I had been listening to all this in silence, too astonished to speak, but now I exclaimed, “Charles! How could you have made such a mistake? You might have known it was Lottie!”
“I never saw Lottie.”
“But you knew about her, didn’t you?”
“I thought she was a child, much younger than you and your brothers (Mrs. Morris had shown me a little picture of her and had said she was ‘the baby’), but to tell you the truth I never thought of her at all; to me ‘Mr. Morris’s daughter’ meant you – and nobody else. Oh, I was a fool! It was crazy not to verify Mrs. Yorke’s story, but for years and years I had been thinking of you as my very own. I had gone to Fairfield expecting to find you waiting for me. It was unreasonable – I can see that now – but imprisonment behind barbed wire does something queer to an active man. That’s my only excuse.”
It seemed to me an adequate excuse. “Oh, poor Charles!” I whispered.
“I was absolutely shattered,” continued Charles. “I went back to Brown’s Hotel where I had taken a room. I was wretched and bitter, full of resentment, but I was too proud to give in. I made up my mind to forget you – as you had forgotten me – but it wasn’t easy. I had no friends in London; Bob Loudon had gone home on leave to see his family. I was sleeping badly so I went out at night and walked about the streets. One night I was nearly done for by a flying bomb; the blast bowled me over and when I came to my senses I saw that several houses had been completely wrecked. I helped the firemen to dig people out of the ruins; they were glad of another pair of hands. Some of the inhabitants had been killed but we found two women in the cellar and got them out; we found a man pinned down by a beam of wood and released him.
“Sarah, I was astonished! I had never imagined such magnificent courage and fortitude as was shown by those people, who had lost their homes and all their possessions and had barely escaped with their lives. Their behaviour made me ashamed of myself. I decided to face my trouble with the same courage and to make plans for the future; I would go to Canada when the war was over and buy a farm; I would start a new life in a new country. . . .”
Charles hesitated for a few moments and then continued in a low voice. “It’s very difficult to tell you what happened to me when I saw you at Barrington’s. I had gone into the store to buy something – I can’t remember what it was – and as I was walking through the Kodak Department I heard someone speaking German. I looked round – and saw you! At first I couldn’t believe my eyes; I stood and gazed at you and listened to your voice. I was still gazing at you when you turned and looked up into my face . . .
“Then I went completely mad,” declared Charles. “My first impulse was to seize you in my arms – but then, in a flash, I remembered that you were married! I wheeled and strode away as fast as I could, pushing through the crowd of people roughly – rudely – I didn’t care what they thought of me! As I was going down in the lift I saw you again, but my anger had flared up and my one idea was to escape from you. I found a taxi at the exit . . . the man was just about to drive away but I wrenched the door open and jumped in. I went to the hotel and shut myself up in my room and walked up and down for hours – like a maniac! Seeing you like that – so unexpectedly – had stirred up my deepest feelings. I realised all I had lost! I realised that in spite of my pride, in spite of my resolutions to forget you and remake my life, I still loved you with every fibre of my being . . . and you were married to another man and had a child.”
“Oh, Charles, you might have known——”
“No, wait!” he exclaimed. “Now that I’ve started I want to go on and tell you everything. It isn’t easy, Sarah.”
I nodded . . . and made up my mind not to interrupt him again.
“A week passed,” he continued. “Or perhaps it was more – I don’t know how long. Then one evening Bob Loudon rang me up from his club in London and I took the call in my room. He was in tremendously good form, bubbling over with happiness. He had been home and had seen his wife and children: they were all well – his two small sons had grown into sturdy little ruffians – everything was fine! He explained that he was in London for a few days on business and his brother was having some friends to dinner that night and wanted me to come. I refused. ‘Oh, come on!’ said Bob. ‘We’re having a binge and we want you to join us. I’ve told them about our escape and our adventures and they’re all keen to see you——’
“I interrupted him and said ungraciously that I had no wish to see him or his friends. It was horrible of me,” said Charles sadly. “It was thoroughly nasty of me . . . but it just seemed the last straw that Bob should be so full of joy when I was utterly miserable. I lay down on my bed in the dark and wrestled with a devil.
