One morning at breakfast I said to him, “She’s better, you know.”
“What did you say, Sarah?” he asked, waking from his unhappy dream.
“She’s better. She slept quite well and nurse is giving her a lightly boiled egg this morning.”
“That’s good,” said father miserably.
“Dr. Weatherstone is pleased.”
“Yes, he’s pleased . . . but there’s no chance of her making a complete recovery. I asked him. She’ll always be a helpless invalid, Sarah.” He rose, leaving his breakfast half finished, and added, “I’ll go up and sit with her for a little before I go out.”
I thought about what he had said. It was terribly sad that she wouldn’t be able to go about in her usual energetic way, but to me the most important thing was that mother should be here. I would look after her; I would sit and read to her and bring her flowers; I would do all I could to make her happy.
Mother had now been ill for nearly a fortnight and she was so much better that Dr. Weathersone was talking of getting her up for a little to sit in a chair. She said she would like to see Lewis so I rang him up and arranged for him to come to lunch the following day. I felt so happy when I went to bed that instead of lying and worrying I went straight off to sleep.
Nurse Ede woke me at four as usual; it is a ghastly time to be wakened but I was getting used to it now.
“She’s been a little restless,” said nurse. “It’s nothing to worry about – everyone has their ups and downs – but you can call me if you want me.”
Mother was asleep when I went in, so I sat down at the table near the shaded light and took up the book I was reading. It was very quiet; the fire, which was kept burning night and day, was flickering cheerfully.
Suddenly I heard a little gasping sound and turned to see mother staring at me with frightened eyes. Her lips moved as if she were trying to speak. She was trying to tell me something! My heart was hammering with fright. I bent forward and took her hand.
“What do you want, darling?”
She looked at me . . . and suddenly I knew. “You want Father, don’t you? I’ll run and get him.”
I ran to his room; he was awake in a moment. There was no need to tell him what was the matter. He put on his slippers, seized his dressing-gown and struggled into it as he followed me along the passage.
He knelt down and took her hand. “Dorrie,” he said. “Darling Dorrie.”
“Hen – ry,” she said in a slurred voice.
“Yes, dearest, I’m here. Don’t try to speak.”
“The Lord – is –” she began.
He knew what she meant; he always knew what she wanted. He began to say it slowly and clearly:
“‘The Lord is my Shepherd, therefore can I lack nothing. He shall feed me in a green pasture and lead me forth beside the waters of comfort. . . .’”
His beautiful clear voice never faltered.
“‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me . . .’”
When he got to the end he kissed her very gently on the forehead and closed her eyes.
Chapter Fifteen
We had all known that mother was popular in Fairfield, but we hadn’t realised how much everyone loved her. All sorts of people came to the Vicarage with flowers: old people and young children, people we knew and people we had never seen before. Some of them brought wreaths but most of them brought flowers from their gardens. We were nearly smothered in flowers. We put them on dust-sheets spread all over the drawing-room floor . . . masses of spring flowers!
Lewis and Willy came. We were glad to have them for they were kind and comforting and steady.
When Lewis saw the heaps of flowers – and more arriving every few minutes – he said, “She wouldn’t like to see them like that, you know. They’ll wither without any water.”
“But what can we do?” I exclaimed.
“We can’t do anything,” said Willy. “And I think she would like to see the flowers. Not because of the flowers but because of all the people who knew she was fond of flowers and wanted to bring them to her. Three little children came half an hour ago with bunches of cowslips . . . Mother would like that.”
“Yes, she would like that,” I agreed.
“There’s the bell again!’ said Willy. “I told Minnie I’d answer the door – she has enough to do.”
“Can I do anything to help?” asked Lewis.
“Just being here is a help,” I told him.
Father had telegraphed to Mrs. Meldrum and had received a reply saying that they had broken the news to Lottie and she was so dreadfully upset that they thought it unwise for her to attempt the long journey home; they would do their best to take care of her and keep her from moping and they sent their love and heartfelt sympathy to us all. It was more like a letter than a telegram.
The next day two enormous wreaths arrived from a florist in London: one from the Meldrum family and the other from Lottie. The Meldrums’ wreath was in the form of a harp; it was made of orchids and arum lilies and was twice the size of any other.
Willy unpacked it and stood it against the drawing-room wall. He said, “I didn’t know Mother was very friendly with the Meldrums.”
“She wasn’t,” I replied. “I don’t think she ever saw them. She would have liked to go to Riverside but they never invited her.”
“Queer people,” said Willy. He looked at the harp and added, “How Mother would have disliked that thing!”
“I wonder what it cost,” said Lewis.
Father sighed and said, “It’s kindly meant.”
The day of the funeral was fine and sunny – which seemed all wrong. (I felt it should have been a miserable, wet day for mother’s funeral.) Mr. and Mrs. Heath came over from Limbourne and Mr. Heath helped father to take the service. The church was quite full; Mr. Rickaby had to bring some wooden chairs from the vestry for people who couldn’t find an empty seat. There were people in church that morning who had never been to church as long as I could remember, people like Mr. and Mrs. Wilbraham, who were supposed to be atheists.
