COUSIN ANNA'S HEIR
GRAHAM LAIRD was away a fortnight. He had been left sole trustee to
many of Miss Harrison's charities, and he and her lawyer had a great
deal of business to transact together. Mrs. Laird insisted that Ina
should return with him, and make her house her home for the present,
until she settled what she was going to do.
And so one wild stormy evening in December they returned together.
Ina was very quiet and sad that first evening, but seized hold of Sara
when bedtime came.
"Do come and see me the last thing, will you?" she entreated; and Sara
promptly promised that she would.
Graham and his mother were talking very earnestly together when Sara
left them. She knew there would be much to discuss, and felt that they
would like to be alone.
Ina welcomed her rapturously.
"I can't tell you what it is to be back, I have so much to tell you.
Dear Aunt Anna has left me £500 a year. Just think of it! I can't
believe it. Why, I have never had a penny to call my own! But I
truthfully would rather have aunt back than enjoy her money; and, Miss
Darlington, I don't know what to do, nor where to go! She does not seem
to have expected me to stay on up there, and continue all my work, for
she has left all her philanthropic schemes to different people. Her
People's Clubs to the vicar, and her Rest Homes to her doctor, and I
believe Mr. Laird has been left nearly all the rest."
"Tell me about her," said Sara, gently; "did she know you?"
"Yes."
A flood of colour rose into the girl's cheeks.
"She was quite conscious, you know, and yet she spoke so strangely. I
hardly like to tell you. Mr. Laird was in the room, she sent for him
and for me together, and then she turned to him:
"'I leave her in your charge,' she said.
"And Mr. Laird nodded. Then she looked at me, and then her eyes went
back to him again.
"'I should like to think that you would both carry on some of my work
together,' she said, 'but Ina cannot live here alone.'"
"We were both absolutely silent, and she gave a little sigh."
"'Ah, well, I leave it to God,' she said. 'He will arrange for His own
work and raise up those whom He needs for it.'
"I did not see her again. She kissed me, and she whispered,—
"'I hope you will marry, Ina. I would not when I might, and a lonely
woman is sadly crippled in many ways. My work here has needed a man's
hand, and it has not had it.'"
"Now, don't you think it was strange of her to talk so?"
Sara did not reply.
Then Ina said impulsively—
"It was almost as if she wanted Mr. Laird to marry me. I could laugh at
the idea. She little knew how he worships the ground you tread upon!"
"Hush!"
Sara's tone was quick and peremptory.
"Don't hush me!"
The girl was sitting up in bed, she took Sara's hand and lifted it to
her lips and kissed it.
"There!" she said mischievously. "That's what he would give the world
to do, and a good deal more. Why, Miss Darlington, if you're out of
the room, he's always watching for you till you come again. Mrs. Laird
knows it as well as I do, and—and she's glad."
"I did not come up to you to hear nonsense."
Sara's head was lifted high. Ina was at once penitent.
"Forgive me; my tongue has run away with me. And I'm really aching
in my heart for dear Aunt Anna. Death seems to have swept my last
belonging away from me. I suppose, now I have money, I must learn to be
independent and live alone. But the money is a trust, is it not? How
and where shall I use it?"
"That you will be shown. Good night, dear. You are too tired to stay
awake talking. We shall have plenty of time for that to-morrow."
Sara left her, but she did not go downstairs at once. She stood on the
staircase looking out of a narrow window overlooking the hills. The
moon was just rising, the sky clear and full of stars. Sara's face
was wrapt and dreamy, she opened the casement window and let the keen
frosty night air fan her hot cheeks. Then after a time, her lips moved.
"It never could be!"
A heavy sigh followed; she shut the window quietly and descended the
stairs to the drawing-room.
Mrs. Laird—not Graham—looked up expectantly—
"Sara, come here. We must tell you. It may mean a great change in our
lives. My son has been left the whole of my cousin's colliery."
Sara was surprised. She turned to Graham.
"May I congratulate you?" she said.
"It's just as well to be tentative about it," he said looking at
her. "I don't know if it is a subject for congratulation. Though she
has left it to me unconditionally, I know that it has been more of a
burden than a blessing to my cousin. Wealth it may mean, but care and
responsibility, and a life no longer one's own!"
"You have never had that," said his mother, thoughtfully.
Her son looked at her quickly, then he gave her one of his rare smiles.
"My life with the one who loves me best in the world has been good to
live," he said.
Sara's eyes filled with quick unaccountable tears, as she thought of
the past dreary isolated years—the best of a man's life spent in and
about a sick-room. Then she said, with a little effort—
"Does it mean that you will have to live on your property?"
"I am afraid so."
"And I have told him I am willing to go with him anywhere," said Mrs.
Laird.
"I don't know why she has left it to me," Graham went on, "but she
tried to explain to me before she died. She would not leave it to her
nieces because she said they would spend the income on themselves and
on gaiety, and neglect her dear people. She would not leave it to Ina,
because she felt she was not strong enough for the burden of it. She
seemed to be looking back upon her own weakness; she said she had been
inefficient, and it needed a man's hand to keep things as they should
be.
