A happy woman
spare time to run down to Folkestone and see little True, who had gone
back to school, but who had not been well.
"Graham tells me I fuss too much over her," she wrote, "but she's
rather a delicate child, and she has had cold upon cold this winter.
I don't think the children are looked after carefully enough at her
school, and I want Graham to take her away and let me have her. There's
a very good day school she could attend here. If you could see her, I
should be so glad, for you could tell me what you thought of her."
So one sunny day, Sara went down to True's school, and was allowed to
take her out for the whole day.
The child was white and thin, but full of spirit, and delighted to see
her "Miss Darling" again.
They went down to the beach, had lunch at a restaurant, and then went
for a drive in the afternoon, and True's little tongue was busy the
whole time. She spoke quite simply and a little sadly of her mother.
"I never saw her go to Heaven, that's what made me so sorry, she didn't
tell me she was so very ill, and I wanted to wish her good-bye. It's
so dreadful to lose your Mummy, because you can't get another, and I
did love Mummy very much. I used to bother her, she often said so, but
I truefully tried not to. She didn't like having to explain things to
me—and I always feel I must know things; don't you, Miss Darling? And
now I've got two quite new people that I belong to, at least, Dad isn't
quite new. I've always knowed him, since we stayed at the farm near the
beautiful lake, and he says I can call him Dad."
She paused for breath.
"I'm sure you will get very fond of him," Sara said. "He will be always
good and kind."
"Oh, my dear," said True in her old-fashioned way, "him and me are the
greatest fren's. We talk to each other about everything, and I tidy
out his pockets, and fill his pipe, and pour out his tea for him. He
came upstairs and sat with me when I went to bed with the earache, and
we said some hymns together. He likes some hymns and I like others.
And when I couldn't help crying for the pain, he wrapped me up in a
blanket, and set me on his knee by the fire. It was so comforting. He
has such nice big shoulders to rest your head against. I'm sure you
would think so, Miss Darling, if you did it. We used to talk about you
sometimes, and make out what you were doing. I said you were nursing
your baby and singing to it; he said you were making dark places light."
"And what about Grannie?" asked Sara.
"Oh, I just adore her!"
True clasped her hands.
"She spoils me, Dad says, but you've no idea what things I do with her.
She lets me tidy her boxes and drawers and have bits of ribbon and silk
to make dolls' frocks, and she tells me stories, and I play all sorts
of games with her. And we sit by the fire when it gets dark and see
pictures in the coals, and I tell her stories about them sometimes. I'm
very happy in Dalby, Miss Darling, but I do wish you'd come there too."
It was hard to say which of them enjoyed that day the most. Sara was
always devoted to children; and she took a peculiar interest in True.
When she took her back to her school, she had a long talk with her
schoolmistress, who frankly said the child would be better at home than
at school.
"Her brain is too quick and active, she works feverishly and excitedly,
she is always top of her class, and we have to keep her back. I do
not like the headaches she gets. She is too small to have them, and
I find they are the result of a high temperature. Of course whenever
she has one, she is put to bed and kept quiet. I think the necessary
competition in our classes is bad for her."
Sara wrote this to Mrs. Laird. She hoped that True would be taken away;
she seemed to her much too small and delicate to be at such a big
boarding-school.
Then one day when she was sitting at tea, Graham Laird was announced.
The suddenness of his coming brought a flush to her cheeks, and his
quiet determined handshake discomposed her for a moment.
"How nice to see you!" she said. "Do sit down and let me give you some
tea. How is Mrs. Laird?"
"Wonderfully well. I had to come to town on business, and I have come
to take away the child from school. It was good of you to take her out
for the day. A long account was written to me of the joys of that day."
"She is a darling little thing," said Sara, warmly. "Are you going to
take her away before the Easter holidays? They are very late this year."
"They are breaking up this week and expect me. My mother and I are
living together again, and she says she would like the charge of her."
"Are you still going to live right in the town?" asked Sara.
He looked at her with a little smile.
"You wonder at our taste," he said. "The fact is houses are difficult
to get. I am keeping my eyes open, for I'm sure the child would be much
better in country air, and my mother would like it too. As I have my
car, I could easily live a few miles out."
He took his tea from Sara's hands. He was conscious, as he always was
in her presence, of the freshness and fragrance of her atmosphere.
She was dressed in a blue lavender cloth gown, her soft bright hair
seemed to be touched with sparkles of sunshine, her grey eyes as she
looked at Graham were the same sweet, steadfast ones that he remembered
so well. Her room was full of flowers, her surroundings had that
peculiarly homelike comfortable look which was characteristic of every
room which she occupied.
And Sara, as she looked at the face that had never left her memory, saw
a change in it. Graham had streaks of grey in his dark hair; his face
was thinner and a little sharper in outline, but there was a serenity
and peacefulness in his eyes that never used to be there.
"How are you?" he asked. "My mother will ask a good many questions
about you when I return. You must give me all the information that you
can. Are you going to stay in town all this summer?"