I sat with Lewis and Willy and Minnie and Mrs. Heath in the Vicarage pew. I can’t describe the service; I was in a sort of trance, I didn’t even want to cry.
Afterwards when it was all over and people were going away I noticed a group of women standing beside the grave. They were members of mother’s Work Party: Mrs. Rickaby and Mrs. Price and Mrs. Stanley and half a dozen others. I knew them all, of course. I was looking at them and wondering what they were going to do when they began to sing:
“Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide.”
They sang it all through very softly and sadly.
Lewis and Willy and I stood and waited until they had finished; then I began to cry . . . and I couldn’t stop.
Lewis and Willy took me home and Minnie helped me to go to bed; I lay there and cried until there were no more tears left in me.
*
Lewis and Willy stayed at the Vicarage for the week-end, but they were obliged to leave on Monday, so I pulled myself together and went with them in the taxi to see them off at the station.
When I got home there was a car standing on the sweep of gravel outside the door. I wasn’t surprised; people often came to see father. I went round to the back and found Minnie in the kitchen, beating up eggs.
“There’s a visitor,” she said. “Mr. Morris told me to make cheese straws for supper.”
“Who is it, Minnie?”
“A gentleman. I didn’t see him properly – just the back of him going into the study. He’s been here nearly an hour.”
“Oh, goodness, what a bother!” I took off my hat and coat and flung them down on a chair. I was tired and miserable; in no mood to talk to “a visitor.” If the man intended to stay I should have to change for supper.
“It’s no good standing there,” said Minnie. “If he’s staying you
’ll have to light the drawing-room fire. I’m too busy.”
I tapped gently on the door of the study and went in; father and his visitor were sitting in the two old-fashioned high-backed chairs which stood at either side of the fire.
Father looked up and said, “Here’s a friend to see us, Sarah.”
It was Charles! He got up and took my hand. “Sarah, I hope you’re pleased to see me.”
“Yes! Oh, yes! I haven’t seen you for such a long time!”
“Not since we met at Nivennes. I hope you’ve really forgiven me for all the trouble I caused you? It was very bad of me.”
“It was unwise,” said father mildly. “However, there was no harm done; I wrote Madame Delormes and explained that I was to blame.”
“You, sir?” asked Charles in surprise.
“It was I who asked you to see Sarah and make sure she wasn’t unhappy; it didn’t occur to me that you wouldn’t be allowed to speak to her.”
“Where have you come from?” I asked.
“From Austria. My family is comfortably settled in the Schloss, so I’m at liberty to attend to my own affairs.”
“You’ve given them a great deal of your time,” said father, nodding. “What are your plans, Charles? Are you going back to Oxford?”
“Yes, but not to resume my studies; there has been too long a break. I intend to write a book about Oxford.”
“A book . . . about Oxford?” asked father incredulously.
“No wonder you’re surprised, sir,” said Charles, smiling. “Scores of books have been written about Oxford by scholars and historians – but, as far as I know, there hasn’t been a book about Oxford written by a man like me: a man half Austrian and half Scottish, who came to Oxford on a voyage of discovery.”
“Go on,” said father encouragingly.
“Yes, I want to tell you about it because it was you who gave me the idea. You said to me that I should go home and tell my friends that you were ‘reasonably human’; you said the more ‘coming and going’ there was between people of different nationalities the better.”
“I remember saying something like that . . . so the book is destined to tell your friends in Austria about your adventures in England?”
“Yes, and especially about Oxford: about its beautiful buildings and its history and about the impression it made upon the heart and mind of a stranger. I shall tell of the kindness and hospitality I received; I shall tell of rowing on the river and drinking ale in the pubs and the walks and talks and the lighthearted ‘rags.’ My book will be a hotchpotch, a strange mixture of old and new. Probably it will be no good at all, but I want to try.”
“It sounds as if it might be very interesting,” said father. “You’ll have to do a good deal of research, won’t you?”
“Yes, I must get permission to visit the Bodleian Library – but the Master of St. Clement’s College will arrange it; he’s a good friend.”
“I must go now,” said father. “I should like to hear more about it later; you’ll stay and have supper with us, I hope.”
“Thank you, sir, but I won’t stay,” replied Charles. “I just looked in on my way to Oxford. I should like to come some other time, if I may.”
“Any time,” said father, nodding. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.” Then he went out and shut the door.
I felt a little shy of Charles; so much had happened since I had seen him. I said, “It was kind of you to come, Charles.”
“Not kind! I wanted to see you.”
“We’re very – very sad – just now.”
“Yes, Mr. Morris has just told me – I didn’t know before. Oh, Sarah, what can I say to you except that I’m sorry? And it isn’t enough! Your mother was a wonderful person. I was very fond of her – and I know you were devoted to her. I can see you’re very unhappy.”
“Yes, very unhappy,” I murmured. “I loved her dearly but – but I could have been nicer to her. That’s what’s – making me – so miserable.”
“We all think we ‘could have been nicer’ when we lose a dear friend.”
