A happy woman
him and loving him, even if he has left off loving me. And I shall see
him once more, and I shall have the memory of it afterwards."
Tuesday came, and between three and four, Graham came into Sara's
drawing-room leading little True by the hand.
The child seemed to make the situation easy at once. She flung her arms
round Sara's neck.
"Isn't it lovely what's happening? Me leaving school and always going
to live with Dad and Grannie! And we've done some shopping. And I
choosed some new gloves for Dad, and we're taking Grannie a beautiful
basket to put her knitting in, with cherries hanging over it."
"Shopping is a tremendous undertaking with True," said Graham, his
eyes alight with humour: "she thinks that every shopwalker and all the
assistants ought to gather round and witness our purchases."
"I made Dad get some new gloves," said True, shaking her curls at him
in a motherly fashion. Then she darted to his side, and plunged her
hand into one of his coat pockets. Drawing out a stout, well-worn
leather pair of gloves, she held them up before Sara to see.
"Now, did you ever see such disgusting, shabby gloves?" she cried.
"Grannie and me has to look him all over to see he is tidy when he
comes to church with us!"
Sara's laughing eyes met Graham's.
"Yes," he said; "I'm well managed, I can tell you!"
He sat down and took True on his knee. The little girl subsided when
her stepfather and Sara began to talk to each other, but at last she
said in suppressed excitement—
"Miss Darling, may I see your dear little baby? Dad says he hasn't seen
him, but we both know him by his picture. I know you aren't his real
mother now. Grannie explained it to me. I thought you know that—"
But Sara had hastily risen, and rung the bell.
"Yes, True darling, you shall see him at once. I will have him brought
down. He is getting quite a big boy now."
Little Oliver appeared in his nurse's arm. He struggled to get to Sara,
and when in her lap, True advanced to make friends with him. He was
quite willing to be friends, and presently he scrambled down to the
floor, where he crawled very quickly towards Sara's guitar case.
"Moo, moo, moo!" he called out.
"There, isn't that clever?" cried Sara in delight. "He's beginning to
talk already. He loves music, and I play and sing to him when he comes
down. Now he quite expects it."
"Don't disappoint him," said Graham. "True and I would like to hear
you."
For a moment, Sara hesitated, then she opened her case. The baby sat on
the floor looking up expectantly.
And then she broke into one of her pretty gay little songs called
"Fairybells."
The tinkles of the bells were so realistic that True laughed and
clapped her hands, and the baby joined her, beating his hands on the
floor.
Graham looked on. If this visit was enjoyed by Sara, to him it was a
dream of delight.
"Ah!" he said. "We must tell Grannie about that song, True."
He asked Sara to sing again, and she did so, and then tea came in.
True hardly wanted to have hers. She was so engrossed in playing with
the baby on the floor that she wanted nothing else. And when his
nurse came in to take him away, she parted with him with the greatest
reluctance.
"I wish you and baby would come and visit us," she said, when at last
she was seated up at the table enjoying some jam sandwiches.
"Dad, dear, she'd come if you asked her, I expect."
But Graham shook his head gravely.
"I have asked her already and she has refused me. And I don't like to
be refused anything that I set my heart upon, True. Perhaps one day I
may ask her again, and then she may say 'Yes.'"
"And when she comes, we'll never let her go again," cried True, gaily.
Sara blushed, and she was conscious that Graham noted her blush.
"Baby's father wants us both," she said in a cheerful tone. "I have my
brother to look after, just as you look after Dad, True."
"Have you reely? Is he as untidy as Dad? I'm always tidying his
pockets, and his writing-table."
They talked away, and then Graham carried True off with him to his
hotel. They were going to start for the North early the next morning.
Good-bye was hard to say, and Sara's voice faltered a little as she
sent love and messages to Mrs. Laird and Ina.
Graham held her hand in his as if he could not let it go, but his words
were few—
"Good-bye. If ever I am up in town again, may I come and see you?"
"Of course. I am always glad to see old friends."
She could not, and would not, meet his gaze.
When they had gone, she sat wrapt in dreamy meditation. And it was not
till her brother came in and claimed her attention that she roused
herself.
The next few days found her restless and preoccupied. Then, happily for
her, she heard from May, asking her if she could have her for a short
visit, and Sara brightened up again, and prepared to welcome her warmly.
May arrived late one afternoon. Arnold did not see her till she came
into the drawing-room before dinner. She swept in with her usual
proud graceful carriage. She was clad in a thin, black gown, which
intensified the whiteness of her neck and arms. Her hair was coiled up
on the top of her head. She wore no jewelry of any sort, but she was a
girl who could not fail to be noticed anywhere. And her easy grace, and
clever, amusing talk, made her always a favourite with men. Sara was
not surprised to see her brother fall under her spell.
May had lost the harassed look of gloom that she had after her father's
death. She gave Sara an amusing account of her brother's efforts to
understand and manage his tenants.
"I came across him one day haranguing a very uppish farmer. They were
both red in the face, and were going at it hammer and tongs.
