Sarah's Cottage (Sarah Morris Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Take plenty of butter with it,” advised Sir Rupert.

  It was interesting to observe Shane’s behaviour during the meal. His manner to me was extremely respectful—there wasn’t the faintest suggestion of a twinkle in his solemn brown eyes—his manner to his uncle was exemplary; he seldom spoke unless he was spoken to—and then replied politely in the fewest possible words. He waited upon us assiduously, hastening to refill the milk-jug before it was empty and to fetch boiling water for the teapot; he consumed three large sultana buns and listened with reverent attention to his uncle’s long-winded stories of foreign lands.

  “But you’ve been there, haven’t you, Shane?” said Sir Rupert, stopping suddenly in the middle of a lurid description of the Yangtze River.

  “Yes, Uncle Rupert.”

  “Well, what did you think of it, eh?”

  Shane paused for a moment.

  “Come on,” said his uncle encouragingly. “Let’s hear what you thought of it, Shane.”

  “I thought it was very dirty, sir.”

  (Perhaps there was just the faintest suggestion of a twinkle in Shane’s solemn brown eyes as he made this remarkable statement.)

  “Dirty? Yes, I suppose it is,” said Sir Rupert, somewhat deflated. “Yes, I dare say you’re right, Shane. It was very dirty indeed.”

  There was a short silence. Then I rose and said I must go.

  “But you wanted to see round the Brig!” exclaimed my host in consternation.

  “Yes, but I haven’t time today, Sir Rupert. I must go home to prepare supper. We’ve had such an interesting talk that I didn’t realise it was getting late.”

  “It wouldn’t take long to show you round the place.”

  “I must go—really,” I told him. I had remembered the condition of his “avenue.” Unless I went now, this minute, I should be very late indeed. It was possible that Charles wouldn’t want his supper at eight—sometimes it was nine or ten before he wanted it—but, just because I wasn’t there to make it, he might emerge from his book-room at the appointed hour.

  “Well, if you must, you must,” said Sir Rupert. “But I hope you’ll come and see me again before very long. Shane is going to Edinburgh on Monday and I want to show you my rubber frogs.”

  “Rubber frogs?” asked Shane in astonishment.

  “I play with them in my bath,” explained his uncle.

  They both came to the car with me and helped me to turn. Then I said good-bye—and thank you—and drove off. When I reached the bend in the road I stopped for a moment and looked back; they were still standing there together: Sir Rupert, small and old and wrinkled; Shane, tall and young and handsome!

  Sir Rupert waved his handkerchief and shouted in stentorian tones, “Port down, Mrs Reede!”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” I responded cheerfully.

  Part Four

  The Magic Bird

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Like most people in the neighbourhood, grandpapa was under the impression that Charles was still at work upon the translation and one day when I was having tea at Craignethan he spoke to me about it.

  “Charles works too hard,” he said. “There’s no need for it. I know he wants money to pay off the debt to the bank; that’s why I offered to buy the picture. He should have taken what I offered, the obstinate fellow!”

  I didn’t reply. The picture had not been valued, so perhaps Charles had been right in his surmise that grandpapa had offered more than it was worth.

  “There he sits all day long,” complained grandpapa. “It’s bad for him to stew in that miserable little room and never go out.”

  “Oh, he has gone out today,” I said.

  “Where has he gone? You haven’t let him go out on the hills by himself, I hope?”

  “He likes going alone.”

  “Sarah! You know quite well that I don’t approve of people walking over the hills alone. It’s dangerous! A lonely walker could easily fall and break his leg and lie out all night before he was found.”

  “Yes, I know, but——”

  “You think I’m a foolish old man!”

  “No, Grandpapa! I know there’s a risk but in this case we’ve got to accept the risk of an accident. It’s important for Charles to be free to do as he wants.”

  “You could go with him, couldn’t you?”

  “I do, sometimes, but not unless he wants me. Sometimes he prefers to go alone. Charles was in prison for years, you know.”

  “Lots of men had the same experience!”

