MRS. CRAWFORD was thoroughly charmed with her visitor, and after Grace
retired, she repeated to her husband much of the conversation which had
passed during his absence from the drawing-room.
"I believe Grace is a truly good girl, Andrew," she added. "I wish I
could look back on such a useful, helpful life as hers has been, or
even feel that I could begin such a one from this moment. Grace told me
about her home duties in a simple, natural way, without the least sign
of boastfulness. If she had given herself airs, I should have disliked
instead of wishing to imitate her. But I am very stupid, and I feel
almost too old to begin."
"Too old!" exclaimed the doctor, his face expressing the pleasure
with which he had listened. "Darling, you are still only a girl-wife,
quite young enough at four-and-twenty to begin taking lessons in all
housewifely accomplishments in which you feel yourself deficient.
No need for you to be ashamed of not having learnt them before your
marriage, for there was no one to teach you, no school in which you
could be a pupil."
"But I have been more than four years married, Andrew, and Jean has
often wished me to look more into household matters. I always laughed
at her anxiety, and thought there no need for me to trouble myself
about such things, for you were rich, and my little income would, I
thought, meet the odds and ends of expense that I might cause by—shall
I call it?—my laziness. It seems strange that I should be so stirred
by Grace Steyne's talk this evening. She has made me feel as if I were
such a useless person in comparison. I am dissatisfied with myself. I
do believe Mrs. Prattely was right when she called me 'poor thing,'
though she meant the expression kindly. I am a 'poor thing' when
compared to Grace Steyne."
Dr. Crawford did not interrupt his girl-wife's confession. He was only
too glad to listen; and, folding her tenderly in his arms, he said,—
"I am truly thankful that you have spoken on this subject, darling
wife, for I have been wishing to ask you if you could contrive some
plan for diminishing the number of our servants. Grace could perhaps
help you in this. I know it would delight her to be of use."
As the doctor said this, Ida raised her head from his shoulder with a
startled look, which soon changed to one of inquiry and suspicion.
"Did you ask Grace here to teach me housekeeping?" she inquired.
"No, dearest; I had only two thoughts in wishing you to invite Grace.
One was to give the girl a great pleasure by enabling her to see
again a place which was mixed up with some of her happiest memories,
and to make her acquainted with its present mistress; the other, and
not the less powerful motive, was to give my dear girl-wife a bright
girl-companion, whose society I was sure would be a source of pleasure
to her whilst she remained at Steynes-Cote. If you should find Grace
one whom you can like and value as a friend, so much the better for you
both."
Ida dropped her head upon her husband's shoulder again, after having
read all she wished in the frank, kind face turned towards her whilst
he spoke.
"You see what I am, Andrew," she said; "always giving way to some
horrid littleness of disposition. I had been delighting myself with the
thought of the good Grace's example would do me. Yet the instant you
agreed with me, I said to myself, 'She has been brought here to school
me in housekeeping!'"
"You were mistaken, dear," was the doctor's quiet reply.
"I know it. Forgive me, dearest Andrew." And Ida lifted her face for a
kiss. "Now tell me, would it be right for me to let Grace undertake new
cares and work here? She came for change and rest, both of which she
needs."
"Grace's idea of rest would not be absolute idleness. She leads such an
active life, that, were she compelled to sit with folded hands, or so
to pass her time that she could not give good account of it, she would
be miserable."
Ida hesitated a little as if afraid to ask another question which was
trembling on her lips. It came at last.
"Tell me, Andrew, are you not a rich man? Lindsay always spoke of your
income as being better than his own, yet what you said a few minutes
since about having fewer servants made me feel afraid—"
"Afraid that I was becoming poor, Ida?"
"No, Andrew; afraid that we might be spending more than we ought to
spend. Are we getting into debt?"
"No, dearest. You know, without being told, that all the house accounts
are paid weekly. My professional expenditure has also been fully met,
but though I am only keeping one assistant instead of two, we are
living to the full extent of our income. I have taken nothing from
capital so far, but if our expenses increased, I should be obliged to
do so. Then, it is as well to look at the matter on all sides while we
are about it," said the doctor cheerfully. "You know how very large a
portion of our income depends on my professional work. If that were
interrupted from any cause, our actual property would not maintain
Steynes-Cote and all who live under its roof. What I should really like
would be to save something, if but a little, each year, and I can see
no way of doing it except by diminishing our household expenses."
"Lindsay must have deceived me as to your means, Andrew," replied Ida.
"He told me again and again that you were a rich man, far richer than
himself."
"I do not think Lord Carnelly meant to deceive you, Ida. He would
consider me richer than himself in several ways. For one thing,
my property was, and, I am thankful to say it still is, quite
unencumbered, whilst your brother's estates are all heavily mortgaged.
