Sarah Morris Remembers

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Only three miles from here!” exclaimed Charles in surprise. “I knew Bob lived in this part of the country, he told me a lot about Blacklock House, but I didn’t realise it was so near Craignethan.”

  “You said that Bob escaped with you, Charles?” asked grandpapa, who had been waiting impatiently for a chance to slip into the conversation. “It would be very interesting to hear about your adventures.”

  Charles hesitated. I could see he was unwilling to talk about his escape (he had promised to tell me the whole story later) so I said rather quickly, “I think Charles is tired – he has driven all the way from London – we’ll hear about his adventures to-morrow.”

  “Yes, indeed!” cried grandmama. “There has been enough talk for to-night. Charles must go to bed. His room is ready, but he didn’t bring any luggage so you’ll have to lend him some things, William.”

  “That’s easily done,” agreed grandpapa, rising from his chair. “My pyjamas ought to fit him none too badly. I’ll come and see what else he wants.”

  Charles and the grans went upstairs together and left me sitting alone.

  “My heart is like a singing bird

  Whose nest is in a water’d shoot;

  My heart is like an apple-tree

  Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;

  My heart is like a rainbow shell

  That paddles in a halcyon sea;

  My heart is gladder than all these,

  Because my love is come to me.”

  The old song by Christina Rossetti came into my mind as I sat on the hearthrug by the drawing-room fire. I hummed it softly. Long ago, mother used to sing it – and I had always loved it – but it was only now that I understood and appreciated the deep truth underlying the simple words: my heart was singing; my heart was full of gladness; the world was bright with sunshine and rich with the promise of fruit.

  The fire was warm, the coals were glowing, so I sat there for a long time thinking of all that Charles had told me. He would tell me more to-morrow but he had said enough to show how much he had endured in mind and body; it was no wonder that he had lost his balance and behaved a little foolishly! I found it very easy to forgive him because, in spite of everything, he had never ceased to love me “with every fibre of his being.”

  I remembered what Charles had said on that sunny morning when we were sitting together beneath the apple-tree, with the pink petals drifting in the gentle breeze – how long ago it seemed! “If the girl I loved began to ‘have fun with other men’ I should retire from the contest and give them a clear field.” The words had been said half in fun, but I had known at the time that the sentiment was profoundly true of his nature: Charles must have everything . . . or nothing.

  Perhaps it would not be easy to be married to a perfectionist – but I need not worry for Charles had everything that I could give him. He had always been the only man in the world.

  I had just risen to go to bed, and had put the guard on the fire, when the door opened and Charles came in; he was wearing grandpapa’s pyjamas and dressing-gown.

  “Hush!” he said, smiling in a conspiratorial manner. “The two old dears have gone to bed and are probably asleep. I couldn’t go to sleep without making sure that you were here – and it wasn’t a dream.”

  “It’s twelve o’clock!”

  “I know. I’ll just say good night.” He kissed me very tenderly . . . and then turned to the window in alarm. “What’s that?” he exclaimed.

  It was the sound of a carriage and horses coming down the drive; they came at a good pace, approaching nearer and nearer. I heard the horses’ hoofs on the gravel and the scrape of iron-shod wheels. The equipage stopped outside the front door.

  “Who the dickens is that?” asked Charles in bewilderment.

  “I don’t think it’s anyone.”

  “What do you mean? It’s a carriage and horses; didn’t you hear it?”

  “Yes, I heard it once before.”

  Charles went into the hall and I followed him. The big wooden door was locked and bolted; he opened it wide.

  There was nothing to be seen: no carriage, no horses.

  A slight sprinkling of snow had fallen and the ground was white; the moon shone brightly, like a silver disc above the sleeping hills, and the trees were powdered with sparkling crystals. We stood in the doorway in silence, looking at the peaceful scene.

  “There are no wheel-marks in the snow,” said Charles in a low voice.

  “I didn’t expect to see any.”

  “You heard it before.”

