Chapter II: An Uncomfortable House

IT was pitch dark. The air was cold and frosty. Sara wrapped her fur coat tightly round her as she stepped out on a tiny platform of a very deserted-looking railway station. One porter with an oil lamp swinging in his hand went to the van to get her luggage. She had missed a connecting train on her journey North, and instead of arriving at her destination at six o'clock, had arrived three hours later. Very weary she was, and yet cold and nipping as the air was, she welcomed it gladly after the long hours of waiting in stuffy waiting-rooms with coke fires, and being cooped up in carriages with fellow passengers who insisted upon having the windows shut.

"Is anybody or anything waiting for me?" she asked the porter.

"Ay, there'll be a 'mon' outside," was the laconic reply.

She groped her way through the tiny booking-office to the road beyond. Through the darkness a high dog-cart with a restive horse could be dimly seen.

The driver raised his cap to her. In a few moments, she was perched up by his side, and the porter hoisted up her luggage behind. Then they set off at a smart canter along a hard frosty road.

"Do you want another wrap?" the driver asked her.

His voice was low and gruff, and Sara hardly caught the words.

"I am quite warm, thank you. I hope I have not kept you waiting. I missed my train at the junction. The London train was very late."

"So I heard."

The man's independence of manner made Sara resolve on silence. Up and down hills, passing dark shadowy firs, then out on a lonely bit of moor, and then they began to climb a steep, wild hillside. The darkness began to lift; clouds rolled away, and a silvery moon appeared.

Sara looked about her. The cold clear air exhilarated her. She saw that they were climbing up round the side of a mountain, a deep ravine fell away from them on one side; below was the gleam of a shining winding river. Then suddenly they took a sharp turn, and Sara made an exclamation of delight. Such a scene of surpassing beauty was before her that she knew she would remember it for the rest of her life.

The moon was shining across a lake. The bare brown branches of larches and firs that bordered its banks were frosted, and looked like delicate lacework against a silver sky; the hills on the farther side stood like sentinels guarding a treasure. Wild and weird it was in the moonlight, almost foreign with the wonderful woodland growth around it. Then a flock of wild ducks flew across with their shrill cry, and owls hooted as if in response to their appeal.

Sara in her excitement touched the driver's arm.

"Stop, just stop for a moment! I have never seen anything like this!"

The driver pulled up without a word. In perfect silence Sara gazed upon the scene below her. She felt as if she had been transported to another world. The taciturn driver beside her, the steaming horse, the flickering lights on either side of them from their lamps, and the calm serene moon making a silver road across the rippling waters of the lake. Was it only a few hours back that she had left foggy, bustling London? It seemed impossible. She drew a long breath of enjoyment.

"Oh," she cried impulsively, "I wish we could stay here for ever! It is enchanting! Exquisite!"

Then the driver spoke in tense, short tones.

"The finest scenery in the world would never content a soul."

"It would content mine!" said Sara.

He whipped up the horse; a thick-wooded road soon hid the lake from their view.

And Sara began to ponder upon his tone and words.

"A superior man," she mused, "possibly a friendly farmer. I will try and find out who he is."

Presently she asked—

"How much farther is it? Where does Mrs. Laird live?"

"We shall have to get round to the other side of the lake, about five miles yet."

"And are—are you in her employ?"

How she could have asked the question Sara afterwards wondered.

He answered shortly—"I am her son."

"I beg your pardon. It was very kind of you to come to meet me."

He made no reply, and Sara relapsed into surprised silence. She asked no more questions.

Somehow she had imagined the "lonely widow" to be absolutely without kith or kin. A son had not entered into her calculations. Soon they began to go downhill, the road seemed interminable. Sara's back began to ache, and she was conscious how very tired she was.

When at last they stopped at a gate, she gave a long sigh of relief. Her driver gave a peculiar whistle, and in a minute or two an old man holding a lantern appeared. He opened the gate and walked by the horse's head up a short drive. It was impossible to see any house. No lights flickered in the windows. Sara stumbled down with cramped stiff limbs; she was ushered into a gloomy entrance-hall. One dim and smoky oil lamp hung from the middle of it.

A door was pushed open, and Sara found herself in an untidy, comfortless-looking room. The fire was dying out; the remains of a meal were on the table. A brown collie rose from the hearthrug, and stuffed his nose into his master's hand, then he inspected Sara, and after sniffing all round her, returned to his former position.

Mr. Laird made an exclamation under his breath, then he strode across the passage. And Sara heard him say in a peremptory fashion—

"Where is Mrs. Thwaites? Is there no supper? Do you know the fire is out? Come and light it at once."

Then an untidy sleepy-looking girl appeared at the door with an armful of kindlings. Mr. Laird followed her and said—

"Will you excuse me, Miss Darlington? I must go up to my mother. She will not settle to sleep until she has seen me."

Then he disappeared. Sara threw off her fur cloak, and with it her weary languor.

"We are very late," she said to the girl. "I suppose you had given up expecting us. What is your name?"

"Izzie. Yes, miss, I dropped right off to sleep. I was up soon after four this morning. And Mrs. Thwaites went off to bed. She had the 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 it was from yourself," said Sara with surprise. She reminded herself of the "comfort and cheerful society" she was expected to bring, but wisely said no more.

Mrs. Laird looked at her breakfast with an invalid's querulousness.

"I don't feel inclined for anything, but you can leave me now. There is a bunch of keys over there. Go down to the kitchen and give out from the store cupboard the stores that will be needed for the day. I never leave the stores unlocked. It will be in your charge, and you must replenish the things as needed.

"Consult with Mrs. Thwaites about meals. I want you to undertake the housekeeping; she is a very fair cook, but has no head, and prefers to carry out orders given to her. I will ring when I want you. And you will have to look after Izzie, she is lazy and careless and not very clean, but she is Mrs. Thwaites's niece, and an orphan, so we keep her on."

Sara departed, glad to have some details of what she was required to do. And she found a good deal to employ both head and hands that morning. She went up later to help Mrs. Laird dress, and then she read the newspaper to her, but she could not persuade her to leave her room.

In the afternoon, Mrs. Laird had a nap, and for an hour Sara was off duty. She escaped from the house, and made acquaintance with the garden and small farmyard attached to it. Old Samuel, the one outdoor servant kept, was groom and gardener and general farm help. He gave her one bit of information, and that was that Mr. Laird was agent for a very big property that lay on the other side of the lake belonging to a Sir Malcolm Ferris.

Mr. Laird came home about half-past six that day. He took off his outdoor boots, and then, tired as he was, slipped softly up to his mother's room.

A strange sound and sight awaited him. The room was in firelight; his mother sat back in the shadow of a screen placed between her and the fire. Seated on a low chair in the firelight was Sara, a guitar was slung round her neck. The scarlet ribbon made a bright spot of colour. She wore a very simple black velvet gown, but the lace collar and sleeves were of old Mecklin lace, and she was singing in a sweet contralto some simple little pathetic songs. There was a rich lilt in Sara's voice that appealed to all who heard her sing. She had the gift of bringing to her audience both tears and laughter.

She was finishing a song now, and her tone was softly gay.

"So boy and girl sat side by side
Their differences forgotten,
For life is short, and time is sweet
When first love is begotten."

She laid down her guitar as she finished her little song.

"We are having some music," she said brightly.

"So I hear," said Mr. Laird, with great gravity, and Sara slipped out of the room.