"PERHAPS this letter will give you promise of a girl visitor, Ida,"
said Dr. Crawford, as he handed one to his wife about a fortnight after
Jean Graham's departure. "I see the postmark is Hillstead Magna."
The doctor looked pleased, but Ida remarked, "After asking Miss Steyne
so many times, it would not do to put off her visit, but I rather hope
she may not have fixed to come before Jean returns."
"I was hoping she would come soon, dear, for I thought, with Jean
and the Prattelys away, you would feel a little at a loss for
companionship, and be more pleased to see Grace Steyne."
Grace's letter did, however, announce her willingness to come to
Shelverton almost immediately.
"I cannot tell you," she wrote, "how much I am reckoning on seeing
Steynes-Cote once more. It was a perfect paradise to me in the old
days, when Aunt and Uncle Fereday were living. I have been so long
hoping to revisit it, and have so often been obliged to refuse the
kind invitations sent through my father, that now I can scarcely
believe myself free to accept yours, dear Mrs. Crawford. However,
matters have been so arranged that I can leave my dear invalid mother
without anxiety, and, unless I hear from you that the time would be
inconvenient, I hope to reach Shelverton on Thursday afternoon, by the
3.40 train."
"That will be the day after to-morrow," said Dr. Crawford, as Ida
paused after reading aloud this portion of Grace Steyne's letter. "You
will send her a line to say that she shall be met at the station, will
you not, my dear?"
"Yes, I suppose I must," replied Ida in a rather hesitating tone. Then,
seeing a look of disappointment on Dr. Crawford's face, she added, "Do
not think that I shall be unwilling to meet and welcome Grace Steyne,
Andrew. It was only the thought of Jean's absence which made me suggest
that a few days later would have suited better. When the principal
servant is away, she cannot fail to be missed."
"Grace Steyne will be less surprised at the absence of one than at
the number still remaining," said Dr. Crawford. "The establishment at
Hillstead Rectory is by no means extensive, so far as servants go."
"I will send a line to Grace at once, Andrew. Do you think I can have
the carriage for Thursday afternoon, when I go to meet her?"
"Certainly, dear," replied the doctor, and then hurried away to keep an
engagement.
From the above conversation, it will be understood that the Steynes'
old servant, Sarah Robinson, had been found willing to stay at the
rectory, and perform the manifold duties which usually fell to Grace's
share, during the girl's absence. Mrs. Crawford had not been very
anxious to invite Grace. The old, unreasoning prejudice which prevented
her from calling her child after Mrs. Fereday had not died away, and
she was not prepared to like the coming guest better because she bore
the objectionable name.
But the very first sight of her visitor's face impressed Ida most
favourably. She led the way to the pretty room which Grace was to
occupy, and saw with pleasure the glad expression on the girl's
countenance as the door was opened.
"Did you know that it was in this room I always slept when at
Steynes-Cote?" she asked. Then, before Ida had time to answer, she
continued, "But how could you know? Dr. Crawford was almost always
absent when I stayed here."
"You forget; I had Jean Graham to enlighten me," replied Mrs. Crawford,
pleased at her guest's manifest delight.
"You asked, then, and you gave me this room on purpose! Thank you so
much, dear Mrs. Crawford."
Acting on the impulse of the moment, Grace raised herself on tiptoe and
lifted her bright face for a kiss. She was not nearly so tall as her
graceful hostess, and Ida had a very queenly carriage, but she bent
a laughing face to that of the girl, and gave her the welcoming kiss
which she had not offered when she first met her young guest. It would
have been impossible to preserve any stateliness of manner with Grace
Steyne.
Before she had been an hour at Steynes-Cote, Ida found herself
rejoicing in such cheery companionship, and hoping that she might
retain it for some time to come.
Refreshments were offered to the new arrival, but Grace declined to
take even a cup of tea.
"I need nothing, thank you," she said; "I had lunch—it was really our
dinner, you know—just before I left Hillstead, and a twenty miles'
railway ride cannot be called a journey. I travel so little that it
was quite a treat to be in a railway carriage, and, but that I was so
anxious to see Steynes-Cote again, I should have wished that I was
going to travel a greater distance."
"Not a cup of tea?" said Mrs. Crawford, again bent on hospitality.
"Every one takes one now-a-days in the early afternoon."
"We do not," replied Grace. "At home, an early cup of tea would bring
the meals much too close together, so we never make it except for
callers who dine late. We dine at half-past one, to suit the children
who go to school; and then we have proper tea at a quarter before six,
and supper for the elders at nine."
