A happy woman
"He's been through trouble. His wife ran off with another man. It was
very dreadful, and the affair has left its mark on him. He's a born
optimist, that's what he is! And he likes to take a hand in everything
going. You'll see him reading the lessons in this small church—he's a
good Churchman."
"I love to see people take their troubles courageously," said Sara. "It
sends the same thrill through me that gallant fighting does against a
superior foe."
"I'm afraid you have not much sympathy for my poor mother, then. She is
one of the crushed ones on the earth. Life is very hard on some."
"Oh, I was not thinking of your mother, indeed I was not! Of course I
do not know her trouble, but she is physically weak in body, and that
always tells against one."
"Do you think you will be able to stay with her?"
"I will stay as long as she wants me," said Sara, quietly.
"I don't feel like giving my mother away to any one who is here to-day
and gone to-morrow, but she seems to have taken an extraordinary liking
to you."
He smiled a little, and added—
"She told me to come with you this morning.
"'I want her to settle down with us,' she said, 'and she won't do it
unless she finds a church. I know her sort!'
"So I'm to show you the way to-day, and then you can have every Sunday
morning for church-going!"
"That's very kind of her," said Sara, with twinkling eyes. She wondered
if Mrs. Laird's secret was to be disclosed, but Graham seemed purposely
to wander from the point.
Then Sara said very gravely—
"Your mother is right, Mr. Laird, I could not be happy here if I never
went to church. It helps the spiritual part of one's life so much."
"I have no spiritual part in my composition," said Graham, lightly; "so
it doesn't trouble me. I believe in God as our Creator, but then I take
it that He shows Himself in all His works, and doesn't require to be
imprisoned in a small building to reveal Himself to His creatures."
"Yes, I know some people believe they can worship by themselves
anywhere, but I can't. The Bible teaches one differently."
"Do you see that small village tucked away down there?" said Graham,
pointing in front of them to a valley in the indentation of two hills.
"That is Torry Fell, where our church is, and also the nearest shops.
Now look over that line of hills, do you see the smoke rising from
furnaces? That is our nearest town. Have you ever lived so far-away,
before, from all human beings?"
"No. I do not think I have, but it is a very pleasant change from
London. I am country bred and born, so no wonder my heart goes back to
it."
She added after a little silence—
"I think I shall often come up on these hills. I love the short springy
turf, and the boulders of rock with their crannies full of moss and
fern and stonecrop. I suppose the heather comes out in the summer?"
"There is not much on this hill, but even here it is dangerous, so
don't be too venturesome. Mists come on suddenly, and so do storms.
The lake must have taught you that. It's easy to miss one's way, and
there's a sharp side to most of these hills, where rocks and precipices
abound."
"I suppose shepherds live on them. What is that odd-looking little hut
tucked under that overhanging rock?"
"We won't go past it. Old Reuben Cleave lives there with his daughter.
He's a herb doctor—the country folk have great faith in him, and some
of them come tramping out here from the town. He's a queer old man—seen
better days, I fancy. Some say he went through a medical course at one
time."
"How desolate for his daughter!"
"She's close on fifty, and lame. They're happy enough. I lend her books
occasionally, but they have a great dislike to strangers, especially
ladies. People do get queer when they live much alone. I'm inclined to
myself. Fleming considers he helps to keep me sane."
"But you have work," said Sara, feeling touched by this little bit of
confidence; "nobody need be dull or lonely when they have work to do."
"That's true."
He caught his breath.
"That's where my mother is at a disadvantage."
"Oh," said Sara, briskly, "she and I are going to be very busy. We have
just started making rugs. We shall surprise you by our industry soon."
"I congratulate you. When the warmer weather comes, you must get her
out. I'm a great believer in fresh air."
"She seems to have a terrible shrinking from it," said Sara.
"Yes, every winter she gets worse. But I hope you'll overcome her
dislike."
They tramped along. Then they wound their steps down to Torry Fell, and
arrived at the church just as the bell had stopped tolling.
It was a small grey stone building, and had a very fair congregation of
working people in it.
One sweet-faced woman sat with two children on each side of her, and
Sara rightly conjectured her to be the vicar's wife. The service was
simple and hearty. Colonel Fleming read the lessons and the vicar
preached a sermon on the text, "Seek ye first the Kingdom of God."
He was an earnest and eloquent preacher. The "first thing" in life was
his theme, and when the service was over and Colonel Fleming joined
them in the churchyard, Graham said—
"I like your parson. He's a man. A pity there are not a few more like
him."
"There are plenty of them," said the cheerful little Colonel, "only
they're scattered broadcast over the world, and the heathen get some of
the best. Well, Miss Darlington, haven't you enjoyed the walk? I wish
my house was on your way, I'd ask you in to have some refreshment, but
I'm a mile and a half away in the other direction."
"I came to show Miss Darlington the way," said Graham.
"Hope you'll show her it another Sunday," said Colonel Fleming.
Graham made a slight movement of dissent.
And after a little further talk, he and Sara returned home over the
hills. They had a very silent walk back. Sara was quite happy in
following her own thoughts.
She started, when Graham said at length—
"You look very happy. I'm afraid I'm rather unsociable, I have grown
so."