“Presently I heard a knock on my door. It was Bob. He came in and switched on the light. He said, ‘You sounded a bit queer so I thought I’d better come and have a look at you. What on earth’s the matter with you, Charles?’
“I told him. It was easy to tell him because he knew all about you (I had talked about you when we were in the internment camp together – and had listened to him talking about his wife). I told him that I had been to Fairfield and had discovered that you were married and had a child; I told him about seeing you at Barrington’s.
“Bob listened in silence until I had finished and then said, ‘But, look here, old boy! If she’s married to Sir Clive Hudson she can’t possibly be working in a shop. You said she was selling a film projector, didn’t you?’ ‘Yes, she was telling the customer how it worked.’ ‘Well, then, have some sense!’ Bob exclaimed. ‘Would Lady Hudson be likely to take a job in a shop? Her husband is practically a millionaire! It can’t have been Sarah.’ ‘It was Sarah,’ I told him.
“‘Then Sarah can’t be Lady Hudson,’ said Bob with conviction.
“‘Listen, Bob,’ I said. ‘Mrs. Yorke told me that Sarah is married to Sir Clive Hudson and has a child. That’s perfectly clear, isn’t it? There can’t be any mistake about that.’
“Bob shook his head. ‘There’s some mistake; it doesn’t fit. Why on earth haven’t you made inquiries instead of swallowing the story hook, line and sinker? It’s that Austrian pride of yours, Charles. Put your pride in your pocket and clear up the matter.’
“‘It’s perfectly clear,’ I told him. ‘Mrs. Yorke said——’
“‘It’s not clear,’ declared Bob. ‘We’re groping about in a dense fog – that’s what’s happening. You had better come downstairs and have dinner with me; perhaps a good solid meal and a bottle of claret will bring you to your senses.’
“At first I refused. I pointed out that Bob was having dinner with his friends. Bob smiled and replied, ‘If you think I’m going to walk off and leave you moping in the dark you can think again. You didn’t walk off and leave me lying in the mud when I took a toss over that piece of barbed wire, did you?’
“Bob is grand,” declared Charles. “He’s the best pal a man ever had. He insisted on ringing up his friends; he told them he was ‘unavoidably delayed’ and they were to go on without him. Then he and I had dinner together at Brown’s and shared a bottle of claret. We talked a lot more. Eventually he persuaded me to let him ring up Brailsford Manor and make some tactful inquiries. He promised not to mention my name.
“I waited for him in the lounge. He was away a long time – at least it seemed a long time to me – then at last he returned, smiling cheerfully. ‘You’re all sorts of an idiot, Charles,’ he said. ‘I got on to Brailsford and spoke to Sir Clive Hudson; he was a bit sticky at first – wanted to know my business – but I told him my name and made up a little story for him. Sir Clive informed me that his wife is Mr. Morris’s younger daughter and her name is Lottie.’
“‘What!’ I cried. ‘It can’t be true! Lottie is a child.’
“‘Children grow up, don’t they?’ said Bob. He added, ‘Anyway, Sir Clive told me himself that his wife’s name is Lottie so the information is straight from the horse’s mouth. Mr. Morris and Sarah are living in a
flat in London. I asked permission to speak to Lady Hudson but he said she had gone to a party. Then I asked if he would be good enough to give me Mr. Morris’s address. He said, rather irritably, that he didn’t know the address, but I was very persistent so at last he agreed to go and look in his wife’s desk for her address book. I waited and presently he came back with the book and read out the address. Here it is,’ said Bob. ‘I’ve written it down for you, and if you take my advice you’ll go round to the place first thing in the morning.’
“‘I’ll go to-night!’ I cried, leaping to my feet.
“‘You can’t go to-night,’ said Bob, smiling. ‘It’s after eleven o’clock; Sarah is having her beauty sleep. Off you go to bed like a sensible fellow and have a good rest. You can see her to-morrow morning.’
