“Will you come with me, Sarah?” he asked.
“Yes, if you want me.”
“I do want you . . . if you think you could bear it.”
“I’ll come,” I said firmly. There was no doubt in my mind: Charles wanted me—so I would go.
We had begun to make plans for flying to Vienna when Moira came into the room and said that Mrs Maitland was in great pain and we had better ring up the doctor.
*
Mark came as soon as he could. He examined grandmama carefully but was unable to make a definite diagnosis. He asked me if she had had the pain before and I assured him that she had not.
“In that case it may be a kidney infection,” said Mark, with a worried frown. He took various specimens and went away saying he would come back later.
By lunch-time grandmama was better, the pain had subsided; she drank some milk and went to sleep. She was still asleep when Mark came back.
“It’s a pity to waken her,” said Mark. “She’s sleeping peacefully. Let me know at once if she has any return of the pain.”
There was no return of the pain. Grandmama wakened about six o’clock and was so much better that she sat up and enjoyed a light supper.
Charles and I went in to see her and found her quite cheerful.
“It was silly of me to make such a fuss,” she said, smiling.
“You didn’t make a fuss, darling,” I told her.
“The pain is better now.”
“Has it quite gone?” I asked anxiously.
“Yes, quite gone,” she replied.
All the same I didn’t feel happy about leaving her; and Charles agreed.
“You can’t possibly come,” he said. “I had better go tomorrow; I shall take the Humber and leave it at a garage in Edinburgh; I can get a plane at Turnhouse and change at London Airport. I shall be in Vienna tomorrow night; Rudi can meet me.”
I knew he dreaded returning to Schloss Roethke—he had unhappy memories of the place—so I was a little surprised that he seemed fairly cheerful about his trip. Perhaps “resigned” was the word; we both knew that he must go, so it was useless to say any more.
*
Charles was obliged to leave early to catch his plane at Turnhouse so I got up and gave him breakfast and walked down to the garage with him to see him off.
It was a misty morning but there was a lightness in the air and it looked as if it might clear later.
Neither of us said much; but when Charles had run out the car, and the moment came for us to part, he exclaimed, “Oh Sarah, I feel as if I were going to the moon!”
There was such misery in his words and manner that I was frightened. “I didn’t know you felt like that,” I murmured.
“Yes, I feel as if I were going to the moon,” he repeated. “The Schloss is such a sad place and I’ve been so happy here. It just—just came over me all of a sudden that this is the end. I feel as if I were saying good-bye to happiness.”
“Oh darling! Don’t say that! I can’t bear it!”
“I’m sorry! It was a foolish thing to say. Forget it, Sarah! I’ll come back to you as soon as I can. This is the only thing that could make me leave you—the only thing that could make me go back to Schloss Roethke. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know.”
He opened the door of the car. Then he turned and said desperately, “Sarah, if you tell me now that you don’t want me to go—now, at the eleventh hour—I shall cancel everything.”
“Oh Charles, I can’t! You know I can’t!”
He gave me a long fierce kiss and we clung to each other. Then he got into the car and drove away.
*
It was more than twenty years since the last time Charles had left me to go to Austria . . . and had disappeared . . . but I felt as if it were last week. The misery of the dreadful time came back to me like a huge wave and almost swamped me. I realised that Charles was feeling the same; he too remembered our parting. It was for my sake, because he knew what I had suffered then, that he had offered to “cancel everything.”
I stood there, at the garage door, and wondered if I had done right . . . but what else could I have done? Could I have prevented him from flying to the bedside of his father?
Very slowly I turned and walked back to the house.
*
There was plenty of work at home to keep me busy. I had arranged to let Minnie go to her aunt at Brighton for a holiday and I was doing the cooking myself. Mr Brown’s niece, Ellen, came in daily and Moira looked after grandmama and helped in the house. Grandmama was very much better; the pain had vanished completely, and after a couple of days in bed she was able to resume her usual routine.
I had hoped for a letter from Charles, but instead of writing he rang up one evening for a little chat. He had had a very good journey and had arrived safely at the Schloss. His father was desperately ill and was unconscious most of the time but he had had a brief period of lucidity and had known “Ludo” and spoken to him. All had been forgiven.
“It’s dreadful to see him so worn and changed,” said Charles sadly. “I go and sit beside him hoping that he may have another conscious period and be comforted to know I’m here. The doctor says it may happen at any moment, or not at all. I must stay with him until the end; it can’t be very long now.”
“You’re all right?” I asked anxiously.
“Yes, I’m all right. It’s a sad house, and I feel a million miles from Craignethan, but I’m glad I came. How is Grandmama?”
“She seems quite well and in reasonably good spirits.”
“I hope you aren’t doing too much,” said Charles anxiously. “It was a bad plan to let Minnie go for a holiday while I’m away.”
“No, it was a good plan,” I replied. “We’re getting on quite comfortably.”
We talked for a few minutes longer and then rang off.
The line had been wonderfully clear and the talk with Charles had cheered me; it was delightful to hear his voice. I had been worrying about him . . . but he had said he was “all right” so I needn’t worry any more. I went to bed feeling comforted and peaceful.
