"MR. CARNELLY has walked with me from Hazelcourt, where I dropped in,
expecting to find Gracie and bring her home with me," said the rector,
as he entered the room. "He is leaving Hillstead to-morrow, and wished
to say 'good-bye' to you before setting out."
The rector hardly expressed Mr. Carnelly's wishes correctly, though
he was not to blame for this, inasmuch as he had been made only very
partially acquainted with them. It is probable that if the gentle
invalid lady at the rectory had possessed no daughter, Mr. Carnelly
would have been content to send a farewell message by her husband
instead of calling at this unorthodox hour to deliver it in person.
Mrs. Steyne held out a welcoming hand to the young man, and looked
not a little gratified by such a mark of attention, as she told Mr.
Carnelly that it was very good of him to take so long a walk for the
purpose.
"I assure you it has seemed a very short one to me," said he; "Mr.
Steyne's conversation is enough to beguile any walk of its length.
I could hardly believe we were here when we stopped at the gate. I
had a second object in calling, which was to convey a long string of
reproaches to Miss Steyne from our mutual friends at Hazelcourt."
He was shaking hands with Grace as he spoke, and there was a look of
gentle reproach on his face which seemed to say to the girl, "How could
you be so cruel as to disappoint me?"
"Yes, Gracie, and I have a budget of messages to the same effect. How
was it you never made your appearance? The Dixons all sent their love
and no end of regrets on account of your absence. What kept you at
home, my dear, when you had promised to go?"
"Not positively promised, father. I only said I would go if possible;
but it was not possible, and so I had to stay at home. I wished to go
very much indeed."
The look of reproach vanished from the visitor's countenance, driven
thence by this last sentence, which, though addressed to Mr. Steyne,
was a sufficient and satisfactory answer to its mute questioning. Grace
had not stayed away willingly in one sense; that was enough for Mr.
Carnelly.
"Whence arose the impossibility, Gracie?" inquired Mr. Steyne.
"Oh, there were ever so many things in combination, and, first and
foremost, old Miss Barber, who wanted to see you, must not see mamma,
and did see me, to the extent of the two longest hours I ever spent in
my life."
"My dear child, I am so sorry for you," said the rector in tones of
such genuine commiseration that his wife, Grace, and the visitor
laughed heartily in unison.
"I will never forgive Miss Barber, though I know her not," said Mr.
Carnelly, as soon as he could speak for laughing.
"Surely Miss Barber was not the sole offender," said the rector. "What
else hindered you, my child?"
"Ever so many things, quite too small to mention separately," said
Grace. "Let me see, the first was—"
"Watty's jacket," solemnly interposed Mr. Carnelly, with a look of
infinite amusement on his handsome face.
Grace's countenance scarcely reflected it. She was saying to herself,
"The girls must have told him. How unkind to go and proclaim at
Hazelcourt that I was forced to stay at home to mend my little
brother's tatters instead of going to a tennis party! They must have
wanted to make me look ridiculous."
The very idea that the friends she loved and trusted, or any one of
them, could have been thus unkind when her back was turned, stung the
girl to the quick, and she strove hard to keep back some rebellious
tears which threatened to put in an appearance.
Mr. Carnelly noticed the look of distress, and said, "Miss Steyne, I
must confess that I this afternoon quite unintentionally acted the part
of eavesdropper. You know the pretty summerhouse, the back of which
is close to the road? I was sitting there, when two groups of guests
coming to Hazelcourt met just behind the great holly hedge against
which stands the summerhouse. They paused for a moment to exchange
greetings, and, on one side, to inquire after a young lady who ought
to have been with the other group, but who, alas! was missing. I heard
nothing but kindly words and honest regrets when it was found that the
young lady was busy at home. But there was one inquirer who insisted
on knowing what the absentee was doing—I believe in the hope that she
could rush into her presence, take the work out of her hands, and
return with her in triumph—and the answer, was 'Mending Watty's jacket.'
"Miss Steyne, you may believe me or not, but those three words brought
a host of childish memories to my mind. In my early days I was an
incorrigible ragamuffin. My clothes would tear, no matter how new or
of what substantial material, and I had a very dragon of a nurse, who
objected to do more than a fair average of repairs. If my garments
needed more,—and they always did,—I paid for the extras in various
ways, such as being caned, imprisoned, or sent supperless to bed. I
had no mother, and my dear father—the greatest man of his generation
in his own line—had no time to do more than look in upon me now and
then. He saw me strong and healthy; he knew nothing of the discipline
I underwent at nurse's hands, and I was rather proud of being too much
of a man to complain. But I had a sister then, several years my senior,
though a mere girl. She used to stand between me and nurse's wrath, by
repairing my tattered jackets and other garments, and thus saving alike
my skin and my supper. Now you will understand why the allusion to
Watty's jacket roused such sympathetic memories."