  “Yes, once, when I was a child.”

  “Did anyone else hear it?”

  “I’m – I’m not sure,” I said slowly. “They all said I was dreaming but – but they looked at me in a queer sort of way. Perhaps they didn’t want me to be frightened. Grandpapa took me out and showed me that there wasn’t anything – and said again that I’d been dreaming. Then he began to talk about something else.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know. As a matter of fact I’d forgotten all about it . . . until now.”

  “Could we ask Colonel Maitland what it means?”

  “Well, you can if you like,” I said doubtfully. I remembered how grandpapa had changed the subject, telling me about the owls in the old tower and promising that he and I would go and see the place. Had he done it for my sake or because he didn’t want to talk about the ghostly carriage and pair?

  Charles nodded. “Perhaps we shouldn’t,” he said. “People are sometimes a little touchy about their unearthly visitors. As long as it doesn’t foretell some frightful disaster——”

  “Oh, I’m sure it doesn’t!”

  “Why are you sure, Sarah?”

  “Well, it didn’t last time – and I’m not a bit frightened. I feel it’s – sort of – friendly. Perhaps you think that’s silly?”

  “It isn’t silly,” replied Charles. “Feelings are important and I agree that there was something friendly and pleasant about the unseen arrivals. All the same I’d like to know who they were.”

  Charles shut the door and bolted it securely; he said good night to me again and ran upstairs two steps at a time.

  I went up more slowly to my room above the front door. When I was ready for bed and drew back the curtains I could see the moon shining peacefully above the hills.

  I was a perfectly normal woman, not in the least psychic, so the ghostly carriage and pair seemed very queer to me. It was queer, but it wasn’t sinister; I was sure of that. I wondered why I had forgotten about it; I wondered if it arrived every night on the stroke of twelve or only sometimes; I wondered what had happened the first time it had arrived; I wondered why Charles had accepted it so naturally.

  Perhaps there were “unearthly visitors” at Schloss Roethke.

  I was still wondering about it when I went to sleep.

  Chapter Forty-One

  When I awoke next morning everything that had happened seemed like a dream. I could scarcely believe that Charles was actually here at Craignethan, safe and sound . . . but when I went down to the dining-room there he was, sitting at the table, eating porridge and chatting to the grans as if he had known them all his life.

  Grandpapa was still eager to hear about the escape from the internment camp.

  “I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed,” said Charles, smiling. “There was nothing dramatic about our escape; we didn’t overpower our guards and bag their uniforms; we didn’t dig a tunnel under the barbed wire; we simply walked out of the place during the confusion caused by an air-raid. Then it was just a matter of foot-slogging until we fell in with a contingent of British troops.”

  “I don’t think that can be quite right,” declared grandmama. “Elspeth gave me rather a different account of——”

  “Elspeth Loudon?” interrupted grandpapa in surprise.

  “Yes, I rang her up early this morning to tell her how pleased we were to hear that Bob had got home safely. She said it was all
your doing, Charles. She’s going to tell me about it when I go to tea with her to-morrow.”

  “I have told you, Mrs. Maitland,” said Charles with a touch of his “Austrian pride.”

  “I know,” agreed grandmama. “But you haven’t told us about your adventures: how you knocked out two German soldiers who had captured Bob, thinking he was a spy, and how you carried Bob on your back for miles when he had injured his leg. Elspeth said, ‘Bob wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for Charles Reeder.’”

  “Bob makes a good story out of nothing,” declared Charles firmly.

  There was a short but somewhat uncomfortable silence.

  “It’s a fine day,” said grandpapa.

  “Yes, lovely,” agreed grandmama. “I’m so glad Charles will see Craignethan looking its best. The sprinkle of snow which fell last night has melted and the sun is quite warm.”

  “The glass has gone up,” I added. I had looked at grandpapa’s barometer in the hall.