“I went to bed but I couldn’t rest. First I raged at myself for my foolishness (Bob had been right in calling me ‘all sorts of an idiot’), then I thought of you! I got up and walked about the room, thinking of you, wondering what you could be thinking of me. Now that I was sane I saw how crazy I had been. I saw myself as a miserable wretch, not fit to tie your shoe! Would you ever forgive me for the way I had behaved?
“I thought the morning would never come. At six o’clock I had a bath, by half past six I was in the street. It was too early to call on you but at least I could see where you lived. There were no taxis about at that hour, so I walked all the way to Picton Mansions. When I got there I saw that the whole block of buildings was in ruins.”
“Oh, Charles, it was the wrong address! That was where we lived before we moved to Bolingbroke Square! Sir Clive must have found an old address book.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” agreed Charles. “I suppose that’s what must have happened . . . but, of course, that never occurred to me. I thought you were buried in the ruins. I was sure you were dead. I was all the more frantic because I had seen those other buildings utterly destroyed in a moment and had helped to dig the inhabitants out of the debris . . . what had happened to them had happened to you! I spoke to several people, I spoke to a policeman, but none of them knew when the bomb had fallen, none of them knew whether anyone had been saved. I became desperate; I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t know how to find out what had happened. Then, suddenly, I remembered that your grandparents lived in Scotland. You had talked about ‘the grans’; you had shown me their letters; we had promised to go to Craignethan and visit them on our way back from Skye . . . the grans would know whether you were dead or alive!
“I suppose I could have phoned to them . . . I never thought of it! I was too stunned by the disaster to think reasonably. I went straight to the garage and got my car. There was no petrol in the tank, and I had no coupons, but I gave the man a handful of money and told him to fill it up; I told him I was going to Scotland. He gazed at me in surprise (I suppose I looked a bit queer) but he filled the tank and gave me a couple of extra gallons without saying a word.
“When I set off up the Great North Road I scarcely knew what I was doing – except that I was going to ‘Craignethan House, near Ryddelton.’ I drove like a madman until I smashed into a lorry and stove in a mudguard. That sobered me. After that I was more careful . . . but all the time I kept on thinking, thinking about you and blaming myself for my madness. It was my horrible pride that had caused all the trouble! If I had had any sense I’d have taken steps to find you. I could have rung up Brailsford myself at the very beginning and discovered the mistake.
“Well, there you are,” said Charles with a deep sigh. “Now you know the whole thing; you know what a first-class fool I am. You said you would forgive me but perhaps you’ve changed your mind.”
“Oh, darling! Of course I haven’t changed my mind! Oh, poor Charles, what a dreadful time you’ve had!”
He came to me and hid his face against me. “It isn’t true,” he said softly. “It can’t be true! Oh, darling Sarah, am I dreaming again? I used to dream like this in the internment camp . . . and then I woke up and you weren’t there.”
I took his hand and held it tightly.
“Sarah, am I still the only man in the world – in spite of my foolishness?”
“Yes.”
“Will you marry me?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
“Look, Charles!” I said, showing him his ring. “Do you remember when you gave it to me?”
He raised his head and smiled. “Do I remember? I offered you diamonds, but you scorned diamonds. You seized my hand and tried to drag my signet ring off my finger!”
“I wanted it because it was part of you. I had seen it on your finger the first time we met! Oh, how glad I am that I made you give it to me! It has been such a comfort to me, Charles.”
He slid the ring up and down my finger. “It’s rather loose; the plain gold band will have to be a size smaller.”
Then he picked me up and carried me to the sofa near the fire and we sat there with his arm round my waist and my head against his shoulder. We sat there without speaking; it was a joy to be together and at peace.
The winter twilight had faded and the room was dark except for the glow of the fire and the flicker of the little flames which were licking round the apple-logs in the old-fashioned fireplace. Presently the logs began to crumble into grey ashes.
“We mustn’t let it go out,” I said at last.
