A happy woman
here doctored by him once, and it was quite a success! Keep the dog in
your jacket and we'll carry him between us. I know the way. It's not so
very far down."
"I know it too. We'll try."
With the help of a strap from Miss Ferris's tin box, they managed to
carry the collie carefully between them, but it seemed a long and a
rough way before they reached the little hut.
"This is another case of unhealthy isolation," said Miss Ferris, as she
tapped peremptorily on the stout wooden door with her walking-stick.
There was no answer for some time, though they heard somebody moving
about inside.
Then Miss Ferris said—
"Mr. Cleave, here is a wounded dog! We want your help. Don't keep us
waiting."
Then the door was opened sharply; and an old grey-bearded man appeared.
He was dressed in brown corduroy, had leather gaiters, and wore a
shabby green felt hat. Sara thought him singularly handsome, with his
dark piercing eyes and white hair; his features were clear cut and
refined. And when he spoke, though his voice was gruff, his accent
showed that he had had education.
"Bring him in, madam. A gun-shot wound?"
"No, we think he has broken his leg," said Sara, gently. "He belongs to
Mr. Laird, and I know he values him."
"It is Snooks. I know him."
And Snooks raised his head at once and feebly wagged his tail.
Whilst the old man was examining his hurt, Sara looked around her.
It was a low-roofed room, a picture of a tidy farmhouse kitchen.
There were rows of dried bunches of herbs hung from a beam across the
ceiling, an old oak chest, a bright shining kitchen range, and an
oak dresser which held on its shelves rows, and rows of bottles and
glass jars, the latter full of preserved seeds and fruits. There was a
shelf of books in a deep recess, and some quaint foreign curiosities
in a glass cupboard. The floor was stone, and the window was shrouded
with thick net curtains. Everything was beautifully clean, and there
was a shelf of shining copper pans beneath the dresser. The walls
were covered with quaint old wood-cuts. One particularly claimed her
attention. It was of an old monk or hermit standing outside his cell in
a wood. His hands were raised as if in benediction, and underneath was
written:
"'The profit of the earth is for all: the king himself is served by the
field.'"
Whilst she was puzzling over this, Miss Ferris was chatting away in a
very friendly fashion to the herb doctor. It seemed that she and he
were great friends, and botany was the link between them. She had in
fact more than once brought him rare herbs which she had discovered,
and which he was desirous to obtain.
"The bone is not broken, but a ligament. I will dress it and bandage
it. He has bruised himself. I will take care of him for a night. He
wants rest. Mr. Laird can drive over for him to-morrow."
He spoke curtly. Sara looked troubled.
"I don't know what Mr. Laird will say. I ought to have looked after him
better. I feel responsible for his accident."
She knelt down by Snooks, who was lying on a rug in front of the fire,
and stroked his head gently. Snooks looked up at her with affection,
but he made no attempt to move.
"You couldn't have helped it," said Miss Ferris, briskly. "Dogs will
hunt, and if you had been close to him, he would have done it just the
same. We'll leave him to the good doctor here, he couldn't be in better
hands."
Then she and the old man began discussing the merits of the little
plant for which she had been searching.
Sara walked out of the hut, and stood gazing before her deep in
thought. Ought she to return home and report the dog's accident? She
did not want to spoil her day out, but she felt that it would be right
to inform Mr. Laird as soon as possible of what had happened.
As she was standing there, suddenly a woman came round the corner with
a big brown pitcher of water in her hand. Sara knew in an instant who
she was, from the way she shrank back, and from her limp.
Impulsively Sara stepped aside.
"I hope you don't mind, but we have brought a wounded dog to your
father, and he is going to look after him for us."
The woman looked furtively at Sara from under a big print bonnet. She
had her father's eyes, but her face was white and delicate; she rested
her pitcher on the ground and listened to the voices within.
"Who is there?" she asked in a deep, quiet voice.
"Miss Ferris," said Sara; "she met me out of doors. I am staying with
Mrs. Laird. I am her companion, and I came out for a day on the hills,
and have allowed Snooks to meet with an accident."
The woman stood irresolute; she was unwilling to meet Miss Ferris,
unwilling to talk to Sara; and yet her eyes could not keep away from
Sara's face. Everybody who looked once at Sara always wanted to look
again. There was so much sympathy and feeling in her expression. To the
lame woman's eyes, Sara looked at her as if she had in that moment seen
something that she admired and liked in her.
As a matter-of-fact there was a wistful sadness in the woman's face
that drew out Sara's compassion and liking. Ever since she had been
quite a child, she had always insisted that she liked sad people better
than gay.
So now she touched the woman's arm softly—
"I'm a stranger in these parts," she said, "but I love nature, and I
am sure you do. Will you be my friend? I haven't spoken to any woman
outside the house till to-day, when I met Miss Ferris. May I come and
see you?"
"I never see visitors."
"I don't want you to think of me as a visitor. If I come up here and
sit under that old rock over there, will you join me sometimes? I won't
intrude upon your privacy."
The woman turned away with a little nod. She took her pitcher of water
indoors, and a moment after Miss Ferris came out.
