“Yes, she’s a dear pet,” I agreed. “She isn’t like Lottie, of course. Lottie was a beautiful creature when she was young.”
“Lottie is still extremely good-looking . . . but she’s a bore.”
“A bore?”
“Yes. Don’t you find her boring? I do. The child isn’t pretty but her smile is like sunshine, she’s intelligent and amusing, and best of all, she has appeal.”
“You don’t mean sex appeal? She’s only thirteen!”
“Age has nothing to do with it—and looks have nothing to do with it,” declared Lewis, laying down the law in his usual confident manner. “It’s a question of endocrine glands and hormones. An ugly woman may have bags of it and a pretty woman may have none at all. You wouldn’t know, of course.”
“Why wouldn’t I know?”
“Because no woman knows whether or not another woman has sex appeal. I’ve heard women say, ‘What on earth can men see in her? She’s plain and dowdy’!”
“And all the time she’s bursting with it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you ought to know by this time,” I conceded.
Lewis never minded being teased. He smiled and agreed that he had made an intensive study of the fair sex.
“Any chance of my having a sister-in-law?” I asked. “Perhaps she will be a Danish blonde?”
“No,” replied Lewis. “Oh, I’ve lots of friends, of course, but I’m still looking for a woman who appeals to me—and me, alone. I don’t want my wife to be a magnet for other men. I want her all to myself . . . and that’s serious, Sarah,” he added.
I knew what he meant: Charles had said much the same thing to me when he had asked me to marry him. He had said he must have all—or nothing. This had never worried me because always, from the very first time I had seen him, he had been the only man in the world for me.
Lewis and I walked on in silence for a few moments. Then he said, “I’m just warning you about our niece.”
“You should warn her mother,” I suggested.
“Lottie wouldn’t understand—or rather she would misunderstand, which would be worse. They don’t get on at all.”
This was so true that I could find nothing to say.
Lewis continued, “Lottie treats her daughter as if she were seven years old—and backward at that—whereas, if the truth were told, Freddie is more adult than her mother. The situation at Brailsford is dangerous. I saw that when I was there.”
“Lewis, what do you mean?”
“I mean Clive is getting a bit fed up—and no wonder! The wretched man has no wife, his child has no mother and neither of them has a comfortable home. I wouldn’t stand it if I were Clive. I should want a little consideration, a little love, a little happiness in my home. Lottie cares for nobody except herself; she pursues her pleasures all day long and far into the night. She’s riding for a fall,” declared Lewis . . . and on that distressing and alarming note our conversation ended.
Willy came out to say that tea was ready so we had tea and a little more family chit-chat and then said good-bye and came away.
That night we played canasta with Freddie and on Sunday morning we took her back to school—she had to be back in time for chapel at eleven o’clock. She was a little depressed when we left her but we promised to write to her mother and ask if we might have her for part of the Christmas holidays.
“She might let me come,” said Freddie doubtfully. “It all depends on what she’s going to do herself—and she never knows till the last minute. It’s awful not knowing. Oh, I do wish . . . wish . . . wish . . .”
Then she turned and ran in at the side door and vanished.
“Charles, what does she wish? Can we do anything about it?” I asked anxiously.
“No, we can’t do anything. She wishes she belonged to us,” he replied.
Part Five
Summer Holidays
Chapter Twenty-Six
When Charles and I got home we decided that it was high time for us to do a little work. The historical novel was still unfinished and Mr Maxton was becoming impatient, so Charles worked at the translation every morning and we went over it together in the evening—as we had done before.
“What will you do when it’s finished?” I asked. “Wouldn’t you like to have another look at your Rainbow? We could do it together, like this.”
“No!” he exclaimed. “No, Sarah! I never want to see it again. The manuscript is in such a frightful mess that it makes me ill to think of it. Do what you like with the wretched thing—burn it if you like! Yes, give it to Minnie to light the fire.”
I said no more about the Rainbow, but I thought of it very often and one evening when Charles had gone over to Blacklock House to have a chat with Bob I took it out of the drawer. My idea had been to get it neatly typed at a secretarial bureau, but now I realised that this would be hopeless: the tattered sheets, covered with hastily-pencilled scrawl would be a nightmare to any typist. If anything was to be done with Charles’s story I should have to do it myself, starting at the beginning and rewriting the whole thing in ink . . . and this was an impossible task!
Then, as I began to turn over the pages, reading a bit here and there, the magic of it gripped me and I decided that somehow or other I must do it. Charles had said he never wanted to see it again . . . but I could get up early and write a few pages before he came down to breakfast. Doing it like this, a few pages at a time, the work would take months to complete but if I plodded on doggedly I should get to the end of it some time.
We had written to Lottie asking if “Frederica” might come and visit us during the Christmas holidays and had received a reply saying that this was impossible as the child was backward in arithmetic and it had been arranged that she should have private tuition in the subject. Freddie was disappointed, and so were we, but we could do no more about it.