"'I tell you,' Alan was shouting, 'I may not know as much about soil
and mangels as you do, but I do know that you've one of the best farms
on the property, and are putting by more money than most of us about
here. My father knew what a fair rent was, and I'm not going to reduce
it by one penny!'
"They stopped when I came up. I asked Alan afterwards if it was nice to
show such heat in discussing such matters with a tenant, and he said:
"'Only to hide my ignorance, my dear. I'm not going to let them
browbeat me! And as to shouting, we all shout at sea, it's second
nature!'
"Oh, he'll get on with them soon. And I feel that you are right, Sara.
It is best that I should leave him to weather it out alone."
"Have you made any plans yet?" asked Sara.
"I want to do something in town. Work of some sort."
"What a passion you all have for work nowadays!" said Arnold. "Why have
you such abundant energy? Women used not to possess it."
"I suppose we are stronger, physically," said May, thoughtfully. "And
our schools train us in a wider way, and give us a broader outlook,
and a higher idea of our capabilities. I am not one of those who would
leave home to work. But my home has left me. And I can't sit down with
folded hands and do nothing. I have led a very active life at home, and
I want to be active still."
"So many girls come to London to find work," said Arnold. "I see scores
of them going about the city. Typewriting and clerking gives them
stooping shoulders and weary-lined faces—old before their time. If I
were your brother, Miss Agnew, I would not allow you to do it."
"There speaks a despot," said May, laughing; "how could you prevent me?"
"I have prevented Sara. She had those ideas when we first left home,
but I persuaded her that I was going to the bad living alone in town.
So she swallowed the bait, and settled down with me as meek as Moses!"
Sara laughed.
"Yes, he is right in what he says, May. But men are very helpless
without women to look after them; and I have learnt that filling empty
corners and helping those who need help is as much work as anything
else."
"Yes," said May, her expressive dark eyes shadowing a little, "but then
nobody wants me. I have no empty corner to fill."
Arnold had been standing at the open window as he talked. He now
stepped out upon the balcony, and gazed with troubled brooding eyes
over the quiet square in front of his house.
"I wonder," he said to himself, "whether I dare to hope that she might
fill mine."
May had not been with them a week before her cousin, Captain Talbot,
discovered her, and came round to take her out. She was away the best
part of one day with him, and came back in very low spirits.
Sara and she were dining alone that evening. Arnold was out.
When they were in the drawing-room together after dinner, May said—
"Aren't men tiresome, Sara? I think I must tell you. My cousin asked me
to marry him this afternoon. I have always been very fond of him as a
cousin, but nothing more. Now this spoils everything. I hoped to see a
good deal of him when I was up here. I have other relations, but they
are very gay; I never do care much for incessant amusement, and just
now, of course, I should not go anywhere. I had made up my mind that
Charlie and I would do several little quiet expeditions together, and
now that is all over. I have lost my cousin and my friend."
"Don't you really care for him?" asked Sara, sympathetically. "I only
saw him that one evening, but I thought he seemed such a delightful
man."
"Not as a husband. I know him too well. I feel very down to-night,
Sara. Will you sing to me? It is so desolate to be without a home,
isn't it? I feel I can never settle in town. It's far lonelier than the
country. I have absolutely no object in life. If only I had, I should
be happier."
Sara got up to get her guitar.
Then she sang very sweetly and softly—
"I've been to the familiar places,
The dear old ways;
But there were no familiar faces
That met my gaze.
The green woods were too lonely,
I, there alone,—I only.
"I climbed among the mountain ridges
Beyond the town,
And on its crowded streets and bridges
Looked sadly down.
The mountain was too lonely,
I stood alone,—I only.
"But looking up, not down, Faith traces
A City Fair,
And sees the dear, familiar faces
That gather there;
None stand deserted, lonely,
Yet still my own,—mine only.
"And strange! while gazing on that City
New life is found,—
My heart is filled with yearning pity
For men around.
I must not enter lonely,
Nor bring one,—one only.
"I will go forth, to sinners telling
That Christ has come,—
I will go forth, by love compelling
The wanderers home;
Pointing the lost and lonely
To Christ alone,—Christ only!" *
* S. L. F., _Lyra Christiana._
There was dead silence when the last note died away.
May sat in a dusky corner of the drawing-room, and she was shading her
eyes with her hand. At last, she broke the silence.
"I can't think where you get your songs from! You have one suitable for
every occasion."
Her words were lightly spoken, but there was a little break in her
voice. Then in a gentler tone she added—
"I do like that immensely, Sara; you live the last verse out, and
I'd like you to know that you haven't pointed in vain as far as I'm
concerned. But I can't imagine myself taking up that role; I know so
little, I am so ignorant. I only know that beneath all the loneliness
and sorrow, I have real deep peace and assurance that I belong to
Christ and that He loves me."
"Dear May, the rest will follow. You need not try to teach before you
have learnt, but you will soon realize the compelling force of love. I
hoped that you were happier. But I waited till you felt you could tell
me about it."
"It's intensely comforting," said May, slowly, "but oh, I have such a
longing for father. Sara, do you believe that we can hold no communion