  “Charles is very sensitive; he can’t bear constraint.”

  Grandmama nodded. “Charles is a wild bird, and wild birds suffer tortures in captivity.”

  “Oh well, you know best,” said grandpapa. He added, “No doubt you’d like some vegetables for your wild bird, Sarah. I’ll take a basket and see what I can find.”

  When he had gone there was silence.

  “Don’t worry too much, my dear,” said grandmama at last. “The craving for freedom will wear off. Charles hasn’t quite recovered from the misery he endured in the prison camp. He spoke to me about it one day. The barbed wire, shutting him in, was bad enough but the feeling that he had failed you was infinitely worse.”

  “He didn’t fail me!” I exclaimed. “He couldn’t help it! He was arrested and dragged away and imprisoned without any warning. He couldn’t let me know what had happened.”

  “All the same he felt that he had behaved badly to you, Sarah. He felt that he had ‘let you down’; he was haunted by the fear that he had lost you. Other men were able to write to their dear ones at home; Charles wasn’t permitted to write, nor to receive letters. He was completely cut off; that’s why imprisonment was worse for Charles than for other men.”

  “I know, Grandmama!”

  “Yes, you know; but don’t forget.”

  She was right, of course. I knew what Charles had endured—I knew even better than grandmama—but sometimes I forgot.

  “Sarah, there’s something wrong, isn’t there?” said grandmama after a short silence. “Wouldn’t it be better to tell me about it? You’ve been looking so miserable lately—not like yourself, my dear—and Minnie says he has a camp-bed in his dressing-room. You mustn’t blame Minnie for telling me, she loves you dearly.”

  I hesitated for a moment. Then I said, “He works at night. Sometimes he works until two or three o’clock and he doesn’t like waking me. I wish I could tell you more, but it’s a secret . . . I must just be patient.” My eyes were full of tears and there was a lump of misery in my throat so I got up quickly and went over to the window. “I wish I could tell you more,” I repeated, groping for my handkerchief.

  “Well, never mind,” said grandmama. “You know I’m here.”

  *

  The sun was setting as I walked home with the heavy basket of vegetables on my arm. I hadn’t been able to tell grandmama my troubles but instead I had sat down and told her about my visit to the Admiral’s Brig. I didn’t tell her about the coins, that was another secret, but all the same it was a good story and it made her laugh.

  It was now three months since Charles had begun to write his “Rainbow”; the summer had passed; the heather on the hills was fading and there was a chill in the wind. Soon winter would be here with the storms and frosts and, worst of all, the long dark evenings. Last winter we had been working together; we had laughed and joked and had fun together; we had been for expeditions and Charles had played his piano . . . what would this winter be like?

  As I neared the cottage I hastened my steps—grandpapa’s warning had come into my head—however, Charles had come home safely. There was a sheet of paper lying on the kitchen table with a message written upon it: I have had a meal and I shall be working all night.

  Charles hadn’t said “don’t disturb me” but he meant it, of course. This was the worst thing he had done! It was rude and unkind . . . in fact it was unbearable. I hesitated for a moment with the paper in my hand and wondered if I should go into his b
ook-room and make a fuss about it: tell him I had come to the end of my patience and wouldn’t stand this treatment any longer! Then I remembered grandmama’s words: “It was worse for Charles than for other men . . . yes, you know, but don’t forget.”

  I boiled an egg for my supper and ate it with bread and butter and drank a glass of milk. Then I got out my writing-case and wrote a long letter to Freddie. It was her first term at St Elizabeth’s—and she was feeling a little strange. She had asked if we could come south and take her out for her mid-term holiday which would be in November . . . and I had every intention of going. If Charles was still working at his “Rainbow” I would take the Humber and go myself. I could stay in Larchester and have Freddie to lunch at the Golden Hind. I told Freddie that we would come—and I wrote her a long letter about all that I had been doing, about my day in Edinburgh and about seeing Beric at the Dunnian garden party.