Charles went down on his knees and mended the fire carefully with small dry sticks and larger pieces of wood.
“That’s lovely,” I said. “I’m glad my future husband is good with fires.”
“It’s a useful accomplishment,” he agreed, sitting back and resting his head against my knee.
He was tired. I knew he must be exhausted, for he hadn’t slept last night and he had driven all the way from London “like a madman,” so I let him rest like that and didn’t speak. The head leaning against my knee was still dark red and the hair was thick and soft but there were quite a lot of white hairs to be seen amongst the dark ones.
I think Charles was almost asleep when there was a gentle knock on the door and grandpapa looked in. “Am I disturbing your meditations?” he asked in a hushed voice. “I’ve been sent to tell you that the fatted calf has been killed – and roasted – but I don’t suppose you’re interested in food.”
Chapter Forty
It was a happy meal. The fatted calf proved to be three plump ducklings and grandpapa produced a bottle of champagne.
“It’s to celebrate a happy occasion,” he explained. “Grandmama and I have been married for exactly forty-eight years, seven months, and three days, so I thought a little celebration would be the thing.”
Grandmama was smiling. She held up her glass and said, “Happy years and many, many of them, darling children.”
“Hear, hear!” exclaimed grandpapa.
Charles rose and bowed gravely. “Thank you, Colonel and Mrs. Maitland. Sarah has promised to marry me. She has always been the most important person in the world to me. This is the happiest moment of my life.”
“It’s a very fine thing to be engaged to be married,” declared grandpapa. “I remember when I was engaged I thought it was the happiest moment of my life . . . but there’s a better kind of happiness which comes later and grows with every passing year. You’ll realise what I mean when you’ve been married for forty-eight years, seven months and three days.”
“You’re very kind,” said Charles.
The ducks were followed by a trifle pudding, topped with thick cream – then we had apples and pears and walnuts from Craignethan garden.
Charles cracked the walnuts in his hand, explaining that it was a trick he had learned when he was a boy and used to ride about his father’s estates in Austria. “There were lots of walnut trees,” said Charles. “But I never remembered to take nutcrackers in my pocket. An old man came along one day when I was breaking the shells with a stone; he showed me the way to do it. Look, it’s quite easy!”
“Show me!” exclai
med grandpapa.
Charles showed him . . . and he was so delighted with the trick that he went on cracking walnuts until there were none left.
We all laughed and teased him about his new accomplishment.
Then we went into the drawing-room for coffee and, by this time, the slightly hysterical mood had given place to comfortable friendly feelings.
The grans asked when we were going to be married.
“Soon, I hope,” replied Charles. “I’ve applied to become a naturalised British subject and at the same time I intend to change my name by deed poll. My idea is to drop the last letter of my name; this would be easy to do and would save a lot of trouble. What do you think, Sarah?”
I nodded. “You would be Charles Reede. It’s a very good plan.”
“It’s a good old English name,” agreed grandpapa.
“I must get that done before we’re married. Then everything will be plain sailing.”
“Charles, what happened before?” I asked.
“You mean what happened to my application for naturalisation? I had the interview, as you know, but when I disappeared and couldn’t be found the file containing my papers was shelved. Now, however, Robert Loudon has the matter in hand and, as he’s a live wire, it shouldn’t take long to——”
“Bob Loudon!” exclaimed grandpapa. “But he’s a prisoner of war in Germany!”
“He was with me in an internment camp near Hamburg. We escaped together.”
“You escaped together? Do you mean Bob is home?”
“Yes, safely home and in very good form.”
“That’s splendid news!”
“It’s splendid,” agreed grandmama, smiling in delight. “How lovely for Elspeth and the children! I must ring her up and tell her how pleased we are. Poor Elspeth has been so worried about him.”
“Are those the Loudons that mother used to know?” I asked.
Grandmama nodded. “Yes, your mother knew them well; they live about three miles from here. Bob’s parents were old; they died some time ago, so now Blacklock House belongs to Bob.”
Sarah Morris Remembers Page 30