"I am very well, thank you. We are thinking of going down to our farm
in Devonshire—baby and I—when the hot weather sets in."
"Why don't you come up our way? My mother would enjoy seeing you again."
Sara did not answer for a moment. The idea was delightful to her, but
hardly feasible.
"I want your mother to come and see me," she said pleasantly. "She and
little True might like to pay a visit to Devonshire this summer."
A shadow came into his eyes.
"Perhaps they might," he said quietly.
And Sara was vexed with herself for making the suggestion.
"How is dear Ina?"
"Very well. She and the Colonel are very busy people. She still keeps
her fingers in some of my pies and so does he. I don't think any of my
cousin's good works have been allowed to drop."
"How nice!"
Then he said abruptly—.
"Do you think the child looking very delicate?"
"Not particularly, but I do think she would be better at home and not
at school."
"Yes, and we want to have her with us. She is very good company. She
stayed with me for a couple of weeks, before my mother came to me, and
she seemed perfectly happy and able to take care of herself."
"I think her mother brought her up to be useful," said Sara; then she
added softly—
"I was so sorry to hear of your trouble. Was it not very sudden?
Perhaps you would rather I did not speak of it?"
"No, I would like to tell you. She and I both knew that her days were
numbered when we married. She was very lonely and afraid, and I think
I was able to comfort her—latterly. Her doctor told her he would
give her two years, but he told me that was the possibility, not the
probability."
He paused. Sara's quick woman's intuition in an instant filled out that
short sketch of his married life. She knew his chivalrous nature; she
realized that Graham had married Eva out of tender compassion, because
he believed that he could help her. She had always known that Eva was
fond of him.
But she was speechless.
And after a moment or two, Graham went on—
"I expect you would like to know that her end was a very peaceful and
happy one. She died in her sleep. But she was absolutely prepared and
ready for death."
"I am so glad."
Sara murmured the words.
"Yes," he said in the same clear grave tone; "and though we were
married such a short time, though one can consider it but an interlude,
I shall never to the end of my life regret the step we took. For it was
then—"
He was interrupted. Arnold Darlington came into the room.
Sara introduced the two men, and they chatted together on various
subjects before Graham left.
He told Sara he was staying in town the following day, which was
Sunday, and going down to Folkestone on the Monday.
Arnold asked him to lunch, and he accepted the invitation.
When he was gone, Arnold looked at his sister with a whimsical smile.
"So that is Laird with whom you lived in the wilds so long!"
"I lived with his mother," corrected Sara.
"It comes to the same thing. I like him. He's a strong able man."
Sara said nothing. She felt she could not discuss him with her brother.
CHAPTER VIII
GRAHAM'S VISIT
GRAHAM came to lunch, had a smoke and chat with Arnold in his study,
and then hearing that Sara was going to the Abbey service, asked if he
might accompany her. They walked across St. James's Park, which was
looking bright with bulbs and spring flowers.
Sara found conversation rather difficult. Graham was peculiarly silent,
he seemed to her to be in dreams, but in reality every moment of his
time with her was precious to him. If he was in dreams, she formed the
centre of those dreams.
They reached the Abbey, and managed to get seats in the Choir. The
service was exquisitely rendered, and the anthem that afternoon was,
"Thou hast put gladness in my heart, more than in the time that their
corn and their wine increased." One boy's voice rang out with such
thrilling power and sweetness that tears came to Sara's eyes.
When they came out, Graham said—
"I haven't enjoyed a service like that for many years. It seems to lift
one up to the heights."
"Yes," said Sara; "I've had a very happy hour. I always come here in
the afternoon. I let nurse go out in the evening and stay with my small
nephew then."
"May I, if we have spare time on our hands, come and see you on our
way home? True is always talking of you. I shall put up at an hotel
to-morrow night and then bring her up to town Tuesday. Will you be in
that afternoon?"
"I shall make an engagement of it," said Sara with her happy smile.
Then they talked of some of the philanthropic ventures of Graham's
cousin. He seemed to know all the weak points in them, and had already
remedied a good deal.
"You are more interested in this part of the work than you were," said
Sara, presently.
He looked at her.
"I have had my outlook changed," he said quietly. Then he added—
"I always used to wonder if your happiness was just a habit, if it was
cultivated, or whether it was spontaneous, the bubbling up of a spring
inside. I know it is the spring overflowing. That anthem explains it,
doesn't it? I'd like you to know that the first bit of it has become my
experience."
Before Sara could speak, he was holding out his hand. They had come to
her brother's house and he was saying good-bye.
"No, thank you, I won't come in, but we'll hope to see each other next
Tuesday."
"Mr. Laird, you 'must' let me say how glad I am!"
Sara's shining eyes made Graham's heart throb. He was putting great
restraint upon his feelings.
"I knew you would be," he said simply, and then he turned away.
And Sara went indoors with unspeakable joy filling her heart.
She almost counted the moments to Tuesday, and then took herself to
task for being so glad.
"Still," she argued to herself, "I am wronging no woman by thinking of