The first of January seemed a good day to begin my self-appointed task of rewriting the Rainbow. If I had realised how long it would take (and could have foreseen all that would happen before I had finished it) I might never have started, but future events, both good and bad, are hidden from mortal eyes so I got up in the dark and groped my way downstairs. It was no hardship for me to get up in the dark, for it was my nature to waken early . . . and fortunately it was Charles’s habit to sleep late, unless there was something doing which necessitated early rising.
I began on the first of January and I went on without a break. It was heavy going at first but soon it became easier and the more I worked at it the more I liked it. The story was worthwhile—I was sure of that—it was a gem which had to be cut from its matrix and carefully polished. I didn’t hurry over it, I couldn’t hurry for there were repetitions which had to be cut out and rough patches which had to be smoothed. Worst of all there were gaps which had to be filled in . . . but fortunately I was used to working with Charles so I was familiar with his style and knew the meaning of his peculiar signs and abbreviations. Some mornings I got several pages done, other mornings little more than half a page, but I comforted myself with the reflection that I was nearer the end of my task than I had been the day before. When I heard Charles splashing in his bath I gathered all the pages together, put them into a small suitcase and stowed it away in my linen cupboard.
It was slow work but I got on a little faster when the salmon-fishing began for Bob was a keen fisherman, and had infected Charles with his enthusiasm, so the two friends had quite a number of days on the river.
All that summer I worked at the Rainbow whenever I could.
*
One morning towards the end of September I wakened as usual and slid quietly out of bed. Charles was quite used to my curious habit of rising before the day had properly begun; sometimes he opened one eye and looked at me . . . and turned over and went to sleep, but more often he didn’t stir.
It was beginning to be light when I went downstairs and it was such a lovely morning that I opened the big window in the sitting-room and leaned out.
The air of the hills was a definite delight for, although we had lived at Braeside for eight years, I had not forgotten the dingy little flat in the East End of London: the smuts and the smells and the dank fogs which came up from the river.
The contrast made the pleasure greater; I thought of it as I took long breaths of the clean sweet air.
Then, suddenly, my attention was caught by a gleam of light shining through a gap in the trees. It was the red blind in the window of grandpapa’s study. How strange that there should be a light in his study at this hour! It was possible that grandpapa had been reading late and had forgotten to put out the light before he went to bed . . . possible but improbable for grandpapa was most particular about putting things in order for the night.
I looked at the ruby red blind and wondered. Perhaps grandmama had been taken ill? But there was no light in her window.
What should I do? I was uneasy—too uneasy to settle down to work.
After a few minutes’ thought I went upstairs and wakened Charles and told him about it. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“Perhaps I’m silly,” I said, “But—well—it seems queer. I think I’ll just run down to the house and see if everything is all right.”
“You aren’t silly,” said Charles. “Wait a minute and I’ll come with you.”
“There’s no need for you——” I began, but already he had got out of bed and was putting on some clothes.
The light was still shining as we went down the path together—which alarmed us thoroughly, for by this time it was daylight. We ran down the hill and across the bridge and, a few moments later, we were standing outside the study window staring at the red blind.
“What shall we do?” I said doubtfully. “We shall look very silly if we disturb the whole house for nothing.”
“The window isn’t fastened,” said Charles in a low voice. “That’s unusual.”
“Most unusual!”
“Shall I open the window at the bottom and climb in?”
“Let’s try the door first,” I suggested.
The front door was neither locked nor bolted. We looked at each other—but said nothing. We went into the house very quietly and opened the door of the study.
Grandpapa was sitting in his arm-chair with his head resting against the back. The book, which he had been reading, had fallen on the floor.
“He’s asleep,” I whispered. “He must have slept there all night . . . and the fire is nothing but grey ashes!”
I went forward to waken him but Charles put out his hand and held me back. “Wait, Sarah!”
“But he must be so cold!”
“Yes, he’s very cold!”
I knew then . . . not by the words but by the gravity of Charles’s voice.
“Oh no! Oh Charles—it can’t be!”
“Sit down, darling.” He pushed me gently into a chair and went forward and took grandpapa’s hand. “Quite cold,” said Charles in a low voice. “He must have been dead for hours.”
I, too, was cold, shaking all over. I said, between my chattering teeth, “But it can’t be! I don’t understand! It’s Grandmama who is ill.” It was a foolish thing to say.
Charles came and took a grip of my shoulders. “Darling,” he said gently. “You’ve got to be brave. We must think of Grandmama, mustn’t we?”
“What are we to do?”
“I must ring up Mark. That’s the first thing. We mustn’t let her know what has happened until he comes.”
“It will kill her,” I whispered.
Charles took up the telephone receiver and made the call. Then he turned to me and said, “Listen, Sarah! Mark will come as soon as he can. Meanwhile it will be a good plan to make some coffee. You can go to the kitchen and make it, can’t you?”
He wanted to give me something to do—I realised that—but by this time I had managed to pull myself together. “I’ll stay with him if you don’t mind. I think—I think he’d like me to stay beside him.”
Charles nodded. “I think so too. Don’t touch him until Mark comes but sit here beside him. Perhaps you could pray.” He added uncomfortably, “I’m not sure whether you believe this to—to be necessary.”
