Chapter IV: Springtime

THE first Sunday had been so wet that there was no question of church.

The next week Sara asked at breakfast how far the church was.

"I should like to go, if I may. It doesn't seem Sunday to me without church."

"To tell you the truth, I never like the horse out on Sunday. I give him one day's rest a week, poor brute! I work him pretty hard the remaining six."

"But I'm a good walker, and should enjoy it."

"You would lose your way, unless you went round by the road, and that would be a good five miles. It's barely three across the hills."

"I suppose you wouldn't be able to come too, to show me the way?"

In another woman this might have been coquetry. But Sara was so frank and straightforward in everything she said and did that Graham knew she simply meant what she said.

"I might possibly," he said, "but I generally sit with my mother on Sunday morning."

"Then never mind. Give me a few directions, and I will find my way. But I should like to go."

An hour later Sara, wrapped in her thick tweed coat and skirt and furs, was ready to start. Graham joined her in the hall. She saw he had changed into a navy blue suit.

He gave a short little laugh as he met her eyes.

"I haven't done this for many a year, but my mother has spared me, and I'll sit with her this afternoon instead. Now then, we shall have to step out."

They skirted the grounds, then turned their back to the lake, and before very long were treading a rough sheep-track over the hills. The air was fresh and bracing, and the sun was shining.

Sara's firm easy tread showed that she was, as she said, a good walker.

"I have been walking-tours with my brother. I love it."

"How did you know we had a church near us?"

"Colonel Fleming mentioned it."

"I guessed as much."

There was amusement in his tone.

"Fleming is a queer fellow. He's the last man in the world whom I should have counted on making a good farmer, but he's quite enamoured with his farm, and isn't doing badly."

"I should think he has a happy nature," said Sara, slowly.

"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 grow 'em, why, let 'em do it, says I!'

"So I'm doing it, you see!"

"I could send you round a boy who lives at my gate," said the Colonel. "His mother is looking out for a job for him. Say the word and I will do it."

"But I can't do that. I am neither the master nor mistress here."

"You can do anything you like in this house, I'm pretty sure!"

Sara shook her head, and Graham joining them at this moment was appealed to by his friend.

"Of course if you can send round a lad, I shall be delighted for Miss Darlington to set him to work. The fact is, I haven't cared for the garden, and I've let it go. Boy labour is scarce about here."

"Come over and see him yourself, Miss Darlington," said Colonel Fleming. "I'll give you tea."

"Thank you, but I must be here at tea-time. Mrs. Laird expects me to be. But I could walk over very early in the afternoon if necessary."

"It isn't necessary at all," Graham said, shortly. "Send him along, Jack, we'll try him."

So Ted Cranley appeared the next day, and worked steadily in the flower garden under Sara's superintendence, until order and beauty reigned instead of chaos. Sara sent for flower seeds, she talked to Mrs. Laird about the flower garden she meant to have.

"And then you will be able to come down and help me enjoy the flowers," she said to her.

"No, I cannot leave my room."

"You don't know what you'll be able to do when the warmer weather comes. I want to row you out in a boat upon the lake. Don't look so startled! It's exquisite down there. You have no idea of all the beautiful places round about you."

"I came to this wild spot because I needed a refuge," said Mrs. Laird very solemnly. "I wished to bury myself from everybody and everything."

"But you choose a most exquisite refuge," persisted Sara; "and you can be as much alone out of doors as you can indoors. You wait and see."

She worked away cheerfully in her garden.

Graham found her in it when he came home, and she was generally singing softly to herself. He stood and watched her one day.

She was pruning a rosebush, and she sang as she worked—

"All day I wear a flowery crown,
Flowers, only flowers:
At night by flowers I lay me down,
Oh, the sunny hours!
Breath of angels, hues of heaven,
Surely to the flowers are given,
Bring more flowers."

"I do believe you are happy here!" he said.

She turned, pruning scissors in hand, for she did not know he was near.

"Of course I am," she said. "Why should I not be? And the feeling of spring in the air makes all our pulses beat quicker, and our hearts throb with hope."

"I believe it does," he returned; and there was a light in his eye and a spring in his tread as he went on into the house.