"OH, Jean, you have sacrificed your happiness for our sakes! Why did
you not tell us about Robert Hamilton long since? I am so grieved for
you, dear Jean," said Mrs. Crawford, as Jean, having finished her tale,
sat weeping silently.
"We had gone on in the same way for so many years that marrying seemed
a far-off thing which might never come to pass. I had not seen Rab for
seven years, and I did not know how well he had got on between-whiles.
No doubt he meant to surprise me with the news that all was ready,
only he saw nobody but me, and I saw all that I had left behind me at
Steynes-Cote, and the duty I owed to them. I should have sacrificed not
only your and Master Andrew's convenience, but my own sense of right,
if I had not come back. I cared for Rab. Ye may well think that, when
I tell ye that no other ever had a corner in the heart I had given to
him. I was as true as if his eye had been upon me all the time, and yet
it has not been for want of being asked to wed with those that had more
of this world's goods than Robert Hamilton will ever call his own. I
never talked of these things, any more than I did about Rab himself.
I did not tell him, for it is not my way to boast that a good man has
offered me what I could not give him a fair exchange for. Perhaps he
has thought that I waited for him as my only chance, and so prized me
lightly."
"He could not do that, Jean. No one knowing you could think lightly of
you," said Ida, pressing Jean's hand between both her own.
"Rab does, or he could not cast me off lightly," replied Jean. "I am
grieving, mistress; I cannot help it; but my tears are for another Rab
that seems to have died long since—the lad I played with when I was a
white-headed bairn, and went to school with, and set up in my girl's
heart, and whose life and work I saw mingled with mine till both should
end. You will bear with me for a time, mistress, if whiles I go about
as if I were in a dream. The sight of the children will do me good,
and I'm thankful yon woman will not bar the nursery door against me
now," said Jean, with a faint smile of satisfaction, as she thought of
Bennett's departure.
"You shall go in and out as you like, Jean, and be, as you have ever
been, my true help and comfort. To-night you shall see no one, but go
straight to your room and get the rest you need. And, remember, your
holidays are not over, so take a long rest in the morning. Do not try
to begin work until you feel more fit for it."
Jean thanked Mrs. Crawford for her sympathy and kind forethought, but
said, "There is no medicine to beat work for a sore heart. If I were
to sit down and give myself up to thinking, I should be far worse. I
will go to my bed now, for I am not fit to be seen after all my crying.
Maybe you will tell them, mistress, that I am just a bit overdone."
Mrs. Crawford promised to do this, and Jean went quietly up-stairs,
unnoticed by any eyes but those of her mistress.
Jean gave Mrs. Crawford permission to tell the doctor all that had
passed. And it may be imagined how grieved and angry he felt on hearing
the story.
Ida had suggested to Jean that perhaps the doctor might act as mediator
between her and Rab, but her reply showed that this would not be
allowed.
"Ye mean it kindly, mistress, but I should hold myself cheap indeed if
I could let a friend go and ask Robert Hamilton to take Jean Graham. If
you had known what it was to see the man for whom you would have given
your life flaunt past you with a bit lass that cares for nought in
the wide world but flattery and finery, ye would know that the Robert
Hamilton who could do that is no more to me than the wind that blew on
my face yesterday. It is the old Rab that I'm breaking my heart about,
while I'm trying to think of him as dead long ago."
Grace Steyne, having heard of Jean's arrival, was looking forward to
seeing her, and felt a little disappointed to find that they would not
meet until the next day. Ida warned her that she would probably see
Jean looking less bright than usual, but said that she had experienced
good deal of sorrow and anxiety during her absence, and about matters
wholly unconnected with Steynes-Cote.
Jean was at her usual post on the following morning, but all who saw
her felt that she was unfit for its duties. She was delighted to
meet Grace Steyne, and held the children in her arms in turns, as
though she could scarcely bear to part with them. She was ready with
sensible suggestions about domestic arrangements in view of a reduced
establishment, and pleased with the warm handshake and words of
sympathy which her master lost no time in tendering.
But before night came, Jean's strength gave way, and she was obliged to
go to bed.
"Mistress," she whispered to Ida, "if I should be ill, promise me one
thing. My poor head now is full of strange fancies, and Rab is mixed
up with them all. I may be soon better, or I may get worse; but if
I should be lightheaded, and begin to talk of things you know of,
promise me you'll rather let me want attending to than have other ears
listening, and other tongues gossiping over my words."
"Jean, if such a thing should happen, I will do all for you myself that
I possibly can. In case of help being needed, it shall be such as you
now choose to name."