"I tried to tell her that her principles were not mine. And then she
gave me—a text, I believe. Isn't it one, Miss Darlington? Something
like this,—
"'What does the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love
mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God'?
"And she said she had loved mercy, but not justice, and she had come to
see that men put that first in the same way that God did. I think that
was about the last thing she said to me—almost!"
His face softened as he spoke. A certain memory had touched him, but
that memory was sacred to himself and the one who had gone. Sara sat
absolutely silent. And then Mrs. Laird rose, and taking Sara's arm said
she was going to bed.
Far into the night Sara lay thinking. This quiet peaceful life was
coming to an end. What did the future hold in store for each one of
them? She thought a good deal of Mrs. Laird, and wondered how she would
bear the transplanting to a large manufacturing centre, to the bustle
and noise of a town life, after so many years of silence and isolation.
And then she thought of Graham. Would he be able to hold the property
given to him in the way that the late owner of it would approve? Did
he mean to spend most of his income—like his cousin—in benefiting the
colliers on his estate? Would he be able to carry on the religious work
connected with it?
Lastly she thought of herself. If Ina went back with them to Dalby,
surely she would naturally be his right hand in helping him with the
work on the estate, the work in which she had been engaged for so many
years? Surely it was natural that Miss Harrison should have built upon
the possibility of Graham and Ina coming together and taking a joint
part and interest in the property. In this case, would she be wanted?
Would not Mrs. Laird gradually learn to lean upon Ina? They were fond
of each other now. If she were away, they would draw still closer
together.
"My work is perhaps done. I should be more a hindrance than a help to
Miss Harrison's hopes if I accompanied them to Dalby."
This was her unspoken thought, and then she turned over on her pillow
with a prayer for guidance. She knew that prayer would be answered. But
she did not know that the answer was already on the way to her.
The next day Colonel Fleming came in with Graham to lunch. He had been
told the news, and his cheerful serenity had been somewhat disturbed.
When Sara went out into the garden to cover up her violet frame, he
followed her.
"I say, I want a talk with you. Can't we get away somewhere together
where we shan't be disturbed?"
Sara laughed.
"You sound very mysterious! Come down the lane with me. I want a little
exercise."
They went down the little winding lane towards the lake.
"I am struck all of a heap!" said the Colonel. "Do you think this will
answer? I can't fancy Graham owner of a colliery! I suppose he will
play his part there all right; but what about all these philanthropic
and religious bits of work connected with it? I asked him plump if he
was going to work it as it had been worked, and he said he hadn't the
faith of his cousin and wouldn't pretend he had, but as it was a point
of honour that nothing would drop, he hoped that you and Ina would run
the part that he couldn't. What astounds me is Mrs. Laird's placid
assent to being rooted out of her seclusion and planted down close to a
smoky manufacturing town. How will she do it? And then, where do I come
in? Am I to be left here alone? I'm not in love with this bit of the
country, you know, and my farm is a plaything. It doesn't really pay
its way. I'm too easy-going."
"You'll have to move up there too," said Sara.
"Upon my word I think I shall! I'm not fond of being alone. And Miss
Ina and I can still have some rides. What a game little creature she
is! And now I hear she's had a fat legacy left her! She deserves it,
I'm sure, but we mustn't let her work herself to skin and bone again.
What do you think about it all? I thought you were wonderfully silent
at lunch. Do you like the idea of the move?"
"I have not been asked to go yet," said Sara, slowly. "And I with you
have been pondering over all that this change will entail. I suppose it
is necessary to be shaken out of our ruts occasionally. But this has
been a very pleasant and comfortable rut to me, and I shall grieve to
part with my beloved lake, and these invigorating hills."
"Yes, yes, it won't be a change for the better. I hate factory
smoke—always did—and collieries are depressing. I'm wondering how
Graham will stand it. Old Ferris is in an awful stew over his going! I
met him, after he had been told this morning. He says he's never had
such an agent before, and never will again. But it won't hurt him to
miss Graham. He has been awfully rough on him at times. What do you
mean by being asked to go with them. You don't think that Mrs. Laird
could do without you, do you?"
"Yes," said Sara, quietly. "Ina is quite capable of taking my place."
"No, indeed," and the Colonel got quite excited. "She isn't strong
enough mentally or physically to cope with Mrs. Laird in her moods. And
she'll be plunging into all her old work again on the top of it. She
wants a home of her own, that little thing does, and some one to take
care of her."
Sara was amused at his concern, but dared not remark upon it. And then
after a little more talk they returned to the house.
Before the Colonel left, he announced his intention of accompanying the
household to Dalby.
"At least," he added, "if I don't actually come with you, I shall
follow on—can't stay here by myself. I'll look out some diggings up
there a few miles out from the town. Thank goodness there's an open
moor within reach, I know!"