He had a larger nominal income, but much of it was condemned beforehand
for the payment of interest. He had many creditors who were pressing
him for money. I could say that I owed no man anything. He was keeping
up a large establishment, and living far beyond his means—very much
against his will, I admit. I reckoned on living well within mine. He,
as a nobleman, had claims upon him of which a country doctor lives in
blessed ignorance. So, putting two and two together, I think he was
quite justified in calling me a rich man. Am I not richer still to-day
with my girl-wife and four lovely children?" asked the doctor, with an
attempt at a laugh, as he drew Ida's beautiful face nearer to him, and
again kissed it tenderly.
Ida listened quietly and thoughtfully to words which carried with them
a revelation. As he finished, she gave a soft sigh, and clung to him a
little more closely as if in dread that anything should come between
them.
The doctor felt the clinging pressure, but he also caught the sound of
that sigh, and it made his kind heart ache.
"My poor darling," thought he; "the very mention of life's realities
frightens her. Have I wronged her by asking her to share mine? What I
had to offer seemed better than anything she was likely to enjoy under
her brother's roof. But Ida has never reckoned on a future which would
involve real work or responsibility, and now a hint of these makes her
tremble and sigh. Her notion of married life has hitherto been a rich
husband, who would be also a very loving and indulgent one, plenty of
servants, unlimited pretty dresses, and unbroken sunshine."
The doctor was not prepared for Ida's next remark "Andrew, I am afraid
I have been, in a way, as selfish as Beatrice."
"My darling, you have been nothing of the kind. If you have made
mistakes, it has been through not knowing better. Beatrice was wilfully
extravagant, and cared for nothing except gratifying the whim of the
moment."
"And I have been wilfully ignorant, for I might have known everything
about your affairs; and wilfully blind, for I had only to look and see
for myself. I knew that you had parted with your principal assistant,
yet I never asked why. I could see that you were working twice as
hard as before, but while I sometimes found fault with you for it, I
never troubled myself to inquire whether there was a needs be for such
constant toil. I have not bought very costly things for myself, but I
have purchased many that might have been done without, and I should
have done without them if I had known, Andrew. You should have told me,
dear; but you always gave me the money so easily and readily that I did
not understand."
Great tears began to roll down Ida's cheeks—tears that brought to mind
the old days in India, when, as she used to say, "she was such a baby"
that she could not keep them back if even a taunting word were spoken
by her sister-in-law. To her husband, she looked pitifully like the
girl into whose willing ear he had poured his first love-story. Now, as
then, he strove to wipe away her tears, and to cheer her with words of
tenderness and hope.
"My darling Ida, my precious girl-wife, there is no great harm done.
The worst that can be said is that we have saved nothing. You accuse
yourself, but I have far more need to blame myself, for you are proving
to me that I have done wrong in treating you always as the girl instead
of the partner of my life, with its cares as well as its joys, its work
as well as its play. Never compare yourself to Lady Carnelly. I could
not forgive you for that."
"I have been worse than Beatrice," persisted Ida. "She may be
extravagant, but she knows that whenever old Miss Pelham dies, there
will be plenty of money to make her and Lindsay rich again. She will
not be able to spend the whole, because part of it is to go to the
children as they come of age. There is some excuse for Beatrice, you
see, Andrew. There is none for me, since I have no second fortune to
look forward to; and you, dear, patient darling, have been almost
wearing yourself out that I might have all good things without stint.
But we must make a fresh start. I will plan and think, and be Grace
Steyne's scholar. Who knows, Andrew, but you may some day be proud of
your girl-wife's housekeeping?"
She smiled through her tears as she asked this question, and the doctor
had an indescribable feeling of gladness as he saw the sweet face so
determinedly bright and hopeful, so full of affection.
He was tempted to tell her about the nonpayment of the interest by Lord
Carnelly, and of the still nearer cause for anxiety in the suspicious
conduct of Bennett. It was from no wish to withhold his full confidence
that he refrained for the moment, but because he thought Ida had
already been sufficiently agitated.
"I will tell her the rest by daylight," thought the doctor. "If I
were to speak about Carnelly's neglect now, she would begin with more
self-reproaches, and lose her night's rest. Bennett's affair will also
keep till morning, and Ida will be better able to cope with the nursery
difficulty after a peaceful night. But, please God, for future, my wife
shall never have cause to complain of not knowing all that concerns us
both."
Ida did not tell Dr. Crawford what Grace Steyne had said about her
various "helps," especially "the help that comes in answer to prayer."