  “I have an apology to make, Charles,” said grandpapa gravely. “I should have liked to entertain you this morning; my plan was to take you for a pleasant stroll round the garden. There’s not much to see at this time of year but I could have shown you what I intend to do in the spring – I’m sure you would have been interested to hear my views about the rotation of vegetable crops and the best way to eliminate club-root – but the fact is I’ve got to see a man about a dog so I’m afraid you’ll just need to make do with Sarah. The girl is poor company but no doubt she’ll do her best to amuse you. I’d better warn you that her idea of a pleasant stroll is to take the path up the side of the burn and climb Grey Ghyll and return by the old Drove Road; it’s five miles, more or less, and pretty steep going. . . .”

  Charles had looked somewhat anxious at the beginning of this apologia but now he was chuckling helplessly.

  “And don’t worry about the time,” said grandmama, smiling kindly. “If you happen to be late for lunch we’ll just go on and you can have soup and cold chicken when you get home.”

  *

  Half an hour later Charles and I met in the hall by appointment and I was amused to see that he was wearing a very ancient brown tweed coat belonging to grandpapa.

  “My host insisted that I should wear this,” explained Charles. “He said it was more suitable for the hills than my ‘fine London coat.’ Your grans are wonderful, Sarah; they fit together like the two halves of an apple.”

  “Yes, they’re wonderful; I love them dearly.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Charles, do you feel fit for a five-mile walk or would you rather have an easy morning?”

  “I’m fit for anything . . . so off we go; up Grey Ghyll and back by the Drove Road!”

  We set off together up the path by the side of the burn. It was too steep going for us to talk much, but when we came to more level ground Charles began to tell me some of his adventures.

  When he left me at Fairfield he had had an uneventful journey to Vienna and had found his family in the town house, as he had expected. Rudi was overjoyed to see him and thanked him again and again for coming. The two brothers had a long talk about their father’s case, which seemed less serious than Charles had feared. In fact Rudi was very hopeful and repeated several times that if only their father would behave reasonably his friends would be able to get him released.

  Charles pointed out that if they had stayed quietly at the Schloss this would never have happened.

  “I know . . . but the others wanted to come,” explained Rudi.

  “That was just like Rudi,” said Charles with a sigh. “He knows what’s right and sensible but he’s as pliable as clay in Anya’s hands. I tried to put some stiffening into him but I doubt if it will last.”

  “Was Anya pleasant and agreeable?” I asked.

  “I didn’t see Anya; she was reported to be in bed with a headache,” replied Charles, with a queer little twist of his lip. “I didn’t see my sister either; Rudi had sent her to stay with one of our aunts.”

  The following day Charles went to the State Prison to visit his father, and was greeted affectionately. “He was so pleased to see me that I was glad I had come,” said Charles. “At first he was very intractable, cursing and swearing at the way he had been treated, but I reasoned with him and pointed out that not only was he prejudicing his own case by his behaviour but also endangering Rudi and Anya. Rudi had told him this already but I was able to put it more forcefully. We talked for about an hour and at last I managed to persuade him to be patient and wait quietly until his friends were able to help him (Rudi was very angry with him, but I understood how hard it was for a proud man like my father to bear the indignity of imprisonment). As I was coming away he said, ‘You’ll come again to-morrow, won’t you, Ludo? It’s so damned dull in this place.’ I promised to come and bring him some books.”

  Charles came away feeling cheerful; he had pacified his father; his words had taken effect. He decided that he needn’t stay long in Vienna – perhaps no more than a week – just long enough to get things settled and make sure that his family would go home to Schloss Roethke and stay there. He must see Anya and speak to her seriously about it; that was the best thing to do.

  He was thinking of all this as he came out of the prison gates. When he turned into the street a squad of Secret Police closed round him and arrested him. There were five of them, so it was useless to try to escape. He demanded what was the meaning of his arrest; what was the charge against him? They made no reply. There was no trial, nor was he allowed to communicate with his family. He was sent by train to a prison in Berlin where he was kept in solitary confinement and interrogated for hours about a plot to kill Hitler and overthrow the régime. Charles knew nothing of any such plot but they didn’t believe him.