Quite honestly I didn’t believe it to be necessary: grandpapa had been good and kind, he was a true Christian. I believed God had taken him to Paradise, as He had taken the thief who had hung beside Him on the cross.
When Charles had gone I kissed grandpapa very gently on his cold forehead and then I prayed for a little. Then I sat down beside him and remembered all his kindness and goodness—his kindness to me and to other people—he had had a long life and enjoyed it. He had loved the sunshine and all the beautiful things in God’s beautiful world.
So far I hadn’t cried—I had been frozen with shock—but now I began to thaw and the tears ran down my cheeks. I was crying, not for him, but for myself and grandmama.
*
Presently I heard Mark’s car and ran to open the front door before he could ring the bell; then Charles came out of the kitchen with a tray of coffee and milk and cups, which he put on the hall table.
“This will do you good, Sarah,” he said. “Just sit here and drink it while I take Mark into the study.”
“I’ll come with you!”
“No,” said Mark. “Just sit here quietly. We shan’t be long.”
They weren’t long. When they came out of the study Mark said gravely. “He died in his sleep, Sarah. There was no struggle—he knew nothing about it. When my time comes I hope I shall go like that. Don’t grieve for him; he has been spared a long and trying illness.”
“It’s Grandmama,” I said, trying to control my tears.
Charles said, “You must be brave, darling. Mark wants you to tell Grandmama; it will be better for her if you can do it.”
“Can you do it?” asked Mark.
I nodded.
“Wait for a few minutes,” said Charles, putting his hand on my shoulder.
We waited for a few minutes and I drank another cup of coffee, then Mark and I went upstairs together.
She was awake when I went in, lying quietly on her pillows—as I had seen her, often and often. I knelt down and took her hand and began to break the news as gently as I could.
“William has gone,” she said. “That’s what you’re trying to tell me, Sarah.”
“Yes, he was sitting in his chair when we found him. He had been reading, his book had fallen on the floor. He looks so—so peaceful and . . .” I couldn’t go on.
“Don’t cry,” she said, putting her hand on my bent head and stroking my hair gently. “Don’t cry, darling. God always knows the best way to arrange things. I can go now.”
“Not now,” I told her. “You can see him later. Mark is here, he wants you to stay in bed.”
“Ask Mark to come in,” she said quietly.
It was much later in the morning when Charles and I walked slowly up the path to Braeside. There had been so much to do that I had had no time for grieving. I had rung up Willy and he had said he would come and bring father; I had wired to Lewis, who was on Salisbury Plain. Charles had rung up Clive at his office in London and he had said that he and Lottie would come.
“They’re coming up tomorrow in their car,” said Charles. “He thinks they may be late in arriving because Lottie doesn’t like an early start. Is there anyone else who ought to be told?”
I didn’t think so.
“What about us?” asked Charles. “Should we move into Craignethan, temporarily, to look after things? Will there be room for us?”
“No, we shall have to sleep at home,” I told him. “Mark has sent for a nurse for Grandmama—he said it was essential. We can spend all day at Craignethan and come home at night.”
Craignethan was not a very large house and if Lewis came it would be quite full.
“How is Grandmama?” asked Charles.
“She’s wonderful,” I replied. “She’s so quiet and composed; it’s almost as if she had expected this to happ
en; it’s almost as if she were glad about it.”
“Glad?”
“Well . . . relieved,” I said thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s the word. She said ‘God always knows the best way to arrange things’.”
“They’ve had a long happy life together—that was what she meant.”
It was true that they had had a long happy life together but somehow I didn’t think that was what grandmama had meant.
By this time we had reached the cottage and, much to our surprise, we found Minnie waiting for us. She had heard the news from the baker’s boy and had stayed to prepare our lunch. She was very upset, for like everyone else she was very fond of grandpapa, but she was not too upset to be helpful.
“Janet will never manage with all those people in the house,” declared Minnie. “It’ll be too much for her and Lily. Do you think she’d like Maggie and me to give her a hand, Miss Sarah?”
This kind offer took a load of worry off my shoulders and I accepted it gratefully.
In the afternoon Minnie and I went down to Craignethan and helped Janet to arrange the rooms and make up the beds. In normal times Minnie and Janet were not very friendly—there was an ancient grudge between their families—but the present trouble brought them together and poor old Janet was very thankful to accept the help that was offered. While I was there a telegram arrived from Lewis to say he was coming and the nurse engaged by Mark arrived from Edinburgh.
Grandmama slept all the afternoon but awoke in time for tea so I took it to her on a tray and we had it together. She was still quite composed and was pleased when I told her that all the family was coming to Craignethan.
“I don’t like that nurse, Sarah,” she said. “I’m not ill so I don’t need a nurse. I shall get up tomorrow.”
“Mark wants you to stay in bed.”
“I want to get up and see them all and thank them for coming.”
“But, darling, the house is in such a muddle!”
Fortunately at that moment Mark looked in . . . and the matter was explained to him.
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