She had so often appeared indifferent to his words whenever he spoke
on such subjects, that she shrank from telling him that a new light
was dawning on her soul. She was beginning to feel that her husband
possessed something she did not—a something which gave him strength
and patience in times of difficulty, to which he owed all that was
beautiful, brave, and noble in his character, which placed him on a
higher level than that on which she stood; a something, too, that she
now longed to share with him, and for which she was beginning to grope,
though in a timid, half-blind fashion, for she felt that she was very
ignorant.
Was it this sense of want and longing that kept the girl-wife so much
longer on her knees that night? Surely it could be no mere repeating
of a few set phrases that kept Ida with her fair head bowed over her
clasped hands for so long a time.
No; the girl-wife was becoming conscious of her sinfulness and her
need. She was finding out that she had really left undone so many
things that she ought to have done, and had done so many that she would
now fain undo.
Ida was recalling to herself how often she had made this confession
in the midst of the congregation, and how her voice had been heard,
sounding clear and musical, amongst other voices. They were the right
words to say. She knew that now; but she had never in all her life
meant them until now, and, though no sound escaped her lips, her
heart-felt confession of sin and need was going up to God, as she knelt
in that quiet chamber whilst her husband moved softly to and fro.
Not many more words were exchanged between them that night.
Only Ida whispered, "You will help me, Andrew?"
And her husband, understanding what she meant as well as though she had
said, more, answered, "I will, dearest, God helping me."
Dr. Crawford was called out early, and obliged to hurry away after a
hasty breakfast, so he could not speak to Ida about Bennett's doings,
as he intended. However, he was well assured that Mr. Armstrong
would give the nurse no chance of entering the drug-room during his
absence. As he was driving rapidly on, the doctor blamed himself for
carelessness in not having made more particular inquiries about the
nurse, of whom he and Ida knew nothing, except what was told in a
character written by a stranger. After consulting his time-table, he
decided that it would be possible for him to take a short railway
journey later in the day, and this would bring him within a few
minutes' walk of the house of Bennett's last employer, where he would
call.
Dr. Crawford made this visit, and fortunately found the lady, a Mrs.
Molesworth, at home. When he explained the object of his call, she was
much surprised, and at once told him that no nurse had been employed by
her for many years past.
"In fact," she said, "my only son is now twenty-two, and he is at
Cambridge."
"I must apologize for having troubled you," said Dr. Crawford, "but the
character was written on paper stamped with your address and bearing a
crest."
"Was it like this?" asked Mrs. Molesworth, handing him some paper.
"It is exactly similar in every respect."
"I cannot understand it," said the lady, "but I will call my own maid,
a very reliable person. She may throw some light on the matter."
She according summoned the servant, and repeated what had passed. Then
said, "Can you tell Dr. Crawford anything about this affair, Jane? As
my paper has assisted in a forgery, it would be some satisfaction if we
could help to unravel the mystery."
The servant turned to Dr. Crawford and said, "Would you please describe
your nurse, sir?"
"Bennett is tall, dark, with black hair and eyes; quick and clever at
her work, but jealous of any interference even from her mistress, and
suspicious of the other servants. Her eyes are rather small, and when
speaking to any one or listening, she has the appearance of watching
them in a stealthy fashion."
"But she never looks you straight in the face, sir, does she?"
"She does not. I have often noticed this peculiarity."
"The description just suits Bailey, the nurse that was here two years
ago with Mrs. Hawkins's children," said Jane.
Dr. Crawford started.
"I believe you have found the clue to the mystery," he replied. "My
wife noticed that Bennett's aprons were marked 'Margaret Bailey,' but
the woman said they had belonged to an aunt who had left her all her
clothes because she was her favourite and namesake."
"As to the note-paper," said Mrs. Molesworth, "the woman could easily
obtain it. Stamped as it was, I never troubled myself to lock it up,
for I thought no one would dare to use it. I fear this woman has made
it the medium for imposing a forged character upon you. Mrs. Hawkins,
my sister-in-law, sent her away because she had nearly caused the
death of one of her children by an over-dose of some opiate. She had
previously suspected her sobriety, and, in seeking to assure herself
that she was not judging the woman unfairly, she discovered the still
more serious fault of which she had been guilty. She was at first
inclined to have the nurse punished, but yielded to her tears and
entreaties, and let her go, but without a character."
It may well be supposed that after such a revelation Dr. Crawford lost
no time in returning to Steynes-Cote. He only waited to thank Mrs.
Molesworth and Jane, then hastened home with the determination that
Bennett should not spend another night under his roof.
His first inquiry was for the nurse. The answer astonished him, for Ida
replied, "Bennett is gone."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]