IN the course of a fireside conversation, Dr. Crawford told Ida of her
cousin's proposal to become his assistant.
"What a strange notion!" exclaimed Mrs. Crawford. "Do you think he was
in earnest?"
"I am quite sure he was, and that I disappointed him by refusing to
entertain his proposal. Not but what he would be admirably qualified.
He must have been a diligent student when a very young man, and he has
taken every opportunity of adding to his stores of information since,
especially during his recent travels. For reasons which do him honour,
he gave up practice, but he is most observant, and I am not ashamed to
say that I owe him several valuable professional hints."
"I have never done Cousin David justice," said Ida. "I have always
classed him amongst the idle, aimless young men of whom, unfortunately,
one sees so many; but at the same time, I have thought him very amiable
and lovable."
Dr. Crawford took advantage of the opportunity to tell Ida a good many
particulars which had come to his knowledge respecting Mr. Carnelly,
and gave her his reasons for withdrawing from practice.
"Carnelly did not tell me this," added the doctor, "but I know, also
from the best authority, that several poor but clever youths have been
indebted to him for the means of prosecuting their studies, and for
being now placed in the positions their abilities fit them to occupy."
A good deal more was said, and all in Mr. Carnelly's favour. Miss
Steyne was present, but did not join in the conversation. Indeed, she
was supposed to be deeply engaged in reading, as her head was bent over
a book during the whole time. But as Mrs. Crawford noticed that Grace
never turned a leaf until she and the doctor ceased speaking, it is
just possible that the girl found it more interesting to listen than to
read.
Whether Mr. Carnelly reaped the benefit of this indirect advocacy may
be guessed from the fact that the next time they met, Grace lifted her
honest face, and with a penitent look thereupon, said, Mr. Carnelly, "I
believe I ought to ask your pardon."
"It is granted, Miss Steyne, though I have no idea what you have done
to need my forgiveness. Do enlighten me."
And then Grace found herself not a little embarrassed. She had spoken
in her impulsive fashion, and from a knowledge that she had misjudged
Mr. Carnelly. She had taken herself to task for having lectured him,
but it was not easy to tell him so, and she blushed and stammered in a
manner very unlike Grace Steyne.
He seemed determined not to help her at first, but waited quietly for
an explanation. Then he only caught a few words, because Grace's lips
were quivering, and she seemed unable to express herself with proper
dignity. She succeeded at last, and looked bravely up in his face.
"Mr. Carnelly," she said, "almost ever since I have known you, I have
misjudged you. I have looked upon you as a young man who was contented
to lead an idle, useless life, going about from place to place with
no better aim than merely to pass precious time in the most agreeable
manner. And, though perhaps you may not have noticed it, I have talked
at you many a time, as if it were my business to lecture you, or that I
had any right to set myself up as your judge. It was presumptuous and
self-conceited on my part, and I am ashamed of myself. You know all
about it now; please repeat the forgiveness promised beforehand."
Grace and Mr. Carnelly had lately seen a great deal of each other, and
the sort of family connection which existed between them through the
Crawfords had made their intercourse very frank and unrestrained. Yet
scarcely had Grace ended her impulsive speech than she began to wish it
unsaid; to wonder if she had been unmaidenly, and to plan an instant
escape. And all these thoughts were consequent on an expression which
had come into Mr. Carnelly's face as she spoke to him.
She could not run away. That intention was frustrated by a detaining
hand which clasped hers, and Mr. Carnelly's answer came in the form of
a question.
"Grace, dear Grace, will you accept the office of lecturer for life to
one who knows that you deserve the affection of a far better man than
himself? You are the only girl I have ever cared for. You had taken
partial possession of my heart when, with no little regret, I said
farewell to you that night at the rectory. I came back to Hillstead
chiefly for your sake, and was bitterly disappointed when I found you
were absent. Once introduced at Steynes-Cote, I was able to judge of
the good influence you were exercising in my cousin's home, and how
soon you had won the good-will of all around you. Grace dear, will you
not give me an encouraging word?"