Graham looked at him affectionately, but he said nothing. He knew that
he and Colonel Fleming were like a David and Jonathan for sticking
to each other; he accompanied him to the gate and there showed him a
little bit of his heart.
"You've been in dreary seclusion, old chap, all these years to make
life bearable to me. Now it's my turn, when you come up North, to make
it cheery and pleasant for you. And I warn you, I shall need an awful
lot of your time and brain to help me manage my bit of property in the
best way possible!"
It was about two hours later that Sara received a telegram. It was from
her brother.
"Can you come to me? In great trouble. Letter following.
"ARNOLD."
Sara spent a miserable evening and a sleepless night. She could not
think what had happened. She did not often hear from her brother, and
she feared that something must have gone wrong with his wife, who was
expecting her first baby in two months' time. It seemed extraordinary
to her at this juncture that she should receive a summons to town.
Mrs. Laird was as perturbed as she was.
But Ina, seeing Sara's real distress, came forward bravely—
"I promise to look after Mrs. Laird and take care of her till you come
back to us," she said; and Sara's face brightened.
In the morning the letter came, and Sara received it in her bedroom.
She sat for a time as if stunned by its contents.
Her brother's wife had died in giving birth to a little boy who arrived
two months before his time. The father was distracted; he turned at
once to the sister who had lived with him and done everything for him
for so many years, and he implored her to come to him and take charge
of his motherless child.
It seemed to Sara that God's guiding hand was in it all. She was not to
go to Dalby. She had had a strange presentiment that she should not go,
and now that presentiment proved true. Her heart ached for her brother,
but she had not known how strong were the ties that bound her to her
present life, until she was forced to leave it.
She knelt down and said from her heart,—
"Thy will be done."
And then she rose from her knees, if not comforted, at least
strengthened to take the path that stretched out in front of her.
She broke her news very gently to Mrs. Laird, who burst into tears and
clung hold of her pathetically.
"Am I to lose you altogether? Don't tell me so! But I must not stand
in your way. Of course an infant, especially a boy with all his
possibilities, is more important than an old woman fast nearing the end
of her journey. But oh, my dear Sara, you have been like a daughter
to me! And I feel that I cannot face a fresh life amongst strangers
without you by my side. What a dreadful blow it is! How shall we manage
the move without you? You see how selfish I am."
"I can't bear to go," acknowledged Sara, "but does it not seem as if
things have been arranged so as to keep you from missing me too much?
Ina is such a dear helpful girl and so fond of you. And she is very,
very capable, your son has told us that. She will do everything for
you. Dear Mrs. Laird, you will not be alone; you are leaning hard upon
the One Who will never leave or forsake you. You don't know how you
will be helped and guided through all that lies in front of you. And
then you have your son who is always such a tower of strength. Why, in
the face of all these, I am quite a superfluity."
Sara gave one of her happy laughs as she finished speaking, and Mrs.
Laird's careworn face lightened a little.
Ina took the news with courage, but there was blank dismay in her eyes.
And when Graham heard of it, he was almost angry in his remonstrances.
"Your brother can get somebody else to go to him. Why should he summon
you to him when we are all needing you at this time? Are you always to
be at his beck and call? He turned you out of your home, now he wants
you back again. But you are not bound to go!"
"Oh, Mr. Laird, you must remember he is my only brother. Think of the
helpless baby."
"What does a widower do who has no sister?"
He walked away from her as he spoke; he could not trust himself to
speak.
Sara found it would not be an easy matter to leave this new home of
hers and all who had learnt to value her. She wrote to her brother
saying she would come in a short time. She knew as long as the monthly
nurse stayed in the house there would be no immediate hurry. And then
she set to work to make all her necessary arrangements for the comfort
of Mrs. Laird when she should be gone.
After the first outcry, every one was very quiet. Mrs. Laird seemed to
be buoyed up by some secret hope. Ina was anxiously learning to take
Sara's place, and do all her little tasks of labour and love for the
old lady's welfare. And Graham was absorbed in winding up his estate
accounts, and in initiating a fresh agent into Sir Malcolm's affairs.
A fortnight passed, and then Sara came to her last day. In the
afternoon she went over the hills to say good-bye to Agnes Cleave.
The poor woman had tears in her eyes when she parted with her.
"You've brought me new life, miss, since you befriended me. Now I go
to church, and have no shrinking from any of those I used to know. And
I'd like you to know what a treasure my Bible is to me! And even father
listens and enjoys a chapter out of it the last thing every night. You
were quite right. You said the Bible would show me what the end of my
journey could be. And I'm looking forward in glad hope to it now."
"I'm so glad," said Sara. "And now you will try and instil that same
hope into your father's heart. Or rather ask that God Himself will do
it."
Agnes nodded.
"It's an awful blow—your going away! Won't you ever be in these parts
again?"
"Perhaps we may," said Sara; "who can tell? Will you write to me
sometimes, Agnes, and let me write to you?"
"I'm no scholar, but I'll be proud to do my best. May God bless you,
miss, for the sunshine you have brought to my soul!"