“You didn’t feel like that, Charles! You told me that you and your mother were ‘very close together’.”
“Yes, and it was true, but I remembered times when I was impatient inside.”
I was silent. That was exactly what was troubling me: I remembered times when I had been “impatient inside”; times when I had thought mother was “a little bit silly.”
“We’re all human, Sarah,” said Charles at last.
“Oh, Charles! If only I could see her, just for a few minutes, to tell her how much I loved her!”
“I know your feeling . . . but she knew you loved her, and she loved you dearly. Listen, I want to tell you something: while you were at Nivennes I came here several times and played on the Bechstein. One afternoon Mrs. Morris happened to be free from all her duties and she sat on the sofa and listened. She was so quiet that I forgot she was there and went on playing for a long time. Then, at last, I remembered my hostess and sat down beside her. She talked about you. She asked me if I thought it had been right for you to leave school when you were still so young; I said I thought you were old enough – and sensible enough – to know your own mind. ‘I thought that, too,’ she said. ‘But, you see, I wanted Sarah at home; she’s such a comfort to me. I wanted her so much that I couldn’t look at it from the outside. I felt sure I was being selfish.’ I told her she was one of the most unselfish people in the world.”
“She was.”
“Yes, she spent her life doing things for other people. Don’t cry, Sarah! I’ve upset you, talking like this, but perhaps it will comfort you to know that she wanted you so much.”
“Oh, yes, it does! But I wish I hadn’t left her and gone to Nivennes.”
“Mrs. Morris spoke of that, too. She said, ‘I miss her dreadfully, of course, but it shows she has a talent for languages . . . and it shows she has courage, doesn’t it?’ I agreed.
“‘Yes, it was brave,’ said Mrs. Morris with a sigh. ‘It was a big adventure and she was frightened, but she made up her mind to go. Sarah is like her father – not like me. Henry is full of courage.’”
After that we were silent for a little while. There were all sorts of things that I wanted to ask Charles, but I was dreadfully tired and it was comforting to sit beside him in silence.
Presently he said, “Sarah, this isn’t the right time to speak of my own affairs . . . so I must go away quickly.” He took my hand and kissed it and went to the door.
There was a lump in my throat but I managed to say, “Come back soon.”
Chapter Sixteen
Several days passed; father and I were alone, except for Minnie, and the house felt very empty. I had expected father would be utterly miserable – I had feared a complete breakdown – but he was wonderfully good and brave; going about as usual, talking to people and taking all the services in church. In the evenings when I sat with him in his study he spoke of mother quite cheerfully.
“I’m glad she has gone first,” he said. “My dear Dorrie would have been lost without me . . . and she has been spared a great deal of suffering, not only physical pain but mental agony. She was a gentle creature; she hated violence and cruelty so she was very miserable during the last war. This coming war, which I fear is inevitable, will be ten times worse: Britain will be devastated by bombs and all the young men will be conscripted. Our boys will be in the thick of the fighting.” He sighed and added, “Yes, God has been merciful to Dorrie.”
Suddenly I realised that my prayers for mother’s recovery and my plans for taking care of her had been completely selfish. I had been thinking of myself, not of her. I murmured, “Yes, but I was afraid you would be terribly unhappy.”
“I was terribly unhappy when she was ill; the future seemed wretched. I imagined her a complete invalid, not able to go about and do all the things she enjoyed doing; I imagined her confined to her room, anxious and miserable . . . but now she’s at peace. She’s s
afe and happy and some day we shall be together again. I know that, Sarah.”
I, too, believed it, but not with such confidence – such wonderfully happy confidence.
I was trying to do some of mother’s work in the parish. The Work Party and the choir were beyond me, but I could do the flowers and clean the brasses. On Saturday morning I took the big key and went up the path to church. I felt anxious because it was Mrs. Price’s day for flowers and, since the episode of the carnations, she hadn’t spoken to me. One day when I had met her face to face coming out of the butcher’s and had said, “Good morning, Mrs. Price,” she had turned her head in the opposite direction.
When I got to the church door Mrs. Price was waiting for me with a huge bouquet of sweet peas. I said, “What lovely sweet peas, Mrs. Price! They’re very early, aren’t they? Ours are only in bud.”
“Yes, they’re early,” she agreed. “Mr. Price grows them in his green-house. Would you like me to arrange them, Miss Morris?”
I hesitated.
“I just thought you might be busy,” she explained. “I could arrange them if you show me what to do.”
“That would be very kind of you, Mrs. Price.”
I opened the door and we went in together; I showed her the flower-room and the sink and took the vases out of the cupboard.
“There isn’t anything to say at times like this,” said Mrs. Price. “I mean nothing that’s any good. She was so gay and pretty that it seems very sad. She was a saint if ever there was one. She was too good for this world so I expect God wanted her in heaven. I mean, heaven would be dull if only old, ugly people were there. You needn’t say anything, Miss Morris. I just wanted to tell you what I thought when I heard she had gone. You needn’t say anything,” she repeated.
I couldn’t have said anything if my life had depended on it.
Sarah Morris Remembers Page 12