  Charles told me very little about the “interrogations”; he didn’t want to talk of it. He just said that his agony of mind when he thought of me was a great deal worse than anything else he had to suffer.

  “Was there a plot?” I asked.

  “There must have been some sort of plot but I knew nothing about it until they told me . . . and, as far as I know, it never came to anything. They wanted me to tell them the names of the men who were involved in the plot, but of course I had no idea who was involved so I couldn’t tell them – even if I had wanted to.”

  “Why did they think you were involved?”

  “At first I thought they had mistaken me for someone else. I kept on telling them I had never been interested in politics and that during my stay in Austria I had spent my time improving my father’s estate and renovating the Schloss. Then one day, during a particularly long and disagreeable series of interrogations, they lost patience and said that it was useless for me to pretend to be innocent; my sister-in-law had given them the information which had led to my arrest.”

  “Anya!”

  “Yes, Anya.”

  “Charles! I can’t believe it!”

  “I can understand your disbelief. It must be quite incredible to anyone who has never had the misfortune to live in a Police State.”

  “But why? Why did she do it? There’s no sense in it!”

  “Oh, there was sense in it,” said Charles grimly. “The reason is obvious. She did it to ingratiate herself with the authorities, to make life safer for herself and Rudi. Our father’s behaviour had endangered Rudi – or so she thought. Anya informed against me because she was frightened of what might happen . . . and I was a convenient scape-goat.”

  I gazed at Charles in horrified silence.

  For nearly a year Charles had been kept in solitary confinement and then he was moved to an internment camp near Hamburg. He was given no reason for the move and at first he was annoyed for it was a hutted camp, encircled with barbed wire, but he soon found that it was a great deal better than the Berlin prison. Although it was cold and dreary he had the companionship of other men. The camp was an Oflag and was full of British officers who had been captured during the r
etreat to Dunkirk. It took Charles some time to make friends with them (they wanted to know why he was there, if he wasn’t a prisoner of war) but after a few weeks they accepted him and were very companionable. It was then that Charles became acquainted with Robert Loudon and spent a lot of time talking to him.

  The British prisoners of war were allowed to write home and received letters and parcels from their friends, but Charles was in a different category and no letters from him were allowed to pass the censor. Colonel Loudon had tried to convey a message to me in a letter to his wife but the letter had been confiscated.

  When Charles had been in the Oflag for a couple of months he was sent for by the Commandant and questioned about the behaviour of the British officers: were they friendly with him or were they proud and disagreeable? Did he know whether plans for escape were being made? He was told it would be to his advantage if he would answer all the questions frankly. Charles gave misleading answers – or no answers at all. It was an unpleasant interview but he was glad it had taken place for the mystery of his presence in the Oflag had now been solved: he had been sent there in the hope that he would fall foul of his companions and consent to act as a spy.

  “There were several attempts to escape,” continued Charles. “Three chaps managed to get away but they couldn’t speak German so they were caught before they had gone far. Bob Loudon and I discussed the matter but it seemed hopeless. Then one night the R.A.F. raided Hamburg and dropped a few of their surplus bombs on the camp. My companions were somewhat annoyed at being bombed by their own people! However the R.A.F. did us a good turn; some of the guards were killed or wounded, and in the darkness and confusion Bob and I found a gap where the wire had been destroyed and walked out. Quite a lot of people escaped that night – I don’t know what happened to them. Bob and I stuck together and made for Hamburg. The place was in a frightful mess after the raid but that was all to the good from our point of view. We were able to find a couple of outfits of civilian clothes. After that I didn’t worry; I knew we’d be all right because I can pass as a German anywhere. As I told your ‘grans’ it was just a matter of foot-slogging until we managed to link up with some British troops. Then Bob became the spokesman and explained who we were.”