It would have been impossible to keep up the least bit of formality
with Mr. Carnelly after this revelation, and Grace looked bravely
up, and confessed that she was not detained at home by one piece of
mending, but by the family accumulation which necessarily followed
the fortnightly wash. She had recovered all her courage after asking
herself why she need be ashamed of womanly work done for the comfort
of those who were nearest and dearest to her. And in this spirit, she
placed the piles of mended garments in the basket and sent them away to
the several rooms, then proceeded to carry out her father's hospitable
intentions with regard to supper.
"We can offer you nothing but what is of the simplest," said the
rector. "I generally take a cup of coffee or a plate of porridge.
Gracie joins me, and my wife has milk; but I daresay we can find you
something more substantial."
"Is it coffee or porridge to-night, Miss Steyne?" asked Mr. Carnelly,
with a grave interest that amused everybody. "If I dare express a hope,
I should say I am longing for porridge, because I like it, but seldom
get it."
"It is porridge," replied the girl, with a merry laugh, and troubling
herself no further about the bareness of the rectory larder. "You can
have bread and cheese in addition, if you like."
"I shall not like, unless I am stinted of porridge. I prefer mine
served in a soup plate, Miss Steyne. Will there be enough, do you
think?"
The pretended anxiety provoked further laughter, and it was a merry
little party which sat round the supper-table that evening.
In the midst of the meal, Mr. Steyne said, "I forgot to tell you,
Gracie, that I had a letter from Dr. Crawford to-day. He again asks if
there is any chance of your visiting Shelverton. He has often suggested
that you should renew your acquaintance with Steynes-Cote and make that
of his wife, who is but a very few year your senior. By the way, there
is a pretty little scented note for you enclosed with it," added the
rector, addressing his wife. "I forgot it until this moment." And he
began to search his pockets for the missive.
"I suppose you met the postman on your way to Hazelcourt?" said Mrs.
Steyne.
"Yes, and he gave me a couple of letters, Crawford's and one from a
clerical brother, to ask for an exchange of duties next Sunday. Here is
your note, my dear, inside the doctor's letter. You may as well read
both."
And the rector handed them to his wife, and then, turning to Mr.
Carnelly, said, "I wonder if you are related to Mrs. Crawford. She is
Lord Carnelly's only sister, and the name is not a common one."
"We are rather far-away cousins, I believe, though not in the least
acquainted. I wish I could make out a nearer relationship, and then
I should be able to trace some sort of family connection with the
Steynes, should I not?" asked the visitor.
"I am afraid we should have to make believe a great deal to arrive
at such a conclusion. Dr. Crawford is not related to us Steynes. He
was adopted by his uncle, the late Dr. Fereday, who married my cousin
Grace. He called his handsome house at Shelverton Steynes-Cote, after
the home where his wife's girlhood had been spent. In fact, it was a
somewhat reduced copy of the place which had passed from one generation
of Steynes to another for centuries past. My brother owns it now,
together with all the entailed property, which would have gone to Mrs.
Fereday if she had been of the right sex to inherit it."
"Those 'ifs' are always coming in the way, are they not? If Lord
Carnelly had no son, I believe I should be next in succession to his
title and the estates that go with it, but I am glad to know that he
has a large family."
"Mostly girls," said Mr. Steyne, "though there is one boy, if no more.
I have heard Crawford speak of them."
"Long life to father and son! I covet neither title nor lands; I
rejoice more in being my own father's son than I should do in being
heir to the oldest dukedom in the country, whichever it may be. Yet I
might have been 'Sir David' if my father had not chosen to live and die
plain 'Dr. Carnelly,' for the dear old man twice refused a baronetcy."
"I have been wondering whether you were a relative of the famous
doctor whose discoveries revolutionized one branch of medical science,
and have done so much to mitigate suffering. You may well be proud
of bearing a name so honoured," replied Mrs. Steyne, her pale face
lighting up as she spoke. "I am one amongst many who owe a debt of
gratitude to your father's devotion to his profession."
"It is very pleasant to know this," said Mr. Carnelly. "It seems I can
scarcely go anywhere without hearing of good that has resulted from
the lifelong labours of my father. A few months ago, I was in a remote
district in the Highlands, and the landlord of the little inn at which
I stayed for a week discovered my relationship to the 'great doctor,'
as he called my father. It seemed he had once been his patient, and
at some considerable cost of fatigue and convenience my father had
subsequently gone out of his way to assure himself of the man's
continued well-being. He so overflowed with gratitude at the memory of
these bygone services, that he manifested it in a somewhat inconvenient
way, for when the time of my departure came, he would not receive a
penny at my hands. He declared, with tears in his eyes, that it had
afforded him the greatest pleasure to shelter the son of the man to
whose skill he owed his life.
