IT is doubtful whether Lord Carnelly felt equally happy with his
friend, when, Andrew Crawford having departed, he began to think over
the subject, of their conversation. He was divided between his wish
for Ida to marry well, his anxiety for her happiness, his regard for
Dr. Crawford, and his doubts as to what Lady Carnelly would say when
she heard the news. He had an uncomfortable notion that, while his
wife would not be sorry to get rid of her sister-in-law, she would be
dissatisfied with the means which were to bring about such a result.
Doubtless, Lady Carnelly's pride would rebel against the thought of
Ida's marriage with Dr. Crawford. And yet, had there been a prospect of
the girl's making a brilliant match in the opinion of the world, she
would probably have been no better pleased.
The colonel pondered, and at last caught himself exclaiming aloud, "I
will tell her nothing about it. There is to be no positive engagement,
so what is there to tell? Ida is only a little over nineteen; many
things happen in a couple of years, and this marriage may never come
off."
With so many doubts on his mind as to the wisdom of sanctioning the
connection between Dr. Crawford and his sister, Lord Carnelly may be
pardoned if he already began to calculate probabilities. Just as before
he had pushed aside the thought of jarring elements between his wife
and sister, and trusted to time for making them better friends, so he
now looked to the future to solve whatever he found difficult in the
new state of affairs.
It was, however, hardly likely that what had passed would long remain a
secret from Lady Carnelly. She was too sharp-sighted, and her husband
too easy-going and too much accustomed to consult her about everything,
for this to be the case. But before there was time for the matter
to furnish food for gossip to outsiders or disagreements under the
colonel's roof, Andrew Crawford received a communication from home
which altered all his plans.
A few hours after his interview with Lord Carnelly, a letter arrived
from Dr. Fereday, who wrote in the deepest distress. His wife had met
with an accident whilst out driving, and after three days of great
suffering, it had ended fatally.
"Get leave and come home at once, if possible, and arrange to quit the
army. I am alone, and I want you terribly, Andrew, my dear boy. I have
only you on earth to look to for support and comfort now I have lost
Grace," wrote the old doctor. "You will not fail me in my hour of great
trouble."
The news was a terrible shock to Andrew Crawford. Mrs. Fereday had
been as a mother to him, and amongst the things he had specially named
to Ida had been this, "You will have one of the best and kindest of
friends in my aunt, who is all that any girl could desire in a mother."
Now she was gone, and his uncle alone with his great sorrow, whilst
he was questioning himself whether he had not been ungrateful in ever
leaving those who had taken him in his early days to their hearts and
home. There was no time for regrets, and there could be no question
as to present duty. He must obey the summons, return at once to
England, and—here came the trial—leave Ida to the tender mercies of her
sister-in-law.
To Miss Carnelly the news proved a rude awakening from a brief dream
of happiness. The thought of Andrew's affection and presence had made
her feel so strong to bear for the future the petty annoyances to which
she was daily subjected. Without him, they would be harder to endure
than ever; yet Ida was the first to bid him hasten his departure. And
Lord Carnelly arranged for his immediate leave of absence, mentally
rejoicing that nothing had been said to link his sister's name with
that of Dr. Crawford.
"Better still that the thing should be kept quiet, as you have to go,
though I am dreadfully sorry to lose you, Crawford, and specially under
such trying circumstances," said the colonel.
And the speaker meant it, though he added to himself, "It is really
wonderful how things have turned out. Most likely his going will prove
to be all for the best, as he cannot again return to his duties in the
regiment."
Andrew Crawford knew this as well as the colonel. The leave of absence
was only preparatory to giving up his post. There could be no doubt as
to his sphere of work and duty in the future.
The colonel did not, however, know that this trouble had also a bright
side for Dr. Crawford. The former was rather congratulating himself on
the turn affairs had taken, whilst full of sympathy for his friend's
trouble.
The doctor, on the other hand, whilst deeply lamenting the death of his
aunt, knew that it had greatly increased the chances in favour of his
own early marriage. What more likely than that Dr. Fereday would wish
his nephew to bring a wife to the beautiful home rendered desolate by
so sad and sudden a mischance?