"Why should we talk if we have nothing to say?" said Sara, laughing.
"Yes, I am happy; the sun and air are delicious. We have been brought
a little nearer our unseen Kingdom this morning, and I haven't a care
in the world! I am glad when I am away from your mother to be able to
bottle up the outside sunshine and take some of it back with me to her
room."
Then seeing a shadow fall over his face at the mention of his mother,
she added—
"And I am looking forward to the spring so! I feel sure I shall be able
to get her out. And then she will be brighter, I know."
"It's to be hoped she will."
When they reached home, they found Mrs. Laird plunged into one of her
moods of gloom. Not even the company of her son that afternoon removed
it. Sara pitied him when she went upstairs to relieve him, for he
looked careworn and sad, but he was always very silent when his mother
was extra difficult to deal with, and Sara wisely left him alone.
The next day Mrs. Laird was a little brighter.
Sara generally had an hour's walk in the afternoon. When she came back,
Izzie met her in the hall in floods of tears, and when asked what was
the matter said the "Missis" had been so angry with her that she had
terrified her.
"She rang her bell, and I went up and put more coals on the fire, and
I some'ow stumbled, and caught hold of the manty shelf, and a little
chiny cup and saucer fell off, and broke into smithereens! She got up
out of her chair and sweared at me, and raised her stick to strike at
me. I never seed nobody in such a fury before! She said 'twas the only
things she vallied in the 'ouse. And I telled her I were sorry, but
'twas no good. And then she began to shake and tremble, and then she
give me notice to leave, and I've just comed downstairs!"
Sara tried to cheer the girl by telling her she would intercede for
her. And then she went upstairs and found Mrs. Laird leaning back in
her chair, looking very white and exhausted.
She looked up at Sara when she came in, and her eyes were full of a
haunting horror.
"I've broken out again!" she said, with a pitiful little cry. "After
fifteen years and an eternity of remorse, I find my temper is not yet
under my control. It's just a chance you didn't come in and find Izzie
stretched dead at my feet. I nearly struck her, but I remembered—oh, I
remembered!"
Sara hardly knew what to say or do. She just knelt down and kissed the
worn and haggard face.
"Never mind!" she said soothingly. "Izzie is unhurt, and we all lose
our tempers sometimes. What was it she broke?"
"It was the last thing Dorrie gave me—her last birthday present. And it
is destroyed. I suppose even the comfort of that is to be denied to me!
Oh, I wish I could die, and end it all."
"I wish you would tell me your trouble," said Sara, softly, "and then
we could talk about it together, and see if some comfort could not be
had."
Mrs. Laird shook her head. Her brief fit of passion had left her quite
exhausted.
Sara left her, and soon returned with a tray on which a dainty little
tea had been laid. Mrs. Laird needed some coaxing before she took
anything, but she was persuaded to eat at last, and felt much better
after it.
Then Sara had to go downstairs and comfort Izzie. Mrs. Thwaites was the
only unruffled one. Nothing ever upset her equanimity.
"If Izzie did get sharp speaking, 'twill do her good. She's never had a
stick broken across her back, like my feyther did to all of us when we
were children."
When Graham came home, Sara said nothing to him about the small tempest
that had arisen, but she fancied his mother must have done so, as he
was peculiarly silent and absorbed during the evening meal.
Two or three evenings afterwards, Sara was reading the evening Psalms
as usual, when for the first time, Mrs. Laird made a comment upon them.
"I wonder you're so fond of those Psalms. They're simply Eastern songs
of hate or love."
"Oh no, no," said Sara, eagerly and earnestly. "They may have been sung
in the Temple worship, but they were the heartfelt experience of one
of the Saints. He poured out his soul in them. I think the one golden
thread that runs through them is the unswerving trust and confidence
in God. David had a terribly sad and difficult life, and he made many
mistakes, but his faith never failed, and God was in all his thoughts."
"David never sinned beyond forgiveness."
"None of us can do that, but he did sin grievously. Look how he killed
a man because he coveted his wife!"
"He never killed him with his own hands," said Mrs. Laird, quickly and
feverishly. "He had no blood-stain upon 'his' hands."
"I think the way he did it was as bad as it could be, for he acted like
a coward, but he repented and was forgiven."
Mrs. Laird shook her head rather sadly.
"Sin brings its own punishment," she said. "It is more than a life for
a life; that would be easy to bear."
Sara puzzled over these remarks. But for the time she remained
unenlightened.
The short days now began to lengthen; the bare brown branches of the
trees swelled with bud. In the garden, a few straggling daffodils
peeped out through the long grass. Sara asked if she might take the
garden in hand.
Colonel Fleming came in one afternoon, and found her struggling with an
overgrown flower-bed, now a mass of thistles and weeds.
"That is man's work," he said, shaking hands with her.
Sara laughed, and took off her straw hat, fanning her heated face with
it.
"It isn't Samuel's work. I have as good a muscle in my right arm as he
has any day! He told me so yesterday—
"'The horse and the trap and the 'arness and the cattle, not to speak
of the yards and sheds, and the vegetables to be tilled, is mor'en I
shall manage; flowers is ladies' fancies. If so be as they wants to