"I hope I may not want aught but a day's rest or so, but if the worst
come, there is Helen Fraser, the wife of Mrs. Prattely's gardener. We
were fellow-servants in Mrs. Fereday's time, and have been good friends
ever since. She would come for 'auld sake's sake,' and be a good useful
body about the house into the bargain."
Poor Jean! It was like her thoughtful ways to plan beforehand how the
illness she felt coming on might be best met and battled with at the
smallest cost of inconvenience to all around her. Only one thought of
self mingled with her plans; and who would not sympathize with her wish
that the secret so long and jealously guarded should remain a secret
still, after what had passed? Helen Fraser knew it, for Jean and she
had been young girls together at Cote.
Jean made one more request of Grace Steyne.
"Miss Grace," she said, when the kind-hearted girl carried up the first
cool draught to moisten Jean's parched lips, "promise me that if you
are not specially needed at home, you will stay the mistress till I am
about again and able for my work, if I am spared."
Grace readily gave the required promise; and most thankful was Mrs.
Crawford to know that she should have such a helper, especially after
the doctor had seen Jean and announced that she was not likely to leave
her bed for some weeks to come.
Did Grace repent having given such a promise when, in a letter which
she received from her father on the following morning, she read this
paragraph?—
"Mr. Carnelly surprised us by a call yesterday. He is again staying
at Hillstead, but not with the Dixons. It seems that the place and
neighbourhood pleased him, and he made friends with some of the people,
so here he is again. He has taken some shooting, and engaged the best
apartments to be had, and though he will not stay here altogether, he
intends to make Hillstead his headquarters for some weeks to come.
"Mr. Carnelly inquired kindly after you, Gracie, and seemed much
interested on hearing that you were staying with his relative, Mrs.
Crawford. I think he would like to make her acquaintance. He must lead
a very lonely and what I should call an unsatisfactory life. It is a
great pity that he has no definite occupation, and that he has more
money than he knows what to do with, for his tastes are simple, and his
personal expenditure cannot be extravagant."
Then there were home details, good news of the mother's health, and
sundry sheets of hieroglyphics, purporting to come from Watty and the
rectory baby, also a satisfactory account of Sarah Robinson's continued
efficiency.
"I am afraid," said Grace, as she refolded her letter, "that I am not
nearly such an important personage as I thought myself. I fancied that
home affairs would become hopelessly entangled, and parish institutions
be almost at a standstill. According to this letter, I can be very well
done without, for everything is going on in the usual way."
"You have not been absent long enough to be properly missed, Grace,"
said Mrs. Crawford.
"Yet you have been here long enough for us to look forward with dismay
to the parting which must come at some time, though we hope not until
you have seen sunshine as well as storm at Steynes-Cote," said the
doctor. "It does seem strange that a visit so long looked forward to
should have begun during the most troublesome times we have had ever
since our marriage. It is an immense comfort for Ida to have you,
but it is trying for you, Grace, to be mixed up with our domestic
difficulties."
"I have been hoping that you would think my visit had been arranged for
the best possible time. I shall be sure of it if I am really of use to
Mrs. Crawford," replied Grace.
"There can be no doubt of that, Grace," said Ida, who had asked herself
many times within the last three days what she would have done without
her young visitor.
Naturally Grace spoke to the Crawfords of Mr. Carnelly. His name had
been often trembling on her lips before the arrival of her father's
letter, but she had, for some reason best known to herself, refrained
from uttering it. Now she could read the paragraph in which he was
mentioned without further hesitation; and when she came to the words
referring to Mrs. Crawford,—
"I think he would like to make her acquaintance."
Ida promptly interposed with the remark, "And I should like to know
him. Could we not ask him to Steynes-Cote, Andrew? I have so few
relatives that it is a pity to remain unacquainted with a desirable
one."
"We will invite him if you wish, dear; but just let Grace tell us a
little more about this kinsman of yours," replied Dr. Crawford.
Thus encouraged, Grace gave an account of Mr. Carnelly's stay at
Hillstead Magna, and of her own acquaintance with him. She wound up
with a sketch of that last supper at the rectory, and with a merry
twinkle in her eyes and a fine flush on her cheek, told first of her
anxiety about the wherewithal to make a presentable meal, and then
of the manner in which it was relieved by Mr. Carnelly's request for
porridge in a soup plate.
Grace's way of telling the story provoked the laughter of her
listeners, and then the doctor had something to add which interested
her in turn.
"I knew Mr. Carnelly's father," he said. "He was a truly great man, the
first in the world in the particular line he marked out for himself.
But he was more than great; Dr. Carnelly was a good man and a true
Christian. Whilst exercising his profession, he carried the blessed
message of God's love in Christ Jesus to many a suffering, longing
soul."