The girl hid her blushing face as well as she could with her one
disengaged hand, and murmured something about her father and mother.
"I bring their consent with me, on condition that I win yours. Perhaps
I was selfish in wishing to gain a 'yes' from you before letting you
know that the blessings of your parents will not be withheld. Only,
dear Grace, you must give me this hand of your own free will, and your
heart with it, or it could have no value in my eyes."
A whispered answer about not being half good enough reached Mr.
Carnelly's ears. The hand, not so slender and white as some girls'
hands, because it had known real work, lay still in his own, and Cousin
David was contented.
A little later still, and with a glad, proud look on his face, he
introduced Grace to Dr. and Mrs. Crawford as his promised wife, and
received their heart-felt congratulations and wishes for a truly
blessed union in the future.
So Grace returned to Hillstead the affianced wife of David Carnelly.
And Hillstead folk welcomed her back again with open arms, for she had
been missed on every side.
"Ay, and what's more, wanted too," said an ancient dame, on whom Grace
made an early call after her arrival. "You'll have many a kind wish and
many a prayer said for you, my dear, and I only hope the gentleman is
good enough to deserve such a wife as you will make him."
Before Grace left Steynes-Cote, Jean Graham's illness had terminated
favourably, and she was at her old post again, valued more than ever by
her young mistress.
"I shall never leave ye, mem, unless ye send me away," said Jean, on
the day she resumed work.
"If I thought only of ourselves, I should rejoice to hear you say so,
Jean. But I would rather think of you in a happy home of your own,"
said Mrs. Crawford.
Jean's eyes filled, and she shook her head.
"I dreamed of one for many a year, and the waking was a sore trial. But
it is over now. Such dreams cannot come twice in a lifetime."
If anything could have tempted Jean to break her word, the sight of a
visitor who came to Steynes-Cote and asked for her in a shame-faced way
might have done so. The visitor was Robert Hamilton.
It was only necessary to look at the woebegone, down-spirited man to
know that he had reaped the fruits of the seed he had sown.
When Robert knew that Jean had left her father's and returned to
Steynes-Cote, he was first angry, then troubled. He had meant to punish
her for not giving up her own will and sense of right at his wish and
bidding, but he was ill-prepared for the result of his experiment.
When he heard that Jean had reached Dr. Crawford's only to be laid on a
sick-bed, his remorse and self-reproach were unbounded. He would have
set out for Shelverton at once, only there was no hope that he would be
permitted to see her, and day by day he went humbly to the door of her
father's house to seek news of Jean.
As to the girl whom he had cruelly intended to play off against his
old love, and by her means wound Jean's faithful heart, he could now
scarcely endure to see her. This roused the indignation of her friends
also, and, upon the whole, Robert Hamilton paid a heavy penalty for his
unmanly conduct.
He never knew how much it was to cost him until he stood in Jean
Graham's presence, and saw the change which illness had wrought in the
woman whom after his arbitrary fashion he had loved.
"Jean, my woman," he said, "I've come all this long way to ask your
forgiveness. I've done wrong."
"Ye shall not go into that now, Robert. Least said's soonest mended.
Bygones shall be bygones. I forgive ye, and wish ye well," was Jean's
prompt answer.
But though the words and tone were kindly, Robert Hamilton felt chilled
by the calmness with which Jean spoke. He hesitated, not daring to
ask that she would place her hand in his as a token of forgiveness.
He looked ashamed, and grieved too, for on Jean's face were marks of
suffering and age that time had not wrought, and the hair, so smooth
and brown but a few weeks before, was plentifully sprinkled with grey.
He knew that his unkindness had caused the change, and would have given
all he had to undo his work.
Jean took him into a little room that was called hers, and set food
before him, having first told Mrs. Crawford who her visitor was.
"Oh, Jean," said her mistress, "can you bear to see that man?"
"He cannot hurt me now," said Jean.
And she returned to hear the tale of sorrow and penitence which Robert
had to tell. She would have stopped him, for the true-hearted woman had
no pleasure in the humiliation of the man whose unkindness had cost her
so much. But he would speak, and tell her that he would wait for her,
if it were for years, so that he might call her his wife at last.