*
That night grandmama had a return of the pain and we were obliged to send for Mark. He came at once and, after he had examined grandmama, he took me into the study and shut the door.
“Mark, what is it?” I asked in alarm.
“It’s appendicitis,” said Mark gravely. “I suspected it before, but I wasn’t sure. There’s no doubt about it now.”
“You mean . . . it’s serious?”
“It wouldn’t be very serious in a normal case but Mrs Maitland’s heart is far from normal. We’ve got to decide, here and now, what’s to be done.”
“We’ve got to decide?”
“Yes. We must have a surgeon to confirm my diagnosis, but there’s no doubt in my mind.”
“You mean she ought to have an operation?”
“This attack may pass off, as the other attack did, or it may not.” He walked to the end of the room and back, then he added, “I’m terribly sorry, Sarah, but I must tell you my honest opinion: I don’t believe her heart could stand the operation.”
“Oh Mark! What are we to do?”
“We’ve got to decide what to do. Mrs Maitland is one of my oldest friends—I’m devoted to her—which makes it more difficult for me to advise you. Perhaps you would like another opinion?”
“Oh no! She wouldn’t like it; she trusts you implicitly! You know her! What would be the good of calling in a stranger? It would upset her, that’s all.”
“It wouldn’t be much good,” he agreed sadly.
For a few moments we were silent.
Then I said, “Mark, could we keep her here for a day or two and see whether this attack will pass off?”
“No,” said Mark firmly. “No, we must decide at once. If we’re to risk the operation it must be done immediately, before she becomes weaker. The severe pain is weakening.”
“We must ask
her,” I said. “We must explain it to her and let her decide for herself.”
“Of course we must ask her, but the trouble is we can’t tell her the truth.”
“What do you mean?”
“We can’t tell her that her heart may not be strong enough to stand the operation because, if she is to undergo the operation, it’s important that she should be confident of recovery. Vitally important,” declared Mark earnestly. He added, “It’s bad for a patient to be anxious or doubtful about the result of an operation—I know that, only too well, from my own experience—you understand, don’t you?”
I nodded. We had got to decide whether to keep grandmama at home and hope and pray that the attack would “pass off” or risk the danger of an operation. “If only Charles were here!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, it’s dreadfully hard for you, Sarah. Would you like me to ring up Charles and ask his advice?”
“No,” I said. “No, it’s very kind of you but Charles has enough to worry about. Charles must stay with his father so it would only make him unhappy.”
“You’re right, of course,” agreed Mark with a sigh. He sat down beside me and added, “I haven’t told Mrs Maitland that it’s appendicitis; I wanted to talk to you first; but, if she asks me, I shall have to tell her.”
We were still talking when Moira came in and said that Mrs Maitland was feeling a good deal better and would like to see Dr Dunne for a few minutes before he left the house.
Mark rose at once and went upstairs.
I waited for a minute or two, thinking of what Mark had said. Then I went up to grandmama’s room.
“You remember, don’t you, Mark?” she was saying.
“Yes, of course I remember,” Mark replied.
She looked at me and smiled, rather wanly. “Mark is so clever,” she said. “He has discovered that my pain is appendicitis. William had it, you know. Mark remembers William having it. The operation is quite simple—William said it was much less painful than having a tooth out—but the important thing is to have it done as soon as possible. I should like to have the same surgeon; he was very nice; he and William had great jokes together. What was his name, Mark?”
“Mr MacTavish.”
“Yes, that was it. How silly of me to forget! He’s a very good surgeon, everybody said so, and I should like to go to the same nursing home. William was comfortable and well looked after. You can make all the arrangements, can’t you, Mark?”
Mark looked at me . . . and I nodded. What else could I do?
*
The arrangements were made without delay. Moira went with grandmama in the ambulance; I remained to shut up the house and followed them to Edinburgh in my own car. I managed to get rooms for myself and Moira in a small hotel quite near the nursing home; then I went to see grandmama and found her in bed in a very pleasant room, looking quite comfortable.
“Well, here I am!” she said cheerfully.
“I hope you aren’t too tired, darling.”
“No, I had a very good journey. The pain is better now. Mr MacTavish has been to see me; he’s a very kind man. He remembers William quite well. It’s nice of him to remember because he has hundreds of patients . . . but he said, ‘Colonel Maitland was a great one for jokes,’ so he really did remember. I asked him when the operation is to be done but he said he would have to talk to Mark about it.”
“This is a lovely room,” I said.
“Yes, it’s delightful, and my nurse is a charming girl with red hair and dimples. I shall be very comfortable indeed. You had better go now, dear. You will want to get home before dark.”
“I’m staying in Edinburgh, Grandmama. I’ve taken rooms in a hotel, I want to be near you so that I can come and see you every day.”
“Well, that will be lovely, of course, but—oh dear, what a nuisance I am!”
“You aren’t a nuisance! I just wish we could change places——”
“Now don’t worry, Sarah. It isn’t a serious operation; when William had it he was only in bed for ten days and he was much better afterwards.” She sighed and added, “I was so relieved when Mark discovered that it was appendicitis; I had had the pain off and on for some time.”