  When I had finished the letter I felt a good deal more cheerful; then I went upstairs to bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  For weeks past I had been sleeping very badly, but that night I was so tired that I went to sleep at once and slept like a log. It seemed as if I had been asleep for only a few minutes when the sound of my door opening wakened me. Charles came in very quietly and put a large brown-paper parcel on the table beside the bed.

  “Charles!” I exclaimed.

  “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to waken you. I just meant to leave it here for you to read . . . if you can be bothered. It’s very rough and muddled, I’m afraid.”

  He turned to go, but I seized his hand. “Wait! Tell me about it, Charles!”

  “There’s nothing to tell. You’ll see what it’s about when you read it.”

  “Don’t go away!”

  “I must go out. I couldn’t bear to see you reading it.”

  “Don’t go on the hills!”

  “All right, I’ll take the car. I haven’t been for a good long spin for weeks. I’ll be home before dark.”

  The mists of sleep were still clouding my brain but, even so, I realised that this was my own Charles, not the queer silent stranger with the staring eyes who had lived in the house with me for months. I struggled out of bed and went to the window and saw him come out of the house; he slammed the door and walked across to the garage. It was still dark but the greyness of coming day was in the eastern sky and in a few moments the car slid out of the garage, turned through the gate and vanished.

  Then I went back to bed, switched on the bedside lamp and opened the parcel—my hands were trembling with excitement so that I could scarcely undo the knots—I spread the sheets of foolscap on the bed; they were clipped together with pins. There was no title page; the writing began at the top of page one. It was in pencil, and very rough, but there were surprisingly few corrections and Charles’s writing was so familiar to me that I found little difficulty in reading it.

  The story began with the lives of three children growing up in a castle in Austria; their names were Karl, Rosa and Eigor. The castle was very old and dimly lighted; there were long stone passages and narrow corkscrew stairs so it was an alarming experience for a little boy to leave a lighted room and go up to bed on a winter’s night . . . when the wind was howling in the wide chimneys and the ivy was tapping on the windows.

  One stormy night when little Eigor was on his way to bed there was a lady in a blue dress waiting for him in the hall; she didn’t speak, but she smiled at him kindly and went up the stairs in front of him with a lamp in her hand; her long blue dress trailed behind her and made a soft whispering sound as she went. Eigor followed her—he wasn’t frightened that night—he wasn’t frightened nor surprised when she disappeared through a wall where there was no door.

  After that the blue lady always waited for Eigor on stormy nights; sometimes he saw her quite distinctly and sometimes he just saw her light and heard the whisper of her dress. The little boy never told anyone about his blue lady; she was his own secret friend.

  Eigor’s mother was beautiful. She was a MacDonald of Skye and often talked to Eigor of her home. She talked to Eigor in English so he learned his mother’s tongue quite naturally at a very early age.

  “Some day we’ll go to Skye together,” said Eigor’s mother with a little sigh. “And, when you’re older, you shall go to Oxford and study English literature and history.”

  Skye and Oxford! They were magic names to Eigor.

  Summer days were the happiest. The children were free to go where they liked in the woods surrounding the castle. Sometimes they went for long rides and visited the farms on the estate. The children had their own ponies and their mother had a bay mare called Belle of whom she was very fond.

  Every morning the children went out with a basket of scraps and fed the swans in the castle moat. The swans were white—all except one, the biggest and strongest, which was as black as coal. Karl and Rosa liked the white swans; they were tame and friendly; they came swimming across the moat and gobbled up the scraps. Little Eigor loved the black swan; he was bold and strong; his feathers were smooth and silky and so black that they shone with iridescent colours in the sunshine. The black swan was proud and independent, he was like a prince; it was beneath his dignity to scramble for crusts.

  One morning very early, when Eigor had gone down to the moat by himself, he saw the black swan come out of the water and climb on to the stump of an old tree. For some time he stood there stretching his wings . . . then, suddenly, he spread them wide and, launching himself into the air, flew off with long sweeping strokes across the moat and over the castle towers. He circled higher and higher until he was only a black speck in the early morning sky . . . then he turned northwards over the forest and was gone.

