A happy woman
toothache cruel."
"Now I'll light up that fire. Can you bring us any supper? Is there a
kettle boiling?"
Down on her knees went Sara, and with some coaxing, and the bellows
to assist, she soon had a cheerful blaze. Izzie left the room, and
returned with a cold ham, a currant loaf, and a hot steak pie, the
latter very much burnt.
Sara saw her clapping the things down on the table, not attempting to
clear the plates and dishes that were already there.
"'Twas Mr. Pitt, he came in, and brought two other gen'man to see the
cows what are goin' to be sold," said Izzie in a grumbling tone. "And
I meant to have washed up, but I sot down and went bang off, and never
woke till master called!"
"Well, look here," said Sara with some spirit; "you go straight off to
bed. I'll see to everything. Run along. It's much too late for you to
be up."
Izzie looked surprised and delighted.
"Won't master scold?"
"No. I will be responsible. Run along."
The girl went.
"And now the help begins her work!" murmured Sara to herself.
She was roused to energetic action. The untidy room had definitely
called to her. Within an incredibly short time, she had swept and
tidied up the hearth, cleared away all the dirty dishes, and laid
the table according to her notions of fitness. She put loose books
into the bookcases, hung upon the pegs in the hall two coats and a
fishing-basket. Then she went into the kitchen, and foraged about till
she found some coffee. The kettles were boiling; she boiled some milk,
made some coffee, and was in the act of putting it upon the table, when
Mr. Laird came back.
He looked surprised at the altered aspect of the room, and for a moment
he and Sara confronted each other. Both found food for thought in their
respective looks. Sara, in her well-cut tailor brown serge gown, her
soft dark hair coiled loosely over her head, and her bright smiling
face, seemed to have brought already with her a sense of comfort and
cheeriness that had been lacking in this house for many a long day.
Mr. Laird was an enigma to her. He was a thin wiry man, not very young,
and yet, now his thick overcoat was off, looked alert and singularly
upright. His close-cropped head of hair was already streaked with grey
at the temples. He was dressed in rough, well-cut tweeds, and his
hands—Sara found herself glancing at them were well kept, and those
of a gentleman. If she had seen him in London like this, she would
have taken him for a thorough man about town, he had no signs of a
country rustic in his look or bearing. But when she caught his gaze,
she started, for the look of weary sadness in his eyes she had never
witnessed in a man's face before.
The house appeared to be a second-rate farmhouse. The man was a
well-born, fastidious gentleman.
"I am sorry you should have had such a poor welcome," he said, "but
this is how we live. Mrs. Thwaites and Izzie run the house, and they
are both incompetent but good-tempered and faithful."
"I have sent the poor girl to bed, and Mrs. Thwaites has toothache. You
see, I have begun to interfere already. Do you like coffee? There is
some here."
They drew their chairs up to the table, and for a few moments there was
silence between them. Sara was really hungry, and the hot coffee warmed
and comforted her. She felt now ready for anything, though it was just
eleven o'clock, and she had been travelling since eight o'clock in the
morning.
"Will Mrs. Laird want to see me to-night?"
"Oh no. She has settled off to sleep now. Your room is next to hers,
but she will not disturb you. I am sorry—I ought to have shown you your
room."
"It does not matter," said Sara, smiling; "I have found my way to the
kitchen, and refreshed myself with some hot water there. Now may I ask
if your mother is ill?"
"She has had great sorrow in her life," said Mr. Laird slowly; "it
has preyed upon her mind, and she needs rousing, but she will not be
managed—I warn you of that."
"Is she always upstairs, or does she come about the house?"
"She was downstairs last year, but caught a bad chill the beginning of
this winter, and has been afraid to venture out of her room since."
Sara looked sober. She wondered if she were going to spend all her time
shut up in a close and airless bedroom.
Mr. Laird caught her look, and said—
"I think I had better tell you that six young women have come and gone
during this winter."
Sara gave a little nod.
"You want to put me on my mettle," she said, "but I am not superior to
the average woman. If I can help or comfort your mother in the least
degree, I will stay. If I cannot, I shall give way to another, who may
be more successful."
No more was said. But after their meal was over, Sara insisted upon
clearing the table. At first Mr. Laird offered to help, but she saw he
was unaccustomed to do it, and she said—
"This is woman's work."
"We have two servants," he said; "leave it to them."
"Is this the only sitting-room?" Sara asked.
"There is another one, but it is rarely used. I eat and drink and smoke
here—and read when I can."
"Do smoke now. I am accustomed to sit in my brother's smoking-den."
"If you don't object, I will."
He took out his pipe, and sat in the big leather armchair by the fire.
His eyes watched her quick deft movements.
"I always think a room is so uncomfortable with the food left about,"
she said; "and I am sure Izzie will be thankful to have it done for
her."
She took out the plates and dishes into the kitchen. Then with a few
touches, she gave the room a tidy, comfortable look.
"Now I will say good night. Don't trouble to come upstairs. I shall
find my way."