“You had had it before!” I exclaimed. “Oh Grandmama, why didn’t you tell us?”
“I was a little frightened,” she explained, smiling apologetically. “I thought it might be something rather horrid, that was why I didn’t say anything about it. I can see now that it was silly of me. Mr MacTavish asked me if I had had the pain before, so of course I had to tell him.” She added, “Moira has gone out to do some shopping. Have you taken a room for her at your hotel?”
“Yes, it’s all arranged,” I told her.
“What a nuisance I am,” she repeated.
I stayed for a little longer, chatting to her; then I kissed her and came away. She was so cheerful and bright that I felt less unhappy about her.
Mark had come to Edinburgh to see grandmama settled and to have a talk with Mr MacTavish; he called in at the hotel to give me the news before going home: Mr MacTavish had confirmed Mark’s diagnosis and had decided to operate early the following morning.
“Mark, are you sure?” I asked anxiously. “She seems so much better. The pain has subsided and——”
“Yes,” replied Mark. “Mr MacTavish is quite sure—and I agree with him. She has had several attacks of pain in the last few months and the attacks are becoming more frequent and more severe. If I had known that before I wouldn’t have hesitated to advise appendectomy.”
“I had no idea of it until she told me this afternoon. Would it have made any difference if we had known?”
“Not really . . . but it means that we have no choice: the operation is absolutely essential. I expect that’s a relief to you, Sarah.”
For a moment I hesitated, then I said, “Yes, it is a relief. How did you know?”
Mark smiled sadly but didn’t reply.
“Mark,” I said. “I suppose Mr MacTavish knows about her heart condition.”
“He knows all that I can tell him and he has spoken to Dr Hare. He agrees that it’s a risk to operate but it would be a greater risk not to operate. Mr MacTavish is very sound; I trust his judgment implicitly; and he’s quite optimistic. Mrs Maitland is confident and unafraid, which is half the battle. Don’t worry too much, Sarah.”
“You’re more hopeful?”
“Yes, much more hopeful. She’s in good hands.”
*
Mr MacTavish operated the following morning and the operation was successful. Grandmama rallied—and we were full of hope—but the strain had been too great for her tired old heart. She lingered for a few days, sometimes conscious but more often in a light coma, and I stayed beside her most of the time: she seemed more peaceful when I was there. Every now and then she came to the surface and spoke a few words and I realised that she believed herself to be in her own room at Craignethan.
“Roses,” she said softly, smiling at the bowl of flowers on the table beside her bed. “Dear Charles always brings me roses.”
Another time she said anxiously, “Take care of the child, Sarah. You and Charles . . . must take care of the child . . .”
Just at the end she rallied a little and whispered, “Ask Charles to come . . . I want to thank him. You have made me . . . so happy . . . dear Sarah . . .”
I was kneeling beside her, holding her hand, when she drifted away and was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
It was all over and I was on my way home.
Father and Willy had come to Edinburgh and had managed everything; they were kindness itself. I don’t know what I should have done without them for I was so exhausted that I had lived and moved in a daze. I had sent off telegrams; I had thanked everyone; I had said good-bye to poor Moira (who was going home to her sister for a long holiday) and finally I had taken father and Willy to Waverley Station and had seen them into the London train. I am sure everyone thought I was “wonderful”—I hadn’t sh
ed a single tear—but the fact was it had all seemed unreal. It was not Sarah Reede who was doing and saying all the right things; who was going to bed, lying awake all night, and getting up in the morning; who was washing and dressing and eating tasteless food. It was a sort of robot without any feelings at all.
Now it was over and I was on my way home to Craignethan, driving along the well-known road, passing all the well-known landmarks. Ten days had passed since I had shut up the house and followed the ambulance to Edinburgh . . . it seemed like an unhappy dream.
As I came over the hill and saw the little town of Ryddelton, lying below me in the valley, my heart lifted and I discovered that I was looking forward to finding grandmama sitting in the drawing-room in her usual chair, waiting for me to come home. Was I going mad?
“She won’t be there,” I said aloud. “Nobody will be there. The house will be empty.”
The house would be empty, but it didn’t matter; I had the key of the front door in my bag.
It was dark when I got to Ryddelton and turned off the main road. I was so stupid and muddle-headed that the darkness surprised me. I couldn’t remember if I had had any lunch; I certainly hadn’t had any tea . . . but that didn’t matter either. I could eat some biscuits and go to bed. Perhaps when I was in my own bed I might be able to sleep.
Here was Craignethan at last! I turned in at the gates and went slowly up the avenue. As I came round the bend and saw the old house in front of me, I noticed that there was a light in the hall. If I had been in my sane senses the light (in what I believed to be an empty house) would have alarmed me, but in my present condition it didn’t register—I wasn’t worried. I stopped at the door and got my suitcase out of the boot; I was looking in my bag for the key . . .
The door opened. Freddie rushed out and seized me in her arms. “Darling!” she cried. “Darling dear! Here you are at last!”
“Freddie! You?”
“Yes, me! You didn’t think I’d let you come back here alone, did you? Give me your suitcase!”
“How did you get here?”
Sarah's Cottage (Sarah Morris Book 2) Page 30