The regiment would be recalled to England within a year, and this would
bring back the Carnellys. Ida would still be under age, and they might
have to wait her guardian's pleasure. There was every chance that
he would be able, in the meanwhile, to arrange all for the fitting
reception of his young wife at Shelverton.
All these probabilities Dr. Crawford managed to whisper into Ida's ear
before he said the last farewell, and they cheered the girl greatly.
She managed to keep a calm face, and to hide from outsiders what the
parting cost her.
The colonel made his adieus, and took off his wife, in most diplomatic
fashion and at some considerable pecuniary sacrifice, to select an
article of jewellery for her birthday present. The doctor's farewells
were uninterrupted, and he started on his homeward way, not without
some qualms, when he thought of the indefinite nature of the bond
between him and Miss Carnelly. Would she remain stedfast, should
some other suitor appear who possessed greater worldly advantages,
especially if her present home were rendered less endurable by the
persecutions of her sister-in-law?
So much might happen in a year, he thought, and the rosy tint faded
from his mental vision. For once, Andrew Crawford began to speculate
on probabilities, after the fashion of his friend the colonel. But
whereas the latter generally did it in the hope of extrication from
difficulties, the doctor, contrary to his custom, found himself looking
at the dark side of the prospect before him.
Lady Carnelly was soon to have a new experience. She became sensible of
a change in Ida, for which she could not account, and which was rather
to be felt than defined. Some subtle influence was at work in the
girl's mind, which served as a shield against all her usual weapons.
She tried in vain to discover what it was, and only came to the one
conclusion—that her power over her sister-in-law was at an end.
Where once Ida would have given way to a childish fit of weeping,
she was now either indifferent or would smile quietly, as if at some
happy thought which acted as an antidote to the taunting words. Where
formerly she might have been provoked into a fit of temper as childlike
as her tears, she would preserve an almost contemptuous silence; or, if
she spoke at all, she would retort in a good-humoured way, and yet with
sufficient point to prove that, in a wordy war, Lady Carnelly must no
longer count on coming off conqueror.
At the same time, Ida showed no increased desire for gay society, no
wish to outshine her sister-in-law, but was, if anything, more retiring
than before. What could all these things mean?
Never before had Lady Carnelly been so puzzled. Not for a moment did
she associate Dr. Crawford with the change in Ida. His sudden departure
prevented her from seeing them together after the mutual revelations of
that last evening.
Only two were in the secret, and the lips of both were sealed.
Correspondence was not forbidden, but the doctor's letters were to come
enclosed to Lord Carnelly.
"Let us keep the whole affair to ourselves. If you want to talk about
Crawford, talk to me," said the colonel.
And the girl, who had made no feminine confidante, was satisfied with
this arrangement. Had the doctor remained on the spot, Ida's innocent
happiness would have told the tale, if nothing else had. Under present
circumstances, silence was not only possible but preferable.
One good resulted from Ida's changed manner. Lady Carnelly, who was
just the person to despise and play upon a too yielding nature, was
at first puzzled by the new manifestation in her sister-in-law's
character, and then learned in some degree to respect her for it.
Consequently the two became better friends, and, despite Andrew's
departure, Ida was much happier than she had been during her first year
in India. Her present life was brighter, and she looked forward to a
still more blessed future.
Dr. Crawford lost no time on the road, being eager to give his uncle
all the support and comfort in his power. He was, however, quite
unprepared for the change which had taken place in his relative.
When he left Shelverton, Dr. Fereday was a fine-looking, hale man, in
the very prime of life, still who seemed to have many of his best years
before him. Andrew Crawford now saw him bowed in figure and broken down
in health, and learned for the first time that when his aunt received
the fatal injury, her husband had also been seriously hurt. The effects
of the accident, joined to grief for his wife's loss, had aged him
before his time.
"Thank God you are back, dear boy!" said Dr. Fereday, as he clasped
his nephew's hand, and looked at the young man's face, bronzed beneath
a tropical sun. "You are just in time, Andrew; I shall see you well
settled in the old nest before I have to leave it. You will stay with
me now. You have gained experience enough, and Shelverton folk will be
proud of their travelled doctor. The old one will have to hide his head
when the young one comes."
"I ought never to have left you, uncle," replied Andrew. "I hope to
work under and with you for the future, and for many years to come."