"And how about Elsie Kerr, Robert?"
"As if I ever cared for a foolish bit lass like that, Jean. I only—"
"I know, I know," cried Jean; "ye need not tell me why ye took up
with her. Ye meant to give me heartache, and thought to make me angry
and jealous, that so when ye came again, and ye wished me to do what
conscience said was wrong, I might be afraid to deny ye. And ye never
asked yourself what the poor lass might feel that ye were making a
plaything of. Robert, I have grieved for her as well as for myself; I
have grieved for the Rab I once loved more than all beside. But the Rab
that I waited for through all those years, and would have waited for to
my dying day, thinking of and caring for no other, never really lived,
except in my mind and thoughts."
Robert tried to plead with Jean, but all in vain. The man that could be
guilty of meanness such as he had practised could have no more place in
Jean Graham's heart. So Robert Hamilton returned to his home a sadder
and a wiser man; hopeless, too, so far as Jean was concerned.
Soon after, Jean's father decided to give up his farm to his eldest
son, and, having saved enough to meet the modest wants of his wife
and himself, he came to Shelverton, and took up his abode in the
pretty lodge at the entrance of the Steynes-Cote grounds. A young
granddaughter accompanied the old couple, and Jean had the additional
comfort of being near her parents, and the pleasure of adding to theirs
by going in and out of their home almost daily.
After a six months' engagement, Grace Steyne became the wife of Mr.
Carnelly, and, to the great delight of Mrs. Crawford, they fixed upon a
charming place about midway between Hillstead and Shelverton as their
country home.
Unfortunately, Mr. Carnelly is likely to inherit the family title, for
Donald's young life was cut short by a sad accident during a shooting
excursion. A fellow-sportsman, carrying a loaded gun, was passing
through a gap in a hedge, when the trigger was caught by a bough. The
gun went off, and poor Donald was so seriously injured that he survived
the accident only three days.
Lord and Lady Carnelly in their great sorrow sent for Dr. Crawford, who
went at once, and did all that skill could do for the unfortunate young
man, but in vain. This trouble has done much to soften Lady Carnelly
and to bring her and her husband nearer together, as well as to bridge
over the gap between her and the Crawfords. After she and Ida had
mourned together beside the grave of poor Donald, it was impossible for
the estrangement to last, and the families continued to meet on terms
of friendship hitherto unknown.
Lord Carnelly takes comfort from the fact that the title and the
estates which go with it will fall into no unworthy hands when they
pass from his to Cousin David's.
Mrs. Crawford has long ceased to be a girl-wife. She has tall sons
and graceful maidens round her, who call her mother. But fair as the
daughters are, Mrs. Prattely will not allow that even her god-daughter
and favourite, Doris, is worthy to be compared to what Mrs. Crawford
was when she first came to Steynes-Cote. She is very faithful to her
old love.
Perhaps Mrs. Prattely is right. But to Dr. Crawford his wife is fairer
by far than she was when she first won his heart. He can speak to her
now of those things which are nearest to his own, and, instead of
looking in vain for sympathy, he sees a light in her face which tells
of the divine light in her soul. He knows that, whilst entering into
all his earthly joys and sorrows, she looks beyond them, and shares
in all the aims and hopes which have their fulfilment only when the
fashion of this world has passed away for ever.
He remembers how she made a new beginning after her four years of
mistakes during their early married life—mistakes for which his own
want of entire confidence was as much to be blamed as her want of
thought. And he thanks God with a full heart that the partner of his
maturer years has found the same blessed source of strength as himself,
and that in every difficulty they can seek guidance together at the
throne of grace.
Not even Mrs. Fereday was ever more beloved in Shelverton than Mrs.
Crawford is now. She finds time for loving ministrations amongst the
young, the sick, and the poor, and her very grace and beauty gave an
additional charm to her efforts for the happiness of others when she
first began them.
It is ever so. Those who do much find time to do more, and the more
they think and care for others, the more are they blessed in their own
lives.
[Illustration: THE END.]
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