But he insisted upon showing her the way to her room. It faced the
staircase, and was fairly large and comfortable, though the cold was
intense. She noticed a door which evidently led into Mrs. Laird's room,
but it was closed. Just for a moment she felt a wave of homesickness
come over her. She would have given worlds then to find herself in her
own luxurious room, with a blazing fire, and Lacy waiting upon her.
"When to-morrow comes, I shall feel more comfortable," she assured
herself.
And kneeling down by her bedside, she held communion with the Master
she loved and served.
Sleep came to her quickly, and she did not wake till Izzie appeared the
next morning with a large can of hot water and a cup of tea.
"Me and Mrs. Thwaites were having ours, and I thought I'd bring you
one, because you cleared away the supper last night for me," Izzie said
gratefully.
"That's very kind of you," said Sara.
She drank her tea, then slipped on her warm dressing-gown and looked
out of her window. It was grey and cold, the house evidently stood
on an easy slope. At the bottom of a small lawn was a belt of firs,
beyond them a steep descent of wood and undergrowth, and then the lake
stretched away calm and still. The hills in the distance were shrouded
with the morning mist.
Then her eyes travelled inwards round her room. Her small bed faced the
window, which was broad and low and had a deep window-seat. On one side
was her dressing-table, on the other a writing-table, against which was
drawn up a cushioned wicker chair. There was a curious old-fashioned
bureau in one corner of the room, the upper half of which held some
books behind glass doors.
Sara inspected these and found them chiefly to consist of theological
and religious works, and a few volumes of Scott's poems. Two of
Dickens's stories were the only books of fiction there. Thick crimson
serge curtains hung from the window, and a crimson drugget was under
foot. The furniture was of good old-fashioned mahogany, the pictures on
the walls were of the early Victorian type.
"If I had a fire," she thought, "I should be thoroughly comfortable!
But if it remains as cold as this, I shall not stay longer in my
bedroom than I can help."
She dressed herself quickly, longing to get out of doors and explore.
Though she had been a Londoner for some years, she had a passionate
love for the country. The sense of quiet free space outside, the
absence of any noise except the twittering of birds, and soughing of
the wind in the trees, filled her soul with delight. It took her memory
back to mornings like this when she had ridden with her father after
the hounds, when the fresh keen morning air came to her like nectar,
and sent the blood rushing through her veins, till she felt ready to do
and dare anything. She came to breakfast with bright eyes.
Mr. Laird hardly looked at her, he seemed absorbed in thought. And they
had a very silent meal together.
Sara was feasting her soul upon the view through the low casement
windows. The sun was struggling through dense masses of grey woolly
clouds, and touching the distant hills with streaks of light and
shadow. Then blue sky appeared and reflected itself in the lake below.
"Oh," thought Sara with joy, "what will it be like when summer is here?"
Mr. Laird, moving from the table, was almost startled by her vivid
brightness.
"You have not seen my mother yet?"
"No, I am waiting till she sends for me.
"She likes her breakfast taken to her after we have finished ours. She
will tell you the order of things. I shall be out all day to-day and
shall not be home till six or seven."
Sara thought that his comings and goings would be a matter of
indifference to her. She felt that he considered her an inferior sort
of being to himself, and she rather resented it.
Taking his hint, she went out to the kitchens and asked for Mrs.
Laird's breakfast tray. Mrs. Thwaites, a fat untidy-looking woman,
looked up.
"You're the new young lady," she said with a little wheezy sigh. "They
come in streams and generally leave before their month. And I'm fair
sick of telling where everything be! The tray's over there, and the
bread and butter on that table. She'll like a bit of toast made. You
can do that off the dining-room fire, and I'll poach an egg and throw
in a bit of bacon. She takes tea, and you get the cups and saucers from
the chiny pantry on the left of you."
About ten minutes later Sara climbed the stairs, tray in hand. She
knocked at the bedroom door next hers, and then opened it. She was
agreeably surprised by the size of the room. Two big windows faced her.
There was a fire in the grate. A big four-post bed stood on one side.
There was a round table with a green cloth in the middle of the room
on which was piled a number of books and papers. And in an easy-chair
by the fire in a warm wrapper sat Mrs. Laird. Her hair was white,
her complexion sallow, and her eyes dark and restless. Yet she was a
handsome woman still, and bore the impress of a gentlewoman. Sara met
her sharp keen gaze with great serenity.
"Good morning, Mrs. Laird. I hope I am not late with your breakfast,
but the first morning, things are strange to me."
She had with her quick eyes seen a small round table by the bedside
upon which she placed the tray, then lifted it in front of the invalid.
"You look strong enough," said Mrs. Laird. "That is one of their
excuses, their health suffers from the climate. I am weary of seeing
fresh faces. The young ones make love to my son; the old ones complain
that the loneliness of this place gets upon their nerves. What will be
your excuse, I wonder."
"To get away?" queried Sara, with a little laugh. "Oh, I shall go if I
can't do you any good—if I can't make you happy!"
"Happy!"
There was unutterable scorn in the tone.
"Do you think I have engaged you to make me happy? Nobody in the wide
world could do that. Happiness and I are as far apart as the North is
from the South. What could my son have written to make you imagine such
a thing?"
"I did not know the letter I received was from Mr. Laird, I thought