"You never told me anything about Dr. Carnelly, Andrew," said Mrs.
Crawford. "Did you know that he was connected with my family?"
"It was in my student days that I knew the great doctor," he replied,
"and, like every other young fellow who came within the sphere of his
influence, I had cause to remember his wise, kind advice, as well
as the professional information he gave. But I knew nothing of his
relationship to your father, Ida, and the doctor died before you and
I met. I was told that his one son, who must be Grace's acquaintance,
was educated for the medical profession. But our paths never crossed,
and, having heard nothing of him for several years, I had forgotten all
about him. He would be younger than myself."
"I heard Mr. Carnelly say that he was twenty-eight last birthday," said
Grace.
"We will ask him to come here," said Ida, with decision. "Your having
known and honoured his father makes another connecting link between us,
and Grace's acquaintance with him yet another."
This last remark brought the colour again to Grace's cheek, not
unnoticed by her host and hostess.
The girl was ready to be angry with herself for her inability to
control that habit of blushing rosy red, which she thought so very
inconvenient, and so likely to be misunderstood. And at this moment,
she complained that the room was very warm. "Do you not feel it so?"
she asked, turning to Ida.
Mrs. Crawford could not honestly say that she found it too hot, but
charitably remarked that people differ so much as to the degree of
warmth which they find comfortable, then returned to Mr. Carnelly.
"It would be absurd to keep up the old grudge that existed two or
three generations back, and of which we know nothing except that our
ancestors squabbled. So I shall trust you to write in our joint names,
and ask Mr. Carnelly to name a day for his visit," said Ida.
The doctor assented; but Grace ventured to put in a word.
"There is poor Jean to be thought about. Will not her illness render
Mr. Carnelly's visit inconvenient?"
"I think not," replied Mrs. Crawford. "Mr. Carnelly must be made to
understand that he is not asked to pay a ceremonious visit, but that he
is coming to introduce himself to a kinswoman. At the worst, you know,
we could manage porridge for supper, and in a soup plate."
Grace gave a laughing assent, and, much to her secret gratification,
she saw that evening amongst the pile of letters ready for the post
one addressed in the clear handwriting of the doctor, "David Carnelly,
Esq., Hillstead Magna."
Miss Steyne did not hear a few additional words which passed between
Dr. and Mrs. Crawford on the subject of that letter.
"I think," said Ida, "that Grace will like to meet Mr. Carnelly again.
Did you not observe what a bright colour came into her cheeks when we
spoke of inviting him?"
"My dear, Miss Steyne is usually blessed with a fine healthy colour
of her own, which is extremely becoming," replied the doctor,
mischievously resolved to feign blindness.
"But, Andrew, Grace's whole face, forehead and all, were one rosy glow.
I am sure she was pleased at the prospect of meeting Mr. Carnelly here."
"Why should she not, Ida, when by her own account his presence at
Hillstead made a very agreeable break in the monotony of village
society? You remember, dear, Grace complained of the heat of the room,
and her forehead was unusually red at the time."
There was a little aggrieved look on Mrs. Crawford's face. "Andrew
will not understand," she thought, when just at that moment the doctor
looked up from his writing and laughed heartily.
"My dear Ida," he said, encircling his wife's waist with his arm, and
turning a mirthful face towards hers, "I never dreamed until this
moment that you had a suspicion of the match-making element in your
composition."
"Neither have I, dear. I only thought from Grace's manner that—that she
found Mr. Carnelly's, society very agreeable, and that by staying here
through this season of anxiety, she might miss seeing him altogether.
I know that she will keep her word and remain with us as long as
possible, so I thought we might arrange this extra pleasure for her by
inviting my cousin, whom I really very much wish to see. Please recall
your accusation, Andrew; I would not deserve the name of a match-maker
for all the world."
"I believe you, dear; and now," added the doctor, as he addressed his
letter, "if that young man wishes to reclaim kinship with your branch
of the family, it will not be long before you see your—shall I call him
'Cousin David?'"
"Call him so by all means, Andrew. And, in spite of your insinuations,
and the manner in which I have thought it necessary to repel them,
I shall not be sorry if some day I am entitled to call our visitor
'Cousin Grace.'"
After having discharged this shot at the doctor, Mrs. Crawford waited
for no reply, but ran away out of hearing.
The doctor remained for a little while in silent thought. Finally he
said to himself, "This young man would be Viscount Carnelly after
Lindsay, if he had no surviving son. There is only Donald, a boy, for
the little one born after the colonel's return to England did not live
very long, and all the rest are girls."
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