Chapter XX

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."