  The black swan was away for a long time—Eigor had given up hope of ever seeing him again—then one morning, when the children went out as usual with the basket of scraps, he was there, floating peacefully on the water as if he had never been away at all! But Eigor noticed that his feathers were ruffled and untidy and he looked very tired. Where had he been? He had flown to foreign lands; he had seen places that Eigor had never seen—strange interesting places. Perhaps he had been to Skye?

  The black swan was tired. Perhaps he was hungry? Eigor felt sure he must be hungry so at lunch, when nobody was looking, Eigor put some scraps in his pocket and later went down to the moat by himself and offered them to his friend. At first the black swan took no notice of the little boy and then . . . and then he came very slowly across the water and took the scraps from Eigor’s hand.

  That night Eigor had a wonderful dream: he was floating on the waters of the moat, warmly clad in beautiful black feathers. It was lovely to be a swan; he swam swiftly from one end of the moat to the other, leaving a wake of white water behind him. Would it be as easy and pleasant to fly? Eigor climbed on to the old stump and stood there, stretching his wings; they felt so strong that he was sure he could fly . . . he launched himself into the air and flew across the moat.

  Just at first his wings were a little difficult to manage but after a few minutes he found the way to do it. Eigor circled over the castle several times, going higher and higher, then he turned northwards and flew away over the trees.

  When Eigor awoke in the morning he remembered his dream and all his adventures; best of all he remembered a big city with beautiful buildings and towers and spires; he remembered resting his tired wings on the banks of a little river . . . and he remembered the sound of bells.

  I was so enthralled by the story that I read on and on—forgetting everything—until a scatter of pebbles on the window-pane brought me down to earth. It was nine o’clock; Minnie had come as usual and had found the door locked and nobody about. When I looked out of the window she gazed up at me with a scared expression on her round rosy face.

  “It’s all right, Minnie! I’ll come down and let you in,” I told her. Then I ran downstairs and opened the door.

  “What a fright I got!” exclaimed poor Minnie. “I thoug
ht you were ill! Have you had your breakfast, Miss Sarah?”

  “No, I was reading and I forgot the time.”

  “Away back to bed!” said Minnie crossly. “You’ll get your death, flouncing about in your bare feet and no dressing-gown! I’ll give you your breakfast in bed.”

  I smiled and did as I was told. It was natural that Minnie should be a little cross.

  “Now listen,” said Minnie, when she came in with the tray. “You’ve been looking a bit peaky lately so I’ll stay and do the dinner—it will give you a nice rest. Will Mr Reede be in?”

  “No, he has gone out for the day.”

  “Well, it will just be you and me, so I’ll make a fricassee with the remains of the chicken.” She glanced at the untidy sheets of manuscript, which were scattered all over the bed, but was too well mannered to ask any questions.

  I went on reading Charles’s story while I had my breakfast. It seemed to me fresh and fascinating: the people were alive; the scene was pictured vividly; the writing flowed with effortless ease. There was a strange sort of magic in the tale . . . it was different from anything I had ever read before. I had been reading quickly, dashing through it at speed because I wanted to know what was going to happen, but now I decided that I ought to be reading it more carefully so I got up and dressed and went down to the book-room and spread out the manuscript on Charles’s table.

  Minnie made the fricassee for lunch and we had it together in the kitchen, then she washed up and went away . . . and I settled down in the book-room and read all the afternoon.

  The story was a mixture of fact and fiction. The castle was Schloss Roethke, disguised under another name. The people were Charles himself, his mother and father and his brother and sister . . . but the events in the story were fictional. For instance: in real life, Charles’s mother had been very unhappy and had died of pneumonia; in the story she was a happy woman and she recovered from her illness. In real life, Charles’s father was a selfish man, a family tyrant; in the story he was kind and considerate and made no objection when his wife, the Baroness, wanted to visit her relations and take Eigor with her.