"You wish it, lad, I know, but you will not long hope for it. But time
enough to talk of this."
And the old man began to speak of changes in the place and
neighbourhood, and to receive in turn accounts of his nephew's doings.
"You must look round for a wife, Andrew. We have plenty of bonnie
lasses, and good ones too, here in Shelverton."
A look on Andrew's face stopped him, and he added, "I believe the lad
has left his heart behind him."
"I shall be twenty-nine next birthday, uncle, but always a lad to you
in duty and affection. Under God, I owe all to you. I wish to have no
secrets from you, or plans in which I cannot ask for your sanction and
blessing. You are right in thinking that my affections are given and
returned. The affair was but a few hours old when I was summoned home,
so I could not write, but I should have made you acquainted with it
before I slept."
Then Dr. Crawford told his tale, to which his uncle listened with quiet
attention.
"My dear Andrew, can you be in earnest?" he asked, when Dr. Crawford
paused. "Or have you been quite candid with the young lady and her
friends? Does she understand what will be her position as your wife? It
seems out of all course for such a girl as you describe, the sister of
a viscount, and with a sort of handle to her name, to become the mate
of a country doctor."
"I have done my best to make everything plain, both to Ida and her
brother."
"But you say she is coming to England next year, and she will be
introduced to society, presented at Court, no doubt, and will see life
under very different aspects from anything she is now acquainted with.
Possessed of so many attractions, she will be admired and sought people
in her own rank. Will she be contented to give up all these so-called
advantages for your sake?"
The young man's face fell as he listened to his uncle's common-sense
way of putting things.
"I said all this to myself hundreds of times, and as often came to
the conclusion that I would not speak, whatever silence might cost
me. You know how it happened that I broke my resolution, and now I do
not regret it. I am sure Ida loves and trusts me. She has not been
very happily placed, and, as to fortune, many of our bonnie Shelverton
lasses have portions far larger than will come to Ida Carnelly. Her
tastes are simple, she cares little for gaieties, and I honestly
believe would be happy as my wife. God helping me," he reverently
added, "I will give her all the love and care that a true heart can
bestow, and which she so well deserves. And, uncle, my Aunt Grace was
an example that a country doctor's wife may have every charm that could
fittingly adorn the highest position. No duchess in the land was ever a
truer gentlewoman, or shed a sweeter, purer influence around her than
she did who was mistress of your home, and a mother to me."
Andrew Crawford's voice trembled, and his uncle was greatly moved.
"You are right, my boy," he said. "If my Grace were not too good, your
Ida cannot be. I have nothing to say against her if you and she have
made up your minds. I hope I may be spared to see you married, and
with the prospect of living 'happy ever after.' This old house will
not be a bad place to bring a wife to, when you have modernized some
lesser matters, and put in new knickknacks. Your aunt has left you the
contents of her 'stocking,' Andrew, and I have not been the doctor of
Shelverton all these years without putting something by for my adopted
son. So far as pounds, shillings, and pence go, you will be more than
a match for the Honourable Ida Carnelly, and with a good prospect of
keeping her in comfort."
There was a glad look on the kind though worn face of the speaker. From
such a warm, unselfish heart as that of Dr. Fereday, there might well
come a glow to his benevolent countenance, as he promptly unfolded his
plans for Andrew's welfare.
What could Dr. Crawford do but press the kind hand extended, as if
to ratify the bargain, and thank his uncle with all his heart? From
Fereday's words, he understood that his aunt had saved a sum which was
by no means insignificant from her ample income and that eventually
his uncle's professional gains and private means, together with the
practice, would devolve upon him.
Dr. Fereday stopped the thanks which Andrew tried to utter, and told
him that he hoped to get more than an equivalent.
"You must persuade Miss Carnelly to come to us soon, my boy. I shall
want her to sit here in the mornings, and look after the old man
when the young doctor is off on his rounds. If she is like what you
describe, she will be gentle and patient, and not grudge an hour's
company to me when she has no better. You remember how your aunt used
to sit, just because it pleased me, while I lingered over my breakfast
and my paper, Andrew. Nobody can be like Grace, but your wife may bring
much sunshine back to Steynes-Cote. I hope I may be spared to see it
for a little while."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]