A happy woman
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