"That sulky Agnes and I don't get on," she said, "but the father is
a very good sort. I believe it is she who makes him live out in this
wild. Have you heard her story? Of course it has to do with blighted
love, what woman's story has not! Come along out of their hearing and I
will tell you.
"She wasn't lame when she was young, and she was going to marry the
young blacksmith of her village. But her mother died suddenly, and she
could not make up her mind to leave her father. He used to go off for
tramps by himself and be away three and four days at a time, hunting
about for his plants and herbs.
"There was another girl in the story, of course, and she was wildly in
love with the blacksmith. One day the two girls met on these hills.
Agnes was waiting for her lover. The other one taunted her with her
laggard lover. They fell to abuse, and finally Agnes was struck by her
rival, and in falling she tumbled over some rocks and broke her thigh.
"She was laid up for a long time, and left permanently lame. She only
recovered to find that the other girl had improved her opportunities,
had made the smith see that a delicate crippled wife would be no
helpmate to him, and had married him herself. Agnes never got over it.
She was laughed at by some giddy girls for her limping gait one day,
and she then persuaded her father to come out of the village and live
up on these hills. Her trouble soured her, and she has a great dislike
to her own sex. Rather pitiful, isn't it?"
"Oh, I'm sorry for her!" exclaimed Sara.
"Yes, so was I. But she's had years to get sweetened up here, with no
neighbours to irritate her; and I don't approve of her sulking still.
After all, don't we most of us have to go through the mills of God? We
don't get our own way, as a rule. I never did. But is that any reason
why we should shut ourselves away from humanity, and narrow down our
circle to our own precious selves? I've no patience with it! Where are
you going now?"
"Home, I'm afraid," said Sara, a little ruefully. "I must let Mr. Laird
know about his dog."
"Oh, you needn't trouble! He's coming over to see my brother after
lunch about some business matter, and I'll tell him then. Take your
fill of air and sunshine whilst you can, and then go home and try to
shake old Mrs. Laird out of her morbid melancholy, and get her into
the open, where the wind will blow on her, and the sun shine upon her!
Oh, these petulant rebels! They're just like roses creeping away into
a sheltered corner to escape the pruning and training which they need.
What happens to them? They degenerate into briars. Agnes Cleave is one
briar, your Mrs. Laird is another. Good-bye. Glad to have met you."
She strode away with an abrupt little nod, and Sara was left alone.
She wandered up the hill again, but felt ill at ease. The accident to
poor Snooks had spoiled her day. It seemed heartless to go on enjoying
herself whilst he lay in the herb doctor's hut, suffering acutely. Then
she sat down and ate her sandwiches. She was just resolving to return
to the house, when she saw in the distance a rider coming up in her
direction.
As he came nearer, she recognized Graham Laird, and she hastily went
forward to meet him.
"Oh," she said, "I was longing to make my confession to you. I am so
glad to have the opportunity. My day out is spoiled. Poor Snooks has
hurt himself badly."
"I have just met Miss Ferris," he said, "and she has told me the story.
But you couldn't have left him in better hands. I'll just look in at
the hut. I caught sight of you perched on the sky line, and came on to
relieve your mind."
"I think you must be a wizard," said Sara, laughing; "I was feeling
quite miserable."
"What are you going to do with yourself now? Perhaps I oughtn't to ask!"
"Oh yes. I feel quite cheered up, and am ready for anything. I want to
get away to that pine ridge. I love walking amongst pines."
She pointed to a distant line of firs on the slope of the hill above
her.
He looked at her and then at the ridge.
"By the time you reach that, you will be wanting your tea."
"I dare say I shall," said Sara, laughing, "but I shall do without it."
"I was going to suggest that you should get it at a small farm close
by. I know Mrs. Gates would be delighted to give it to you. She loves
visitors."
"Perhaps I shall not get so far, but I will try. I am so sorry about
Snooks."
They parted.
For a moment he watched her, as she walked off with her happy easy
stride, then he turned his horse's head, and rode off to the herb
doctor's.
CHAPTER VI
THE SECRET TROUBLE
SARA was fond of walking, and she reached the pine ridge in very good
time. But when she saw a small grey house tucked away in the corner,
she followed Graham's advice, and went in for some tea. Mrs. Gates, a
plump, motherly looking woman, gave her a warm welcome.
"I've heard tell of you, miss. You're with the poor lady at Felstone
Corner—Mrs. Laird. We're very fond of Mr. Laird—my husband and I—he's
so thorough and just in all his dealings, and there's nothing too small
for him to look into! Sir Malcolm has never had an agent like him
before! And when he comes over here on business, he's so good to my
little girls—they just dote on him. But there! We all see what a burden
his mother's illness be to him. I went up to the house when first they
come here just to help them in, and she fair depressed me, she were so
overcome with wretchedness."
"It is ill health," said Sara.
Then not wishing to discuss her employer, she asked Mrs. Gates if she
did not feel lonely.
"Not when I'm busy, and I'm generally that. But just now I have a lady
lodger. She have come up here for the health of her little girl. They
live out in the pine wood most of the day, and when my little girls
come back from school, they and Miss True have rare games together."
She gave Sara tea in a spotless little kitchen. The home-made loaf of
bread, the currant cake, the honey and golden butter set before her