"Who are the elders?" asked Ida.
"My father, mother, and myself, except on Sunday nights, when we have
supper—a very simple one—directly after church, and then the four
youngest are allowed to sit up too. This is the grand treat of the
week, so it comes at the close of the best day."
Ida was struck with these last words, and the simple picture they
brought before her eyes, but she made no direct reply to them. She
could not help noticing that Grace's eyes were perpetually wandering
towards the window, and that there was a wistful, longing expression in
them, the reason of which she was not slow to guess.
"Grace," she said, dropping the "Miss Steyne" with which she first
greeted the girl, "I do believe you are longing to have a race round
the grounds and to renew your acquaintance with old favourite nooks.
Will you put on your bonnet, and see as much as possible before dusk?"
"Thank you very much. You have read my two wishes, for I was possessed
by a double longing, and granted both. The first was that you would
call me by my Christian name; second, that you would suggest a run
round the grounds. I have a third wish now."
"Is it for loneliness or companionship?" inquired Ida, with the
charming look and smile which every one found irresistible.
"Companionship, of course, if I may have yours," said Grace; "only I
hope you will not mind my talking a good deal, for at home there are so
many of us that I am afraid I get into the way of chattering too much."
"And I, as a rule, have almost too little company. Make haste, dear.
The late September evenings grow chilly, and we must make the best of
our time."
Grace ran for her hat, a thing she seldom troubled to put on when
merely going into the rectory grounds, and quickly joined Ida, who had
merely thrown a light Shetland shawl over her head and shoulders, and
was waiting for her on the step.
It was hard to tell which looked the more girlish of the two as they
went down from the terrace, Grace's arm resting on that of her young
hostess, and her eyes sparkling with delight, as she recognised some
favourite tree or resting-place, never forgotten during years of
absence.
"I am afraid the grounds are not quite so pretty as they were," said
Mrs. Crawford. "I have no doubt you will discover this more and more."
Grace had already noted changes which were not improvements, but she
could truthfully say, "They are very beautiful still. If there were
only the trees and the grass, they must be that; but I think some parts
look a little wilder than they used to do."
At first she was nearly saying that they looked neglected; but she
chose the softer word, and Ida replied, "Yes, the whole place has a
wilder look, the result of having less time and labour expended on it.
I am very sorry for this myself; but Andrew thought our establishment
too large, and by way of lessening it, he dismissed our regular
gardeners, and arranged with a nursery-man in the neighbourhood to keep
the place in order. I am afraid the result will be anything but order.
However, my husband seems to think that the man is honest, and will
give a fair return for the money he receives."
Grace knew far more about ways and means than did Mrs. Crawford, and
at once judged that Dr. Crawford must have made the change alluded to
rather from necessity than choice. She could not imagine that he would
become careless about preserving the beauty of the gardens, which had
been the pride of his uncle's heart and the constant delight of Mrs.
Fereday. With this thought in her mind, she carefully abstained from
alluding to any change for the worse, and drew attention only to those
spots which reminded her of happy childish hours.
"I have not seen your children yet," said Grace, as they re-entered the
house, "or even heard them," she added. "They must be very quiet little
things."
"I should have thought it a relief to you to be out of sight and sound
of children for a time," said Mrs. Crawford. "Andrew has told me that
you have been quite like a mother to your young brothers and sisters."
"I have only one sister, and she is almost the youngest. There are
seven boys, and I am the eldest of the family. But I never get really
tired of the little ones, though just now and then I may have rather
too much of their company. Children have been so mixed up with my
whole life and all occupations that I should be perfectly lost without
them. I have quite reckoned on helping you with the little darlings,
especially since I heard that Jean Graham was gone for a holiday."
"My dear Grace, I should never think of troubling you with the
children. Jean Graham's absence does not affect them, as they are in no
respect under her charge. I have a very superior nurse in Bennett, and
she is assisted by a girl of eighteen belonging to Shelverton. One of
my great troubles is that our good Jean and Bennett do not agree."
"That is a pity," said Grace, "for Jean is so good and true. I shall
never forget her kindness to me as a child, and I was quite reckoning
on seeing her again. But if she is to be another fortnight absent, I am
afraid I shall not."
Grace spoke modestly as to the probable duration of her visit, having
mentally decided that a fortnight would be its proper limit, and as
long a time as she could be spared from home.
