “Oh, how glorious! I wish I had seen the battle!” exclaimed the bloodthirsty child with shining eyes. “Go on, Aunt Sarah. What happened next?”

  “Just at the end Uncle Lewis was badly wounded but by that time the Germans had surrendered and a battalion of the Somerset Yeomanry moved in and took over.”

  “Were they riding on horses?”

  “No, they were in tanks.”

  Freddie nodded. “Poor Uncle Lewis! I knew he had been wounded so I made him show me his arm. He laughed and rolled up his sleeve and said that bit in Henry V about the old man rolling up his sleeve and showing the scars he got on St Crispin’s Day. We’re doing Henry V in school this term and it made it seem ever so much more real; I told the other girls about it. Nobody else had an uncle with real battle-scars on his arm,” added Freddie with intense satisfaction.

  “War is horrible,” I said, trying to damp her down. “If you had lived through the war you wouldn’t think it glorious. War is just agony. It’s living under a dark cloud all the time and wondering if someone you love has been killed.”

  “Yes, of course! I see what you mean,” agreed Freddie. “But all the same . . .”

  We were still talking about it when Charles came in to say good night. He, too, had noticed the condition of Freddie’s hair and asked where—and when—she had had it cut.

  “Oh, it’s a woman called Cynthia who comes to St Elizabeth’s once a week and cuts people’s hair. It isn’t so bad if you’re one of the first she does, but after a bit she gets bored and cuts it anyhow—in chunks.”

  “Yes, that’s what it looks like,” said Charles. “I could trim it for you quite easily. I used to cut the chaps’ hair for them when I was in the Oflag in Germany during the war.”

  “Oh, hurrah! Do it now!” cried Freddie eagerly. “I’m fed up with my hair—all hot and clumpy over my ears!”

  I was a little doubtful about the idea . . . but I need not have worried. Whatever Charles took in hand he accomplished successfully. Perhaps a professional hairdresser could have made a better job of Freddie’s hair but, when Charles had finished, it was certainly much improved. Freddie, herself, was delighted.

  “Oh, how clever you are!” she exclaimed, kissing her barber fondly. “I wish you could come to St Elizabeth’s instead of Cynthia!”

  “Would Miss Bain make it worth my while?” inquired Charles, as he gathered up the towel and shook it out of the window.

  “No, she wouldn’t. She’s an old miser,” replied Freddie, chuckling.

  Miss Bain had been headmistress of St Elizabeth’s when I was there; she had not been young in those days and, naturally, she was a great deal older now. “I suppose she will retire soon,” I suggested.

  “Oh,” said Freddie doubtfully. “Oh, well . . . but we might get someone worse!
We might get someone who interfered with things.”

  *

  The visit to Allington was a great success. It was delightful to see Lewis again—I hadn’t seen him for years—and I had no difficulty in displaying surprise and pleasure. Willy was there, too, so it was a family party. I was pleased to see that Freddie got on well with her uncles; Lewis teased her but she enjoyed it and was quite able to hold her own.

  “I like your hair-do,” he said. “I suppose you get it cut at school?”

  “Oh no! They don’t do it well enough at school. I have a private hairdresser. He’s had lot a of experience so he’s very expensive, of course.”

  “How much does he charge?” Lewis wanted to know.

  “A big kiss,” replied the little monkey.

  This unexpected answer caused some consternation—especially on the part of Freddie’s grandfather—so we were obliged to explain the matter. When everyone had finished laughing Lewis inquired whether Freddie’s private hairdresser would trim his hair at the same price.

  It was all rather silly, I suppose, but it was so lovely to be together again that we were in the mood to be amused at nonsense.

  After lunch Lewis and I had a walk round the garden, which was looking rather sad and neglected and was very damp on account of yesterday’s rain. All the same I enjoyed it for I wanted to hear how Lewis had been getting on.

  “But I write to you quite often,” Lewis pointed out.

  “Oh, I know . . . and I love getting your letters! But it isn’t the same as seeing you and talking to you. Tell me what you do in Germany.”

  “We do a good deal of training, but we get quite a lot of short leave—too short to come home. Sometimes I go boar-hunting but more often I nip across the frontier into Denmark. They like us there, you know. We’re blooming heroes in Denmark—which is rather fun.”

  When he had told me about some of his entertaining experiences with “marvellous Danish blondes” (which doubtless were watered down considerably for my benefit), he changed the subject rather abruptly by saying, “I like our niece.”