"Just fancy, Mrs. Steyne, what my feelings were, for I knew that
my host had been put to considerable expense and trouble to obtain
various dainties, quite foreign in that out of the way district, for my
special refection, and neither by fair means nor foul could I succeed
in leaving behind me any acknowledgment of his hospitality," added Mr.
Carnelly.
"I should think your feelings would be, in a sense, very enviable ones,
though perhaps a little mixed, on account of the thought of obligations
unexpectedly incurred. I can understand the satisfaction experienced by
your Highland entertainer, for it is a great pleasure to me to see you
this evening, not only for your own sake, but because I, too, though
less directly, am indebted to your father," said Mrs. Steyne.
"You will have no undue sense of obligation on account of the
entertainment we have offered you," remarked the rector, with a smile.
"If I had only known who was to be our guest, I might have vied with
the innkeeper, and spread our table sumptuously for your benefit, in
place of which you have been offered a plate of porridge."
"But it was a soup plate, father," said Grace, with an attempt at
looking demure, whilst her eyes were sparkling with fun.
"And please to note that it is now empty," remarked Mr. Carnelly; "a
sufficient proof that the porridge was duly appreciated."
Grace's proposal to replenish the plate was received with a good deal
of laughter, as also was a further offer of bread and cheese, and an
allusion to cold mutton in the background.
Afterwards, the conversation turned again upon the visitor's family,
and he said, "You will wonder that I know almost nothing about the
present Viscount Carnelly. But the fact is, that there was some quarrel
between our several grandfathers, and these having drifted apart,
their descendants never came together again. Perhaps you, Miss Steyne,
might be the means of bridging over the gap," continued Mr. Carnelly,
addressing Grace. "If you were to visit Mrs. Crawford, my cousin thrice
removed, you might let her know that she possesses a kinsman of whose
existence she is probably ignorant."
Grace had never hitherto troubled herself about the oft-repeated
invitations to Steynes-Cote, which had usually been from Dr. Crawford
himself, though in his wife's name, as well as his own. But on this
occasion, she manifested considerable interest in the contents of Mrs.
Crawford's little perfumed note, and, after reading it, said, "I should
like to go, only I know you could not spare me, mother dear."
"I think we must try, Gracie," said the rector, "if only to keep
you from being inordinately puffed up with the idea that you are
indispensable here."
The girl returned her father's look of love with interest. He might
jest a little, but she knew that no effort of hers passed unnoticed, no
act of self-denial was under-valued by the parents for whose comfort
she cheerfully sacrificed so many of the innocent enjoyments for which
a young heart naturally yearns. Still, it would be pleasant to have a
little change just for once, if it could be managed without harm to the
dear mother. She had been a great deal better lately, and the doctor
had spoken encouragingly as to the future.
There were only the four youngest children at home, and the baby of
the family was five years old. There was Sarah Robinson, too, an old
servant of theirs, who had left to be married when Grace was just in
her teens, and whose loss her mother had never ceased to regret. Sarah
had come back to Hillstead Magna a childless widow, with a few pounds
a year as a nest-egg, but not enough to live upon. She would have to
do something to eke out her income. Doubtless her services would be
available at the rectory during Grace's absence, if she should pay the
long talked of visit to Steynes-Cote.
All these thoughts passed rapidly through the girl's mind, and seemed
to bring an affirmative reply to Mrs. Crawford's note within the bounds
of probability. And yet, if the invitation had arrived the day before,
Grace would have dreamed of nothing but a grateful refusal.
What could have brought about this change of mind? What had induced
Grace to plan how she might leave home without any serious qualms
of conscience? Her circumstances and surroundings had undergone no
alteration since yesterday. Could Mr. Carnelly be responsible for
this sudden change of inclination in Grace herself? He had made a
half-joking suggestion that she should act as mediator in bringing
together two kinsfolk hitherto estranged. Did Grace mean to act upon
the hint, and, in all seriousness, set herself to carry it into
practice?
Better not analyze the girl's motives too closely. Perhaps she thought
it would be a good deed to make these distant cousins into friends at
least. And—who knows?—perhaps in the process the acquaintance between
Mr. Carnelly and herself, so brief thus far, and yet so pleasant, might
grow into friendship, or something dearer still.
Things do not take long a thinking, and all these passed with rapid
flight through Grace Steyne's mind before the visitor rose to depart,
after saying "Good-night and good-bye."
"Then you really leave Hazelcourt to-morrow?" asked Mr. Steyne.
"Yes, I must move on, notwithstanding a kind invitation to stay longer.
But though I have nothing to call me anywhere, I will not outstay my
welcome, because I want, for more reasons than one, to visit this
neighbourhood again."
Mr. Carnelly looked at Grace as he said these words, and then he passed
out into the moonlight, and Grace felt as though the lamp had become
dim, and the cosy room less cheerful than usual.
[Illustration]