"Not see Jean!" echoed Mrs. Crawford. "My dear Grace, you talk as
though you would be allowed to run away again directly. I hope you may
be happy enough here to stay willingly for a good many weeks to come.
Now we will have just a peep at the children before dinner."
Ida led the way to the nursery with noiseless tread, having made a
sign to Grace to follow her example. She was going to surprise the
little ones by a visit at an unusual time. She opened the door softly,
thinking only of the shout of delight that would hail her entrance when
the children caught sight of their mother.
But no children were to be seen. The only occupant of the day nursery
was Bennett, who started from her seat, and, hastily covering something
with her apron, passed without a word into the next room. This was
the large night nursery, in which the children and Bennett slept. The
bedroom of the under-nurse was up another flight of stairs, but she
could be summoned at any time by means of a bell.
"The children are all in the night nursery, and Bennett has gone to
them," said Mrs. Crawford.
"No doubt she will bring them back with her in a moment."
"I heard them drumming at the closed door as you opened this," replied
Grace, "and one seemed to be in trouble. I never can hear a little
wailing voice without longing to comfort its owner."
"It was very strange of Bennett to rush of without speaking," said Mrs.
Crawford, with a look of displeasure. "Sit down for a moment, dear, and
I will bring some of the children."
Bennett's face was unnaturally flushed as she turned towards her
mistress when the latter passed into the night nursery, and there were
traces of confusion, which she vainly strove to hide. However, she was
ready with an excuse.
"I was not aware that you were bringing a visitor, ma'am," she said,
"and when I saw a strange young lady's face in the doorway, I felt a
little confused. You know, there are often little matters about where
there are young children that one likes to put out of the way before
strangers come into the nursery. I know I must have looked rather
ill-mannered, but I hope you will excuse me, and let the young lady
know that I did not wish to be rude. I had sent Mary on an errand, and
told her she might call to ask after her mother, who has been poorly
for a week past. I shut the children in the night nursery till I
straightened things here a little before giving Archie and baby their
baths."
Bennett's words were plausible, and Mrs. Crawford readily accepted the
excuse. Lifting baby in her arms, and bidding nurse bring the next
youngest, she returned to Grace, crying, "Here they all are! Do not
be alarmed. Nurse is a little scandalized at our coming without being
properly announced, for she likes the children and all belonging to
them to be exhibited in apple-pie order. But I have told her that you
have lots of brothers and a sister all younger than yourself, and know
everything about children."
Grace's bright face was full of interest as she tried to make friends
with the elders. After having kissed the pink cheeks of the unresisting
baby, she looked pleasantly at Bennett, and said, "Though I have had
so much to do with children, I am never weary of them. I hope to be a
very frequent visitor here, and to make great friends with your little
charges."
Bennett's reply was civil enough, and then Grace had to hurry away with
Mrs. Crawford, that the doctor and the dinner might not be kept waiting.
No sooner were the ladies out of the nursery than Bennett closed the
door behind them, and, with an expression of face most unpleasant to
behold, muttered,—
"Not with my good-will, miss. You are just the sort to come pretending
that you like children, and then to pry and poke about and tell tales.
As if anybody cared to have more to do with such little plagues
than they could help. I would stay with no mistress even that was
everlastingly in and out of the nursery. But I am not likely to have
that to complain of here."
Bennett gave an unpleasant, mocking laugh; then, without the smallest
warning, she swept away the playthings from the elder children, and put
them out of reach for the night.
Some whimpering and crying followed this raid on their treasures; but
Bennett gave herself no trouble to soothe her little charges.
"Cry if you like," she said; "it's all the same to me, and nobody else
is near enough to hear you now Jean Graham is out of the way. I wish I
may never set eyes on her again, the meddling tell-tale that she is!
She did not get much, though, by trying to warn the mistress and set
her against me before she started."
Whilst Bennett was muttering to herself, her hands were busily engaged
in taking out the children's night-gowns and the other articles
required before the beginning of the bathing process. She was not very
gentle in her movements, and by a sudden jerk, she caught the end of a
towel, unrolled it, and threw down and broke a small bottle which had
been wrapped in it.
Bennett hastily swept up the fragments and dropped them into the very
midst of the fire, then carefully washed away the liquid spilled by the
breakage.
"Most haste, least speed," she said. "I've lost every drop of the
stuff, and how shall I manage to get more?"
It was evident that she came to some sudden resolution, for, having
carefully put the children into the night nursery and out of harm's
way, she hurried down the back stairs and towards the surgery.
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